by Lian Tanner
‘Trouuuble!’ she yowled. Then she spun on her hind legs and dashed away.
‘Come on!’ cried Pummel. And he raced after the cat with Duckling beside him.
Together they tore through the dark passages, holding their candles in one hand and shielding the flames with the other.
Pummel wasn’t sure where the leather pouch had got to. It wasn’t in his hand, but he could feel its heat, so he hadn’t dropped it.
He wasn’t sure if he could drop it.
By the time they reached the Young Margrave’s door, he’d imagined every possible disaster. Poison, wild beasts, cyclones …
The last thing he expected to see, as he and Duckling rounded that final corner, was an old man.
At least, he thought it was an old man.
The figure in front of him flickered in and out of sight. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. Then he was there again, his skin clinging to his skull, his armour clanking like a warning bell. Above his head hovered an enormous hawk.
The two massive candles that stood on either side of the Young Margrave’s door were on the verge of going out. The soldiers who were supposed to be guarding the door were asleep on the floor.
The old man stepped over them, sniffing the air as if following a scent. Where he trod, crystals of ice sprang up.
One of the guards whimpered in his sleep.
Pummel tried to shout a warning, but the cold was back, worse than ever, and not a sound came from his mouth. The old man clanked past him as if he wasn’t there, heading for the Heir’s bedchamber. Flicker flicker. Sniff sniff sniff. The hawk’s eyes shone with a mad light.
Only the cat stood in their way, but she was in trouble too. Ice was forming on her ears, and her head was sinking to the floor.
With a terrible cry, the hawk launched itself downwards …
And then Duckling was humming, a strangled sound, as if she was forcing it out between her teeth. A warm breeze twisted around the cat, who straightened up, dodged sideways and lashed out.
The hawk screamed with rage and changed direction. But the cat was already racing towards Pummel. With one mighty leap she sprang onto his shoulder and dug in her claws.
‘Raaasssshk!’ she screeched, right in his ear.
That mixture of pain and sound was like a lightning strike. Whatever was muddling Pummel’s mind loosened its hold.
He had no weapon. He had nothing except the pouch, which was in his hand again.
The hawk was heading for him now, its claws outstretched. The old man was opening the door of the Young Margrave’s bedchamber. No, he was stepping through the door—
Pummel shouted, ‘Stop!’
The old man spun around. He had burning eyes and there was something very wrong with his mouth.
Pummel ripped open the leather pouch and, with all his strength, threw whatever was inside.
If there was one thing Duckling hated, it was being scared. And at that moment she was scared half to death.
She had no idea what was happening, but she knew it was something bad. The guards were asleep, the cat was screaming – and she could hear wings beating overhead.
But she couldn’t see anything except a dark spot that seemed to boil like smoke.
For some reason, that spot filled Duckling with horror.
She was still humming. She clung to the shiny little tune like a lifeline, because everything else felt so cold and ugly, and the tune and the breeze warmed her.
And then Pummel shouted Stop and threw something, and there was such desperation in his voice that Duckling cried out, ‘Where is it?’
Pummel pointed towards the door of the Heir’s bedchamber, where the dark spot was touching the wood.
Duckling flung the blanket.
She heard the wings again. She heard an ugly cry. The blanket wrapped itself around something shaped like a man. But only for a second or two. Then it floated down …
… down
… down to the floor.
Where it lay flat. With nothing underneath it.
Nothing at all.
IRON TEETH
Pummel couldn’t stop shaking. He took a clumsy step away from Duckling’s blanket, and the cat sprang down from his shoulder, her tail thrashing from side to side.
‘W-what happened?’ whispered Duckling. She was shaking too.
Pummel couldn’t answer her. He didn’t know what had happened. But whatever it was, Duckling hadn’t seen it. She’d had to ask him, Where is it?
So it must have been a ghost.
Except ghosts didn’t exist. And anyone who saw them – or who thought he saw them – was disloyal.
