Jimble was so chattery that it was hard for Raffa to take in everything he was saying. Before Raffa had done a full turn of the room, Jimble had changed Brid’s diaper, escorted the twins to the latrine out back, and given them all a drink of water. That reminded Raffa to fill his waterskin, and they were out the door again.
“Trixin probably took you through the Commoners’ inn before, did she?” Jimble said. “It’s the closest to our old place, but we won’t go there. I know a better way.”
Several turns and alleys later, Jimble ducked into a shack that looked to be the twin of the Marrs’ former home. It had the empty echo and dead air of abandonment. Jimble led the group straight through the house and out the back, where there was a wooden door in the ground.
“Cellar,” he explained as he lifted the door.
Steep stairs led down into darkness. Jimble began to descend, but Cassa balked. She hung back, clinging to Camma.
“Dark,” Cassa said.
“Dragons in there,” Camma said, with absolute certainty.
“Dragons.” Cassa nodded in agreement.
Jimble gave Raffa an apologetic look. “They never been in the passages,” he said. “Usually when I go down there, it’s on my own or with my chummers.”
The twins seemed to be on the edge of tears. Jimble snapped his fingers and pointed to the rope across Raffa’s chest. “Have a loan of that?” he asked.
Jimble tied one end of the rope around his waist. Then he lined up the twins, wrapped the rope around each of them in turn, and gave the other end to Raffa.
“See now, Camma?” Jimble said. “We’re the dragon!”
Camma looked before and behind, then giggled. Cassa did the same.
“We’re the dragon, we’re the dragon!” Camma chanted.
“Roar!” Cassa crowed. Then she pointed at Raffa. “You’re the tail.”
“I’m glad I’m not the tail. Wag, tail!” Camma shouted gleefully.
Raffa gamely swished the end of the rope while taking a quick, nervous glance around. For someone trying to hide, he seemed to have ended up with the noisiest possible companions.
Jimble’s strategy worked: One by one, they climbed down the stairs. Before Raffa descended and closed the door behind him, he picked up a small stone. As the “dragon” began to make its way through the twisting, winding, forking passages, he used the stone to nick a mark on the right-hand wall from time to time, so he could retrace the route without Jimble’s help.
He also made a crucial contribution to the twins’ happiness by pulling out his lightstick. They were delighted to take turns holding it.
“Is it magic?” Jimble asked, poking a finger at the greenish light.
“Not a bit,” Raffa said. “It’s made from a kind of fungus that grows in the woods. On dead trees. They glow in the dark, natural.”
Jimble blinked, once each for the words fungus, woods, and trees, then shook his head in wonder. “Shakes and tremors, what a sight that must be!” he exclaimed. Raffa sensed that the forest was as foreign to Jimble as the slums were to him.
“It’s a good thing, this rope,” Jimble said then. “I don’t have to worry about them going off.” Meanwhile, baby Brid bounced along on Jimble’s back, sucking on a rag wrapped and tied around a piece of carrot. Jimble was small and slight, but he moved as if he had been carrying Brid all his life, which was probably close to true. All of Brid’s life, anyway.
After a walk that was shorter than Raffa had expected, Jimble stopped in front of a rickety wooden ladder. “You climb this, it comes out in another passage,” he said. “Only one way you can go, to the left. Then there’s a set of steps, and you’ll come out of a cellar door like the one we went in. Don’t go through the house—it might not be empty. Just jump the wall at the side.”
It sounded straightforward enough. “Where will I be then?” Raffa asked.
“Why, at the Commons wall, of course! Didn’t you say the pother quarter? That’s where you’re headed?”
“Yes, but how will I get through the gate?”
“Oh!” Jimble smacked himself on the head. “Sorry. I forgot you wouldn’t know. You won’t be anywhere near the gate! See, there’s no wall there—I mean, there is, but it’s just the backs of buildings. And there’s a gap between two of them. It’s boarded over, but me and my chummers, we pried out the nails, except for the top one, so it swings. You’ll have to squeeze through, then between the buildings. That’ll be the kitchens, and the pother quarter is off to the left, right?”
