by Allison Pang
A bird-masked Inquestor peers out from one of the rooms and then turns away, swallowed up by the shadows. A Tithe Collector, come to find those with the Rot. I catch a glimpse of a dark-haired girl with hollow eyes sitting on a bed, and she looks up as I pass. A soft buzz vibrates from within, and I catch the faint whiff of ink. She’s being tattooed with a Tithe mark on her forearm, a formal indicator that she’ll be Tithed to the Pits soon.
Our gazes meet, and her despair pierces me so abruptly that the breath stills in my lungs.
But then we’re moving down the hall, pausing outside an open door. The salt priest coughs. “She’s in here. Do not tarry long.”
Dr. Barrows is kind enough to take the first step into the room. Somehow it’s easier to bear if I can stare at the polish of his boots instead of the body on the bed. My mind doesn’t quite recognize her as human, and I can only gape at the ruined remains of her face, the charred scalp and blistered flesh.
The doctor has no such issue, and he studies her prone form with a cool and practiced gaze. She’s wrapped from the neck down in what look like wet bandages, the cloth slick and shiny.
“Cooling gel,” Dr. Barrows observes. “To help numb what’s left of the skin.”
I flinch from his clinical observations, shutting out the rest of his words to concentrate on her face. Small details jump out at me, from the swollen eyelids and the naked brows, the rattling sigh of her breath and parched lips.
I pause, realizing I have no idea what her first name is, and I settle for clearing my throat. “Archivist Chaunders?”
She stirs, a moan sighing from her lungs. “Mags?”
“Aye.” I kneel beside her, unsure what to do. I don’t dare touch the fragile membrane of her skin.
Her eyes crack open, revealing a bloodshot brightness that makes her gray irises shimmer with an otherworldly essence, as though she’s already passed on to whatever plane of existence remains for her. Her body shudders. “The . . . In . . . questors. Know I . . .”
A lump forms in my throat. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Not . . . your . . . fault.” Her entire body stills, only for her chest to rise again suddenly a few moments later. “The dragon, Mags . . .”
But whatever else she is about to say is swallowed up by a gurgling cough. Immediately the salt priest kneels at her side, his gnarled fingers tracing some esoteric sign upon her forehead with a pasty substance—salt flour.
Dr. Barrows rests his hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “It’s time, Mags.”
But I can’t leave. Whatever she said, this happened because of me, and I need to see it through. I have to be here for her when she leaves this world. When the acolyte enters, I only shuffle a few steps, watching as the two holy men intone their prayers, my mouth trembling.
Once again, I’ve lost a friend.
Once again, it’s my fault.
My vision seems to narrow into a gray space, wavering as I try to focus on what’s happening, but it’s lost in the shaky wobble of my legs. I press my palm against my lips to keep from giving voice to the wail that threatens to erupt from my throat, swallowing back a choking sob.
Boots scuff on the floor outside the doorway, and I glance up to see the bird-masked Inquestor staring at us. My first instinct is to run for it, but Dr. Barrows tightens his grip upon my shoulder, warning me to stay still.
“I’ve come to collect the remains,” a metallic voice hums from behind the mask, muffled and without empathy.
“But why?” The question squeaks out of me despite my fear. “She didn’t have the Rot.”
The Inquestor ignores me, his hand brushing over the Tithe wand hanging from his hip.
Outrage boils through my blood, so hot I nearly expect my fingers to be on fire when I step forward. “She’s not even cold yet, you vulture! You can’t just take her! She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I am sorry about your friend, dearest,” the elder salt priest interjects before the Inquestor can react. “But the possibility of contamination is too great a risk.”
“Contamination from what?” I snap.
“It is not for us to determine the sins of those who have passed,” the salt priest intones soothingly, as if that would help. “But the Inquestors feel it would be best if they oversaw her arrangements.”
The bird-beaked Inquestor presses his hands together in an odd gesture of helplessness as he turns to the priest. “We cannot allow others to fall into sin.”
