by Lian Tanner
Toward Mouse and Bonnie.
The little boy’s eyes found Pounce, and his face lit up like the first day of spring. He waved, thinking he was out of danger.
“No, Mousie!” groaned Pounce.
The mercenaries’ heads snapped around, four of them, their eyes caught by that waving hand. Big lunks of men, all muscle and meanness, their bodies winding up to throw themselves at Pounce’s white-haired boy.
Pounce screamed. “Mouse! Run!”
Everyone in the street must’ve heard him. The mercenaries turned around just long enough to pinpoint him with their nasty eyes; then they leaped after Mouse, who was already skittering down the footpath with Bonnie by his side, quick as a hare.
But the soldiers were quicker. Pounce jigged up and down on the spot, watching four pairs of heavy boots gain on his friend.
“Run!” he groaned. “Run!”
The little boy was doing his best. So was Bonnie. They tore down the street, elbows pumping. As they ran, something broke away from them and flew at the mercenaries, all claws and teeth. It was the cat! The scruffy old cat that had come with them from Spoke! It ripped into the soldiers with a wail of fury, stopping three of them in their tracks as they tried to fight it off.
But the other man jumped past it, then turned around and laid into it with the butt of his rifle, shouting for backup. Three more soldiers appeared out of nowhere and took over the chase. The street rang with screams and wails. Pounce’s heart clanged in his chest like a cracked bell.
“Run,” he whispered, in a voice that he didn’t recognize. “Mousie. Please. Run.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Bonnie stumbled and one of the mercenaries snatched her off the ground. Another man reached for Mouse. The little boy dived sideways. He doubled back. He skipped behind a street-rig, then up and over the top of it and down the other side.
But there were two grown men on his tail, and it was only a matter of time before they caught him. Pounce couldn’t bear to watch. He closed his eyes.
That made it worse.
He opened them—
And saw Mouse surrounded. Trapped. All the air gone out
of him as he stared up at his captors.
The air had gone out of Pounce too. He could hardly breathe. And when Mouse and Bonnie were chained to the other snotties and marched off, Pounce staggered after them, gasping like an old man. His arms waved helplessly. He opened and shut his mouth, and no sound came out. But inside, he was screaming.
He didn’t think things could get any worse. But he was wrong. As the chained snotties approached the docks, a woman began to wail. It was a frightening sound, as high and desperate as a wounded dog, and it shook Pounce to the core.
A man’s voice joined in, and another woman’s. The mercenaries shouted at them, but they took no notice. All the parents were wailing now, and the snotties screamed and cried.
Pounce stared around, frightened out of his wits and not knowing why. He looked up, beyond the wharves, to the waters of the bay—
—and saw a ship. A fast barky, sleek and predatory as a hawk, curving across the waves toward them. Sailors were strung along its cross masts, rolling up the bloodred sails. Pounce could hear the throb of gas engines start up as it neared the wharf.
On the foredeck of the barky stood a massive old woman with long, frizzy black hair that whipped to one side in the sea breeze. She wore britches and a leather coat. As the ship came closer, Pounce thought he saw a pistol in her hand.
He knew straight away who she was. He had heard her described in hushed whispers by a score of sailors. He had seen engravings of her new ship, the Silver Lining, pasted all over Spoke, with the words WANTED FOR SLAVERY stamped across them.
He heard himself whimper. He looked for Mouse’s white head, and the tears poured down his face at the thought of what was coming.
Harrow had sold the children of Jewel to Old Lady Skint.
Old Lady Skint
Old Lady Skint was as tall as the mercenaries who waited on the docks to greet her, and twice as wide. On her bosom, a tribe of beetles crawled back and forth, tethered by silken threads.
Pounce saw one of the mercenaries swallow and take a step backward. Old Lady Skint smiled at him. Her lips stretched so tight that they looked as if they might split. Her teeth gleamed. Her chins wobbled. Her hard black eyes didn’t change a jot.
“This the whole lot, or just the first installment?” she said, tipping her chins toward the chained snotties.
