Museum of Thieves

by Lian Tanner

Something wild took hold of Goldie then. She didn’t want to be safe. She wanted to be free! The silk ribbon seemed to tighten around her wrist. The high glass dome of the Great Hall pressed down on her, so that she felt as if she might suffocate.

  Look, whispered the little voice. Look at the lieutenant marshal. Look behind him.

  Goldie ducked her head. The lieutenant marshal of militia was standing right next to her. Behind him, at the back of the stage, was a small door.

  ‘Danger Can Strike from Any Direction,’ cried the Fugleman. ‘It Lurks Amongst Us and Does Not Sleep.’

  ‘It Is Our Duty to Be Cautious!’

  Goldie swallowed. The sound was so loud in her ears that she was sure everyone else must have heard it. Her heart was beating right up in her throat. The tips of her fingers tingled.

  She squeezed the blue enamel bird. Maybe Auntie Praise WASN’T taken by slavers, she thought. Maybe she ran away because she couldn’t bear living here any more.

  ‘Beware of the Bold and the Foolhardy for They Will Bring Disaster upon Us All!’ shouted the Fugleman.

  ‘It Is Our Duty to Be Afraid!’

  As the last word of the chant died down, Guardian Hope cried, ‘Three cheers for the Fugleman, holy servant of the Seven! Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!’

  The noise rose around Goldie like a tidal wave. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Favour was watching her.

  Goldie tried to smile, but she couldn’t. Without taking her eyes off her best friend, she let go of the blue bird and slipped her hand into the lieutenant marshal’s pocket.

  Favour stared. The crowd cheered on and on. Goldie sifted her way past a kerchief, past a bunch of keys, her fingers as light as a breath of air.

  And suddenly, there were the scissors. She slid them out of the lieutenant marshal’s pocket and into her own.

  Standing still then was one of the hardest things she had ever done. She was shaking from head to toe. Favour’s eyes were wide with shock, but she said nothing.

  Goldie leaned back so that her head rested on Pa’s broad chest. ‘I love you, Pa,’ she whispered. There was so much noise that he probably couldn’t hear her. Still, he put up his hand and stroked her hair.

  Goldie kissed Ma on the cheek. ‘I love you too, Ma. Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘What?’ said Ma, putting her hand to her ear. ‘Say that again, sweeting?’

  Goldie could feel the tears starting up at the back of her eyes. She shook them away. She opened and closed the scissors three times inside her pocket to make sure she knew how to use them.

  She glanced at the audience. Her eyes slid across a patch of air. She forced them back, and there was the man in the black coatee, watching her . . .

  It was too late to care. The little voice in the back of her mind was shouting, Go! Go!

  Goldie whipped the scissors out of her pocket and cut through the white silk ribbon with one snip. Then, before anyone could stop her, she ran off the stage and out the back door of the Great Hall.

  .

  he Protector limped down the gangplank of the official waterbus. The corns on her feet ached, and she was tired and heartsick. It had been a terrible day.

  She had originally planned to leave the Great Hall straight after the Separation ceremony, and make a tour of the levees that protected Jewel from the sea. According to the Levee Master they were in urgent need of repair.

  Instead, she had called up the militia to search for whoever had set off the bomb. She had gone to the Fugleman’s shattered office and spoken to witnesses. She had visited the dead child’s parents, and the children who had survived the explosion.

  And now there was this wretched business of the runaway girl – and the Resident Guardians.

  She wiped the sweat out of her eyes and shook her head. A runaway! Coming so soon after news of the bomb! The whole city was reeling with shock.

  She was shocked too, but for a different reason. She was sorry now that she had left the Hall when she did. She should have guessed that the Fugleman would take any opportunity to stir up the people.

  More Blessed Guardians indeed! The Protector wanted to reduce the stranglehold that they had on the city, not increase it. She’d been planning to cut their numbers by half, once the new Age of Separation was properly in place.

  She grimaced. Well, that plan was dead, and it’d be a long time before she could resurrect it.

