by Lian Tanner
Cord bared his teeth. The snotties laughed but kept their fingers out of the bags.
Goldie could feel Mouse shaking beside her. Her blood surged in her veins. The bandmaster was up to something, she was sure of it. Perhaps there was something in the bags. A message. A weapon.
As the boys scrambled over the Piglet’s rail, the band struck up a jaunty tune. Guardian Hope glared at the musicians. “We’re wasting time!” she shouted.
No one took any notice of her. Cord showed the boys where to stow the bags. The band played louder. The boys began to dance.
Within seconds, the deck of the ship was swirling with noise and movement. There were snotties everywhere, shouting and leaping and dancing. Goldie couldn’t keep track of them. The cat slunk behind the covered dinghy, out of reach.
Guardian Hope’s face was blotchy with rage. “That’s enough!” she shouted. “Stop this nonsense or I’ll see you all whipped!”
Still they ignored her. Goldie saw her take a small pistol from her pocket and point it at the sky.
The shot, louder than a thunderflash, stopped the dancers in their tracks. The snotties cowered against the rail. Down on the wharf, the band members froze, their lips trembling on their instruments.
But before Guardian Hope could spit out the angry words that hovered on her lips, the air around the ship began to hum and swirl.
Smudge’s slab face lit up like a candle. “It’s a Big Lie!” he cried. “I can feel it. Someone’s gunna get a Big Lie!”
He was right. Goldie could feel it too. The Festival was still going and there were still Big Lies on the loose. No one had called this one, but it had come nonetheless.
“Who’s it for? Is it me?” cried Smudge. “Oh, Bald Thoke, please let it be me!”
Goldie could see the same longing in the eyes of Cord and the snotties. Only Guardian Hope looked annoyed by the interruption. “We haven’t got time—” she began.
The twisting, curling air swooped past her, wrenching whatever she was going to say next out of her mouth. The edge of the wharf sparkled. The bandmaster squeaked in surprise.
“Quick, Cord,” shouted Smudge. “Ask me a question.”
“Don’t be stupid,” muttered Cord. “It’s not you. It’s them.”
He pointed toward the musicians, who were bathed in a swirl of flickering possibility. Sweetapple was standing on tiptoe, laughing and crying at the same time, “It’s us! It’s us!” Old Snot’s toothless mouth was trying to frame a question, but like most of the band, he was too overcome to speak.
Only Dodger had the wits to turn to the bandmaster and cry, “Who are we? Quick, before it goes. Who are we?”
The bandmaster was as stunned as the rest of them. “We’re—We’re—” he stammered. He swiveled his head this way and that, searching for inspiration. Goldie saw his eyes fall on Guardian Hope, who was also Flense, the woman who had had him whipped.…
He bared his teeth in a vengeful grin. “We’re hunters,” he cried. “Free and mighty hunters. And there”—he raised his baton and pointed straight at Guardian Hope—“there is our prey!”
With a loud crash, the shackles and chains fell from his ankles, and from the ankles of all his people. He grew taller, and more alert. Sweetapple’s limp disappeared. Dodger and the hairy trumpeter bristled with strength. Even Old Snot put down his drum and straightened up, as lithe and energetic as a twenty-year-old.
But that was not all. Having lived through a Big Lie herself, Goldie could see into the very heart of this one. She could see the faint haze around each of the hunters, which seemed to make them even taller and stronger, so that they reminded her of the heroes from the really old stories. She could see the furs they wore, and the massive hounds that prowled around them like long-legged wisps of smoke.
Guardian Hope had changed too. She was bigger than the hounds, and her head tilted under a huge rack of antlers. She sniffed the air and snorted.
The bandmaster’s head shot around. He pointed toward the Piglet.
With a muscular grace, Sweetapple raised her trombone—which was looking more like a spear with every passing moment—and began to stalk toward the ship. Dodger followed, a few steps behind. Goldie held her breath.
Guardian Hope lifted one great cloven hoof and put it down again. She shook her antlers. Then, without warning, she leaped over the rail and began to gallop down the wharf.
