by Allison Pang
Before I can move, the music explodes into something lively. All around us Moon Children break into laughter, bodies sliding in a circle around the cook fire. I don’t hesitate, pulling a slightly taken aback Ghost behind me as I move into the whirling mass.
If there are steps, I surely don’t know them, but it doesn’t matter. Moving is the important thing, and even if Ghost and I start off awkwardly, before long the impromptu dance falls into something akin to a contest. Leaps and jumps, flips and spins, and balancing on the crested peak of one of the statues—rooftop dancing, in truth.
It might seem odd to an outsider, but living under the knowledge that our very existence is an illusion makes for hard living. Taking our pleasures where we can offsets that just a tiny bit.
I find myself smiling at it all, exchanging grins with Ghost. He backs up a few steps and gestures at me, then holds his palms up. I run toward him and reach out, vaulting onto his hands with my own so he’s holding me balanced, upright, and upside down. His arms tremble slightly as he lifts me, tossing me higher so I arc overhead. I land neatly behind him.
“Not too shabby,” I observe, letting him pull me to my feet. “A few more days of practice and we could take our act on the road.”
“We get through all this and maybe I’ll take you up on that.” He laughs, and it takes me by surprise. “Panhandling Moon Children on the streets of Meridion. We’ll make a fortune.”
“Can’t wait.” We pause in the relative calm, breath fogging in the air between us. “Since we’re getting everything out in the open, any other big secrets I should know about?” I ask.
“At least one,” he says, not quite looking at me. “In for a penny, in for a pound, right? It’s about Martika. She’s not who you—” He stiffens, staring over my shoulder. “Something’s going on. Look.”
I turn around, realizing the entire rooftop has gone quiet. Shadows slide past us to get a better look, and voices are raised in alarm. I glance back at Ghost, but he’s already steering me toward the overlook.
It’s chaos below as herds of people are pulled from their nightly distractions. But my only concern is watching the pairs of Inquestors sweeping the streets to usher them along and the faint hint of smoke in the air . . .
But it’s not coming from the rooftop cook fire.
“What is that?” Ghost points across the river, where a terrible golden light shines through a wave of oily smoke rising from somewhere in . . .
“Market Square,” I breathe. “It’s on fire.”
The man in the moon came down too soon
Burned by the light of the sun.
The blood red sea swallowed his spoon
And left him hungry and numb.
CHAPTER 10
Ghost’s eyes widen. “We have to go. The Conundrum . . .”
Not bothering to wait for me, he throws a leg over the edge and starts climbing down.
“Oy!” I shout after him. “What about the dragon?”
Ghost doesn’t answer, and I glance behind me. The other Moon Children are too busy watching the spectacle unfolding below to pay attention to anything else. I grind my teeth together. I have to trust that Josephine will keep the dragon safe, that she’ll honor the agreement between us.
“Bag of cats, aye,” I mutter, clambering down after Ghost. Normally I’d never be so obvious about scaling a wall, but the townsfolk have far more to worry about than us.
Ghost has reached the streets and heads for the river, ducking in and out of the mass of people with an uneasy swiftness. I follow suit, several hundred yards behind. Above us, the engine of an airship whirs. It’s low and loud, and the propeller fans stir up dust and garbage as it glides down the main street, its spotlights sweeping over us all.
I squint beneath the lights. Ghost has disappeared like his namesake again. Desperation is likely lending him speed, but I know where he’s headed. There’s a trestle track linking the Theatre Quarter to Market Square, and it’s the quickest way to get across the river via the roofs. It doesn’t run anymore, and the support struts are about as substantial as a cat’s whiskers, but if it’s timed right, a clever Moon Child can easily make his or her way across.
I find myself on top of a tavern, its chimney slick with grease, and I lose my footing. I twist to keep my balance and slice my palm on a rusted bit of pipe. Pain stings my skin. I can live with it, but the blood will make my grip unsure. I’m forced to stop to bind it, tearing a strip off the hem of my shirt for a makeshift bandage.
