by Lian Tanner
It hadn’t been easy to persuade Toadspit that the Blessed Guardians would take exactly the same route they had taken the night before. “They’re not stupid,” he said, when she explained her plan.
“No,” said Goldie. “But they’ll be out to catch the people who call themselves the Hidden Rock. So they’ll act as if they’re stupid, and hope that we fall into the trap.”
“She is right,” growled Broo. He seemed to have gotten used to Goldie smelling like a stranger, and he sat next to her with his single white ear pricked and his skin twitching with excitement. “They will want revenge for last night. They will pretend to be helpless, like a spider that plays dead until its prey is close enough to kill.”
On the other side of Goldie, the cat cleaned its paws and took no apparent notice of the discussion. But when they started to talk about signals, it raised its head and said, “Yoooowl. Loooooudly.”
“Good,” said Goldie. “Now, here’s what we’re going to do. . . .”
The lane off Rough Rind Street was cold and dark. Goldie pulled her scarf up around her nose and ran through Herro Dan’s instructions in her head.
The brake—a simple lever beside her left hand—was on, and the gearshift was disengaged. A small pilot light burned on the dashboard. When the time came, she must switch the pilot light downward, take off the brake and throw the gearshift forward. If everything went as it had during practice, the Shark would rumble to life.
And then . . .
In the back of her mind, Frisia murmured, And then you will kill them.
The princess’s voice was louder than usual, and for a moment Goldie thought she could see trees and rocks all around her, and a narrow path, and men leaping out of ambush with swords and old-fashioned pikes—
She shook her head, and her vision cleared. “I’m not going to kill anyone,” she whispered. “We’re not fighting that sort of war.”
But the picture lingered, full of death and horror, and she knew that this was one of the princess’s memories, and that it was a part of her now, whether she liked it or not.
“As mad as a quignog . . .”
“I’m not mad,” she whispered. “I’m not!”
Still, it was a relief when the unmistakable sound of a street-rig cut through her thoughts. She put her hand on the lever that controlled the pilot light. An eerie wail rose on the night air. “Nnnnnooooooow!”
With a flick of the wrist, Goldie tipped the pilot light upside down. Then she released the brake and shoved at the gearshift.
There was a soft whump somewhere under her feet, like the sound of a gas lamp catching. The Shark’s engine gurgled. “Come on!” whispered Goldie. And to her relief, the iron wheels creaked, and the ancient machine lurched out into Rough Rind Street.
Headlights were already pouring around the corner. With her heart thumping, Goldie guided the Shark forward until it was blocking the street; then she threw on the brake, disengaged the gears and scrambled out of the driver’s seat.
She was barely in time. Wheels rattled on the cobblestones. A horn blared. Goldie crouched behind the iron wheels and jammed her eyes shut so that the headlights wouldn’t blind her.
She heard a street-rig screech to a halt, and a shout of warning from Guardian Kindness. “It’s a trap, Colleagues! Take your positions! Chains at the ready!”
The headlights snapped off. A dozen chains rattled; then there was silence. Goldie held her breath. . . .
One of the Guardians hissed, “Do we advance, Colleague?”
“No, wait for them to make the first move—” Guardian Kindness broke off with a gasp as a howl of despair rose somewhere behind him.
Goldie gasped too, even though she had been expecting it. The cry was so desolate, so full of fear and pain and regret, that it curdled her blood.
“What was that?” whispered another Guardian. “A—a trick,” came Guardian Kindness’s uncertain answer. “Nothing but a—”
Again he broke off. Because this time the howl had words. “No! No! Not the Black Ox! Forgive me, Great Wooden! I promise I’ll never— Aaaaargh!”
Goldie peeped out from behind the Shark, frantically flicking the fingers of both hands.
“The Black Ox?” cried one of the Guardians.
“Impossible!” cried another.
“No, no, look!” cried a third, pointing back the way they had come.