  Slowly she hobbled up the stone steps of the dock and onto the Bridge of Beasts. It was the oldest bridge in Jewel, and its iron sides were wrought in the shapes of quignogs, idlecats, slotters, slommerkins, brizzlehounds and slaughterbirds. As she passed, their muscles seemed to strain and bunch, as if they might leap into life at any moment.

  Despite her tiredness, the Protector stopped in the middle of the bridge. When her ancestors had first arrived here from Merne, these strange creatures had roamed all over the peninsula. They were gone now, of course, extinct for so long that most people thought they had never existed. But they had been real enough, back in the early days of Dunt. The Protector knew that without a doubt.

  In fact there were quite a few things that the Protector knew . . .

  Which reminded her. There was something she must tell the Fugleman. Something important.

  It was only a short walk from the Bridge of Beasts to the Protectorate. The lieutenant marshal of militia was waiting at the top of the steps. He hurried to open the door for her, his face strained with guilt.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he said. ‘The scissors, Your Grace. How can I apologise?’

  The Protector’s aching corns made her more short-tempered than usual. ‘A child has been lost because of your carelessness,’ she snapped.

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’ll do anything to make up for it. If I could join the search party—’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Please, Your Grace—’

  ‘Be quiet! You’re lucky you’re still in the militia. Whether you stay there is another matter altogether. Now, I have a message for the Fugleman. I trust you can deliver it without endangering the lives of any more children?’

  ‘But the Fugleman’s here, Your Grace! He’s been waiting for half an hour or more.’

  The lieutenant marshal darted in front of the Protector and pushed her office door open – and there indeed was the Fugleman, sitting in one of the visitors chairs. He had changed his clothes and washed away the ash and dust. Now he was as immaculate as ever, apart from the bandage around his forehead.

  ‘Your Grace,’ he said, climbing stiffly to his feet and bowing. ‘Blessings upon you.’

  The Protector dismissed the lieutenant marshal. Then she closed the door and leaned against it. She forced a smile. ‘Well, little brother,’ she said.

  There were barely half a dozen people in Jewel who knew that His Honour the Fugleman and Her Grace the Protector were brother and sister. It suited both of them to keep it that way. They had never liked each other, even as children.

  The Protector limped around the desk to her chair. ‘Any news of the girl?’

  ‘None,’ said her brother, settling back with a grunt. ‘But we’ll find her. My Guardians are trained for moments such as this. Unlike your so-called militia, who don’t seem to be trained for anything. You know that she was standing right next to one of them? Took the scissors from his pocket? Unbelievable! If he was mine I’d have him court-martialled.’

  The Fugleman was skilled at the ancient art of swordsmanship, and the Protector often felt as if her conversations with him were a running duel. But today she was determined to ignore his jabs. ‘Why on earth did the child run away?’ she asked. ‘She must be the first in more than fifty years.’

  Something flickered across the Fugleman’s face. ‘Ah . . . the second.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A boy, last year. He disappeared overnight. His parents thought he’d been taken by slavers, but then they found a note. He’d run away.’

  The Protector could hardly believe wh
at she was hearing. She knew of several children who had gone missing after Separation. But before? ‘Wasn’t he guardchained?’

  ‘His parents said he was. They claimed that he must have picked the lock somehow. But we were quite sure they had left him unchained. It happens sometimes, but we usually catch it before disaster strikes.’

  ‘Why didn’t I hear about this at the time?’

  ‘No one heard about it. Imagine if word got around that there were children left unchained at night. The slavers would be upon us like wolves. For that reason we kept it quiet.’

  ‘But still, I should have been told!’

  ‘Do you think so, sister?’ The Fugleman ran his hand over his chin. ‘It was obviously a case of Abomination. I saw no need to inform you. After all, you wouldn’t inform me if the Treasury accounts didn’t balance . . .’

  The Protector tried to ignore the anger that was rising inside her. ‘Did you search for the boy?’

