by Lian Tanner
They tore down the road with murder in their hearts. But by the time they reached the canal there was nothing to be seen—except for spreading rings where five objects had broken the surface of the water.
They were not fearful men, these mercenaries. They had fought in the bloodiest of wars and were hardened to slaughter. They could face the might of a foreign army without flinching and laugh at a hillside of corpses.
But they had two weaknesses. The first was a fear of disease, which could not be fought with guns and viciousness. The second was superstition.
Every one of them, even the corporal, carried a lucky charm of some sort. A hare’s foot, a chipped coin, a stone with a hole through the middle. They dragged them from their pockets now, and rubbed them between their fingers.
“I don’t like it,” muttered the corporal. “There’s somethin’ nasty goin’ on— Here, what’s that?”
The sound of a harp was the last thing any of them had expected. It seemed to come from all around them, its notes curling like the fog, seeping into their heads, catching hold of their fear and dragging it into the light.
At first it was just music. But then a man began to sing. His voice was mocking. His song was one that they all knew—an old ballad about a foolish general who takes his army to an unearthly land. . . .
“Where the demons were bad
And the witches were mad
And the men who had come there
Would ne’er see their loved ones again.”
The corporal knew he should say something. It wouldn’t do to let his men think for too long about demons and witches. It wouldn’t do to think too long about them himself!
But the beast with the red eyes (a demon?) and the inexplicable loss of the rifles (a witch?) had unnerved him.
As the song played out to its horrible conclusion, he drew closer to his fellows, wondering where the nearest war was, and if any of the armies involved were hiring men. And how long it would take him to get there from here.
The fog lasted for two weeks and, except for brief periods of sleep, Toadspit and Goldie kept up their attacks without ceasing. They stole biscuits from the soldiers’ hands, charms from their pockets and rifles from their sides. They borrowed Olga Ciavolga’s kerchief—the one that held the winds of the world tied in knots around its edges—and blew puddles into the mercenaries’ faces and mud into their food.
Sinew came to help whenever he could be spared from the museum, with songs of betrayal and insidious whispers of plague. Broo stalked through the fog like something out of a nightmare. Morg flew over the soldiers’ heads, dropping rocks that exploded with a sound like a pistol shot.
Meanwhile, in the sickroom, the Protector was slowly regaining her strength. She was sitting up by now and feeding herself, and chafing at her forced inactivity. Whenever they could, Goldie and Toadspit sat with her for a few minutes, and told her what they were doing, and asked her advice about what might most annoy the Fugleman.
Before long, they were able to report that they were not the only ones stirring up trouble. The Fugleman had overstepped himself when he had imprisoned so many children, and now even the most fearful citizens had turned away from him and given their loyalty and admiration to the Hidden Rock instead. Stories of the Rock’s exploits floated through the fogbound streets like leaves on the wind, and the people of Jewel listened to them and laughed, and that laughter gave them the courage to create mischief of their own.
The men who had been hired to cook at the barracks doctored the mercenaries’ porridge with a powder that caused vomiting. The women who did laundry for the House of Repentance secreted spiders and wasps in the Blessed Guardians’ underwear. And although there was generally far more talk than action, it was not long before a small army of citizens was doing whatever they could to make life for both mercenaries and Blessed Guardians as miserable as possible.
Some of the people were caught and swallowed up by the dungeons of the House of Repentance. But many more got away with their acts of rebellion and grew bolder as a result.
When the Protector heard this, she was inspired. Under her instructions, a carefully disguised Goldie delivered a letter to the Blessed Guardians, apparently signed by Field Marshal Brace. The letter apologized for the violence of his men and said that he had ordered them to be the Guardians’ servants for the next few days, to make up for their actions.
They will clean your boots and scrub your toilets— Toadspit delivered a similar message to the mercenaries.
Only that one was signed by the Fugleman and said that the Guardians would be the mercenaries’ servants, to clean their boots and scrub their toilets.
