The Smoking Hourglass

by Jennifer Bell

  Behind the memorial, a trio of underguards covered their colleagues’ bodies with black sheets.

  Smokehart examined the graffiti, being sure to stay a safe distance away. It was still smoking and emitting anguished cries. ‘It appears that our culprit has no respect for the Departed.’ Ivy saw his studded gloves curl into fists. ‘I can assure you all that whoever is responsible for this will be hunted down and punished using the full power of GUT law.’

  There were a few claps and shouts of support, though most people simply muttered quietly to each other. Ivy touched her wrist, remembering how sore it had been when Smokehart gripped it. She knew he’d stop at nothing to uphold the law, no matter what methods he needed to use.

  ‘Inspector Smokehart!’ cried a voice.

  The traders parted – and suddenly Ivy’s skin turned to ice. She gripped Seb’s arm as Selena Grimes glided up to the memorial, tossing her sleek dark plait over her shoulder. She was wearing a purple silk dress that floated over the grass.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ Seb hissed.

  Ivy ground her teeth, suspicious of Selena’s swift arrival. ‘I’m not sure, but she’s still quartermaster of the Dead End. That means she’s in charge of the underguard.’

  Selena Grimes laid a gloved hand on the memorial and lowered her head. Ivy noticed several underguards pointing something at her. Catching a glint of silver between their thumbs and forefingers, she racked her brains. Uncommon needles – she’d once learned they were used as video cameras. Perhaps this scene was being broadcast around Lundinor.

  When Selena looked up, her blue eyes were brimming with tears. She skimmed the faces in the audience. ‘My thoughts are with the families of the two honourable underguards who have lost their lives here today,’ she said in a honeyed voice. ‘This is an unspeakably evil crime.’

  Liar! Ivy wanted to shout, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Selena had held too much power for too long: the uncommoners of Lundinor wouldn’t question her position.

  Selena glided round the edge of the crowd. ‘I’m sure Inspector Smokehart and his team will do everything they can to remove this vile substance as soon as possible. We will find the culprit.’

  Someone shouted something about the Fallen Guild, but Selena silenced them by raising her glove. ‘I do not think it is wise to draw hasty conclusions. We must wait until the investigation concludes.’

  People began to mutter again. Ivy watched their nodding heads; they believed everything Selena said.

  ‘For extra security,’ Selena continued, ‘I have granted the underguard a number of additional powers. Not only has underguard equipment been improved but, from today, Inspector Smokehart and his team will be able to send convicted criminals directly to the Skaptikon. I believe re-opening the facility will act as a strong deterrent against committing crimes like this.’

  The crowd was growing restless. As Ivy tried to make out what they were saying, she felt Scratch stirring in her satchel. The mention of this Skaptikon – whatever it was – had made him agitated.

  Smokehart’s lips curled into a thin smile. ‘Thank you, Lady Grimes. I’m sure I speak on behalf of all uncommoners when I say that Lundinor is a safer undermart when someone with your foresight is in place to lead us.’

  There was a spontaneous murmur of agreement, then a man at the front shook a fist in Smokehart’s direction. ‘What about Jack-in-the-Green?’ he demanded. ‘He’s still on the loose!’

  Smokehart stiffened. ‘Regarding the sightings of a certain infamous criminal in other undermarts, I can assure you that, in Lundinor, we have everything under control.’

  Selena hovered towards the bystander. ‘Do not doubt, sir, that I will use every resource in my power to protect the traders of Lundinor from all criminals.’ She scanned the gathered faces.

  Ivy tried to hide, but her movement attracted attention. Selena Grimes’s dazzling eyes fixed on her, and then flicked to Seb. Her expression faltered.

  Ivy’s heart was in her mouth. All she could hope was that, with so many people present, Selena wouldn’t try to harm them.

  Very slowly, the tips of Selena’s needle-like teeth slid out from under her lip. ‘I promise you this,’ she told her audience – though she was staring directly at Ivy. ‘I will not rest until I have put an end to everything.’

  ‘Come on,’ Seb urged, tugging on Ivy’s sleeve.

