by Conrad Mason
Waiting …
… and waiting.
Tabitha shook her head. Focus. That shapeshifter could be back any minute. ‘You can go if you like,’ she said. ‘I’m staying.’
‘Unfortunately, I think the twins may have a point,’ said Hal. The magician was crouched uncomfortably behind the counter. The troll twins had made him accept one of their pistols for protection, and he was holding it between finger and thumb, as though it might go off at any moment. Which, actually, it might.
‘We’re putting ourselves in danger here, with absolutely no guarantee that Joseph and this shapeshifter will return. If indeed they were ever here in the first place.’
‘Two minutes,’ said Frank. ‘Then we’re all going back. That means you too, Tabs.’
Paddy swapped his purple wig for a towering, pink-powdered monstrosity festooned with ribbons. ‘Now this is more like it …’
Tabitha turned her attention back to the door, willing it to open. Any moment, Joseph might come through. She knew she ought to feel angry with him. He’d run off without any explanation and forced them to follow halfway across the Ebony Ocean. He’d let Jeb the Snitch trick him over and over again. He was just a tavern boy with no skills and a head full of bad ideas.
And still, she missed him. She missed him so much it hurt.
Wait.
‘Did you hear that?’
Everyone froze. Ty peered out from between the hairs of the long blonde wig he was hiding in.
Yes – footsteps, in the alley outside. Paddy took off his wig and silently replaced it on the stand, sinking down behind the nearest set of shelves and drawing his cutlass. Frank dropped to the floor behind a mannequin, a set of pistols in his hand. Slowly, cautiously, Tabitha slid her favourite knife out of its sheath. She’d sharpened it that afternoon.
There was a scrabbling at the lock, and the door swung open. Tabitha tensed. In the dim light that filtered from the street she saw three figures in white coats and tricorne hats.
Butchers! What in Thalin’s name was the League doing here?
The closest whitecoat began hunting for a lantern. Tabitha caught Hal’s eye, but he looked just as clueless as she felt. They hadn’t planned on this. Where was the shapeshifter? Where was Joseph? And what were they supposed to do now?
‘No-good scum-sucking bilge-bag maggot,’ spat the biggest of the whitecoats. Tabitha noticed that the figure was limping. Then she saw that another was clutching its arm, and the third, a woman, had a long tear in her white coat. They’d been in a fight. Some sort of tavern brawl?
‘We’ll find him,’ said the whitecoat with the injured arm. His voice was soft, sinister and strangely familiar. ‘Tonight. Right now. He won’t get away with this.’
‘What troubles me most,’ hissed the woman, ‘is that he thinks he’s clever. Ordering that drunkard Hoake to lock us in Corin’s Hall … Did he really think we would not escape? That a few whitecoats could arrest the Quiet Three? He needs to be taught a lesson.’
‘What troubles me most is how we nearly got killed. Look at my leg!’
‘It will heal. More than I can say for the butcher who—’
‘Wait.’ It was the familiar voice again. ‘Something’s wrong.’
A lantern flared suddenly into life, picking out the three figures in its warm glow. The whitecoat with the injured arm was half turned towards Tabitha, and the light glinted in his odd, inhuman eyes.
Yellow eyes.
Cat’s eyes.
‘You!’ gasped Tabitha out loud, before she could stop herself.
If the cat’s eyes were strange, the others’ were even stranger. The big man’s were enormous, like those of some large animal. Like those of a horse. The woman’s were tiny and black, like glittering shards of coal.
The troll twins rose from their hiding place, weapons ready.
‘Stay right where you are,’ said Frank. ‘In the name of—’
There was an ear-splitting gunshot, and one of the wig shop windows cracked into a web of fractures. Hal dropped his smoking pistol like it was a crab that had pinched his fingers.
‘My apologies,’ he stammered. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
Too late. The three whitecoats had turned tail and sped out of the shop, faster than could possibly be natural.
‘After them!’ yelled Tabitha. She leaped over the mountain of wigs and shot through the door, leaving it to swing shut behind her. There was a soft thunk as Ty flew straight into it, then a tiny beating of fists from within.
