by Lian Tanner
“What’ve you done to her?” cried Toadspit. “Morg, are you all right?”
Morg screeched again—with fury this time.
“Ooh, it don’t like bein’ trapped,” said Cord. “Just as well the net’s nice and strong. Look at that nasty old beak.” He chortled. “Nearly took your eye out, Smudge.”
“It’s a demon bird,” muttered Smudge. “Put a bullet through its ’ead.”
“No!” cried Toadspit. He fumbled on the floor of the tunnel, picked up a large stone and threw it through the bars.
“Ow!” said Cord. “You little—”
“Remember what I said, Cord!” But Guardian Hope’s warning came too late.
A second pistol shot echoed up and down the tunnel. Something clanged against the bars—and Toadspit collapsed in a heap.
The slommerkin made its stand in Forgotten Dreams. It had been running for hour upon hour, but now it turned, as if something had stung it, and came at Sinew in a rush. Its tusks dripped foulness. Its monstrous bulk swelled with rage.
The long chase had exhausted Sinew, and for the briefest of moments, he stood rooted to the spot. Then he dived to one side, fingers instinctively plucking at his harp strings. The notes of the First Song spun out around him.
It was a ridiculously feeble weapon for the circumstances, he knew that. Without Broo, he would have been dead within seconds. The brizzlehound threw himself into the path of the charging slommerkin, and the two of them disappeared in a whirl of teeth and tusks.
The sound of their battle was appalling, and it was almost impossible to see what was happening. At first Sinew thought Broo had the upper hand. He saw the brizzlehound fasten his great teeth into the slommerkin’s neck and heard a squeal of pain. But Forgotten Dreams was a room where things slipped away before you could grasp them, and the next thing he saw was the slommerkin gripping Broo’s neck, as if it had been that way all along. Then that too was gone.
He closed his eyes, knowing he could not trust them, and bent his head to his harp. His fingers ripped at the strings, trying to slide the notes of the First Song in between those awful tusks to wherever the slommerkin kept its brain.
He did not know how long he played. Once he opened his eyes and noticed, with surprise, that his fingers were bleeding. He caught a glimpse of the slommerkin and Broo, tearing at each other’s blood-soaked bodies. He thought of Goldie and Toadspit and Bonnie, and knew that, wherever they were, they too must be fighting for their lives.
He closed his eyes again and played more furiously than ever.
Goldie’s feet were numb with cold and she was shivering uncontrollably. The water, pouring into the tunnel from a dozen small pipes, had already reached her knees. She thought that sunrise must be very close.
Her fault. It was all her fault.…
Toadspit was alive but unconscious. In the confusion after the shooting, the other children had managed to drag him back up the tunnel to the corner. Goldie had pressed a clump of spiderwebs against the side of his head until the bullet wound stopped bleeding, then made a bandage from the sleeve of Bonnie’s blouse.
Now she held him more or less upright, propped against the wall, with Mouse and Bonnie clinging to the bricks beside him. The cat crouched on the ledge, its eyes huge and dark, its tattered ears flat against its skull. Goldie wondered if it could swim. Maybe it would be able to save itself, once she and her friends were dead.
Perhaps the mice would swim away too, when they could no longer help their boy. But for now they fussed quietly over him, like a dozen tiny mothers, rubbing their whiskers against his face and cleaning whichever parts of him they could reach.
Goldie had never in her life felt so heartsick. If it weren’t for her, Toadspit and Bonnie would be on their way home, and Mouse would still be telling fortunes in the Spice Market. But now …
Bonnie was trying hard not to cry. Goldie put her arm around the younger girl. “I’m s-sorry,” she said. The shivering made her voice waver. She felt terribly tired. Perhaps in a little while she would lie down and go to sleep.
“Wh-what for?” said Bonnie.
“If I’d l-left you there, none of this would’ve h-happened. It’s m-my fault.”
Mouse tapped her on the arm, and pointed miserably at his own small chest, then at the rock pile. My fault, he seemed to say.
Bonnie screwed up her nose. “Don’t be s-stupid,” she said through chattering teeth. “You’re both s-stupid.”
