Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  Dr. Barrows is on his own, forced to buy his own ticket on the off chance he can find out anything from his end. But the only person who matters to me right now is the High Inquestor. Josephine insists he often conducts business in his private box, so with any luck we’ll be able to learn something about where they took Ghost. Failing that . . .

  My jaw tightens when the door creaks open, but it’s merely an usher, dressed in a gown of black lace. She plumps the pillows, fills a carafe with cold water, and sets out glasses beside a bottle of brandy. Sliding open the balcony door reveals the stage below, lights shining in a blur of shadowy colors.

  Any other time would have found me staring at the goings-on in fascination. The theatre was outside of Banshee territory so we never had the chance to sneak into a show, but now the stakes are too high to pay more than scant attention to it.

  Someone is singing, strutting about with exaggerated motions. I suppose it must be considered beautiful, but it grates on my ears like so much wailing.

  “Where are they?” I whisper. “The show has started. Maybe we’re in the wrong box.”

  Tin Tin grunts when I shift beneath him. “This is the one he owns. He’s always late, aye? Half the time he never watches the show anyway.”

  But I have no more time to answer, because the door slides open again, and this time a man enters. His face is hidden beneath his hat, but even from here I can see how fine his coat is and the gleam of his sharply polished boots.

  “That’s not him,” Tin Tin breathes in my ear. “I think it’s . . .”

  Lord Balthazaar.

  I’ve only seen the man a few times from a distance, but there’s no mistaking that saunter, that prideful air of power that seems to drape over him like a cloak. He lingers at the door closest to the stage for half a minute before closing it. The sound is muffled immediately, and I swallow hard. My breathing seems loud and terrible now. I might exhale and an explosion of dust will shower down upon the man to reveal us all.

  A flare of light shines bright and hot. He’s lit a cigarillo, puffing expertly as he takes a seat upon one of the benches. Time seems to tick by even slower as he waits, and my clockwork heart beats out the seconds with perfect precision.

  Tin Tin stifles a cough, straining to keep quiet, but Lord Balthazaar takes no notice of anything, save the pile of ash in the crystal tray beside him. As slow as it feels up here, he’s only partway through the smoke when the door opens again.

  This time an usher enters, bowing as a crimson-robed figure arrives, the fabric at his shoulders gilded with a gold trim the only indicator of his rank. The High Inquestor.

  The two men exchange glances and dismiss the usher with a wave, the High Inquestor pouring himself a glass of the brandy. He’s a tall man, with an aristocratic face, but his expression is all but hidden in the shadows.

  Lord Balthazaar taps the cigarillo against the tray, his nostrils exhaling a large puff of smoke. “Why do we bother continuing this farce?” he asks, but I can’t tell if he’s angry or bored, the lack of inflection in his voice at odds with the sneer upon his lips.

  The High Inquestor closes his eyes for a moment, listening. “Hush,” he murmurs, as the singing grows higher in pitch. “My favorite aria.”

  “It is Lydia’s, as well.”

  “A pity you do not share her opinion of it. It’s a fascinating piece if you’re aware of its history.” The High Inquestor smiles, but it carries a savage edge to it.

  “As you say.” They remain quiet for a long while as the rise and fall of the singer’s vibrato fills the hall. My limbs grow stiff beneath Tin Tin’s weight. Sweat trickles into my eyes, but I don’t dare attempt to wipe it away. I blink against the sting.

  “The Chancellor is growing impatient with your shenanigans.” Balthazaar pours himself a glass of brandy. “We shall have to hurry this little scavenger hunt along if we’re to keep her in ignorance.”

  “What can she do?” The Inquestor is unconcerned, sitting lazily in his chair with one foot stretched out onto a small table.

  “Well she’s certainly been knocking at my door with regular frequency.” Balthazaar drops the cigarillo into the tray. “Was burning half of Market Square truly necessary? She’s going to be pestering me for charitable donations for the next six months.”

