by Lian Tanner
“Double? She’s Old Lady Skint’s second-in-command—” By this stage they were running up Old Arsenal Hill. “The sailors reckon she’s sick,” continued Toadspit. “She hasn’t moved from her cabin since yesterday—”
“So she shouldn’t be a problem. But the other two—” “We could knock them out,” said Toadspit. “Or take Broo with us, and he could hold them at bay while we get Bonnie and Mouse off.”
Goldie stopped at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. Frisia was whispering in the back of her mind again, and before she knew what was happening she found herself—
—in the highlands of Merne, with Harmut, the Young Margrave of Spit. They had lost five men last night, captured by the raiders from Halt-Bern, and Frisia was determined to get them back. Her plans were—
“Goldie,” said Harmut.
Frisia shook her head at the interruption. Her plans were—
“Goldie! Wake up!” said Harmut. And he slapped her face.
“How DARE you?” she cried—
—and remembered who she was.
“Are you back?” said Toadspit fiercely.
“Yes,” said Goldie, wishing her legs would not tremble so
hard.
“Are you sure? Well, don’t do it again!”
“But Frisia had a plan for freeing her men! If I can find out
what it was—”
“I don’t care about Frisia’s plan,” cried Toadspit. “We need
a thief, not some mad warrior princess! We need you!” “But we can’t rescue Bonnie and Mouse without her—” “Yes, we can! We have to! What if you go all weird in the
middle of something important? What if you start killing
people?”
Goldie thought of Favor, and her protests evaporated. “Come on,” said Toadspit, grabbing her arm and pulling
her into the cul-de-sac.
And then they both stopped, because the cat was there before them, its fur clotted with blood, its claws scrabbling at
the cobblestones as it tried to take those last few steps toward the museum.
“Cat!” cried Goldie, throwing herself down beside the poor
battered creature. “What happened?”
The cat hissed furiously at her, then fell in a heap.
“I’ll fetch Olga Ciavolga,” said Toadspit, and he leaped up the steps of the museum.
Goldie knelt beside the cat. In the back of her mind, Princess Frisia was whispering about the wounds of battle, and—
—she could feel the sweat on her forehead, and the bruises, and hear fighting somewhere in the distance—
“No!” With an enormous effort, Goldie managed to drag herself back to the cul-de-sac. But ancient Merne was still there, no more than a fingertip away. And Princess Frisia was whispering again—
Goldie gasped, “I’m Goldie Roth, Fifth Keeper!”
It was not enough. She could feel herself being pulled toward Merne, toward another life. . . .
She shook her head. Toadspit was right. This was the life she wanted! She had fought for it; she had run away from home; she had risked everything to be who she was. And no warrior princess was going to take it from her!
She clutched the bluebird brooch and slowed her breath, as if she was about to Conceal herself. But instead of letting her mind drift outward, she brought it inward, until she could feel her heart beating, and the blood pulsing through her body, and her hopes and fears and dreams pulsing with it. This is me, she told herself. This is who I am!
She stayed like that and did not let herself think of anything else until Toadspit returned with Broo loping at his side and Olga Ciavolga no more than a second or two behind him.
“Let me see,” said the old woman, pushing Goldie out of the way and kneeling down in her place. “Pff, you have been in the wars, cat!”
—she could feel the sweat on her forehead, and the bruises—
“No!” whispered Goldie. “This is me!”
Broo lowered his great head and sniffed the cat’s matted fur. “Who has done this to you?”
“Ssss—ssss—sssssoldiers,” panted the cat.
A growl rumbled from the brizzlehound’s chest. “Soldiers? How DARRRRE they? You are MY enemy and they have no RRRRIGHT to touch you! Tell me where they are and I will EAT them!”
“Not now, Broo,” said Olga Ciavolga, putting her hand gently on the cat’s ribs. The cat hissed and showed its claws.
“Do not be foolish,” said the old woman. “You know that I am trying to help you.”
She picked the cat up as carefully as she could. It squalled once with pain; then its eyes closed and there was nothing but the shallow rise and fall of its ribs to show that it still lived.
“Will it be all right?” said Goldie.
