So this is Hobsmatch, Ivy thought. She didn’t quite know what to make of it. The rich colours and elaborate designs were beautiful, but it didn’t exactly look practical – all those ruffs and heels – and yet she guessed it suited uncommoners. They were collectors, after all. Hobsmatch must be a good way to show off.
She tried to pick out a few faces, though it was easy to get distracted. The people were as diverse as any she’d seen at an airport. And – her heart sank – none were carrying candles. Valian had said that this candle trader would find her. She wondered if she should go and wait somewhere.
Everyone was funnelling into the mouth of a tunnel in the far wall, positioned between two colossal iron gates. The vast hinges were set into the statues of two figures who held hands, forming an arch over everyone below. One was a stately man in a long-sleeved jerkin with a garland of oranges around his neck; the other an elegant woman wearing a tasselled dress decorated with lemons. Ivy stared at them. They looked grand, like the statues of ancient gods she’d seen on trips to the V&A with her dad. The one with the oranges must be Sir Clement, she thought, and Lady Citron has to be the one with the lemons. She wondered what her dad would make of them.
Between the two statues stood the Great Gates – which, according to Valian, meant the ladders would be close by. Ivy hunted around and, sure enough, spied a shadowy gap between two stacks of cases, where silvery rungs glinted against the wall. Her shoulders tensed. That was her and Seb’s way out.
Turning up the collar of Valian’s jacket, she curled her trembling hands into fists.
Here goes . . .
She stepped out.
It was like being trapped in the middle of an enormous school reunion where everyone had come in fancy dress.
‘Kitty, I haven’t seen you in ages! Your chain mail looks great – is it new?’
‘How’re the kids, Arthur? I heard your two’ll be trading this season.’
‘Ooh, yes. I saw those floods on the news. Must have been terrible for you down at the bottom of the country. How did your robes survive?’
Ivy slipped carefully between the puffed sleeves and flouncy skirts, a cold, heavy feeling settling at the bottom of her stomach like wet cement. Keep it together, she told herself. This is real. You’ve got to rescue Seb. She fixed her eyes on the ladders ahead.
‘You read the Chronicle this morning?’ Ivy heard one of the traders say. ‘’Eard there’s been some sort of scandal at the Ug station. Something to do with the Wrenches.’
‘Wrench? I haven’t heard that name in years.’
‘Well, it’s hardly surprising . . .’
The name Wrench tripped alarm bells in Ivy’s head, but the din of the crowd was so overwhelming, she couldn’t think straight. A trader in an embroidered tunic and a kilt swished past carrying a basket of brass kettles. Everyone was hefting something – muddy bicycle wheels slung over shoulders, dusty wine bottles stuffed under armpits.
Suddenly something swooshed close to Ivy’s head and she looked up as a dark shape passed over her. It zoomed towards the Great Gates, before slowing down so that Ivy could identify it: a man riding a flying vacuum cleaner. She looked back up to discover a multitude of other traders flying in and out of the stalactites. Some were straddling broomsticks, mops or feather dusters, while others knelt on flying rugs or doormats.
‘Hello, missy.’
Ivy froze as she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun round and came face to face with a toothless, wrinkled old man.
‘Bleedin’ vacuum fliers,’ he croaked, rubbing his hunched back. ‘No care for pedestrian safety, absolutely none!’ He was holding the broken pieces of a cardboard sign mounted on a long wooden stick. Ivy could just about make out what it said: INVISIBILITY CANDLES: 8 GRADE.
The man raised a fist towards the roof of the cavern. ‘Broke three signs this week!’ he shouted. ‘If I ever get my hands on one of you ruffians . . .’ He shook his head and turned his foggy turquoise eyes towards Ivy. ‘Don’t suppose I can interest you in a candle, dearie? Eight grade’s an awful good price, honest.’ As he smiled, his tanned skin creased like baked mud.
Ivy didn’t say a thing. She didn’t even move. He’ll find you, Valian had told her. And here he was . . .