  “We were acting on additional intelligence that turned out to be incorrect. One of my Inquestors indicated a Meridian dragon was in the museum. We found no such evidence, but my men were a tad . . . overzealous. Pity about the archivist, though. She could have been useful to us.”

  White-hot anger blazes through me at how dismissive they are of Archivist Chaunders’s life, as though she had merely been a potential tool left out in a trash heap. My hands fist tightly, knuckles pressing hard against the sides of the vent as I force myself to continue listening.

  “For a city with such amazing technology, you all seem to have damned little responsibility of it,” Balthazaar snaps. “I care nothing about it. Forget these petty games of yours. You chase shadows and act surprised when they slip from your fingers. What of your promises? When will I have my wife back?”

  Brandy sloshes over the sides of the snifter when he slams it on the table, but he takes no notice of the mess.

  “You know better than I do how things are coming along in that particular area.” The Inquestor sighs. “When a breakthrough has been made, you’ll be the first to be notified. Surely the blood infusions are working for now?”

  The other man scowls. “As little as they ever did. It barely keeps her alive. No more.”

  “Ahh. That’s a shame. Perhaps Georges needs a nudge. I’ll look into it.”

  “Whatever you must do. All I get are complaints at the quality of the subjects.” Balthazaar waves his hand impatiently. “Our stock appears to be dwindling.”

  Stock? Subjects? Infusion? Their words seem to blur by me as I struggle to make sense of them. Dr. Barrows would know what they mean, of that I have little doubt, though so far none of it seems particularly helpful when it comes to Ghost.

  “Yes, well, things are a bit different these days, aren’t they? The new regulations have been in place for quite some time. And that’s even going beyond trying to find someone willing to rut with the common slatterns they have down here. We rounded up some suitable brood mares among the BrightStone dissidents last night. We’ll make sure they’re well compensated for their trouble once they produce their brats. ”

  Moon Children . . . They’re making Moon Children.

  I nearly choke at the casual way they talk of breeding hapless women on the off chance a Moon Child results from the union. Even if my own mother had died upon my birth, there had always been some small part of me hoping I might find my Meridian father, that there had been some reason I’d been born. But they make it sound as though it’s nothing but a faceless shag. Their disdain shouldn’t surprise me, but it stings far more than I expect.

  The conversation devolves into political small talk, but my thoughts whirl with the repercussions of their discussion and the need to try to remember as much of it as I can. I want to slither out of the vent while it’s all fresh in my mind, but I don’t dare move. Tin Tin’s breath is hot on the nape of my neck.

  The two men have gone quiet now, listening to the music. Another usher knocks on the door and enters, bearing a tray of fresh baked trifles. My mouth waters when the scent wafts our direction, imagining powdered sugar and cinnamon melting upon my tongue.

  The High Inquestor thanks the usher and takes one, nibbling at it daintily and wiping at his mouth with a cloth every few seconds. Tin Tin makes a soft sound of longing, and I nudge him sharply.

  Another knock at the door, but this one isn’t nearly as polite as the usher’s. Before either of the men can react, the door slides open, revealing a tall, well-dressed woman. Her hair is pulled up into something stark and severe, and she glares at them from behind a thick pair of violet spectacles.

  The High Inquestor reacts first, giving he
r a charming smile. “Ah, Chancellor Davis. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  Without bothering to reply, she strides into the box and takes a place on the bench beside Balthazaar. In her hand she’s clutching a scroll, fury rolling off her in waves. “Explain to me how my investigators have discovered that arson is responsible for last night’s tragedy? A fire that points to Inquestor involvement and that resulted in several deaths, as well the loss of goods and businesses in Market Square, not to mention our last existing historical archive.”

  “Perhaps this conversation would be better suited for your office,” the High Inquestor suggests, a soothing tone to his voice.

  “A meeting I have tried to arrange numerous times this morning without any reply,” she snaps. “What other choice do I have but to force myself into your presence?”

  “Indeed.” Lord Balthazaar raises his hands. “I’ve nothing to do with any of this.”

