by Conrad Mason
He flew high above the town, grinning as the rooftops blurred below him and the air rushed past. Wheeling around a warehouse, he dropped down into the street below and whizzed around a corner, upsetting a horse that was tied up outside a grogshop. He laughed.
It felt good to be free, away from boring, serious Newton and cowardly, useless Jeb. Maybe he should leave Port Fayt for good. There was a thought … But on the other hand, there was still plenty of sugar to be earned here. Perhaps he could find someone who was worthy of his services. And even if they weren’t, it would be fun betraying them later.
Yes, that was what he needed. A new employer.
Grubb’s foot slipped on a bump in the road and sank deep into a puddle. He groaned as the water seeped into his shoe. Just what he needed.
“Are you all right, dear?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” said Grubb, trying to sound like he wasn’t bothered. The truth was, he was dejected, not to mention embarrassed that the elderly troll couple seemed to be coping with this unplanned nighttime ramble a lot better than he was.
It was freezing up on the hillside. The wind rustled the grass and ripped through Grubb’s damp clothes, painfully cold. He hugged himself to keep warm and looked up again at the distant silhouette of the lighthouse tower. It didn’t seem to be getting any closer.
It didn’t help that his brain was endlessly churning over what had happened in the alleyway. The witch’s face, twisted like a mask to scare little ones. The last glimpse of Tabitha, looking back triumphantly, grasping the wooden spoon …
No, it was no good thinking about that. He focused on what the witch had said, running the words through his head, over and over. He told me you had it. “He.” Who was “he”? Grubb tried to think like a watchman. Who could have told the witch where to find him? Jeb? The shape-shifter? But that made no sense. It was someone who knew that he had the wooden spoon; that was for sure. Could it have been one of the Demon’s Watch? No, that was ridiculous …
His brain was starting to spin, and to distract himself he stopped and looked back at the lights of Fayt, glowing like stars.
But at once he thought of Tabitha, who must have been captured somewhere among those dark buildings. What would Newton say? He had no idea where she was. No idea where the wooden spoon was. The Demon’s Watch had saved his life and taken care of him, and he’d messed everything up. He’d even begun to hope that he could join the Watch himself, but of course that was impossible now. Even if they’d survived the fight at the pie shop, there was no way they would accept him after this.
His ears drooped, and his eyes started to fill, making him feel even worse. He dabbed at them angrily with his sleeve, turning away from the Bootles so they wouldn’t see. He was as useless as a sea slug, just like Mr. Lightly had always said. And worst of all, because of him, Tabitha was alone with that witch …
“Master Grubb,” said Mr. Bootle. “I hope you’re not feeling sorry for yourself.” He laid a gentle hand on Grubb’s shoulder.
“There’s nothing you could have done, dear,” said Mrs. Bootle. “Nothing anyone could have done. Even Newt.”
It was just the sort of thing Grubb imagined his own parents would have told him. Mr. Bootle even looked a bit like his father—just two or three times bigger.
That made him smile, so he gave up pretending and sniffed loudly.
“I suppose. I just wish I’d done something.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Bootle. “You’ve looked after us, haven’t you? Your parents would be so proud of you.”
“Best thing we can do now,” said Mr. Bootle, “is to get to the lighthouse and wait for Newt. Can you manage that?”
Grubb nodded.
“Yes, Mr. Bootle. I just—” He yelped. The old troll’s fingers were digging hard into his shoulder.
“What’s that?” asked Mr. Bootle in a shrill voice.
Then they all heard it. A pounding of hooves, and a clatter of wheels.
“Oh, Thalin,” whispered Grubb. “The bushes. Let’s hide in the bushes.”
The Bootles moved as fast as they could, but the carriage came into view before they’d even reached the side of the road. They’d been seen. They must have been seen.
His pulse racing, Grubb looked around desperately for something he could use as a weapon. He hadn’t managed to protect Tabitha, but he would protect the Bootles, if it was the last thing he did.
