by Kevin Sands
Lachlan was devastated. “Burned? The High Weaver burned him?”
Meriel had gone a little pale. “Do you think he fell into one of Darragh’s traps? Or was this punishment?”
I didn’t know. The traps were supposed to be gone—but then, the wall of winter wasn’t supposed to be there, either. “How did he get past the willbind?”
“Maybe he tried pushing through it. And it killed him.”
“The barrier is cold, not hot.” Lachlan nodded; we’d both felt the chill on our skin.
So what had done this? I looked to Gareth, but he’d shrunk into himself as usual. Lachlan, miserable, was near tears. Meriel pushed her half-finished plate away, chewing her thumbnail. As for the final member of our team . . .
“Where’s Foxtail?”
Meriel shrugged. “She went out last night, after cleaning up. Didn’t say where.”
“She’s not back yet?”
“I don’t think so. Her bed hasn’t been slept in.”
Lachlan looked worried. “They didn’t kill her, too?”
This was getting out of hand. “I’m sure Foxtail’s fine,” I said. “As for Oran, it might not have been one of the High Weaver’s traps. Shuna’s teeth, it might not have been the High Weaver at all. The Stickmen might have killed him, then pretended they found him in the river. Wouldn’t be the first time they got rid of an enemy.”
In retrospect, that wasn’t any more encouraging. Searching the glum faces in front of me, I could tell they were thinking of quitting. And why not? Magic artifacts, willbinds, murders . . . this was getting so far out of our league, we could barely see the game.
I sat there, feeling my future slip away. And theirs.
Which, surprisingly, bothered me just as much.
They were all looking to me to figure a way out of this. I wanted to shout at them: I’m not your leader! That’s not what gaffers do! When things get tough, we run away! That’s the smart play!
Right, Old Man?
Thing is, it really was the smart play. I knew that. So why didn’t I run? Take Mr. Solomon’s expense money and go.
Why did I care?
In desperation, I turned to the Old Man. I might have hated it, but if anyone could work out this gaff, it was him.
What do you expect me to do? he said. I’m not there anymore, as you keep pointing out.
Just tell me what you’d try. Tell me how you’d get in.
The same way as always. Through people.
I know that, I said. I’d lost track of the number of times he’d given that lesson. But I don’t have the time to play a gaff that’ll get someone to let me past the barrier.
There are ways around that.
I thought about it. You mean . . . find a weakness?
He nodded. A weakness in your mark will give you a shortcut. If you can find one, time won’t be your problem.
But finding a weakness takes time, I protested.
Even he didn’t have an answer for that.
* * *
I went back to my room, my scars hurting worse than usual, and lay on my bed, thinking of Darragh’s apprentices. They were the only ones we knew of who had the freedom to come and go from the grounds—other than the High Weaver himself, and we weren’t going anywhere near him. The first task, then, was to find out who the apprentices were. I asked Gareth if he could do it.
He shook his head. “Weavers keep their records in their enclave. They d-don’t let strangers in, ever.”
I sat up. “Mr. Solomon!” I said.
Surely he’d have access. But when I sent Galawan with my request, the message he returned was deflating.
Mr. Solomon refused to ask for the records. His request would be recorded, he said, and if it came to the High Weaver’s attention, that would end the whole job before it started. His response ended by telling us we were not to inquire at the Enchanters’ Enclave for any reason.
His note was perfectly polite, but I read the undercurrent well enough. You’re on your own. And don’t you dare poke the Weavers.
So that was the end of that. Which left everyone on the brink of giving up. Dutifully, Gareth continued with his research, though I could tell he didn’t think much of our chances. Meriel and Lachlan weren’t even trying. With nothing to do, the pair of them swiftly grew bored.
Meriel entertained herself by practicing her throwing knives. Her favorite target was me; she kept trying to shear off the top of the quill I was using to write down ideas. Got it twice, too.
I ignored her as best I could, but Lachlan pestered me just as much, having a whistling duel with Galawan while asking a never-ending string of questions. I gave him mostly grunts in return, until he asked me something that made me pause.
“Is the Architect your dad?”
The room went quiet. Though the others looked busy, I could tell they were listening. Even Gareth.
“No,” I said.
“So how’d you get in with him?”
I really didn’t want to talk about this. And yet, for some reason, I answered. “He found me on the street when I was six.”
“Were you a Breaker?”
“Never. Some girl took care of me. I don’t know who she was. I called her Mum, but she was far too young for that. She was kind, though. Kept me fed, found us places to hide.”
“What happened to her?”
I shrugged. “Went out to find food. Never came back.”
I couldn’t remember what she looked like. I hadn’t seen her in so long, the memory of her face was lost. But I could recall one thing with perfect clarity. Her voice.
“She used to sing to me,” I said. Softly, so no one else could hear. Lullabies, to help me sleep.
Thinking about her made my heart break. It upset me that I couldn’t remember her face, even as I knew, if I saw her in a crowd, I’d recognize her instantly. I looked, sometimes. Even though I knew she was dead.
“And then the Architect found you?” Lachlan said.
