The Dark Flight Down by Marcus Sedgwick

heard voices ahead, and saw from his upside-down point of view that they were in a chamber large enough to be a ballroom. Huge windows took up much of one wall, flooding the room with more light than Boy’s eyes could bear for the time being. He squinted as he was dumped onto a tabletop, blinking and trying to get the right way up.
    “Stay there, you little brat!” snapped his porter, and cuffed him round the head. Boy lay, blinking.
    As he got used to the light he gradually opened his eyes a little more, and dared to look around. Men were standing in groups; others were still filing in from where Boy had come, all bearing more and more of Valerian’s things. Boy lost count of how many came in carrying a stack of a dozen or so thick leather-bound books, depositing their burdens on long polished oak tables, just like the one he was lying on.
    Occasionally someone would glance at him, but when he tried to get their attention, they ignored him, merely regarding him as if he was an animal, or some curiosity in a marketplace.
    Suddenly there was a commotion, and the porters hurried frantically along the tables and made their way out. A trumpet blast sounded at the far end of the hall, and the groups broke up to form an orderly line. They all bowed, ridiculously low.
    A nervous voice cried out.
    “His Imperial Majesty, His Royal Greatness, Emperor Frederick!”
    Boy twisted round where he lay and regarded the far end of the room.
    A tall, imposing figure in flowing bloodred robes swept into the room. The silence was total.
    Boy, like many people in the City itself, had often doubted that there was an emperor at all behind the high walls of the palace. No one had seen him in years, life in the City seemed to go on perfectly well by itself, and some people even believed him to be nothing more than a legend.
    Now, right before his eyes, Boy saw an impressive, powerful man with a shaven head striding down the length of the ballroom, and knew the rumors were false. Another figure trailed after the first. A small old man, richly dressed but shrunken, hobbled in after the emperor, who stood waiting with his hand resting on a high-backed chair, so sumptuous it could have been a throne.
    Boy watched, puzzled. The line of men still bowed with their noses near their knees, while the old man scurried along, taking short hopping steps. He reached the throne, and sat down in it, then put his head back, his eyes closed.
    Finally he opened them again, and turned to look at the tall man beside him.
    “This had better be worth it, Maxim,” he whined. “I haven’t been down to the Eastern State Rooms since . . . well, I can’t remember, but there’s far too many flights of stairs on the way. You should have had a chair sent for me.”
    “My apologies, Emperor,” said Maxim.
    And now Boy understood. The decrepit little man was the emperor, not the tall figure in red.
    Emperor Frederick. The last of his line, at least eighty years old, with no kin to succeed him.
    “I do indeed believe,” Maxim went on, “that you should see everything we recovered from the magician’s house. And I recall that you did yourself say that the Eastern Ballroom would be the only place large enough—”
    “Nonsense!” snapped Frederick. “I said no such thing. I never change my mind, you know that! What’s wrong with the court? That’s twice the size, and several floors closer to my chambers! Dare you contradict me, Maxim?”
    “Indeed no,” said Maxim, flatly. “I do not question you, sire. But some of the items were . . . a trifle awkward to carry that far. Shall we?”
    Maxim gestured for Frederick to join him, but the emperor shut his eyes and shook his head.
    “I can see from here. You may begin.”
    Maxim clicked his fingers. The line of bowing courtiers jerked upright, some a little faster than others. One or two older ones straightened very slowly, a hand clasped to the small of their backs. They made their way over to join Maxim, who was