The Fabulous Phartlehorn Affair Page 6

  “Silence!” hissed Monsieur Zidler. “You will show respect to your hosts.”

  Bruno saw a shadow fall over the balcony from the room behind.

  Trumpet barked, then raised a white paw in the air. A deafening shout went up around the courtyard as all the knights cried out, “Al halicus ye Duck di Phartesia!”

  “Uh-oh,” said Natasha, with a mocking glance at Grace. “Here comes the dreaded duck…”

  14

  The Biggest Moustache of All

  The figure that flounced out onto the balcony did not have feathered wings, nor a yellow bill nor even webbed feet.

  Instead, the children found themselves gazing up at a spindly little man in a cherry-coloured doublet and baby-pink tights. His head appeared rather too big for his body, for on it he wore an elaborate powdered wig. His skin was painted a deathly white, giving the impression that he had been carved from ice. His eyes were as small and black as raisins. His cheeks were stained with rouge, like two strawberries squashed into the face of a snowman.

  “Doh!” Grace muttered, bashing her hand against her forehead. “I’m such an idiot! Of course, he’s the Duke of Phartesia!”

  Bruno stared up at the duke, transfixed. Never had he seen such facial hair! The knights’ moustaches were impressive, but the duke’s was truly mesmerizing. It extended out like a looped line of handwriting across the sky, and on either side stood a trusty moustache-bearer, supporting the wispy ends on a polished gold tray.

  The duke stepped up to the edge of the balcony and the trusty moustache-bearers shuffled forward with him. Gently, as if it were spun from silver thread, they draped the Royal Moustache over the edge of the balustrade.

  The duke peered down at the children with his little raisin eyes. He spoke in heavily accented English, with a habit of stumbling over any word that began with an “f”. (Curiously, this letter does not feature in Phartesian.)

  “F-f-forgive me for asking, Zidler,” he began, “but why, pray, have you brought this unfortunate bunch of windless wastrels here? I thought I’d been clear that this year I needed children with real talent.”

  Nervously, Monsieur Zidler smoothed his oil-slicked hair. He cleared his throat.

  “I agree that they may look a little less than impressive, Your Majesty. But there’s one boy the Trumpenhund sniffed out especially. I’m certain that I have here for you a true genius!”

  The duke’s voice dripped sarcasm like an oozing bag of rubbish. “Do you mean to say, Zidler, that you’ve actually f-f-found me a child capable of performing the starring role?”

  Monsieur Zidler gleefully twiddled his moustache. Trumpet joyously wagged her tail. “Oh yes, Your Highness! My Trumpenhund is never wrong!”

  The duke’s mood changed in an instant. He squealed with delight. “F-f-fabulous! Well, let’s have a look at this genius! Such great talent deserves to be recognized!”

  Each convinced that they were the genius in question, Humbert, Xanadu and Natasha were already barging their way to the front.

  Bruno felt something wet nudging at the back of his legs. He turned to see the Trumpenhund pushing him forward with her big brown nose. Monsieur Zidler’s smile was as bright as the spotlight now shining on Bruno.

  “This is the boy!”

  The duke wedged a monocle above one rouged cheek. He squinted down at Bruno, taking in his bushy eyebrows, sticky-out ears and unkempt hair.

  “Surely you don’t mean to suggest that this f-f-feral-looking f-f-foundling has what it takes to become a legend?”

  Monsieur Zidler gave a helpless shrug. “It’s hard to fathom, I know. But Trumpet’s instincts are never wrong. There’s no other explanation. The boy must be a genius.”

  This was news to Bruno. But what did it matter? If Monsieur Zidler was convinced he was a genius, he wasn’t about to argue.

  The duke’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Well then,” he simpered, “I’m sure we’ll all be quite blown away by the boy’s talent. But come, the children must be f-f-fatigued after their journey. We’ll investigate their abilities f-f-further in the morning.”

  The duke clapped his hands. The trusty moustache-bearers rushed forward with their trays.