The resulting battles between Guardians and mercenaries, each side believing they were in the right, were so fierce that Field Marshal Brace almost withdrew his men from the city in disgust. Only his agreement with the Fugleman—and a large bonus from the Treasury—kept him there.
Through all this, Goldie lived two lives. One in Jewel and one in ancient Merne. She did her best to hide it from those around her, but it was not easy. The warrior princess inside her was indeed growing stronger.
“I’m Goldie Roth, Fifth Keeper,” she whispered, whenever she was alone. “I’m Goldie Roth, Fifth Keeper!”
The words sounded hollow and unconvincing. In the back of her mind a far more confident voice murmured, I am the daughter of a warrior king. . . .
Toadspit watched her but said nothing.
Goldie’s troubles came to a head one afternoon in the Old Quarter. She and Toadspit were hurrying along Rotgut Canal when they heard someone shouting. The heavy fog made it almost impossible to tell where the sound came from, and the children turned in circles, wary of danger.
But when the danger came, there was no warning, not even the clank of punishment chains. Two Blessed Guardians loomed out of the fog and cannoned into Goldie.
She was knocked flat, and her elbow whacked against the cobblestones, sending a shaft of pain through her body. She gasped in agony and reacted like a warrior princess—
—rolling to one side and scrambling to her feet. Her elbow was a distant fire, and she knew that she would feel it after the battle. But now it counted for nothing.
She put her hand out for her sword. It was not there. Her bow was gone too, and so were her troops. There was no one in sight but her friend Harmut, the Young Margrave of Spit, and the two black-clad figures in front of her.
She had no idea who they were. But she knew they were the enemy, and that was enough.
I will kill them, she thought. I will kill them with my bare hands. And she reached down inside herself for the only weapon she had left: the wolfsark.
She had done it before in the midst of battle, and she did it now. She IMAGINED her sword. She felt it slide out of its scabbard, felt the weight of it in her hand.
Immediately, the wolf-sark surged up, as hot as a forest fire in her belly. The red mist descended. The princess screamed a challenge. Then she fell into a fighting stance and advanced toward the enemy with death in her heart.
“Goldie?” said one of the black-clad figures. “Goldie, what are you doing? It’s me! It’s Favor!”
There were not many people who could have called Goldie out of the wolf-sark. But Favor Berg was one of them. She had been Goldie’s best friend since they were babies together and had stood beside her, in and out of trouble, with a quiet stubbornness that Goldie loved.
The two girls had not seen each other for weeks, but Favor’s familiar voice swept the red mist aside—swept Frisia aside— and left Goldie gasping with shock, her hands on her knees, her stomach heaving.
“Why did you scream like that?” said Favor, throwing her arms around her friend. “Did I hurt you when I ran into you? Goldie? What’s the matter?”
And then Toadspit was there, gently loosening Favor’s arms so that Goldie could breathe. “She’s all right,” he said, putting himself between them. “You just knocked the sense out of her for a bit. Give her time to
recover. Where did you get the robes? Who was shouting? It sounded like mercenaries.”
Goldie had never been more grateful to Toadspit than she was at that moment. She was trembling uncontrollably and could not speak. She had nearly killed her best friend with her bare hands! If Favor had spoken just a moment later . . .
“The robes?” said Favor. “The general found them, or at least, that’s what he says. I think he stole them. We’ve been throwing rotten eggs at the soldiers, pretending to be Guardians.” She tried to push past Toadspit. “Goldie, I’ve been bursting to see you! We thought you were dead! Or rather, some people thought so, but I knew you’d turn up. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Who’s the general?” asked Toadspit.
“General Pounce, of course,” said Favor.
Goldie was so astonished that she almost stopped trembling. “Pounce?”
“We’re part of his army,” said Favor’s companion. “He’s been training us.”
“Jube?” said Goldie, astonished all over again at seeing one of her old classmates. “Is—is that you?”
Jube grinned and waggled his fingers. Then he took out his pocket watch and said, “We’d better go, Favor. Your ma’s expecting you.”