  Chancellor Davis lets out a snort. “Of course not. You practically live in his back pocket, but you’re obviously the victim here.”

  “Have a care what accusations you make without proof,” he snarls, getting to his feet.

  She moves to block his leaving, her cheeks flush with anger. “Citizens were rounded up last night by Inquestors without cause. Where are they? I’ve families looking for their loved ones without any way of contacting them.”

  “They are being detained while we question them,” the High Inquestor explains. “Have no fear for their well-being. They will all be released by the end of the week.”

  “That’s not good enough! I insist you release them into the custody of the BrightStone city guard, and we will perform our own investigation. Arson or not, it falls under BrightStone jurisdiction.”

  “Ah, but there were biological agents in the museum, were there not? Samples from ill citizens? Are you suggesting your people are equipped to deal with the fallout, should something happen?”

  She deflates. “Your own record on such matters has little to show for it. Nearly twenty years and the plague remains—”

  “Exactly,” the High Inquestor interrupts, though the hitch in his voice indicates her words have hit their mark. “If we can barely manage, how can you possibly expect to?”

  The Chancellor looks unconvinced. “I’m going to need something a bit more formal than your word. I want a complete report of what your men were doing at the museum last night.”

  “We had just been talking about this very thing,” he replies, indicating Balthazaar with a small gesture. “In fact, there will be a fete at Balthazaar’s estate . . . shall we say two days hence? Perhaps we might conduct our business there, in more pleasant surroundings? I shall provide you all the information you need in the meantime.”

  Something dark flashes over Balthazaar’s face, but he gives the Chancellor a strained smile. “A charity ball, if you like. To help with city repairs from the fire.”

  “I will talk with my advisors on the matter,” she says, clearly reticent. “But if that is the best I can hope for, then so be it.”

  The High Inquestor bows. “I will have the reports sent to you in the morning. I’m sure you will be more than content.”

  Her jaw tightens. “I shall await your counsel on the morrow. Until then, it would be greatly appreciated if your Inquestors showed more restraint when it comes to the civilian populace. There are rumors of possible riots, and BrightStone can ill afford a lack of stability during the winter season.”

  After several repeated assurances from the two gentlemen, she finally takes her leave, but her lack of satisfaction on the matter is more than apparent. I’ve never given much thought to the political dance that holds BrightStone within its sway, but I find it oddly comforting to realize that not everyone remains beneath Meridion’s thumb.

  “Bothersome woman.” Balthazaar slips on his overcoat, buttoning it with precise fingers. “And I’ll be expecting compensation for hosting your little party, mind. The food will have to come from my private pantry on such short notice.”

  “A great hardship,” the High Inquestor agrees, laughing. “She won’t show anyway. It would undermine her honor to do so. And how are your new guests, incidentally? Wouldn’t want to be called a liar by our lovely Chancellor.”

  “Alas, all but one appears to have contracted the Rot. Undoubtedly sinners of little remorse.” A sly smile plays over Balthazaar’s lips. “They have been sent to the Salt Temple to be Tithed, as planned. The last one has a rather stubborn immune system, it seems. He’s remained disgustingly healthy, despite the injections.”

  My blood turns to ice. Ghost. They’re talking about Ghost. Who else could it be?

  He’s alive, my inner voice babbles, a sick relief flooding my stomach.

  “Might be worth a look at his blood to see if he’s built up an immunity.” The High Inquestor squeezes the other man’s shoulder. “Imagine having a cure for your Lydia, right under your own roof.”

  Balthazaar nods with a quiet malice. “Until the charity ball, then?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  They share a soft chuckle that ripples with secrets, but their good humor is like the festering skin growing over a wound gone rancid—just as pleasant, too.

  By the time they leave, my arms and legs are so stiff I can barely move. Tin Tin and I wriggle our way backward to the main level of the heating ducts. We spend a few minutes uncramping in the wider pipes. I’m in no hurry to leave until enough time has passed that I’m sure Balthazaar and the High Inquestor are gone.