Pummel’s head spun. I must’ve imagined the whole thing.
Except the cat had seen it too.
He looked around, but there was no sign of the cat now. She’d vanished as completely as the old man and the hawk.
‘Um … the cat?’ he said uncertainly.
‘Where’s it gone?’ asked Duckling.
So the cat at least was real. And so were the two guards asleep on the floor.
But why hadn’t the noise woken them? Why hadn’t it woken the Young Margrave or Otte? Where had the ice come fr—
An explanation of sorts slithered into his mind, and he shook his head. No. No, that was impossible.
‘We should wake the guards,’ he whispered.
Duckling nudged the nearest soldier with her foot. There was no response, and none from the second man either.
‘Are they hurt?’ asked Pummel.
‘I don’t think so. They’re just sleeping. Listen, what was—’
But Pummel didn’t want to hear Duckling’s questions. He had far too many of his own, and they all led in the wrong direction.
‘I’m going back to bed,’ he mumbled.
He bent down to pick up the thing he’d thrown, but it was already in his hand. He tucked it in its pouch, then hurried off to his alcove, knowing that Duckling was staring after him.
He was so tired that he no longer cared about the scratchy straw and the bed bugs. But instead of going straight to sleep, he sat cross-legged on his mattress and made himself think about what he had seen. Or rather, what he thought he’d seen.
Ice.
Iron teeth.
A hawk.
He swallowed. Was he disloyal? Or was he mad?
He remembered the boy from the neighbouring farm saying, He leaves a patch of ice wherever he walks. His teeth are made of iron, and his eyes are burning coals. A hawk flies over his head. His name is—
Pummel’s voice trembled, but he whispered the words all the same. ‘His name is the Harshman.’
Duckling ran down through the darkened Keep as fast as she could. Her heart felt as if it was trying to squeeze out between her ribs. Her mouth was so dry that it hurt to swallow.
Grandpa never told her the details of his Schemes, not while they were happening. But if she’d thought about it, she could’ve worked this one out hours ago.
She should have worked it out hours ago.
When someone asked for a disposable boy, what they really meant was, ‘I’m going to do something bad and I need someone else to take the blame. I need a scapegoat.’
It has to involve the Heir, thought Duckling, as she dodged around a corner and started down another flight of stairs. Because Pummel was hired to be his companion. And what do you get when you combine an heir, a scapegoat and a Scheme?
Her breath caught in her throat. What you got was an assassination. Someone was going to murder the Young Margrave – and blame Pummel.
Duckling felt sick. Grandpa had been involved in several assassinations over the years, but the way he talked about them, it was just a matter of knocking one chess piece off the board and putting another in its place.
And because Duckling had never met any of the people involved, she’d always thought of them as chess pieces too.
But she’d met the Heir of Neuhalt, and he wasn’t a chess piece. He was a real live boy, w
ith friends and relatives. She didn’t like him one bit, but still …
Pummel was a real boy too.
Duckling’s conscience pricked her again, and she slowed down, wondering if she should go back and warn Pummel. She couldn’t tell him the truth, of course, but she could drop a hint, so he could escape too, before that invisible assassin tried again.
Except Pummel wouldn’t escape. He was so honest that he’d insist on telling someone, and then the whole Scheme would unravel and Grandpa would be arrested and beheaded, and so would Duckling.
And whoever was trying to assassinate the Heir would just find another way of doing it.
I can’t stop the Scheme, Duckling told herself. All I can do is make sure Grandpa and I survive it.
Which was why she had to get out of the Strong-hold right now. Because the assassin would be back. And if there was anything better than one scapegoat, it was two scapegoats.
She was halfway across the first bailey, and still running, when she saw a familiar figure ahead of her. ‘Grandpa?’
Lord Rump could move surprisingly quickly for such a large man. He spun around, his cane raised. But when he recognised Duckling, he lowered it again. ‘My dear! I hoped I would find you here.’