“There’s a few more to come,” said a mercenary. “Fugleman said to bring ’em down over a couple of days. Make sure everyone in the city knows what’s going on. He reckons they’ll get the message better that way.”
Pounce was starting to regain his wits, and his thoughts were as dark as the darkest sewer. There was no way he was going to let this nasty old beetle-witch take Mouse away. He had to get the little snotty out somehow.
Trouble was, the old lady’s crew—their faces tattooed with ferocious black stripes—were already hustling the children up the gangway onto the Silver Lining. Behind them, their parents wailed louder than ever.
“Idjits!” Pounce whispered savagely. “No use cryin’. Ya should be thinkin’, like me!”
Trouble was, his thinking wasn’t doing him any good. Didn’t seem like the ship was going to leave straight away. But even if it stayed for a night or two, Pounce couldn’t see any way of bringing Mouse off safely. Not with the chains and the mercenaries and that vicious-looking crew. Not without getting caught himself.
And what good would it do his friend if they were both tucked up in the hull of a slave ship with iron on their ankles?
No, he had to be cleverer than that. He had to forget about the crew, forget about the mercenaries, forget about the beetle-witch. And who was left, once you got rid of all them?
Harrow.
And what was Harrow always wanting more of, in Pounce’s experience?
Information.
“I kept me promise, Mousie,” whispered Pounce as he slipped away from the weeping mob and headed back down the wharf toward the city. “I didn’t go near Harrow. Didn’t say nothin’ to no one about them three snotties or the Hidden Rock. But things’ve changed. Ya can see that, can’t ya? I gotta have somethin’ to sell or he won’t listen.”
He felt as if Mouse were there by his side, arguing with him. He bit his lip. “Tell ya what. I won’t say nothin’ about Bonnie—about ’er bein’ on the slave ship already. I’ll just tell ’im about Goldie and Toadspit. Them two is big enough and ugly enough to take care of themselves.”
He ducked across a bridge and ran along the Grand Canal, trying to ignore the hard twist of fear in his guts. Visiting Harrow was always a dodgy business. You never knew what sort of mood he’d be in. And while it was true that Pounce had good solid information to sell, there were also a few things that he meant to keep secret.
Like the part he had played in Cord’s death. And the fact that the Piglet was tucked up in a nearby bay, ready to set sail for the Southern Archipelago. And, of course, the whole story of General Pounce and his army of snotties . . .
Harrow didn’t like secrets. Or rather, he didn’t like other people’s secrets. They offended him.
And when Harrow was offended, you never knew what might happen.
“They probably just got bored and wandered off,” said Goldie as she and Toadspit hurried across Lame Poet’s Bridge. “Sinew’s worrying over nothing. We’ll find them soon.”
Toadspit nodded, no more convinced by Goldie’s words than she herself was. They had already scoured more than half the Old Quarter with no sign of the missing children. Now the streets around them were filling with men and woman who stared toward the docks and whispered to each other with horror in their eyes.
When she saw those gathering crowds, Goldie felt as if a wire had snapped around her throat. Without another word to each other, she and Toadspit began to run.
They reached the docks in
time to see Mouse and Bonnie marched up the gangway of a strange ship. It took them no more than a few seconds to discover who the ship belonged to, and what its trade was. The knowledge was like a blow to the belly. Toadspit slumped to the ground, as if he were wounded. Goldie crouched beside him, surrounded by wailing parents.
She wanted to comfort them. She wanted to say, “It’ll be all right, don’t worry, we’ll find a way out of this!” But the useless, lying words stuck in her throat, and she could not speak. If she had had a sword at hand at that moment, she would have drawn it, regardless of the consequences.
With a great effort, she swallowed her rage and despair. “We need information,” she said to Toadspit. “The more the better. Meet me back here in half an hour.”
Now that the breeze had swept the fog away, the morning was bright and sunny. Normally, Concealment by Imitation of Nothingness would be impossible on a day like this. Unless there was a crowd.
Goldie found a corner where she would not be bumped and closed her eyes. She slowed her breathing, and let herself become a part of the wharf and the pilings and the bright sea air.
I am nothing. I am the smell of salt water. . . .