The bandmaster raised a shadowy bugle and blew. The hounds yelped and tore after Guardian Hope. With a roar, nearly all of the musicians followed them. Only Dodger stood firm, one eye shut, sighting along his trumpet at the fleeing prey. His right hand drew back. Goldie thought she heard a distant thwang, like an arrow being loosed in someone else’s dream.
Guardian Hope staggered and fell. But before the hounds could catch her, she dragged herself to her feet again and limped around the end of a warehouse. The hunters and the hounds raced after her, yodeling with the thrill of the chase, and the Big Lie disappeared around the corner and out of sight.
The whole thing had happened so quickly that Goldie was dumbstruck. She looked at Toadspit, and he looked back at her, equally shocked.
Behind them, Cord chortled. “Hee hee hee, poor old Flense. She weren’t expectin’ that, were she?”
“D’ya think we should go after ’em?” said Smudge uncertainly. “Try and help ’er?”
“Try and help Flense? When did she ever help us? Nah, I reckon she’s done for. Which means I’m second-in-command now. And I say we carry out Harrow’s orders. No more, no less. Then we go to Jewel to collect our pay.”
Cord shooed the snotties over the rail. “Rightio, Smudge, take us out into the bay.”
As Smudge shifted the tiller, the Piglet slid slowly away from the wharf. “Where are we goin’, Cord?”
Cord grinned, his eyes as hard and bright as bullets. “We’re goin’ back to my boyhood. We’re gunna introduce this lot”—he pointed his chin at Goldie, Toadspit and Mouse—“to the shark nursery.”
There was no weapon inside the bags that the bandmaster had sent on board. Nor was there a message. There didn’t seem to be anything in them except pastries. Goldie watched as Cord ate his way through them, his jaw working with a mad and violent purpose.
“Um—Cord?” said Smudge, eyeing the children uneasily. “Are we really gunna—you know?”
“Yep,” said Cord, through a mouthful of pastry.
“All three of ’em? Do we ’ave to?”
“ ’Oo’s the boss ’ere, Smudge? You or me?”
“You, Cord!”
“And don’t you forget it.”
As the Piglet surged toward the edge of the bay, the wind began to pick up and the clouds lowered. Above the children’s heads the rigging cracked against the mast.
Goldie stared at the clouds, hoping to catch some sign of Morg. Had the slaughterbird been driven away by Cord’s gun? Or was she still up there somewhere?
Whichever it was, she could not help them. The children were at the mercy of a man who was about to throw them to the sharks.
Right up until that minute, Goldie had been able to hold her growing fear at bay. But now it sidled up to her and showed its pointed teeth. Her lip trembled. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the thought of what was coming.
Deep inside her, Frisia’s voice whispered, A warrior learns to see past her fear.
Goldie swallowed. Herro Dan had once said something similar. Something about treating your fear politely and doing what you had to do in spite of it.
She took a deep breath. “Mouse,” she whispered. “Could your pets chew through my ropes?”
The small boy nodded.
“Mine too,” murmured Toadspit.
Mouse whistled softly, and the front of his jacket rippled. Tiny feet ran down Goldie’s arm. The ropes around her chest twitched.
Goldie leaned back against the mast, breathing hard. So. It looked as if they could get free of their ropes. But what then? They were still trapped. Cord had his pis
tol; Smudge had Frisia’s sword. They were both grown men and very strong, and there was no way that the children could beat them in a direct fight.
In the back of her mind Frisia whispered, Know your enemy.…
Cord brushed the last of the crumbs from his lips. Then he stood up and stretched until his joints cracked. “Better let them sharks know we’re comin’,” he said.
He lurched toward the children. Mouse hummed under his breath, and his pets ran down the mast and disappeared. Goldie stood as straight as she could, hoping desperately that Cord wouldn’t notice the half-chewed ropes.
But Cord didn’t even glance at the two older children. Instead, he untied Mouse, scruffed him by the neck of his jacket and began to drag him toward the ship’s rail.
For one terrible moment, Goldie thought that Cord was going to throw the little boy overboard right there and then. She cried out in protest at the same time as Toadspit shouted, “No!”
The rigging above their heads rattled. The covered dinghy squawked in its cradle. The cat peered out from behind it and hissed.
Cord picked up a bucket and thrust it into Mouse’s hand. When the boy flinched away from the smell, Cord whacked him across the ears. “Toss that muck over the side,” he said. “A bit at a time.”