“Keep going,” he hissed. “And stay down.”
There was a fallen tree by the roadside, and he snapped off a wet branch. It would have to do. It was too late to hide himself, so he crouched down where he was, in a patch of nettles, and waited, fingers numb on the damp bark of the branch.
There were whinnies and a jangle of reins, and the carriage came to rest a few feet away. He could smell the horses and see their breath puffing in the night air. He saw the figure of the driver in a tricorne hat, staring down at him. A troll. He tightened his grip on the broken bit of wood and tensed, ready to charge.
“Joseph?” said the driver. “What are you doing down there?”
Mr. Bootle stood up from behind a bush.
“Paddy?” he said. “What are you doing up there?”
Paddy Bootle took off his hat and grinned.
“Well, we were going to meet you lot at the lighthouse. But I don’t want to interrupt your game of hide-and-seek. Who’s winning?”
“ ‘He told me you had it,’ ” Newton repeated, when Grubb’s story was finished. “So the witch isn’t working alone. Someone’s helping her.”
It was dark in the carriage, and Grubb could only just make out the shapes of the watchmen sitting opposite.
“Well,” said Frank. “Whoever it is has to be a total bilge brain. Anyone can see she’s as crazy as a crate of crabs.”
There was a glint of eyeglasses—Hal shaking his head.
“I disagree. Whoever is helping her certainly hasn’t got bilge for brains. They might be a little reckless. Someone with a lot of ambition, perhaps …”
“What are you saying?”
“Do you think it was a coincidence that the witch was waiting in the alleyway at the exact time that Derringer’s blackcoats attacked the pie shop?”
There was a pause, while the magician’s words sank in.
“Cyrus Derringer,” said Newton.
“You think he’s helping the witch?” said Frank doubtfully.
“It’s possible. Maybe he arranged to attack the front of the shop, while she hid around the back.”
“But what would he get out of it?”
“Power, I reckon. Derringer doesn’t care about money, but if the witch promised him some position—special adviser to the governor, or something—that would get him interested.”
Frank whistled.
“So he spends his whole time acting like he’s better than us, and then he goes and sells out the whole stinking town.”
“Maybe,” said Newton. “But let’s forget about him for now. The witch has the wooden spoon. That means we have to warn Governor Wyrmwood. And we have to do it fast.”
“Yes,” said Hal. “But Wyrmwood Manor will be crawling with blackcoats. And in any case, we don’t even know for sure that it’s the governor that the witch is after.”
“True enough. But right now, it’s the best guess we can make. So unless anyone has a better idea …?”
“What about Tabs?” said Grubb. Even in the darkness, he felt them looking at him. “We have to save her first, don’t we?”
For a few moments, no one answered. Then Grubb felt Frank’s big hand on his shoulder.
“Joseph, the witch isn’t interested in Tabitha. Most likely she’s on her way to Wyrmwood Manor right now. Either Tabs is with her, or …” He trailed off, leaving an uncomfortable silence.
Old Jon leaned forward and handed something to Grubb. It was heavy, made of wood and metal. A pistol.
“You’ll need this,” said the elf, “if you’re coming with us.”
Gr
ubb nodded dumbly. He was coming. Of course he was coming.
“And what about us, if you please?” snorted Mrs. Bootle. “What are we to do while you’re off gallivanting in the governor’s manor?”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Bootle,” said Newton. “We’ll drop you at the lighthouse first.” He reached up and rapped on the top of the carriage, and they moved off with a jolt. A shaft of moonlight glanced in at the window, revealing the watchmen squeezed onto the bench opposite. All of them were frowning.
The carriage rolled on in silence. Grubb gripped his pistol tightly, his knuckles white.
“Do you think she’ll be all right?” he said after a while.
Newton looked out of the window. Old Jon drew a knife and tested its edge with a finger. No one answered him.
The cool wet cloth soothed Eugene Wyrmwood’s forehead, blotting out the pain and the dark thoughts. Just try to forget. He closed his eyes, sank back into the armchair, and squeezed his hand tighter around the doll.