  Ivy’s legs were trembling as she weaved her way through the traders walking along the gravel path. All she could think about was how much danger they were in. Selena and her henchman had eyes everywhere and they had no way of knowing how she was planning to neutralize them.

  The track opened out into a leafy orchard, and Seb headed in among the people milling around under the branches. He dumped his rucksack by the base of a tree and slumped down beside it, panting.

  Ivy took a seat on the grass, trying to catch her breath. There were so many questions whirring through her brain. She squeezed Scratch, looking for support.

  ‘Underguards no signing,’ he said. Ivy had never been able to fathom how he could see without eyes, but she trusted him: they were safe, for now.

  Seb scuffed his trainers in the dirt. ‘She’s definitely on to us! Put an end to everything, she said – she was talking about me and you.’

  ‘She must have some plan to stop us from revealing her identity,’ Ivy said with a painful swallow. She rubbed her hands down her thighs, not wanting to think about it.

  ‘Do you think the graffiti was her doing?’ Seb asked. ‘We already know she’s connected to the smoking hourglass because of Granma’s memory; she must have something to do with it.’

  Ivy followed Seb’s train of thought, but something didn’t quite add up. ‘Why would the Dirge use a smoking hourglass though? Their coat of arms is a crooked sixpence – everyone knows that.’ She shook her head. ‘We need to find out more about the smoking hourglass. Hopefully this black door in the Dead End will give us some answers.’

  They got to their feet and went on, stopping at a quiet T-junction north of the Gauntlet. In one direction the road meandered through a shadowy copse of cedar trees, while in the other it opened out onto a field where a group of semi-transparent uncommoners were playing cricket. Black marquees decorated with dead flowers stood at the edge, with skulls on poles marking each opening. ‘I think we must be close to the entrance,’ Ivy said.

  Seb observed a group of ghosts bobbing by. ‘Yeah, I’m definitely getting that dead feeling, all right.’

  A silky voice drifted into Ivy’s ear and she turned to see where it had come from – before realizing that it wasn’t the kind of sound anyone else would have heard. It took no effort on her part to sense the quiet babble of uncommon objects all around her.

  She caught the voice again. There was something different about it. The voices of uncommon objects usually emanated from fixed points, but this one was moving …

  ‘Hey,’ Seb said. ‘Do you think that’s it?’

  He was pointing to the roadside, where a small well was set into the foot of a grassy hill. It reminded Ivy of a wishing well from a fairy tale – a round structure made of weathered grey stone bricks, with a tiled roof and a rope dangling from a rusty winch. A carpet of dark moss, glistening with moisture, hung over the stone wall.

  Ivy assessed the nearby traders but nobody seemed to be paying the well any special attention. ‘Pass me the guide.’

  Seb fished a battered, tea-stained pamphlet out of his jeans pocket and handed it over. The front read: Lundinor: Farrow’s Guide for the Travelling Tradesman.

  ‘Is there anything else in there about the well?’ she asked Scratch, fishing him out of her satchel.

  The little bell jangled as she laid him on top of the first page. ‘Six page to turn.’

  Ivy found page six and he vibrated softly on the page as he read: ‘The Well at the World’s End was designed by the sootsprite Bartholomew Gumble, a renowned uncommon engineer from Serbia.’

  Ivy smiled p
roudly. The only time Scratch didn’t sound ‘back to fronted’ was when he was deciphering the coded words of Farrow’s Guide.

  ‘Traders must answer a riddle before the well will allow them passage to the Dead End,’ he continued merrily; ‘a design component often attributed to Gumble’s natural mischievousness. The well came under scrutiny on several occasions, most notably after the visit of Lady Saltwater – a quartermaster from Lochlily undermart in Edinburgh – who disappeared down it in 1773 and has never been seen again. The IUC has now declared the well a World Uncommon Heritage Site.’

  Ivy and Seb shared a wary glance as Ivy tucked Scratch and the guide back into her satchel. ‘We need to remember that not all the dead are bad,’ she said, trying to convince herself.

  ‘No, no,’ Seb mumbled. ‘Just the ones that work for the Dirge, and the ones that tried to kill our parents, and the ones that tried to kill us …’

  They attracted no attention as they approached the well. A trio of spectres hovered outside the nearest tent, chatting quietly. On her last visit to Lundinor, Ivy had seen a choir of them; up close, she could hear that even their speaking voices sounded melodic.

