by Icy Sedgwick
They turned the corner. Whitewashed buildings lined the street to their left, and a canal cut its way along the cobbles to their right. Small balconies and terraces opened directly onto the water from the houses across the canal, and gondolas were moored at tiny jetties. Lights burned behind closed shutters, and flecks of coloured light drifted down towards the street. Monte wondered if Crompton Daye ever practised his wizardry in such a place before he ended up in the Underground City.
They came across a pier further along the street. Two gondolas bobbed in the canal, their gondoliers chatting in low voices as they leaned on their poles. One of them noticed Mr Gondavere and Monte, and stood to attention.
“It’s a fine night, gentlemen! Have you a destination in mind?” he called.
“We do indeed. How far do these canals reach?” asked Mr Gondavere.
“The House of the Notorious Dead to the north, sir, and the Academy far to the east.”
“Excellent. You are hired,” replied Mr Gondavere.
Without another word, he handed his case to Monte, and clambered down the small steps into the gondola. The gondolier raised an eyebrow and looked at Monte, asking ‘Is he always like this?’ with his eyes. Monte replied with a shrug and passed the case back to Mr Gondavere. He climbed down the ladder and took a seat near the front of the gondola. He’d never been on a canal before, not even the one below ground, and he wanted to enjoy the view.
The gondolier pushed away from the jetty, and the gondola drifted along the canal. The street alongside the water gave way to more buildings, and soon they were gliding along a stretch of water so narrow Monte felt he could touch the houses on both sides if he stretched out his arms. Once out of earshot of the other gondolier, Mr Gondavere turned around and addressed his pilot.
“Could you take us as far as the House of the Notorious Dead? We need the streets just to the north, and I believe that is the nearest landing point.”
“That it is, sir. Consider it done.”
Monte turned away from them and peered out of the front of the gondola into the gloom. Only one in three of the oil lamps mounted on the buildings held light, and shadows stretched and swayed between the houses. The black water lapped against the sides of the gondola, and Monte resisted the urge to ripple his fingers in the canal. Who knew what lived in the dark depths, venturing forth only at night?
“We don’t get a lot of commissions at this time of night, sir,” said the gondolier, keeping his voice low. Even his whisper echoed off the walls.
“I don’t imagine that you do,” replied Mr Gondavere.
“But it’s nice to keep busy,” said the gondolier.
“Do you always converse so freely with your clients?” Mr Gondavere’s words were black with warning.
“Just nice to know who I’ve got in my boat, sir. Have you been to the City Above before?” replied the gondolier, addressing his question to Monte. Mr Gondavere answered before he could speak.
“I have, but my associate has not. This is quite the excursion for him, I daresay,” replied Mr Gondavere. Monte bristled at being discussed as though he were not present, although his pride swelled at the word ‘associate’. That was better than ‘employee’.
The gondolier fell silent, presumably having run out of conversation starters, and they drifted along, the only sounds being the pole and gondola moving through the water, and snippets of discussions heard behind the shutters they passed. Monte wondered if people kept the lower shutters closed all day to prevent passers-by from peering in.
The canal turned a corner and the gondolier steered them around the bend into a wider stretch of water. Their journey continued in a similar fashion, the canal cutting through the grid of the quarter, and the gondolier navigating the twists and turns.
Monte’s eyelids grew heavy and he shook his head to ward off sleep. He slapped his face when he felt a yawn coming on, and tried to occupy himself with imagining what went on behind closed shutters. He gave up when he realised he didn’t actually know what wizards did in their workshops. Grave digging was all he’d ever known, and it didn’t equip him with much knowledge of other trades.
The gondola made another turn, and Mr Gondavere let out a long, low whistle of appreciation. Before them, a vast building rose seemingly out of the water, its black walls reflecting the rippling waters of the canals that encircled its small island. Niches cut into the stone took the place of windows, with small braziers burning in each.
Monte only knew of the House of the Notorious Dead through folklore. It housed criminals, and was a place intended to keep their bodies and their souls apart to prevent their resurrection. Most criminals were kept in the House of Correction, but truly heinous deeds warranted the further punishment provided by the House of the Notorious Dead. Still, Monte wasn’t sure what to expect from the place.
The gondolier guided the boat below the drawbridge that connected the small island with the rest of the Canal Quarter. Seeing the canal as less of a canal and more of a moat, Monte wondered again what creatures lurked beneath the dark surface of the water. If he squinted, he thought he saw movement in the depths.
Guards stood either side of the portcullis, the metal grille locked in position at this time of night. Monte expected Wolfkin, but these figures were tall and hooded in long black cloaks. Their skeletal hands curled around the handles of scythes. Dreadguards. Monte’s lips moved in a silent prayer to the Lords and Ladies of Death to watch over him in such a place.
Mr Gondavere motioned to the gondolier to pause just beyond the drawbridge, and he turned around to look up at the Dreadguards. One of them inclined its head in their direction and Monte shuddered, his fingers curled around the edge of the boat.
“Continue on your journey, friend. There is no reason for you to linger here,” said the Dreadguard. Its voice was smooth and dark, like the water below.
