Museum of Thieves

by Lian Tanner

  Further down the street, the shadows seemed to move and whisper. At the same time, a hand shot out of nowhere and closed over Goldie’s mouth. She tried to scream. She struggled, her sandals scraping on the cobblestones. But two more hands gripped her and pulled her through an open doorway.

  ‘Sssshhh!’ breathed a voice in her ear. A fourth hand that she instantly recognised as Favour’s slid into hers. The door eased closed in front of her, but didn’t shut completely. The hand across her mouth loosened a little.

  Goldie knew where she was now; she could smell Herro Berg’s shaving lotion and feel the shape of Frow Berg’s bracelet pressing into her arm. She stood trembling in the dark hallway.

  In the street outside there was the sudden flash of a lantern and the sound of footsteps.

  ‘Did you hear that? We’ve got her now!’ said Guardian Comfort.

  ‘I heard nothing,’ said Guardian Hope. ‘But blow your whistle if you must. Alert the others. If she’s here, she’ll try to run for it.’

  The single-note whistle of the Blessed Guardians shrilled up and down the street. The footsteps went a bit further, then circled back again.

  ‘Golden Roth!’ cried Guardian Comfort. ‘We know you’re here! Don’t waste our time, we’re going to catch you anyway.’

  Herro Berg’s hand tightened over Goldie’s mouth.

  ‘Give yourself up,’ cried Guardian Comfort, ‘and we may treat you more leniently!’

  Silence. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of Goldie’s neck.

  Guardian Hope sniffed loudly. ‘I do believe you’re jumping at shadows, colleague.’

  ‘It was her, I’m sure of it. She’s hiding somewhere nearby.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Guardian Hope. ‘Or perhaps you’re just wasting my precious time.’

  Their voices faded into the distance. Silently, Frow Berg bolted the door. Herro Berg took his hand away from Goldie’s mouth.

  ‘I’m d-doing this ag-gainst my b-better judgement,’ he whispered. His stammer was much worse than usual. ‘I d-don’t want my d-daughter t-taken into C-C-Care. Nor d-do I want the att-tention of the B-B-Blessed G-Guardians to fall up-pon my family in any way. If they c-c-catch you, you mustn’t t-t-tell them we helped you.’

  ‘I won’t,’ whispered Goldie.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here!’ whispered Favour, throwing her arms around Goldie’s neck and hugging her tightly. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  ‘Hiding.’

  ‘All on your own? What was it like?’

  ‘Horrible! Favour, I’m so thirsty!’

  ‘Ma, she’s thirsty!’

  ‘Of course she is, poor chick,’ murmured Frow Berg. ‘And hungry too, I expect. I’ve got a glass of water for her and there’s some bread and cheese here somewhere.’

  ‘What d-d-did you think you were d-d-d-d-doing, g-girl?’ whispered Herro Berg, as Goldie gulped the water down. ‘What p-p-possible g-g-good can come of this?’

  ‘Sshh,’ whispered Frow Berg. ‘It’s done now and there’s no changing it.’ She squeezed Goldie’s hand. ‘Your parents asked us to watch out for you.’

  ‘Are they all right?’ whispered Goldie. ‘What did they say? Are they angry with me?’

  ‘Their hearts are torn. They want you to be safe, but they don’t want the Blessed Guardians to catch you and take you into Care. Your mother said you must try to leave the city. Though how a child on her own might do that I can’t imagine!’

  Goldie couldn’t imagine it either. The whole world had turned upside down, and she had no one to blame but herself. ‘Can’t I just go home?’ she said miserably.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s no longer possible, my dear. Once the Blessed Guardians are involved everything changes.’ Frow Berg pushed a slip of paper into her hand. ‘Your mother has some distant cousins in Spoke who should look after you if you can get that far. Here’s their address. Oh, yes, and there’s a purse. Where did I put it? Is it with the bread and cheese? Oh dear, where did I put the bread and cheese?’ She began to fumble around in the darkness.

  Goldie looked helplessly at Favour. ‘How am I supposed to get to Spoke?’

  ‘I don’t know, but you’ll have to try,’ said Favour. ‘You mustn’t let the Guardians catch you.’

