The Uncommoners #2

by Jennifer Bell

  “Idiot!” Selena shouted. She threw Seb aside and leaped over the edge of the platform. Jack-in-the-Green unfolded his wings and took to the air, Valian clutched tightly in his second set of arms.

  Ivy fumbled for her yo-yo, but Seb was quicker. He rolled to his feet and in one fluid motion, like a trained swordsman, drew his drumsticks. Aiming at Jack-in-the-Green, he struck the first blow decisively, beating both drumsticks double-time. The mantis’s wings twisted and he tumbled off course. Valian wriggled free and dropped down onto the stone with a thud.

  “Over here,” Ivy cried, beckoning them to her side. She got to her knees and looked over the precipice. Half-submerged in invisible liquid, Selena Grimes was locked in a strange dance with the Jar of Shadows. “We can still stop her.” She turned, expecting to find Seb at her side, but he was kneeling sixty feet away, Valian slumped limply in his arms.

  “IVY!” he yelled.

  Ivy got to her feet and rushed over. Valian’s jacket was hanging open and there was a large dark patch on his gray T-shirt. No, Valian. Not that…

  “He needs help,” Seb said, tugging the Great Uncommon Bag out from inside Valian’s jacket. “There’s so much blood. We need to get him to a hospital.”

  Valian’s eyes flickered open. He batted an arm at the bag and, understanding his meaning, Seb held it under his lips. Valian coughed and croaked, “Lundinor Infirmary.”

  “I’ll go through first,” Seb suggested. “That way I can pull him through from the other side.”

  Once her brother had disappeared, Ivy used the last of her strength to push Valian into the bag. Tears ran down her cheeks as she guided his basketball shoes into the darkness.

  Malicious laughter erupted over her shoulder and she turned to see Selena Grimes rising through the air, Jack-in-the-Green flying beside her with the Jar of Shadows in his arms.

  There was an empty feeling in the pit of Ivy’s stomach as she crawled into the bag.

  They had failed. The Dirge now possessed one of the Great Uncommon Good.

  Ivy wiggled her toes, feeling crisp sheets. Her head was resting on something soft. She opened her eyes and saw that she was lying on a narrow camp bed in a large canvas tent. The walls were covered with hundreds of pockets, each containing a flask, vial or bottle filled with a different-colored liquid, some bubbling or steaming. The air reeked of antiseptic, and there was a chatter of voices outside.

  With difficulty, she turned her head and spotted Seb and Valian asleep on camp beds beside her, their faces shining with sweat. “Seb?” she hissed.

  She remembered Valian’s wound but guessed, from the peaceful expression on his face, that he had received treatment. The Lundinor Infirmary. That’s where Valian had sent them.

  All at once she recalled what had happened to the Jar of Shadows. She had to warn people! She tried to sit up, but immediately her vision swirled. Instead she reached for her satchel, which was sitting at the end of her bed. Scratch trilled as she tugged him out.

  “Safe Ivy’s,” he said in a relieved voice. She hugged him tightly, grateful for his help in the Skaptikon. “Nurses tent bringing to you,” he explained. “Knowings of your face, so sendings featherlight to Sylvie Granma.”

  “Granma Sylvie—is she here?”

  Scratch vibrated. “Visitings once she but sleepings were you.”

  Slowly Ivy grasped what he was saying. The infirmary staff had recognized Ivy and Seb—doubtless from pictures in the newspapers last winter—and contacted Granma Sylvie. Ivy wondered if anyone had figured out that they’d come from the Skaptikon. She didn’t know how long they’d been there.

  She rummaged through her satchel, searching for something she could use to attract attention. Amos’s journal and the photo frame would be of no help; she had no feathers left, and her allowance bag was full of tiny low-grade objects she had no idea how to use.

  Then she spotted a piece of black card with gold writing on it in one of the inside pockets and pulled it out.

  Johnny Hands’s business card. Ivy recalled his words: “I desire to inquire.”

  The tent walls suddenly flapped and Johnny Hands appeared out of thin air, sitting on a chair at the foot of Ivy’s bed. “Good evening, Ivy Sparrow,” he said, crossing one leg over the other and removing his jester’s hat.

