Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  “I don’t give a damn what you need,” the lieutenant shouts. “She’s seen too much. I’ve got the High Inquestor riding my ass over the dead Meridian and I’ve got nothing to show for—” He cuts off his words as though suddenly realizing where he is, and gestures at Sparrow. “She knows too much now, as well.”

  Sparrow slides into the shadow at my side, a tremble about her lips.

  “Right,” I say bitterly. “So for finding a body in the street and not reporting it, I end up in the Pits?”

  I take Sparrow’s hand and retreat a step. If I can get her to the nearest window ledge, I’ll boost her up and she might have a chance at escaping.

  Rory says nothing, and for a moment I think he’s going to help us. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and then opens them again. “Do what you have to. I wash my hands of both of them.”

  Sparrow lets out a coughing chuff of despair. “You’re supposed to protect us!”

  “And I am casting you out.” He glares at each of us in turn. “You are no longer members of the Banshees. I am required to do nothing.”

  Anger flares to life within me as he turns away. “It’s fitting that you leave us outside a brothel,” I call after him. “You’re the biggest whore of us all!”

  There’s a distinct snigger from behind the kitchen door, and it’s clear someone’s listening. I’ve got no time for that, though. Caskers is watching Rory depart and I see my chance. I whirl, my hands already boosting Sparrow up. She scrambles over the bricks, her foot scraping the windowsill before the Inquestors even realize what I’ve done.

  A soft slither above us, nearly silent as a . . .

  Ghost.

  A flash of his silver hair shows beneath his cap as his hand reaches down to grab Sparrow’s wrist and haul her up. Hysterical laughter bubbles up in me as I catch his knowing smirk, and for a moment I dare to hope we’ll escape.

  And then the report of gunfire roars in my ears. The whiz of the bullet shrieks past me and I duck, but the blood is already spreading over Sparrow’s coat, crimson turning black in the dim, yellowed light of the lanterns.

  She lets out a soft cry, small, like her namesake, and it catches in her throat with a confused burble of surprise. She slips from the windowsill, hanging from Ghost’s straining fingers. I rush forward as the Inquestors take aim again, and her body sinks like a stone into my arms. I glimpse only the merest outline of Ghost’s face when he fades into the shadows. I’m too busy staring at the way the life drains from Sparrow to take note of where he’s gone.

  “Oh,” I mumble, unable to form a coherent thought fast enough to say anything of meaning. My vision vibrates, everything fading away except the girl in my arms, myriad memories scattering like sunlight across the water.

  I’ve seen death before. We all have. And it’s fitting that we do. We are the chaperones of the dying, after all. But this is different. Sparrow is the sister of my soul, so much more than a mere clanmate. Without her . . . I’ll be alone.

  Her mouth moves, and blood trickles from the corner. I stare at her as though I might capture the shape of her face, the sound of her laughter, and the nattering of her questions, but it’s leaving her so quickly.

  My breath is thunderous, a husky exhalation that slips between the liminal spaces, a heated mist lingering in the chill of the night air. “Don’t . . .” I whisper. “Oh, please don’t.”

  There’s a shift of bodies around me, and one part of my mind shouts at me to get up and run or fight or do anything other than kneel there with Sparrow’s life in my hands. It’s a bubble ready to burst, and if I move I’ll lose her.

  An argument breaks out. Someone gets shoved into a wall, and an upset trash bin wobbles past me to spill its festering guts upon the cobblestones. Shouts come from out in the street, which are answered by ominous rumbles.

  “Mags,” Sparrow whimpers. Her pupils so huge and black I nearly expect to see the moon drowning within.

  Pop.

  Another bullet slams into her flesh, and just like that, she’s gone. My eyes fill with tears I rarely shed, my world spinning off its axis.

  I’m jerked away from her before I can really react, and her head bounces off the cobblestones. I flinch when she doesn’t move, but her glassy stare seems to pierce right through me.

  There’s nothing reproachful about it, and that hurts more than I can bear. An ugly keening erupts from my throat, echoing through the alley and flooding my veins, giving voice to my furious rage.