‘Oi!’ cried the fairy. ‘Wait for me!’
But Tabitha didn’t have time to help him out. The cold night air sharpened her senses. There, at the end of the alley – three white figures. As they reached the main road they split up, each heading down a different back street. Tabitha charged after them.
For a moment she considered going after the limping one, but thought better of it. The one with the injured arm – the cat – that was who she wanted. He was the leader. If anyone knew where Joseph was, it would be him.
She followed.
The shapeshifter was fast, but the injury seemed to be slowing him down. He veered left, boots slamming the cobblestones, and Tabitha followed. Then right. Tabitha followed again.
‘I’ve got him!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve got him!’
But she was on her own. Hal was no runner. The Bootle brothers were strong, but heavy and slow on their feet. Ty might have made it out of the shop by now, but he hadn’t caught up with her yet – assuming he could even find her.
Tabitha was panting now. She pulled a second blade from its sheath, one in each hand, like the professional knife-fighters she sometimes saw back in Port Fayt.
On my own.
She swerved round the corner and found herself facing a brick wall scrawled with obscene messages.
‘Come out! In the name of the Watch!’
Silence. Then a movement, somewhere to her left. She spun, but it was only an empty tankard rolling across the cobbles. Rolling – but there was no breeze. She strode towards it, and immediately something crashed behind her. She spun again to see the shattered remains of a pottery jug, dropped from somewhere above.
Someone chuckled. A low, threatening sound.
Tabitha’s skin began to crawl. ‘I said come out!’
Silence. And then a voice. ‘You’re a long way from home, little girl.’
‘A long way from your friends too,’ said a second voice.
‘A long, long way,’ said a third.
Tabitha bolted. Up the alleyway, still clutching her knives. Behind her, footsteps, following. Idiot! How could she let this happen? Cornered by all three of them. If those trolls hadn’t been so slow …
She ran left and came out into a small cobbled square. Black-beamed house fronts loomed on all sides, and a Golden Sun banner hung limp from a flagpole on a boarded-up tavern. On the far side of the square was a raised platform with three pillories set into it.
Two of them were empty, but the third held a skeletal elf prisoner, his neck and wrists locked in by wood, pale face even paler than it should be, long hair matted with the remains of rotten eggs and fruit. A strip of sackcloth was wrapped around his head like a bandana, equally clotted with food.
He raised his head at Tabitha’s arrival. ‘Help!’ he croaked. ‘Help me!’
Heart thudding, Tabitha raced across the square towards him. Beside the pillories was a sign bearing the words: KNOW YOUR ENEMY. She sheathed one knife and thrust the point of the other into the rusted lock that held the wooden clamp in place, working it as fast as she could. Maybe she could get the elf free. Maybe he’d fight with her.
Two against three …
‘Thank you! Thank you!’ burbled the elf.
But the metal wasn’t giving. Come on! She’d seen Newton pick locks before. He made it look so easy.
The elf let out a sudden screech. ‘Whitecoats!’
Tabitha turned and saw three figures loping into the square. The woman, as gaunt a
s a walking skeleton. The big, muscular man with the limp. And the cat, smiling as he approached, his wounded arm dangling at his side, his yellow eyes narrowed …
Tabitha tried to spring into a fighting stance, but a sharp pain in her scalp told her that someone had got hold of her hair. She twisted, but the fingers held on tight. Half turning, she saw the elf watching her.
‘I’ve got her,’ he yelled out. ‘I’ve caught her for you!’
Tabitha tugged desperately at the elf’s fingers. ‘They’re not real whitecoats, you dung head! Can’t you tell?’ Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the three shapeshifters getting closer …
Nothing else for it. She reached up with her knife and hacked savagely at her hair. Two blows and she was free, leaving the elf with nothing but a handful of blue curls. She dived off the platform and instantly tripped over an outstretched foot, hitting the cobblestones hard.