  15

  Stunkenstew

  After the duke’s speech, Monsieur Zidler showed the children up to a luxurious dormitory filled with four-poster beds. All the furniture was gilded with gold leaf and the carpet was as soft as a freshly mown lawn. There, in the grand sleeping quarters, a fierce battle was waged between excitement and exhaustion. At first it looked as if excitement would triumph: beds were bounced on, pillows were flung. But then eyelids began to droop, yawns proved contagious and before you could say, “Is that really Natasha snoring like a walrus?” exhaustion had won.

  The children were woken at dawn by a familiar sing-song voice. “Wakey-wakey! Time to get up!”

  For a split second Bruno thought he was back on board The Jolly Codger with Grandpa Trevor and Chippy. Then he felt something wet rub against the soles of his feet. The Trumpenhund had stuck her nose under the duvet and was eagerly licking them. The events of the previous day came flooding back. Smiling to himself, Bruno sat up in bed. He was staying in a castle! In a beautiful country called Phartesia! Best of all, Monsieur Zidler had proclaimed him a genius!

  Xanadu back-flipped out of the next bed.

  “Did you actually sleep in those sunglasses?” asked Bruno, incredulous.

  “You can laugh now,” scoffed Xanadu, “but you won’t be laughing when I whop your behind in the auditions!”

  “We’ll see about that,” replied Bruno. “I was chosen especially, remember.”

  Chosen. What a lovely word that was.

  At the other end of the room, Monsieur Zidler was pulling back the purple damask curtains. Sunlight filled the dormitory, illuminating the motes of dust. How blue the sky was up here above the clouds, thought Bruno. He glanced around at the others. Grace was yawning and rubbing her eyes. Humbert was stretching like a tomcat in his new satin pyjamas. Natasha was sitting up in bed brushing her long black hair. It suited her better down, thought Bruno. If only she would smile, she might almost look pretty.

  “Time to get dressed,” instructed Monsieur Zidler. “There are clean clothes on the ends of your beds. Can’t have you looking scruffy for the auditions!”

  Relishing the chance to wear something other than his nasty school uniform, Bruno dived straight into the pile of clothes. It seemed their new wardrobe consisted of a crisp white shirt, a cream silk waistcoat, black trousers and a black swallowtail jacket. Still a little on the old-fashioned side, but anything was better than itchy wool shorts.

  “I’ll be back in ten minutes to take you to breakfast,” said Monsieur Zidler, and sauntered out of the room.

  When he had slipped on the swallowtail jacket, Bruno went to inspect himself in the mirror. His frizzy hair was still fuzzy. His sticky-out ears still stuck out. One bushy eyebrow was still bushier than the other. But, for once in his life, he felt smart.

  Grace sidled up behind him, wearing exactly the same. She stiffened her arms, stuck out her toes and waddled around in a circle. “We look like a right pair of penguins,” she moaned.

  Bruno grinned at her in the mirror. He gave a clumsy bow and waved an imaginary cane in imitation of Monsieur Zidler. “I think we look sophisticated,” he said. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you having fun?”

  Grace shrugged. “I’m just not sure what we’re doing here. Don’t you think it’s odd that no one’s told us what we’re actually auditioning for?”

  Bruno threw up his hands, exasperated. “Where’s your sense of adventure? We’re here to become famous! Didn’t you hear Monsieur Zidler? These knights can turn us into legends!”

  “To tell you the truth, Bruno,” confessed Grace, “I’m not really sure I want to be famous. Everybody knowing your business and writing mean things about you in the papers… I don’t think I’d enjoy it.”

  Bruno looked at her as if she’d
gone mad. How could anyone not want to be famous? Before he could respond, their conversation was interrupted by Monsieur Zidler returning to summon them to breakfast.

  “Superstardom is hungry work,” he warned, chivvying them all out of the room. “Make sure you eat up everything on your plates!”

  Breakfast was served in a dining hall that was every bit as splendid as their bedroom. Though there were only seven of them (including Trumpet and Monsieur Zidler), the table was long enough to seat at least a hundred. The children were spaced out at intervals, which made it difficult to communicate without shouting. Monsieur Zidler sat at the head of the table with Trumpet at his right-hand side. The solid oak chairs were far too big for the children. Bruno’s feet dangled down below his seat, way off the ground. Even the cutlery seemed large and unwieldy, cast as it was from solid silver and set with rubies and pearls. So much finery promised a feast of epic proportions.

