The Uncommoners #2

by Jennifer Bell

  A figure eight with a flat top and bottom; and it was smoking, just like in Granma Sylvie’s memory. It was unmistakable:

  The smoking hourglass.

  Seb’s eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead. This couldn’t be a coincidence.

  As Ivy shuffled forward, trying to get a closer look, she heard a shrill scream, which silenced the traders. It was followed by a deep, gruff voice, pleading.

  “That’s my Freddy!” cried an elderly woman. “It’s his voice—I’d know it anywhere. It’s coming from beyond the grave!” She pointed a shaky finger at the memorial plaque.

  Ivy scanned the list of names engraved on the brass. FRED FAIRWEATHER was the third one.

  “The paint!” someone shouted. “It’s doing something to the memorial so that we can hear the voices of those who perished on Twelfth Night!”

  Seb signaled toward the opposite side of the memorial. “That’s not all it’s done,” he told Ivy in a grave voice.

  Lying on the grass there, she saw the lifeless bodies of two underguards, their black capes spread out beneath them. Their necks were coated in a crusty purple fungus—the same color as the graffiti.

  “…and it’s got to be them,” Ivy heard someone uttering. “Who else would be behind such a thing?”

  “Poor blighters. ’Eard they tried to get it off the memorial…The paint poisoned ’em, apparently.”

  “Yes, but what does it mean? Has anyone seen that symbol before?”

  “I’ll bet you five grade it’s got something to do with the Fallen Guild.”

  “Poisoned,” Ivy said softly. Again. With a heavy heart, she wondered what Valian would make of it all. She hoped he’d had some success at the Scouts’ Union and was on his way to meet them; they could use his help.

  She stared at the hourglass, at the purple vapor fizzing off it. The symbol was dangerous, and no one seemed to know what it meant.

  All at once several figures in black underguard uniforms pushed their way through the crowd. With a sinking feeling, Ivy recognized the milk-white skin and dark glasses of one of them.

  Officer Smokehart. His long black cape twitched as he came to a halt at the foot of the memorial. There was something new about his uniform, Ivy noticed: a red trim on his shoulders.

  “Your attention!” he roared, and everyone fell silent. Smokehart had the kind of voice that made nails down a blackboard sound pleasant. Ivy wondered if it was public knowledge that he was one of the Eyre Folk, a race of the dead. She knew that behind those glasses of his were two empty sockets of swirling darkness.

  “This is the scene of a very serious crime,” Smokehart announced. “There may be vital evidence beneath your feet; be careful when you disperse. We will be questioning everyone in due course.”

  Behind the memorial, a trio of underguards covered their colleagues’ bodies with black sheets.

  Smokehart examined the graffiti, being sure to stay a safe distance away. It was still smoking and emitting anguished cries. “It appears that our culprit has no respect for the Departed.” Ivy saw his studded gloves curl into fists. “I can assure you all that whoever is responsible for this will be hunted down and punished using the full power of GUT law.”

  There were a few claps and shouts of support, though most people simply muttered quietly to one another. Ivy touched her wrist, remembering how sore it had been when Smokehart gripped it. She knew he’d stop at nothing to uphold the law, no matter what methods he needed to use.

  “Inspector Smokehart!” cried a voice.

  The traders parted—and suddenly Ivy’s skin turned to ice. She gripped Seb’s arm as Selena Grimes glided up to the memorial, tossing her sleek dark braid over her shoulder. She was wearing a purple silk dress that floated over the grass.

  “What’s she doing here?” Seb hissed.

  Ivy ground her teeth, suspicious of Selena’s swift arrival. “I’m not sure, but she’s still quartermaster of the Dead End. That means she’s in charge of the underguard.”

  Selena Grimes laid a gloved hand on the memorial and lowered her head. Ivy noticed several underguards pointing something at her. Catching a glint of silver between their thumbs and forefingers, she racked her brain. Uncommon needles—she’d once learned they were used as video cameras. Perhaps this scene was being broadcast around Lundinor.

