by Lian Tanner
She dared say nothing more. A creature with idle-cat blood was not to be pushed or persuaded. All she could do was dangle the idea in front of it, and hope for the best.
Unfortunately, she would not be around to see the outcome.
Pummel thrust the unwanted gift under a cart and hurried away, not stopping until he was halfway around the market square. There, he sank down onto a sack of dog biscuits and dropped his mask and pole onto the cobblestones beside him.
Whatever that thing was, he’d gotten rid of it. And if he saw the old Saffy woman again, he’d run so fast in the opposite direction that she’d never catch him.
‘I’m not disloyal,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I’ll never be disloyal!’
A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead. He slipped his hand into his pocket, looking for his kerchief – and snatched it out again.
The pouch!
It was there in his pocket.
‘Wha—’ He stood up so quickly that he felt dizzy.
‘You all right, young Herro?’ shouted the biscuit seller, a skinny man with dog hair all over his clothes.
‘Y-yes,’ stuttered Pummel. ‘Just something I’d forgotten. To – to buy.’
The man nodded, and Pummel managed a feeble smile. But his mind was in turmoil.
It couldn’t be the pouch. It must be a clump of grass or a – a fieldmouse. When he was at home on the farm he was always finding mice in his pockets.
He breathed out.
Of course. It was a fieldmouse. Nothing more.
He slid his hand into his pocket again. The tip of his finger touched leather, and he flinched.
‘But I threw it away!’ he whispered.
He looked around nervously. Could the old woman have followed him? Could she have taken the pouch from under the cart and slipped it back into his pocket without him noticing?
Pummel could think of no other explanation.
Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled out the pouch.
The leather was warm and soft, and gathered at the top with a string that appeared to be made from human hair. There was something hard inside it.
Pummel waited until the dog biscuit man was looking the other way, then dropped the pouch behind one of the sacks.
He checked his pocket. It was empty.
‘Good,’ he whispered. He bent down to pick up his mask and staff, and felt leather between his fingers.
‘Argh!’ he cried.
‘Young Herro?’ shouted the stallholder, leaning towards Pummel with a puzzled expression on his face. ‘You sure you’re all right? There’s a physician over yonder—’
Pummel had no idea what he said in response. But it must have made sense, because the man shrugged and went back to his sales. Pummel grabbed his mask and staff and hurried towards the market entrance, with the pouch burning his fingers and his thoughts twisting and turning.
It’s not witchery, it’s sabotage, like Captain Rabid said. Some sort of hypnotism, probably. There’s a perfectly good explanation, all I have to do is find it—
As he approached the turnstile, a stir went through the crowd. Pummel was so intent on getting rid of the pouch that at first he didn’t hear what people were saying. That is, until someone gripped his arm and said, ‘What’s the hurry, young Herro? Don’t you want to see the Home Defence? That’s them now, come to search the market for saboteurs. Maybe they’re looking for you!’
THE HOME DEFENCE
There was never a shortage of boys in Tooth and Claw market. But today, Duckling couldn’t get near any of them. Every time she tried, there was a flock of sheep or a coffee-pot man in the way.
But she wasn’t about to give up.
One last Scheme, then Grandpa will retire. And we’ll go and live somewhere we’ve never been before, so no one’s got any reason to throw us in prison. By the sea, maybe…
But before that could happen, she had to find a disposable boy.
She was walking past a cage full of cats when someone blew in her ear, so hard and sharp that it felt as if it went right through her head, from one side to the other.
Duckling spun around, scowling. For a moment, she thought she saw an old woman with dark skin and feathers in her hair. But when she looked again, there was nothing there but shadows.
‘Right,’ muttered Duckling. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to find a boy in the next five minutes.’
She strode forward, humming a shiny little tune that she must’ve heard somewhere, though she couldn’t remember where. A breeze sprang up, lifting a scrap of paper and blowing it towards her. An empty bag somersaulted across the cobblestones and fell at her feet. Someone’s kerchief wrapped itself around her leg.