Ghost is too far for me to catch up. “Slow and steady now, Mags . . . And let’s hope he doesn’t leap arsefirst into the fire.” I whisper it under my breath, the words an odd comfort.
A second airship emerges from the fog, and I press myself flat against the chimney, sliding out of sight as soon as I dare. It passes without hesitation, its destination clearly somewhere else.
I flex my fingers on my wounded hand until I’m satisfied the bandage won’t slip off and head for the trestle. Three blocks up and four blocks over, and then I’m balanced at the edge of the bridge, the river running thick and black beneath me.
The orange blaze of the fire is easy to spot now, shadows of airships circling around it dropping buckets of water. A thin sliver of relief traces its way up my spine. At least they’re not simply letting it burn.
I suck in a deep breath and step onto the trestle. The actual bits of train track are long gone, stolen or melted down, leaving only bare, half-rotted boards and a thin bit of railing. The Meridians aren’t particularly interested in the upkeep of BrightStone’s transportation infrastructure, but even if the trestle were intact, only the citizens of the Upper Tier have the resources to keep such a thing running. And why would they? They have their private carriages to attend them and no need to rub shoulders with the rest of us.
I launch myself, my feet flexing along the narrow passage in an effort to balance my weight evenly. There’s a groan and a crack as something gives way, but I don’t slow down. When I get to the center where the worst of it is, I swing from the rail and over the side, taking refuge among the girders.
Beam to beam, I keep my limbs loose and flexible to adjust for any potential give, but I reach the other side without additional incident. There’s no sign of air patrols or Inquestors over here, but there’s no sign of Ghost, either. The smoke is thicker on this side of the river, a dark miasma clinging to my skin.
I wrap my scarf around the lower half my face to keep out the worst of it and continue on. It’s easier going now. I know these buildings, and the ins and outs of them without thinking—which roof has the missing shingle or the squeaky drainpipe, which alleyway is clear to descend into and which ones are nothing more than dead ends.
Movement flutters from the corner of my eye. Another Moon Child making her own way, but she’s fleeing in the opposite direction.
Not a good sign.
I whistle at her. What news?
A cautious reply echoes back. Flee to the Warrens.
And then she’s gone.
“I’ll take it under advisement.” I decide to chance it on the ground; some of the airships are floating by a little too close to the roofs for my liking. I emerge from an alleyway and slink toward Market Square. Worried faces peer out of shuttered windows and cracked doors, and snippets of conversation stream about me, my ears straining to pick out the relevant bits of information.
“—said the museum has burned down to the ground . . .”
My heart skips a beat when the words start to sink in. I begin to run openly now, shoving past clusters of people and narrowly avoiding being spotted by a pair of newly arrived Inquestors who begin shouting at people to go inside.
The smoke grows darker and thicker as I get closer to the square. By the time I arrive it’s nearly impossible to see, and my eyes tear up at the grit. Airships buzz over the square, water streaming from a series of hoses tethered to large water tanks on their decks. As one empties and departs, another ship moves in to take its place
.
They’re currently working on the sad remains of the haberdashery; all that’s left is a smoldering husk. Next to it, the sweetshop is scorched but mostly intact, though the damage to the upper levels is substantial.
And beyond that . . .
There’s far too much smoke for this one building to be the only victim, but the rest of Market Square appears to be relatively untouched, save for the falling ash upon the wind and the chaos of overturned vendor carts in the center.
A crowd of people huddles at the far end of the square, closer to the Conundrum, and I rush toward them.
Crack!
My knees slam into the cobblestones as I’m shoved from behind. I shake it off, trying to stand when a burst of white heat shunts its way through my body. Every bit of me shudders, my bones trying to slip themselves out of my skin. But I can’t cry out or do anything but topple over.
A Tithe wand. Someone’s hit me with a jolt from one of the Inquestor’s pig-stickers. The pain recedes for a moment, leaving me sprawled upon the cobblestones, my ears ringing.