  When Selena looked up, her blue eyes were brimming with tears. She skimmed the faces in the audience. “My thoughts are with the families of the two honorable underguards who have lost their lives here today,” she said in a honeyed voice. “This is an unspeakably evil crime.”

  Liar! Ivy wanted to shout, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good. Selena had held too much power for too long: the uncommoners of Lundinor wouldn’t question her position.

  Selena glided around the edge of the crowd. “I’m sure Inspector Smokehart and his team will do everything they can to remove this vile substance as soon as possible. We will find the culprit.”

  Someone shouted something about the Fallen Guild, but Selena silenced them by raising her glove. “I do not think it is wise to draw hasty conclusions. We must wait until the investigation concludes.”

  People began to mutter again. Ivy watched their nodding heads; clearly, they believed everything Selena said.

  “For extra security,” Selena continued, “I have granted the underguard a number of additional powers. Not only has underguard equipment been improved but, from today, Inspector Smokehart and his team will be able to send convicted criminals directly to the Skaptikon. I believe reopening the facility will act as a strong deterrent against committing crimes like this.”

  The crowd was growing restless. As Ivy tried to make out what they were saying, she felt Scratch stirring in her satchel. The mention of this Skaptikon—whatever it was—had made him agitated.

  Smokehart’s lips curled into a thin smile. “Thank you, Lady Grimes. I’m sure I speak on behalf of all uncommoners when I say that Lundinor is a safer undermart when someone with your foresight is in place to lead us.”

  There was a spontaneous murmur of agreement, then a man at the front shook a fist in Smokehart’s direction. “What about Jack-in-the-Green?” he demanded. “He’s still on the loose!”

  Smokehart stiffened. “Regarding the sightings of a certain infamous criminal in other undermarts, I can assure you that, in Lundinor, we have everything under control.”

  Selena hovered toward the bystander. “Do not doubt, sir, that I will use every resource in my power to protect the traders of Lundinor from all criminals.” She scanned the gathered faces.

  Ivy tried to hide, but her movement attracted attention. Selena Grimes’s dazzling eyes fixed on her and then flicked to Seb. Her expression faltered.

  Ivy’s heart was in her mouth. All she could hope was that, with so many people present, Selena wouldn’t try to harm them.

  Very slowly, the tips of Selena’s needlelike teeth slid out from under her lip. “I promise you this,” she told her audience—though she was staring directly at Ivy. “I will not rest until I have put an end to everything.”

  “Come on,” Seb urged, tugging on Ivy’s sleeve.

  Ivy’s legs were trembling as she wove her way through the traders walking along the gravel path. All she could think about was how much danger they were in. Selena and her henchman had eyes everywhere and they had no way of knowing how she was planning to neutralize them.

  The track opened out into a leafy orchard, and Seb headed in among the people milling around under the branches. He dumped his rucksack by the base of a tree and slumped down beside it, panting.

  Ivy took a seat on the grass, trying to catch her breath. There were so many questions whirring through her brain. She squeezed Scratch, looking for support.

  “Underguards no signing,” he said. Ivy had never been able to fathom how he could see without eyes
, but she trusted him: they were safe, for now.

  Seb scuffed his sneakers in the dirt. “She’s definitely onto us! Put an end to everything, she said—she was talking about me and you.”

  “She must have some plan to stop us from revealing her identity,” Ivy said with a painful swallow. She rubbed her hands down her thighs, not wanting to think about it.

  “Do you think the graffiti was her doing?” Seb asked. “We already know she’s connected to the smoking hourglass because of Granma’s memory; she must have something to do with it.”

  Ivy followed Seb’s train of thought, but something didn’t quite add up. “Why would the Dirge use a smoking hourglass, though? Their coat of arms is a crooked sixpence—everyone knows that.” She shook her head. “We need to find out more about the smoking hourglass. Hopefully this black door in the Dead End will give us some answers.”

