Scratch nudged her hand. ‘Leftings.’
As Ivy walked, she saw that the drains at the side of the road were glossy with moisture. It looked silver, like snail slime. She wondered if it rained in Lundinor. Maybe there was something uncommon that could do that . . . It was odd to have drains underground otherwise.
She passed a young man in a cloth cap, galoshes and kipper tie, who was selling uncommon tea-strainers – the kind Ivy’s mum used. The man held the strainer in front of him and gave it a gentle tap. With a scraping sound, the object stretched to the size of a washing basket. Now, every hole was filled with a rolled sheet of canvas.
‘Uncommon tea-strainers!’ the man called. ‘Great for storage – hold all your important documents in your pocket.’ He slotted a roll of paper into an empty hole. The tea-strainer promptly returned to its former size with a clean snikt. ‘Only two grade! Best you’ll find in Lundinor!’
The man’s stall was full of strange trading memorabilia – chalkboards, scales, old gloves, tin signs. Hanging from a pole at the top was a print of a poem entitled ‘Grading’.
1 and 2 are easy to view,
3 and 4 take a bit more,
5 is a search,
6 is a quest,
Finding 7 demands your best.
8 is every true scout’s dream,
While 9 has only thrice been seen.
But the find that beguiles all trading men is that rarest of rare – the Great Grade 10.
Ivy watched as a smartly dressed man bartered for a tea-strainer. No money changed hands; only objects. The stallholder handed over one of his tea-strainers, while the man tendered a spoon and two feathers in return. Afterwards they shook hands.
She puzzled over it as she continued. Uncommon objects must be exchanged, she figured, not bought. They were graded one to ten and then swapped. A bit like comics or trading cards.
As she turned a corner, she got a whiff of something nasty – sewage or overflowing rubbish bins – but it was gone in a moment, as if carried away on a breeze. At the end of the road a crowd had formed. Beyond them, some uncommoners in long white robes were singing.
Ivy moved in closer to listen.
‘. . . let yourselves be light, from now on our troubles will be out of sight . . .’
The choir was performing Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, a song Ivy had heard on the radio at home. Each voice seemed to soar, lifting Ivy up with it. The tune reminded her of Christmas Day: her mum laughing while cooking lunch and her dad cracking jokes as she and Seb helped him set the table.
All at once Ivy noticed that there was something odd about the singers. Their skin appeared to be glowing, and when she checked the ground beneath them, their white robes faded into thin air.
Scratch tinkled in Ivy’s pocket. ‘Spectres beautiful,’ he said to her. ‘Favourite they Scratch are.’
So that’s what they are, she thought. A race of the dead. She had to admit that spectres didn’t look scary at all. She wondered if she’d got the wrong impression of the dead. Maybe what Valian said was true. The dead were just like the living. Most were good, but there were also a few bad apples.
She got Farrow’s Guide out of her pocket and looked around: she was heading down a dimly lit street bordered on one side by a shallow trench of stagnant water. It smelled foul, like rotten vegetables, so Ivy assumed it was some kind of sewer. She held a sleeve over her nose as she continued.
There were no stalls here; the pavements were empty. Ahead, on the cobbled road, stood a cement mixer, a heap of broken masonry and a pile of sand. Someone had evidently been making some repairs. The shops were all shut. Hand-scrawled wooden signs announced: Closing Down Sale or Moving or Find Our New Store in the West End!
Ivy looked at the drain and wondered if the smell had driven everyone away. Rivulets of soapy water still ran between the cobbles; maybe someone had been trying to clean up. She turned her attention back to Farrow’s Guide. There must be a reason why it seemed like utter nonsense; she had no idea how it was meant to be helpful otherwise.
Or do I?
‘Maybe it’s a code,’ she whispered to herself. That way, if the guide got into common hands, no one would be able to read it. She turned to a page in the middle and tried to spot a pattern in the first line of text.
Seva nr chak tec halbeht nitniots pep theede . . .
She groaned. It was impossible. It was like someone had got the guide and shaken it up so that the letters fell into all kinds of random places. Everything was upside down and back to fr—
Ivy quickly reached into her coat pocket. ‘Scratch,’ she said. ‘Can you read this to me?’