“Cats are tough,” said Olga Ciavolga. “And the descendants of idle-cats are even tougher.”
As they hurried up the front steps, Goldie and Toadspit told the old woman what had happened to Bonnie and Mouse.
“SLAVVERRRRRRS?” rumbled Broo. “I will SHRRRRRED their bones! I will GRRRRIND them so small that the earth itself will forget they ever lived!”
“Griiiind,” whispered the cat approvingly, without opening its eyes.
“Hush,” said Olga Ciavolga. “Preserve your strength, cat. I am taking you to the sickroom. We will meet Sinew and Dan there, and the Protector, and talk about what must be done.”
But before they could get anywhere near the sickroom, the museum shifted, and shifted again, and the spiderwebs above their heads heaved and jerked, and the waters of Old Scratch rose.
And deep in the heart of the museum, behind the Dirty Gate, the generals in the war rooms took out their maps and spoke of invasion, and the plague rooms rustled with the sound of a thousand rats, each of which carried a thousand fleas, which in turn carried a disease that Jewel had not seen for centuries.
There was a time, not long ago, when Blessed Guardian Hope had thought she would never see her home again. A time when she had been hunted through the streets of Spoke like a wild animal.
She still remembered that awful moment on the Piglet when she had been caught in a Big Lie for the second time in as many days. As the hounds snapped at her heels, she had thought she was lost. But somehow she had managed to keep running, right up until dawn, when the Lie ended.
Ever since then, she had been longing to return to Jewel. But instead, she had remained in Spoke, carrying out her orders, sustained by the knowledge that Golden Roth and Toadspit Hahn were dead at last and that, one day soon, her reward would come.
Now that day was here, and she was determined that the Fugleman should know how brilliantly she had dealt with the brats.
She began her report in general terms. “I have good news, Your Honor! Everything you required has been done—the bribes, the blackmail, the threats. Spoke is ripe for invasion!”
The Fugleman nodded, as if he had expected nothing less. Hope cleared her throat. “Ah—I suppose Cord has told you about the children? It is old news, I know, but—”
“Cord has not yet returned to Jewel,” said the Fugleman.
A tremor of joy passed through Hope. “Oh dear, such a pity!” she said, clasping her hands in front of her. “I wonder where he could have got to? I told him to come straight here, but he has always been a little unreliable—”
“The children?” prompted the Fugleman.
“Ah yes, the children! Our coded messages did not permit me to tell you the identity of the two brats we stole. But now I can reveal it! One of them was a girl named Bonnie Hahn. The other was her brother, Cautionary, who calls himself Toadspit.” Guardian Hope allowed herself the shadow of a smile. “That name rings a bell, Your Honor, does it not? Imagine my delight when I discovered that the boy who had caused us so much trouble was in my power at last!”
The Fugleman raised an eyebrow, as if he wasn’t particularly interested in her delight. Hope pressed on, knowing that the best was yet to come.
“Unfortu
nately, we—ahem—had a little trouble with them, as you know, Your Honor. Another child turned up and helped them escape. But I am here to report that we recaptured them. And now they are dead. Toadspit Hahn, Bonnie Hahn and”—she paused, savoring the moment—“and Golden Roth! All dead, thrown to the sharks on my orders!”
The Fugleman inspected her for a long moment. He did not seem nearly as surprised at the identity of the children— or as pleased to hear of their gruesome fate—as Hope had expected. “Are you sure of this?” he said.
“Of course, Your Honor! Have I ever failed you?” “Hmm,” said the Fugleman, pursing his lips.
That was when Hope noticed the boy. What was his name?
Bounce? Pounce? He stepped forward, his face eager. “What she’s sayin’, it’s all rubbish, Yer Honor! Get me friend off Old Lady Skint’s ship and I’ll tell ya what really ’appened.”
The Fugleman leaned back in his chair. “Very well, Pounce. Let us hear this information. If it is as good as you say, your friend will go free.”
