Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  The parlor is striped with bold patterns of black and white, crisp and stark to show off the beauty that flutters before it. Plush chairs of velvet and brass fittings are placed carefully around the room, strategically placed around a tinkling fountain. Women with flawless skin are clothed in a riot of silks and swirl around us like exotic flowers. They stare at us with luminous curiosity for a moment before moving on to the next object of interest.

  A thin ember of envy tugs at my gut that these people should pursue such frivolities when we are starving and living in squalor.

  “I’m here to see Molly,” I say to the shady man standing guard beside the door, though my words are unnecessary. We’re certainly not here to utilize the services of a pleasure house.

  He jabs his thumb behind him. “You’ll find her at the bar.” The words are helpful, but the tone is not; he’d throw us out if he could. He scowls and points out down the alley. “But you go through the side door.”

  With a sigh, we retreat to the side door leading to the kitchens, and from there we enter into the bar proper. None of the patrons take any notice of us anyway; their focus is elsewhere.

  We brush through the crowd of silken beauties with their taut skin on display. A curvaceous automaton winds her way through the tables, passing out drinks with marvelous efficiency, her head tilted in a flirty fashion. She wears a corset and little else, but there’s something disturbing about her metallic flesh, even so. There’s no indication of awareness in her electric, blue eyes when a curious hand slides over her ass and down her thighs.

  On the stage, a naked woman cavorts, her breasts jiggling in rhythm to the beat of a drummer, yellow feathers tied in her hair as she twirls about. Sparrow sucks in her breath as she sees the girl, but it’s not the dance or the naked form that concerns her. The dancer’s hair is milk white and pale. Not a true Moon Child, but it’s enough to convey the intent to the tipsy crowd.

  “It’s dyed.” The envy turns to ashes in my belly, and my jaw tightens in anger.

  Sparrow says nothing, but her cheeks burn.

  Shame.

  I’ve been around long enough that it shouldn’t bother me anymore, but it does. We’ve been reduced to a passing fetish, but even that is an illusion. I frown as I watch the girl swivel her hips.

  “Did you want to try out, m’dear?” Molly’s lilting drawl somehow cuts through the din with practiced ease.

  “You can’t afford me,” I retort without thinking. I bite down on my cheek hard enough to draw blood. Insulting the woman gains me nothing. Not when I need her.

  “No one would pay to see a broomstick in her smallclothes, you mean.” Whatever she sees in my expression sparks an answering smirk. It’s hardly reassuring, but reassurance has nothing to do with Molly Bell’s business.

  Cheers and claps fill my ears as the girl finishes her performance, pulling her lithe form through a series of tiny silver hoops before stooping to collect the coins tossed at her feet. She tosses her white hair so it flutters like a waterfall, her face all smiles and soft blushes. The men eat it up, and another rush of fury vibrates down my spine.

  “Something I can help you with, then?” Molly taps her fan upon her palm.

  “Rory sent us,” I say. “The usual.”

  “Indeed.” Molly crooks a perfectly manicured finger at me. “Come.”

  Sparrow and I exchange a quick glance before dutifully trailing behind her. The crowd splits like the sea before her, and we have to hurry to keep from being swallowed up as she maneuvers her way through the maze of tables and dancers.

  A thick curtain hangs past the bar where a barmaid tiredly hands out flagons of foaming ale. A tall woman, with a jaw too square to be considered anything other than handsome, perches on a stool beside the alcove. Her gimlet gaze rakes us from head to toe, but I stare at her until the corner of her rouged mouth twitches at my boldness. Molly’s lady-in-waiting is a formidable creature, austere and prickly, with a high-necked gray gown and a black shawl over her shoulders.

  “Martika.” I nod politely as she sweeps the curtain aside to let us pass. Molly’s bustle sways seductively in festooning pink ruffles, disappearing in the shadows of a long hallway. We emerge into one of the back rooms where she does her more wayward business. It’s a narrow space, cluttered with an assortment of books and scrolls. Steam-powered bulbs flicker from the ceiling.