“But it is my f-fault—” began Goldie.
“In that c-case,” said Bonnie, “it’s m-m-my fault too. I’m the one who made too much noise outside the s-s-stables. If I hadn’t d-done that we probably would have g-got away.”
Her voice rose. “But I’m n-not the one who shot my b-b-brother. I’m n-not the one who’s trying to d-drown us. And neither are you.” She was shouting now, her high voice bouncing off the tunnel walls. “It’s their fault.” She pointed furiously toward the gate. “I h-h-hate them! And when we g-get out of here I’m going to t-teach them a lesson!”
There was a laugh from the stairs outside. The water crept upward, as cold and remorseless as their captors’ hearts. Goldie whispered, “Bonnie, I—I don’t think we w-will get out of—”
“Don’t say that. We w-will. You’ll think of something.” Tears poured down the younger girl’s face. “If my b-brother was awake,” she said fiercely, “he’d get us out. But he’s not, so you’ll d-do it instead. I know you will.” She glared at Mouse as if he had argued with her. “You just w-wait and see!”
Goldie could not speak. Mouse was staring at her with desperate hope in his eyes. Even the cat and the white mice were watching her, as if they expected her to come up with a miracle.
I don’t know any miracles, she thought.
But at the same time, something stirred inside her.
The Festival.
The wildness.
The Big Lies …
A Big Lie might save them—if she could summon one. If they hadn’t all been used up already.
With an enormous effort, Goldie forced her poor sluggish mind to cry out for help. Come to me, she called silently. I need you. I need you!
She tried to imagine the wildness welling up beneath her, and the air fizzing around her, the way it had fizzed around the dancing girls.
She tried so hard.
And then she tried again.
And again.
She could feel herself sinking back into despair. “There must be some way of summoning a Big Lie,” she whispered. “Think! Think!”
But the cold water was up to her waist now, and it gripped her like the hand of death. All she wanted to do was lie down and sleep.
Would that be such a bad thing?
No …
She was on the brink of giving up when, deep in the back of her mind, so far away that she could barely hear it, a little voice whispered, Sing.
“Wh-what?” mumbled Goldie.
Sing!
“S-s-sing what?”
But all the voice would say was Sing …
Goldie ransacked her numb brain for songs. But they had gone, along with the warmth of her body. The only one she could remember was the scrap of nonsense that she had heard on the streets of Spoke.
Not knowing what else to do, she began to mumble, “And her—ch-children—were h-hairy—and t-terribly scary …”
Even before the words died away, she knew it was useless. It would take a big song to get them out of here. A song that could shift a rock pile, or change the minds of heartless killers.
She closed her eyes and, like a distant echo, heard the thrum of a harp string. As if, hundreds of miles away, Sinew was playing the First Song. Playing for his life and the lives of others. Playing on and on and never giving up.
The First Song. Of course! How could she have forgotten it? It was the song that every other song in the world had grown out of. Goldie had no idea what it might do if she sang it in Spoke. But she knew without a doubt that it would do
something.…
The rising tide was up to her armpits now. She still had hold of Toadspit, though she could not feel her hands. Mouse and Bonnie were struggling to keep their heads above water.
It would have been the easiest thing in the world to let go and slip beneath the surface. Nevertheless, Goldie opened her mouth and began to croak out the strange sliding notes of the First Song. “Ho oh oh-oh. Mm mm oh oh oh-oh oh.”
Her throat felt as if it belonged to someone else. She forced herself to keep going. “Ho oh oh-oh. Mm mm oh oh.”
For an unbearably long time, nothing happened. Then, all at once, the air around her flickered like a candle flame. Toadspit groaned.
“Mm mm oh,” croaked Goldie. “Mm mm oh oh oh-oh oh.”
The flickering feeling came again. As if—as if something was taking an interest in her. She sang louder. “Ho oh oh-oh. Ho oh oh-oh. Mm mm oh oh oh-oh oh.”
“What are you doing in there?” shouted Guardian Hope, who had climbed to a higher stair to avoid the rising water. “What have you got to sing about?”
