The Silver Blade by Sally Gardner

midst.’

    ‘Brocade and blood!’ Their voices reached a crescendo.

    There was a rustling of fabric as the cloaked and masked figures pushed further into the bones of the wall as if hoping they might disappear.

    The silence that now took hold of the chamber had a sound, just as wine has a smell. It was the high-pitched scream of terror. And then suddenly Anselm heard the howl of a beast and a shadow, liquid as molten iron, flashed past.

    Anselm felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He buried his head in his arms, imagining the great black dog was coming for him. He was certain this was the same beast he’d seen at the Duc de Bourcy’s estate, that the diabolical creature had followed him here and would smell him out.

    Through screwed-up eyes he saw the beast sniff its way around the room before singling out one of the cloaked and masked figures. The poor man started to shake and his teeth chattered in fear. The hound leaped at him, pulling the mask from his face. The victim’s screams were without echo, as if the walls were greedily swallowing the sound of misery; his cries for mercy lost in dead men’s bones. He was torn to shreds like a rag doll, the floor ran red. The beast licked it clean, then with a deep growl turned and vanished from the chamber.

    Kalliovski’s voice made Anselm jump.

    ‘Those foolish enough to speak about our activities will, like Levis Artois, find their lives cut short. Anyone here who feels the necessity to discuss what is said within these walls will go the same way.’

    Anselm felt his insides turn to water as he was hoisted to his feet.

    Milkeye said nothing as he led him away.

    K alliovski’s living quarters were even more spectacular than the previous chambers. They had the luxury of windows, and Anselm almost forgot they were so far underground that there would be nothing to see. Yet through the windows were vistas of gardens, of gravel drives which looked real until he realised they had been painted, while an artificial sun shone into the chamber. He even recognised some of the furniture he and Mr Tull had taken from noble houses, now put to great effect.

    As Anselm waited with Milkeye, Count Kalliovski entered the room followed by Mr Tull. The Count’s waistcoat was embroidered with silver skulls and close up he was even more intimidating. Anselm stared transfixed. This man acted not in the rage of the moment like his father used to. He killed in cold blood.

    Count Kalliovski stood, lost in thought, his back towards Anselm.

    ‘Tell me, do you believe the Governor of the Universe created the world?’

    The question was one to which Anselm had never given much thought, and he wasn’t sure if he was expected to answer. He looked beseechingly at Mr Tull, who stared resolutely at his shoes.

    Kalliovski turned to look at him. ‘Well?’

    Mr Tull nudged Anselm.

    ‘Yes,’ said Anselm uncertainly.

    ‘I don’t,’ replied Kalliovski. ‘I don’t believe the Governor of the Universe had anything to do with it. It is purely by the power of chance that the world is here at all. What say you to that?’

    Anselm was out of his depth. He had never been involved in this sort of conversation. If it was a test he felt certain he was going to fail.

    ‘All I know about religion comes from my mother and she believes in God and all the saints. She believes in purgatory and hell.’ He added, more to himself than anyone else, ‘She thinks that’s where I’m going.’

    ‘And if I told you there are no such places,’ asserted Count Kalliovski, ‘that it is the Church’s plot against the people, nothing more, what would you say?’

    Anselm thought, that’s what Pa believed. He was all for getting rid of the Church. He said if the Revolution hadn’t banned it, he might not have been as free with his pig-killing knife and would have worried more about what might happen to him when he was dead.

    He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, but if it is by chance