Mouse didn’t move. Cord took out his pistol and tapped it against the little boy’s cheek. “Or if you’d rather,” he said, “I could toss you over.”
Slowly Mouse dipped his fingers into the bucket, pulled out a handful of fish guts, and flung them over the ship’s rail. Cord’s jaw did a furious little dance, as if he was disappointed not to have an excuse to kill someone. The cat slunk out from behind the dinghy and crouched at Goldie’s feet. The mice renewed their assault on the ropes.
Goldie felt a spot of rain on her face and looked up. The clouds were drawing in and the morning was growing darker. In the back of her mind, Frisia’s voice whispered, Sometimes the best place to hide is in the midst of the enemy’s camp.
“What?”
Sometimes the best place to hide …
Goldie looked at the clouds again, at the way they shadowed the deck. Oh, she thought. Of course!
She leaned toward Toadspit. “Imitation of Nothingness,” she breathed.
Toadspit stared at her. “But what’s the—” Then he too understood.
At first, Goldie found it almost impossible to settle her mind. Fear needled at her. The ship surged up the face of a wave and plunged down the other side. Her ropes twitched under the onslaught of half a dozen tiny sets of teeth.
Then, just as her mind was at last becoming still, something scraped against the side of the ship. Mouse yelped and leaped back from the rail.
A red spot showed on each of Cord’s cheeks. He laughed viciously. “Looks like the nice sharkies are keen to make yer acquaintance, boy. Why don’t ya say ’ullo to ’em? Go on. Lean over the rail and send ’em yer best regards.”
Mouse cowered away from him.
“I said, lean over the rail!”
The little boy shot a look of sheer terror at Goldie. She looked back helplessly. Beside her, Toadspit shifted his weight as if he was bracing for a fight. “Go on, Mouse,” he called. “Tell them we’re going to have shark stew for dinner tonight.”
“Brave words, Toadboy,” sneered Cord. “I betcha don’t sound so clever when you’re slidin’ down a shark’s gullet.”
Mouse took a shaky step toward the rail and leaned over the side. “Now,” whispered Toadspit. “While Cord’s watching him.”
Goldie closed her eyes and did her best to block out everything—the ship, the sharks, Mouse’s fear, her own dread of what was coming. She drew in a deep breath and let it out again.
I am nothing. I am the wind in the rigging.…
Her mind began to drift outward. She could feel the quick heartbeats of the mice, like sparks encircling her body. And the cat, glowing like a hot coal on the deck beside her.
I am the smell of the sea. I am the taste of salt water.…
She could feel Bonnie, crouched in a corner of the hold, her mind fierce and bright. And Toadspit, and Mouse, and Cord and Smudge—
And—and someone else! There was someone else on the Piglet! Someone hiding in the dinghy. But who was it? And why …
Another shark scraped against the hull. Goldie could feel its hunger, as pitiless as a sword’s edge. She shuddered. And opened her eyes.
Toadspit was no longer there beside her.
Or at least, he was there, but not one person in ten thousand could have seen him.
Smudge’s shocked cry came sooner than she expected. “Hey, Cord, they’re—they’re gone!”
Goldie felt Toadspit quiver beside her. She forced herself to breathe so slowly that the air itself hardly knew she was there. As Cord’s boots pounded across the deck, she stood as still as death.
I am nothing. I am the memory of nothing. I am the smell and taste of nothing.…
Cord skidded to a halt some distance away. His pistol was in his hand and his teeth were bared. “They musta had another knife. You idjit, Smudge! I told ya to search ’em.”
“I did, Cord. I promise I did.”
Cord’s sharp face swung from side to side, searching the deck. Goldie felt his eyes pass over her. Once. Twice.
I am nothing … nothing … nothing …
“They gotta be ’ere somewhere,” muttered Cord. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find ’em. And when I do—”
He strode up the deck, kicking at the folded sails with his foot. When he came to the bow he turned around and glared at everyone and everything. Mouse shrank back against the rail.
“Wherever yez are, ya little snots,” Cord shouted, “I’m gunna find yez. Yez’re gunna be sorry that yez tried to mess with me.”