‘Er – yeah, I need a candle,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady. In the pockets of Valian’s jacket, her hands were trembling. ‘It’s for someone else. He said you had a debt to settle with him.’
The old man squeezed his lips together and frowned. ‘A debt, you say?’ He scratched his scalp. ‘Who sent yer?’
Ivy hesitated and half smiled. ‘Valian Kaye?’
The man spat in her face. ‘Pah! Owe ’im a candle? ’E must be kidding. Boy’s gone raving mad. ’E owes me objects to the value of fifteen grade!’ He shook his head. ‘Owe ’im a candle indeed!’
Ivy tried not to gag as she wiped the spittle off her cheek. Lovely. Valian had lied, but she still needed that candle. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Maybe there’s something I can give you in return.’ She started searching through Valian’s pockets. There must be something uncommon there—
‘Ouch!’ Ivy’s fingertips burned as something bit her. She withdrew her hand and looked into the pocket. The lining was wriggling.
The comb! Of course.
‘How about this?’ Ivy pulled the comb out carefully and pointed it away from her, trying to keep control of the gnashing teeth.
The man inspected it from a distance, rubbing his chin. ‘Not bad, not bad. But what would I use it for?’ He signalled to the loose, tattered shirt he was wearing. ‘I don’t have no pockets.’
Ivy racked her brains. ‘Er . . .’ The man held her gaze. His irises were swirly dark blue now, like a lagoon. ‘Maybe you could attach it to the top of your sign to stop people flying into it?’ she said hopefully.
The man looked angrily down at his broken sign and then, slowly, he smiled. ‘You got yerself a deal there, missy.’ He held out his hand, which was encased in a fraying grey gardening glove.
Ivy sighed with relief as she shook it.
The man glanced at her bare fingers. ‘Best make sure yer wearing gloves in there,’ he said, nodding towards the Great Gates.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ Ivy said dismissively, registering the advice at the back of her brain. She was more interested in getting the candle. After the old man had handed it over, she shoved it in her pocket, trying to ignore the fact that it was black and odd looking.
‘Yer jus’ gotta blow it out to use it,’ the man instructed before turning to leave. ‘It only works if you’re touchin’ it, mind. If you let go, you’ll become visible again.’
Once the old man had disappeared, Ivy turned round and set off through the crowd. When the main arrivals chamber was well behind her, she sprinted down the last tunnel to Valian, anticipation surging through her. She had the candle; now she just had to make sure that Valian kept his side of the bargain. She was still determined to give him a piece of her mind when she found him. It served him right that she’d had to give away his comb. She felt the uncommon candle between her fingers as she dashed round the corner. ‘Valian?’ she hissed. ‘I’ve got it!’
The tunnel was empty.
Ivy hurried to the end and called down the elevation shaft, but there was no reply. She ran back and looked down the two adjoining passageways.
‘Valian?’ she whispered. She didn’t understand why he wasn’t there. Then she spotted it: a shadow on the floor. As she drew closer, she realized what it was.
My duffel coat?
In the dust beside it lay the silver coin. Ivy picked it up and closed her fingers around it thoughtfully, letting the warmth surge through her. Valian must have found it and left it there for some reason.
She scoured the surrounding area and, in the next tunnel, found scuff marks on the floor and five long scratches down the wall.
Something had happened to Valian.
Chapter Nine
Ivy collapsed onto the dusty floor,
feeling all her confidence ebb. Maybe Valian had been arrested, or maybe someone else had found him and he’d got into a fight and run off. Whatever had happened, Ivy doubted he was coming back. She was going to have to rescue Seb without his help.
After a few blank, cold minutes she reached for Granma Sylvie’s soft leather handbag and sniffed. She knew what her granma would tell her, if she was there: Get up, Ivy. You’re all Seb’s got. Come on, get up!
Slowly she rose to her feet. To make herself feel more comfortable, she tugged off Valian’s leather jacket and replaced it with her duffel coat. The wool still smelled like the vanilla air freshener her mum sprayed around at home. She tucked the silver coin into her pocket, ignoring the strange warmth spreading through her fingers, and tried to concentrate.