  ‘But I don’t even know where to start!’

  ‘Goldie,’ whispered Favour very seriously, ‘if I had to find my way to Spoke all by myself, I’d probably just curl up and die. But you’re braver than me. You always have been. You’re braver than any of us. And you do things that no one else’d even think of. Like today.’

  ‘I wish I hadn’t!’

  Favour’s breath was warm on her cheek. ‘So do I, because now I won’t see you for ages and ages. But if anyone can get to Spoke, you can.’

  Goldie shook her head. ‘I’m so hungry I can’t even think.’

  ‘Ma!’ said Favour. ‘Where’s the food?’

  ‘I’m looking for it,’ said Frow Berg. ‘I don’t suppose we could risk a light?’

  ‘Absolutely n-n-n-not!’

  ‘I wish we could hide you,’ whispered Favour. ‘But Pa says the Guardians will be sure to search—’

  As if her words had somehow summoned them, there came sudden footsteps and a loud thumping on the front door.

  ‘Open up!’ shouted Guardian Hope. ‘Open in the name of the Seven!’

  ‘Quick!’ hissed Herro Berg. ‘G-get her out the back d-door! And Favour, into your b-bed! Chain yourself, they’ll b-be sure to check!’

  ‘Blessings, Goldie!’ whispered Favour. ‘Hundreds and hundreds and thousands of Blessings!’

  Then she was gone, and Frow Berg was urging Goldie through the dark house. Behind them the thumping on the front door grew louder.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m c-coming as quickly as I c-can!’ called out Herro Berg in a pretend-sleepy voice.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know where I put that purse!’ whispered Frow Berg frantically. ‘And there’s no time to look now! Forgive me, dear! But here, at least I found a bread roll!’

  She thrust something into Goldie’s hand. Then she pulled the back door open just wide enough to squeeze through. ‘Go quickly!’ she whispered. ‘Blessings! Blessings!’

  With the faintest of clicks, the door closed on her kind face. And once again Goldie was alone.

  .

  row Berg’s bread roll tasted so wonderful that Goldie could hardly bear it. She finished it in half a dozen bites, and licked her fingers until every single crumb was gone. Then she huddled back in the shadows of Lame Poet’s Bridge.

  ‘Leave the city,’ Frow Berg had said. But how was she supposed to do that? And even if she managed to get out of Jewel onto the Spoke Road, she didn’t have any money or food. What was she supposed to do, walk all that way? By herself?

  Her legs started to shake again. The night closed in around her. For a moment she was almost over- whelmed with panic. Then she remembered Favour’s words.

  ‘You’re braver than any of us. If anyone can do it, you can.’

  She knew that Favour was wrong. She wasn’t brave at all. But her friend’s faith in her was like a small spot of calm in the middle of the panic.

  She fumbled in her pocket and took out her compass. The needle glowed a bright luminous green, pointing back the way she had come. That must be north. So the Spoke Road must be that way. East.

  Goldie climbed to her feet. She could have eaten another five bread rolls. She was still thirsty too, and the rippling of the water beneath the bridge was like torture. But she knew that the canals were salty and disease-ridden, and she made herself walk away from the sound.

  The streets of Jewel at night were very different from their daytime selves. The houses seemed to loom over Goldie like living creatures. She kept thinking she heard footsteps, or the sinister sound of someone breathing close behind her. Her skin prickled, and she took out the scissors again, and turned this way and that, trying to catch any sign of movement. But all she saw was shadows.

  She was ap
proaching one of the bridges over Dead Horse Canal when she heard someone whistling a tune. She froze. On the far side of the bridge, half-hidden by the parapet, stood a man with his back to her.

  As quietly as she could, Goldie tiptoed away. There was another bridge further up the canal. She would cross there.

  But when she reached the second bridge, she saw a dark figure leaning against the stone arch. A low whistle reached her ears. It was the same man!

  Goldie shrank back into the shadows, holding the scissors out in front of her like a knife. Who was he? She could not see him clearly, but she thought perhaps he wore a black coatee, like the man who had been watching her in the street and at the Separation ceremony. Was it him? Was he following her? What did he want with her?

