Path of Beasts

by Lian Tanner

  Goldie sat back on her haunches and gathered her scattered wits, trying not to look at the Protector’s frozen face.

  “She’s bleeding,” said Bonnie. “There, on her chest.”

  Goldie’s heart jolted. “We’d better try to stop it. See if you can find where it’s coming from.”

  Neither she nor Bonnie had a scrap of clean cloth on them, and the Protector’s own clothes were sodden and filthy. Goldie fumbled in the crevices of the bridge and dragged out a handful of spiderwebs.

  She was folding them into a wad when Bonnie said, in a small voice, “Goldie? She’s wearing a padded vest under her blouse. It buckles at the side and I can’t undo it. I’m scared I’ll hurt her!”

  Goldie fumbled with the buckles, wishing she had more light. It was probably the vest, she thought, that had saved the Protector from whoever had attacked her. She wondered if the Fugleman had done this dreadful thing himself, and how many other people he had killed or tried to kill since he had returned to Jewel.

  The buckles gave way at last, revealing a stab wound. Goldie pressed the spiderwebs against it, trying to stop the bleeding. The skin beneath her fingers was as cold as winter stone.

  “Lie down next to her,” she said to Bonnie. “Put your arms around her.”

  Bonnie’s mouth fell open. “Put my arms around the Protector?”

  Goldie almost laughed. Her head felt too light, as if she had a fever. “Body heat,” she said. “We’ve got to warm her up. Like this.”

  She lay down on the narrow path, as close to the Protector as she could while still keeping pressure on the wound.

  Bonnie gulped, and copied her. “This feels weird!”

  “I know. Think about something else.”

  Bonnie was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I’m going to think about when we were in ancient Merne. When I was Uschi, the Young Margravine of Spit. And you can think about when you were Princess Frisia!”

  “Yes,” said Goldie reluctantly. “I can think about Princess Frisia.”

  Frisia, warrior princess of Merne, had been dead for five hundred years. And yet a part of her still lived.

  The wolf-sark, or battle madness, was hers. So was the warlike voice that whispered in the back of Goldie’s mind. The bow that Bonnie carried, Toadspit’s sword—they all belonged to Princess Frisia.

  Goldie lay beside the Protector, pressing on the wad of spiderwebs and thinking about the bizarre events of the last few weeks. The voyage to the city of Spoke. The Festival of Lies. The Big Lie that had saved the children from certain death by whisking them back five hundred years to the court of ancient Merne.

  Even now Goldie wasn’t sure if they had truly been in Merne or if it was just an illusion. All she knew was that when the Big Lie had ended and the children had come back to modern-day Spoke, Princess Frisia’s bow and sword had come with them.

  But the princess’s weapons were not the only things to come out of the Lie. Deep inside Goldie, the royal wolf-sark smoldered, like coals waiting for the bellows. The princess’s knowledge of war was there too, along with her memories and the echo of her voice whispering bloodthirsty strategies and instructions.

  Goldie hadn’t told anyone about the wolf-sark and the voice, not even Toadspit. The whole thing was too strange and frightening. With a shudder she remembered the uncontrollable rage that had taken hold of her on board the Piglet. She remembered the red mist that had descended upon her, and how she had raised the heavy sword and sliced it through the air toward Mouse, a small, terrified boy who had done nothing to deserve her anger. . . .

  She had barely stopped herself in time. She still wasn’t sure how she had done it, or whether she could do it again. So although the sword and the bow were really hers, she did not want them.

  She didn’t want the princess’s voice in the back of her mind 17

  either. But she had promised herself that she would not give up her city to the Fugleman without a fight, and for that she was going to need Frisia’s knowledge of war and strategy.

  Goldie clenched her fists, then forced them to relax. There was nothing to fear from those bloodthirsty whispers, she told herself. Unlike the Fugleman, she put a limit to the weapons she would use. No matter what happened, no matter how strongly the princess urged her, she would have nothing to do with the wolf-sark. Or with killing.

  Nothing whatsoever.

  The first Goldie knew of Toadspit’s return was when she heard a soft yap, and a little white dog darted toward her from the direction of the canal steps.

  “Broo!” she said, sitting up carefully so as not to dislodge the spiderwebs from the Protector’s wound, and her heart thumped with joy and relief.

