‘I think it might have been a dodgy burrito,’ she explained, rubbing Seb’s back. ‘Can you call your medical officer, please?’
The officer exchanged a suspicious glance with his colleague.
‘Please?’ Judy begged. ‘I don’t want your lovely clean reception area to be spoiled.’
The young man wrinkled his nose. ‘Wait here.’ He rose from his seat and disappeared through a door at the back.
Ivy and Valian hopped a few chairs closer to the discocommunicator door.
Seb leaned over the coffin desk. ‘Urgh …’ he gurgled, approaching puke mode. ‘I can feel it coming.’
‘There, there,’ Judy soothed. ‘Perhaps we can find a bag.’
The remaining officer leaped from his chair and yanked open the rear door. ‘Frank!’ he yelled. ‘Hurry!’
While his back was turned, Ivy and Valian shot to the door of the discocommunicator room and, using Valian’s boat shoes, unlocked it from the inside. The room was circular, with a floor that dipped in the centre. Rows of benches ran around the perimeter; in the middle a glittering disco ball was suspended from a wire in the ceiling. That explains the name, Ivy thought. She was surprised Guesthouse Swankypants hadn’t acquired one.
A steel truss rigged with various stage lights and spots stood on one side. Valian fiddled with the controls on a few of them, and the room filled with tiny squares of light. ‘I once tried to use one of these to speak to Rosie, but it can’t dial people; only places,’ he clarified. He pressed a button to start the ball rotating, and the lights began sweeping across the walls. ‘I’ve set it up to give us a direct view into Mr Punch’s Curiosity Shop. If he’s not there, we’ll have to try a few other spots in Lundinor.’
A hot-tub-sized circular hologram sputtered into life above the mirror ball. It showed a room with curved grey stone walls and narrow slits for windows. Outside it, Ivy caught glimpses of castle turrets and battlements made from the same smooth, square stone blocks. The floor was dotted with various trunks, crates and cases, all stamped with Mr Punch’s logo: a black top hat. Valian was right about the discocommunicator being able to transmit smells, because the scent of rain lined Ivy’s nose.
‘This is it?’ she said, surprised. The last time she’d seen Mr Punch’s shop it had looked like a giant purple tent. Before that, it had been a brick-built shop with leaded windows.
‘The Stone of Dreams is in the corner, over there,’ Valian whispered, pointing to a grey plinth carved with winged horses and five-pointed stars. A battered copy of King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table by Roger Lancelyn Green lay open on top.
Ivy was familiar enough with the story to know that it was set in medieval England. ‘That explains the castle,’ she muttered, knowing that the Stone of Dreams had the extraordinary power to manifest certain aspects of whichever book rested on its surface. Mr Punch used it to change the appearance of Lundinor every trading season; Ivy was curious to see what the rest of the undermart looked like.
As she and Valian watched, a tall man dressed in black evening wear strode into the room. The short fuzz of brown hair on his scalp was the same length as that on his chin. ‘Mr Punch,’ Ivy said quietly. ‘He might not be wearing his usual Hobsmatch, but it’s definitely him.’ She could tell because, as she watched, his appearance kept shifting – a phenomenon she was able to perceive using her whispering. First he was slim, with freckles and a dimpled chin; then he was short and hunched, with a wrinkled face and white hair. She’d only seen him change this quickly when he’d been under extreme pressure. She wasn’t sure what Valian could see.
When the red-bearded quartermaster took shape, he turned to face them. ‘Ivy? Valian?’ He squinted towards what Ivy assumed must be a hologram of herself and Valian in the castle tower.
Before they could respond, however, Mr Punch altered into a beefy-looking man with a stubbly beard, who grunted, ‘Why are we talking to them?’
‘This is a waste of time,’ said the next guise – a smartly dressed gentleman with a cravat. He sounded well-spoken. ‘I don’t see how we can make progress.’
Ivy double checked, but there was no one else in the room. Mr Punch was talking to himself … if you could call it that. ‘Are you OK, sir?’ she asked. In all her experiences with him, he’d still only ever seemed like one person.
‘Let me find my soulmate and become Departed and this won’t be an issue!’ demanded another guise.