She was so relieved to see him that her breath went out in a big whoosh. She would’ve hugged him, but he was not a man who liked to be hugged.
‘Why are you still here?’ she asked. ‘I thought you’d be home hours ago.’
Lord Rump grimaced. ‘So did I. But Her Grace commanded me to stay for a day or so. Commanded, you understand, not invited. Here, let us walk as we talk. The sooner we are out of this place, the better.’
As they hurried into the second bailey, Duckling couldn’t help wondering what her grandpa would have done if she hadn’t caught up with him. Would he have left the Strong-hold without her? Or would he have turned back to look for her?
He would’ve gone. But only because he knows I can get myself out of trouble.
All the same, it was an unsettling thought. Because if she’d known he was still there, she would have turned back …
Stop being silly, she told herself. There are more important things to think about. ‘The Scheme,’ she whispered, trying not to think about Pummel and the Young Margrave. ‘It’s an assassination.’
‘Clever girl. That is why we must not linger.’
‘The assassin came tonight, Grandpa. Just a little while ago. And he was invisible!’
A slight hitch in Lord Rump’s step showed that he’d heard her. But he said nothing until they were almost to the third bailey. Then he whispered, ‘You, of course, stepped back and let him—’
‘No. I helped stop him.’
There was a moment’s silence, broken by nothing but their footsteps on the hard-packed ground, and the distant snore of a pig. Then Grandpa murmured, ‘Explain, beloved granddaughter. I beg you. Explain it to me.’
The thing about Grandpa was, he never exploded. He could be as angry as a whipsnake and no one would know it, except for Duckling.
‘I was right there,’ she whispered. ‘What if I hadn’t been able to escape?’
The truth was, that hadn’t crossed her mind at the time. Pummel had run towards trouble, and for some reason Duckling didn’t understand, she’d followed him. But that wasn’t the sort of explanation Grandpa liked.
She added, ‘I assessed the situation and decided it was too dangerous.’
‘Well,’ said Lord Rump. ‘I expect they will try again when we are gone. Here is the gate, just ahead of us. Look poorly, my dear.’
Duckling clutched his hand as if she was too weak to stand without it, and staggered forward.
There was a different man on duty now. A flaming torch lit up his greasy cheeks, and the sword at his side looked well-used. He nodded to Lord Rump and Duckling. ‘Outsiders! How are you liking the Stronghold?’
‘We are liking it very much,’ said Grandpa, with a worried smile. ‘The food is excellent and so is the company. My only concern is my granddaughter.’ He nodded towards Duckling. ‘She has a painful condition known as galloping thrombophlebitis. And because we were not expecting Her Grace’s very kind invitation to stay, we left her medicine at home.’
Duckling groaned pitifully. ‘Oooh, Grandpa, it hurts!’
‘Hush, my dear,’ murmured Lord Rump. ‘You will be better soon.’ He turned back to the soldier. ‘Can you let us through? We will come straight back, as soon as we have the medicine.’
The soldier rubbed his hand across his mouth. ‘Does Arms-mistress Krieg know you are here?’
‘She was the one who gave us permission,’ said Grandpa.
Duckling groaned again. Grandpa patted her hand and said to the soldier, ‘You see how she suffers?’
That seemed to be enough for the gate man. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Make sure you come straight back.’ Then he unbolted a little gate that sat inside the big one, and dragged it open.
Outside the Strong-hold, the city guards turned and stared. The wind whipped at their coats; the moon glinted off their helmet spikes.
In another hour, thought Duckling, we’ll be packing our bags. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be gone from Neuhalt.
‘We shall see you again shortly,’ Grandpa said to the gate man, and he and Duckling stepped through the gate.
At least, they tried—
‘Owwwww!’ yelped Duckling.
‘The devil of it!’ cried Grandpa, and they both flinched back from whatever they’d run into.
But there was nothing there. Just clear moonlight, and the men outside the gate sniggering, as if they’d seen this sort of thing before.