Down the street toward them galloped a monstrous sight. It was huge and black and powerful, and its fiery eyes burned with rage. Its horns were twice as wide as a man’s outstretched arms. Its hooves struck sparks from the cobblestones.
And on its back—Goldie shivered. On its back was a boy, his clothes bloody and torn, his face a mask of terror. As the great beast plunged down the street, he screamed for help.
“Please don’t let the Black Ox take me! I’m sorry for what I did! Pleeeeeeeease!”
His cries were joined by an unearthly wail that made Goldie clap her hands over her ears. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought that the Seven Gods themselves were descending on that narrow street.
The Blessed Guardians obviously thought so. They picked up their robes and pelted past the Shark without a second look, their prayers flying in all directions.
“Great Wooden, please, I’m a Guardian, I’m Blessed!”
“I regret my sins! Save me!”
“Oh Seven Gods, I didn’t mean to do it, it was an accident! Forgive me! Keep your creature away from me!”
Up the street they ran, crying out their penitence. Not once did they look back. Not once did they dare confront the terrifying specter of the Black Ox.
If they had, they would have seen it laughing.
“Huh huh huh,” panted Broo. “That was almost as much fun as chasing a slommerkin. I would like to do it again, but not now. These iron shoes hurt my paws.”
He peered toward the Shark. “Did I make a good Black Ox?”
A feline shadow strutted past him. “Coooow,” it murmured.
Broo stiffened. “I was not a cow! I was an ox—”
Goldie slipped from her hiding place and put her arms around his neck. “You were wonderful, Broo. You were all wonderful, all three of you. You even scared me!”
“We’d better not hang around,” said Toadspit, sliding from the brizzlehound’s back.
He and Goldie removed Broo’s shoes and horns, then loaded the sacks of money into the Shark while the animals kept watch at opposite ends of the street.
The last thing Goldie did before they set off on the dangerous drive back to the museum was to leave a note on the hood of the Guardians’ street-rig, weighed down with a stone.
The Hidden Rock will CRACK the Harrow.
The fortune
It was barely dawn when Field Marshal Brace marched into the Fugleman’s office. “That’s two payments gone,” he snapped, his mustache bristling. “Don’t bother with excuses. What I want to know is, was the money there in the first place?”
The Fugleman’s fist curled around the note he had been reading. He forced a smile. “Delightful to see you too, Field
The field marshal prodded him in the chest with a gloved finger. “There’s a rumor going round that there’s no money in the Treasury. That your Guardians have salted it away for their own use. That’s why it keeps disappearing. It’s a coverup. You were never going to pay us in the first place—”
The Fugleman gritted his teeth and pushed the field marshal’s finger aside as politely as possible. But despite his best efforts, some of his anger spilled into his voice. “Jewel is not a poor city, Brace. And my Guardians would not dare to steal from the Treasury. The payment was on its way, exactly as we agreed. But”—he opened his fist to reveal the note—“it was waylaid.”
“The Hidden Rock?” Something crackled in the back of the field marshal’s eyes. “Are your Blessed Guardians imbeciles, to be tricked twice by the same people?”
The Fugleman smiled again, showing his teeth this time. “I am beginni
ng to think that they must be. But then, so are your men. They are supposed to be patrolling the streets, but these people come and go as if there were no curfew.”
“Hmph,” grunted the field marshal, and he took a step backward and began to smooth his mustache thoughtfully. After a moment he said, “They know about your other life as Harrow.”
“They do indeed. Which is a great inconvenience. It makes me think that perhaps they have friends outside Jewel.”
“Mm-hmph.”
“As for the money, there is plenty in the Treasury, and I will personally oversee the next payment.”
“Today.”
“No, there is something else that needs to be done today.”
“My men will not—”
“Your men, Brace, will receive their due payment tomorrow morning, plus a generous bonus. Send a squad to the Treasury to collect it, if you like. That will have the double benefit of keeping the money safe and stopping these rumors.”
The field marshal nodded slowly. “And the something else that needs to be done today?”