  Bruno’s mouth watered at the thought of what the palace cooks might have prepared. Whatever it was, it had to be an improvement on Grandpa Trevor’s burnt offerings. Perhaps there’d be piles of pancakes drenched in maple syrup, sizzling bacon, mountains of mango and melon or freshly baked loaves. The kinds of things you saw chefs whipping up on Saturday morning television.

  A knight entered, bearing a steaming tureen. The ends of his moustache were covered with two little muslin nets. Bruno wrinkled his nose. Whatever breakfast was, it didn’t smell like pancakes or freshly baked bread.

  The knight lifted the lid, letting loose a silvery cloud of steam. Phewee! It smelt like sewers and skunks and mouldy old socks.

  Down at the other end of the table, Humbert was pretending to retch. “Ugh. That smells disgusting!”

  Ignoring him, Monsieur Zidler rattled his spoon against a crystal goblet. He stood up and spoke in a booming voice.

  “This morning’s breakfast is a splendid home-made Stunkenstew. The smell takes some time to get used to, but I can assure you it is quite delicious.”

  Bruno was determined to like everything about Phartesia — even this foul-smelling concoction. Gingerly, he dipped in his spoon…

  Monsieur Zidler was right. Despite the noxious smell, the stew really was good. In fact it was perhaps the tastiest thing Bruno had ever eaten. He tried another spoonful, then smiled encouragingly at Grace, who was seated ten spaces down to his left. He shouted so she could hear.

  “It’s really nice, I promise.” But Grace had her own reasons to be suspicious. She raised her hand politely.

  “Excuse me,” she called down to Monsieur Zidler, “but could you please tell me exactly what’s in this?”

  Monsieur Zidler tapped his nose conspiratorially. “I’m afraid the recipe for Stunkenstew is a Phartesian state secret.”

  Grace continued to look anxious. “The thing is,” she persisted, “I’ve got a few allergies. If I eat anything I’m not meant to, you might have to call for an ambulance.”

  Monsieur Zidler considered this possibility for a second. “I suppose it can’t hurt to let a few little children in on the secret. Stunkenstew is a highly delicious blend of turnips, sardines, runner beans, corned beef, aniseed, oysters, white truffle and curdled cream cheese.”

  Choking on her own disgust, Natasha spat her stew back into her bowl. She summoned the knight with the silver tureen.

  “You can’t seriously expect me to eat this! Bring me something else, immediately — and don’t be expecting a tip.” The knight’s face remained blank. Monsieur Zidler smiled apologetically.

  “I’m afraid this is all there is. But you mustn’t let the unusual ingredients put you off. Stunkenstew is considered quite a delicacy in these parts.” He shot a sly smile at Natasha. “Perhaps your palette is simply not mature enough to appreciate such sophisticated fare.”

  Monsieur Zidler could not have chosen his words better. With a toss of her plait, Natasha plunged her spoon back into her stew.

  “Mmmmm,” she said, swallowing a mouthful with an exaggerated expression of pleasure. “Delicious.”

  The other children followed her example. What choice did they have? They hadn’t eaten since the sandwiches in the car yesterday. In all the excitement of arriving at the castle, dinner had been forgotten, but now their stomachs ached with hunger. Soon they were all holding their noses and wolfing down big greedy mouthfuls.

  As Bruno scraped the last morsel from his bowl, he felt a strange stirring in his tummy. Oh well. He shrugged. A bit of indigestion was normal, he supposed, what with the nerves and eating such rich food on an empty stomach.

  Donnnnggg! The castle bells sounded the hour.

  Monsieur Zidler’s face was solemn. “Everybody follow me,” he said, wiping his mouth delicately with a napkin and rising from his seat.

  Bruno felt a rush of excitement. Now they would finally find out how they were going to become famous.

  16

  Behold the Ancient Phartling Hall

  Deep inside the bowels of the castle, Monsieur Zidler’s moustache cast snake-like shadows on the wall as he marched the children down a narrow, candlelit passageway lined with suits of armour. The corridor was only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time, so they walked in single file.

  “Ouch! Careful!”

  Bruno felt someone step down hard on the back of his heel. He turned to see Humbert scowling at him in the gloom.