Raffa was impressed. Jimble seemed to know his way around the Commons even better than Trixin.
“I’d take you myself,” Jimble went on, “but—”
“That’s okay,” Raffa said hastily, glancing at the twins. Cassa was waving the lightstick, drawing in the air with it, while Camma waited for her turn. “You can keep the stick, I’ll make another.”
“It’s ours, it’s ours!” Camma shouted.
“Thank you, Dragon Tail!” said Cassa.
“His name is—” Jimble started to say, but Raffa cut in quickly.
“Cinders,” he said loudly, then cleared his throat. “My name is Cinders.” He was worried that if the twins knew his real name, they might blurt it out at the wrong moment.
Jimble tilted his head in puzzlement. “Er, hem . . .”
Raffa gave him a quick wink.
“Oh! Right! Cinders!” Jimble exclaimed, and returned the wink with his mouth wide open.
“Thank you, Dragon Tail Cinders,” Cassa corrected herself.
Talking to the twins was a little like talking to Echo, Raffa thought. The bat had been asleep under his tunic all this time, and Raffa meant to leave him there. He shuddered to think how the twins might react on seeing him.
“Jimble, would you give Trixin a message for me? I want to see her. Ask her if she’ll meet me here later—sometime around sunfall?”
“I’ll make sure she comes,” Jimble promised.
Raffa was grateful for Jimble’s friendly cooperation. He hesitated a moment, then said, “You keep the rope so you can all get back easier. Give it to Trixin when she comes to meet me.” He hated to be without the rope even for a few hours, but Jimble had been so helpful, it was the least Raffa could do by way of thanks. He held out the end of the rope toward Jimble.
Cassa’s lip began to tremble. “But now we won’t have a tail,” she said.
“Of course we will!” Jimble said. “Whoever heard of a dragon without a tail?” He took the end from Raffa, wrapped the rope around her a few more times, then tucked in the end so it hung down behind her. “See?”
Cassa looked down at the tail, her expression dubious.
“Um, that’s a much better tail than I was,” Raffa said, “because—because—”
“Because you can wag it yourself!” Jimble finished for him.
Her face brightening, Cassa wiggled her bottom. The rope swayed, and she shrieked with laughter.
Raffa saw his chance and climbed the ladder. The last thing he heard from below was Camma yelling, “Jimble, I want to be the tail!”
Jimble’s instructions were better than good, and Raffa was soon peering out from between two buildings of the huge kitchen quarter. It was the perfect place for him to slip into the Commons: The people he saw were almost all servients. No Commoners and no guards.
As he headed for the apothecary quarter, he restrained his desire to run. He did his best to imitate the pace of the servients: a rapid and purposeful walk. Soon enough, the glasshouse, where Uncle Ansel grew tropical and fragile plants, came into view—and Raffa gaped in surprise.
Even from a distance, he could see masses of vivid red through the glass. Which meant that the glasshouse was full of the scarlet vine! How had Uncle found so much of it?
He must be making the vine infusion by the barrelful, Raffa thought, enough to drug hundreds of animals so they could be trained to do the Chancellor’s bidding.
Then a thunderclap of realization shook him.
Raffa’s plan had been to dose the animals with the antidote, wait for it to take effect, and then release them. He knew he would have to wait at least a few hours, based on what had happened with the fox. But during that span, if the animals were given the scarlet-vine infusion again, it would simply undo the benefits of the antidote!
Somehow, Raffa had to prevent them from being given the vine infusion. But how? Thousands of clippings . . . barrels full of the infusion . . . I’ll never be able to do it—not even if Kuma were here to help.
Shoulders slumped with discouragement, he turned into the short lane that led to the glasshouse, and crouched between some bushes. Someone was moving about inside, obscured by a bank of plants.
Raffa craned his neck. Move—come out from behind there so I can see who you are. . . .