“We have business in this neighbourhood, friend,” replied Mr Gondavere. Scorn dripped from his lips as he enunciated the last word.
“Then proceed and continue with your business.”
Mr Gondavere cocked his head on one side, and nodded twice. Monte strained to hear the voice of whoever spoke to Mr Gondavere, but he heard nothing. After a few moments, the Dreadguard stepped forward, bringing with it a blast of icy air and the scent of grave dirt. Mr Gondavere looked at Monte. He couldn’t read his expression, but he braced himself for an outburst. Instead, Mr Gondavere said nothing, and motioned for the gondolier to take them to the nearest landing point.
The gondola pulled up alongside a rickety jetty around the corner from the House and Mr Gondavere paid the gondolier in silence. The gondolier shrugged at Monte and, once Monte had climbed free, guided the gondola away down the canal. Monte handed the case back to Mr Gondavere.
“What do we do now?” asked Monte. If he was honest, he wasn’t sure what Mr Gondavere had hoped to achieve by stopping so close to the House of the Notorious Dead. Perhaps the old priestess had sent them here hoping they would be arrested for poking their noses into old business. Thinking of the old priestess dislodged a stray thought in his mind, but it flitted away before Monte could grasp it.
“Fear not, my good man, for I have it on good authority that we shan’t need to spend too much time seeking our quarry!” Mr Gondavere smiled.
Monte nodded though he didn’t understand. Who was this mysterious source that kept feeding Mr Gondavere information, and why had he never seen them? He thought of the way Mr Gondavere cocked his head on one side and listened to thin air. Monte shuddered and followed Mr Gondavere down the street, putting the canal behind them.
* * *
They stopped outside a tavern a few streets away. Monte spotted a sign hanging above the window of the shop next door. Its gilt script pronounced the shop to be Bucklebeard’s Antiques. No lights burned in the window, and a padlock secured the front door. Monte wagered it wasn’t just any old padlock, either.
“Looks like it’s closed for the night,” said Monte.
An open fire blazed in an ornate fireplace and copper pots gleamed on their hooks above the mantelpiece. Low stools clustered around empty tables and the barkeeper read a book behind the bar. A wooden automaton sat at the piano, its clockwork fingers picking out old tunes on the black-and-white keys. A single customer sat in a booth on the opposite side of the room, his hat pulled low over his face. Monte wasn’t sure if the stranger slept, since he didn’t move, and nor did his chest rise and heave. Was he dead?
Mr Gondavere ordered two mugs of tea and a glass of whiskey at the bar then made straight for the booth at the back of the room. As he drew near, Monte realised he couldn’t smell the usual scent of death that clung to a dead person, so the stranger couldn’t be dead. There again, Monte couldn’t smell anything at all from him. It was as if he didn’t occupy the same space as everyone else.
The barkeeper brought the drinks over on a polished tray. Mr Gondavere handed a mug of steaming tea to Monte and pushed the glass of whiskey to the stranger.
“Good evening, sir.”
The stranger looked up and pushed his hat back on his head. A bushy grey beard hid the lower half of a kind face, and shaggy eyebrows almost covered his piercing green eyes. Despite the colour of his hair, the stranger didn’t look that old. In fact, Monte couldn’t see any lines or age spots on his face at all. If Monte had to guess, the stranger couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. That was younger than him. Monte took solace in his drink, clutching the mug and sipping the sweet tea.
“Good evening, chaps. What can I do for you?” The stranger’s voice was smooth and deep, though his words bore little trace of an accent.
“We’ve been speaking to an old friend of yours, and he thinks that you may be able to help us.”
“Does he, now? Who is this friend of mine that would send you here at so inhospitable an hour?”
“Crompton Daye.” Monte blurted the name before he could stop himself. Something about the stranger made him want to tell the whole story, and lay out all of the facts that he knew. He didn’t know why, but this stranger would be able to set things right.
The stranger looked grave for a moment, until his face creased and he erupted with laughter.
“Crompton Daye, indeed! How is my old friend? Is he well?”
“He’s well enough,” said Mr Gondavere. He glared at Monte. “Am I to assume that you are Bucklebeard, of Bucklebeard’s Antiques?”
“That I was, though my real name’s Armitage Black. I got my nickname after a very ill-advised fashion experiment at the Academy. By, that must have been at least two centuries ago.” The stranger fondled the pointed tip of his beard and Monte could just imagine him wearing silver buckles woven into his hair.
“Well then, Mr Black. I have heard that you are a student of history, much like myself,” said Mr Gondavere.
“I am a student of history, that much is correct. Whether I am much like yourself remains to be seen,” replied Black.
Monte fought the urge to snigger.
“Indeed, Mr Black. I am given to understand that your particular area of expertise is the Heart of the City,” said Mr Gondavere.
“It was certainly a pursuit of mine when I lived in the Underground City. I looked for it for half of my life, but with the libraries gone and the Shadowkin pressed into service as messengers, I gave up and came Above. Why?”
“It is a relic that I feel deserves a place in the history of the Twin Cities, instead of merely a mythological footnote.”