Think, Ivy. Think . . .
She went through Valian’s pockets and got out the uncommon candle. The old trader’s sign had read: INVISIBILITY CANDLES.
Ivy examined it closely as it heated her palms. The candle looked like a blob of black pudding with a short wick that burned with a crystal-white flame.
How she had missed that it was already lit, she didn’t know. She turned the candle around slowly, careful not to touch the flame. It didn’t dance as it moved, like a normal one; it remained straight and unbroken. Ivy somehow suspected that if she did touch it, it wouldn’t even feel hot – it hadn’t damaged the inside of Valian’s jacket, after all. She tried to recall the old man’s parting instructions: blow it out to use it; keep it in your hand at all times.
Blow it out? Right . . .
It was worth a try. Ivy took a deep breath and aimed it at the flame.
Here goes nothing, I suppose.
The white spark wobbled and then faded. A puff of black smoke climbed up from the wick. It curled through the air with a low hiss, spiralling around Ivy. In seconds it had surrounded her in a wall of murky gas, but before she had time to panic, the wall dissolved, and her surroundings were visible again. The wick was left trailing an almost imperceptible wisp of grey mist.
Ivy stuffed Valian’s jacket under her arm and pointed the candle ahead of her like a talisman warding off evil spirits. She wondered if it had actually worked; if she really was invisible . . .
She guessed there was only one way to find out.
The toes of Ivy’s yellow wellies peeped out into the arrivals chamber, her body remaining firmly in the shadows of the tunnel. Her heart was thudding away inside her ribs. In front of her, buzzing with noise, were thousands of people who brought a whole new meaning to the word stranger. And she wasn’t welcome here, she knew that.
She took a quick step forward while she still had a shred of courage, and began weaving her way through the crowd. Her eyes darted from face to face, checking reactions. It was the strangest thing she’d ever done in her life – making sure she was invisible. She could imagine Seb’s face if she ever told him.
A minute went by. Then another. Not a single person made eye contact with Ivy. But that was almost normal. She was so small that not many people did notice her; not many adults, anyway. She couldn’t assume that the candle had worked just yet. She had to make sure.
Over by a mountain of studded leather trunks, a man with oiled black hair and a twirly moustache was calling to the crowd.
‘Feast your eyes on the latest Hobsmatch trends this season, ladies and gents!’ He gestured to three rails loaded with strange garments. ‘I’ve got the most talked-about looks from Paris and New York, straight off the Hobwalk.’ He slid a floor-length mirror out from behind a rack of thick fur coats. ‘Free to try and take a look!’
Ivy stopped when she saw the mirror. It was the perfect way to test her invisibility. She made her way carefully towards it, her eyes scanning the faces of the nearby traders. None of them seemed to notice her. When she was close enough, she stepped in front of the mirror, and then looked up.
And . . . nothing.
No Ivy. No candle. No leather jacket; no handbag.
Ivy waved her free hand around and jumped up and down. The trail of smoke from the invisibility candle left a scribbly pattern in the air, but it wasn’t visible in the mirror, and neither was she. All Ivy could see was the reflection of the bustling arrivals chamber behind her and a woman in a large hat hurrying towards the mirror—
Oomph!
The woman smacked straight into Ivy. Ivy squeezed the invisibility candle tighter as she steadied herself, and quickly shuffled out of the way. The woman – dressed in ankle warmers, leggings and a padded leather jacket – looked as if she’d just woken from a dream.
‘What the . . . ?’ she muttered to herself, frowning vaguely in Ivy’s direction as she straightened up in front of the mirror.
Ivy’s body tensed. She was invisible; the candle had worked – it must have. But now she had a new problem. If no one could see her, then it would only take one step out of place for her to be discovered.
Deciding to avoid the crowd as much as she could, she began skirting the edge of the cave, close to the towers of luggage. After a few moments she came across a group of children gathered around a man sitting on an upturned suitcase. He had long dark hair, a large nose, and wild, bushy eyebrows that moved up and down as he addressed his audience.
