The fireman grabbed a comrade, and together they propped the ladder against the tower. Victor Vigny was halfway up before the stiles hit the wall. The tower transmitted its vibrations into the rungs, and Victor knew that it wouldn’t be long before it blew its top, like a plugged cannon. The king’s apartment and everything above it would soon be no more than dust and memories. He quickly reached the top of the ladder, and threading his legs through the rungs, he slid the rope off his shoulder and down his arm.
“Nimble, ain’t he?” commented the fireman to his partner. “But as I intelligently said, that there ladder don’t reach.”
The debris was showering down now, lumps, shards, and entire granite blocks. There was no avoiding it for the three men working at the ladder. They bore the blows with hunched shoulders and grunts.
“Lean it back,” Victor called down, sweat dripping from his face. He tore his feathered cap off as it caught fire, revealing the shock of spiked hair that had earned him the nickname La Brosse. “You owe me a hat, Nicholas. I’ve had that one since New Orleans.”
The firemen took the weight of the ladder and the Parisian, pulling him three feet back from the tower wall. Victor Vigny took half a dozen coils in his hand and sent them spinning upward. He had judged the coils accurately, landing the spliced end directly in King Nicholas’s hand.
“Tie her off strong now, and be quick about it.” Victor cinched the rope to the top rung and then slid down the stiles as fast as he could without stripping the skin from his palms.
“Ladder don’t reach,”the fireman pointed out, while Victor plunged his hands into the nearest fire bucket.
“I know that, monsieur. But the ladder reaches the rope, and the rope reaches the king.”
“Ah,” said the fireman.
“Now, stand back—if I know your king, that tower has more explosives in it than a similarly sized cannon. I believe we may be about to shoot down the moon.”
The fire brigade gave up. They couldn’t pump enough pressure to reach the blaze, and even if they could, that fire was all sorts of colors, and pouring water on it might just make it angry.
So they stood back out of the spitting castle’s range, waiting to see if the last male Trudeau in the line could save himself from death by fire or fall.
Inside the bathroom, King Nicholas put his Royal Doulton toilet through its most rigorous test. True, the toilet had been constructed to bear the weight of a hefty adult, but possibly not one swinging from a rope tied to its piping. With a dripping towel draped over his forehead, the king put four loops around the evacuation pipe and a few hitches on the end. I really hope that pipe does not burst. Being burned alive is bad enough, without being found covered in waste.
The bathroom’s stout wooden door was cracking with heat, as though soldiers battered from without. The steel bands buckled, sending rivets pinging around the room like ricocheting bullets.
Nicholas struggled on, wiping his eyes with the towel, inching toward the dim yellow triangle that must be the window. There was no thinning of the smoke, just a faint glow in its center. Just follow the rope, he told himself. It’s not difficult. Move forward and don’t let go of the rope.
Nicholas tumbled through the window, remembering to hold on to the rope. He juddered to a halt at the end of its slack, like a condemned man on a gibbet.
“Quit your dossing, Nick!” hollered Victor Vigny. “Get yourself down. One hand after the other. Even a simpleton like this fireman here could manage it.”
“I could indeed!” shouted the fireman, deciding he would worry about the insult later, if at all.
Below the plume of smoke, King Nicholas could breathe again. Each successive gasp of fresh air drove the toxins from his system and returned strength to his limbs.
“Come down, man! I didn’t travel from New York City to watch you swing.”
Nicholas grinned, his teeth a flash of white. “I almost died, Victor. Some sympathy would be nice.” These simple sentences were a considerable effort, and each phrase was punctuated by a fit of coughing.
“That’s it, now,” said Vigny. “The old Nick. Down you come.”
The king came down slowly, his journey interrupted by several explosions. Once his feet had found purchase on the top rung, Nicholas descended quickly. There were other lives at stake here, after all; and if he got Victor killed because of his own monumental carelessness, the Frenchman would plague him from the afterlife.
Victor had him by the elbows before his boots touched the cobbles, whisking the king away to the relative safety of the keep. They watched from behind an open gorge tower as the king’s ladder was seared and blackened.
“What the devil was in there?” asked Victor.
The king’s throat whistled with each labored breath. “Some gunpowder. Fireworks. A couple of jars of experimental fuel, Swedish blasting oil. Fuse tape. We have been using the old grain store beneath as a temporary armory. And of course, fertilizer.”