  Ivy wasn’t sure how he’d got there so quickly—some trick of the dead, no doubt.

  “I’m guessing you want to inquire about my tutoring services.”

  Ivy frowned. “What? No, I need your help….” She wasn’t sure what to tell him—that they’d been to the Skaptikon and failed to stop Selena Grimes from finding the Jar of Shadows?

  “Ah, my mistake.” Johnny Hands traced the brim of his jester’s hat with his bony fingers. “I heard you were in the market for a tutor and presumed that, since I’m probably the only other whisperer you know, you’d need my services.”

  Ivy choked. “You’re a whisperer?” She hadn’t even considered that the dead could be, let alone…Johnny Hands.

  “But of course,” he said, twirling a hand through the air. “If you don’t believe me, ask yourself how it is that I know you’re looking for a teacher.”

  The only person other than Seb with whom Ivy had discussed her whispering was Mr. Punch. The quartermaster had suggested finding a tutor, but surely he wouldn’t have revealed Ivy’s secret to Johnny Hands unless…

  She remembered Johnny Hands spying on Jack-in-the-Green outside the shepherd’s hut. “Your patron…is it Mr. Punch?”

  He flashed his crooked teeth.

  There was obviously more to him than Ivy—or Valian—knew. If he had the trust of Mr. Punch, perhaps it was safe to accept his offer of help. “I have so many questions,” she admitted. It was amazing to meet someone with the same gift as her. “How do I turn it off? Do you suffer from the headaches too?”

  “I’m afraid you can never turn it off,” Johnny Hands said, “but you can increase or decrease your field of sense. For example”—he floated off the chair and rose toward the tent roof, turning slowly in midair—“I can control my whispering so that I only sense what’s inside this tent. It’s always easier to use the natural barriers around you—walls, lines in the pavement, furniture; that kind of thing.” He floated back to his seat. “Your turn.”

  Ivy looked at Seb and Valian, who were still asleep. She had time for one attempt.

  All around her she could sense the voices of broken souls in the infirmary. She tried to ignore anything beyond the tent walls, imagining the whole world only existed within that small space. Slowly the muttering began to fade.

  “I think it’s working!” she exclaimed.

  “Good,” Johnny Hands said. “Now try to direct your senses toward me. Tell me—how many uncommon objects do I have upon my person right now?”

  A few voices began murmuring as Ivy concentrated on Johnny Hands. They sounded shrill and metallic; the trapped souls of uncommon objects.

  She counted. “Three?”

  Johnny Hands clapped. “Well done!”

  There was a rustle outside the tent. Ivy tensed as she saw the silhouettes of two people talking in hushed voices.

  One was tall and slim. “I understand what you’re saying, but I can’t take you with me.” Granma Sylvie—Ivy would recognize her voice anywhere. “The deeper we go into that place, the more I worry about what we might find—what I might have hidden from you.”

  “Hidden from me? Pish,” the other figure remarked with a familiar Cockney drawl. Ethel. “Believe me, I knew you, Sylv. There’s no way you were involved with the Dirge, no matter what this memory of yours means.”

  Granma Sylvie sighed. “I keep thinking of Selena Grimes’s deception. What if I was lying to you all those years, like she was?”

  “Ridiculous,” Ethel snorted. “You’ve got to trust in who you are. You’re
scared, is all.”

  There was a long vrrrp as someone unzipped the tent opening. Ivy’s eyes shot to the chair. Johnny Hands had vanished…and there was so much more she wanted to ask. “Ivy?” Granma Sylvie smiled. “You’re awake!” She came hurrying over and hugged Ivy tightly, then ran a hand across her forehead. “How are you feeling?”

  Ivy shrugged, sending pain shooting between her shoulder blades. Her body ached, but she had no idea how bad anything was. She hadn’t felt this awful inside the Skaptikon—but that place had completely messed with her senses.

  “Here—this should help.” Ethel handed Ivy a pewter flask filled with warm liquid.

  Ivy held it under her nose. It smelled like ladies’ perfume.

  “It’s called Raider’s Tonic,” Ethel said. “Mr. Littlefair mixed it. Takes its name from the scouts ’oo drank it after storming ancient sites looking for uncommon objects ’undreds of years ago.” The corners of her eyes crinkled. “It’ll have you feeling better in no time.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Much better than the stuff they give you in ’ere.”