‘That could destroy us,’ the next pointed out. ‘I, for one, vote we don’t risk it. Some of us want to stay around.’
‘Some of us shouldn’t have kept the knowledge of soulmates from others,’ one of them stated bitterly.
Ivy understood from the snippets of conversation why they were arguing. Some of the souls within Mr Punch wanted to be reunited with their soulmates so that they could become Departed, while others didn’t. It sounded like they weren’t even sure what would happen if one of them did Depart. Perhaps the conflict between them explained the strange featherlight Mr Punch had sent Ivy; the one that looked like it had been written by multiple people.
‘Mr Punch, sir? Can you hear or see us?’ Valian asked.
The quartermaster appeared again. His top hat sat off-kilter, his red beard was ruffled and there were dark circles under his swirly greeny-blue eyes. ‘I don’t have long,’ he warned. ‘At the moment it takes a lot of persuasion for my other friends to allow me to talk to you.’
Ivy imagined what it might be like to share her body with several broken souls. You would all have to compromise with one another in order for one of you to assume control. It would need to be a relationship based on trust and understanding.
Valian asked hurriedly, ‘Do you know anything about Mr Rife? Why did you give me the invitation to the auction house?’
‘For the same reason I gave Amos Stirling’s journal to Ivy. Because fate decided you should have it.’ Mr Punch looked over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to sneak up behind him. ‘A powerful uncommon clock foretold that you and Mr Rife would meet. The invitation was to point you in the right direction.’
Valian gritted his teeth. ‘Mr Rife lied to us. We know he shook hands with Rosie on the day she went missing, but he said he’d never seen her before.’
‘He is not your enemy,’ Mr Punch said firmly. ‘The vision I had was of you two embracing as friends.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Valian said. ‘I don’t even know him.’
‘I received another premonition yesterday morning,’ Mr Punch continued urgently. ‘I sent you a featherlight to explain—’ His words were cut short as his face widened into that of the beefy man with the stubbly chin. Before he could say anything, the quartermaster returned for a split second. ‘It was a warning—’
Ivy grew more and more frustrated as the quartermaster continued to vanish and then reappear briefly, struggling against his colleagues. On each occasion he managed to utter a single word or short phrase.
‘… Great Gates … Blackheath … using the sword … commoners in danger,’ Valian repeated. ‘The sword must be the Sword of Wills; and Lundinor lies under Blackheath in London. Any idea what the rest of it could mean?’
‘It’s got to be something to do with New Dawn,’ Ivy decided. ‘Perhaps that’s what Mr Punch saw a prophecy about; he said it was a warning.’
Valian shivered. ‘“Commoners in danger” … That would fit with all that rubbish Octavius Wrench said in Central Park – about commoners being inferior and their numbers needing to be controlled.’
The door behind them thudded open. Ivy spun round to see a red-faced underguard officer standing in the opening. ‘Out,’ he barked. ‘NOW!’ He flicked a switch on the wall and the disco ball began to slow down.
‘No, wait!’ Ivy studied the flickering hologram, trying to capture every detail. Just before the transmission died, Mr Punch appeared as the red-bearded quartermaster one last time. Ivy tensed as he uttered two final words:
… attack London.
>
Six heavily armed underguard officers escorted Ivy, Seb and Valian along the road towards Guesthouse Swankypants. Ivy caught the nervous expressions of traders peering at them through shop windows. With everyone watching, it wasn’t going to be easy to slip away.
‘I’m very disappointed,’ Curtis said, stomping behind them. ‘I had assumed, given the seriousness of your situation, that you’d conduct yourselves properly.’
As Curtis continued to scold them, Ivy reached for Scratch with her whispering. Mr Punch saw a prediction about New Dawn in the face of an uncommon clock, she told him. The Dirge are going to attack London.
Her satchel trembled. But what Dirge stoppings can we do? Scratch replied.
I don’t know. Ivy’s mind was racing. She remembered Octavius Wrench boasting that the Dirge had far greater ambitions than attacking undermarts. Now that she thought about it, the Dirge’s map hadn’t actually shown any undermarts at all … perhaps it was the common cities above them that were the real targets.
Scratch beings scared, he said in a little voice.
Me too, Ivy admitted.
