The Smoking Hourglass

by Jennifer Bell

  ‘The cup is uncommon,’ Valian added. ‘Once a glove is placed inside, its owner is bound to enter the contest. Withdrawals are forbidden. If a player fails to show up …’ He grimaced. ‘Well, you’ve seen what happens to people’s hands when they make a bad Trade – imagine that happening, but to all of you.’

  As Ivy remembered Selena Grimes’s rotting hands, her throat became dry. ‘But – look,’ she said, wiggling her fingers. ‘I’ve still got both my gloves.’

  Johnny Hands studied them carefully. ‘That damage – has it always been there?’

  Ivy appraised the small hole in the left thumb. She’d almost forgotten about it. ‘No. I snagged it on a branch a few days ago.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Valian asked.

  Ivy held out her hand so he could see the hole for himself. ‘You remember – in the Great Oak Tree, at Sir Clement’s old house.’

  ‘But … part of it’s missing,’ he said, throwing Johnny Hands an uneasy look.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Ivy asked slowly, already fearing the answer.

  ‘It means that if we check inside the contest master’s cup, we’re likely to find a scrap of your glove,’ Johnny Hands said. ‘And the cup needs only a thread in order to register entry.’

  Valian stared at Ivy. ‘It means you’re going to have to play, Ivy. Tonight.’

  As she recalled just how confusing the game in the carousel had been, Ivy’s legs went weak. ‘But – I can’t. I don’t know how. I’ll be—’

  ‘Killed,’ Johnny Hands finished matter-of-factly. ‘And though I hate to highlight the obvious, that’s exactly what whoever is behind this deception wants.’

  Suddenly they heard a commotion behind them. Ivy spun round as excited shouts filled the air. A large group of people were running backwards onto the lawn. As heads turned, Ivy recognized some of the faces – they were journalists from the Barrow Post. Some were shaking snow globes while others were holding feathers, scribbling madly in mid-air. A few of them rushed to join the crowd as it parted.

  Selena Grimes appeared in their midst. Her dark hair had been styled into an elaborate braided up-do and she was wearing a long silver gown with flared sleeves, like a medieval queen. Ivy recalled Mr Punch’s warning to keep the Sack of Stars away from the Dirge. Immediately she grabbed Seb’s sleeve and turned to run.

  ‘Well, this is fortuitous!’ Selena declared. ‘We are joined by our final contestant!’

  Ivy froze as several photographers broke from the pack to swarm around her, shaking their snow globes. She cowered, shielding her face.

  ‘Stop it! Go away!’ Seb tried to elbow them aside – but there were too many.

  Selena Grimes glided towards her, the horde following.

  ‘Ivy Sparrow,’ she said in a honeyed voice, ‘may I offer my sincerest congratulations.’ She hovered closer and spread her arms wide as if to give Ivy a hug.

  Ivy went rigid with shock. She tried to step back, but there was a journalist right behind her. Selena’s cold, hard arms came round her shoulders. Ivy gave a muffled shriek but was too angry and scared to even move.

  Selena’s cold breath kissed Ivy’s cheek as she lowered her lips to Ivy’s ear. At an almost imperceptible volume she said, ‘Enjoy the game, child. It’ll be the last you ever play.’

  Valian’s eyes flicked from left to right as he checked the contest rules. The newspaper supplement was so long that the paper flapped over his shoulder like a scarf in the wind. ‘Here it is – they’re operating a forfeit system. Living players are allowed to have a spotter with them to stop them from being killed.’ His face brightened as he turned to Ivy. ‘You’re gonna be fine.’

  She gave him a doubtful smile, keeping her head down as they approached the House of Bells. Everyone was staring at her. She wished she could become invisible like one of the dead.

  ‘What does this spotter thing entail?’ Seb asked, peering at the supplement. ‘Could I do it?’

  Valian read back through the rules. ‘Ivy has to play the game by herself, but the spotter stands behind her, outside the chalk circle, and pulls her out of the Krigvelt if it appears she isn’t going to make it.’

  Seb shrugged. ‘OK … that’s doable. Valian’s right, Ivy. You’re gonna survive this.’