It was always windy in Berren, so Duckling thought nothing of it. She shook off the bag, pocketed the kerchief, and kept walking. After a few steps, she started humming again.
The breeze sprang up, just as it had before. This time it brought her a page from a gazette, an apron with its strings dangling – and a silver gloat that rolled over the cobblestones and came to a halt right in front of Duckling.
She quickly put her foot on the coin so no one else would see it. Then she stood there, with the hair on the back of her neck prickling.
That was – interesting.
She bent down very casually, picked up the coin and tucked it in her pocket. She dumped the apron behind a milk churn and walked a little further, so as not to attract attention.
Then she hummed again.
She began with the Neuhalt national anthem. Nothing happened, so she tried some other songs she knew.
Still nothing.
She looked around. Everyone was going about their business of buying or selling, with no one except a couple of pigs taking any notice of her.
Very quietly, she began to hum the shiny little tune.
She barely made a sound, but the breeze sprang up immediately, bringing her an empty sack, another kerchief and a copper misery.
The pigs’ eyes widened.
Duckling snatched up the coin and put it into her pocket with the silver gloat. Her face was calm, but inside she was almost choking with excitement.
When it came to witchery, the people of Berren were just plain odd. They refused to believe in it, no matter how often trees sprouted in unexpected places overnight, or frogs rained from the sky. Sabotage, they said. Hypnotism.
But Duckling had lived in places where people did believe in witchery. She’d seen a girl who could hardly stand up transformed into an acrobat. She’d seen a poverty-stricken urchin become a young man of wealth and influence. She’d seen how witchery could touch someone’s life and change it forever.
And now it was touching her!
She bounced on her toes. If she hummed the right way, the breeze might bring her dozens of silver gloats. And pies blown off their carts, for free. And new clothes, and a kerchief for every day of the week.
As for Grandpa, wouldn’t he love it! He’d have her humming until her throat was sore. He’d find a dozen ways to weave a witchy breeze into his next Scheme. He’d – he’d make it his instead of hers.
Duckling’s excitement dimmed a little.
Everything she had, she owed to Grandpa. Even her life. He’d told her the story often enough. ‘Your mother did not want you, so she threw you out the window into the snow. And I picked you up, wrapped you in a blanket and took you home.’
When Duckling asked for more – ‘Why didn’t she want me? Where was my father? Who was my father? Where are my mother and father now?’ – Grandpa just shook his head. ‘I cannot bear to speak of it. It broke my heart to see my own daughter treat her child like that.’
Duckling wasn’t supposed to keep secrets from Grandpa. She was supposed to tell him everything, and mostly she did.
But this was different. This was witchery. And for some reason it had chosen Duckling.
She didn’t want to share it. Not yet.
She wanted it to be hers and hers alone. For just a little while.<
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She scuffed her boots against the cobblestones. Really, it made more sense not to tell Grandpa. If she told him she could hum up a breeze, he’d never retire. And sooner or later he’d get caught.
‘I’m doing it for him,’ she whispered. And she tucked her new secret away, to think about later, and went back to searching for a disposable boy.
But the only boy she could find was Pummel.
He was as pale as ash when she saw him – and the man holding his arm was roaring with laughter. ‘Just one of my little jokes, young Herro,’ shouted the man. ‘If you’ve done nothing wrong you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.’
And he strode off, chortling.
But Pummel was afraid.
That’s got to be the guiltiest face I’ve seen for ages, thought Duckling. What’s he done? He’s not the criminal sort.
She almost walked up to him and asked. But Grandpa would be wondering where she was. So she turned away – only to find that the Home Defence was coming and she couldn’t get through the crowd, no matter how she tried.
She had no choice but to wait.
The men of the Home Defence marched into the marketplace in a flurry of self-importance. They wore long grey coats, black boots and shiny brass helmets that bristled with spikes. Each man carried a grenado pistol on his belt, and a rifle slung across his back.
