by Conrad Mason
The horse kicked the last few bricks out, leaving a gaping hole to a darkness beyond, big enough for a human to squeeze through.
‘Out. All of you,’ said the horse. For an instant Joseph was confused, and then a figure came cautiously through the gap. It was an elf, or had been. She was as pale as a corpse, and so thin it made Joseph wince. Her clothes were rags, her eyes hollow and haunted.
‘Be off with you,’ said the cat.
‘I … Th-thank y—’
‘Go,’ hissed the spider.
The elf turned and ran, scuttling away like a rat, her feet splashing in the sewer water. Joseph noticed that she wasn’t wearing any shoes, and that the soles of her feet were torn and bloodied.
More creatures followed. A pair of imps holding hands, a troll and a dwarf. They all looked pale, haggard and lifeless. The dwarf’s beard and hair had been shorn off, and the troll was missing its ears. Joseph felt like he might be sick. They peered at the shapeshifters and at Joseph, cautious, fearful, before they took off through the tunnels, splashing away until the darkness swallowed them.
‘Do you know where we are, mongrel?’ said the cat, unmoved.
Joseph shook his head.
The horse took hold of Joseph and lifted him through the gap. The cat followed, still holding the spider in his hand, picking his way silently through the rubble.
They were in a round room with no ceiling – or none that Joseph could see. The brick walls extended upwards into darkness. In fact, ‘room’ was pushing it. If Joseph had lain down on the floor and stretched out his arms and legs, he might have been able to touch both sides of it. Of course, lying down on the floor was the last thing he wanted to do. Something scuttled near his foot, making him flinch.
‘They call it the End,’ said the cat. ‘A hole, six feet wide and twenty feet deep, where prisoners can be left and forgotten about. No food but whatever the whitecoats on duty care to throw down. No privy, which accounts for the smell. That and its proximity to the Azurmouth sewers.’
‘Why?’ was all Joseph could say.
‘They say it was the Duke of Garran who devised the End. They say he comes here at night, sometimes, to talk to the prisoners. To ask them questions. What it feels like to be an elf. Whether they can talk to demons. What they think of humans. He has a peculiar … fascination with demonspawn. Some say he enjoys watching them go mad down here. And they do go mad, mongrel.’
Joseph remembered the frightened looks the prisoners had given him, and shuddered. ‘You could have rescued them whenever you wanted,’ he murmured. ‘Why didn’t you?’
The cat shrugged. ‘It never suited us until now. You see, mongrel, the End provides us with an ideal opening for our game. My lady, if you’d be so kind … ?’
The spider dived from his hand onto the wall, scuttling over the brickwork, climbing upwards.
‘Now listen to me, mongrel,’ said the cat. He took hold of Joseph’s shoulders and brought his face up so close that Joseph could see the black slits of his pupils widen in those yellow eyes. ‘You might think we are a threat to you, but I can assure you that if we’re caught here, you would be lucky to be thrown into the End. More likely, you’d be sliced apart and fed to a wyvern, bit by bit. I doubt you would enjoy that very much.’ He grinned, showing perfect white teeth. ‘So I would suggest you keep your mouth shut. Don’t breathe a word, and do exactly as we say. Or you will regret it.’
There was a scuffling sound from above, and a rope came tumbling down.
‘You still have the wooden spoon, don’t you?’ said the cat.
Joseph nodded.
‘Good,’ said the cat. ‘Now climb.’
Joseph massaged his rope-burned hands as the shapeshifters unpacked the horse’s satchel and pulled on white breeches, shirts and coats. The open hole of the End lay in the centre of a small, dank cell, and through the bars on the door Joseph could see a dark corridor stretching out, lined with more heavy prison doors. There was a flash of white as a man marched past the end of the corridor, and Joseph shrank back.
He was starting to think he knew where they were.
‘Stick with us, boy,’ said the horse. ‘You’ll come to no harm.’
The cat took Joseph’s shoulder and guided him out through the door, sweeping a white tricorne hat onto his head as he did so. In their new outfits the shapeshifters looked just like whitecoats of the League. That was if you ignored their strange, terrifying eyes. The horse went first: the muscle, in case of any trouble, Joseph guessed. The cat and the spider – back in human form – came behind, both almost silent as they glided down the corridor.