“Well I agree with you there. I’ve got no solid proof that it ever existed, but I always thought it would be below the Underground City, if it was anywhere. I never managed to find an entrance, though. Why? Have you found something?”
“An old priestess told us the Heart was broken. That was the Almighty Crack everyone heard,” said Monte. He ignored the venomous look on Mr Gondavere’s face.
Black’s eyes widened. “That would be a sad fact indeed, my friend, although it didn’t occur to me that the Heart and the Almighty Crack might be connected. Yes, the Heart would be useless if it was broken. I can only think of one person in the City who could mend it, but I can’t see her lending a hand,” said Black. He gazed into his mug.
“Who would that person be? I would love to interview her for my book,” said Mr Gondavere.
“Let me think,” replied Black. “How about you ask the bartender for another drink for me?”
Mr Gondavere smiled, stood up then made his way across to the bar. Black looked up and Monte followed his gaze. Mr Gondavere had his back to them.
“Look, you seem like a good sort, so you’re going to have to keep an eye on him for me. I have to go and make some inquiries of my own, maybe see if I can’t put a word in a certain someone’s ear. But under no circumstances let him anywhere near the Heart, even if it is broken.” Black winked. For a split second, time stopped, and the wizard opened a slit in the fabric of the world. He slid through and the tear sealed up behind him. Time restarted and Black was gone.
“Monte!” Mr Gondavere bellowed his name across the room.
Monte stood up and shuffled across the tavern to the bar. He blinked hard, hoping to erase the image of the world being unzipped so casually. His mind’s eye clung to the sight of a man stepping through reality as though it was nothing but a normal doorway.
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. He said he had to do some work and one minute he was there, the next he was gone,” replied Monte. The lie sprang to his lips, but he fought the urge to bite his tongue. Any man who could control time like that… Black understood more of the world than he ever could. And if he said Mr Gondavere should be kept away from the heart, then that’s what Monte would do.
“This is exceedingly vexatious, Monte. We needed his information so we could know where to start looking,” said Mr Gondavere.
“I know, but I didn’t know he was going to disappear like that,” said Monte. The air felt somewhat colder following Black’s departure, and Monte wished the wizard had taken him too. At least his smile was genuine.
“Did he tell you anything else?”
“No, sir.” Monte tried to think of a way to follow Black’s instructions, but he couldn’t keep Mr Gondavere away from the Heart if they didn’t even know where it was.
“Well, the night is still young. We may suppose that the Heart is not in the City Above, but rather in the Underground City, which I suspected all along. We may also suppose that some powerful magick will be required in order to mend the Heart before I may use it. Rather, before we use it,” said Mr Gondavere, shooting a sly glance at Monte.
Monte adopted his usual expression of dopey obedience, but the slip of the tongue could not have been more obvious. Mr Gondavere had no intention of sharing the Heart or its abilities with him. No, he’d have to go back to grave digging, although at least that was solid and reliable work. He’d already lost a day’s pay, but the gold coin was worth at least a year’s work. Maybe he’d even pay Myrtle to leave him.
“So, what do we do now?”
“First, we finish our drinks. At least we have somewhere to start.”
Mr Gondavere raised his mug and proposed a toast to hard work and success. Monte tapped his mug against that of Mr Gondavere, but like this entire endeavour, he found his tea very difficult to swallow.
“Will I have time to nip home and see the wife? Only she’ll be beginning to wonder where I am,” said Monte. He didn’t think Myrtle would be particularly pleased to see him, but he did feel obliged to let her know what was going on. Besides, the longer he could keep Mr Gondavere from his inquiries, the longer A
rmitage Black would have to make his own.
“Indeed so. I am also aware that you must eat and sleep, and I have not given you sufficient time to do either.”
Mr Gondavere smiled, and even though he was trying to help him, Monte still suppressed a shudder at the sight of all of those teeth. He returned a weak smile of his own while trying to ignore thoughts about what Mr Gondavere did for food or rest.
“Excellent. Well then, we have not an instant to lose. We must return to Lockevar’s Gate at once.”
Monte followed Mr Gondavere out of the pub, inhaling a final lungful of warm air before they passed into the chilly night beyond. His only real regret at heading back underground was losing the sight of the sky and the feel of fresh air on his skin. His fingers brushed solid gold in his pocket. At least the money made it worth it.
15
Chapter 15
Vyolet skipped ahead through the long shadows that undulated up the walls in the flickering light. Eufame fell into step beside Jyx, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up to be so close to her. The shard of her inside his head sang a pure melody that Jyx didn’t think he’d ever be able to replicate.
“I had your family moved, Jyx,” she said.
“I know. Validus told me.”
Eufame cocked her head to one side. The look she gave was full of both curiosity and suspicion.
“I hope you realise what an honour it is to be so bestowed with Wolfkin magick. It’s not to be taken lightly, you know.”
“Validus has been really nice to me.”
“I don’t doubt he has. He’s a loyal associate. All of my Wolfkin are.”
“You don’t think of them as servants? Validus kept calling you his mistress.”