Path of Beasts

by Lian Tanner

  “Pounce,” she said, “he’s not the Black Ox. He’s a brizzlehound.”

  “Sure ’e is. And I’m Bald Thoke’s favorite pussycat.”

  Broo cocked his head to one side. “You are not a cat,” he rumbled. “You are a boy.” The great black nostrils flared, and a growl erupted from the enormous chest. “You are the boy who BETRRRRRAYED my friends in Spoke!”

  “Broo,” said Sinew quickly, but the brizzlehound was already advancing on Pounce, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl.

  Mouse whistled. A dozen white mice swarmed down his arm and leaped onto Pounce’s shoulders.

  Broo’s ears flicked back and forth. “I have no argument with you, small people,” he growled to the mice. “You had best get out of the way, or I might eat you by mistake.”

  The cat pushed past Bonnie. “Eat mooouuses?” it wailed, its tail thrashing. “Noooooo!”

  Goldie held her breath. Mouse pulled away from Pounce’s nerveless fingers, put his hand on the brizzlehound’s shoulder and crooned.

  Broo gave a great huff of disgust. “I suppose if he is your friend, I cannot kill him after all.” And he turned his back and sat on his haunches.

  Through all this, Pounce had stood as if frozen. Now he too sat down, his legs no longer able to hold him. “Yer a wonder, Mousie, you are,” he whispered. “Ya tamed the Black Ox!”

  “He’s not the Black Ox,” said Goldie, but Pounce just shook his head and stared at his friend, awestruck. The white mice nibbled his ears in a friendly fashion, then dived across the floor and disappeared into the baby’s bath. The cat curled up beside them with one eye fixed suspiciously on Broo.

  Sinew leaned back in his chair, pretending to mop his forehead with his sleeve. As he did so, the museum shifted. Pounce squawked and tried to drag Mouse under the desk, but the little boy pulled away from him. Sinew grabbed his harp. Goldie and Toadspit stroked the walls of the office and sang.

  The wild music boiled around them, but as soon as Mouse joined in with his own odd version of the First Song, the music seemed to pause and listen. By the time it quietened, Pounce had recovered from his fright and was whispering urgently to his friend.

  Sinew mopped his forehead again. “One thing you can say about this place, it’s never dull. . . .”

  Toadspit laughed and heaved his haversack of coins up onto the desk. “Look what we’ve got. The Hidden Rock has made its first strike!”

  Goldie lugged her haversack up to the desk too. But first she took out a fistful of coins and gave them to Pounce.

  “Is that all?” He sniffed ungraciously and shoved them in his pocket. Then he scrambled to his feet, keeping as far away from Broo as he could, and held out his hand to Toadspit. “Thanks for keepin’ me gun nice and safe, I don’t think. I’ll ’ave it back now. Mousie and me’s gotta go.”

  Reluctantly, Toadspit gave up the pistol. As soon as Pounce’s fingers wrapped around it, his old swagger returned. “Come on, Mouse. Grab yer pets. Smudge’ll be wonderin’ where we’s got to.”

  He was out the door before he realized that his friend wasn’t following him. Goldie saw him stiffen. But when he turned around, he was smiling. “We got a whole ocean to explore, Mousie. Wotcha waitin’ for?”

  Mouse’s hands danced in his own odd version of fingertalk.

  “What’s he saying?” asked Goldie.

  Pounce ignored her. “Stay ’ere? In this creepy place?” He laughed. “Not a chance.”

  “Good,” growled Broo over his shoulder. “I do not want you here.” His voice sank to a mutter. “I do not want that cat here either.”

  The white-haired boy’s hands moved again. He pointed toward the mice.

  “Course they like it,” said Pounce, with a disdainful expression. “That’s cos it’s a dump, and they like dumps. But we got a boat now, Mousie! We can go wherever we want. We can go where it’s warm! Wouldn’t that be good?”

  Mouse shook his head. He was standing very straight and firm, and for the first time it struck Goldie that she was not the only one who had been changed by the Big Lie. In ancient Merne, Mouse had become Ser Wilm, a young knight in his early twenties. Watching the little boy now, Goldie could see the shadow of that knight. Mouse might be only seven, but he was older and wiser than his years.