  I look at Tin Tin, whose face has grown pale.

  “Oy,” he says. “That weighs heavy on the mind, aye?”

  “And it’s not likely to get lighter in the telling.” I wipe the sweat from my brow, nose wrinkling at the stink of my fear. “To think they killed the poor woman, and for what?”

  Tin Tin stares at me, unsure what to do in the face of my wrath as my knuckles crack into fists. “We have to tell Josephine. Even if she chooses not to get involved, we have to let her know. We have to let them all know.”

  But what about Ghost? A flutter of panic beats itself against my chest at what he’s being subjected to.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  It’s all falling apart around me, and I’ve no way to sort it out except to run.

  And I can’t do that anymore.

  “Dr. Barrows is waiting for me. Tell Josephine what happened here, and if she should stumble across the dragon, send me a message by way of Molly Bell at the Conundrum.”

  I’m uncomfortable relaying messages through Molly, but I see very little choice in the matter. And this is too important to waste any more time.

  We scramble out of the vents, emerging in a subbasement of the theatre near the furnace. Tin Tin looks uneasy, and I realize we’re probably very close to some hidden entrance of the Rookery. But I can find my way out of the theatre from here.

  “Make sure you lie low for a few days,” I remind him.

  Tin Tin nods, his too-old eyes wide and troubled. “Aye. Be careful, Mags.”

  “And you, my friend. And you.”

  Ring around the rosie

  Pockets full of posies

  Ashes, ashes, blood, and bone

  My dress is torn, and I’m all alone.

  CHAPTER 12

  Dr. Barrows is nowhere to be found outside the theatre. I try not to linger, sweeping through the square as quickly as I can. Night will be falling soon, and there’s nothing for me but to make my way back to the Conundrum, hurrying through the streets with steady purpose. I’m still in the wretched dress Martika lent me earlier, and there’s no way for me to travel with any speed over the rooftops wearing that.

  By the time I make it to Market Square, the Mother Clock is tolling out the hour and the streets have gone silent, citizens scattering into their homes or whatever bits of shelter they can find. I go through the servants’ entrance of Molly Bell’s and up the stairs. The hallway is quiet, but there’s a light beneath my door and shadows wav
ering beyond.

  Dr. Barrows pacing, no doubt.

  The doorknob rattles as I stride in, relief washing over me at the now-familiar scene. Molly is draped lazily over the stuffed chair filing her nails while Dr. Barrows moves with anxious energy in front of the fireplace, his boots dirtying up a section of the hardwood floor.

  He jumps when he sees me, his eyes full of questions. He doesn’t voice them, but he doesn’t have to; it’s burning from him, this need to know if I’ve discovered anything, and I’m not so cruel as to keep him waiting.

  I exhale sharply, my voice ragged. “Balthazaar. He has Ghost.”

  He pales, frozen as my words sink in. But it’s the cold fury emanating from his face that alarms me most. I quickly relay the rest of what I learned, and by the end of it, Molly merely seems pensive. Dr. Barrows has slumped against the wall, his head in his hands as though he can’t quite believe it.

  “So when do we go rescue him?” I’m not sure I expect an answer so much as I’m trying to fill the swiftly stifling silence.

  Molly lets out a bark of laughter. “We don’t. Or rather, you don’t. You’re staying here.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “And how are you going to keep me inside? I’ll just follow you up there.” I point to the skylight. “He’s rich, right? A noble? I’ll sneak in through a window, easy peasy.”

  Molly lets out a sigh. “Balthazaar’s manse is set aside from the main part of the Upper Tier, close to the Frostfells. There are no rooftops for you to get there or back. And if Ghost’s injured? What then?”

  “Ghost is the best rooftop dancer of all of us. And I can scale a wall as easy as—”

  “This isn’t some tumbledown shack in the Warrens, child. There are guards and dogs and other protections.” Her gaze lingers on my face, roaming over my body in a measuring fashion I don’t much care for. “Did you mean what you said earlier in the baths? Would you spread your legs to save your friend?”