It seemed to take forever before the figure began to emerge. An arm and a shoulder. Then another wait, long enough for Raffa’s foot to fall asleep.
Finally, the person took a few steps and turned so that Raffa had a clear view.
It was Garith!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
RAFFA wanted to whoop for joy. His relief was laced with admiration: Garith had made the long and difficult journey back to Gilden on his own.
After peering around to make sure no one else was about, Raffa walked up to the glasshouse and stood where Garith would be sure to see him. It was only a few moments before Garith caught sight of him. His eyes widened, and Raffa saw him glance over his shoulder toward the laboratory. Then he looked straight at Raffa and touched his fingertips together in the shape of a triangle—like the roof of a house.
Raffa understood at once. He was to go to the apartment where Garith and Uncle Ansel lived. It would be empty now, with his uncle at work.
The apartment was a few minutes’ walk from the pother quarter. Raffa cut behind some buildings to avoid the main walkways. He entered the courtyard of the apartment and waited there, relieved to be out of sight of the Commons’ foot traffic.
When Garith appeared, Raffa took a quick step forward—then stopped. Garith’s mouth was set, his eyes hard with an unspoken challenge. Their last encounter came rushing back to Raffa’s memory—and he, too, bristled.
“You didn’t think I could do it,” Garith said.
Raffa smothered a puff of guilt before replying. “I didn’t think you should do it,” he said.
Garith crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture of defiance. “Since when do you get to tell me what to do? You’re my cousin, not my senior.”
“I wasn’t— I didn’t—” Raffa floundered, surprised by his thoughts.
Through all the years of their cousinhood, he had followed Garith around. Garith, a year older, charming, carefree, loved by all who knew him. Raffa realized for the first time that Garith had almost never taken advantage of his position as the elder. He might have gotten his way much of the time because of his charm, but not because he was unfair.
It was Raffa who had been unfair—by refusing to consider what Garith might have wanted. But Garith hadn’t helped things by becoming so morose and withdrawn.
“I did the best I could,” Raffa muttered, looking down at his feet. “I was only trying to help—”
“If you’re talking to me, you have to look up,” Garith said. “And if you’re talking to yourself, you should stop before people start to think you’re quake-brained.”
“You’re the one who’s quake-brained!”
Raffa was astonished that those words had slipped out of his mouth. It was the kind of thing he would have said long ago, in another time and place. Back home, where they had teased each other like this all the time.
Garith snorted. “I know you said ‘quake-brained,’ but it looks like you said ‘wake-pained.’ I’d rather be wake-pained than quake-brained any day, so there!”
“Wake-pained? What does that even mean?”
The conversation had somehow become ridiculous. Raffa barked out a brief laugh; he couldn’t help himself. After a moment, Garith laughed, too, and in the silence that followed, Raffa felt the tension between them starting to ease.
“Come on,” Garith said. “Let’s get something to eat.”
Raffa paused for a quick glance around before they entered the apartment. Garith noticed and said, “Da is at the compound. Nobody will bother us. And you’ll hear the wagon if he happens to stop by.”
Reassured, Raffa went inside. While Garith made tea, he got bread and cheese from the pantry. They ate and talked. Garith did most of the talking.
“When I got to the ferry—you saw the placard there, right?—I told the fare collector that I was turning myself in,” Garith said. “Funny thing was, it’s not a very good likeness on the placard, so he wasn’t sure it was me. I had to convince him!”
Garith explained that as a courtesy to his father, the Deemers hadn’t sentenced him to time in the Garrison for his role in Roo’s escape. But he was now limited to the apartment and the apothecary quarter, and could go nowhere else without his father’s supervision.
“They’re all acting like—like I’m stupid as well as deaf,” Garith said. “Da won’t let me do anything but clean up. I do everything he tells me—I work really hard—but it doesn’t seem to matter. I’m not allowed to work with the botanicals.”
“That’s beyond daft,” Raffa said, then added unthinkingly, “You don’t need to hear to make a good infusion.” Too late he wondered if Garith would take offense.