“Ah, yes.” This time the Fugleman’s smile was genuine. “Let us show these rebels what happens when I am crossed. . . .”
Everyone except the Protector was at breakfast that morning. “Her color is much better,” said Olga Ciavolga in answer to a question from Bonnie. “But she has not yet eaten.” She smiled faintly. “Unlike our other guests.”
“Gue-e-e-ests,” croaked Morg, balancing on the back of Toadspit’s chair. “Gue-e-e-e-e-ests.”
Mouse, who was sitting next to Sinew, looked up from his third serving of porridge and beamed. The cat licked its whiskers graciously, as if it were doing them all a favor by cleaning their plates. The mice in the baby’s bath rustled.
At the other end of the table, Goldie was trying not to think about madness. She had dreamed the night before that she was still in ancient Merne. Now the dream came back to her in such vivid detail that she felt as if she was standing right there—
—in the library in front of her father, King Ferdrek V, and promising that she would kill Graf von Nagel and bring back his head in a sack—
With an effort, Goldie dragged herself back to the present, where Bonnie was asking Mouse if he would tell the Protector’s fortune. “Then we’d know if she’s going to be all right.”
The little boy made a circle with his finger—a circle that included everyone in the kitchen.
Goldie was feeling oddly dislocated, as if a part of her were still there in that centuries-old library. She did her best to ignore it and said, “Mouse wants to tell all our fortunes.”
Sinew pushed his empty bowl toward the cat and leaned forward, his long face alight with interest. “I’ve been wanting to see this. I had my fortune told by a goat once, but none of its predictions came true.” He grinned. “Particularly not the one about bearing fifteen children and my husband running off with another woman.”
Herro Dan snorted with laughter. Then he turned to Mouse and said, “We’d be honored, lad. Might give us some guidance for the days ahead. The Fugleman won’t take these attacks lyin’ down, and it’d be good to stay a step or two in front of him.”
Mouse smiled and whistled. Immediately, the rustling in the baby’s bath became more purposeful, and it was not long before the mice emerged with their scraps of paper and laid them on the kitchen table. The older keepers watched with great interest while Mouse threw all but five of the scraps back, then rearranged the ones that were left.
“What does it say?” asked Goldie.
“It’s like a code, yes?” said Sinew. “Well then, I think it might be about you. This first one says, of gold.”
Goldie jumped from her chair and peered over Mouse’s shoulder. “And the second one says, this journey will. I must be going somewhere!”
In his basket by the stove, little white Broo yelped, as if he was dreaming. The cat strolled down the tabletop and dabbled at the third bit of paper with its paw.
“I was getting to that one,” said Goldie. “It says, last chance to win.” She wrinkled her nose. “So wherever I’m going, it’s got something to do with beating the Fugleman!”
“Yes, but where are you going?” said Toadspit.
“I don’t know. The next bit of paper just has one word, beast, and the last one is a picture of a road.”
Goldie saw Herro Dan stiffen—for the briefest of moments, no more. Broo yelped again and woke up, his little ears twitching as if he had barely escaped from a nightmare.
“Do you know what it means, Herro Dan?” said Goldie. “Beast? Road?”
The old man’s face was as innocent as sunlight. He shook his head. “Nope.”
He’s lying, thought Goldie.
—and deep inside her, in an ancient library, a king’s daughter raised her head in disbelief. LYING? To ME?
Sinew tapped his fingernail on the table. “I’m sure I’ve heard of something called the Beast Road. Wasn’t it you who mentioned it, Dan? Years ago?”
Broo climbed out of his basket and gazed up at the old man, his head tipped to one side. Herro Dan smiled. “Wish I could help you. But I’ve never heard of it.”
“And if Dan has not heard of it,” said Olga Ciavolga firmly, “then it does not exist. The fortune must mean something else.”
“E-e-e-e-e-else,” muttered Morg.
Goldie felt the strangest sensation, as if something was trying to drag her out of the present and into the past; as if she was shifting, the way the museum did. . . .