She held him above the page. Asking a bell with no eyes to read something was probably the stupidest thing she’d ever done, but Scratch had said that you didn’t always need eyes to see.
‘Scratch readings is back-to-fronted problem too,’ he admitted.
‘That’s perfect,’ Ivy encouraged. ‘Just read exactly what you see.’
‘Huh-hum.’ Scratch coughed before beginning. ‘Entrance to the Dead End of Lundinor is only possible via the Well at the World’s End, the deepest point in the Blackheath caverns. Once here, the answer to a simple riddle gives traders access to the markets on the other side.’
It worked! ‘Go on,’ Ivy said. ‘You’re doing really well.’
Scratch vibrated. ‘Common races of the dead you may meet on your travels are: one, ghosts (also known as wisps, geists and gwei). Ghosts represent only a vague trace of a soul, and have no powers to substantiate. They are the least powerful of the races and are characterized by their dizzy, disorientated characters, which make them unsuitable for serious roles in trade. Because of their fleeting form they can travel huge distances in seconds, and before the advent of featherlight mail in the seventeenth century, ghosts were used to pass messages over long distances. The Great Chinese Whisper Calamity of 1549 is said to have been caused by one particular gwei who failed to deliver a message accurately because, as one witness reported, he was “not all there”.’
Ivy felt more hopeful. Just think what else the guide might contain! She would ask Scratch to read the maps next, and then anything that might tell her what the market was like back when Granma Sylvie was trading.
‘Two, Eyre Folk,’ Scratch continued with a jingle. ‘Easily recognized by their pale skin and inhuman speed and strength, Eyre Folk are likely to be responsible for the common “vampire” myth because of their uncontrollable tendency to “spook” – a physical reaction to a heightened emotional state, during which their skin appears to sweat blood.’ Scratch suddenly stopped. ‘Ivy, Ivy. Everything not some right.’
Ivy heard a splash. She looked back at the drain and spotted a stream of thick, slimy water flowing into the road, oozing towards her. It had a familiar silvery sheen.
‘Ivy, get here out!’ Scratch shouted, shaking violently. ‘Get here out!’
‘Wh-what’s happening?’ Ivy stammered, stuffing Scratch and the guide into her pocket as she ran. She checked back over her shoulder. The glistening trail had slithered across the cobbles after her and split in two, pinning her in on the opposite pavement.
She hadn’t been imagining it; something had been following her.
Slime.
Only, it’s not just slime, is it?
With a sound like a burp, a large dark thing rose up out of the gloop. The back of Ivy’s neck prickled as the creature made its way towards her, dragging its huge body over the cobbles. It was roughly person-shaped, with broad shoulders and a scaly lower half that disappeared into the sludge. Its skin was covered in long dripping hair the colour of seaweed; it looked like something out of an old monster movie.
Ivy hurriedly weighed up her options. There was no escape route – the shops were closed; the street was deserted. She wondered if she could outrun the creature. It was taking a long time to reach her, sticking to the part of the road that was wet. Maybe it could only move on water. Ivy glanced over her shoulder
at the pile of sand beside the cement mixer. Could she somehow use the sand against this monster . . . ?
Before she could make a move, the slimy water around her sizzled, and a huge brown wave roared up out of it – two metres tall and full of floating plastic bottles, seaweed and driftwood. Ivy covered her eyes with her hand as spray pelted her face. The stench of salt filled the air. She blinked, lost her footing and fell to the ground.
The water made a loud sputtering noise. Then Ivy heard a voice; it sounded like it came from underwater.
‘Little girl,’ it said, bubbling away, ‘where have you hidden it?’
Not this again. ‘Hidden what?’ she rasped, struggling to her feet. ‘What do you want?’
She stretched up on tiptoe, trying to see over the wall of water that surrounded her. It was no use. Everything behind it was blurry and distorted. Except for . . .