A picture of the watchman, Newton, flashed into his head. A witch, Your Honor. Loose in Port Fayt. He had demanded to investigate, and Eugene Wyrmwood had said no. What other answer could he have given?
By now, it was quite possible that Newton was dead.
He gritted his teeth. Don’t think about it. Think about the doll. That always kept him calm.
He could remember, vividly, the day he got it. Every detail, every smell, and every sound … Funny things, memories.
He had been only a boy, of course. Eight years old. Back then, his mother made him study all day, every day. But once a week she took him through the town—to the Fairy Market, to the velvetbean exchange, and to Mr. Harrison’s Toy Emporium. Arabella Wyrmwood was the only child of Isaiah Wyrmwood, director of the Cockatrice Company, and it was her duty to represent the company’s interests in Port Fayt. So once a week, young Eugene was allowed a few moments in the Toy Emporium, while Arabella spoke with the imp who owned it.
Even now, he could picture the shop as if he were still standing in it. The rows of dangling marionettes, the heaps of bright red balls, the hoops, skipping ropes, whistles … And best of all, the militiamen dolls, lined up in perfect rows, with smart identical uniforms and smooth smiling faces. So unlike the reality—the blackcoats he saw on the streets, who started fights and got drunk and beat up thieves. So much better than the reality.
He spoke up once, as they left the shop, his hand clenched tightly in his mother’s. He told her how much he liked the militiamen and how he wished he could have one of his own.
Only foolish children play with toys, she told him.
Beneath the damp cloth, Governor Wyrmwood frowned.
He had become obsessed. After that day, every time they went to the shop, he only had eyes for the militiamen dolls. He stood, staring at them, longing for them, until they had to leave.
One day, a young elf girl saw the militiamen dolls and rushed up and took one, and her father bought it for her with a smile. And Eugene’s heart sank, and he hated the little girl, and then felt terrible for a week afterward, because it hadn’t been her fault, not really.
But after that, he wanted one more than ever.
Then came the day itself—the day he could never forget. Eugene’s mother had told him to wait and not touch anything while she and Mr. Harrison went into the back room to talk. They left him there, alone in the shop, with no one watching.
A minute passed. His heart was racing.
Two minutes. His palms slick with sweat.
Three minutes. Could he do this? He had never taken anything before. Never spoken back to his mother. Never disobeyed her for one moment.
The door to the back room opened, and without thinking, Eugene reached out, took the nearest doll, and stuffed it into his satchel. As he did so, his hand brushed against the next doll along, pushing it slightly out of position.
His mother entered the room, followed by Mr. Harrison.
“Come along,” she said. “We’ve wasted enough time here. Back to your books.”
Eugene nodded. His face was hot. There was no way he could hide what he had done. His mother would find out. And then he saw Mr. Harrison notice something. The doll, moved slightly out of rank. And his eyes flicked to Eugene’s satchel and up to the boy’s face.
He knew.
And then, most vividly of all, Eugene remembered what happened next.
The old imp smiled. Smiled and nodded.
It was fine. It was going to be fine.
And then they were walking away from the shop, the doll safe in Eugene’s bag, his hand clenched tightly in his mother’s.
Governor Wyrmwood took the damp cloth from his face and looked down at the doll. It had lost its knitted tricorne hat and its tiny wooden musket. Its black coat had all but worn through, and one eye was lopsided.
He held the doll tighter, tighter than ever, as a tear rolled down his cheek. Somehow, it always seemed to make things better.
Only foolish children play with toys.
It is a glorious summer’s day, and a couple are walking along the quayside, arm in arm. Sailors and dockers nod to them as they pass, tipping their hats and smiling.
Tabitha knows she is dreaming, because the couple are her parents.