  Seb reached into his rucksack and took out his wallet. Ivy frowned.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing to the well by way of explanation. Etched into the stone bricks was a message:

  Throw a coin to meet the three,

  Answer our query and you will see.

  Between his fingers Seb held a shiny copper twopenny piece. ‘Well then?’

  Ivy laid her hands on the moss at the side and peered over the edge. There was only darkness below, and a putrid smell crept into her nostrils. She withdrew quickly. ‘Yuck, it smells like something’s died down there.’

  Seb tensed. ‘I bet it does. Let’s just get this over with.’

  He held his hand over the well and let the coin slip into the shadows below. The stones quaked and, deep inside, there was a sound of rushing water. Ivy shuffled backwards as voices erupted from within.

  ‘Well I never!’

  ‘Never have I seen such a pair.’

  ‘Pair of newbies, that’s for sure.’

  There were three different speakers, their voices croaky and sharp, like bickering old granddads.

  ‘Sure you two want to go to the Dead End?’

  ‘End up losing your mind in there, some do.’

  ‘Do you really want to go in?’

  Seb dared a peek into the well. ‘H-h-heads,’ he stuttered, hitting Ivy’s arm. ‘Look!’

  Ivy inched her face over the edge. Tar-black water had risen to within a foot of the top – and bobbing in it were …

  ‘Three heads,’ Seb said again, pointing.

  Ivy tried to suppress a gasp. The heads were severed at the neck; they had greenish-purple skin and patchy hair. They had been horribly mutilated – one was bleeding from a cut on its forehead, while the others sported scars across eyes and chin. They only had four ears and five eyes between them.

  Seb turned away. ‘What are we even doing here, Ivy? Seriously – let’s go back to the dancing-chairs party. Dancing chairs: yes. Talking zombie heads: no.’

  Ivy gave the floating heads a second look; they weren’t going away. ‘Seb, with the smoking hourglass on the memorial, I’m even more convinced that we need to make sense of this new memory of Granma Sylvie’s. If we can find the connection between Selena and the smoking hourglass, it could give us an advantage – we could even stop her from finding the Jar of Shadows.’

  With a grimace, Seb regarded the severed heads once more. He opened his mouth, but then closed it.

  Ivy wasn’t exactly overjoyed herself about venturing into the Dead End. She pulled out one of the uncommon feathers Valian had given her earlier. ‘If it makes you feel better, I’ll send a message to Valian to let him know where we’re going.’

  She angled the feather between thumb and forefinger, and wrote in the air as if it was a pen.

  She watched the feather disappear with a little puff and, when she looked up, found Seb glaring at her, his arms folded. ‘I want it on the record that I’m not OK with this.’

  ‘Whatever. It’s on the record.’ Ivy leaned over the edge of the well. ‘Er … hello?’ she called. She tried not to wince as she caught sight of the mutilated heads again; she didn’t want them to think she was rude. ‘Would it be OK if my brother and I came into the Dead End?’

  The three heads turned to each other, sending ripples through the water.

  One of them blinked. ‘Into the Dead End, you say?’

  ‘Say, can you find us an answer?’ the second asked.

  ‘Answer us this and you shall pass.’

  Ivy listened carefully. The three heads opened their rotting mouths to speak as one. It sounded like a strange wireless recording.

  ‘I am the dawn, the endless race,

  Save me or mark me, but please don’t waste.

  I have no wings and yet I fly.

  If you master me, you will never die.

  What am I?’

  ‘I am the dawn, the endless race …’ Seb shook his head. ‘Ivy, any thoughts?’

  Ivy bit her lip. She’d never been good at riddles. She hated the way they tried to trick you. No wings … but it can fly … She remembered the balloon trader earlier and considered whether ‘balloon’ might be the answer. But then, mastering balloons doesn’t allow you to conquer death …

  She started from the beginning: the dawn, the endless race … As her mind whirred through the possibilities, she recalled that the last time she’d raced against anything, it had been to save her parents’ lives: the Dirge had sent her an uncommon alarm clock counting down to the moment of their deaths …

  ‘Time!’ she declared. ‘The answer is time.’ She rushed through the clues … The dawn of time, time flies, save time, mark time, waste time …

  The water in the Well at the World’s End began to froth, and the three floating heads vanished in a flurry of bubbles. Ivy heard a loud crack.

