Mariah Mundi by G.P. Taylor Page B

with a blast of little trumpets. They appeared to dance about the parapets and along the fine etched castellation that surrounded the clock. There was a whooshing of steam as the chorus began to blast a reveille of miniature notes that shrilled loudly across the room with great brio, rattling the wine glass that balanced precariouslyon Luger’s desk. A gaggle of horses and armoured knights leapt from a small door, suspended upon long fanned arms, and galloped in tune to the music as the clock chimed twelve long and doleful strikes.
    Luger sat charmed as Bizmillah cowered, fearing what was to come. Over his head the pendulum suddenly dropped to the floor, the axe swinging close to the wooden boards, and he leapt out of the way. High above, the clock took on a life of its own as the castle keep was filled with minute figures that danced and swirled with every bugle note. Luger looked on, bewitched and enchanted by the spectacle that took place upon the high wall of his office, shining in gold leaf and powered by his steam generator. With the final stroke of midday, the tower door opened and a small, jewel-encrusted executioner slid out on a small brass stand to be met by a silver-plated king who buckled at the knee, bent towards him and met the axe across the back of his head.
    ‘Such a sight, such a sight, Bizmillah, and you missed it,’ Luger said excitedly. ‘Too busy looking at the dirt on your shoes. Come back tomorrow and sit here – you can sit at my desk and you can watch it again. Better still, come back at midnight and you will see something even more spectacular.’
    ‘The boy, Mariah Mundi?’ Bizmillah asked, hoping to remind him of who should be waiting outside the office and urgently desiring a reason to escape what appeared to be even more grotesque and insane ramblings.
    ‘Why should I want to see him?’ Luger asked as he waited for an encore from the gold clock.
    ‘You invited him. Every boy sees you on his first day – a tradition, all part of the process. You see him and then you send him to me in the theatre,’ Bizmillah said, reminding Luger of all that had gone before.
    ‘Yes, yes,’ Luger replied still distracted and far away. ‘Sendhim in. And remember, Monica will cut the boy in half at the Sunday matinee.’
    Bizmillah turned to the door, taking hold of the brass handle as he glanced upwards at the golden clock that hung high above him. It had been a strange journey that he had taken to this place, he thought. He remembered first stepping from the boat-train at Dover two years before, mumbling his intentions in broken English as he was questioned by the guard. He had amused him with card tricks and sleight of hand, twisting a living frog from his fingers and allowing it to spring upon the man, landing on his shoulder. From there he had gone to London, where he had spent a year in a small theatre, standing before the limelight and casting doves from his open hand to a crowd of sleepers huddled before him, escaping the cold.
    One night all that had changed. Otto Luger had stepped into the darkness dressed like a fine London gentleman, a fat cigar bloating from his lip, fine silk gloves and a long black cane in his hand. He had sat by the door of the small theatre and laughed loudly, carousing with the singers, laughing at the jester and standing in awe, clapping frantically in appreciation of every single dove that Bizmillah had squeezed from the sleeve of his tail coat. Later, Mister Luger had forced him to sit at his table and offered him something that he could never refuse.
    ‘I like a man like you,’ Luger said as he sipped a bottle of fine brandy, clutching it by the neck with his thick hands. ‘I have always been fascinated with magic, but something that takes you beyond picking a pigeon from your coat sleeve or twisting a card from the back of your hand.’ He stared into Bizmillah’s eyes, holding his gaze. ‘I searched for something for many years, something that made me