  ‘Of course. We searched everywhere, day and night for a week. But there was no sign of him. He’s long dead by now. Probably drowned.’

  ‘And his family?’

  ‘There was a younger child, a girl. We took her into Care, and the Court of the Seven Blessings sentenced the parents to three years in the House of Repentance and the confiscation of all their possessions.’

  ‘You mean you sentenced them.’

  ‘It’s true that the Court chooses to speak through me,’ said the Fugleman smoothly. ‘And I am greatly honoured by it.’

  ‘Three years imprisonment, their possessions gone, their daughter taken into Care. A harsh punishment for people who’ve just lost their son!’

  ‘They broke the law.’

  ‘I don’t think—’ began the Protector. But then she stopped. She really didn’t want to fight openly with her brother, especially not today. ‘Why are you here?’

  The Fugleman took a sheaf of papers from inside his jacket and laid them on the desk. ‘I have a few unimportant documents that need your signature.’

  The Protector pushed her eyeglasses into place, picked up the topmost paper and frowned. ‘Unimportant? This is to approve the new Resident Guardians. You’ve been very quick to draw up the agreement!’

  The Fugleman shrugged. ‘The people were most insistent—’

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool, brother. You were always able to sway a crowd.’

  ‘You flatter me, sister. But you can’t deny that these are desperate times. And the people are fright-ened.’

  The Protector hesitated. For once her brother was right. These were desperate times. More desperate than she had realised. And the people were frightened.

  With a sigh, she dipped her pen in the inkwell, signed the top paper and turned to the next one. She blinked in surprise, and read it twice in case she was mistaken. ‘According to this,’ she said slowly, ‘these Resident Guardians of yours will be in place by tonight! I thought it would take a month at least!’

  ‘There are dangerous criminals loose in the city. They will not wait a month.’ The Fugleman rubbed his hand across his bandaged forehead, as if his wound was hurting him. ‘Besides, the new Guardians can help search for the girl. She’ll probably try to hide in some building or other when night falls. This way, we’ll be waiting for her.’

  ‘But what about their training?’

  ‘Perhaps you are happy to wait for an emergency before you train new militia, sister. But I cannot afford to be so complacent. There are new Guardians in training at all times, just in case. Your signature, if you will.’

  The Protector tapped her pen against her cheek. She would sign. But there was something she had to tell her brother first. What was it?

  Ah, yes. ‘The Museum of Dunt,’ she said. ‘You know it?’

  The Fugleman’s handsome brow creased. ‘I’ve heard of it. A small building of no particular importance. I believe it’s further up Old Arsenal Hill from my office. What of it?’

  ‘They won’t be needing a Resident Guardian. They’re exempt.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Not the Museum of Dunt.’

  At that, something in the Fugleman’s face seemed to change, and for a split second he looked as sharp and dangerous as a straight-edge razor. Then he bowed his head and the dangerous look was gone so completely that the Protector thought she had imagined it.

  ‘I’m sure you have excellent reasons for such an exemption, sister. Might I ask what they are?’

  The Protector hesitated. Apart from her, the only people who knew the truth about the Museum of Dunt were the museum’s keepers. There was no actual law that prevented her from telling the Fugleman. But it was not the sort of knowledge that she would trust him with.

  So she merely shrugged and said, ‘It’s customary to leave the museum to its own devices.’

  ‘And this custom, how did it begin?’

  The Protector waved her hand in the direction of her bookcases, which were crammed with documents from the early days of Dunt. ‘I really can’t remember. I’m sure there’s an explanation there somewhere.’

  Then, before her brother could ask any more questions, she scribbled her signature on the paper and pushed it towards him.

  He bowed. ‘Thank you for your time, Your Grace. Meeting with you is always such a pleasure. Blessings upon you.’

  His teeth flashed in an insincere smile. Then he was gone.

  .

  oldie crouched inside the cabin of a small private water-rig. Despite the heat she was shivering. Her head ached and her legs were cramped, but she dared not move. The water-rig was moored right up against Beast Dock, and there were barges and waterbuses all around. It was a miracle that she had got this far without being seen.

