Novel - Airman by Eoin Colfer

yourself,” said the sentry, sulking slightly.
    Bonvilain thought as he strangled. He held in his hands, literally, the solution to his Captain Broekhart difficulty. Victor Vigny had been right: Declan Broekhart was his only real opposition in the Saltee army. Surely there was a way to win the captain’s loyalty from this situation. And if it required a little manipulation, was that not his speciality?
    An idea poked from the depths of Bonvilain’s brain, like the head of a sly serpent from a swamp. What if the rebel Victor Vigny had not acted alone? What if he’d had an accomplice—the sentry, for example? The sentry was certainly expendable.
    Bonvilain felt a shiver run up his spine. He was on the verge of brilliance, he could feel it. For Bonvilain, it was moments like these that made life tolerable. Moments that presented him with a challenge worthy of his specific talents.
    “You there, idiot,” he said to the sentry. “Open the window.”
    “That one?” said the sentry, though there was but one window in the apartment.
    “Yes,” said Bonvilain innocently. “The one overlooking the cliffs.”
    Conor awoke from near strangulation in a damp, windowless cell, where he languished for hours. His solitude was interrupted periodically by a brace of guards who stomped with considerable gusto on his slim frame. On their final visit, the pair stripped him of his clothing and bundled him into a Saltee army uniform— As yer own clothes stink of blood and fear.
    Conor wondered about this briefly through his pain. Why a soldier’s uniform? Before his addled brain could reach any conclusion, the beatings recommenced, backhanded blows across the face. Conor felt one eye close and the blood flow down his nose. The guards propped something soft on his head. A towel, perhaps? To staunch the flow of blood, maybe? It seemed unusually compassionate.
    There were more confusing meddlings with his person. One guard swabbed his cheeks with what smelled like gunpowder. The other scratched on his arm with an ink pen. This went on for what seemed like hours.
    When the guards were satisfied with their arrangements, the fatter of the pair clamped a set of manacles on Conor’s wrists and a lunatic box over his head, pulling the head-cage’s leather mouth strap tight until it forced Conor’s teeth apart, ratcheting back between his jaws. The only noises he could make now were groans and grunts.
    The cell itself was a ten-foot block of hell, and Conor could not credit that such a place existed on the Great Saltee. The walls and floor were granite. Hewn from the island itself. No bricks or mortar, just solid rock. There was no escape from here. Water trickled through grooves worn by centuries of erosion. Conor did not waste a second thirsting for it. The combination of the lunatic box and manacles meant that he could not pass anything through the metal grille to his mouth. In any case, the grooves themselves were flaked by salt. Seawater.
    They left him for an age, wallowing in his misery. The king was dead. Isabella’s father, murdered by Bonvilain. Victor was gone, too. In the blink of an eye, his mentor and friend had been cruelly killed. And what was to become of Conor himself ? Surely Bonvilain would not leave breath in the body of a witness. Conor felt the weight of the cage upon his head, the gall of manacles chafing his wrists, and the threat of his own impending death weighing heavy on his heart.
    The metal slab of the door swung, dragging on the hinges. A tallow-yellow light filled the room with a sickly glow, and in that glow stood the unmistakable silhouette of Sir Hugo Bonvilain. The king’s marshall and murderer. Because of this man, Isabella was an orphan.
    Rage took hold of Conor’s body, filling his limbs with strength. He lurched to his feet, arms outstretched toward Bonvilain. The sight cheered Bonvilain tremendously. The man actually whistled as he grasped the bars on the lunatic box’s grille, stuffing his thick