The lobby of Guesthouse Swankypants fell silent as they all marched in. A cleaner looked up from polishing the marble floor, only to leap up from his knees and scarper. A similarly quick exit was made by a porter tidying a vase of orchids. One of the underguard officers went over to reception; the others waited for instructions.
‘Their suite is on the second floor,’ Curtis told them. ‘I’ll need you covering the windows, doors and fire exits. Nobody goes in or out until we’ve left.’ The officers promptly dispersed. One went outside, while another stationed herself by the front door; the remaining three ran to the stairwell.
Curtis guided Ivy, Seb and Valian to the central lift. ‘You’ll have fifteen minutes to get packed. Take everything you need – we’re not coming back.’
‘Why the rush?’ Seb asked, checking his watch. He stared pointedly at Ivy and Valian. ‘It’s only just midday.’
Ivy tensed. The auction house would have opened: they needed to get there fast.
‘No more questions,’ Curtis said dismissively. ‘Just do as I say.’ When they got out of the lift, she marched them along the corridor and paused outside their suite. ‘I’ll be stationed here, covering the hallway. Your time starts now.’
Ivy swiped her glove against the door handle; it buzzed loudly before opening, and they all stepped inside. As Valian shut the door behind them, Ivy saw immediately that something was amiss: fragments of coloured glass lay scattered across the thick carpet, cabinet drawers hung open and curtains had been ripped down. She spotted her pyjamas hiding under the upturned coffee table. Someone had been in and ransacked the place.
A rustling noise sounded in one of the bedrooms. Seb reached for his drumsticks.
‘Wait,’ Ivy whispered, pulling him back. ‘Shouldn’t we get Curtis?’
‘Not till we’re sure we need her,’ Valian hissed. ‘This might be the only chance we get to escape.’
They crept towards the bedrooms; the door to Ivy’s was ajar. Valian put a finger to his lips and signalled for Ivy and Seb to get back.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. There was no reply, but the rustling stopped. Valian nodded at Ivy and Seb, then burst in, and they hurried after him.
Ivy stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Alexander Brewster standing at the foot of her bed. In one hand he held a test tube filled with transparent liquid. In the other was a small round tin painted with a geometric pattern; a steel handle protruded from the top of it.
‘Alexander—’ She lost her breath.
His Hobsmatch – a simple shirt and trousers – were baggier than before, and his skin and fiery-red hair were covered with oil and blood. He blinked once, then, with a menacing grin, smashed the test tube on the floor. As Ivy, Seb and Valian shuffled back to avoid the spillage and shards of glass, Alexander rotated the handle on the colourful tin. It emitted a high-pitched, tinkling tune that made the hairs on Ivy’s neck stand on end. Worse, at the sound of the music, the puddle at her feet crystallized with a loud crackle, and tiny spores of chalky powder began to rise from its surface.
The air turned cloudy. A dry chemical coated the roof of Ivy’s mouth, reeking of plaster. She heard Seb coughing, but when she tried to reach for him her arms wouldn’t budge. Her limbs felt numb, as if the flow of blood had been cut off. As the room cleared, she saw that Seb and Valian were having the same problem: their bodies had ground to a stony halt, like robots drained of battery power. Ivy wanted to shout to them, but her mouth was frozen shut.
Alexander snorted with laughter. ‘Brilliant!’ he cried gleefully. He was still clutching the tin music box. ‘You look ridiculous!’
Terror squeezed at Ivy’s chest, but she breathed through her nose, trying not to panic. Her internal organs seemed to be functioning fine; it was just the rest of her body that felt like wet clay.
‘I’ve named this formula “Statue Salt”,’ Alexander announced boastfully. ‘After much experimentation I discovered that the tune from an uncommon music box activates the liquid, which solidifies into a powder that invades people’s lungs. The genius thing is that the paralysis is instantly reversed if you listen to an uncommon music box played backwards – and as I’ve already heard this one in reverse, I’m immune!’ He tucked the music box inside a battered leather doctor’s bag that lay open on the bed. Inside, Ivy could see test tubes containing various substances, some with what looked like more of the same transparent fluid. One was labelled DAYLIGHT BURST, and below it was scribbled Blackclaw. Ivy guessed Octavius Wrench had made use of that particular potion in order to appear briefly in Nubrook two days ago.