  She remembered the stories she had heard about the slaver, Captain Roop. About how clever he was at luring Separated children into his traps. About how innocent he seemed – right up until the last minute.

  This man looked innocent enough. He had his back to her, as if he didn’t know she was there. But he did know. She was sure of it. He was listening for her footsteps, even while he whistled, and for the breath in her lungs, and for the frightened beating of her heart . . .

  She slunk away, trying not to breathe. When she looked back, the man hadn’t moved. Her heart settled a little.

  But when she came to the next bridge, he was already there.

  Suddenly the night took on an even more sinister tone. Every shadow seemed to hide one of Captain Roop’s men. Every sound was the scrape of Natkin Gull’s oars. The man’s whistling – had it changed? Was it a signal? Was Old Lady Skint closing in on her at this very moment?

  Goldie crept back the way she had come. She wasn’t going east any more, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to escape from the man in the black coatee.

  But every time she thought she had got away from him, he appeared again.

  On the other side of a plaza.

  Or in a doorway.

  Or in the middle of a street.

  Not once did he turn and look at her. Not once did she see him move. But bit by bit he drove her through the dark city.

  Goldie leaned against the wall of a cul de sac. She had been walking for ages, and she was too tired now to be afraid. Which was just as well, because there was no way out of the little dead-end street, except the way she had come. And the man would surely be waiting for her if she tried to turn back.

  With a groan, she slid down until she was sitting on the ground. She had no idea where she was. She remembered trudging up a hill, with rich-looking houses on either side of the road. But there were several hills in Jewel, and this could be any one of them.

  Goldie didn’t really care. She just wanted to lie down and sleep. If the slavers came, they’d have to carry her. She wasn’t going a step further.

  But no sooner had she closed her eyes than a wisp of night breeze touched her face. Clinging to it was the unmistakable smell of freshly cooked almond cakes.

  Goldie’s eyes snapped open.

  At the far end of the cul de sac was a small, ugly stone building. The grand houses on either side loomed over it, as if they were trying to cram it out of existence. But the ugly little building had a stubborn look to it, like an old man refusing to move from his favourite chair. The smell of the cakes seemed to be coming from its open doorway.

  Goldie dragged herself to her feet and stumbled down the cul de sac and up the steps of the little building. The smell drew her onwards like a promise. Through a dimly lit entrance hall. Under a stone archway. Up to the door of what looked like an office.

  She had just enough sense left to pause on the threshold. The watergas lamps were lit, but the office was as deserted as the entrance hall. There was a rickety old desk in the middle of it, and there, piled high on a plate, were the almond cakes, with a bowl of milk next to them. Goldie stumbled forward and picked up the bowl, feeling as if she might die of happiness.

  She gulped half the milk straight down, and ate six cakes, one after the other. Then she drank the rest of the milk and ate another three cakes. All the while, her eyes scanned the office.

  It was small and cluttered. Bits of paper lay on every surface, weighed down with rocks and lumps of coloured glass. Shelves overflowed with books and old coins and cracked porcelain statues. In one corner there was a small harp. And above the open door . . .

  Goldie nearly choked on the cake she was eating. On a perch above the door sat an enormous stuffed bird. It was at least twenty times as big as the clockwork birds in the Great Hall. Its feathers were as black as sin and its beak was cruel. Its yellow glass eyes seemed to glare at Goldie as if it blamed her for its death.

  Goldie gasped aloud. ‘It’s a slaughterbird! Just like the one on the Bridge of Beasts!’

  Fascinated, she circled around underneath it. The bird stared into space. If I reached up I could touch its feathers!

  She shivered and backed away. She knew that she mustn’t linger in this strange place. She took one last look around the office, and her eyes fell on the coins. There were so many of them, and they were in such untidy heaps that she was sure the owner wouldn’t miss a few. And they would make her trip to Spoke so much easier.

  I’m already a thief. I might as well steal something else.

  She hurried over to the nearest shelf. Her fingers closed around a small pile of coins. She slipped them into her pocket.

  There was a rustling sound from the perch above the door. Goldie spun around, her heart banging against her ribs. The slaughterbird – the stuffed slaughterbird, the dead slaughterbird – unfolded its enormous wings and blinked down at her. Then it opened its beak and began to screech in a voice like rusty iron.