  Ivy took a sip. The tonic was honey-sweet with a spicy kick. As it warmed her insides, she felt her senses sharpening.

  “Granma?” rasped a voice. Seb sat up, blinking. “That you?” He gave Ivy a quizzical expression, then turned to Valian. “Valian!” He shook him gently by the shoulder.

  “Careful,” Granma Sylvie warned.

  Ethel handed Seb a flask of Raider’s Tonic as Valian eased himself up, rubbing his head.

  “Argh—I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut,” he groaned.

  “What happened to you three?” Granma Sylvie asked. “The infirmary staff couldn’t tell me where you’d been or how you got here. They said they just found you in a tent, passed out.”

  Thank goodness, Ivy thought. The Raider’s Tonic gave her an idea. “Hundred Punch,” she said. “We accidentally drank a bit too much of it, and then we rode an uncommon rug and started feeling sick, and then…I think Valian fell off into some bushes.”

  Ethel raised her thin eyebrows. “Must’ve been very thorny bushes.”

  Valian winced. “They were.”

  Granma Sylvie put her arm around Ivy and kissed her forehead. “I’m just glad that’s all it was.” She looked at Ethel. “Let’s take them back to the inn—get them into a proper bed.”

  Ethel nodded. “Right you are.”

  * * *

  —

  Ivy figured the Raider’s Tonic had done its job because, by the time they reached the street outside the Cabbage Moon, her head was clear, the ground had stopped moving and she felt in control of her senses again. The evening light was dim and the Gauntlet had quieted. There were a few last-minute shoppers picking up bargains, but most of the stalls were vacant.

  “Ivy!” Alexander Brewster raised his hand in greeting. Ivy glanced at Seb and Valian, who were wearily trudging through the front door of the Cabbage Moon. She desperately needed to talk to them about what had happened in the Skaptikon, but she didn’t have the heart to ignore Alexander. “I’ll be two minutes,” she told Granma Sylvie. “I’m just going to say hi.”

  “One minute,” Granma Sylvie said. “I want you in bed ASAP.”

  “Hey,” Ivy called to Alexander, hurrying over. “How’re you doing?” The walls of the alehouse shook with noise.

  Alexander shrugged. “All right. Have you had a good day?”

  Ivy wasn’t sure what to say. “Er…I was at the infirmary. I haven’t been feeling well.” She rubbed her belly.

  Alexander winced. “Won’t offer you any Dragon’s Breath, then—not a good idea if you’ve got an upset stomach.” He cocked his head toward the alehouse. “Great for singing, though.”

  Ivy smiled, hearing the laughter and out-of-tune voices coming from the revelers within. She caught the distinctive bass of Drummond Brewster, and the patrons quieted as he started singing on his own. Ivy couldn’t catch all the words, but the tune and the rhythm were familiar.

  The ’vatum men nursery rhyme…Ivy was sure of it. “That song your father’s singing…”

  Before she could finish there was a loud smash, the singing ended and the back door of the alehouse burst open. Out stormed Drummond.

  “Boy, get back in here!” he raged, arms in the air. “I can’t do everything!”

  Ivy edged away as he came toward them.

  “Who’s this?” he demanded, pointing at Ivy.

  “She…” Alexander didn’t finish.

  Drummond studied Ivy more closely. “I’ve seen you at the Cabbage Moon. Asking questions, are you?” He poked a huge sausagelike finger into Ivy’s chest, knocking her satchel off her arm. “Well, you can keep them to yourself!”

  He stared down his nose at his son. “Inside. Now.” As he returned to the alehouse, Alexander rushed to help Ivy gather up her belongings, which had spilled out onto the road.

  “I’m…sorry,” he managed.

  Ivy reached for Amos’s journal, but Alexander grabbed it first.

  His eyebrows twitched as he saw the smoking hourglass on the front. “Sorry—you’d better put this away.”

  As he handed the journal back to Ivy, a huge whooshing sound filled the air like wind filling a sail. Someone screamed in alarm behind them.

  “Fire! FIRE! BLACKFIRE!”