At the sight of them, the rumbling and chattering and honking of Tooth and Claw rose to a roar. People cheered. A woman near Duckling nudged her neighbour. ‘That’s my sister’s son, see? Corporal Pride? Don’t he look handsome in his uniform?’
Others cried, ‘Good on you, Home Defence!’ or ‘Those Saffies had better watch out!’ or ‘Saboteurs won’t get far with you lot after ’em!’
The men of the Home Defence sealed off the entrance to the marketplace as neatly as a cat trapping a mouse between its paws. Then they formed a cordon, shoulder to shoulder, and began to advance across the square, questioning anyone they didn’t know.
The second person they grabbed hold of was Pummel.
Duckling was too far away to hear what Corporal Pride was saying to the boy, but she didn’t really care. Her new secret was niggling at her. It didn’t want to be thought about later. It wanted to be thought about now.
I’ll just try it once more. See if it brings me another gloat.
She began to hum the shiny little tune, so quietly that even the people around her couldn’t hear. The breeze sprang up. Over near Corporal Pride, a woman’s hair lifted from the back of her neck, then settled again.
And that was that.
Not even a kerchief, thought Duckling, disappointed. Not even—
‘A cadet Snuffigator, I see,’ said a voice right in her ear.
Every inch of Duckling’s skin tingled. The breeze had brought her something. It had brought Corporal Pride’s voice!
‘Well, we’ve found saboteurs in less likely places,’ continued the Corporal. ‘What’s your name, young Herro, and where do you come from? Ever had anything to do with the Saffies?’
The breeze had brought Pummel’s voice too – except he was having trouble speaking. ‘I – I—’
‘Come on, spit it out, boy.’
‘I—’
‘What’s the matter?’ Corporal Pride was growing suspicious. In a second or two, Pummel would be dragged off for questioning.
That’s when Duckling realised she could turn this situation to her advantage. She had to take someone home with her, and a boy with a job was better than no boy at all.
One of the first things Grandpa did, when he and Duckling came to a new city, was make friends with someone of middling importance in the local police force or militia. In Neuhalt, that someone was Corporal Pride.
Duckling elbowed her way to the front of the crowd and called out, ‘That’s Pummel, Corporal. He’s up from the country.’
‘Hello, young Duckling,’ said Pride, without letting go of the boy. ‘How’s your grandfather? Gout still troubling him?’
‘It’s better than it was, though he does like to complain. You going to question me, in case I’ve taken up sabotage?’
Corporal Pride chuckled. ‘Maybe I should. But not today. You know this boy, you say?’
‘He’s doing a bit of work for Grandpa in his spare time, aren’t you, Pummel?’
‘Um – yes?’ croaked the boy.
‘He is?’ asked Corporal Pride.
Duckling nodded. ‘You call in and check, next time you’re passing. Grandpa’s got some nice ale put aside, and I’m sure he’d like to have someone to share it with.’
A thoughtful expression crossed Corporal Pride’s face. He released Pummel’s collar, dusted the boy down and said, ‘Well, if you’re working for Lord Rump, I won’t bother you, young Herro. You just keep your nose clean while you’re in the city. Don’t get into any trouble, you hear me?’
‘Y-yes,’ stuttered Pummel. ‘I mean, n-no, I won’t. Thank you!’ And with a gasp of relief he edged away from the corporal.
Duckling grabbed his hand and said loudly, ‘You’re going to have to get over that shyness, Pummel. Can’t afford to get tongue-tied, not when the Home Defence are questioning you. Come on now, Grandpa’s waiting.’
And she hauled the boy towards the turnstile before Corporal Pride could change his mind.
No one noticed the shadow that hobbled out of the marketplace after the two children. But they did notice the blast of cold wind that suddenly tore after it, rattling their stalls and sending a nasty chill down their necks.
Most of them turned their backs and shut their eyes. One or two of them thought they heard a faint cry over the honking of geese and squealing of pigs. ‘Not yet, O Black Wind! I have not taught them how to—’
But when they looked there was no one near them, just a heap of old rags on the cobblestones, and three feathers already half-trodden into the mud.