Goldie didn’t reply. An unexpected warmth was surging through her body, giving her strength. She wrapped her arms as best she could around Toadspit and the other children, and kept singing. “Ho oh oh-oh. Mm mm oh oh oh-oh oh.”
The cat lifted its sodden ears and yowled along with her, “Rrow rrow rrow-rrow. Prr prr rrow rrow rrow-rrow rrow.” The white mice squeaked the same odd notes.
Toadspit, still deeply unconscious, mumbled, “Mm mm oh oh oh-oh oh.”
And then it happened. The air on every side began to swirl and fizz. Goldie’s song twisted around her head as if she stood in the middle of a giant whirlpool.
Mouse’s eyes were nearly popping out of his skull. “Wh-what is it?” hissed Bonnie. “G-Goldie, wh-what’s happening?”
Goldie didn’t reply. She was waiting for the right question. And racking her brain for the right answer …
Guardian Hope splashed down into the water and pressed her face to the bars. “What are you doing?” she shouted again.
Cord’s face appeared beside her. “It’s that other snotty,” he said. “The one with the mask.”
“Here, you,” shouted Guardian Hope. “Why are you singing?”
The water lapped at Goldie’s collarbone. The air swirled around her, full of power and promise. “Ho oh oh-oh,” she sang. “Mm mm oh oh oh-oh oh.”
“Boy?” shouted Guardian Hope. “Why are you singing? What do you think you are doing?” Her voice cracked with frustration. “What’s all this got to do with you anyway? Who are you?”
At last! The right question! But what was the right answer? It had to be something that got them all out of danger. Not just Goldie.
She knew that the swirling feeling wouldn’t last for long. Already it was slightly weaker, as if it had given her a chance—and now it was moving on to someone else.
WHAT WAS THE RIGHT ANSWER?
In the back of her mind, the little voice whispered, At the last minute, a lady of high birth.
“What?” cried Goldie.
She could feel the whirlpool drawing away from her. She stared wildly around, searching for inspiration. Her eyes fell on Mouse, the cat, Toadspit, Bonnie—
Bonnie with her bow, wanting to be a champion archer! Bonnie on board the Piglet, giving Smudge the name of a long-dead warrior princess!
“Did you hear me, boy?” shouted Guardian Hope. “Who are you?”
As the whirlpool swirled one last time around her, Goldie drew herself up. “I am Princess Frisia of Merne,” she cried. “And everyone here is part of my court!”
And suddenly, the whole world changed.…
The slommerkin stopped its attack so abruptly that Sinew was taken by surprise. His fingers paused on the harp strings. Was this another illusion from Forgotten Dreams, or was it something else?
“Sinew,” growled Broo, backing slowly away from his opponent. “Do not STOP!”
“Sorry,” said Sinew, and he plucked at the strings again. The slommerkin shook its massive head, as if the notes of the First Song had at last wormed their way into its mind and it could not escape them.
Sinew’s hands and arms felt as if they were on fire, but he was in better shape than Broo. The brizzlehound was covered in blood and there was a deep gash down his shoulder and around his belly.
The slommerkin was wounded too. Its torn flesh trembled, and it hissed and roared as if it wanted to launch itself back into the attack. But it could not break away from the First Song.
Sinew took a deep breath and began to walk toward the creature. As he did so, he found himself thinking of the children again. Something had changed. He could tell. They were no longer where they had been a moment ago.…
He shook himself, and concentrated on the music. He made it sing with longing, with a desire for rolling plains and fat, slow cattle. For the sun, hot and glistening, and the huffing of newborn cubs. For slommerkin heaven, just beyond the Dirty Gate.
The slommerkin hissed again and lashed out with its tusks. Sinew jumped back a step, but his fingers did not miss a note.
“Come,” sang the music (twining in and out of the First Song). “Come to sun-on-the-skin and food-in-the-belly. Come to gobble-gobble-liver-and-hearts. Come to eat-all-you-want.”
The slommerkin’s tiny eyes blinked. It sank back on its torn haunches and scratched itself thoughtfully. Then, with a shudder, it heaved itself to its feet and began to make its way toward the Dirty Gate.
