Children of the Fox

by Kevin Sands

Lachlan returned before the others—and he, at least, came back successful. He showed up with a pair of porters, laden with various outfits, appropriate wear for just about anything we wanted to imitate. I tried on the togs he’d chosen for me. They fit perfectly.

  Lachlan beamed. “Told you I’d steer you right.”

  “That you did,” I said. “What about your old contacts?”

  “Found a few still in business. Asked if I was bringing back the Breakers, they did. Gave ’em a nod and a wink; the New Breakers, that’s us, eh? Won’t have the full kit at our hands, but we should be able to get some gear. Best be ready to pay through the nose, though, guv. ’Specially if we need fancier tricks. After the Stickmen smashed heads, prices are higher than a giraffe’s snoot.”

  I supposed that was to be expected. Anyway, we still had over eighteen thousand in Mr. Solomon’s pouch, which should carry us far enough.

  “Oi! Speaking of tricks,” Lachlan said, suddenly cross. “Which one of you lot did this?”

  He turned out the pocket of his jacket. It was filled with goop.

  Meriel crinkled her nose at the smell. “Ew. What is that?”

  “An egg! Someone put an egg in my pocket.”

  Meriel laughed as Lachlan plucked bits of shell from the yolk. He glared at her. “ ’S’not funny.”

  “It really is,” she assured him, but she put up her hands. “Wasn’t me. I bet it was Cal.”

  What? “I didn’t do it!”

  “See? That proves it’s him. Gaffers are born liars.”

  “I wasn’t born a liar,” I protested. “Anyway, why would I put an egg in his pocket?”

  “Who can understand your cruel ways?”

  Great. Now I’d have to watch for pranks—bucket of milk on the door, eel in the bed, that sort of thing.

  But as good-natured—and flighty—as Lachlan was, he’d al-ready forgotten about the egg by the time Gareth returned. The taller boy inched his way carefully into the common room, a stack of books balanced between his hands and his chin.

  “You steal them books?” Lachlan said curiously.

  Gareth blinked. “No. I—they let you borrow them . . . I mean, if you have a permit—oh—”

  As Gareth tried to place the stack on the table, it teetered, and a sheaf of papers sitting atop it fluttered away. Notes scattered everywhere. He went on his knees to pick them up. We joined him.

  “Oh, are you serious?” Meriel said suddenly. She plucked a page from the rug and looked it over. “Thanks for a lovely afternoon, Cal.”

  “What did I do?” I said, puzzled.

  “You took me to an insane asylum. Meanwhile, Gareth gets to sit in a nice, comfy library reading tales of the Spirits.”

  Now Gareth looked puzzled. Meriel held the paper up. One edge was jagged, the page clearly torn from a book. There was a colored illustration of a mountain at the top, just above the title, which she read out loud. “ ‘The Fox, the Bear, and the Lake of Ice.’ ”

  Gareth froze.

  “Oooh, read it,” Lachlan said. “I love Fox and Bear.”

  Gareth snatched the paper from her hands. He stared at it for a moment, barely breathing.

  I watched him carefully. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Sorry,” he mumbled. He slid the paper into the middle of the stack. Then he straightened the books so they made a perfect column. “I wasn’t reading it. It was just . . . I used . . . I needed a bookmark.”

  Now, that was interesting. He lied.

  There was no chance he was using that page as a bookmark. The stack he’d brought in was heavy and awkward, and just about anyone would have dumped them on the table and been done with it. Yet he’d laid them down like he was holding a baby.

  He cared about those books. He’d never, ever tear a page from one.

  What’s more, when he answered, he’d made it seem like he was embarrassed that he’d been caught slacking off, instead of preparing for the job. But I’d seen his reaction. He wasn’t embarrassed. He wasn’t even surprised.

  He was stunned.

  Which meant he hadn’t been caught with that page. He hadn’t known it was there at all.

  He glanced up at me, then looked away. Yes, I was certain. He’d lied. There was only one thing I couldn’t understand.