But Garith was nodding agreement. “I think I could do better than I used to,” he said. “It’s way easier to concentrate. I don’t get distracted by noise.”
“Shakes! I never thought of it like that,” Raffa exclaimed. “Have you told Uncle Ansel?”
“I’ve tried. He won’t listen.” A pause. “He kept asking about you. And Kuma, and especially Roo. I—I didn’t know what to do at first. But that turned out to be a good thing. He thought I couldn’t understand him. He even tried writing things down, but by then I’d made up my mind.”
His eyes grew steely. “If I gave in—if I told him what they wanted, where to find Roo—then I’d have made myself deaf for nothing, right? So I didn’t tell them anything.”
On the one hand, Raffa was relieved to hear this: It meant that Roo’s hiding place was still a secret and that the attack on Kuma’s settlement had nothing to do with Garith. But it also meant that the timing of the attack had been part of the Chancellor’s plans, which he had to assume were proceeding inexorably.
“Thanks for not telling,” Raffa said. Just saying thanks felt thin and flimsy; silently he renewed his vow to work on an antidote for Garith as soon as he possibly could. He added, “Kuma would say thanks, too, if she were here.”
The steeliness in Garith’s eyes faded and was replaced by obvious distress. He shook his head. “Da thinks he’s doing the right thing. He thinks it so much that he can’t see anything else. I know he’s wrong, but . . . he’s my da.”
Raffa stared at the tabletop. He felt bad enough about Uncle Ansel himself; it had to be a hundred times worse for Garith. He started to speak, then remembered that he had to raise his head so Garith could see his lips. Garith’s words had made him think of the question he had to ask despite dreading the answer.
“Are . . . are my parents here?”
Garith shook his head.
That simple motion made Raffa feel as if his heart were being cruelly squeezed.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Garith asked.
It was Raffa’s turn to shake his head, because for a few moments he couldn’t speak. “Our—our cabin,” he said, forcing out the words. “It’s . . . it was burned down.”
“Bird down? What’s that?”
“No, burned.” Raffa tried to sketch a fire in the air with his hands.
Garith’s jaw dropped. “When? What happened? We hadn’t heard—at least no one told me—”
“I don’t know. I was hoping . . . if my parents were here . . .” Tears stung hi
s eyes.
Garith leaned forward. “Wait, listen. They might not have been at the cabin. They came to Gilden right after we left. They’ve mostly been staying here since then. Da told me that Aunt Salima has been working in the laboratory. He said that sometimes they go home, but usually when they leave, it’s to look for you. They left here just before I arrived.”
Raffa’s head jerked up. “So—so you don’t know where they went this time?”
“No. Maybe Da does. They’re supposed to be back tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Never had it seemed so far away. How could he bear to wait so long to find out whether his parents were dead or alive? He closed his eyes for a long moment. Mam and Da would never be far from his thoughts . . . but for now, he had to concentrate on other things. The task ahead of him was next to impossible, and besides, working on it would certainly make the time go faster.
“Garith . . . The animals. Do you know what’s happening with them?”
Garith’s face closed down and he shrugged.
Raffa knew that shrug. He’d seen Garith use it a thousand times. It didn’t mean “I don’t know.” It meant “I’m not saying.”
Raffa also knew exactly what to do—which was nothing. He simply stared at his cousin with a look that was half plea, half glare.
Garith clicked his tongue. “It’s the truth. I don’t know anything. I’m deaf, remember? Even when they do talk about it, I can’t hear anything they say.” A pause. “And besides, I don’t want to know.”
He glared back at Raffa, but only for a moment, then dropped his gaze.
I don’t want to know.
Raffa understood what his cousin hadn’t said aloud. What Garith wanted was to earn back his father’s trust and respect. If Uncle Ansel wasn’t worthy of that respect, it would leave Garith with nothing. No wonder he didn’t want to know any details of what his father was involved in.
But Raffa needed his help. He had to sway him somehow.
“Kuma’s settlement was attacked,” Raffa said. “By animals.”
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