  They got to their feet and went on, stopping at a quiet T-junction north of the Gauntlet. In one direction the road meandered through a shadowy copse of cedar trees, while in the other it opened out onto a field where a group of semitransparent uncommoners were playing cricket. Black marquees decorated with dead flowers stood at the edge, with skulls on poles marking each opening. “I think we must be close to the entrance,” Ivy said.

  Seb observed a group of ghosts bobbing by. “Yeah, I’m definitely getting that dead feeling, all right.”

  A silky voice drifted into Ivy’s ear and she turned to see where it had come from—before realizing that it wasn’t the kind of sound anyone else would have heard. It took no effort on her part to sense the quiet babble of uncommon objects all around her.

  She caught the voice again. There was something different about it. The voices of uncommon objects usually emanated from fixed points, but this one was moving….

  “Hey,” Seb said. “Do you think that’s it?”

  He was pointing to the roadside, where a small well was set into the foot of a grassy hill. It reminded Ivy of a wishing well from a fairy tale—a round structure made of weathered gray stone bricks, with a tiled roof and a rope dangling from a rusty winch. A carpet of dark moss, glistening with moisture, hung over the well.

  Ivy assessed the nearby traders, but nobody seemed to be paying the well any special attention. “Pass me the guide.”

  Seb fished a battered, tea-stained pamphlet out of his jeans pocket and handed it over. The front read LUNDINOR: FARROW’S GUIDE FOR THE TRAVELING TRADESMAN.

  “Is there anything else in there about the well?” she asked Scratch, fishing him out of her satchel.

  The little bell jangled as she laid him on top of the first page. “Six page to turn.”

  Ivy found page six and he vibrated softly on the page as he read: “The Well at the World’s End was designed by the sootsprite Bartholomew Gumble, a renowned uncommon engineer from Serbia.”

  Ivy smiled proudly. The only time Scratch didn’t sound “back to fronted” was when he was deciphering the coded words of Farrow’s Guide.

  “Traders must answer a riddle before the well will allow them passage to the Dead End,” he continued merrily, “a design component often attributed to Gumble’s natural mischievousness. The well came under scrutiny on several occasions, most notably after the visit of Lady Saltwater—a quartermaster from Lochlily undermart in Edinburgh—who disappeared down it in 1773 and has never been seen again. The IUC has now declared the well a World Uncommon Heritage Site.”

  Ivy and Seb shared a wary glance as Ivy tucked Scratch and the guide back into her satchel. “We need to remember that not all the dead are bad,” she said, trying to convince herself.

  “No, no,” Seb mumbled. “Just the ones that work for the Dirge, and the ones that tried to kill our parents, and the ones that tried to kill us…”

  They attracted no attention as they approached the well. A trio of specters hovered outside the nearest tent, chatting quietly. On her last visit to Lundinor, Ivy had seen a choir of them; up close, even their speaking voices sounded melodic.

  Seb reached into his rucksack and took out his wallet. Ivy frowned.

  “There,” he said, pointing to the well by way of explanation. Etched into the stone bricks was a message:

  Throw a coin to meet the three,

  Answer our query and you will see.

  Between his fingers Seb held a shiny copper two-penny piece. “Well then?”

  Ivy laid her hands on the moss at the side and peered over the edge. There was only darkness below, and a putrid smell crept into her nostrils. She withdrew quickly. “Yuck, it smells like something’s died down there.”

  Seb tensed. “I bet it does. Let’s just get this over with.”

  He held his hand over the well and let the coin slip into the shadows below. The stones quaked and, deep inside, there was a sound of rushing water. Ivy shuffled backward as voices erupted from within.

  “Well, I never!”

  “Never have I seen such a pair.”

  “Pair of newbies, that’s for sure.”

  There were three different speakers, their voices croaky and sharp, like bickering old granddads.

  “Sure you two want to go to the Dead End?”

