Wing & Claw #2

by Linda Sue Park

  Trixin had said that there were now four guards patrolling the compound at all hours. Crouching in the tall grass, Raffa heard the gate creak open, then saw the light of a bobbing lantern. He watched as one of the guards patrolled the circumference of the fence. After finishing his round, the guard went back inside the compound.

  “Echo,” Raffa whispered, “you can feed again if you want. But if you see a human coming this way, be sure to tell me, okay? And if I need you, I’ll whistle.”

  Echo chirped in understanding and flew off.

  Raffa backtracked until he was well away from the fence. Then he set about gathering tinder: twigs, dead grass, dried leaves. He had amassed a good-sized pile by the time Echo returned, clicking a warning.

  Another guard came out of the gate to make his round. In the moonlight, Raffa could see a flash of metal on the man’s cap: some sort of insignia, which meant he held a higher rank than the previous guard. Security had indeed been increased since Raffa and Kuma had escaped with Roo.

  When the second guard had returned to the compound, Raffa emptied his rucksack and packed it with as much tinder as it would hold. It would probably take him at least two trips; he had to work fast.

  He scurried past the gate, which was on the south side of the fence. He began laying a trail of tinder in front of the gate, slanting to the east. Every few paces, he tossed in a few lyptus nuts, which contained a highly flammable oil. It was a scanty trail, but he didn’t need a fierce fire. The presence of flames alone should be enough to deter the animals.

  He went back for more tinder. His plan called for a second fire, extending from the southwest corner. As the animals came out, they would have to run west to avoid the first set of flames. Then the second set would keep them from turning north.

  The fire would also draw the guards outside the fence, leaving the sheds unattended. Two challenges, one solution, a tidy little package—

  If it worked.

  The air was still, no wind or even a breeze. The ground was muddy, damp, and cold. Good. That will keep the fire from spreading.

  When he turned the corner on the east side, he was surprised by a new fence forming a small enclosure. He put his eye to a knothole and saw two sheds.

  Why two more sheds, completely separated from the others?

  Raffa whistled softly for Echo. He sent the bat over the fence to investigate.

  Echo returned after only a few moments. “Big,” he said.

  Big? Had they somehow managed to capture another bear? Or worse, two?

  “Big like Roo, Echo?”

  “Not bear.”

  Not a bear. Definitely welcome news.

  “One two, one two,” Echo said. “Red.”

  Two in each shed. Four altogether, if Echo’s count could be trusted. Red . . . “Oh! Foxes, Echo—like Red?” Raffa frowned. Why would they separate four foxes from all the others?

  “Not red.”

  Raffa flapped his hands in frustration. “Red, not red? Which is it, Echo?”

  “Not red. Big.”

  Raffa took a deep breath, held it, blew it out slowly.

  Think.

  Echo was describing exactly what he had seen and sensed in the two sheds. He had said “Red” for a reason. What would remind Echo of a fox and make him say “big” as well?

  Raffa gasped in sudden understanding.

  Like foxes, but bigger.

  The new sheds held wolves!

  Now Raffa had yet another problem. Should he release the wolves? If he did, they would panic the smaller animals—to say nothing of the danger to himself. But if he didn’t, the Chancellor was surely planning to use them to attack people.

  The thought sickened him. He had to lock his knees to keep his legs from trembling.

  One thing at a time. He decided to free the animals in the main compound first. Once they were away, he would try to figure out how to release the wolves . . . if he could marshal enough courage.

  Near the northeast corner, Raffa found two knotholes in the boards of the fence. He had prepared his rope in advance, tying a string to one end. After he pushed that end through one of the holes, he sent Echo over the fence to pick up the string. He poked two fingers through the other hole. It took Echo three attempts, but he finally managed to drop the string onto Raffa’s fingers.

  Raffa pulled the string and the end of the rope came with it. He tied a firm knot and flung the other end over the fence. The rope was looped through the two knotholes and secured so he could use it to climb out of the compound.

