“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 the 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.