  Sparrow and I lean against the wall as the madam shuffles papers on her desk. It’s all for show to make us fidgety and off-balance, but it’s an old trick and I study my fingers until she’s done. My nails are worn down to the quick, dirt crusted beneath them thick enough to grow flowers.

  Finally, she takes her seat, one booted heel propped up on the desk. Her striped hose scales her thigh in thick coils, disappearing in a nest of lacy petticoats in a fashion I can’t quite comprehend. She stares at us a moment longer, and then her lips split into a toothy smile. The edges of her front teeth have all been filed into fine points, giving her a monstrous appearance. A predator of flesh, perhaps. The shark of the underworld is no less terrifying for the luscious red curls framing her face.

  “You don’t approve of my dancers.” She’s still smiling, but there’s a hardness to her voice. “There are plenty of folk who take great pleasure in the concept of forcing a Moon Child into carnal submission. Even if it’s not the real thing.” Her eyes bore into mine. “Forbidden fruit and all that. Sin-eaters are the most forbidden of all, seeing as no one in their right mind would touch one willingly. I simply sell illusions. Makes them feel better, I suppose.”

  “My approval doesn’t matter for shit,” I mutter, not wanting a confrontation. “I’m only here to see if you’ve an interest in something I found.”

  One brow arches. “Ah, yes. There does seem to be a bit of a dustup involving you and the Inquestors. I’m taking quite the risk meeting with you, you realize.”

  Sparrow shifts beside me. The flight response runs deep within us, and for good reason. My own gaze warily slides around the room, already half-resigned to seeing the guards break down the door behind us.

  “Then why have us here at all?” I cross my arms. “Why not refuse to see us?”

  Molly’s laughter tinkles merrily at our expressions, and she sits up straight. “Nothing gets by you, does it? Maybe I’ve my own reasons. Shall we see what you have?” Her teeth clack shut on the last of those words, an echo of finality in those pearly whites.

  I pull out the credit chit and toss it on the desk.

  She twiddles it between her fingers thoughtfully and holds it up to the light, studying the raised impressions upon the rim. Her mouth purses as she looks at me again. “You can’t read, can you? Do you know who this belongs to?”

  “No.”

  “Indeed.” She flips the chit up into the air, the light catching the crystal edges so it refracts brightly. “This, my dear, is the credit chit of one Jonathan Jacobs, currently the head architect of Meridion. Or former, I suppose.” Her face snaps toward me, her voice cold. “The one found dead tonight, in fact.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “I know rumors drop faster than flies on a corpse in this town, but this seems awfully quick, even for you.”

  “It’s my job to know things. The point is, ladies, you’re in a lot of trouble right now. Even if I can off-load this, there will be questions.” She cocks her head. “And I’m not sure I want that sort of scrutiny.”

  The side door bursts open, and I push Sparrow behind me, my drive to protect the younger girl almost instinctual. Molly smoothly pops the chit into her corset, as though she’s merely attempting to tuck her ample cleavage for better viewing, and her face slides into her familiar business smile.

  Martika strides in with a heavy footfall, followed by Inquestor Caskers . . . and Rory.

  “Fuck,” I breathe, struggling to stand on my suddenly shaky legs. I know a trap when I see one, and this one has just closed on our necks. My gaze darts wildly about the room, searching for an escape and finding none.
<
br />   The large woman gives me a sour look. “You have guests, Molly.”

  Molly straightens up, her mouth quirking. “So I see. Important ones, I’d wager, to not even wait for an appointment.”

  Rory’s eyes are bleeding death at me as the Inquestor bows to Molly. “Well, when it comes to capturing a murderer, one can never be too careful, madam,” the lieutenant says, twisting the tip of his mustache, like one of those villains from the penny dreadfuls Sparrow would flip through at the newsstands.

  Molly leans back in her seat, snapping her fan out from her sleeve with a thick crack. She pretends not to notice when Sparrow jumps at the sound and flutters it about her neck like a wounded bird.

  “Murder?” she drawls. “Oh, come now. Surely you must be mistaken.” The fan swirls daintily, drawing attention to her décolletage, which is not inconsiderable. The Inquestor barely glances downward, but his nostrils flare ever so slightly.