“It’s good, all right.” The boy grinned nastily at Hope. “And ’ere’s why: I don’t know what ’appened to Bonnie, but Goldie and Toadspit ain’t dead. They’s alive and in Jewel. In fact—” Pounce hesitated, as if he was struggling with his conscience. Then his face hardened and he said, “In fact, they’s the ones what’s been makin’ trouble. A lot of that Hidden Rock stuff, that’s them. They’s livin’ in a museum—”
Hope could not stay silent. “Your Honor, I saw those children bound and helpless!” She sneered at Pounce. “I suppose you’re going to tell us that they managed to escape, and overpower Cord and Smudge? Pah! You weren’t even there!”
The Fugleman steepled his fingers under his chin. “She has a point, Pounce. You weren’t there, were you? On the Piglet? You’re not keeping secrets from me?”
“Nah,” said Pounce quickly, “I got good contacts, that’s all. Not like old Flense here, who’s out of date, as usual.”
Guardian Hope seethed at the insult. But at the same time she felt a flicker of doubt. After all, she hadn’t actually seen the brats fed to the sharks. . . .
“This is most enlightening,” said the Fugleman, tapping the hilt of his sword against his chin.
“So you’ll let Mousie go? That’s me friend. You could go and see Old Lady Skint right now—”
“Patience, boy, patience.” His Honor smiled. “I don’t suppose your sources know where Cord and Smudge have got to? They’re supposed to be here by now, but they haven’t arrived.”
There was something about that smile that reminded Hope of the hounds that had pursued her so relentlessly. A bitter rage filled her heart. If Golden Roth had escaped . . .
“Maybe they’s scared,” said Pounce. “’Cos they let the snotties go. Maybe they can’t face ya.”
“Hmm,” said the Fugleman. “Most enlightening. The trouble is—” He pushed his chair back and the smile disappeared. “The trouble is, I don’t believe you!”
He strode to the door and flung it open. “Smudge!” he roared.
Hope sniggered angrily at the expression on Pounce’s face. Ha! she thought. You weren’t expecting that!
Smudge shuffled into the room, as big and stupid as ever. When he saw the boy, he shook his head sorrowfully. “I waited, Cap’n, just like ya told me. But ya didn’t come back. So I come lookin’ for ya.”
Hope’s brief moment of pleasure evaporated. “I don’t understand.” She turned to the Fugleman. “Why is he calling the boy Captain? And if he’s here, why isn’t Cord? What did happen on board the Piglet—”
There was a shout from Smudge as Pounce made a dash for freedom. His Honor’s sword whipped across the doorway, blocking the boy’s exit.
“Not thinking of leaving us, are you, Pounce? I thought you wanted to go and see Old Lady Skint?” The Fugleman bared his teeth. “And so you shall, boy. You can go this afternoon with the next load of children. In chains!” He nodded at one of the Guardians who hovered outside the door. “Take him away! And find something useful for Smudge to do.”
As soon as they were gone, the Fugleman turned on Hope. “You don’t understand, Guardian? It is perfectly simple. Smudge has told me what happened on board the Piglet. To put it simply, it was a disaster. Cord, who should be alive, is dead. All three children, who should be dead, are alive! And now it seems that they are the ones who have been causing me so much trouble! You have failed me, Hope. I gave you a simple task to carry out and you failed miserably!”
If His Honor had said such terrible words to her six months ago, Blessed Guardian Hope would have cowered before him and begged for mercy. But her time in Spoke had changed her. While the Fugleman had been in the House of Repentance, pretending to be a humble prisoner, she had ruled an entire gang of vicious criminals. And when the Big Lie took her, she had risked her life and nearly lost it.
She drew herself up, her chest swelling. “I did everything you asked of me and more,” she snapped. “And I will not stand here and be abused for Cord’s failings!”
The Fugleman was not used to such plain speaking. His face darkened, and Hope felt the shadow of the dungeons pass over her. But she could not back down, not now. There was too much at stake.
“If the children are alive, as you say,” she continued quickly, “then we must recapture them as soon as possible. Otherwise anyone will think they can defy us. Fortunately, I have an idea.”
For a heart-stopping moment her future hung in the balance. Then His Honor laid his sword on his desk, wiped a spot from his sleeve and said, “And this idea is . . . ?”