Sinew followed, with Broo limping beside him. His fingers never paused in their task. “Come! Come to roll-on-bones! Come to suck-at-marrow!”
The slommerkin moaned with hunger. The keeper and the brizzlehound drove it onward, through the Tench, through Lost Children and Dauntless, and across the perilous landscape of Knife Edge. Until at last they came to their destination.
The Dirty Gate lay deep inside the museum, in a long, narrow room with a stone floor and stone walls. There were no exhibits here, no display cases, just cold-hearted stone and, at the far end, the Gate itself, its massive iron strips twisted together like honeycomb.
The slommerkin paused halfway down the room, snuffing the air. Sinew peered past it and saw that the Dirty Gate was open, and that Herro Dan and Olga Ciavolga stood to one side of it, with a small fire burning at their feet.
He added a note of urgency to the song he played. “Don’t stop! Don’t tarry! Liver-and-hearts! Marrow-bones!”
The slommerkin surged down the room. But just as it was about to step through the Gate, Sinew’s bleeding fingers slipped. A discord rang out.
The slommerkin hesitated. Its head swung from side to side. It turned around, its little eyes fixed on Herro Dan. It licked its pendulous lips.…
“No!” cried Olga Ciavolga, and she snatched a burning stick from the fire and threw it, as straight as a spear. The slommerkin squealed with pain. It shuffled backward through the Dirty Gate, pawing at its nose. Quickly, the keepers threw themselves at the Gate and pushed it shut. Herro Dan shot the bolt; then he took a large key from his pocket and turned it in the lock.
With a groan of exhaustion, Sinew slid down the wall and laid his harp on the floor. Broo flopped beside him.
“Never met anyone who could throw like you can, lass,” said Herro Dan with a shaky laugh.
“Pfft, it was easy.” The old woman smiled, but her face was white. “Give me something hard to do next time.”
Broo raised his head from his paws. An enormous sigh escaped him. “Is there anything to eat? I am very hungry.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Olga Ciavolga, bending over him. “Of course you are hungry. And look at your poor shoulder! Come with me. I will sew you up and feed you. Sinew, you too. We must do something about your hands.”
Sinew nodded but did not move. “You and Broo go on ahead. I’ll follow when I’ve caught my breath.”
As Olga Ciavolga hurried away with the brizzlehound limping beside her, Herro Dan eased his old bones down to th
e floor. “That was well done, lad,” he said, patting Sinew on the arm.
Sinew yawned. “I have never in my life played so long and hard. I hope I never have to do such a thing again, but—”
“So do I, lad.”
“But when I was in the middle of it, I sort of felt the children.”
“What? Where?”
“I don’t know. But I think—I think something has happened to them. Something strange.” Sinew drew his torn fingers through the air above his harp, and a single bright note rang out. “Something very strange.”
Frisia, Crown Princess of Merne, slid the bent wire into the lock of her bedchamber door. This wasn’t the first time her bodyguards had locked her in at night. They said it was necessary to keep her safe from assassins. But Frisia had her own ways of getting out.…
One by one the pins inside the lock slid up and out of the way. The door cracked open. She listened for the sound of breathing and heard nothing—her bodyguards hadn’t yet arrived for duty. Good.
She strapped her sword over the boy’s tunic she habitually wore, pulled on a fur robe and crept out into the silent corridor, closing the door behind her. The flagstones were cold, even through her shoes, and a wisp of winter fog had seeped through the walls.
Her hands were cold too. In fact, her whole body was freezing, as if she had just climbed out of an ice-bound river rather than a warm bed. She shivered and drew her robe closer. All around her, the upper floors of the castle slept.
Frisia hurried past Physician Hoff’s apartments, and past the family chapel, where two stone wolves stood guard. She kissed their noses for luck, as she had done ever since she was tall enough to reach them; then she turned the corner and let herself into the apartments that were reserved for the Margrave of Spit and his children.
She could hear movement in one of the bedchambers. She tapped on the door, feeling for the scrap of paper in her coin pocket. Despite the early hour, a maidservant opened the door almost straightaway. When she saw the princess, she bobbed a curtsy.
“I am here to see the young margrave,” said Frisia, stepping past her.