  Sinew cleared his throat. “Pounce, you’re welcome to stay. There’s plenty of room in this—er—dump.”

  “Nah,” said Pounce. “I ain’t stayin’.” He turned his back on everyone except his friend and lowered his voice. “Listen, Mousie. I won’t say nothin’ about the Black Ox jumpin’ out of corners when ya don’t expect it, ’cos that don’t seem to bother ya. But there’s a war goin’ on ’ere, between this lot and Harrow.”

  The cat’s ears twitched. Mouse nodded.

  “So let me tell ya who’s gunna win. Harrow, that’s who. He always wins, ya know that. Which means the only sensible thing for you and me to do is get outta here. Wars ain’t good for snotties, they’s always the first ones to get stomped on.”

  “He’s right,” said Sinew from behind the desk. “This isn’t a safe place, Mouse. You might be better on the high seas.”

  Mouse’s hands flashed angrily. Pounce snorted. “Look at ’em, Mousie! What hope ’ave they got? They ain’t even got guns!”

  Once again the smaller boy’s hands flashed. Pounce sighed. “I reckon ya might change yer mind when things get nasty, so I’m willin’ to ’ang around for a few days. Not ’ere, I’m not stupid. I’ll be in the city, keepin’ outta trouble. You’ll find me quick enough if ya need me.”

  Mouse smiled. Goldie stepped in front of the door, blocking Pounce’s exit. “You mustn’t tell the Fugleman—that’s Harrow—that we’re the ones who stole the money tonight,” she said. “And you mustn’t tell him anything about the museum.”

  Broo growled, his eyes glowing a brilliant red. “He will not tell.”

  “Nah,” said Pounce quickly. “I won’t.”

  Toadspit grunted his disbelief.

  “Do you promise?” said Goldie.

  “I said, didn’t I?”

  Mouse lifted one of his tiny pets out of the baby’s bath and held it up. Pounce rolled his eyes, but he put a finger on the white mouse’s head and said, “I promise on the ’eads of Mousie’s mousies that I won’t tell Harrow nothin’ at all. There, that good enough for yez? Now let me out.”

  Goldie stepped away from the door. She thought Pounce would probably keep his promise, for a while, at least. But he would break it in an instant if he had to. If things got bad for him or for Mouse, Pounce would go straight to the Fugleman.

  First and only line of defense

  Just after dawn the next morning, Bonnie and the cat took up their station on the steps of the museum. Bonnie wore a suit of armor cobbled together from flattened-out tins and carried a wooden sword. The cat wore armor too, made of silver paper and string. Tied to its neck with pink ribbon was a sign that said BEWARE!!!! FIERCE IDLE-CAT!!!!!!

  Bonnie nearly fell over laughing when she saw herself in the mirror. “Will it work, do you think?” she said to Toadspit.

  “Will we fool them?”

  Her brother cracked his knuckles. “I hope so.”

  “If we don’t,” said Goldie, “we’re in big trouble.”

  The cat craned its head to look at its BEWARE sign. “Prrrroud,” it murmured, which set Bonnie to laughing again.

  But when half a dozen street-rigs pulled up at the end of the cul-de-sac a few minutes before midday, she stopped thinking it was funny and felt the full weight of the responsibility that lay upon her shoulders.

  “They’re here!” she whispered to the cat. “Remember, don’t say anything and don’t scratch anyone. You’re just a harmless little pussycat.”

  “Harrooooow?” murmured the cat.

  “Yes, I can’t see him yet, but he’ll be there somewhere. He’s the Fugleman. Now shhhhhhh!”

  Her first sight of the visitors came in the form of half a dozen merc
enaries. They threw themselves into the cul-desac, their backs pressed against the stone walls, their rifles aimed at the museum. When they saw Bonnie and the cat, they stopped. One of them shook his head in disbelief, and Bonnie heard him mutter to his companions, “You sure we’re in the right place?”

  “Could be a trap,” said another man. “Keep your guard up.”

  Bonnie’s legs were trembling, but she did her best to stand firm as the mercenaries sidled down the dead-end street toward her.

  “What’s that blocking the doorway. A sofa?” The man who had shaken his head snorted with quiet laughter. “You sure we’re in the right place?”

  “Two sofas,” said the soldier behind him.