  Ivy held out her hand. Her fingers and thumb were trembling so much that she could see ten of them. ‘If Selena Grimes is behind this, I don’t think it matters what we do,’ she said quietly. She glanced warily at Johnny Hands, wondering if it was wise to reveal everything they knew about Selena Grimes and the Dirge … If he had earned Mr Punch’s confidence, she reckoned he could be trusted. ‘She’s probably devised a plan to get rid of the three of us once and for all.’ Now that she thought it through, it all made sense – the shapeshifter who had impersonated her must have been Jack-in-the-Green.

  Seb gritted his teeth. ‘Can’t Mr Punch stop this?’ he asked Johnny Hands. ‘He’s meant to be the most powerful man in Lundinor.’

  ‘Unsurprisingly I’m a step ahead of you there,’ Johnny Hands replied, adjusting his gloves. ‘As soon as I read the headline I sent Mr Punch a featherlight. It must have been only moments after he’d left Lundinor. I’ve received no response as yet.’

  Ivy paused on the steps to the House of Bells. She could only hope that, wherever Mr Punch had gone, he’d find what he needed and get back in time to stop Selena. As she opened the shop door, the bells inside sprang into fevered conversation. They trembled as she passed, chattering about the Grivens contest. Ivy tried to ignore them.

  ‘Ivy?!’ a voice cried. ‘Is that you?’ The door at the rear swung open with a bang and Ethel rushed out, her headscarf flapping. Under her arm she was carrying a square piece of wood.

  She stopped in front of them, hesitating. She frowned at Valian and Johnny Hands, then turned to Ivy. Her lip wobbled. ‘I’ve been to the underguard station. Your gran is still at the mansion; she asked to stay behind after they left. I’ve sent her three featherlights already but I think they’re having trouble getting through. I’d go and fetch her myself if the place would let me.’

  Ivy knew that the Wrench Mansion would only reveal itself to a member of the family; it had been built with uncommon bricks that liked to move – that was no doubt part of the problem.

  Seb slung down his rucksack. ‘Maybe I can use the salt cellar. If Granma’s still got the pepper pot with her, we might be able to see what’s going on.’

  ‘Good thinking.’ Ethel pointed to the desk at the rear of the shop. ‘Do it over there. We need the space ’ere to practise.’ She held out the piece of wood – a chopping board.

  Ivy edged away.

  ‘Now don’t worry – it’s a common one,’ Ethel said. ‘I just thought we should sit down and review everything. The contest begins at eight; that means we’ve got a little under two hours.’ She raised an eyebrow at Johnny Hands. ‘As you’re ’anging around, you can ’elp. I’m a little rusty with Grivens. I s’pose you’ve played it before?’

  He smoothed down his waistcoat. ‘Madam, I’ve been playing it for the best part of five centuries.’

  Ethel pursed her lips. ‘Well then.’

  They sat cross-legged in the middle of the shop floor, with Johnny Hands hovering above it. He spread a handful of wooden figures across the chopping board in the middle. ‘Every Grivens game begins in the same way.’

  Ivy tried to ignore her nerves and pay attention. Having seen the game played on the carousel, she found some of what Johnny Hands told her familiar.

  ‘Each player chooses a bell, a suitcase and a glove from a box of Grivens pieces.’

  ‘Does it make any difference which pieces you choose?’ Ivy asked.

  Johnny Hands twisted a bell piece between his fingers. ‘Yes, but there is no way of telling which piece will be strongest; it’s all down to luck.’

  Ivy’s spirits sank. ‘I see.’ It was like most card games – there was no way to control the hand you were dealt, only what you did with each card aft
erwards.

  Johnny Hands rotated the chopping board. ‘When all four players’ chosen pieces are in the red zone, the board is spun to activate the next stage of play.’

  ‘In the Krigvelt,’ Ivy remembered. She would never forget seeing Seb appear on the helipad of that skyscraper.

  ‘The Krigvelt will be in a different place every time,’ Ethel explained, ‘with different challenges. I’ve ’eard of everything from a tropical island and an underground sewer to the top of a mountain. You ’ave to withstand the dangers of the environment, not just the attacks from the other players.’

  ‘When you go into the Krigvelt, your first aim is survival,’ Johnny Hands told Ivy. ‘You have to work out what your Grivens pieces can do – they might be able to attack one of your enemies or protect you from attack. Each Grivens piece has a different characteristic. Gloves are usually defensive, while suitcases are attacking. But there are exceptions.’