  “End up losing your mind in there, some do.”

  “Do you really want to go in?”

  Seb dared a glance into the well. “H-h-heads,” he stuttered, hitting Ivy’s arm. “Look!”

  Ivy inched her face over the edge. Tar-black water had risen to within a foot of the top—and bobbing in it were…

  “Three heads,” Seb said again, pointing.

  Ivy tried to suppress a gasp. The heads were severed at the neck; they had greenish-purple skin and patchy hair. They had been horribly mutilated—one was bleeding from a cut on its forehead, while the others sported scars across eyes and chin. They only had four ears and five eyes between them.

  Seb turned away. “What are we even doing here, Ivy? Seriously—let’s go back to the dancing-chairs party. Dancing chairs: yes. Talking zombie heads: no.”

  Ivy gave the floating heads a second look; they weren’t going away. “Seb, with the smoking hourglass on the memorial, I’m even more convinced that we need to make sense of this new memory of Granma Sylvie’s. If we can find the connection between Selena and the smoking hourglass, it could give us an advantage—we could even stop her from finding the Jar of Shadows.”

  With a grimace, Seb regarded the severed heads once more. He opened his mouth, but then closed it.

  Ivy wasn’t exactly overjoyed herself about venturing into the Dead End. She pulled out one of the uncommon feathers Valian had given her earlier. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll send a message to Valian to let him know where we’re going.”

  She angled the feather between thumb and forefinger, and wrote in the air as if it was a pen.

  Valian,

  Seb and I are off to a carousel in the Dead End to try to find a black door with a smoking hourglass on it.

  See you later,

  Ivy x

  She watched the feather disappear with a little puff and, when she looked up, found Seb glaring at her, his arms folded. “I want it on the record that I’m not OK with this.”

  “Whatever. It’s on the record.” Ivy leaned over the edge of the well. “Er…hello?” she called. She tried not to wince as she caught sight of the mutilated heads again; she didn’t want them to think she was rude. “Would it be OK if my brother and I came into the Dead End?”

  The three heads turned to one another, sending ripples through the water.

  One of them blinked. “Into the Dead End, you say?”

  “Say, can you find us an answer?” the second asked.

  “Answer us this and you shall pass.”

  Ivy listened carefully. The three heads opened their rotting mouths to speak as o
ne. It sounded like a strange wireless recording.

  “I am the dawn, the endless race,

  Save me or mark me, but please don’t waste.

  I have no wings and yet I fly.

  If you master me, you will never die.

  What am I?”

  “I am the dawn, the endless race…” Seb shook his head. “Ivy, any thoughts?”

  Ivy bit her lip. She’d never been good at riddles. She hated the way they tried to trick you. No wings…but it can fly…She remembered the balloon trader earlier and considered whether balloon might be the answer. But then, mastering balloons doesn’t allow you to conquer death….

  She started from the beginning: the dawn, the endless race…As her mind whirred through the possibilities, she recalled that the last time she’d raced against anything, it had been to save her parents’ lives: the Dirge had sent her an uncommon alarm clock counting down to the moment of their deaths….

  “Time!” she declared. “The answer is time.” She rushed through the clues. The dawn of time, time flies, save time, mark time, waste time…

  The water in the Well at the World’s End began to froth, and the three floating heads vanished in a flurry of bubbles. Ivy heard a loud crack.

  “Is that the well?” Seb asked, stepping back to look at the stones. “Maybe it opens into the entrance.”

  “Entering Dead End below!” Scratch warned frantically. “Is dead always under living!”

  Too late, Ivy felt the ground shudder. A deep crevice had formed in a circle around her feet.

  “Seb?!” She looked over, but his arms had already lifted into the air as he dropped through the ground, shouting.

  Ivy lost her balance and plummeted after him.

  She landed with a soft thud on a pile of multicolored beanbags. Seb was beside her.

  “What the—!” he complained, scrambling off them. “Are they trying to give us a heart attack?”