  Why would he lie about a Fox and Bear story?

  I filed his reaction to mull over later. At the moment, we had work to do. “Find anything?” I said.

  “J-just this.”

  Gareth pulled a book from the stack and handed it to me. I opened the volume, flipped to the title page, and read it out loud.

  The Weavers and Their Tools

  Being a Compendium of Magic Artifacts Known to the Common Man;

  Complete with Illustrations and Discussion of Bindings, Etc., Volume II

  “Look at page 372,” he said to me.

  I flipped forward—noting that, despite what he’d said earlier, Gareth clearly didn’t need bookmarks. The entry was under the category “Artifacts of Legend.”

  The Dragon’s Eye.

  The Dragon’s Eye, usually referred to simply as “the Eye,” is a focus of unknown power, though every estimate ranks it no less than Grade V.

  “What’s a focus?” Lachlan said.

  “It’s an instrument,” Gareth said. “For making enchantments. A Weaver passes souls through it and uses it to imbue an item. And grades are a m-measurement. Of magical power. Grade V is the highest.”

  “So this Eye . . .” Meriel said.

  “Is as powerful as an item can get.”

  Interesting. Was Mr. Solomon looking to perform a major enchantment? I continued.

  The Eye’s origin is likewise unknown. Legends state that it was given to the first High Weaver four thousand years ago, during the time of Creation, by Artha the Bear herself, though very few seriously believe this.

  The Eye has the appearance of a polished gemstone. It is roughly the size of a plum, amber in color, with one side rounded and one nearly flat. As a focus, it allows the shaping of energy at a level unmatched by any other tool.

  The stone is the property of the High Weaver.* Accounts suggest the Eye plays a critical role in some important ritual, but those details have never been revealed to the public.

  For further speculation, see G. Cribbs, Artifacts of the Old World.

  That was the end of the description. Gareth pointed to the asterisk, which apparently indicated a footnote. At the bottom, under the main text, was a passage in smaller print.

  *The Eye may not merely be the property of the High Weaver. According to some scholars, possession of the Eye actually defines the High Weaver. That is, whoever owns the stone may claim the title. Cribbs argues this is the explanation for the passage in an old Weaver record:

  The next part was spelled oddly. “It’s . . . an older version of our language,” Gareth said. He read it for us, a strange accent on his lips.

  And Thomas a’ Cyne taketh from hem the Eye, and clutched yt to hes brest, and declare to all that-by giveth hem the blessing of the Bere and so maketh hem the Grete Wever.

  “Wait.” Meriel frowned. “So . . . the Eye doesn’t just belong to the High Weaver. Whoever holds the Eye . . . becomes the High Weaver?”

  Oh, now. Finally, this job was beginning to make sense. Mr. Solomon wasn’t just hiring us to steal a jewel. He was trying to steal the High Weavership itself.

  Oran had said two million crowns was too big a payout. But if owning the Eye really made you the High Weaver . . . two million was nothing.

  Even so, Mr. Solomon surprised me. I wouldn’t have thought he’d want to be High Weaver. He craved power, yes, but he’d been so contemptuous of his colleagues. Why would he want to be in charge of a bunch of people he didn’t respect? I’d have thought he was looking for somet
hing more . . . I don’t know. Personal?

  “Hold up,” Lachlan said. “If we snaffle the Eye and keep it, does that mean we get to be High Weaver?”

  We looked at each other, startled.

  “Surely not,” Meriel said.

  “Why not? Book says it, yeah?”

  This was crazier than I’d imagined. Again I thought of Oran and the last thing he’d said. Something else is going on here. Something much, much bigger than us. Breakers stuck their noses in. Look what happened to them.

  I guess we’d found out what.

  Lachlan and Meriel were arguing. Apparently, Lachlan really wanted to be High Weaver. Gareth just sat there, frowning.

  “Is there more?” I said quietly.

  He glanced over at the others, then spoke so only I could hear him. No longer speaking to the crowd, he barely stammered at all. “No.”