  Ivy recalled Seb finding an American football helmet in his suitcase.

  ‘Bells are the weird ones,’ Valian added. ‘I’ve been reading about famous Grivens games, and bells can mess with your mind. Some of them have hypnotic voices – they make you so disorientated you can’t defend yourself.’

  Johnny Hands cleared the board. ‘If you survive your first visit to the Krigvelt, you play again with your remaining two pieces. Occasionally, games aren’t over even after three rounds – so you keep picking pieces until one player is victorious.’

  Ivy tried to store the information in her memory. It was like cramming for the world’s worst exam.

  ‘It’s a pity there’s no way to cheat,’ Seb remarked. He was holding up the salt cellar. ‘I can only see shadows with this. I guess the mansion is blocking it somehow.’

  Ivy’s forehead crinkled. She hoped Granma Sylvie was safe.

  ‘Actually there is a way to cheat at Grivens,’ Johnny Hands announced. He pointed at the wooden pieces on the board and Ivy looked at them again. ‘Grivens pieces are made of common materials – paper, stone, plastic. However, you can use uncommon materials – the marble from an uncommon statue, the wood from an uncommon table leg. Playing with an uncommon piece puts you at an advantage because it tends to be more powerful in the Krigvelt.’

  ‘If only there was a way for us to smuggle some into the stadium,’ Ethel muttered. Ivy wasn’t sure if she was being serious.

  Seb placed a hand on Ivy’s shoulder. ‘Hey, we’ve faced worse situations than this … right?’

  She forced a smile, thinking of the one thing everyone seemed to be forgetting: it wasn’t her surviving the Grivens contest they had to worry about – it was the Dirge opening the Jar of Shadows in the stadium.

  The light from the cave ceiling had faded and the evening air was cool. As the five of them made their way through the West End, Ivy’s feet felt like lead. Underguards stood at street corners, directing the last few spectators towards the Grivens stadium. She could hear the noise of the crowd – like a distant storm – growing louder as they approached.

  She rubbed her neck. ‘I guess I should say thank you,’ she told Johnny Hands, floating beside her. ‘For the Grivens advice.’

  He tipped his hat at her. ‘You’re welcome. I forgot to mention – Selena Grimes doesn’t know that you’re a whisperer. Perhaps you can use that to your advantage.’

  Ivy didn’t know how. She peered into his dark eyes, something puzzling her. ‘Can I ask you a question? It might sound stupid …’ With her attention focused on the contest, Ivy hadn’t had time to analyse what she’d seen in 1967. She was still trying to understand why Selena would have gone to the Dirge to be turned into a ghoul. ‘Do you like being dead?’

  ‘Do I like it?’ Johnny Hands chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘You are funny.’

  ‘Well …?’ Ivy was still waiting for an answer.

  ‘Being dead has allowed me to see much more of this fine world than is possible in one lifetime,’ Johnny Hands said. ‘And I’ve been fortunate enough to call some extraordinary people friends.’

  Ivy could feel a ‘but’ coming.

  He pointed to his shoes, which were hovering over the dusty road. ‘And yet despite all that I haven’t felt grass under my feet or sand between my toes for five hundred years. I can’t sleep, which means I can no longer dream, and everyone I once loved is Departed.’ His expression hardened. ‘The answer to your question – whether I do or do not like my situation – is irrelevant. This is my forever.’

  Ivy looked away, worried that her question had been insensitive. She hadn’t meant to upset him.

  All at once they saw lights flickering at the end of the road and Johnny Hands stopped. ‘The stadium is only a block away now. It’s time for me to go.’ He raised a hand over Ivy’s head, unsure what to do, then ruffled her hair. ‘Farewell, Ivy Sparrow, and good luck.’

  Johnny Hands dissolved into thin air, and at the next corner the Grivens stadium came into view. It looked like a huge conservatory with a domed roof, the coloured shapes of thousands of people moving behind the misty glass. Spiky-leafed exotic plants were arranged on the lawns outside, depicting the three Grivens pieces – the glove, the bell and the suitcase.