  But there’s no more time to grieve as the Inquestors haul me to my feet. My arms slide out of my coat sleeves, and I ball my hands into fists before launching myself at the lieutenant. My knuckles scrape the underside of his jaw, but I’m pulled away before the blow lands.

  “Aye, but you’re a spiteful thing,” Caskers sneers, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. He holsters his pistol, unsheathing a wicked dagger from his hip.

  “Why?” I choke out. “Why would you do this?”

  “Tit for tat,” he growls. “You took one of mine. It only seemed fair.”

  “She had nothing to do with it.” My words feel numb, and my throat closes over against a thick sob.

  “Sometimes that’s the way it is.” He rips the cap from my head so that my silver hair hangs down. It’s dirty and stringy, but it shimmers in the lantern light. His expression goes oddly gentle. “I’ve heard they take your eyes. You know, down in the Pits. Lets you use your other senses in those deep, dark caverns so your vision doesn’t distract you from the task at hand.”

  I spit at his feet. “How would you know?”

  “I don’t,” he says mildly. “And I never will.”

  The words dangle there, mocking me in their confidence, that smug assurance that indicates how well he knows his place—and mine. A rolling chuckle escapes him, and the sound ripples into my ears, branding itself upon my memory.

  “And neither will you,” he adds.

  Before I can even comprehend what he means, a fiery sensation scrapes down my rib cage. I struggle, but the burning skitters over my skin before it finds the soft spot and slides in deep.

  My mouth drops open, and I try to find the words to curse or to question or to . . . anything. Just so I don’t go silently the way Sparrow did.

  “You should thank me,” he says. “Look at it this way: I take care of this issue between us so I no longer have to deal with you, and I save you from your fate. We both win, no?”

  “The bones of your arrogance will crush you,” I cough. “And I’m going to dance them into dust.” I spit again, but it’s a feeble attempt with the blade still lodged in my side. Copper swirls in my mouth; my blood tastes sour, bile and death all mixed up to dribble down my chin.

  He shakes his head, or I think he does. His face is only a blur of dark shapes now. His eyes loom from those shadows, but I can’t seem to focus on anything but the curve of his mouth, the way those tight lines stretch and fold to make up his lips and the stained yellow of his teeth.

  He twists the knife smoothly, ignoring the wet gasping sounds the pain is pulling from my throat. He drops me, and I move to catch myself, but my arms no longer work. My vision explodes into stars, agony washing over my brow as my face hits the cobblestones. But a broken nose is nothing compared to the fire numbing my side. Everything is wet and warm below me, and I can’t tell if it’s all blood or if I’ve pissed myself, but it doesn’t matter.

  Someone pulls the hair away from the back of my neck and presses their fingers over my clan mark. A mumbled number and a shadow is doing the same to Sparrow.

  Taking us off the Tithe rosters, I think absently.

  My mind is distant yet there’s an odd, calming clarity to it all, as though I’m merely observing myself dying from a distance instead of lying here in the gutter.

  Thudding everywhere. My heartbeat? The tick-thump of my heart skips and shakes, but everything seems to be fading away into darkness. Footsteps echo beside me, but it’s only the Inquestors marching past. Not one looks back
. And why should they?

  I’m dead.

  “Mags?”

  I hear my name, followed by whispers in the dark that I can’t make sense of. I’m floating, floating, floating, and there’s no pain at all.

  Someone puts a finger to my temple, and I try to open my eyes. As I do, I squint in the harshness of what might be candlelight.

  Pale hair. Moon Child hair. Dusky skin . . .

  “Ghost?” The words slur out of me. I should be happy. Maybe? I can’t remember. My eyes close again. “Are you dead like me and Sparrow?”

  “No, Mags. I’m . . .”

  His voice whisks into the void, and I follow it, each syllable a twisting butterfly made of light.

  Strands of starlight swirl around me as I perch on the highest point of Meridion. Sparrow sits next to me, her legs drumming the walls lazily.

  “We made it, Mags, don’t you see?”

  I strain to focus, but there’s nothing but darkness in the distance. My stomach swells because I’ve eaten the moon.

  Moon Child.

  “I don’t see anything,” I say.