  “And a cat, don’t forget the cat.”

  “Oooh, I’m scared.”

  Still, they did not lower their rifles. They were no more than ten paces away now, and Bonnie felt as if she might fall over out of sheer fright. She closed her eyes and pretended that she was back in Care, with fetters around her ankles and Guardian Bliss trying to bully her into submission.

  Her shoulders went back. Her chin went up. She opened her eyes and cried out, “Halt!”

  To her amazement, the soldiers stopped. They were surprised too—they looked at each other and snickered.

  “I am the guard of the museum, and I won’t let you past!” said Bonnie. “Put down your guns, or I’ll set my idle-cat on you!”

  She said it as fiercely as she could, knowing that it would not sound fierce to men like these. The mercenaries stared at her openmouthed—then burst out laughing.

  Bonnie stamped her foot. “Don’t laugh at me! I will set the cat on you. I will!” She waved her wooden sword in the air. “Attack them, puss! Don’t show any mercy! Attack!”

  By now, the soldiers were laughing helplessly. But what happened next made them roar with delight. The cat—the wonderful cat—rolled onto its back and began to purr.

  There was a shout from the mouth of the cul-de-sac. “Is there a problem in there?”

  The soldiers quickly straightened up, wiping their hands across their eyes. “Sir?” called one of them. “Field Marshal? You might want to look at this. You too, Your Honor. There’s—ah—no apparent danger.” He winked at his companions and they snorted silently.

  The Fugleman and the field marshal strode down the little street in a flurry of robes and polished silver. Behind them came a phalanx of Blessed Guardians and mercenaries, jostling each other for position. The six soldiers stepped back smartly so that their superiors could see Bonnie and the cat.

  Bonnie could not bring herself to look the Fugleman in the eye. This was the man who had given the order that she, her brother and Goldie be killed, so that they couldn’t betray his secrets. Not only that, he had tried to murder the Protector, and nearly succeeded.

  But what made Bonnie really angry was the knowledge that, in his guise as Harrow, this man had once set a trained fighting dog on the cat, just for fun. The cat had won the fight, and killed the dog in the process, but that was not the point. It had been sheer cruelty, and Bonnie could not forgive the Fugleman for it.

  She wished that she had her bow and arrow, and that she and the cat were real guards, not fake ones. But if the Fugleman saw her bow, he would know who had taken the money. For the sake of the museum, she must not get this wrong.

  “Stop!” she cried, waving her wooden sword in the field marshal’s face and hoping the Fugleman wouldn’t remember the cat. “Or I’ll run you through!”

  The field marshal was as amazed as his soldiers had been. He barked with laughter. “Is this your dreaded museum?” he said to the Fugleman. “Guarded by a little girl and a cat?”

  “It’s . . . not what I expected,” murmured the Fugleman, staring over Bonnie’s head at the sofas. “Perhaps it’s a diversion.”

  “Perhaps,” said the field marshal, “our wages were stolen by children and felines.” The cat dabbled at the hem of his trousers with a playful paw. The soldiers laughed.

  “I don’t think so,” said the Fugleman with a thin smile. He raised his voice. “Guardian Kindness, are you there?”

  There was a bustle in the crowd at the foot of the steps, and Guardian Kindness stepped forward, his pale face expressionless. “There were twelve men at least, Your Honor, as I reported this morning when we”—his nostrils flared— “when we were found at last, and released from our bonds. The men were very strong. We did our best to resist, but they overpowered us. There were certainly no children among them.”

  “Hmm,” said the Fugleman, not yet convinced.

  The field marshal nudged the cat with his toe, then turned away and began to descend the steps. “Waste your own time here if you wish,” he said over his shoulder. “But while you are playing children’s games, my men and I will be searching for this Hidden Rock. I’ll wager it’s members of the militia who escaped the roundup.”

  Bonnie saw a muscle in the Fugleman’s cheek twitch at the insult of children’s games. He took one last look at the museum, then followed the field marshal down the steps. “If it is the militia,” he said in a cold voice, “we will execute them. Make an example of them. Perhaps we will execute their families as well. And their pets.”

  Bonnie stared at the back of his head, horrified. If she could have, she would have shot him, right there and then. But without her bow she could do nothing. Except perhaps frighten him with something nasty—

  “Watch out for plague!” she called.