  “Hey, Stink Bomb! What was all that about yesterday? Why didn’t you just tell the duke that I’m the real genius? A young man who threatens to move audiences to tears — that was my last review in Junior Fiddler’s Monthly.”

  Bruno was unimpressed. He rolled his eyes. “Since when has being good at the violin made anyone famous?”

  “Er, that’d be apart from Paganini, Heifetz and Yehudi Menuhin, would it?” said Humbert, reeling off a list of names that meant nothing to Bruno.

  “They’re not famous,” he dismissed. “I’ve never heard of them!”

  “Dudes,” said Xanadu, loafing up behind them, “I’m the one about to get a major record deal. Don’t you think I might be the genius in question?”

  Humbert spun round to give Xanadu a shove. Xanadu clutched at Bruno for support. The three boys went stumbling backwards into a suit of armour. Helmet and breastplate clattered to the floor together with a dozen other rusty pieces of metal.

  “What did I say about squabbling?” Monsieur Zidler called back down the passageway. “A true star behaves with dignity and decorum!”

  “Sorry, Monsieur Zidler,” chimed all three boys in chorus.

  “Now, come along. We mustn’t keep His Royal Highness waiting.”

  A few minutes later, the group came to a halt outside a magnificent carved oak doorway.

  “Behold the Ancient Phartling Hall!” announced Monsieur Zidler and flung back the doors.

  The children gaped in amazement.

  Even by the standards of the castle, this room was impressive: a vast underground theatre with circular walls hewn from the finest pink marble. At the far end was a stage draped with red velvet curtains. There were rows and rows of gilt-edged seats. Tiers of balconies reached up to an ornately painted ceiling, where cherubs blew gusts of wind across a starlit sky. In the centre of this ceiling hung an enormous chandelier, its crystal branches shimmering.

  “Time I went and joined the duke,” said Monsieur Zidler, ushering the children into the front row. “You sit here until we call you onto the stage.”

  Bruno turned to Grace, his brown eyes sparkling.

  “What a cool place for an audition! It’s like being inside a wedding cake.”

  But Grace wasn’t listening. She was staring up at an oil painting that hung between two marble pillars to one side of the stage. The painting was a life-sized portrait of a man in an old-fashioned dinner suit. An enigmatic smile played about the corners of his lips, and resting on his right shoulder was the mouth of a large brass horn. This horn looked a lot like a tuba, but Grace could see one crucial difference.

>   “What’s so fascinating?” asked Bruno, following her gaze.

  “There’s something weird about that picture. Look closely and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Bruno peered up at the painting. At first he noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Then he started with shock. Grace was right. There was something very strange indeed about the painting. The tube of the horn did not lead up to the man’s mouth. Instead, it coiled around his body like a golden boa constrictor. If Bruno wasn’t mistaken, it seemed to stop at his rear…

  “Holy cow,” whispered Bruno. “Is he playing that thing with his b-u-m?”

  “That’s what it looks like.” Grace giggled. “Hey, what’s that noise?”

  All five children stopped talking and listened. The same droning sound they had heard yesterday was now coming from the direction of the passageway outside the Phartling Hall.

  The doors to the theatre swung open and hundreds of knights filed in. They were chanting again:

  “Et volcanicus erupticus exquisiticus,

  In revengicus pharticus apocalypsum

  Plus ferocicus que un turnipum

  Childrenicus explodicus annulis.”

  The chanting reached a frenzied crescendo as the knights took their seats in the balconies around the theatre. Then, suddenly, the chanting stopped. The Phartling Hall fell silent, and at that moment the room was plunged into darkness.

  “Al halicus ye Duck di Phartesia!” roared the knights.

  Bruno caught his breath. A single spotlight lit up the Royal Box, which hung above the right side of the stage. Caught in this circle of light was His Highness the Duke of Phartesia. Diamonds glinted on his doublet. He gave a royal wave. Rubies glittered on his fingers.

  Barely visible in the shadows behind the duke were the trusty moustache-bearers and Monsieur Zidler. The duke clapped his hands. The trusty moustache-bearers shuffled forward and unfurled the Royal Moustache until it hung down over the stage like two giant wisps of cobweb.