  “Oh, but the sea! Don’t you see the sea? The shining of the sea? I see the sea. I see . . .”

  “—don’t you see? This may be our only real ch—” It’s a deeper voice this time. I almost recognize the inflection, but the tone is all wrong. It cuts through my muddled dreams, and I stir.

  Pain threatens to chase me back into the darkness. I’m cooking in my own flesh, melting into my bones.

  “But the risk?” Softer now. Feminine. My mind sluggishly attempts to place the voice.

  Molly Bell?

  “What better opportunity will we have?” Persistent bugger, whoever he is. Not Ghost. Someone different.

  Something weighs on my eyelids. A damp cloth, I think. But removing it seems like too much trouble; moving is no longer my thing.

  “If she survives . . . perhaps.” A swish of skirts. “Not much to look at, is she?”

  “What difference does that make? We need a Moon Child, and here she is.”

  “You’d better be right about this.” Molly’s voice irritates me, itching beneath my skin. I mumble at her, telling her to be quiet, but the only thing that comes from me is little more than a raspy cough.

  “She’s waking,” Molly says. I can’t tell if she’s disappointed.

  “Her fever’s breaking.” Someone lays a hand upon my brow, and I struggle against it. “Not yet, sweetheart. Not yet.”

  Wetness drops upon my lips. My parched tongue strains like a salted slug in search of moisture. A ceramic vessel is placed against my mouth, and I sip it. A soft whimper escapes me, it tastes so good. Water, yes, but cleaner than I’ve ever had, flavored with a hint of something else.

  “Slow,” the male voice warns. Something splashes nearby, and a new cloth is placed upon my forehead, its coolness sparking a cascade of shivers through my limbs.

  “Will she manage?” Impatience runs river swift in Molly’s words, but there’s a note of genuine curiosity there.

  I’m not sure I care as cramps seize my stomach at the sudden intrusion of liquid, and I grimace.

  “She needs to sleep some more. If she’s strong enough later, we’ll see about changing those bandages.”

  Bandages?

  A haze of memories strikes me, and I see Sparrow again, see her falling, and I realize she’s dead. Heaviness presses against my heart as more images assault me. Rory. Ghost. The Conundrum. Dying in a shit-covered alley, bleeding out from a knife wound in my side.

  I twist, gasping at the implication and the fact that I have no idea where I am or who this man is. I pull the cloth off my forehead, but the room’s already started spinning. I catch a glimpse of Molly Bell and a man who looks vaguely familiar, concern written on his face, and then I spiral away again, the drugged water sweeping me into oblivion.

  Hidden hearts and empty words

  Copper bones and silver scales

  Bloody flesh and broken eyes

  Dead men tell all sorts of tales.

  CHAPTER 5

  When I come to, it’s morning. What morning, I have no idea, but it is a morning. What little sunlight there is shafts through a window high above, and if it doesn’t quite illuminate the room, it’s more than adequate to take in my surroundings.

  I’m in a small room with well-worn wood floors, and the hearth is banked with thick stone. A kettle hangs over a cheery fire, a fine steam misting from it. There’s an acrid scent in the air—something herbal. It’s thick and cloying and seems to coat my mouth. It’s as though I’ve been breathing it in for a long time.

  The weight of it compresses my lungs, and my limbs twitch with the need to propel me out that little window, but they remain where they are. I wriggle an arm free of the cocooning sheet, amazed at how much it trembles. A small web of fear trickles down my spine at my helplessness. I wiggle my toes as if to take stock of all my limbs, relieved when everything seems to still be here. An attempt to roll over on my side results in something pinching tightly. A hiss escapes me, and I immediately relax onto my back.

  Wait . . . I’m in a real bed. With sheets. And pillows. And a mattress that smells of old feathers but gives beneath my body without protest. It’s a marvel, but I don’t trust marvels. There’s always a price involved.

  A wave of despair rolls over me at why I am here, at the unfairness of it. That I should be alive and clean and warm while Sparrow is . . . not. I push the thoughts away, some part of me unwilling to believe she’s really gone, and I fight the urge to hide beneath the blankets.