  “I assure you, good lady, I am not.” His voice drops lower, though his words remain pleasant. “I would hate to see a woman of such high caliber be caught up in such a thing.”

  She cocks a brow and then sighs, her attention falling on Rory. Ghost’s warning about the dragon ripples in my mind, echoed in the tick-thump of my heart.

  If you’re caught with it . . .

  Too late, too late.

  The lieutenant sneers and jabs his hand at me. “This one assaulted one of my Inquestors when we attempted to question her. It is a matter of delicacy that I cannot openly speak of.” I see the glint of his earlier promise lighting up like sparks when our gazes meet. He wants me dead, Tithed or not.

  Sparrow pipes up from behind me. “But that’s not what happened—”

  I stomp on her foot before she can implicate herself any further, but it’s already too late as Caskers focuses on her. She hesitates but then thrusts out her chin, stepping forward. “Aye. I was there.”

  “How convenient to have a witness,” he notes and pulls out a small pad of parchment. “And what did you say your name was?”

  Sparrow remains silent until Rory raises a hand to slap her. I thrust myself between them, ready to take the blow. Martika watches us all from the doorway with an odd detachment.

  For a moment the tension hangs like the scent of gunpowder; the merest movement will set it off. Instead of confronting them, I take a seat in the chair beside the desk and boldly stretch my legs high so my boots rest on the credenza, my mind gibbering madly as I try to organize my thoughts.

  A mouse can only bluff in front of the alley cat so long. Wits and claws, Mags. Wits and claws. Watch me, watch me, that the Sparrow might fly free.

  Molly raises a brow at me in warning, but I don’t move my feet. I pat down my coat to pull out the tobacco I nipped from the architect’s body. Rory’s eyes nearly bug out of his head at my rudeness, but I busy myself rolling up a hit, scratching my last lucifer on the bottom of my boot. It ignites with a foul odor as I light the tip of the paper.

  A moment later, the rich scent of the tobacco fills the room. I take a deep puff and blow out a perfect smoke ring with a sigh. Martika stares at me with hungry appraisal, and I can’t quite help returning it with a wink.

  “Aye, Sparrow was there, but she did naught to help nor hinder my . . . adventures.” I glance up at the lieutenant and hesitate. Neither he nor Rory had mentioned the architect, but Molly already knew. Whatever game they are playing, I want no part of it. “And why dance around the subject? The only reason you were chasing me was because of the dead Meridian. Who was already dead when I found him, incidentally. This grand bit of stuff—” I wave the cigarillo at him “—is the only thing of value I took from him.”

  The Inquestor’s face darkens as the smoke wafts past him. “Architect Jacobs was stabbed multiple times in the chest. Surely you would have noticed this when you looted his body?”

  “Dead is dead. Whether he died from a knife in his gut or not, he clearly fell from a great height.” I splay my fingers wide. “Splat.”

  “And yet you didn’t think to report it to me when we ran into you?” he asks.

  I can hear the underlying trap beneath the question. Behind me, Sparrow makes a soft sound and I shut my eyes against it before giving the lieutenant a hard stare. “Why answer your questions when you’ve already decided my guilt?”

  His cheeks flush red, raging with the inferno of his anger even as Martika stifles a snort. Molly’s eyes dance with stony amusement. She’s no happier at this turn of events than I am, but I don’t dare mention the credit chit in her corset. She glances at me from over her fan, and I see the warning written there, but there’s no time to heed it.

  Spittle gums up at the corners of the lieutenant’s lips. “You’re lying.”

  “Prove it.” I regret the words the moment I say them, but there’s no taking them back now.

  Suddenly he shoves me out of the chair, my bag tumbling to the ground. The cigarillo flies from my hand, embers smoking upon the blue silk carpet. “Hey!” I move to kick him but Rory is already there, his hands like iron around my wrists as he yanks my arm up behind my back.

  Pain twists through my elbow and I squirm, but he leans down to my ear. “Move again and I’ll break it so it doesn’t heal. Ever.”

  I freeze.