  He hurried back to the southwest corner and pulled out a match. “Please please please let this work,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  RAFFA lit the tinder and watched to make sure it ignited. Then he ran as fast as he could to the gate and set the tinder there alight, too. He dove into the brush, his heart battering his chest.

  It didn’t take long for the fire to spread. As he hastily repacked his rucksack, he could hear the dull bursts of the lyptus nuts exploding in the heat, their oils feeding the flames. His muscles coiled tight, he began counting, aloud but under his breath, to calm himself.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five—

  The gate swung open. The guard coming out to do his round saw the flames.

  “Fire!” he shouted. “HOY, FIRE!”

  The other three guards came running and began trying to stamp out the flames. In that instant, Raffa saw the flaw in what he had thought was his clever plan: Of course the guards would try to put the fire out! If they succeeded in extinguishing it before he had released all the animals, there would be nothing to stop them from running in all directions.

  Which meant that he had even less time than he’d thought.

  But the lyptus nuts were helping. As the guards stamped, the nuts exploded under their boots, and the small splatterings of oil reignited the smoldering tinder.

  It might still work.

  He had to wait until all four guards had moved away from the gate, which seemed to take an eon. Then he dashed toward the compound, staying low to the ground. It was the longest twenty paces of his life: He was fully exposed, should any of the guards look in his direction.

  Reaching the gate, he slipped inside and ran to the shed at the far end of the compound. A quick look back: The guards were still outside the fence.

  He opened the shed door and stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, with the slatted ceiling straining the moonlight. He closed his eyes, counted to five, and opened them wide.

  On the shelves were cages full of sinuous weasel-like creatures. Stoats. There were so many! Far more than when he had last seen them. He would have to open dozens upon dozens of cages.

  A swell of discouragement nearly overwhelmed him. If only he had some help! How could he possibly be expected to fight the Chancellor’s power on his own?

  But there was at least a kernel of good news as well. The animals he’d seen on his first visit to the compound months earlier had all been dosed into an unnatural state, asleep but twitchy. The stoats he saw now were pacing in their prisons and hissing at him. They appeared to be acting the way wild captive stoats would.

  Raffa felt a pulse of cautious optimism. The animals’ behavior seemed to indicate that the antidote powder on the fish had worked—and that Garith had succeeded with the cinder.

  But he had to make sure. He moved closer to the nearest shelf, peering into the first cage. The stoat inside hissed menacingly and clawed at the bars; Raffa drew back with a jerk. He tried again, but the stoat whirled about and retreated to a far corner of the cage.

  Were the stoat’s eyes black now? Or did they still have the telltale purple sheen?

  Raffa tried other cages, with the same result. I don’t have this kind of time! I have to release them now! But if their eyes are still purple, I can’t free them. They won’t be themselves—they won’t last the night out there!

  He fumbled for a match and lit it. The flare
blinded him momentarily. Blinking hard, he held the match close to one of the cages; the stoat half-closed its eyes against the light, and Raffa almost cried out in frustration. He gritted his teeth and stared at the animal as hard as he could.

  Black! Its eyes are black!

  Before the match burned out, he checked the neighboring stoat’s eyes. Also black.

  No time for cheering. Raffa began unlatching the cage doors, working as fast as he was able. Too fast: He pinched a finger in one of the latches and let out a yelp of pain.

  Finally the last stoat was freed, and Raffa followed it out the door. He watched the stream of stoats running through the compound; the first of them had already found the gate. To his relief, he saw them immediately turn west, away from the line of flames.

  He listened for a moment longer, fearful that the guards would spot the animals, but apparently the stoats were staying away from the guards as well, for he heard no shouts of alarm.

  The next shed held badgers. They were larger animals, with broad white markings that would show up in the moonlight, making it far easier for the guards to spot them. Racked by indecision, Raffa hesitated for precious seconds, then slammed the door and headed for the next shed. The badgers would have to wait; he would release them last.