As her mind drifted outward, the grief of the crowd hit her like a claw hammer. She gasped and quickly pulled her thoughts back and held them close so that she would not be overwhelmed. Then, with Nothingness wrapped around her like a cloak, she slid out of the corner and made her way toward Old Lady Skint.
The slaver, with her crew in attendance, was talking to two Blessed Guardians. On her bosom, half a dozen captive beetles tugged at their threads.
I am nothing. I am a forgotten dream of freedom. . . . Goldie edged closer and realized that one of the black-clad figures was Guardian Kindness, and that he was arguing with Old Lady Skint.
“What you do not seem to understand,” he said, “is that this is an honor. The Lord High Protector does not issue many invitations—”
“That’s Harrow, is it?” interrupted Old Lady Skint. “The Lord High whatsit?” She laughed, and her crew laughed with her. “He always liked fancy titles, did Harrow. Why don’t he just declare himself king and be done with it?”
“Ah—we don’t actually have a king,” murmured Guardian Meek, who stood at Guardian Kindness’s side. “But my colleague and I will certainly pass your suggestion—”
“I need a reply!” snapped Guardian Kindness. “Will you and your crew come to the Protectorate tonight or will you not? I warn you, it will be taken very badly if you do not appear. I cannot answer for the consequences.”
There was a murmur of anger from the sailors on either side of Goldie. The stripes on their faces twitched.
Old Lady Skint spat a glob of phlegm onto the wharf and smiled. “I hope you’re not threatenin’ me, Guardian.”
“Not at all,” said Kindness, through gritted teeth.
“It’s just a matter of catering,” said Meek quickly, peering at the sailors. “How many desserts, that sort of thing . . .”
Her voice trailed off. One of Old Lady Skint’s beetles had beheaded its neighbor and was steadily eating its way through the corpse.
“Mmm,” said the slaver captain, stroking the beetle’s carapace with the tip of her finger. “I suppose a banquet might be a nice change.”
She raised her voice. “What about it, ratbags? Shall we say yes to their fancy food? Roast goat stuffed with skylarks?” One of her eyelids drooped in a wink. “Jellied crows stuffed with their own self-importance?”
The sailors roared with laughter and nudged each other. Goldie slid away from their elbows, as silent as a memory. I am nothing. Nothing!
Old Lady Skint held up her hand for silence. “Yeah, all right, we’ll come. Or most of us will. It’s tonight, you say? At the Protectorate?” She jerked a thumb at two of the sailors, one of whom had only half a nose. “Mince and Jangle, you’ll stay behind and keep watch. You and Double.”
The two men protested, but their captain cut them off. “Don’t worry, we’ll bring you back some jellied crow.”
Guardian Kindness sniffed at the insult and said, “Only three sailors to guard so many children? I would be careful if I were you. The Fugleman will not be happy if any of them escape.”
“Escape?” said the slaver captain, raising her eyebrows. “From Old Lady Skint?” She turned to her crew and waved a fleshy hand as if she was conducting an orchestra. “Is that gunna happen?”
“Nooooo!” bellowed the sailors.
The captain bowed in a mocking fashion. “Thanks for that vote of confidence, ratbags. Now get back to work before I hang the lot of yez!”
And with that, the sailors moved away, chuckling, and Goldie was forced to move with them or risk being discovered.
Pounce wouldn’t normally have gone anywhere near the House of Repentance. But today he didn’t have a choice. He slid past the great gun and into the courtyard, where a score of Guardians stalked back and forth with their robes flapping and their heads together.
“Hey!” shouted Pounce. “You lot!”
The conversations cut off like a tap. The Guardians glared at him.
“I wanna see Harr—” Pounce broke off. What was it they called him here? “Um, that Foobleman bloke. I wanna see ’im.”
The Guardians couldn’t have looked more disgusted if a gutter rat had reared up on its hind legs and spoken. “You want to see the Fugleman?” drawled one of them. “Well, I doubt very much that he wants to see you!”
And they laughed and turned their backs.
But Pounce wasn’t to be put off so easily. “I got some information for ’im! Valuable information.”