Just then, from within the sheet of water, a face emerged, followed by a body. Ivy saw a pair of hollow muddy eyes and rows of teeth like a shark’s. ‘The Great Uncommon Good,’ it said, frothing at the mouth. ‘You know where it is.’ It smiled devilishly, showing off those teeth. ‘Tell me.’
Before panic overtook Ivy completely, she heard the cement mixer rattling beside her and remembered the sand. She just had to be within reach . . .
‘Well, little girl,’ the creature bubbled. ‘Can you answer my question?’
‘What makes you think I have it?’ Ivy said, inching backwards. She could feel the edge of the sand pile behind her.
‘Don’t play games with me,’ the creature hissed.
Scratch was trembling in Ivy’s pocket; she hoped what she was about to do might save them both. She dug the toe of her welly into the sand, then kicked as hard as she could.
A cloud of sand lifted into the air, covering the monster. It roared angrily before its face disappeared. For a brief second the wall of water surrounding Ivy flickered.
‘HELP!’ she shouted, dragging air into her lungs. ‘SOMEBODY HELP ME!’
Suddenly there was another voice: ‘Ivy!’
‘Help!’ she screamed. She tried to see through the water. Seb? No. The voice had sounded different . . . stronger. ‘Valian?’ she called.
‘Stay there,’ he replied. ‘Don’t move!’
‘Ivy! I’m here!’ Now that was Seb. Yelling.
A narrow gap appeared in the water; something small and glittery shot through it. Ivy looked down. A candy-pink yo-yo had landed by her foot. ‘What am I meant—?’
‘Don’t speak!’ Valian shouted. ‘Either of you. Selkies can only read your mind while you’re talking!’
Selkies . . . ? Ivy shivered. That name was familiar. She’d read it in the newspaper they’d found in the Wrench Mansion. It had said that selkies used to work for the Dirge.
She crouched down and carefully picked up the yo-yo, keeping one eye on the selkie. It was staring at her with wide, hungry eyes, as if she was the prize turkey on display in a butcher’s window.
Ivy was so terrified, she barely felt her whispering work when she touched the toy. It was uncommon, but she had no idea what it did.
The selkie’s eyes focused on the yo-yo. Ivy was about to try throwing it as you would a normal yo-yo when an ear-shattering scream resounded along the street. The wall of water vibrated like a hurricane had just hit it. Ivy dropped to her knees, her hands clamped over her ears. It felt like they were burning. She winced and tried to look up, her eyes watering from the pain.
The selkie’s throat vibrated as it screamed, its jaw hanging open. Her head pounding, Ivy imagined what an uncommon yo-yo might do. They go away and come back to you . . . They work with gravity . . . You throw them . . . They spin until they hit the ground . . .
Wait – they spin . . .
She removed one hand from her ear, flinching as the piercing scream broke through. Looping the string around her finger, she aimed the yo-yo at the selkie and flicked her wrist.
A cyclone burst out of the pink yo-yo, pulling the wall of water round in circles. In an explosion of foam, the selkie was sucked into the whirlpool. Its cries started to break up as its body flashed in and out of view.
In between the selkie’s scream, Ivy caught Valian’s voice.
‘On three!’ he shouted.
On three? Do what on three?
‘One . . .’
Ivy panicked, looking around. Maybe he’d thrown her something else to use.
‘Two . . .’
There was nothing: just water, a very angry selkie and the yo-yo.
‘Three!’
At the last second she did the only thing she could think of: she let go of the yo-yo.
The selkie scream was cut off, and she saw rushing water and bubbles. The yo-yo rose above her head, taking the whirlpool with it. Below, she could finally see through to the street. She dashed underneath the water and out the other side.
Valian was standing there, soaking wet and covered in slime, holding a bath plug suspended from a length of silver chain. ‘Get back,’ he warned sharply.
Seb dragged Ivy away from the maelstrom. She looked over her shoulder as Valian took aim and threw the bath plug into the centre of the whirlpool.
The selkie gave one last stomach-curdling scream, and then, with an almighty guzzling sound, the whirlpool disappeared into the ground. The bath plug and the yo-yo hit the cobbles with a thud.
Ivy’s legs almost gave way as she tried to stand.
Seb bent down to help her. ‘Ivy, are you all right?’