“Herro Dan,” she said, doing her best to sound normal. “Are you sure you’ve never heard of it?”
“I’m sure,” said Herro Dan, as innocent as ever.
—And suddenly her whole body was buzzing with royal pride and anger. She felt hot and cold, clear-headed and dizzy. The old man had lied to her. Twice! To HER, the crown princess of Merne!
She would not tolerate it.
“ You MUST tell me about the Beast Road!” she said. “I order you to tell me! I COMMAND you!”
And then she was back in the kitchen, and everyone at the table was white with shock. Toadspit’s mouth hung open. Sinew’s hand rested, frozen, on the strings of his harp. Even the cat looked surprised.
Morg was the first to find her voice. “Comma-a-a-a-and,” she cawed in mocking tones.
Herro Dan glanced worriedly at Olga Ciavolga, then back at Goldie. “Now, lass—”
But Goldie was in control of herself once again, and she could not bear to stay in the room for a moment longer. Not with her friends staring at her as if she had turned into a monster. “I—I’m sorry!” she whispered. “I didn’t mean it! It was—”
She could think of no excuse except the truth, and if she told them that, she would lose everything—their trust, their love and her position as Fifth Keeper. And so, without another word, she ran out of the room.
Pounce had kept his promise so far. He hadn’t been near Harrow, hadn’t said a word to anyone about what he knew. Instead, he’d spent most of his time begging.
He didn’t need to, of course, not with the money that Goldie had given him. But begging gave him a feel for the mood of a city. He could tell whether people were happy or sad, stirred up or solid.
And this morning, as he sat outside a pie shop with his hand outstretched and a pitiful look on his face, Pounce could see that the black-robed Guardians and the mercenaries striding past were well and truly stirred up.
He would’ve bet the shirt on his back that it was something to do with Goldie and Toadspit, and the war they were waging against Harrow. All yesterday and first thing this morning he’d heard whispers about “The Hidden Rock.” No one seemed to know who it was. No one except Pounce.
“Blessings on ya, Frow,” he muttered to an old lady as she tucked a pastry into his hand.
“Watch out for the soldiers, lad,” she whispered. “There they go, the brutes!” And she hurried off.
Pounce looked up in time to see a squad of mercenaries marching t
oward the center of the city with a purposeful look on their faces and an open-topped rig rattling behind them.
“Oho!” he whispered to himself. “I reckon Harrow’s decided to fight back, even if ’e can’t see what ’e’s fightin’ against.”
He followed the mercenaries at a distance, chewing on his pastry. Most of the people who had been on the streets earlier had disappeared, and Pounce could barely see a dozen adults, hurrying along with their heads bent and their snotties clutched tight against their sides.
He didn’t blame them for being scared. There was something nasty in the air this morning, something that made him slide into the shadows whenever one of the mercenaries looked in his direction.
The street spilled into a plaza, and the line of men stamped to a halt. There were more people here, crossing the plaza as quickly as they could, trying not to look at the mercenaries or make themselves noticeable.
The open-topped rig pulled around until it blocked the way it had come.
“Oho!” whispered Pounce again, glad that he had had the sense to stay well back, and glad too, for once, that Mouse was tucked up safely in the museum.
He peered past the rig, the pastry forgotten. The mercenaries had broken into small groups and were hurrying to block the entrances of the other three streets that joined the plaza. No one except Pounce seemed to have realized what was happening. He gnawed his bottom lip and glared at the citizens of Jewel.
“Soft idjits!” he muttered. “Open yer eyes, why don’t ya?”
They didn’t hear him, of course. But their eyes were opened soon enough. When they tried to leave the plaza, the mercenaries blocked their way and would not let them pass.
Most people immediately scuttled off to the next street, and then the next one, darting around like fish in a bucket. Pounce groaned. And when the mercenaries began to snatch the snotties from their parents and carry them off to the rig, he groaned louder.
“Bite ’em!” he whispered. “Kick ’em in the shins! Take ’em by surprise, then run fer yer life!”