  “Then what’s bothering you?”

  “There should be more.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Eye,” he said. “I skimmed through every book I could think of.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. That volume had the only mention I found of the Eye, anywhere.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “If what that book said is right,” he said, “then the Eye is incredibly important. Maybe the most important artifact the Weavers have. Every book should mention it. But n-none of them do. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “The Weavers aren’t exactly in the habit of telling people their business,” I pointed out.

  Gareth didn’t answer. I could hear the Old Man in the back of my head. He’s a lot cleverer than you, boy. Maybe you should listen.

  Not-so-veiled insult aside, the Old Man was right. “All right, Gareth. Look it over again. I’m sure you just missed something.”

  He nodded, still troubled.

  Before I could ask anything more, the window to the back alley banged open. Foxtail appeared, hanging upside down, ponytail swinging below her head.

  “Shuna's fluffy fur," Lachlan said. “That's a neat trick."

  Foxtail started gesturing at me, hands moving with urgency.

  “How is she hanging on?” Lachlan peered outside to see she’d hooked her foot around the water pipe. “Amazin’.”

  Lachlan didn’t seem to realize Foxtail was agitated. But Meriel did. She stood, throwing knife already in hand. “Someone coming?”

  Foxtail shook her head. She tried a few more gestures, but those were just as lost on us.

  “Can you write it down?” I said.

  Foxtail shook her head again. Still hanging upside down, she tried different gestures, moving more slowly. First, she drew what looked like a house in the air. Then she mimed two fingers walking across her palm. Then she pulled her palm away and smacked her hand. She had to do it a few times before I began to understand.

  “We have a problem,” I said.

  CHAPTER 16

  I leaned out the window.

  Foxtail had already clambered up the water pipe, vaulting onto the roof like she was born to it. Meriel followed gracefully, if not quite as nimbly. Lachlan climbed after them, eager, but careless.

  “Uh . . . can I follow on the omnibus?” I said.

  From the top of the hotel, Foxtail waved me up, impatient. Lachlan looked back, surprised I hadn’t gone up yet. “You don’t like the roof?”

  “My issue’s more with the ground,” I said. “Specifically, falling toward it.”

  “You not gonna come, then?”

  I sighed. The rooftops were called “The Thieves’ Highway” for a reason, but I wasn’t exactly the second-story type. After a few near-tumbles by a younger, clumsier me, the Old Man had kept us firmly on the streets.

  I grabbed on to the pipe and hauled myself skyward, the metal creaking alarmingly under my weight. Gareth stared up at us from the window of our suite, face pale. He made no attempt to climb out.

  I spared him. “You stay here. We need you looking for stuff about the Eye.”

  He nodded, then ducked his head back in, both grateful and ashamed.

  The rest of us took the Thieves’ Highway across the city. Foxtail ran ahead of us, bounding along the gutters, gables, and rooftops like she lived up here. Even Meriel, who showed no fear of heights, couldn’t match the ease with which the younger girl leapt across the city. Every part of her seemed to glow with joy.

  Lachlan loved it up here, too, but his skill didn’t match his enthusiasm. He went a little too fast and jumped a little too far, and three times he’d have plummeted if Meriel hadn’t been there to grab his collar. Foxtail wagged a finger at him, scolding him for his recklessness. He managed to look contrite for a moment, then continued on, as careless as before.

  As for me, I went as slowly as pride would allow. Which was pretty slow. Meriel took great delight in this. Shoes in hand and barefoot, she padded onto the narrowest of supporting beams, seventy feet above the street, and smiled at me. “Need any help?”

  “No,” I grumbled.

  “Because if you need help, I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Really, if you need me, just ask.”

  I cursed. She laughed as she skipped away.

  * * *

  Mr. Solomon had called the High Weaver’s home a palace. That didn’t really do it justice.