“Fertilizer?”
“Fertilizer is important on the Saltees, Victor. It’s the future.” He remembered something. “Isabella. I must show her that I am unharmed. She must see for herself.” He cast his gaze around the courtyard. “I don’t see her. I don’t . . . Of course.
Someone has taken her to safety. She is safe, isn’t she, Victor?”
Victor Vigny did not meet his friend’s gaze; his eyes were directed instead over the king’s shoulder at the tower’s parapet wall. There were two somethings in the midst of the smoke and flame. Two someones. A boy and a girl. Perhaps nine or ten years of age.
“Mon Dieu,” breathed the Frenchman. “Mon Dieu.”
The turret roof was completely gone, apart from ragged blocks around the walls, as though the dragon had grown and now occupied the entire tower. Through swathes of smoke and flame, Conor could see crumbling masonry and falling beams. A thick column of smoke coughed from the tower, which had effectively become a chimney, drawing air from below to feed the fire. The smoke rose like a giant gnarled tree, black against the summer sky.
Isabella was not in the least hysterical; instead an eerie calm had descended over her, and she stood on the parapet, eyes glazed as though she were half asleep and uncertain of the reality of the situation.
The only way down is to fly, thought Conor. It had long been his dream to fly once more, but these were not the perfect conditions.
He had almost flown on his fifth birthday when the Broekharts had gone on a day trip to Hook Head in Ireland to see the famous lighthouse. Conor’s present had been a large kite in the Saltee colors. They had set it loose on the windswept seaside pasture, and a sudden gust had lifted Conor to the tips of his toes and would have dragged him out to sea had his father not grabbed his elbow.
Kite. Saltee colors. The flag.
On the parapet, Conor pounced on the flagpole, pulling at the knots holding the bamboo frame. The knots twisted in his hands, pulled by the wind that flapped the flag in its frame.
“Help me, Isabella,” he cried. “We must untie the flag.”
“Forget the flag, Captain Crow,” said Isabella dully. “Leave the goat, too. I don’t like goats. Sneaky little beards.”
Conor struggled on with the knots. The ropes were thicker than his slim fingers, but they were brittle from the heat and fell apart quickly. With one momentous wrench, he pulled the flapping flag out of th
e wind, wrestling it to the parapet. It bucked and cracked under him like a magic carpet, but Conor kept it secure with his own body.
He could barely see Isabella now. She was like a ghost in the smoke. He tried to call her, but smoke went down his throat faster than words could come up. He retched and arrked like a seal, flapping his arms at the princess. She ignored him, deciding instead to lie down on the parapet and wait for her father.
Conor fumbled with his belt buckle, pulling the leather strip out from the loops of his trousers. Then he rolled onto his back and passed the belt behind the flag’s bamboo diagonals.
This is an insane plan. You are not a pirate on some fantastic adventure.
This wasn’t a plan, there was no time for plans. This was a desperate act. In the melee of smoke, explosions, and jets of flame, Conor struggled to his feet, keeping the flag’s tip low, hiding it from the wind.
Not yet. Not yet.
He almost stumbled over Isabella. She seemed to be asleep. There was no reaction when his fingers pulled at her face. Dead. Is she dead? The nine-year-old boy felt tears flow over his cheeks, and was ashamed. He needed to be strong for the princess. Be a hero like his papa.
What would Captain Declan Broekhart do? Conor imagined his father’s face in front of him.
Try something, Conor. Use that big brain your mother is always talking about. Build your flying machine.
Not a machine, Papa. There is no mechanism. This is a kite.
Flame was climbing the parapet wall, blackening the stone with its fiery licks. Crossbeams, carpets, files, and furniture tumbled into the hungry fire, feeding it. Conor lifted the princess, dragging his friend upright.
“What?” she said grumpily. Then the smoke filled her windpipe, and any words dissolved into a coughing fit.
Conor stood straight, feeling the massive flag flap and crackle in the wind. “It’s like a big kite, Isabella,” he rasped, words like glass in his throat. “I will hold you around the waist, like this, and then we move to . . .”
Conor never finished his instructions because a further explosion, funneled by the tower, caused a massive updraft, plucking the two children from the parapet and sending the flag spinning into open air like a giant autumn leaf.