Her father makes a joke, and her mother laughs. They are just like she always pictured them. Him—tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, handsome. Her—young, beautiful, her long blond hair shining in the sun. Tabitha drifts after them like a ghost. She longs to catch up, but she can’t move fast enough. She can’t even see their faces, can’t even hear what they’re talking about …
And already, she can feel everything changing. The sunshine is too bright, the sky too blue, the rooftops jagged like dragons’ teeth. She knows what is coming, and she opens her mouth and howls, but no sound comes out, and her parents keep walking, and there is nothing—nothing—she can do about it. Finally, they reach the house with the open window, and Tabitha screams until she has no voice left to scream with. Her father glances once, briefly, over his shoulder, and for an instant she sees his face, and her heart burns with love and the pain of loss.
A pair of bloodred bottles streak from the open window, and shattering glass rings in her ears, and the world comes apart in fragments. There is her mother, falling, clutching at her face. There are blackcoats, racing toward them. There are shouts, and sobs, and calls of “poison!” And there is the open window. Tabitha strains, reaching up as high as she can, desperate to see inside.
There is a figure there, wrapped in shadows. Just out of reach.
If only she can see who it is, everything will be different. Everything will …
She is awake.
It is dark here, wherever “here” is. The only light comes from a candle, somewhere beyond the tiny barred window in the door. There is no way of knowing whether it is night or day outside. She lies motionless on a cold, hard floor, as the minutes drag by.
At last, she sits up. Her head feels like the whole Pageant of the Sea is marching through it. Gingerly, she tries to make herself remember. There was running, turning, and—yes—the witch, bearing down on her like a nightmare, eyes pulsing black. Hands gripping her like talons, and then … nothing.
She had the dream about her parents. Strange. It’s been years since she last had that dream.
Tabitha rises, using the rough stone wall as a support. The room is tiny—big enough to lie down in, but she has to hunch to stand. She peers through the window and sees just a narrow corridor, a stool with the candle on it and no one there. She checks her belt and pockets. The wooden spoon is gone. So are her knives.
This doesn’t suit her at all.
“Hello?” she shouts. She bangs on the door and tries to open it, but, of course, it’s locked. Angry, upset, and scared, she sits back down again. She is exhausted.
Questions pile up in her head, fighting for her attention. Where is she? Where is the Demon’s Watch? Are they safe? What happened to Joseph, the grogshop b
oy? She scowls. What does she care? He got her into trouble with Newton, after all. She knows that isn’t fair, but she decides that she deserves a little self-pity.
There is only one thing she can say for sure. She isn’t dead. The witch hasn’t killed her. Funny. That means something, probably. She just isn’t sure what yet.
She lets her head loll back against the wall and closes her eyes.
When the girl is snoring steadily, the old woman steps out of the shadows in the corner of the room. She bends down and lifts a strand of blue hair away from the face. Yes. She did not recognize her at first, in the hold of the ship. But now, up close, the resemblance is astonishing. Such a proud, stubborn face. The old woman smiles to herself, as memories swirl in her mind.
Grubb darted out from behind an ornamental hedge, keeping as low as he could, and threw himself down behind the stone plinth of a statue. Peering round it, he could see the ground-floor windows of Wyrmwood Manor glimmering in the night, no more than twenty feet away. One last sprint across the lawn and they would be there.
He hefted his pistol. Don’t cock it until you’re inside, Frank had told him. If it goes off before then, chances are you’ll either shoot your leg off or alert the blackcoats. Or both.
“Ready?” whispered a voice, from behind his shoulder. He turned and was face-to-face with Newton, who was crouched with a long black staff resting on one knee. Grubb couldn’t believe how silently the big man could move.
“Ready,” he said.
Newton signaled toward a fountain a few feet away, where Hal and Old Jon were lying in wait, then tapped him on the shoulder.
“Go!”
Grubb launched himself forward, past the statue, his feet slipping every other step on the wet grass. He tried not to think about what would happen if a militiaman spotted them. Just run.
There was a stretch of gravel at the end of the lawn, below the windows of the manor. As they reached it, each watchman dropped down into a crouch and crept up to the wall, as quietly as they could.