“Not exactly,” I said. “After a few days, I got hungry enough that I went out on my own. Got caught, the very first time, stealing an apple. Some thief, eh?”
“Caught a few beatings meself, guv,” he said cheerfully.
“Yeah. Except the applemonger didn’t beat me. He handed me over to the Stickmen.”
Lachlan’s smile faded. Gareth and Meriel looked away. They all knew what that meant.
“Anyway,” I said, “the Old Man found me after that. The Stickmen dumped me on the side of the road. A few minutes later, the Old Man walked by, whistling, and spotted me in the gutter. He seemed to think for a moment, then crossed the street, leaned over, and said, ‘You look like you could use a job.’ And that was it. I traveled with him for the next eight years. Taught me everything I know.”
“Why’d you leave?”
Why, indeed. “We had a fight.”
“About what?”
“Lachlan,” Meriel said. “Hush.”
She glanced over at me, then looked away.
Lachlan wasn’t sure what he did wrong. “Sorry, guv. Didn’t mean nothing by it.” Unabashed, he turned to Gareth. “How about you, Gar? How’d you learn to read so good?”
I didn’t think Gareth would answer. So it was a surprise when he said quietly, with barely any stammer, “An old mentor of my mother’s, in the Westport Breakers. He taught me. They had me find floor plans, forge documents, that sort of thing. I wasn’t good for much else.”
“What’s that mean? You do tricks right proper. Snaffle a mouse from a cat, you could.”
“I taught myself. With the cards, I mean. The Breakers didn’t like me much.”
“Then they’s stupid, ain’t they?”
Gareth smiled sadly.
“So you learned from this geezer?” Lachlan said. “And he was a forger?”
“A little. Mostly, it was this— There was—” Gareth paused, looking at us. Then he cast his eyes down again. “This old librarian,” he said finally. “He helped me l-learn how to look for things. Excuse me.”
Gareth buried himself back in his books. I don’t think the others realized he’d started to say something different—he’d actually wanted to say something different—and then he’d changed his story entirely.
I watched him. He knew I did; he refused to meet my eyes.
“What about you, Mer?” Lachlan said. “What’s your story?”
She rose and went to her room. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said.
She shut the door.
* * *
I ended up in my room, too, to give myself a moment’s peace from Lachlan’s boredom. I may as well have stayed in the common room, for all the good it did. I still had nothing, and I wouldn’t unless we somehow learned about the High Weaver’s apprentices.
A few hours later came a knock. It was soft and timid. “Come in, Gareth.”
He entered, three books tucked under his arms. If he was surprised I knew it was him, he didn’t show it.
“Find something?” I asked.
He shut the door behind him with his foot. “No. I mean, yes. I mean . . . well . . .”
I didn’t prompt him. He laid the books on my desk. “I know why I couldn’t . . . There’s nothing to find . . . The Eye,” he said.
Sometimes interpreting what Gareth was saying was as hard as deciphering Foxtail. “There’s something in these you want to show me?”
He nodded to the book he’d placed in front of me. “There’s supposed to be information in there. About the Eye. Page 148.”
I looked at the title—Notable Weaver Arcana—and began flipping through the pages, reading the little numbers in the top corner. 142, 144, 146 . . .
150.
I frowned. “There is no 148.”
“No,” he said.
“What happened to it?”
“The s-same thing as the others.” He motioned to the rest of the books. “Someone’s cut out all the pages.”
CHAPTER 20
I riffled through the other two books. Sure enough, there were pages cut from the texts. The second book was missing two; the third, seven. If I stretched the spines enough, I could just see the edges where they’d been sheared, close to the binding. The cuts were clean, professional. If Gareth hadn’t pointed it out, I’d never have noticed.
I got a strong image then. That day we’d hid in the snakesroost. The Old Man, not knowing the end of his story.
Why would anyone steal a page of Fox and Bear? I’d asked.
I had exactly the same question today. “Why would anyone do this?”
“I suppose . . . I mean . . . they didn’t want anyone to know about the Eye,” Gareth said.
“Yes, but why cut out the pages? Why not just destroy the books entirely?”
Gareth looked shocked. “That would be . . . You can’t. I mean . . . people would notice. The librarians. If books went missing.”
That made sense. Although . . . “What about that first book you showed us? That had a page on the Eye.”
“It was misfiled,” Gareth said. “The book, I mean. I found it . . . I stumbled over it when I looked at . . . It was an accident. It wasn’t where it was s-supposed to be.”
So we’d got lucky. Still, it begged the question. “Who would do this?”
“I just assumed . . . the Weavers,” Gareth said.
I thought of Mr. Solomon and was reminded that he himself had tried to keep the nature of the Eye a secret. Maybe he cut the pages out, because he was worried we’d learn how important the Eye was and shop it to a higher bidder?
But it could have been anyone, really. Oran had warned us we were dealing with things we didn’t understand, and he was right. Everything we learned, instead of making things clearer, just made what was happening more confusing.
I sighed. “Keep looking. Maybe you’ll get lucky again.”