  There was a massive throng of people still queueing to go in, and a bank of reporters stood beside a green carpet, shaking snow globes at glitzy stars in outrageous Hobsmatch who glided past, waving to the masses. Stationed around the stadium, platoons of underguards observed everything stoically, toilet brushes strapped to their chests rather than tucked into their belts.

  Ivy took off her satchel and gave it to Valian for safekeeping. ‘I’ll be watching,’ he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘You can do it. I know you can.’

  ‘And I’ll keep trying your gran,’ Ethel said, patting the top pocket of her overalls, which was stuffed with feathers.

  When Ivy turned to Seb, he hugged her so hard she almost fell over. ‘I’ll see you at the table.’

  Ivy was shown into a room furnished with iron patio chairs and tables topped with teacups, saucers and pots of tea that smelled of honey and lavender.

  The fifteen other contestants were already there. Some were sitting twiddling their thumbs, while others paced to and fro or chatted nervously with their opponents.

  On a table in a corner stood an ornate bronze trophy. The contest master’s cup – Ivy recognized it from the newspaper. A ribbon floated above it, writing again and again:

  Ivy pretended to be interested in a cup of tea. The contents of one pot smelled a bit like Raider’s Tonic, so she poured herself a cup and sipped it slowly as she skirted the room, trying to stay out of people’s way. She went to examine a notice board:

  Ivy did a double take as she read through the names.

  Alexander Brewster …?

  But – after the fire at the alehouse, why would Alexander want to be involved in the contest? Another name caught her eye too.

  François Filigree.

  She spotted his strange white mask as he spoke to two women in satin ball gowns, and it set her worrying. François Filigree was the only other person who had seen her glove being damaged; he could have been involved in the plot to enter Ivy’s name in the contest. She needed to be wary of him.

  She scanned the room and saw Alexander sitting on his own. His apron was missing; instead he was wearing a smart grey suit with rubber boots. His scruffy red hair had been combed and flattened against his head with what looked like cooking grease.

  Ivy took the seat next to him. ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you’d be playing.’

  Dark circles ringed Alexander’s eyes. ‘My pa entered me,’ he groaned. ‘He taught me how to play when I was little. He said we could use the publicity … even if it was dangerous.’

  Drummond Brewster was so cruel, Ivy thought. Did he not care about his son at all? She hesitated before saying, ‘It was you who really invented Dragon’s Breath Ale … I don’t know why your dad kept it secret; I think it’s amazing.’

 
Alexander’s shoulders slumped.

  Ivy bit her lip, searching for something less awkward to talk about. ‘Er – how’s the alehouse?’

  ‘I’m in charge of the clear-up. It’s taking ages. Pa’s been selling Dragon’s Breath Ale from a temporary stall out front, but the customers aren’t interested in buying anything from us now. They keep saying he’s a fraud.’

  A man with freckled apricot skin and floppy black hair entered the room and cleared his throat. He was dressed in a burgundy-and-yellow uniform with sponsorship logos plastered all over it.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Ivy asked.

  ‘The contest master,’ Alexander told her. ‘Nix Wolf. He’s a nine-time American Grivens champion. Oh, and a ghoul.’

  ‘All right, ladies and gents, time to head into the arena,’ Nix Wolf said in a smooth Texan drawl. ‘Those of you who have spotters – it’s forbidden for you to look round or talk to them after we leave this room.’

  Ivy followed Alexander and the other contestants into the stadium. She blinked in the glare of the harsh uncommon lights as the thud of a thousand snow globes filled her ears. The tiered seating climbed the walls of the glass house, screening out anything happening in the undermart outside. The noise from the spectators was deafening.

  In the centre of the arena stood four high tables, spaced twenty or so metres apart. Each had a chalk circle drawn around it and a varnished wooden chopping board sitting on top.

  Ivy steeled herself as Nix Wolf directed contestants to their respective tables. She took her place at table four, her hands sweating inside her gloves. As her opponents gathered around her, she felt a growing sense of unease. It was fairly straightforward to match each of the faces at her table with the names on the notice board.

  On her right, a neatly dressed, grey-haired gentleman in a red bow tie was, she guessed, Colin Mint – but only because the man on her left – who had blond dreadlocks and an eye patch – was surely Captain Macintosh. Lady Crammington, opposite, was a bejewelled woman with a pinched face and wearing a peacock-feather hat.