  But instead of jumping up and licking her face as he had always done in the past, Broo stopped a few paces away and tipped his head to one side, as if he wasn’t sure who she was. Goldie held out her free hand; he sniffed it and shuffled backward. His curly tail drooped.

  “Broo, what’s wrong? It’s me!” whispered Goldie, but by then the little dog had hurled himself at Bonnie and was licking her face instead.

  Goldie bit her lip. “Sinew?” she whispered, wondering if he too had forgotten her.

  But to her relief, the tall, awkward-looking man hurrying down the steps beside Toadspit bent over and wrapped his arms around her in a quick hug. “Morg flew in yesterday,” he said. “So we knew you wouldn’t be far behind. Welcome home!”

  He hugged Bonnie too. Then he folded his long legs and squatted next to the Protector, his face serious. “What happened?”

  Broo sniffed the Protector’s foot and whined softly. “She’s been stabbed,” said Goldie. “But she’s got a padded vest—”

  “Good,” said Sinew. “I gave it to her some time ago, but I wasn’t sure she’d wear it.” He checked the wound, then put his ear against the Protector’s mouth.

  “Is she still breathing?” whispered Toadspit, strapping on his sword belt.

  “Just.” Sinew took off his cloak and wrapped it around the unconscious woman. “That bleeding seems to have settled down a bit, but we’d better get her up to the museum as quickly as possible. Bonnie, you walk with me and keep pressure on the wound. It’ll be awkward, but I’m sure you can manage. Like this.”

  He showed Bonnie where to put her hand. Then, with a grunt of effort, he hoisted the Protector up into his arms. “Toadspit, Goldie, you go ahead and make sure the way is clear. Take Broo with you. There are mercenaries everywhere, and we don’t want to run into them.”

  It was not the sort of homecoming that Goldie had been hoping for. As she slipped through the gate at the top of the steps, with Toadspit at her side and Broo trotting a few paces in front of them, she thought longingly of Ma and Pa, and wondered when she would see them. One thing was clear— it would not be tonight.

  The two children and the dog wound their way through the shadowy streets of the Old Quarter, keeping a wary eye out for mercenaries. At the same time, Goldie found herself studying her surroundings in a way she had never done before. The building on the other side of the road, for example—it overlooked three canals, and would make a good observation post. As for that plaza they had just passed, the statues and trees around its edges would easily conceal a dozen men—

  She stopped, realizing that she was thinking like Princess Frisia. Jewel was her home, and she was treating it as if it were a battlefield.

  But it is a battlefield, she reminded herself. And if I want to beat the Fugleman I need to think like Frisia.

  All the same, the ease with which she had slipped into it made her shiver.

  “What’s the matter?” whispered Toadspit.

  “Nothing,” said Goldie. Broo peered up at her and wagged his tail uncertainly, as if he wanted to comfort her but wasn’t sure how to go about it.

  They were nearly halfway up Old Arsenal Hill when the little dog stiffened, and a warning growl rumbled in his throat.

  “What’s wrong, Broo?” whispered Toadspit.

  B
roo growled again, and the hair on his back stood up. A shadow skittered past him, as furtive as a rat.

  “Did you see that?” said Goldie. “What was it?”

  “I don’t know! Broo, leave it! Leave it!”

  But Broo took no notice. A dreadful snarl burst from his chest and, before Toadspit could stop him, he launched himself at the prowling shadow.

  With a twist too quick for the eye to catch, the shadow sprang into the air and landed on the little dog’s back— where it curdled into the shape of a gray-spotted cat. Its claws, as sharp as the new moon, raked Broo’s flesh. He screamed.

  And, to Goldie’s horror, the silence of the city erupted into chaos.

  Mortal enemies

  If Broo had been an ordinary dog, the fight would have been over within seconds. The gray-spotted cat—which Goldie had last seen on board the Piglet—had killed far bigger opponents in its time.

  But there was nothing ordinary about Broo. He was a

  brizzle hound, the last of his kind, and a creature of surprising talents. One moment he was small and white and screaming with pain; the next he was as black as tar and as big as a bull, and the scream became a bellow that echoed up and down the street.