  Now that the wildness had worn off, she was horrified by what she had done. She glared at the remains of the white silk ribbon on her wrist. ‘Stupid!’ she hissed. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid!’

  There was a clattering from the barge next door, and she jammed her knuckles into her mouth. Had someone heard her? Were they coming? What would they do if they caught her?

  She squeezed her eyes shut and waited. The clattering died away. A man laughed. The water-rig rocked gently from side to side. Slowly, Goldie opened her eyes.

  Above her head was the wooden wheel that steered the boat. On either side of the wheel were narrow seats with sheepskin coverlets. The rest of the cabin was empty. No Blessed Guardians. No Ma and Pa.

  For the first time in her life Goldie was completely alone.

  Quickly she shut her eyes again. The thump thump thump of her heart was louder than she’d ever heard it before. She wondered if she was coming down with a fever. Her legs and arms shook. She tried desperately to hold back the tears.

  But then she remembered Ma’s little squeak of dismay when the Protector raised the scissors. She remembered the way Pa had stroked the top of her head. She thought of how much she loved them.

  The tears poured down her face. Fear and sorrow sat like twin fists inside her.

  She didn’t know how long she sat there, crying silently in the slowly rocking boat. It seemed like hours. By the time her tears ran out, her lips were dry and cracked with thirst. She shifted position slightly and her stomach rumbled.

  She tried to distract herself by imagining what Favour was doing right now. But her mind veered off in another direction and she found herself thinking about murderous bombers.

  And mad dogs.

  And slave traders.

  Her skin crawled. She felt like an oyster that had foolishly prised itself out of its shell and now had nothing to protect it. She took the scissors from her pocket and clutched them so tightly that her fingers cramped.

  The day passed unbearably slowly. Water lapped against the hull. Engines rumbled. People on the neighbouring barges shouted instructions to each other.

  ‘Easy now! Eeeaasy! That’s it, let it down! Not there, you moon-blind idiot! Over here!’

  At last the sky outside the portholes grew dark, and the w
ork noises faded. Somewhere, someone was cooking fish.

  The smell made Goldie feel sick with hunger. As quietly as she could, she stretched the cramp out of her legs, grimacing with the pain of it. Then she crawled along the floor of the cabin and peeped out the nearest porthole.

  The waterbuses had gone, and so had some of the barges. The ones that remained had their curtains drawn and their lights dimmed.

  Slowly Goldie crawled up onto the small deck, ready to dive back into hiding if anyone appeared unexpectedly. When she was sure that there was no one around, she crept off the end of the water-rig onto the dock and up the steps to the street.

  There was a gate at the top of the steps. Goldie didn’t dare open it in case it creaked. She climbed over it – or rather half-climbed, half-fell. Then she hurried along the old towpath, her heart thumping and galumping like an engine.

  The night was dark, and there was a hush over the streets of the Old Quarter, as if everyone was so shocked by the events of the day that they had gone to bed early and pulled the covers over their heads. Goldie left the towpath and began to make her way towards the Plaza of the Forlorn.

  Every time she heard a strange noise, her heart almost jumped out of her chest. Her feet tripped and stumbled on the cobblestones, and when she came to a corner she hesitated, wondering which was the best way to go. She had longed to be rid of the guardchain, but now she found it almost unbearably odd not having someone tell her what to do, and urge her this way and that – someone who would pull her back from danger and catch her if she fell. It was like being a baby and having to learn to walk all over again.

  Her own street, when she came to it, was as silent as the rest of the city. Goldie crept along it, her eyes fixed on the apartment building halfway down the block.

  Beware, whispered the little voice in the back of her mind. For once Goldie ignored it. She was thinking about Ma and Pa, and wondering what they had had for dinner. She imagined them sitting on her empty bed with their arms around each other, crying. She brushed her own tears away.

  BEWARE!