  Third shed. Foxes. By now Raffa had a system. He had found that it was faster to flip down the latches on a whole row of cages, two at a time, using both hands, and then go back to pull them open. He was able to free the foxes in half the time it had taken him to do the stoats, and his spirits rose a little.

  As he headed for the fourth shed, a guard hurried in through the gate. Raffa saw him first, but it did him little good. The guard spotted him before he could even react.

  “HOY, YOU!”

  Where’s Echo? Why didn’t he warn me?

  Raffa turned and fled toward the northeast corner of the compound. A flood of foxes was running toward the gate. The guard cursed and began dodging the animals as he yelled for his colleagues.

  Grabbing the rope, Raffa began half-scrambling, half-climbing the fence. To his alarm, he felt the rope give a little. Had he not tied it tightly enough?

  He climbed a step higher—and the rope gave still more. Then he knew: It was being shredded by the glass shards at the top of the fence. Any moment now and it might get cut through completely!

  Raffa held on to the rope with one hand and made a desperate grab for the top of the fence with the other. He cried out in pain as glass sliced his palm. He flung his legs over and fell down the other side, barely managing to get his feet under him. Then he hit the ground, and rolled.

  Before he had taken another breath, he was crawling back toward the base of the fence to untie the rope, refusing to leave it behind. The rope was slippery as he yanked at the knot: His hand was wet—with blood.

  Clenching his fist in the hope of stanching the bleeding, he whistled for Echo, and started running toward the road that led to the northern slums. If any of the guards were pursuing him, he didn’t glance back to find out.

  Echo rejoined him where the lane met the road.

  “Midge midge midge midge skeeto skeeto midge!” the bat said happily.

  Raffa stopped in his tracks and spun around to make sure that the guards hadn’t followed him. The lane was empty. He should have kept running, but he was too angry.

  “Midge? Skeeto? Is that all you have to say?”

  Raffa had enough of his wits about him to keep his voice down, but there was no mistaking his fury. “Where were you? You were supposed to warn me if you saw any humans nearby!”

  Hanging from the perch necklace, Echo was quiet.

  “Echo, why didn’t you click? Don’t you realize—I almost got caught!”

  The bat blinked once, and gave a small, sad chirp. “Click,” he said, “click.”

  “That’s what I’m asking! Why didn’t you—”

  “Raffa under.”

  Raffa under? What does that mean?

  “Echo not under.”

  Raffa groaned in complete frustration. Why did talking to Echo have to be such a puzzle? “Under not under . . . What are you talking about?”

  “Raffa under. Human come. Echo click click click.”

  Now it was Raffa’s turn to blink—in sudden and abashed understanding. “Oh, Echo. Oh, no.”

  Echo had clicked. But Raffa had been inside the shed—under the roof, as Echo put it—and hadn’t heard him.

  How could he have overlooked something so simple? And how could he have been so unfair to Echo? Worst of all, his mission had been the next thing to a disaster: He had managed to empty only two sheds. Two out of twelve. The Chancellor still had hundreds of animals at her disposal—including the wolves.

  Raffa wanted to shake his own self until his teeth fell out.

  “Echo, I—I’m so sorry. I should never have—it was all my fault.” He stroked the bat with his good hand.

  Echo chirped again. “Raffa need skeeto,” he said.

  Just like that, the bat had forgiven him. Raffa wanted to smile but couldn’t summon the strength. He felt like sitting right down in the road. Instead, he wiped his eyes and forced his legs back into motion. He trudged the first few steps, then began a stumbling trot up the road into the northern slums.

  First lane, second alley, third house. Those had been Jimble’s instructions.

  “A house all fallen in” was putting it mildly; what Raffa found was not much more than a woodpile. But toward the back of the collapsed structure, part of a wall and the ceiling above it remained intact, and he was able to slip behind some boards to hide there. Echo flew to a corner under the eaves and roosted.