  ‘Thie-e-ef!’ screeched the slaughterbird. ‘Thie-e-e-ef! Thie-e-e-ef! Thie-e-e-ef!’

  There was a thunder of footsteps in the corridor outside the office. A man’s voice cried, ‘Got you!’ And the door slammed shut, trapping Goldie and the slaughterbird inside.

  Goldie was not the only thief in the city that night. As the Great Hall clock struck one, a man wearing a hooded cloak hurried down Old Arsenal Hill and slipped through the canal gate.

  There was a small private water-rig moored at Old Arsenal Dock. The hooded man clambered into it and turned keys and gas switches until the motor came to life. The water-rig edged away from the dock and chugged quietly down the middle of the canal. When it came to Beast Dock, the man cut the motor and tied the rig to an iron ring. Then he hurried up the steps and climbed the safety fence.

  The Protectorate, when he came to it, was in darkness. He slipped around the side of the building and stopped at a small window. He took out a wafer-thin knife and eased it into the crack between the window and its frame. As gently as if he was tickling a baby, he wiggled the blade backwards and forwards. He swore under his breath at the slowness of it, but his hand remained steady.

  There was a faint click, and the window swung outwards. The man straddled the sill and dropped down into the storeroom below. He fumbled past shelves and boxes to the open door, and then along the lightless corridor and up a short flight of stairs. He bumped his shins a dozen times before he found the room he was looking for.

  When he did find it, he closed the heavy curtains and felt his way around the walls to the nearest watergas lamp. He took a tinderbox from his pocket, lifted the mantle of the lamp, turned the gas wheel, and lit the wick. With a hiss, the lamp sprang to life, revealing the well-worn furniture of the Protector’s office. The hooded man hurried over to the bookcases and began to inspect the rows of documents that lined their shelves.

  It was almost dawn before he found what he was looking for. By then he was getting worried. The cleaners would be on the streets soon, and he must be gone before they saw him.

  With a curse, he replaced the book he had just inspected, and put his hand on the slim blue volume that sat beside it. It was called The Dirty Gate, and he had already passed over it several times because of the nonsensical
title.

  But now he was running out of choices. He flicked the book open. Expecting nothing, he began to read the first page . . .

  .

  oldie sat in the corner of the office, as far away from the slaughterbird as she could get. She had a chair wedged in front of her and the scissors in her hand. Her head ached, and she was sick with fear and exhaustion.

  No one came for her. She kept expecting the door to burst open and admit half a dozen slavers, or perhaps Guardian Hope and Guardian Comfort. And by the time the small window above her head began to lighten with the coming dawn, she would almost have welcomed them.

  The slaughterbird had slept for much of the night. But now it was awake again, clacking its beak and peering down at her with its wicked head tilted to one side. ‘Thie-e-e-ef. Thie-e-e-e-ef,’ it muttered.

  At last Goldie heard footsteps outside the office. Someone whistled a horribly familiar tune. Goldie struggled to her feet, clutching the scissors. ‘If it’s slavers, I’ll fight!’ she whispered to the slaughterbird, although she had no idea how to fight.

  The door swung open and a tall, thin man in a black coatee stepped into the room. Goldie’s fingers whitened on the scissors. It was the man from the Separation ceremony. The one who had been watching her. The one who had driven her through the city against her will. And now he had her trapped.

  The man’s face was as forbidding as stone. ‘You’ve stolen something,’ he said. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Nothing!’ said Goldie quickly.

  Above the doorway the slaughterbird shifted on its perch. Goldie flinched. The man looked up. ‘Morg,’ he said. ‘Come here.’

  The slaughterbird peered down at him. Then, with a great clumsy hop, it dropped onto his shoulder.

  Goldie gasped. The man called out, ‘Olga Ciavolga, if you please!’

  An old woman appeared beside him. She wore a knitted jerkin and half a dozen skirts, each one brightly coloured and clashing with the ones above and below it. Her grey hair floated around her face. She looked sharply at Goldie, and held out her arm. The slaughterbird hopped onto it and she carried it away.