  ‘Is that the well?’ Seb asked, stepping back to look at the stones. ‘Maybe it opens into the entrance.’

  ‘Entering Dead End below!’ Scratch warned frantically. ‘Is dead always under living!’

  Too late, Ivy felt the ground shudder. A deep crevice had formed in a circle around her feet.

  ‘Seb?!’ She looked over, but his arms had already lifted into the air as he dropped through the ground, shouting.

  Ivy lost her balance and plummeted after him.

  She landed with a soft thud on a pile of multi-coloured bean bags. Seb was beside her.

  ‘What the—!’ he complained, scrambling off them. ‘Are they trying to give us a heart attack?’

  ‘Now, now,’ said a voice. A chubby man in a tiara and a wrestling costume was standing on the muddy grass in front of them. ‘At least you’ve got a working heart. Most people in these parts don’t.’ He gestured over his shoulder.

  Behind him was another huge cavern. Ivy scrambled to her feet, staring.

  Seb was already up. ‘Er …’ he started.

  Ivy couldn’t blame him for being unable to find the right words.

  The Dead End looked just like the Great Cavern – if the Great Cavern had been through a war, or an apocalypse … or both.

  Plaster crumbled from the scorched walls of cottage shops, their thatched roofs emitting sooty fumes. Frayed tents and dilapidated huts filled the brown fields between swamps and blazing tar pits, and the charred remains of trees stood like bare flagpoles on the distant hills. Ivy couldn’t see a single patch of green anywhere.

  The main street was teeming with the dead. Some of them glided along like ghouls, while others slunk from shadow to shadow, or appeared from thin air and then disappeared again with little pfft noises. Ivy even noticed traders with scaly skin and webbed feet diving in and out of marshes.

  The man in the tiara ushered them forward. ‘Off you go then, you two. Good luck with your business – whatever that might be.’
>
  Ivy covered her nose with her jumper sleeve; the air stank of sulphur and burning. Seb straightened his shoulders, trying to appear more confident. ‘So …’ he said in a high-pitched voice. ‘Where is this black door again?’

  Ivy stepped cautiously onto what she presumed was the main road. ‘Johnny Hands said it was in a carousel.’

  Unlike the straight Gauntlet, this path wound its way round shadowy corners and mysterious mounds. The gnarled branches of dead trees hung over the route like giant claws trying to pick up pedestrians.

  Seb rubbed his arms. ‘Is it me or is it cold down here?’

  The temperature had definitely dropped. Maybe it was something to do with the lack of body heat. ‘Let’s ask a bell,’ Ivy suggested, veering off to the corner of a tent. ‘We don’t want to be here any longer than we have to.’

  The bell in question was tarnished and hanging from an old piece of string. ‘We need to find a carousel,’ Ivy said in a hushed voice. She could have spoken louder, only there was a pale wispy creature snoozing in a rocking chair outside the tent and she didn’t want to wake it.

  The bell swung slowly. ‘Carou-sellll,’ it slurred. ‘Third right off Undertaker’s Lane till you reach Hangman’s Square.’

  Ivy shivered. Even the bells here gave her the creeps.

  Sticking close together, they followed the bell’s directions. Despite the disaster-zone scenery, the dead traders seemed cheery – laughing and chatting to one another, bartering at stalls and haggling over prices. A woman with tentacles for legs slithered past.

  ‘What makes them look different?’ Seb asked, trying not to stare.

  ‘According to Farrow’s Guide, it has to do with the way someone dies,’ Ivy said, ‘but I’m not sure. After the Dirge started doing research on the subject, it was made illegal.’ She frowned. ‘Did you hear Smokehart talking about the Departed earlier?’

  Seb nodded. ‘Departed must be properly dead – you know, gone for good. But what makes someone become Departed rather than dead?’