As for the wind, it had vanished as quickly as it had risen.
LORD RUMP
As soon as they were out of sight of the marketplace, Pummel stopped in a doorway.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Duckling, hoping he wasn’t going to be difficult. Her mind was still a-whirl with what had happened, and all she could think about was the shiny little tune.
She’d have to tell Grandpa now. It was too astonishing to keep to herself.
‘Thank you for speaking up for me,’ said Pummel.
Duckling managed a smile. ‘That’s all right. We’re friends, aren’t we? ’Specially if you’re going to work for Grandpa.’
Pummel looked surprised. ‘I’m not. I told you, I can’t.’
‘But you said you were. Back there in Tooth and Claw. I said, “He’s doing a bit of work for Grandpa in his spare time.” And you said, “Yes.” I thought you must’ve changed your mind.’ Duckling’s brow creased. ‘Unless you were lying?’
‘No! I thought you were just—’
‘Just what? You thought I was lying? To Corporal Pride? To the Home Defence?’ Duckling squeezed out a horrified tear. ‘How could you believe such a thing?’
‘I didn’t. I mean – I did, but …’
Duckling sniffed a couple of times and wiped her eyes. ‘I suppose it could have been a misunderstanding.’
‘Yes—’
‘But Corporal Pride’s sure to drop by, either today or tomorrow – he does like his ale, that man. And if he finds out that Grandpa’s never even met you, I’ll get into awful trouble …’ She let her voice trail off in dismay.
‘I don’t want to get you into trouble,’ Pummel said quickly.
‘So you’ll come with me?’
The boy hesitated, then nodded. ‘Just for a little while. I’ll just say hello to your grandpa, then go.’
Duckling brightened up immediately. ‘I knew you’d understand. This way, come on!’
Duckling and her grandfather lived in a part of the city that Pummel had never seen before. There were no tall buildings or wide avenues here. There were no spires, no
statues, no omnibuses.
Instead, the streets were narrow and the balconies looked as if they might collapse at any moment. Grass grew from the tops of chimneys. A piplum tree sprouted in the middle of the road, so that street-rigs had to drive around it.
Snuffigators haven’t been here for a while, thought Pummel. I’d better tell Captain Rabid.
‘Grandpa’ll be so pleased you came,’ said Duckling. ‘He likes meeting new people, he says it keeps him young.’ She darted towards a doorway that was set right on the street. ‘Here we are. Wipe your feet.’
Pummel scuffed his boots on the wire mat, and followed Duckling into the house.
It was almost completely dark, and for the first moment or two he was walking blind. Duckling fumbled for his hand. ‘This way.’
She led him to a sitting room lit by a standing lamp and a small gas fire. There was an overstuffed couch, a table piled high with gazettes, and two footstools. The only armchair was occupied by a man with a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles on his nose, a gold watch chain across his large stomach, and a brass-topped walking cane resting against his knees.
He was reading a gazette, but when he saw Duckling he dropped it to the floor and cried, ‘Granddaughter, the most extraordinary thing happened while you were gone! You will never believe it. I was sitting here in my chair when—’
He stopped abruptly. ‘Dear me, I did not realise we had company. I beg your pardon, young Herro, here I am rambling on without welcoming you to my humble home.’
Duckling said, ‘Grandpa, this is Pummel. Pummel, this is Lord Rump, ambassador from the Spavey Isles.’
Without getting up from his armchair, Lord Rump bowed extravagantly. ‘At your service, young Pummel. I assume you need help? My granddaughter is such a tender-hearted little thing; she is always bringing home lost souls.’
‘He’s not a lost soul, Grandpa,’ said Duckling. ‘He’s here for the job.’
‘No—’ began Pummel.
‘Splendid!’ cried Lord Rump. ‘I am always happy to help a keen lad. I was a boy once myself, cast out into the world by a cruel master. I had to fight to stay alive – and look at me now.’