Joseph kept looking forward, willing himself not to glance through the bars on either side. This was the second prison he’d been inside. But back in the Brig in Port Fayt the prisoners had been clamouring at him as he passed, desperate for attention. Here they were silent, as though they didn’t dare utter a word.
At the end of the corridor they came across a pair of real whitecoats, lounging on barrels, playing dice. One of them did a double take as they passed by, frowning at Joseph, before he shrugged and returned to his game.
A prisoner. They think I’m just a prisoner. Is that why the shapeshifters need me? Joseph let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He couldn’t shake the memory of those creatures from the End. Their hollow eyes. Their frail bodies.
They entered a spiral staircase and began to climb upwards, higher and higher. At last they reached a locked door, and the cat drew out a small pouch full of metal instruments which he used to tinker with the lock. After a minute or so there was a soft click, and the door swung open.
Ahead of them was a wide, high corridor, about as different from the prison as it was possible to be. The floor was polished white marble, and the walls were white too, covered with mirrors in all shapes and sizes. Chandeliers hung from the white ceiling, and their candlelight reflected off the countless mirrors, making the corridor dazzlingly bright despite the fact that it was surely night outside.
‘Welcome,’ said the spider, ‘to the House of Light.’
Chapter Fourteen
Three mahogany tables stretched the length of a massive, candle-lit dining hall, towards a raised dais where the oldest, most decrepit and most magical magicians sat in high-backed chairs.
The others crowded onto benches, draped in their oil-black gowns, gossiping, arguing about spells and stuffing their faces. There was an enormous haunch of roast venison in a rich, sticky onion sauce. Octopus fried with garlic. Lampreys in honey.
Tabitha couldn’t enjoy any of it.
She sighed and watched morosely as the Bootle brothers demolished plate after plate. Ty perched on the edge of a gravy boat, barely even touching his sugar lump, mesmerized by the spectacle of the trolls gorging themselves. Beyond, Hal was nibbling at a bread roll, most of his food as untouched as Tabitha’s. He looked awful – as though he were getting paler and more exhausted every hour they spent in Azurmouth.
The afternoon had dragged on for ever. Tabitha had spent it practising with her throwing knives in an empty courtyard and trying to think up new ways to find Joseph. If she could track down that griffin salesman she’d make him talk, whether he liked it or not … But first she would have to leave the Academy, which Newton had strictly forbidden. Right before he had disappeared himself with Cyrus Derringer.
In the end, the only thing to do was wait for Ty to return. When he finally did, it was another disappointment. He’d been pelted with rotten apples, almost been caught in a fairy-catcher’s net on several occasions, and had found no trace of Joseph anywhere.
Tabitha pushed the food around her plate one last time, before finally giving up and dropping her fork. She needed to talk to someone, or she’d go mad. Opposite, Master Gurney was staring vacantly as he chewed.
‘Thinking about your chicken?’ she asked.
‘What? Delicious! Yes, indeed,’ said the magician, startled out of his trance. ‘The mushroom sauce. A sheer delight.�
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‘No, I mean – the one you were trying to turn into—’
‘An egg! Yes indeed, well remembered, young lady. You’ll go far. Yes.’
‘So did it work?’
The magician frowned. ‘Not exactly. Transformation is an extremely slippery area of magic, my dear.’
Tabitha was already starting to regret this conversation. But the magician carried on, oblivious.
‘Shapeshifting is my chief interest, you see. An extraordinary natural instance of transformation. And particularly fascinating on account of the frequent size differential involved.’
‘Size differ— what?’
‘To turn an egg into a chicken is a challenge, you see. But to turn an egg into a man. Or into a castle. That would require a far greater magical effort. Do you see?’
‘I s’pose so.’
‘A bear shapeshifter ought, in theory, to find the transformation easier than an ant shapeshifter. But we don’t know yet whether that is the case. Yes, and there are other peculiar aspects of shapeshifting. Did you know, for example, that a shapeshifter can only ever take human and animal forms? Where are the troll shapeshifters? Or the dwarves, or the imps?’