The skin on the back of Duckling’s neck prickled. She reached out to the open gateway and her fingers struck a solid wall.
An invisible wall.
‘Grandpa?’ she whispered.
‘No,’ said Lord Rump. ‘It cannot be. It must not be.’
He patted the invisible wall, and struck it with his cane. Duckling poked at it, kicked it, and tried to edge past it. Grandpa put his shoulder to it. It made no difference. The gate would not let them pass.
Grandpa grabbed the soldier’s arm. ‘We have to get out. Tell us how to get out.’
‘If I knew that,’ said the man, ‘do you think I would be standing here?’
‘But we are Outsiders!’ cried Lord Rump.
‘Not anymore,’ said the man, as he pulled the little gate shut and bolted it again. ‘You have stayed past middle-night. Now you belong to the Strong-hold.’
TO TRAP A BEAST
In the hidden room at the top of the hidden stairs, the woman took one of the pins from her sleeve and pricked her finger. Then she waited impatiently.
The hawk came to her, flying through stone as if it was no more solid than air. It would have gone to its perch in the rafters, but she beckoned it down, and it landed on her arm and glared at her with murderous eyes.
She took great care not to flinch.
‘Is it done? she whispered. Is the Heir dead?’
The hawk did not speak – could not speak. But somehow the woman understood the answer.
‘What?’ she whispered. ‘You failed? Impossible!’
The bird shifted its weight from one foot to the other.
‘There were three of them?’ said the woman.
Another weight shift. It was hard to make sense of the bird’s rage-red thoughts, but at last a picture began to form in the woman’s mind.
‘The boy … carries some trickery belonging to the natives. The girl … helped him—’
The bird raised a claw and dropped something into her hand. Then, with a thrust of its wings, it soared up to the rafters.
The woman stared at the scrap of fur left behind. She raised it to her nose and sniffed it. She burned a little of it in the candle on the table, and inspected the ashes.
‘And there was a cat,’ she said at last.
She thought for a moment, then she opened the ancient boo
k and began to run her finger down the pages, murmuring, ‘To trap a beast. How do we—? Ah, yes.’
THE RAASHK
Pummel woke up very early, feeling as if he’d only fallen asleep a couple of minutes ago. His eyes were sticky. His cheek ached. He wished he was at home, so he could go and visit the cows.
There are stables in the third bailey, he remembered. Maybe there’s a cow byre too.
He dressed quickly and quietly, lit a new candle and crept down through the Keep, shivering in the early morning cold. The only people he saw were carrying armfuls of wood, or basins of water. Pummel smiled at them and hurried past.
He found the Strong-hold cows lying in their stalls with a trough of hay and a bucket of water each, chewing their cuds. Their smell was so familiar that his heart felt as if it might burst from homesickness. Quickly, he put his candle on a shelf, well away from the straw, then made his way to the nearest cow and sat down with his back against her flank.
He hadn’t been there for long when the cat joined him. ‘You turn up everywhere,’ said Pummel.
The cat pressed against his boots and purred.
For as long as Pummel could remember, he’d thought that cows were the nicest creatures in the world. They were friendly and curious, they had best friends just like humans did, and when he was with them, whatever was troubling him never seemed quite so bad.
His fingers strayed towards his boot. ‘I threw something,’ he whispered to the cat.
She began to clean her whiskers. The cow breathed long and slow. Pummel took out the leather pouch and untied the string.
Inside the pouch was a large tooth with a hole drilled through its middle.
‘What’s it for?’ he whispered. ‘Why is there a hole in it? To look through?’
He raised the tooth to his eye …
Duckling and Grandpa had walked all around the inside of the Strong-hold walls, searching for another way out. They had found nothing. Now they sat in Lord Rump’s room on the third floor of the Keep.
‘We’re stuck,’ said Duckling. ‘We stayed too long, and now we’re trapped. You’ll have to call off the Scheme.’