When she rolled over she saw her three captors looking down at her, silhouetted against a black sky pricked with stars. Behind them the elf was quietly sobbing, his fingers clutching her lock of blue hair. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m so sorry. They took my wife. They took my little Caroline. I’ve got nothing. Nothing …’
‘How fortunate,’ purred the cat. ‘I’ve already dealt with the mongrel boy. And now you come along.’ He knelt down next to her, and his yellow eyes glinted in the light of the moon.
‘This is a good night for vengeance.’
Chapter Eighteen
The carriage clattered through the darkness. It was a rickety old thing, and Joseph felt as though every muscle in his body would be bruised black and blue by the morning. Not that it mattered. He was sure there would be worse to come, where he was going.
‘You’re taking me to him, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘To Jeb the Snitch.’
Hoake sat opposite, his face hidden by shadow, one hand gripping the seat against the bouncing of the carriage, the other a flagon that had to be nearly empty by now. Hardly paying Joseph any attention at all.
‘But why?’
The whitecoat took another swig, and a dribble of grog spattered his white breeches.
It didn’t make sense – Jeb had been after the wooden spoon ever since he’d first heard about it, but he’d never shown any interest in Joseph before. What did the goblin want with him?
Perhaps he should be glad. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? A chance to get the truth about your father … Except the way he’d imagined it, it was him finding Jeb, not the other way around. And without the wooden spoon, he had no chance of getting the goblin to talk.
He had to get out. He had to be the one in control.
His eyes strayed to his cutlass, propped up beside Hoake, then to the wooden spoon, poking out of his captor’s pocket and jolting with the motion of the carriage. Maybe he could seize it, shove the door open and dive through.
And get smashed to pieces on the cobblestones.
Great idea.
But if he could somehow stop the carriage …
The whitecoat took another pull at his flagon. Joseph had seen men like Hoake before, back in the Legless Mermaid. Men who came to the tavern every day. Who couldn’t help themselves. Who always needed another drop.
Come on, Joseph. You’ve got nothing to lose.
‘What are you drinking?’ he asked.
‘What?’
Joseph shrugged. ‘It’s just … my uncle’s a landlord, back in Fayt. He brews his own grog.’
The butcher narrowed his eyes, and took another swig.
‘Folk come from all over the town to taste it,’ said Joseph. ‘From all over the Ebony Ocean, in fact. He calls it … er … Lightly’s Golden Elixir.’ Actually he called it Lightly’s Finest Bowelbuster, but Joseph didn’t think that would have the same effect.
‘That right?’ said Hoake. He scowled and knocked back the flagon again. There couldn’t be more than a few dregs left by now.
‘I’ve never tried any myself,’ Joseph went on. ‘But they say it tastes amazing, like, er …’ What did grog taste like? ‘Like honey and hazelnuts and, um … like …’ He suddenly remembered the words of an old soak who had propped up the bar every day he’d worked there. ‘They say it tastes like the tears of a seraph.’
Hoake emptied his flagon, swore and tossed it through the barred window. ‘Curse you, mongrel,’ he growled. He reached up and thumped the roof of the carriage three times.
Joseph almost went flying as they lurched to a halt.
‘Wait here. I need a drink.’ The whitecoat picked up Joseph’s cutlass, took a key from his pocket and clambered out of the carriage, shutting and locking the door behind him. A strange scent filled the air. Strange, but familiar. Musty. Sickly. Somewhere between fresh vomit and rotten fish.
From up ahead came the voice of the driver. ‘We’re nearly there, for Corin’s sake.’
‘You shut your mouth.’
‘Not another flagon, Hoake. Ain’t you had enough?’
‘I said shut up. And wait here.’
Joseph heard another door open, releasing a burst of music and loud voices, then close. A tavern, he guessed.
No time to lose.
He tried the carriage door, but it wouldn’t budge. He pulled at the bars on the window, but they were surprisingly solid, and like Mr Lightly had always told him, he didn’t have much strength in his puny mongrel muscles. He reached through them. He could get at the lock with his fingers, but of course Hoake had taken the key with him.