  A smoking hourglass was lit up in fire across the front of the alehouse. The building was engulfed in seconds. People started running away, shouting.

  “Ivy, help me with these!”

  She turned to find Mr. Littlefair staggering out of the Cabbage Moon carrying four buckets of water. Ivy hurried over and grabbed two. Alexander followed, with more buckets.

  “Hurry!” Mr. Littlefair shouted. “We need to douse the flames!”

  “What kind of fire is that?” Ivy asked. The flames weren’t orange; they were plum and crimson colored, with licks of black. They seemed to be consuming the place more quickly than regular fire could.

  “Blackfire,” Mr. Littlefair said. “Deadly. It can only be made using mixology.”

  Ivy placed one bucket at her feet and swung the other toward the fire. Customers were still running out of the building as the water hit.

  “It’s no use,” Alexander shouted. “Look!” He pointed to the roof, where the fire was rapidly eating through the thatch.

  Ivy grabbed the second bucket and swung it toward the alehouse just as a red-faced Drummond Brewster came barreling through the front door. He was clutching to his chest the charred framed photo of him inventing Dragon’s Breath Ale.

  “SOMEBODY DO SOMETHING!” he boomed, charging out among the fleeing crowd. He grabbed a man by his lapels and began shaking him. “My alehouse is burning down! The Dragon’s Breath is fueling the flames; it’ll be ashes in a matter of minutes!”

  Alexander hurried to his side, tugging on his apron. “I’m here, Pa. I’m OK.”

  “Do something useful!” his father snapped, eyes still fixed on the alehouse. Ivy couldn’t help but notice the look of disappointment on Alexander’s face.

  Suddenly she heard a siren. The underguard. About time.

  Two black 4x4s came rumbling into the street and the remaining traders formed large circles around them. The passenger door of one opened and Inspector Smokehart stormed out and began shouting.

  “Castleguards—get control of this blaze!” he commanded, pointing to the team who had just emerged from the other vehicle. Ivy noticed they had slightly different uniforms to normal underguards—a castle design was embroidered on the backs of their cloaks. “You three,” he called to the trio of constables from his own car. “Cordon off the area, get everyone inside. We need to have this blaze under control before any pyroaches arrive.”

  “Pyroaches?” Ivy said.

  “A race of the dead,” Mr. Littlefair mumble
d, fetching more water from the tap outside the Cabbage Moon. “They can only exist in extremely high temperatures, so they live in volcanoes, incinerators, power plants—those kinds of places. You only find them in undermarts when something’s burning.”

  “Are they dangerous?” she asked, filling one of her buckets.

  “They eat living flesh.” Mr. Littlefair strained under the weight of two sloshing pails. “You don’t want to meet one.”

  Johnny Hands had once told Ivy that smoke in an undermart was a bad omen. It made sense now.

  The castleguards opened the trunk of their vehicle and each picked up something brightly colored, and carried it toward the alehouse.

  “Are those buckets and spades?” Ivy exclaimed. The plastic shovels were luminous shades of pink, blue and yellow and the buckets were just like those used by children to build sandcastles at the seaside. When the castleguards were in position, some aimed their spades at the alehouse, holding them to their shoulders like rifles, while others turned their buckets upside down on the dusty road: an unending stream of sand and water spouted from the spades toward the flames.

  A hand gripped Ivy’s shoulder.

  “What’s going on?” Seb asked. The others came rushing through the doors of the Cabbage Moon behind him.

  Granma Sylvie put a hand to her chest. “Ivy—you’re OK.” She clasped her in a hug.

  “I’m fine,” Ivy said, pulling back. “I was just talking to Alexander when the alehouse burst into flames. The smoking hourglass materialized out of thin air like it had been lit on a timer.”

  The underguards started shuffling back, and Inspector Smokehart appeared in the space. “We will be taking witness statements from anyone who may have seen something,” he announced. “Whether you think you did or not, it could all be important. A murderer is on the loose, and I suspect we will be adding arson to the list of charges against them.”

  He caught sight of Ivy and Seb and curled his lip. “You two. Again. I saw you at the memorial; you’re making quite a habit of appearing at crime scenes. Do you expect me to believe that it is just a coincidence?”