  The cat clung to his back, its claws raking his massive head. Drops of blood spattered Goldie’s face. “Stop it, cat!” she cried.

  “Leave him alone!” shouted Toadspit.

  The cat took not the slightest bit of notice. It fastened its teeth into Broo’s ear. Broo threw himself to the ground, and the cat leaped free just in time.

  Both children grabbed at it, but it danced away. The brizzlehound surged to his feet, roaring.

  “Stop it, both of you!” cried Goldie. “The mercenaries will hear you! What’s the matter with you?”

  “This CRRRREATURE is descended from an IDLECAT!” growled Broo. “We are MORRRRTAL ENEMIES!”

  The cat glared at him. “Hhhhhound!” it spat; then it flew at him again, its claws bloody in the lamplight. Broo’s massive jaws snapped. The cat leaped to one side, and Broo dived after it, bellowing with rage.

  Goldie remembered the Protector and glanced back the way they had come. But there was no sign of Sinew and Bonnie. They must have taken another road as soon as the battle began.

  She looked at the fighting animals. “We need a bucket of water.”

  “There’s no time,” said Toadspit. “The mercenaries’ll be here any minute. We’ll have to try to drag them apart.”

  But the fighting was so ferocious that they could not get close. A whistle sounded, no more than three blocks away. The cat lashed at Broo’s nose with its claws. Broo jumped aside, then rammed the cat with his shoulder. It flew through the air and sprang back, undaunted.

  Toadspit and Goldie screamed at the two creatures, begging them to stop. When that didn’t work, they threw stones. But the brizzlehound and the cat fought on, tearing the night apart with their fury.

  Above the uproar, Goldie heard the tramp of approaching feet. “Broo!” she shouted in despair. “They’re coming! They’ll catch you!”

  “They’ll shoot you!” groaned Toadspit.

  Neither of them noticed the small white-haired boy until he trotted past them. “Mouse!” gasped Goldie.

  Mouse smiled over his shoulder. Then, with a wordless cry, he jumped right into the middle of the fray.

  Goldie had seen the little boy in action before, had seen his inborn love of wild creatures and his talent for taming the untamable. But even she was astonished at how instantly the fighting stopped.

  The cat still hissed. The hair on Broo’s back still bristled, and both animals shook with rage. But they stood apart, with Mouse humming between them, and made no further move to kill each other.

  Behind Goldie, the whistle blasted a second warning. A deep voice shouted, “Curfew patrol! Stay where you are!”

  “Quick!” said Goldie, grabbing Mouse’s hand. And the children and Broo ran into the darkness. The cat hesitated for just a moment, then followed them.

  Several miles away, on board the Piglet, a boy with towcolored hair and a thin weasel face was gloating over his good fortune.

  “You is mine,” he whispered, gazing around the little fishing boat.

  He still didn’t quite believe it. Right up to the last minute, as the Piglet slipped into this disused harbor, Pounce had been sure that Goldie, Toadspit, and Bonnie would try to take the boat for themselves.

  He’d been ready. He had all sorts of tricks up his sleeve, tricks he’d learned on the streets of Spoke. He knew how to double-cross, did Pounce, and how to triple-cross too, and be the one who came away laughing.

  But in the end he hadn’t needed any of it. The three snotties had slipped over the side onto the rotting jetty and disappeared into the night without a fuss.

  Pounce’s friend Mouse had gone extra-quiet after they left. The little boy had sat in a dark corner of the deck with his white mice running up and down his jacket and that nasty old cat watching over him like some sort of demon granny.

  Gave Pounce the creeps, that cat. So he was glad when it too had leaped over the rail and slunk away. That’d left just the pair of them, Pounce and Mouse. Plus dumb old Smudge to do the heavy work.

  Pounce admired his new possession one last time, then stuck his head down the hatch and shouted, “You finished there yet, Smudge?”

  He heard footsteps, and the big man appeared directly below him. “I just gotta get one of them gas lines cleaned, then I’m done.”

  “Can’t ya leave it till later?”

  Smudge looked shocked. “Can’t ’ave dirty gas lines,

  Pounce!”

  “Well, ’urry up.”

  “Where we goin’?”

  “Dunno yet.” Pounce pulled his threadbare coat tighter.