  “Finally awake, are we? Good.” A man glances up from a large sitting chair beside the fireplace, lowering a leather-bound book to his lap. His clothing is sharp and pressed but not of particularly fine quality. Someone who used to be gentry, maybe. Hard to drop those airs sometimes, even if your pockets are empty.

  His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, displaying a set of well-manicured hands, but they’re stained with ink or something resembling it. He pushes his dark-rimmed glasses farther up his nose to take a closer look at me, and I use the opportunity to do the same.

  He’s older than I am—maybe midthirties, but it’s hard to tell. There’s a kindness to his face, and his red-gold hair is pulled into a neat queue, but his gaze burns with a hidden exhaustion and a tinge of sadness.

  Secrets make us old, and whatever he’s hiding has taken root in the faint wrinkles about his eyes.

  I flatten against the bed, ignoring his question. When he approaches, I attempt to sit, wincing at the sharpness in my lungs.

  “Admirable of you, but it’s better if you stay where you are,” he says. “I don’t want you ripping open your stitches.”

  The pain bites into my side again, but I ignore it, my will suddenly focused on the pitcher of water perched on the table beside the bed. My tongue darts out to wet my parched lips, and I stare at it expectantly, as though I might somehow levitate it to my mouth. When this doesn’t happen, I reach for it, my fingers sliding over the silver handle and smearing the drops of condensation.

  He tsks at me, his boots rapping sharply upon the floor as he beats me to the pitcher and pours me a small cupful. “Slow sips,” he cautions, but I’m already guzzling it, each drop of liquid soothing the dry regions of my throat. But it’s not enough, and a moment later, I snatch the pitcher from him. His eyes widen in surprise at my quickness, but his face falls as I polish it off, lips pursed when I begin to wretch.

  A resigned sigh escapes him. “Well done.” He hands me a copper basin, watching impassively as I bring everything back up in a noisy splash. “I told you to sip it slowly.” My stomach gurgles in protest, my wounded side burning with each heave until my eyes water against it.

  I droop onto the mattress, wiping my wrist across my mouth. My arms tremble with the effort, and he swiftly removes the basin from me. There’s no hint of disgust about him as he takes it. He pops his head out of the heavy door on the other side of the room and han
ds it to someone, his voice a low murmur.

  Sour acid stings my lips, and I swallow. I must be making a dreadful face because he laughs when he turns. “Going to listen to me next time?”

  I scowl at him and nod sullenly.

  “Good. I don’t fancy wiping up the floor.” He dampens a rag with the remainder of the water from the pitcher and gently blots at my mouth. “I’ll have the cook send us up something light. Some broth, maybe.”

  Confusion washes over me. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?”

  He blinks mildly. “I’m a doctor. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Don’t lie to me,” I snap, suspicion making me lash out. “No one helps Moon Children out of charity.”

  “Who said it was out of charity?” Molly’s soft drawl slurs as she steps neatly across the threshold. She’s wearing a silk robe that suggests she’s only recently arisen from bed, but her gaze is as a sharp as ever. As are her teeth. They click into a tight smile. “And you might want to consider thanking the good Dr. Barrows, here. Without his insistence and care, you would have bled to death in the gutter like Sparrow.”

  “Why didn’t you try to help us before?” I cannot stop the hurt from welling deep within my chest, but I hastily blink back a sudden rush of tears. “You could have stopped them from taking us.”

  Molly shrugs, her curls falling loose over her shoulders. “That was Inquestor business. Bold I may be, but I refuse to directly attack one half of my bread and butter.”

  “So why help me at all?” I glance at the doctor, who’s watching our conversation with an air of caution. “Not that I’m not grateful,” I add a moment later.

  He inclines his head at me. “Of course.”

  “Dying on my doorstep made you my business,” Molly says after a pause.

  “If you say so.” Defeated by whatever odd logic she’s using, I slump against the pillows, another pinching cramp tearing into my side. I ignore it, shuffling through the sheets to pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “What happened? I remember Sparrow—” I choke on the words but force myself to go on “—dying. And then I was stabbed?” I don’t mention Ghost. There’s no sense in pulling him into this.