‘I didn’t know that.’ To her surprise, Tabitha was actually starting to become a little bit interested. She began tucking into her venison again. ‘I saw a shapeshifter once. Not long ago, actually, back in Port Fayt. He was a thief. A cat with ginger fur.’
Master Gurney sighed and his eyes glazed over, as though in a happy daydream. ‘How I should love to see a real shapeshifter …’
Tabitha wrinkled her nose. ‘You’ve not even— But isn’t that what you’re studying?’
‘Well, yes indeed my dear, but shapeshifters don’t just grow on trees, you know. Unless, I suppose, they were a squirrel shapeshifter!’ Master Gurney chuckled at his joke, spraying crumbs across the table. ‘They’re rather rare in Azurmouth, and they keep themselves to themselves. I do keep records of sightings, however. The Academy pays half a ducat for any decent report of an incident involving a shapeshifter. Sadly, many of them are too absurd to be believed.’ He began to chortle again. ‘Why, just this afternoon I heard an extraordinary tale of a sighting near Cockle Alley. It was a poor old lady who’d rather lost her mind, I fear. She claimed she’d seen a dappled grey horse trotting down the lane at night with a goblin boy slung over its back. Then it went into a wig shop, bold as brass, and a few moments later a grey-haired man came out to lock the door. She said he had a horse’s eyes. A horse’s eyes, indeed! I honestly can’t—’
‘A goblin boy,’ said Tabitha. ‘Is that what you said?’ Her venison-laden fork was frozen halfway to her mouth.
Master Gurney looked disappointed, as though she had missed the point of his story. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘Or was it … No, you’re quite right, it was a mongrel! Half human, half goblin. Would you believe it?’
Tabitha shot up from her seat, startling several elderly half-asleep magicians into wakefulness.
‘Tabs?’ said Frank, looking up from the lobster pie he was munching on. ‘What’s bit you?’
‘We need to go. We need to go now.’
‘But—’ said Paddy, gesturing at the spread of food in front of them.
‘We’ve been over this, Tabs,’ said Frank, setting down his pie. ‘Newt told us to stay put, remember?’
Tabitha turned to Master Gurney. ‘How long ago?’
‘How … er …’
‘How long ago was this sighting?’
The master looked utterly confused. ‘Well, let me see, it would have been … yesterday.’
Tabitha’s heart jolted. Yesterday! That meant it was a lead. A good, solid lead.
‘I know where Joseph is,’ she said. ‘Well, I know where he was. Yesterday.’
‘Goodness!’ said Master Gurney. ‘Do you mean to say your friend is a mongrel boy?’
‘I’m still not sure about this,’ said Paddy. ‘Newton said we—’
‘I don’t care what he said,’ snapped Tabitha. ‘He’s out there right now, and he won’t even tell us where he’s gone! It’s like he’s not thinking straight. Don’t you think he’s been acting a little funny lately?’
Paddy looked uncomfortable. ‘Maybe so, but—’
‘Besides, who knows what kind of danger Joseph could have got himself into? So I’m going to find him, whether you like it or not.’
Hal rose. The colour had returned to his cheeks, and behind his spectacles his eyes were shining with determination. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you’re not going alone.’
Chapter Fifteen
The body left a smear of blood as they dragged it away, a red trail that glistened in the flickering torchlight. Newton shifted uncomfortably on his wooden bench, trying to ignore the savage roar of the spectators that surged up all around him.
The courtyard of the House of Light was even more crowded now than it had been earlier in the day, and in the darkness the sweating, heaving mass of citizens had turned feral, fired up with cheap grog, outrageous bets and the spectacle of violence. A line of whitecoats stood guard around the wooden fighting platform, handing out blows with their muskets when things got too rowdy.
Still, Newton half wished he was down there among the crowd. Up on the tiered wooden seating of the trainers’ enclosure he felt horribly exposed, and he was starting to worry that he’d made a mistake. Of course Derringer was an excellent swordsman. He could beat Lucky Leo, then claim his opponent’s sword as a prize.