“The hells,” I mumble. Inquestors only use Tithe wands during actual Tithes, so what are they doing?
A flash of red swirls in my vision, and I’m dimly aware of the Inquestor as she circles around me. I slur something rude at her and struggle to get to my feet. She raises the wand again.
Ghost barrels out of the shadows, slamming the Inquestor to the ground. They roll, twisting against each other. I kick the Tithe wand out of the Inquestor’s hand and it skitters across the cobblestones, but it’s already too late. One of the airships is flying toward us, two more Inquestors on foot.
Ghost has the Inquestor pinned beneath him, his knee pressed hard against the woman’s throat. “Go! Get out of here!”
“But I can’t just leave you—”
His head snaps up. “My brother will know what to do. Find him.”
Before I can respond, he’s struck by an electrical shock of his own, the other Inquestors swarming over him in a flood of billowing crimson.
I run.
Coward, coward, coward.
The phrase beats in my mind with every step, but he’s bought me a few seconds and I can’t waste them.
The spotlight of the airship dogs my trail, but I lose it quickly, pelting down the alleys with a speed born of fear. I half run up the nearest wall to jump a sagging wooden fence and rocket through a gap between two houses before somersaulting to my feet.
The whir of the airship engines grows louder, chasing me through the narrow streets as I sprint toward Bloody Bay, rounding back on myself to come out on the wharf. I don’t pause to look over my old stomping grounds, which are eerie and quiet.
I clamber down the length of the pier. The tide’s low so I don’t have to worry about falling in, and from here it’s only a leap to reach the stink pipes. The large pipes empty into the bay here, a thick sludge dripping into the water below.
I clamp my hands over my mouth to keep from gagging and press inside. There’s no way to avoid the raw waste, and after five heartbeats, I stop trying. Oily liquid sloshes into my boots, soaking my trousers to the knee. It’s clammy and awful, and a moment later, the stench hits me and I vomit, the remains of my stew slopping into my scarf.
For the love of the gods . . .
But I only dare to release the scarf a little, wiping at my mouth with the only dry spot I can find.
The airship sweeps past the dock, spotlights shining. I can only hope they’re going to pass me by, but a distinct thud upon the docks has me retreating even farther into the pipe. Heavy boots march over the wooden boards, voices issuing commands I recognize only too well.
No choice, then.
I make a run for it, a hand on either side of the pipe to keep my balance in the slippery stuff. The air is nearly intolerable, but I aim for what appears to be a bend.
Get there and turn the corner. They won’t come in here looking for you. They won’t. They can’t.
The pipe narrows somewhat and curves. I nearly throw myself around it, just as a beam of light illuminates the inside of the tunnel.
“What a stink!” The owner of the voice coughs.
Shadows play along the walls, and I flatten myself out of sight, praying they don’t attempt to look any farther along. A few seconds later the light fades, leaving me in the shadows again. The vibration of the airship propeller continues to rumble above me, though; they’re hovering while the Inquestors do their search. If I try to leave now, they’ll spot me for sure, so I’ve no choice but to stay where I am, crouched in shit and coated with vomit.
When it becomes apparent that they’re not leaving anytime soon, I grow desperate, staggering farther into the darkness until I reach a grate. It’s clogged with debris, but the openings are far too small for me to get through anyway, and I have to trudge back the way I came.
I’m half-dizzy by this point, creeping to the entrance of the pipe to take a whiff of air that’s only slightly cleaner than what I’m standing in. The tide’s starting to turn; if I wait too much longer, I’ll be trapped here until it lowers again.
I risk a glance behind me and shudder.
Not a fucking chance in all the deepest hells.
Swallowing hard, I slip out of the pipe to slink over the jetty beneath the pier. The rocks are slick with foul-smelling seaweed and tiny barnacles so sharp they cut my fingers nearly to the bone.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I cling to a piling, nails digging into the rotted remains of a mooring. The salt water laps at my thighs, the chilly dampness running up the length of my trousers until I’m shivering so hard I nearly let go.