  Raffa took a long drink from his waterskin. Then he pulled out the candle stub and lit it so he could examine his wounded right hand.

  The jagged cut ran from below his middle finger to his wrist. He felt a sharp pinch when he flexed his hand, and guessed that there might be a sliver of glass embedded in the cut. He had no tweezers to remove it; all he could do was pour water on the wound, which stung so much that he cursed. Unable to make a proper poultice, he put two yellowroot leaves on the cut, then bound his hand with a rag. Poorly and awkwardly, using only his left hand.

  He covered his face with his good hand, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears. He had failed, almost completely. Now the Chancellor would doubtless put even more guards at the compound. He had lost his only chance to free the animals without getting caught. His sole forlorn hope was that his efforts would somehow delay any plans for an attack, whether in the slums or elsewhere.

  The only thing that saved Raffa from his despair was exhaustion. He slumped against the wall and fell asleep almost at once.

  Raffa’s eyes flew open: He was jerked into alertness by a noise nearby. Someone was scuffling through the rubble. Whoever it was had been running; he could hear the person panting hard.

  In his sleep, he had slid down the wall and was now curled up at its base. A more defenseless position was hard to imagine.

  Sunlight filtered through the boards. If he moved, whoever was there might hear him. Maybe it was someone scavenging in the debris—why else would anyone be here? And if he stayed quiet, they would go away. . . .

  Then—

  “Raffa?”

  It was Trixin! Jimble must have told her where I might be hiding.

  He jumped to his feet and came out from behind the boards. “What are you doing here?”

  Trixin was still so out of breath that she couldn’t answer at once. Finally she managed to choke out the words.

  “Your da,” she gasped. “He’s been arrested. They think he started a fire.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  RAFFA gaped. He tried to speak, but his lips and his tongue and his voice were tangled in knots by his thoughts.

  Da—he’s alive! He didn’t die in the cabin fire! But . . . arrested?

  “He’s to be brought before the Deemers this afternoon,” Trixin said.

  Arrested? Deemers? This a
fternoon?

  Raffa grabbed his rucksack. He took a step and tripped over a chunk of rubble. Trixin managed to grab his arm before he fell.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

  Raffa stared at a point beyond her shoulder, thinking of Bantan at the settlement. He remembered how terrible it felt to be suspected of doing something he hadn’t done: the shock and anger at the unfairness and, worst of all, the helplessness at not being able to prove Bantan wrong then and there. It would be far worse for his father, who would face imprisonment in the Garrison if he were found guilty.

  I can’t let that happen!

  “It wasn’t him,” he rasped, his voice still not working right. “I have to— I’m going to the Commons.”

  “Shakes and tremors, whatever for?”

  “The—the Deemers. Where do they—where—”

  “What’s the matter with you? The Deemers sit in the Hall of Judgment. Is that what you’re asking?”

  “Yes. Yes. The Hall, where is it?”

  Trixin still had hold of his arm, and she gave it a hard shake. “Are you sleeptalking? You sound like you left your brain a day’s walk away! Start making sense or—or I’ll slap some into you!”

  Raffa blinked a few times, then finally focused on her face. “I’m going to that Hall place,” he said, “to see the Deemers. To turn myself in.”

  “What?”

  He took a deep, deep breath. It helped; he felt a little less hysterical now. “Look, you said you don’t want to know what I’m doing, so I’m not going to tell you anything. Except to say that the fire—it wasn’t my da. I’m not going to let them lock him up for something he didn’t do.”

  He tried to unshamble his thoughts. When I confess and they arrest me, surely they’ll let my parents visit me in the Garrison. And I can tell them everything, and they—they’ll know what to do.

  He would be sacrificing his own freedom to stop the Chancellor. It sounded like a very noble thing to do. In fact, he recalled saying something similar to Kuma: how a single life—Twig’s—was far less important than the chance to save many.