That was the easy part.
Newton’s fingers reached under his cloak and curled around the three wooden sections of the Banshee – his weapon. The Duke of Garran wasn’t just going to let them walk out of here with the Sword of Corin. So as soon as the fight was won, he would have to wade in, get Derringer off the platform and into the crowd. If they could lose themselves in the throng, maybe they could make it out of here alive.
Maybe.
The crowd was getting louder, impatient for the next fight. Servants were scrubbing at the platform, trying to clean off the blood, whilst the victorious Champion of the Broken Crown strutted for his friends. Behind the warm glow of the torches, the façade of the House of Light seemed to glow, ghostly pale. Let the sky have its sun. Azurmouth has the House of Light. But at this hour it seemed more like the moon against the twilight sky.
Newton looked up, drawing his hood further over his face, glad of the chill in the air that gave him an excuse to wear it. There, leaning on the balustrade, surrounded by the other lords of the League was the Duke of Garran. Newton couldn’t make out his expression at this distance, but his posture was relaxed.
How can he be so calm? This next fight was the one they had surely both been waiting for. Lucky Leo’s first of the evening. And, hopefully, his last.
‘The next duel!’ announced the herald. His voice was already hoarse from shouting over the crowd. ‘To my left, the defending Champion of the Contest of Blades, Leopold of Brindenheim …’
Lucky Leo stepped from the shadows onto the torchlit platform, arms raised to acknowledge the roar of his admirers. His smug face was lit up with happiness, as though he couldn’t wait to get stuck into the fighting. He drew the Sword of Corin with a flourish. The blade glittered, looking every inch the legendary weapon that it was. Newton couldn’t imagine how many trolls’ heads that blade had severed; how many goblins it had killed; how many widows it had made.
He realized he was rubbing at the marks on his wrists again.
‘To my right, the Champion of the Silver Dragon,’ barked the herald, ‘Cyrus Derringer!’
The elf stepped forward and whisked off his hat to reveal his pointed ears. Newton cursed under his breath, as a murmur ran through the crowd. Derringer had promised to keep his disguise on. After the fight at the Fencing House of the Silver Dragon it was hardly a secret that he was an elf, but if he’d just been discreet, the lords of the League might have overlooked it. Now, if they lost, death was almost a certainty.
Newton rose, taking care to keep his head down so the men on the balcony didn’t see his face. The trainers were allowed to have a word with their fighters before the duel, and on the opposite side of the platform the Earl of Brindenheim already had an arm round his son, murmuring in his ear.
Thalin knew why he bothered – from what Newton had heard, Leo couldn’t fight his way out of a paper castle. But the threatening presence of his father was probably enough to scare most opponents into throwing the fight.
‘I’d like to carve him up,’ said Derringer, as Newton reached the platform. The elf’s eyes gleamed in the light of the torch fires. Newton had never seen him so alive.
‘No. The sword’s all we need. We had a deal, remember?’
‘He needs to be taught a lesson.’
Newton just stopped himself grinding his teeth. ‘Maybe you need to be taught a lesson yourself. If you hurt him there’s no way we’ll walk out of here alive. His father will murder us on the spot. That’s if the Duke of Garran doesn’t get us first.’
A scowl passed across Derringer’s face for an instant before he shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
Newton could hardly believe it. Was Derringer actually agreeing with him?
Better late than never.
‘Gentlemen! To your places.’
There was a tense hush as Newton returned to his bench, and the two fighters took up position on opposite sides of the platform. Their blades hovered in the air, twin ribbons of fire in the orange glow of the torches.
Newton leaned forward, holding his breath. He could feel the spectators around him doing the same. In the courtyard. On the benches. At the balcony above.
‘Let the fight begin!’
Lucky Leo darted forwards, lunging with all his weight. A ridiculous move. The kind of move that would instantly get you cut down in a real battle. Derringer simply stepped aside, not even bothering to raise his sword. There were titters from the crowd. The Earl of Brindenheim scowled, and for a moment Newton thought he might lurch out of his seat and throttle the elf.