The Guardians scowled over their shoulders and rattled the chains around their waists. As if a few old chains were going to scare someone who’d grown up on the streets of Spoke!
Pounce skipped a bit closer, so he didn’t have to shout. “Course, yez don’t ’ave to take me to ’im,” he said, in a conversational tone. “I can wait till ’e comes out. But when ’e asks me why it took so long to get this valuable information to ’im, I’ll ’ave to tell ’im. ‘It was your pet crows,’ I’ll say. ‘I told ’em ’ow important it was, but they thought they knew better.’”
The Guardians stopped walking and looked at each other uncertainly.
“I wonder what ’e’ll say to that.” Pounce grinned.
From there on, it was easy. Two of the Guardians swooped on him and dragged him up the long steps and into the building. Pounce could have got away, but this was what he wanted, after all.
At least, he thought it was.
He kept his mouth shut until they dragged him into the richest room he’d ever seen. Carpet on the floor, as thick as grass. Big fat chairs all around the walls. Big fat shiny lights hanging from the ceiling. Pounce’s mouth fell open, and for once in his life he couldn’t think of a single smart comment.
Harrow—the Foobleman—was sitting behind a desk, writing. He was all dressed in black and silver, like some sort of king, with a fancy sword laid out in front of him. When he saw Pounce, he looked down his nose in disgust.
“What is this?” he said.
The Guardians, who’d been as tough as old rope when it was just them and Pounce, bowed and smiled and bowed again for all they were worth.
“Beg pardon, Your Honor,” said one of them. “This bit of scum says he has valuable information. He’s probably lying, but we thought it best—”
The Foobleman raised an eyebrow.
The Guardian swallowed. “Right. We’ll take him to the cells and whip him, Your Honor. Yes, Your Honor. That’s what we’ll do, Your Honor.”
He began to back away, dragging Pounce with him.
Pounce dug in his heels. “Hey, Harrow,” he said. “Remember me?”
One of the Guardians smacked him across the ear. “You address him as Your Honor!”
“Yeah, all right,” said Pounce, rubbing his ear. “Yer Honor?”
The Foobleman raised the other eyebrow.
> “It’s Pounce, Yer Honor. I done some jobs for ya in Spoke.”
“Ah. Yes, I remember.” The Foobleman waved at the Guardians to leave the two of them alone.
Pounce waited until they had gone. Then he took a step forward. “Thing is,” he said, “a friend of mine’s been taken up by your mercenaries and given over to Old Lady Skint. ’E’s only a little runt of a thing, won’t fetch no more than half a thaler in the slave market. Prob’ly less. You’ll prob’ly ’ave to pay someone to take ’im—”
The Foobleman held up a finger, stopping him. “You want your friend back.”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“And what are you offering me in return?”
“Well—” began Pounce. And then he stopped. It should have been easy to hand over Goldie and Toadspit in exchange for Mouse. But he had promised to say nothing. He had promised on the heads of the white mice, which was the most sacred thing he and Mouse knew. Neither of them had ever broken a vow made like that.
The Foobleman tapped the hilt of his sword impatiently. Behind Pounce, the door opened.
“Beg pardon, Your Honor,” muttered one of the Guardians. “You’ve got another visitor. It’s—”
A hand shoved him to one side. A figure in a torn green cloak marched past him, right up to the Foobleman’s desk. “It’s Guardian Hope reporting for duty, Your Honor!”
Betrayal
Half an hour after they had parted, Goldie and Toadspit met up again. They were desperate to tell each other what they had learned, but the thought of what might be happening to Bonnie and Mouse in the slave holds of the Silver Lining drove them back to the museum at a run. They passed their information to each other in whispered fragments whenever they could catch their breath.
“Some of the slavers and the mercenaries know each other,” hissed Toadspit. “I heard them talking. The slavers 170
wanted to know where they could get wine, and the mercenaries were warning them to watch out for plague. And demons!”
“There’s a banquet tonight at the Protectorate. They’re going to leave the ship with only three sailors on board! I don’t know who Double is—”