The salt priest nods sagely. “Indeed. The Moon Children will be busy atoning for this poor woman’s weakness. Eating the sins of the damned is no easy feat. It is only a pity we do not have more of them to go around.”
He says this so seriously, I have to choke down the ugly, furious laughter that bubbles in my chest. I’m supposed to be a common BrightStone citizen, after all. He doesn’t know who I truly am under this dyed hair. I also know that blinded by his religion, he has no knowledge of the truth in which Moon Children live, but to have him preach it to my face?
“If you’re so concerned with sickness, then why let us in here at all?” I challenge.
“Quite.” The Inquestor’s voice darkens. “And we left instructions that none were to be granted entrance, but it would appear the priest’s judgment was lost in a moment of foolishness.” A pause. “You have paid your respects, as you would. It’s time for you leave.”
The curt dismissal leaves me seething, the lies tasting bitter on my tongue. But Dr. Barrows merely nods in acquiescence. “So it is. Thank you for your compassion in this matter.”
“A courtesy in name only, I assure you.” The Inquestor turns his back to us, leaving us with little else to do but retreat.
The curved walls press down upon me, the pale whiteness heavy and thick and cloying. My breath comes in soft gasps. I’m only a few sobs away from bolting out of this place, Inquestors or no.
A glance behind me reveals Dr. Barrows, his mouth set in a grim line. His lack of reaction only spurs me on until I’m running. I burst through the doors, ignoring the sudden exclamation of the Inquestor standing guard outside.
Shells grind beneath my shoes, and for a moment I want to see them stomped into dust, but all I can hear is my poor friend’s death rattle as she took her last breath. I can’t shut it out no matter how hard I clamp my hands over my ears.
Dr. Barrows shouts something after me, but I don’t care. The skirts tangle around my legs, forcing me to hitch them up to keep from tripping. I only stop when I come to the edge of the square in the center of the Theatre Quarter, the Brass Button Theatre perched on the other side with its statues and fountains, and its illusions that somehow there is civility in this world.
I sink to my knees in the dust, vomiting noisily. Images of those I’ve lost in just the past few weeks waver before me. Sparrow. Ghost. Archivist Chaunders.
“Mags.” Dr. Barrows has caught up to me, carrying his hat in his hand. His face is flushed and awful, and I know he’s imagining Ghost in the same situation because that’s what I’m thinking, too.
“We have to find him.” My voice is thick against the lump in my throat, and I wrap my arms around myself, rubbing at a chill that I can’t get rid of.
“I’ve currently exhausted my avenues, at least until I’m able to meet with the Chancellor.” He sighs, hoisting me up with one hand and patting a handkerchief against my mouth with the other. “Here. Let’s find you a little something to eat.”
“All right.” I sniff, wiping my nose on the cloak. He winces but takes my arm anyway.
“Small steps. Calm steps. Running attracts attention, and we don’t want that. I am but an uncle escorting his favorite niece to one of her daily distractions.”
“Favorite niece, nothing,” I say. “I’m your only niece.”
It’s a poor attempt at a jest, but his mouth twitches. “That’s the spirit.”
We stroll around the square, nodding politely at all those we come across. The tension here is not as tight as in Market
Square, but a nervous confusion lingers in the faces of most of the BrightStone citizens. Dr. Barrows slips easily into the visage of the put-upon aristocrat. I attempt to do something similar, but it’s easier to withdraw into the hood of my cloak.
An airship patrols overhead in lazy circles.
“What if the Chancellor can’t help?” I ask quietly.
“Then we try something else.” He coughs abruptly, as though he doesn’t want to discuss it anymore. We stop at a fruit vendor, and he buys me an out-of-season peach that costs more jingle than I normally make in a week.
I thank him and eat it without tasting it, the juice sticky on my chin. When the peach is nothing more than a pit, I roll it between my fingers. My thoughts wander to the Twisted Tumblers, but Josephine was pretty firm about not wanting me to bring attention to her.
On the other hand, she has my dragon. A dragon that led to Sparrow’s death, the burning of the museum, and the death of the archivist. I owe her a warning.