  Molly tsks at the cigarillo smoldering on the carpet, and Martika dutifully stomps it out. “I’ll be charging you for that if it leaves a mark,” Molly says lightly, her fan fluttering again, this time pointing in my direction.

  There’s an odd silence where the whole of my breath seems to fill the room with its ragged echo. My bag has begun to move, a sound like a deranged teakettle piercing my ears.

  All heads swivel toward it, and Caskers gingerly picks it up, slicing into the burlap with a quick flick of the dagger at his belt. The dragon tumbles onto the carpet with a mechanical snarl, the sound swallowed by a collective gasp. It bares its shiny teeth, the tiny ember in its chest burning bright. The Inquestor reaches for it with a cry of surprise, but it scurries under Molly’s chair and launches itself up the chimney, narrowly escaping the lieutenant’s white-gloved fingers. A metallic clink chimes when its wings hit the heavy stone, and a storm of pebbles scatter onto the hearth.

  Rory gapes, loosening his grip on my arm. “The hells is that?”

  I let out a laugh at the dragon’s escape, but a stinging slap burns across my face.

  Caskers’s mustache is quivering now, the wax no longer quite so sturdy. He grasps my chin, the pressure upon my jaw causing me to whimper. “You threw something very interesting at one of my men this evening. Something related to that, perhaps?”

  Before I can answer, Molly smacks her fan upon the desk. “I’m running a business here. If you want to bully her some more, then I kindly ask you to take it elsewhere.”

  “She’s a murderer and conspirator,” he insists, but she smiles at him with her sharp teeth showing.

  “And that may be,” she says, “but this is a gentlemen’s club, not a constabulary.”

  He nods, noticeably paler after being confronted with her toothy grin. “As you wish. Apologies for this intrusion, Ms. Bell.”

  “Quite.” Her smile grows broader. “In the future, should you wish to make an inquiry about one of my guests, I insist you go through the proper channels.” She winks at him long and slow. “I pride myself on discretion, as well you know.”

  “Indeed. And I would appreciate as much in this particular matter.” His hand strokes lightly over the mantel of the fireplace, his voice dropping low and dark. “I’d hate to see this place shut down for certain . . . violations.”

  If she’s bothered by the threat, it doesn’t show, but she nods in acquiescence, not bothering to hide her amusement.

  He smiles tightly, bowing once before whirling on me. “And as for Miss Raggy Maggy? We’ll see how accommodations in the Pits suit.”

  A river of blood

  Is all that can flow.

  I plant flowers made of tin


  While ashes fall like snow.

  CHAPTER 4

  “No.” The word squeaks out of me as Sparrow lets out a cry of disbelief.

  Caskers’s eyes narrow at the sound, and he leans close to Rory. “If you even think about letting either of them escape, I’ll gladly take you as the next Tithe instead.”

  Rory snarls something beneath his breath, and Molly snaps her fingers in irritation.

  “If you please, gentlemen?” Martika’s voice is whip sharp and deep, and startles the others into action.

  The lieutenant strides into the hallway, gesturing for us to follow. Rory places a hand on my neck and steers me out of the room, Sparrow trailing behind us. Several additional Inquestors who appear to have been waiting in the hall flank us and fall into step behind Sparrow, but they don’t take us through the main room of the bar. A dark passage branches off through the kitchens and into an alley, and it’s here that we reassemble.

  Thick, greasy rain has started falling, and everything smells like piss and shit and the ugly stink of sex gone bad. A baby squalls from one of the upper windows. It’s quickly shushed, and for a moment there’s nothing but the pattering of wet drops beating out a sullen whimper on the drainpipes.

  I eye the drain and the brickwork, and beside me I can sense Sparrow doing the same. Even Rory appears to be carefully sizing up the distance to the rooftops, but I can’t imagine him doing it. To have our “leader” so blatantly rebel against the Inquestors?

  Rory loves his position too much to do that.

  But still, I hope he might anyway. The tide has to turn someday, doesn’t it?

  Caskers and Rory circle each other, but if Rory had a tail it would be firmly tucked between his legs.

  “I can’t let you Tithe her,” Rory finally says in a halfhearted attempt to defend me. “She’s one of my best scrappers. We need her to—”