When Alexander turned back round, he was still smiling smugly. Ivy growled at him – her vocal cords were still working; it was just that she couldn’t get any words out – and the joy dissolved from Alexander’s face. ‘You’re back earlier than I anticipated,’ he snapped. ‘You can wait there while I continue searching.’ From the state of the bedroom, Ivy reckoned Alexander had been there a while. The pillows had been slit open and the wardrobe drawers tipped out. A soft mulch of feathers covered the floor.
‘But wait …’ Alexander smiled greedily as he noticed the satchel hanging across Ivy’s shoulders. ‘What have we here?’ Stepping closer, he slid the bag over Ivy’s head and opened it up. ‘Useless, useless,’ he muttered, throwing Scratch and Ivy’s yo-yo away; they rolled off into the sitting room. Finally he came upon Amos’s journal. ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed. ‘Just where you kept it last time. I only got a peek before.’
There was nothing Ivy could do except watch. With Amos’s journal in his grasp, Alexander drew so close to her, she could feel his breath against her face. He smelled foul, as if he hadn’t washed for weeks. Ivy weighed up their options. She couldn’t shout for help from Curtis, and Scratch was too far away to whisper to. Perhaps she could try communicating with an object that was closer.
Alexander’s eyes flashed hungrily. ‘The information inside this will help me build my own guild, which will be far more powerful than the Dirge.’ He said the name like it belonged to an idiotic rival. ‘In exchange for a few formulas of mine, they’ve been telling me their secrets. Their only strength is their leader. He manipulates all the other members, getting them to do his bidding so that he can take all the glory for New Dawn. But I will be a greater leader than even Blackclaw …’
Listening to him gloat, Ivy was filled with anger. Alexander hadn’t seemed as unhinged as this the last time they met. She reckoned that spending time with the Dirge had been a destabilizing experience for him. She scanned the room with her whispering, searching for an object that could help them escape.
‘Good leaders set an example to their supporters,’ Alexander continued. ‘You and your family must be punished for destroying mine, and for making a fool of me in front of the whole of Lundinor.’
There was a rustle by the door, and a figure in long dark robes glided into the room. Al
exander hastily hid Amos’s journal behind his back. ‘You’re late,’ he snapped, glaring at the sunburst clock on the wall.
The stranger turned to face Ivy. His head was covered by a hood and he wore a scaly mask with slits for nostrils. All Ivy could see were his black lips and emaciated neck, as if his body was made only of skin and bone. She had no idea what race of the dead he was. ‘What’s this?’ the stranger demanded. ‘I thought we were leaving Nubrook to meet Blackclaw.’
Ivy recognized his hoarse voice immediately: Monkshood. Curious, she searched him with her senses. He was carrying several uncommon items. Imprisoned inside one was a broken soul with an old, croaky voice. Ivy thought it might be speaking Japanese since it sounded like the characters in the anime movies Seb watched. Her heart stirred strangely as she listened to its weary muttering. She had been in the presence of three of the Great Uncommon Good before – the Sack of Stars, the Jar of Shadows and the Stone of Dreams – and she knew what they sounded like. They all had strange, penetrating voices that filled her with emotion. This voice sounded like it had been around for a very long time. It had to be the Sword of Wills …
… which meant that Blackclaw didn’t have it yet.
‘You should have stuck to our original plan,’ Alexander retorted.
‘The only plan that matters is the one that brings about New Dawn,’ Monkshood said dismissively. Ivy noticed that the fingers of his black gloves were as thin as pencils. ‘Have you found the journal? I have just received a message from Blackclaw: he has almost acquired the Sands of Change.’
Rosie! Ivy tried to move again, but it was no use.
Alexander’s arm twitched behind his back. ‘You must use the sword on their friend first. That was our agreement.’
The dark eye-holes of Monkshood’s mask fell upon Alexander’s arm. Ivy had a feeling he had guessed what Alexander was holding. ‘Why are you wasting your time with these three uncommoners, when New Dawn will change the lives of every uncommoner in the world?’
The Frozen Telescope Page 11