Favor threw her arms around Goldie again. “Blessings, Goldie! I’m so glad to see you! We’ll meet up properly soon! There’s lots to talk about!”
“Yes,” said Goldie, and she clung to her friend. “Yes! Blessings, Favor! Take care! D-don’t get caught!”
And then the black-clad figures were gone, leaving the two children from the museum alone.
There was a long silence. “Goldie—” said Toadspit. He peered at her. “It is Goldie, isn’t it?”
Goldie stared at the ground, feeling sick. “Yes.”
“But it wasn’t a minute ago?”
Another silence. “No.”
“Good,” said Toadspit.
“Good?” Goldie’s head jerked up. “I’m turning into a fivehundred-year-old warrior princess and you think it’s good?”
“No, of course not,” said Toadspit tartly. “I mean it’s good that you told me. I’ve been worried. Everyone’s been worried! Herro Dan and Olga Ciavolga asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“You’re not going to tell them?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Just don’t. Promise you won’t!”
“But if they ask me—”
“Don’t tell them!”
“All right, all right, I won’t.” Toadspit paused. “Is it getting worse? Herro Dan reckons it can drive people mad, but—”
“I know that, you don’t have to remind me!” Now that her secret was exposed, the words poured out of Goldie in a desperate stream and she could not stop them. “Didn’t you see what happened back there? I almost killed Favor! I would have killed her, and not thought twice about it. I’m going mad and there’s nothing I can—”
“Listen to me, Goldie!” Toadspit gripped her shoulders. “No, stop! Listen! You’re a keeper of the Museum of Dunt! You know all sorts of things that most people never learn. And you’re brave and clever and—and—and if it wasn’t for you, Jewel would’ve been a pile of rubble last year, and everyone we know would be either dead or enslaved!”
“But Herro Dan said—”
“That doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? You’re not just anyone! You can beat this stuff! It doesn’t have to drive you mad!” There was yet another long silence while Goldie stared at him. At last she said, in a small voice, “You really think so?” “Yes! You just have to find a way to control it!”
It was amazing how those few words changed everything. Knowing that Toadspit believed in her; knowing that he didn’t think she was going mad. Goldie drew a shaky breath. “Maybe—maybe if I stopped listening to Frisia altogether . . . The trouble is, I need her. She knows so much about war.”
Toadspit’s face was thoughtful, and it struck Goldie that the last few weeks had stripped him of much of his boyishness and left him older and more focused.
“When we first came back from Spoke,” he said, “and you insisted that we fight the Fugleman with trickery instead of bloodshed, I thought you were wrong. I wanted to fight properly, not just muck around like a bunch of children.”
“I know. Sometimes I wonder whether—”
“But you were right,” interrupted Toadspit. “You just have to look at the mercenaries to see what real war does to you. I don’t want to end up like them— Here, the fog’s clearing at last. We’d better get back to the museum.”
The two children began to walk side by side along the canal path. “But you’re still practicing with the sword?” said Goldie.
“Well, you never know when it might come in handy.” A sudden grin splashed across Toadspit’s face. “And besides, it’s fun.”
Goldie glanced at him. “I don’t think Frisia knows much about fun. It’s all war and strategy and stuff.”
“And that’s why,” said Toadspit, slinging his arm across her shoulders as they walked, “you mustn’t let her take over. We need you, Goldie. We need you far more than we ever needed a warrior prin—”
He stopped. A familiar figure was loping down the path toward them.
“Sinew?” said Toadspit, dropping his arm.
Goldie’s skin prickled with foreboding. Sinew was in his shirtsleeves, and she had never seen him so distraught. “Are they with you?” he called as soon as he was within earshot.
“Who?” said Toadspit.
Sinew drew up in front of them, breathless. “They’re not here? I feared as much. We didn’t even realize they were gone, but now the museum is in turmoil—the war rooms and the plague rooms are on the move—I must get back straight away—the cat is missing too—”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Toadspit, his face white.