‘What’s the Great Uncommon Good?’ she spluttered. ‘That’s what the Dirge want. That’s what they’re after.’
Chapter Twenty-four
A long grey feather bobbed in the air in front of Ivy’s eyes. She tried swatting it away, but it swooped under her hand and started writing.
‘Great,’ Valian groaned, at her shoulder. ‘It’s from Ethel.’
Ivy had no idea how he knew that – maybe Ethel only used pigeon feathers. Whatever the feather was, it started writing:
Valian Kaye,
You and I had a deal. I have already fulfilled my half of the agreement; in return you were meant to keep Ivy and Sebastian safe.
But what’s this I hear about a selkie attack . . . in the STREET! And where were you?
Utterly reprehensible behaviour.
You call yourself a scout . . .
Ivy turned away as the feather continued its message, but she saw Valian rolling his eyes as it went on and on.
She sat down on a bench beneath one of the streetlamps. Seb hid a grin at Valian’s misfortune as he slumped beside her. They were back on the Gauntlet and the air was filled with the enthusiastic calls of traders, the babble of chatter and the swish and shuffle of Hobsmatch. The noises of Lundinor were becoming more familiar to Ivy and, after the terrifying cries of the selkie, they sounded warm and friendly.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t get there sooner,’ Seb said, staring into his lap. ‘I noticed you’d taken Scratch with you – that’s how Valian tracked you on one of his scouting maps. I don’t wanna think about what would have happened if we hadn’t got there in time.’ He turned to look at her. ‘It was stupid of me to go off like that this morning. We have to stick together.’
Ivy sniffed. She could still taste the selkie slime. ‘That’s one of the last things Dad said to me,’ she said. ‘Make sure you and Seb stay together.’
‘I hope Mum and Dad are together, wherever they are.’
Ivy looked into her brother’s big green eyes. She’d never noticed the similarity before, but now she realized they were exactly like hers.
‘At least now we’ve got another clue to help save them,’ she said. ‘What do you think the Great Uncommon Good is? That’s what the Dirge want.’
Seb shrugged. ‘It sounds like something famous, something historical. Wolfsbane and Ragwort must have sent the selkie after you to see if it could read your mind and find out where it is.’ He shivered as he finished.
‘What
’s wrong?’ Ivy asked.
Seb lowered his head. ‘It’s just – what we read in that newspaper about the Dirge causing an uprising of the dead . . . It’s happening again.’
Before Ivy could say anything more, Valian came striding over. ‘I am sick of those lectures.’
Seb looked up. ‘All right, whiny. You didn’t have to read it.’
Valian gave him a sarcastic smile. ‘Actually I did. Featherlight doesn’t go away unless you’ve read it all. It just keeps re-writing the message in front of you.’
He brushed down his leather jacket, grimacing as his hand came away shiny with gloop. ‘You two need something to defend yourselves with in case there’s a next time. I’m not getting another earful from Ethel. Come with me.’
He led Ivy and Seb through the Great Cavern and into the East End. It was a lively place full of the noise of trade, where the air smelled of cooked meat, tar and ale. Ivy tried to banish her memories of the selkie. Scratch had stopped shaking in her pocket; it was time for her to stop shaking too.
Instead, she considered the clue to what the Dirge were after. The Great Uncommon Good . . . Seb was right: it did sound historical – like an ancient legend. She wondered what or who the Great Uncommon Good was.
The East End streets were crooked and winding, littered with plastic packaging, cardboard and beer cans. Some shops had smashed windows boarded up, while others had put up fairy lights and scrawled cardboard signs.
‘One shiny new straddlebroom!’ a trader with a thick accent shouted. ‘Only one point two grade, ladies and gents – cheapest in Lundinor!’
‘One grade ha-ats, one grade ha-ats – change your guise in moments, one grade ha-ats!’ sang another.
Valian stalked confidently through the crowds and then turned off onto a quiet side street. As she followed, Ivy began to reconsider his motives. She hadn’t trusted him, but he’d risked his life to save her from the selkie . . . She had so many questions.
The Crooked Sixpence Page 15