  “What?” The Fugleman and the field marshal swung around so quickly that Bonnie found herself cowering backward.

  She swallowed. “I—I heard there’s plague in the city.”

  There was a hum of alarmed voices. “Nonsense,” snapped the Fugleman. “There hasn’t been plague in Jewel for centuries. The girl is talking rubbish.”

  Despite his words, the mercenaries peered around nervously. The Blessed Guardians picked up the hems of their robes and began to trot back down the alleyway.

  Anger flickered across the Fugleman’s face, but was quickly replaced by a smile of immense charm. “Of course, what we should be talking about,” he said, clapping the field marshal on the back in a brotherly fashion, “is getting your men’s wages paid. Would tonight suit you? I will send the coin by street-rig this time and increase security. There will be no further trouble, I guarantee it.”

  Bonnie grinned at the cat and whispered, “That’s what he thinks.”

  With the Fugleman’s gaze turned away from the museum— for now, at least—the rooms began to settle. Goldie and Toadspit, who were busy planning the second strike, could feel it like a sweetening of the air. The moans of the ships in Rough Tom subsided to whispers, and the waters of Old Scratch calmed. Even the Protector seemed to fall into a more natural sleep, and Olga Ciavolga reported that, although the patient had still not woken, her fever was gone and she had swallowed a little water.

  By late afternoon, things were quiet enough that Sinew could lay aside his harp for an hour or so and hurry down into the city to talk to some of his contacts. When he came back, he called the children into the kitchen and placed a sheet of paper on the table in front of them.

  “It seems,” he said, “that you have some secret allies.”

  The paper looked a bit like the front page of the New Evening Gazette, except that the print was rougher and the columns were crooked, and there were no black-and-white engravings to make it more interesting.

  But what was there was interesting enough.

  FUGLEMAN LIES! screamed the first headline in enormous letters.

  THE TRUTH ABOUT THE BOMB! shouted the second, smaller headline beneath it.

  Goldie read the page with growing disbelief. In precise words it told the story of the bomb that had exploded in Jewel last year, and how the Fugleman had been behind it, and what he had gained from it.

  The signature at the bottom said The Hidden Rock.

  “But who wrote this?” said Goldie, looking up at Sinew. “Who printed
it?”

  Toadspit scowled. “No one knows all this stuff, apart from us.”

  “Your parents do.” Sinew smiled at the expression on the children’s faces. “They said they wanted to tell people the truth, didn’t they? Well, they have been very quick off the mark, and ingenious with it. These bulletins were stuck to lampposts all over the city. The mercenaries and the Blessed Guardians were pulling them down almost as fast as they went up, but a lot of people read them before they were destroyed.”

  Goldie could hardly imagine it. Ma and Pa doing something like this? “But how did they know about the Hidden Rock?”

  “Yes,” said Bonnie, “we didn’t tell them. We hadn’t even thought of calling ourselves the Hidden Rock when we saw them!”

  Sinew laughed. “People have been whispering the name all over the city since early morning. Perhaps your parents heard them and decided to add it to the bottom of their gazette at the last minute. However it happened, it’s there now, and people are taking notice.”

  The children looked at each other, their eyes wide. “We’ve started something,” said Toadspit.

  Bonnie did a little dance, her absurd armor jangling like a bunch of keys. “The Hidden Rock’s famous!”

  “Yes,” said Goldie with great satisfaction. “And after tonight it will be even more famous!”

  Second strike

  The Shark was an ancient street-rig with globular headlights and a canvas canopy. Herro Dan drove it around the museum when his arthritis was bad, and Goldie was used to the sound of its horn echoing plaintively through the wide corridors.

  But now she was driving it herself, and she was nowhere near the corridors of the museum. Instead, she was in the Old Quarter, in the lane that spilled onto Rough Rind Street, waiting in the dark for the Blessed Guardians to deliver the mercenaries’ pay.

  She had driven the Shark down here twenty minutes before curfew, clutching the steering wheel and trying to remember what Herro Dan had taught her. The Shark bumped through the dark streets, its iron wheels muffled with rope and blankets. There were very few people out this late, so Goldie did not think that anyone had seen her.