  All around the grounds—and it had to be nearly a half mile around—a seven-foot wall of red brick surrounded a lawn, perfectly manicured, complete with cobbled pathways, fountains, a hedge maze, and shrubbery trimmed into animal shapes ten feet high.

  The house itself was a three-story mansion of ancient stone—from the windows, I counted at least a hundred rooms inside—under an old copper roof with a bright green patina. In the very center stretched a single spire with a belfry at the top, though the space inside looked empty. It rose a hundred and fifty feet into the sky, giving what must have been a magnificent view to anyone who climbed it: the vast, wooded park to the south; the shore of Lake Galway to the east; the city surrounding the rest. Bolcanathair, the Seven Sisters volcano north of Carlow, loomed over it all.

  We approached from the west, where a wide, well-traveled street separated us from the main gate into the High Weaver’s property. One thing did strike me as odd: If the traps were down, the High Weaver surely would have brought in security. Yet I couldn’t see anyone standing guard.

  Foxtail crept to the edge of the roof and motioned us over. She scratched a square into the tarred shingles, then pointed to the grounds across the road.

  “The square is the house?” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “The outer wall?”

  She nodded. Then she drew a curve surrounding the wall. She placed her hand on the curve, blocking everything out.

  “You’re saying . . . there’s a barrier?”

  Foxtail nodded and sat back on her haunches.

  “I don’t see nothing,” Lachlan said.

  Foxtail shrugged and pointed.

  “Check it out,” I told him. “Make it look like you’re playing.”

  “Righto.”

  He shinnied down the water pipe into the back alley. On the ground, he stripped off his shirt, knotted it into a ball, then kicked it into the street. He weaved his way across, knocking his shirt through the wheels of an omnibus, until he got close to the main gate. Then he booted his makeshift ball over it.

  Or at least he tried. His shirt flew high, sailing in an arc.

  Then it bounced off the air and smacked him right in the face.

  CHAPTER 17

  Lachlan stared in amazement as his shirt rolled to a stop. Tentatively, he stretched a hand toward the gate. Suddenly, he jerked it back, staring at his palm in alarm.

  With a look of wonder, he turned to everyon
e who passed him, saying something we were too far away to hear. Most ignored him, but a few shared his surprise. One man stopped and wagged a finger at him, warning him away. That’s the High Weaver’s place, child. Clear off, if you know what’s good for you.

  Lachlan ignored the warning and collected his shirt from where it had been squashed by a passing carriage. He kneaded it back into a semblance of a ball, then returned to trying to kick it over the wall. He worked his way down, until we lost sight of him round the corner.

  We waited, several minutes, until Lachlan reappeared. He joined us back on the roof, sweaty, shirt dangling by one sleeve tucked under his waistband. A red mark swelled on his cheek.

  “Did you get hit with magic?” I said.

  “Nah. Knocked some bloke’s hat off by accident. He cuffed me.”

  “What about the barrier?” Meriel said.

  “Everywhere I tried,” Lachlan said in wonder, “it was like . . . I dunno. Freezing. Like a wall o’ winter. Made my fingers numb, it did.”

  Foxtail pointed to herself; she’d felt the same. She motioned, suggesting the barrier went all the way around the High Weaver’s grounds.

  This was not good. It looked like Darragh had managed to enchant a new ward after all—an invisible, impassable barrier.

  “What now?” Lachlan said.

  “That wall,” Meriel said, “or whatever it is. How— Oh, don’t wear that.”

  Lachlan had begun to put his muddy shirt back on. He stopped, one arm in a sleeve. “Why not? Still good, innit?”

  Meriel shook her head in disbelief. “The wall of winter. How high does it go?”

  “Dunno, luv,” Lachlan said. “Least twenty feet.”

  She looked at me speculatively. I remembered her parachute act. “You want to float in from above?” I said.

  “We have Mr. Solomon’s money,” she said. “All we’d need to do is to hire a balloon.”

  Foxtail tapped her on the arm. She made an upside-down bowl with her hands, then spread them. What if it’s a dome?