  “Somewhere warm, with lots of food. South, I reckon.”

  Smudge’s eyebrows drew together, and he shook his head. “Can’t go south. Cord never goes south, ’cos of the slavers. Old Lady Skint’s on the prowl, that’s what Cord says. She’s bought a new slave ship, and we gotta stay outta her way.”

  “Listen, matey,” said Pounce. “Cord’s gone. The sharks took ’im, and good riddance too. So what ’e says don’t count no more.”

  “But I don’t wanna be a slave!”

  “Course ya don’t. And ya won’t be, ’cos I’ll look after ya. I’m captain now.” He stuck his narrow chest out. “Cap’n Pounce! And you is my crew. You and Mousie.”

  He grinned and looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Mousie! This is yer captain callin’. Where ya hidin’?”

  “’E ain’t hidin’,” said Smudge. “’E’s gorn.”

  Pounce turned back, quick as a flash. “Course ’e ain’t gone! Don’t be an idjit, Smudge, I won’t ’ave idjits on me boat!”

  But Smudge was nodding vigorously. “I seen ’im, Cap’n, before I come down to do the gas lines. ’E popped over that rail as quiet as a ghostie, just after the cat. I reckon ’e’s followed them three snotties. ’E must like ’em, eh?”

  Pounce felt as if his head had fallen off his shoulders. He muttered fiercely, “’E likes me, that’s who ’e likes. No one else.”

  But even before the words were out of his mouth, he was scrabbling beneath the upturned bucket where he had hidden Cord’s pistol. Because the truth was, Mouse did like the Jewel snotties. He liked that nasty old cat too. And going after them was just the sort of thing the little white-haired boy would do.

  “It’d serve ’im right if I sailed away and left ’im behind,” he muttered.

  “Ya can’t do that, Pounce. ’E’s ya friend!”

  “Some friend,” said Pounce bitterly. He tucked the pistol into his belt. “You wait ’ere, Smudge. Don’t move an inch. And don’t go thinkin’ that you can run away with me boat. I’m the captain, remember?”

  Smudge nodded. “’Ow long ya gunna be, cap’n?” “Not long,” said Pounce. “With a bit of luck I’ll grab Mousie and be back before ya know it.” He bared his tee
th at Smudge. “And if the Piglet’s not ’ere, I’ll come after ya. And when I catch ya, you’ll wish that Old Lady Skint had got ya, ’cos she’d be as sweet as puddin’ compared to me!”

  A fine warrior

  By the time the children reached the Museum of Dunt, with the cat slinking behind them, the Protector had been put to bed and Herro Dan was ladling thick pea soup into bowls, ready for the latecomers. His old brown face was grim.

  “How could the Fugleman treat his own sister with such viciousness?” he muttered. “First he starves her, then he stabs her, then he chucks her in the canal like a bucket of scraps!” He shook his head. “That man ain’t got no heart!”

  “All he cares about is power and money,” said Olga Ciavolga, sawing ferociously at a loaf of fresh bread. Her gray hair crackled and her eyes flashed with anger. “He will tear this city to pieces if we do not find a way to stop him.”

  “Sto-o-o-o-op hi-i-i-i-im,” croaked a harsh voice.

  Goldie looked up and saw the familiar black feathers of Morg, the slaughterbird, perched in the rafters. She breathed in the comforting smell of soup. Around her, the museum dozed, its dusty corridors and strange shifting rooms as dear to her as her own home.

  I’m back, she thought, and despite everything that was worrying and out of joint, she felt a slow surge of happiness. I’m Fifth Keeper of the Museum of Dunt, and I’m back where I belong.

  “Will she be all right?” said Bonnie, through a mouthful of bread. “The Protector, I mean.”

  “Hopefully she will mend,” said Sinew, who was crouched beside the cast-iron stove, feeding it with small logs. “As long as that wound doesn’t get infected. We’ll have to watch her carefully for the next few days.”

  The stove crunched and mumbled as the new wood caught fire. Mouse edged closer to the warmth.

  “What I want to know,” said Toadspit, leaning forward in his chair, “is how we’re going to stop the Fugleman. It was hard enough before, when it was just him and his Blessed Guardians. But now he’s got mercenaries as well!”