“What about Josephine?” I give Dr. Barrows a sideways glance, but he barely seems to acknowledge my question.
“Ah, yes. You did mention you were out this way last evening.” He shakes his head. “Foolish boy.”
“Well at least he’s been trying to show me something, instead of hiding everything away for my own good. Incidentally, we were going to tell you that Josephine had a way to get me into a Tithe. And she’s nearly solved the issue with making sure the gates will be open so I can escape the Pits.” I give him a small smile. “Surely that’s worth something?”
“Not without finding Ghost first.” The doctor’s eyes shutter, dismissing me.
“Don’t be such an arse.” A grunt escapes him when I elbow him in the side. “He sacrificed himself so that I could still do what you need me to do. What I promised I’d do. Don’t cheapen that by letting all your plans fall by the wayside in a search for him. I want to find him as much as you do, but Josephine has the dragon. If we want it back we’re going to have to reach out to her anyway,” I point out. “And if she can command the other Moon Children to look for Ghost, we may find him that much faster.”
He grits his teeth, swallowing whatever he was going to say, and sighs. “So how do we contact her? Ghost was our only method of communicating with her, which leaves me out of the loop on this one.”
I don’t want to try to scale the Brass Button Theatre to the Rookery. Anyone climbing such a visible and well-known building in the middle of the day will stick out like a sore thumb, never mind a woman in a skirt. Chances are Josephine keeps it tightly guarded anyhow. Even if anyone up there does recognize me from the night before, they won’t exactly be keen on me giving away their position.
And if they don’t recognize me at all? A perceived assault upon a clan’s headquarters usually results in death, and that’s not something I plan to risk.
On the other hand, even if I can unlock the stink pipe we used last night, I’ll be lost in moments. Which means I’ll have to go looking for Moon Children directly, assuming they haven’t all fled to the safety of their clan home by now.
I gaze down at my skirts and then up at the rooftops, wondering how I’ll manage to scale the buildings without ripping something. And not that I care about the skirt all that much, but just once, I’d like to return to the Conundrum with my clothing intact.
Dr. Barrows watches me with a raised brow, and I scowl. “Don’t think you’re going to stand here while I do all the work.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. What would you have me do?”
“Be my lookout. You’re going to keep watch for any Inquestors that happen to wander by. Signal me quiet-like if you see anyone getting too close. At least until I get roofside.” He frowns, and I roll my eyes. “You can whistle, can’t you? Like this.” I demonstrate, sounding out the two-note warning Sparrow and I had used so often in the past.
His lips purse, repeating the signal until it’s passable. “Do you need a boost?” he offers.
“No. Climbing here is too obvious, especially in daylight. We’ll split up.”
“How will I know you’ve made it up there all right?”
I whistle a different set of notes at him. This answer seems to satisfy him because he strolls off, lingering at the front window of a tinker’s shop.
I walk in the opposite direction, both to give us some distance and to find the best place to climb. I end up in one of those dead-end alleys with a convenient set of stacked barrels. It’s only a question of rucking my skirts up and tucking them in about my waist. I’m not wearing much in the way of smallclothes, but there’s none here to see anyway.
Balancing atop the highest barrel, I scrabble up the brickwork to a slip of a windowsill and then a rotting bit of trellis. Despite my best intentions, my skirt catches on a nail, the cloth ripping with a disappointing cheerfulness.
But there’s no time to worry about that now. A rush of blessed relief slides over me when I finally reach the safety of the roof. The sun is fully up now, burning the haze with a vengeance and making the nearby shadows starker.
I take refuge in one and sit against a chimney to get my bearings. The sounds of morning with the familiar clinks of crockery and the rising calls of the street vendors. A dog barking a few streets over. The distant buzz of an airship. Everything that falls within the realm of normal, even if everything feels terribly subdued, as if the entire city is waiting.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I creep from one roof to the next, taking extra care not to make too much noise, pacing myself to hide in the rhythmic beats of life unfolding all around me.
I let out a series of questioning trills. Soft at first, but growing a little louder on the third round. I don’t know the Twisted Tumbler signals, so I stick with the common notes, slurring them together so it nearly sounds like birdsong.