Suddenly the ropes around Goldie loosened. Tiny paws scampered down the mast and disappeared. The cat began to clean itself with a calm tongue.
Goldie drew in a silent breath. Toadspit was free too. She felt him slip away from the mast.
“Cord?” said Smudge, shaking his big head uneasily. “I did search ’em. I don’t think they did ’ave another knife.”
Cord ignored him. He was working his way down the other side of the deck now, poking into every corner. Goldie saw Mouse glance at the dinghy, his face a mask of terror.
“I dunno how they got outta them ropes.” Smudge rolled his eyes. “D’ya think it’s some sorta magic? Some sorta demon magic? Do ya?”
Know your enemy.
Very carefully, Goldie squatted down until her mouth was right next to the cat’s ear. “Cat,” she breathed. “We need something that looks like magic. Now.”
For a moment the cat didn’t move. Then it stood up, yawned hugely and began to stalk toward the deckhouse with its ragged tail held high.
Cord kicked over a barrel with his foot. Nothing. With a grimace of fury he strode toward the dinghy. But just as his hand gripped the tarpaulin, there was a horrified yelp from the deckhouse. “Cord! It’s lookin’ at me!”
Cord stopped. “What are ya talkin’ about?”
“The demon cat! It’s lookin’ at me!”
The cat was indeed looking at Smudge. It stalked toward him, its fierce eyes fixed on his face. He let go of the tiller and backed away, sword in hand. Goldie braced herself against the mast. The ship lurched, and Smudge fell over.
Immediately a dozen white mice swarmed out of the hatch behind him, each one with a scrap of old gazette in its teeth. They dropped the bits of paper beside his head and scuttled away again.
“Cord,” groaned Smudge. “It’s magic. I told ya.”
“Don’t be stupid,” snapped Cord. “You’ve seen them mice before. They belong to the snotty, the little ’un.”
Smudge shook his head. “The cat made ’em do it. It’s magic.” He picked up one of the scraps of paper and his mouth fell open. “Look what it says. Death. And this one. Died. And this one. Dead man. It’s me fortune, Cord. They’ve told me fortune. I’m gun
na die. Just like Flense.”
Cord snarled, “It’s not you who’s gunna die, idjit. It’s the snotties. Pull yerself together.”
Goldie drifted closer to Smudge. As she passed him, she whispered in his ear, “Poor Smudge, dead and gone.”
Smudge flinched and leaped to his feet. “Who said that?”
“Who said what?” growled Cord.
A shadow drifted past Smudge on the other side. Goldie heard Toadspit whisper, “Deeeaaad and goooone.”
Smudge jabbed at the air with his sword. “Don’t you come near me,” he said in a quavering voice. “I don’t want no ghostie magic near me.”
Cord strode down the deck and grabbed the big man by the arm. “What’s the matter with ya, talkin’ to thin air? You smarten yerself up, Smudge. We got a job to do ’ere, and we’re gunna do it. Now git that tiller and git us back on course or I’ll chuck you overboard.”
Smudge gulped. His eyes rolled in his head, and he gripped the sword with white fingers. But Cord’s words had had their desired effect. He took the tiller again, one-handed, and brought the Piglet back on course.
Cord watched him for a minute or two, then disappeared around the back of the deckhouse, muttering to himself and poking his pistol into every corner.
As soon as he had gone, Goldie drifted closer to the tiller. “Hooow did Smuuuudge diiiieee?” she whispered. “Hooooow did he diiiieeee?”
“Shut up,” mumbled Smudge. “I’m not listenin’ to ghosties. Cord says you’re not real.”
“Hooow did he diiiiieeee?” crooned Toadspit.
The cat flicked its tail and flattened its ears against its skull. “Drooooowned,” it wailed.
“No!” cried Smudge.
“Yer testin’ me patience, Smudge,” roared Cord from behind the deckhouse.
There was a squeal from the rigging. Goldie looked up. The mice were strung along the lines like little white signal flags. “Dreeewn, dreeewn, dreeewn,” they squeaked in chorus.
At the same time there was a clap of wings overhead and Morg dropped out of the clouds. “Dro-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-wned,” she cawed, and her great claws slashed at the air near Smudge’s head.