‘The Fallen Guild came in the dead of night,’ he was saying in a whispery voice. ‘Six hooded figures, desperate for blood.’
The children gasped, eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. Ivy snuck closer to see what had captured their attention.
The man was holding one hand out in front of him, twitching his thin fingers in time with his words. ‘They did not come for the blood of grown men,’ he went on, ‘for it was too bitter for them to drink.’
On the end of each of his fingers was tied a short length of white string, the kind you’d use to fasten a brown paper package. Ivy realized that something uncommon was being used when she looked down at the floor and saw six hooded figures rising from the dust. The stringless puppets appeared to be made of dirt, leaves and tiny pieces of rock. She blinked, astonished, as the puppets jerked and swayed in perfect synchronization with the five pieces of string, despite the fact that they weren’t attached.
‘Instead,’ continued the puppeteer, ‘it was the sweet, innocent blood of children that quenched their thirst.’ His voice was dark and hollow. ‘And do you know how they captured little children?’ He twitched his fingers, sending the hooded figures rocking towards the children, their arms extended like zombies. ‘They’d sing songs late, late into the night, when the children’s parents were fast asleep and they were still dreaming. And the children would rise from their beds and go out into the street . . .’ He spread a hand wide, nodding to the six creepy puppets. ‘That’s why the Fallen Guild named themselves after a song; a Dirge.’
The children screamed in terror and quickly hurried away. The puppeteer chuckled to himself as he removed the string from his fingers and allowed the hooded figures to disappear back into dust.
Ivy shivered as she swiftly moved on. She had assumed that the puppeteer was telling some sort of dark fairy tale, but now she had a horrible feeling there was more to it than that. She wiggled her fingers around in her pocket, feeling for the uncommon coin. She remembered that the word Dirge was written around the edge; she just didn’t know why.
She gazed at the crowd. No matter how scared she felt, she knew she had to focus on Valian’s instructions. Everyone’s Hobsmatch was bulky and distracting, but if she could nestle alongside someone as they passed through the Great Gates, she might be able to get in undetected. She had to choose a suitable candidate. Some traders were too fast or too doddery; some kept stopping to talk to people or pick up extra goods. Eventually Ivy settled on a huge man in a purple turban; on one shoulder he carried a large cardboard box full of leather footballs – perfect for her to sneak under.
As she approached the gates beside him, Ivy counted at least a dozen underguards. She scanned their faces but couldn’t find Officer Smokehart or t
he one with the grey moustache who’d taken Seb. She shuffled to a stop as the big man paused to take something out of his pocket.
Ivy’s eyebrows drew together when she saw what it was: a pair of yellow rubber gloves.
She looked at the other traders. They were all doing the same: putting on a pair of gloves – from thick knitted mittens to fur-trimmed driving gloves.
‘Stay in line, please!’ one of the underguards called. ‘Let’s keep this orderly.’
Ivy remembered what the old candle trader had told her: that she must be wearing gloves in Lundinor. Thank you, invisibility candle, she thought as she carefully squeezed between the two lines to see what everyone was waiting for.
At the head of every queue, mounted on a table, sat a polished silver bell, each one supervised by a pair of underguards. Ivy had never seen bells that size before. They looked like you’d be able to hear them ringing a mile away. There was a symbol engraved on the front of each one: a swirling fingerprint.
The underguards appeared to be instructing each trader to ring one of the bells before passing through the Great Gates. It was too noisy for Ivy to hear what they were saying, but she could tell one thing:
They’re checking for something.
Sneaking past them might not be as easy as slipping through the crowd.
She retreated behind Mr Turban, a horrible feeling knotting up her insides. As they approached the bells, she held her breath.
‘Gloves, sir?’ the underguard at their checkpoint asked. The man nodded. Ivy’s heart was in her mouth as she watched him reach out and ring the large silver bell.
But the bell didn’t ring.
It spoke.
‘Thaddeus Kandinsky,’ it said, in a high, sing-song voice. ‘Sports equipment specialist trader. Primary undermart: Helsior in Norway.’
The Crooked Sixpence Page 5