What news? Danger danger. What news? Danger danger.
Below, Dr. Barrows continues his easy stroll of the street. He holds a steaming drink in his hand and sips it slowly as he pretends to browse.
I whistle at him softly. He makes no sign that he’s heard me, save a gentle tap of his hat. Good enough.
After a minute or so, I change position, moving to another rooftop and then another, timing them so the average listener might not pay much attention. By the third time I whistle my call, I’m growing frustrated.
Technically, Josephine had given me leave to be in Twisted Tumbler territory. Might as well put that to the test. I let out a more aggressive set of signals, essentially the equivalent of calling everyone suck-tit bastards and cowards.
I sigh at the sound of a weapon being cocked. “Finally,” I say.
“Should have known it was you,” Josephine drawls from up above, flanked by two other Moon Children. There’s soot on her cheeks and arms. Clearly, I’ve interrupted her work, and if the scowl on her face is anything to go by, I probably don’t have much time to convince her of my reasons for being here. All three of them hold crossbows like the one Tin Tin was using the night before, and all three are pointed in my direction. “When my scouts said a townie was up here singing war songs, I blew them off, but here you are . . .”
“It’s not exactly like I knew where to go,” I remind her. “You didn’t give me a way to contact you.”
She climbs down to where I am and waves the others away. “No offense,” she says bluntly, “but this isn’t the way to make an impression. If you needed to find me, you should have let Ghost do it.”
“That’s the problem,” I say, not wanting to get into a pissing match about protocol. “Ghost was taken last night.”
Josephine’s face darkens as I explain what happened with the Inquestors. Her gaze grows hot when I mention the Tithe wands. “I knew you were trouble. You and that dragon.”
“I’ll be happy to take it off your hands,” I snap back, a chill skittering down my spine. “That’s what the Inquestors are looking for.” My voice is hushed, the archivist’s death terribly fresh in my mind. “That’s why the
y burned down part of Market Square, and that’s why they’ll probably kill you if they find out you have it.”
“Well, there’s the rub,” she says dryly. “It’s gone. Disappeared this morning, in fact.”
Dismay floods into my gut, hot and tight. “What do you mean it’s gone?”
She answers me with a shrug. “As I said. When we realized you and Ghost had left last night, I figured I’d keep it until I heard back. I stepped out to look at the damage in Market Square for myself, but when I returned, it wasn’t in my forge. The good news is I was able to make enough notes to carry through to a working test model of the wings, so we’re still on schedule as far as that part’s concerned.”
“Convenient,” I mutter. I’d be less inclined to believe her if I didn’t know the little metal beast had its own ideas, but it didn’t make me feel any better. “So now what?”
Josephine rubbed her chin, leaving another soot mark dimpled upon her skin. “I don’t know as far as the dragon goes . . . but seeing as Ghost was rounded up by the Inquestors, I think I might have a way to find out what happened to him.”
“Move over. Your elbow is in my face,” I hiss. Tin Tin grumbles something under his breath, but shifts all of two inches to give me a better look through the air vent to the private theatre box below.
Everything is rich velvet and intimately lit, with twin doors on both sides of the box. One leads to the balcony overlooking the stage and the other to the main hall of the upper level of the theatre. The vent is barely wide enough for my shoulders to squeeze through, but it’s enough to let me lie flat.
“Are you sure he’ll be here?” I can’t help the sting of annoyance from filling my voice. Tin Tin has wriggled his skinny self partially over my body, peering through the vent opening. And it’s not that he weighs much, but he’s got sharp little elbows that dig into my back.
“Josephine said so,” he whispers. “The High Inquestor always attends the theatre about once a month. There’s an actress performing tonight who he favors.”
I sigh. Nothing for it, then, but to wait in this small, dusty duct. As compromises go, it’s not the one I would have chosen, but given the circumstances, it’s the best I can hope for. My dismay at Josephine’s loss of the dragon is overshadowed by her complete inability to trust Dr. Barrows in the slightest, Ghost’s brother or no.