He could feel his ears drooping with disappointment. We’re nearly there, the driver had said. Nearly at Jeb’s hideout, wherever that was. Last time Joseph had seen Jeb, the goblin had tried to shoot him dead. He had a hunch the Snitch wouldn’t have become any more pleasant since then.
There was a creak from outside, as the tavern door opened.
Only one thing left to try. Joseph edged to the opposite side of the carriage, giving himself as much of a run-up as he could.
The key scraped in the lock, the carriage door swung open and Hoake clambered back inside, and at the same instant Joseph launched himself forwards.
‘What are you—?’ said Hoake, dropping both the cutlass and a fresh flagon of grog, as Joseph slammed into him. The stench of firewater filled his nostrils. He struggled, trying to squirm past to the open door, but Hoake caught hold of him. He flailed, and his fingers closed around something in the whitecoat’s pocket. The wooden spoon. He tugged hard, and it came free.
Hoake flung him to the floor, and his forehead slammed against the bench. He blinked, his head throbbing with pain as the whitecoat crouched over him, eyes rimmed with red, jaw set with anger.
Maybe he wasn’t as drunk as I thought.
Hoake held out his hand. ‘Give me the spoon, you little wretch.’
Joseph’s fingers tightened on the wood. Maybe it was the knock to his head, but he was sick of being a victim. Sick of being passed from crook to crook, like some sack of dragon scales to be traded at whim. Sick of this city, and the people in it.
What would Thalin do?
What would Newton do?
What would my father do?
Joseph locked eyes with the whitecoat. He gripped harder and harder, until his knuckles went white. It’s a question of mental focus.
‘What in all the bleeding Ebony Ocean are you doing?’
What was he doing? He’d already tried and failed back in the alleyway, with the Grey Brothers. And even if it worked … You really have no idea what it could do to you, if you were to misuse it.
He gritted his teeth. He just had to think the right thoughts.
Wait – the right thoughts.
Not his thoughts. Not the thoughts of Joseph the mongrel. The thoughts of Hoake. Hoake the butcher. Those were the right thoughts.
What was Hoake seeing? What was Hoake thinking?
‘I said, hand it over, before I beat the living daylights out of you.’
Joseph climbed out of himself, worming his way inside
Hoake’s mind. I’m a human. I’m a whitecoat.
A tingling grew in his head, building, spreading down through his chest and into his arms.
It’s happening. It’s really happening.
‘Last chance, mongrel.’
His whole body began to quiver, buzzing with power, and he closed his fingers around the spoon until he and the wand were one.
I’m tall. I’m strong. I’m angry.
The butcher’s face twisted into a snarl and he lunged forward, grabbed hold of the wooden spoon. At the same instant, the power surged out through Joseph’s hand and into the wand. The warmth turned ice cold, and Joseph wasn’t Joseph any more, he was …
… Hoake.
Richard Hoake, his head awhirl and his guts roiling from six flagons of grog.
Who had joined the butchers at the age of sixteen.
Who was branded with the Golden Sun two years later, a mark of honour for slaying a troll the size of a bear.
Who liked his wine, then loved it, then couldn’t do without it.
Who’d once swapped his boots for half a cup of firewater.
Who needed money for it so badly he’d do anything, anything to scrape together half a ducat for another bottle, just one more and then he’d stop, maybe, but more likely not, who—
The whitecoat tumbled backwards, letting go of the wooden spoon, his eyes mad and staring like those of a bolted horse. He panted, his knees pressed up against his chest.
Joseph flinched. What in Thalin’s name … ? It had worked. For a few moments at least, it had actually worked. His head ached and he felt woozy, as though he’d just woken up from a long sleep.
The driver’s voice carried from the front of the carriage. ‘What’s going on down there?’
The words were like a jab in the ribs. Joseph stuffed the wooden spoon into his pocket. He saw the carriage door still ajar and hurled himself through, snatching up his cutlass as he went, sending the door banging open and hitting the cobblestones hard.