Gareth nodded and left. He took his books, leaving me lost in thought.
* * *
The day passed. And still I had nothing. I began to wonder what Mr. Solomon would say once we’d failed. Would he understand the impossibility of what he’d asked us to do? Or would he be angry that we’d wasted his money? And what would he do to us as punishment?
I tried to push my worries away, but nothing good came to replace them. So I stayed in my room, despair growing as dusk approached, until I heard a tap on my window.
I looked over and saw a reddish-brown ponytail hanging down past a riveted steel mask.
Foxtail. I slid the window up. “Where have you been?”
She motioned for me to follow her.
“Should I get the others?”
She shook her head and clambered up the pipe. Uncertain, I joined her on the Thieves’ Highway.
Foxtail waited, barefoot, perched on the gable like a bird.
“Why am I up here—”
I’d barely got the question out before she turned away, bounding to the next roof. I followed, irritated, both by her appearing from nowhere, and by me risking my neck on these stupid rooftops again. I was familiar with the path, at least. We were headed toward the High Weaver’s house.
She kept just far enough ahead of me that I couldn’t ask her anything more. And I didn’t dare quicken my pace. It was dangerous enough for me the first time; now that night had fallen, I had to concentrate even harder on keeping my footing. By the time I reached the rooftop across from the side gate into Darragh’s home, Foxtail was already waiting, sitting on her haunches, staring out into the grounds.
The sky was thick with clouds, the only light the glow of the city streetlamps. I knelt beside Foxtail, still annoyed.
“Are you going to tell me where you’ve been or not?” I said.
She pointed to where she sat. Here. She placed her hand flat above where her eyes would be, as if peering out into the distance, then pointed to the High Weaver’s house. Finally, she made a motion like walking with her fingers, one hand behind the other.
I thought I understood. “You’ve been following whoever comes out of that house? Spying on them? Since last night?”
She nodded.
I guess I shouldn’t have been so cross with her. She’d been doing something useful—which is more than I could say, even with all my thinking. Still, I said, “Why didn’t you tell somebody? We didn’t know what had happened to you.”
She curled her fists under her chin, tilting her head. Aw. Were you worried about lil ole me?
“Yes, actually. Did you hear about Oran?”
She nodded, all humor gone.
Something occurred to me then. If Foxtail had been watching this house . . . “Did Oran try to sneak in here?”
She shook her head.
“So it wasn’t the High Weaver that burned him?”
She half shrugged, half shook her head. I don’t think so.
“All right, well, look,” I said. “I appreciate what you’ve been doing, but in the future, it would be nice if you’d at least let us know you’re alive.”
Foxtail studied me for a moment. Then she placed her hands over her heart and held them out. I’m sorry.
“It’s fine.” I paused. “Though you should probably stop hiding eggs in Lachlan’s stuff.”
She put her hands on her hips. Who says it’s me?
“Shuna’s snout. Are any of you ever going to trust I know what I’m doing?” I said. “Gareth avoids conflict; he’d never play pranks like this. Meriel certainly would, but if it was her, I’d have been the target. And I didn’t do it. That only leaves you.”
She did her innocent-little-girl gesture again, then laughed silently behind her mask.
“Foxtail,” I said
, exasperated.
She waved me off. All right, all right. I’ll stop.
I wasn’t sure I believed her. “Why eggs, anyway?”
She spread her hands. Why not eggs?
I guess I couldn’t argue with that. But she did seem in an agreeable mood. Maybe now she’d be willing to answer some questions.
“Do you know much about magic?” I said.
She tilted her head, regarding me curiously.
“I was just wondering. Because of your mask.”
The mask didn’t change. But there was something in her manner that made me think she was grinning at me.
“You’re not going to tell me anything about it, are you?”
She patted my cheek. Then she turned back to watch the house and ignored everything else I said.
* * *
We sat there for over an hour, with me hoping it wouldn’t rain. As the bells in the distance rang out the quarter-times passing, we saw six people leave the High Weaver’s place, one by one.
It was too dark to make out any pendants, but they all seemed young, so I guessed they were apprentices. None had any trouble passing the wall of winter. Each time one left, I looked over at Foxtail. She just shook her head and waited.
A distant clocktower chimed seven. Bored, I lay back on the rooftop and let my mind wander, thinking of gaffs that might overcome a willbind. I was staring into the clouds when Foxtail poked me.
She pointed. Someone new had come out the side door.
I couldn’t see his face—the moons were still hidden, and he was too far from the street for the glow of the lamps to light him—but I could tell from the way he walked that I’d seen him before. It was Padraig, the apprentice who’d rolled the deliveryman’s barrels inside. He took the side path, shutting the gate behind him as he exited.
Foxtail padded away, walking the rooftop’s edge with animal grace. I followed her carefully, muscles cramped and creaking, as Padraig moved down the street. He stopped at one corner and waited.
A pair of gentlemen were already there, standing under a streetlamp, both reading newspapers. For a moment, I thought this might be some sort of meeting, until I spotted the silver wheel affixed to the lamp. It was an omnibus stop.