Hope felt a thrill of righteousness. After twenty years of service, she had the Fugleman listening to her at last! Now all she had to do was come up with an idea for capturing the children before he changed his mind.
In the next breath she thought of—and discarded—half a dozen strategies. The brats would be warier than ever by now. What clever trick could she use to catch them?
The answer came to her like a gift from the Seven Gods. “Pounce sounded very keen to win the release of his friend. May I use him?”
“If you must.”
Guardian Hope smiled malevolently. “In that case, you can leave it to me, Your Honor. I will set a trap for those children that will see them enslaved for the rest of their lives. And this time nothing will go wrong!”
The trap
That discussion in the sickroom was the darkest Goldie had ever known. Not even Sinew could raise a smile. But by the time Olga Ciavolga had bandaged the cat’s paw and strapped its broken ribs, the five keepers and the Protector had come up with a plan.
“Mind you, I don’t like it,” murmured Herro Dan. “Too
many things could go wrong.” He chewed his thumbnail and grimaced at Goldie and Toadspit. “I wish more than anythin’ that I could go with you.”
Olga Ciavolga nodded agreement, and so did Sinew. But then they had to break off to sing to the ever-more-restless rooms, and it was clear that the senior keepers could not be spared.
When the children had made their preparations, Olga Ciavolga sent them to get some sleep, so they would be fresh for the night’s rescue. But Goldie could not sleep. The museum was seething, its rooms shifting every few minutes, and she knew that the three older keepers were struggling to keep control. One of the ships in Rough Tom had already fallen apart, cracked open like a nut. The tree in the Vacant Block dropped limbs on anyone who ventured near it. The Dirty Gate creaked and groaned as if it might swing open at any moment and loose a myriad of horrors on an unsuspecting city.
Goldie’s mind seethed too, running over and over their plans for the night ahead until she felt like screaming. It was almost a relief when she heard Morg flap heavily past her door, crying, “Thie-e-e-e-f. Thie-e-e-e-e-e-f!”
She ran out of her room and bumped straight into Toadspit. They followed Morg to the kitchen, where they found Pounce cramming dumplings into his mouth and silver spoons into his pockets.
He
shrugged when he saw them, and dropped the spoons back on the table, saying, “I thought they was just rubbish. I was doin’ yez a favor, gettin’ rid of ’em.”
Then his face changed and he said, “Listen, ya know Old Lady Skint’s in town?”
“Yes,” said Toadspit, expressionless. “We know.”
“Ya know she’s got Mouse and Bonnie?”
“Yes.”
“Well, here’s somethin’ ya don’t know. I just seen a new load of prisoners bein’ marched down to the slave ship. Not just snotties this time—there was grown-ups too. I thought one of the blokes looked a bit like someone I knew, so I asked around. Found out ’is name—”
“Na-a-a-ame,” croaked Morg, curling her claws around the back of a chair.
“It was Roth. “Arken Roth.”
Goldie’s skin felt suddenly hot and tight. Her voice, when she spoke, seemed to belong to someone else. “Harken Roth?” she whispered. “Pa?”
“That’s it,” said Pounce. “’Arken Roth and ’is wife, Grace.”
“Ma too?” Goldie was afraid she might fall over.
“And their friends. The Hahns.”
Toadspit shook his head, as if he was trying to make Pounce’s words go away. “No! No!”
“Reckon Old Lady Skint’s collectin’ slaves for the salt mines,” said Pounce, watching Goldie out of the corner of his eye. “Folk don’t last long doin’ that sorta work. Reckon she’s come to get replacements for all the dead ’uns.”
“De-e-e-e-e-e-ead,” croaked Morg, raising one great claw to scratch herself behind the ear. “De-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-ead.”
“No,” said Toadspit again. But this time there was such heartbreak in his voice that Goldie could hardly bear it.
“It doesn’t change anything,” she said, although her own pain was like an iron band around her chest. “It just gives us a few more people to rescue.”
“Whaddaya mean?” said Pounce, who had grabbed another dumpling and was edging toward the door.
“We were going in tonight anyway, to get Bonnie and Mouse out. And—” She stopped, not wanting to tell Pounce too much about their plans.
