The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [100]
Unlike the rest of the tunnels, which seemed old and worn with time, this door seemed new. A coat of white paint so fresh it could have been applied an hour before, a gleaming brass handle, a small window of patterned glass: it had the feel of an office in the City, or a Whitehall interview room.
The nearest soldier knocked, then pushed the door open. As it opened Orphan, too, was pushed, and he stumbled into the room. He stood alone in a room empty of furnishings but for a solitary unoccupied chair in the centre, and a desk in one corner.
Behind the desk sat Moriarty.
One of the soldiers had followed him into the room. He went to the Prime Minister's desk, whispered some words to him, and handed him the book. Moriarty nodded. The soldier saluted and left the room. The door closed behind him.
Orphan had never seen the Prime Minister up close, yet he immediately recognised his face. The bald, high dome of his head, the deep-set eyes, the austere yet sensual mouth – here was a man of great ability, a poet as well as an administrator of great renown, the man who effectively ran the empire. Now, those dark eyes examined Orphan, and the hint of a smile lifted the corners of the Prime Minister's mouth.
"Please," Moriarty said. "Sit down." He had a pleasant, dry voice which was a little high-pitched. He gestured for the chair and Orphan sat down, facing the Prime Minister. This is it, he thought. This is where it ends. The room had no windows. He could no longer hear the call of seabirds. A deep unsettling silence lay on the room like a dust-sheet.
"So you are the mysterious saboteur," Moriarty said. "The would-be saboteur, I should say."
Orphan didn't reply, and Moriarty shrugged. "Don't feel bad," he said. "It was easy enough to deduct the path that led you here. Clearly, you would be taking shelter in the tunnels, or you would have been caught already. Clearly, you only survived the island because of your blood – and my people tell me that you are indeed the rightful heir to the throne…" He stopped when he saw Orphan's eyes open wide, sudden panic mounting behind them. "You didn't know?"
"I…" He didn't know what to say. To be related to the ancient kings was one thing, but this?
"You are, or so I'm told, the only grandson of Catherine and Bertram. Ergo, you are first in line to the throne – were there a throne, young William." Moriarty's face absorbed his previous pleasantness as if it never existed. "Were there a throne."
The King of England. Orphan almost laughed.
"It was easy enough to deduct you will attempt something soon, and to reason that your only easy way into the crater would be via the food duct. Don't worry, by the way: the soldier you disabled is fine."
Orphan had flashes of the soldier he surprised at the mess hall. "You were waiting for me?"
Moriarty shrugged. "Of course. After all, it isn't every day that one meets a King-in-Waiting. And a poet too, I hear? In fact, I do believe I read something of yours, in the Review?"
"Well…" Orphan said. He had published in the Poetic Review a couple of times, but…
"'Finding a two-pence coin I lift it from the mud and see, the profile of an unknown monarch, her mouth slack and her eyes locked into infinity…'" Moriarty quoted. "Something of this nature? I remember you, Orphan. I thought you had great potential as a poet. It is a shame you had to choose adventure. Poetry, I find, is so much better coming from a life lived as dully as can be."
Orphan examined him. The dark eyes stared back at him, missing nothing. He felt like an open book, riffled by the Prime Minister as if its contents were merely of passing interest. As if reading his thoughts, Moriarty reached for the book on his desk and picked it up. "Bible Stories for Young Children?" Moriarty said. He opened the book. Orphan looked at it closely,