But it’s better than the stink pipe, by a thousand-fold.
At last the dock grows quiet. The airship takes off, leaving me to drag my wretched self to the nearest ladder. By now I’m nothing more than a weary bag of bones encased in a cocoon of wet shit and saltwater brine. No one would possibly recognize me for anything but the lowest piece of street trash, but with the reek rolling off me, there’s little chance anyone would willingly want a better look. I abandon the scarf as a lost cause, but instinct has me pulling my hood up anyway, a choice I regret two seconds later when it traps the stink pipe stench about my face.
I decide to risk climbing to the rooftops, but it’s a slow process. My hands and feet are stiff and chilled from the water, and my palms are burning from my various cuts. There’s nothing else to do but press on, clinging to the shadows as best I can.
Inside, my clockwork heart clatters with a wretched sort of terror. Have I learned nothing from Sparrow’s death? What will Dr. Barrows say when he discovers I left his brother behind? A hot flush of guilt and anger washes over me.
Your fault. Again.
Swallowing down a sob, I continue limping my way along. This time I give Market Square a wide berth. The crowd has thinned out; all that’s left are pairs of Inquestors making rounds in various corners.
Smoke still swirls in the distance, but I can’t make out its source. At this point I no longer care about anything but finding my way to the Conundrum, besides. I scramble over to the skylight window above my room, hoping beyond hope that somehow Ghost is there, that he escaped.
A quick glance inside reveals nothing but the soft glow of the fireplace embers. I pry at the latch of the window with numb, shaking fingers. An awful rush of relief sweeps through me when I slide it open to slip inside, balancing on the beam as I pull it shut behind me.
From there I’ve only got enough strength to lower myself to the fireplace mantel and then to the floor. It’s not a graceful landing, and I wince at the resounding thump of my boots on the hardwood. It’s as though all my energy has been sapped, and I sink to my knees.
The doorknob rattles, and Dr. Barrows rushes in, wild-eyed and disheveled. He hits the lights, and I squint at the sudden brightness. His face registers surprise as he realizes who I am.
“Mags?” He squats down beside me, recoiling when he catches a whiff.
I ig
nore his reaction. “Is Ghost here?” My guts are coiling snakes, constricting in knots so tight I can barely breathe.
“No. I thought he might have been with you.” His voice is a thinly veiled mix of fury and anguish, the words trembling in the space between us.
“The Inquestors took him,” I whisper hoarsely. “He took me to meet the Twisted Tumblers, so we were in the Theatre Quarter when he saw the fire . . .”
“Stupid boy!” He wheels and punches the wall so hard the plaster cracks.
The violent motion is so at odds with his normally gentle appearance, and it shocks me into standing. My coat slips from my shoulders, and I kick it, unable to bear touching it anymore. “He told me to find you. I couldn’t save him. There were too many Inquestors . . .” My voice trails away. “What happened?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose as though trying to calm himself into coherent thought. “The museum was burned to the ground, and it was not an accident. Whoever did it got sloppy, and it spread too fast for them to control.”
I taste blood on my lips from where I’ve bitten down, fear flaring deep inside me. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.” He whirls on me. “Where’s the dragon, Mags? The Inquestors were here tonight looking for it.”
“Looking for it? Here?” My eyes dart toward the door, half-ready to launch myself back out the window.
“Aye.” Molly Bell enters the room, her lips set in a grim line. She points at Dr. Barrows. “You need to calm down. I’ve girls nearly half-sick with hysterics already. They’re jumping at shadows as it is, and you stomping about up here isn’t helping matters.”
He stops pacing, letting out a long, slow breath. “I’ve inquiries to make.” Without another word, he stalks from the room, his footsteps heavy upon the stairs.
Molly stares at me for another moment and then sighs. “If half of what I just overheard is true, I’m afraid you have a lot of explaining to do. But that’s going to have to wait until you get a proper bath. I’ll have Copper Betty meet us downstairs.” She winces. “And I’ll be burning those clothes.”