“Great whistling pigs, isn’t it obvious?” snapped Sinew. “Mouse must have told a fortune. We found two scraps of paper—one said a large hunting party and the other said Save me, friend! But we did not find Mouse or Bonnie! They’ve disappeared. We think they’ve gone to look for Pounce!”
Bloodred sails
Pounce hadn’t meant to get involved in the war against Harrow. Even now he wasn’t sure how it had happened. Maybe he’d been bored. Maybe it was the sight of those weeping parents. Or maybe he was just a stupid idjit who didn’t know how to keep his nose out of trouble.
Whatever the reason, he was having fun. He’d found himself a bunch of snotties who thought he was as clever as a six-legged cat. And so he was, compared to them. They didn’t even know the hidey-holes in their own city!
They soon learned, mind you, Pounce made sure of that.
They learned how to do a snatch and grab too, and then scatter so that no one knew who to chase. So far none of them had been caught, which was a miracle, because they weren’t as quick as Pounce and he’d nearly been nabbed twice.
Still, he knew it couldn’t last. Harrow always came out on top in the long run. So he wasn’t surprised when, late in the afternoon, he saw a string of weeping snotties being marched toward the docks, all chained up like bears.
“Oho!” whispered Pounce to himself. “They’s the ones I saw gettin’ pinched two weeks back. What’s goin’ on?”
A breeze had sprung up and the fog was fraying like an old singlet. Through the holes, Pounce spotted a dozen sour-faced Guardians. Behind them trailed the snotties’ parents, who had been keeping vigil outside the House of Repentance. Their arms waved in odd, helpless patterns, as if they had forgotten how to use them properly. They opened and shut their mouths, and no sound came out, but every single one of them looked as if they were screaming inside.
Pounce swallowed. “Poor sods,” he whispered. “Glad I’m not one o’ them!”
He was so busy watching the chained snotties and their poor broken parents that he didn’t see the small troupe of mercenaries at the end of the procession. Didn’t hear them either, creeping up behind him. He would’ve bee
n snatched off the street like a hot pie if someone hadn’t yelped a warning.
Pounce knew that wordless yelp. Knew it as well as the sound of his own breathing. He spun around just in time. Saw a hodge-podge uniform bending over him. Saw two hands reaching out to grab him. Heard the satisfied chuckle of a mercenary who thought he had a plump pigeon already in the bag.
But this pigeon wasn’t ready to be caught. Pounce bit the nearest hand as hard as he could. The mercenary shouted with pain and clenched his fist. The boy threw up one arm to protect himself. The mercenary grabbed his sleeve. Pounce ducked and jerked. There was a ripping sound and the sleeve—its seam carefully unpicked a few nights before— came away in the mercenary’s hand.
Pounce danced up the street, laughing himself silly at the expression on the man’s face and looking out for Mouse all the while. Because it was Mouse who’d yelped a warning, he was sure of it. The little snotty was round here somewhere, hiding in a doorway or behind a street-rig. He’d left the museum and its keepers and come back to his old friend.
And wasn’t Pounce glad! His feet felt as light as goose feathers. He did a double skip and stuck his tongue out at the mercenary, who was still glaring at him from a distance. His eyes scanned the street, looking for that telltale white hair.
“Come on, Mousie,” he whispered. “I know you’re ’ere somewhere.”
And then he saw him. Right back up the street, close to where Pounce had been a minute ago. Close to the mercenaries, who were snapping and snarling at each other, and looking around for another pigeon to make up for the one they’d lost. There was Mouse, creeping down the street behind their backs, with Bonnie beside him. Two small shadows, as frail as eggs next to those whopping great soldiers.
Pounce’s gut felt as if someone’d tied it in a knot and stuck a knife through it. “Careful now, Mousie,” he whispered. “Take yer time! They ain’t seen ya yet. Don’t do nothin’ that’ll catch their eye!”
But the soldiers were on their mettle now. He could see it in the way they stood. He could see them remembering the warning yelp, and muttering to each other, and spreading out toward the shadows.
