by Lian Tanner
Silence.
With his other hand, he held the silver ingot out, and turned it back and forth so that it gleamed in the lantern light.
A guttural voice shouted, ‘Kom!’
The Fugleman waited another moment or two, to show that he wasn’t to be hurried. Then he edged through the Dirty Gate, with Hope close on his heels.
He had only gone a few steps when he tripped over something. He looked down. At his feet lay the lieutenant marshal. His uniform was drenched with blood, and he had a look of astonishment on his face. Scattered around him were the bodies of his men.
The Fugleman’s hands were shaking again, and he felt a sudden urge to giggle. ‘It seems I was wrong about the danger,’ he murmured to the lieutenant marshal’s corpse. ‘I do hope you’ll forgive me.’
He heard a noise, and looked up in time to see a troop of soldiers striding towards him with flaming torches in their hands. The same soldiers that were described in the blue book.
They were an ugly bunch. Bloodthirsty barbarians, every one of them. Look at their brutal faces and their ancient costumes! Their swords and pikes and muskets! They should have been dead hundreds of years ago. For all he knew they were dead – though he’d never heard of a ghost that stank like this lot.
The main thing was, their primitive bullets were real. He smiled to himself. Everything was going exactly the way he had planned. It was time to make the next move, before Hope did something stupid. He didn’t want to lose her, not yet. It was always useful to have at least one disposable underling close by.
With his eyes fixed on the soldiers, he flicked at a speck of Comfort’s blood on the front of his robes. Then he drew himself up to his full height and said, ‘I am the Fugleman of the city of Jewel. Take me to your commanding officer!’
The museum was in turmoil. Goldie could feel the walls straining furiously at the planks that nailed them down, the way Broo had strained at his ropes. The floor rippled underfoot. Piles of broken glass lay everywhere.
The Staff Only door was completely off its hinges. Goldie clambered over it and ran into the back rooms. There she stopped, appalled at what she saw.
Most of the glass cases were broken wide open. The ones that were not broken bulged dangerously, like over-stretched balloons. Inside them, everything was in disarray. Costumes and skeletons and suits of armour twitched and rattled as if they were alive. Old surgical instruments scraped at the glass with a sound that made her skin crawl.
Broo raised his massive head and sniffed the air. The hackles on his back rose. ‘They have breached the Dirty Gate!’ he growled. ‘How DARRRRE they!’
He bounded away and Goldie ran after him. Above her head, the lights flickered. An ominous rumbling came from somewhere beneath her. The walls around her heaved and strained against the nailed planks.
Broo was waiting for her at the edge of the Vacant Block. Last time Goldie had seen the ditch, there had been no more than an inch or two of muddy water in the bottom. But now the current raced past her, black and foul, cutting away at the edges and spilling over the brim in hungry streams.
Someone had made a bridge out of tables and broken display cases. Broo loped across it, and Goldie followed, trying not to let the foul water touch her. She ran across the Vacant Block, following the nailed planks. Mud snatched at her feet and thornberry bushes snagged her clothing. She tore herself away and ran on.
The planks led directly to the bottom step of Harry Mount. Goldie put her hand on the banister, and—
‘STOP!’ growled Broo. He snuffed the air. ‘Something is not RRRRRIGHT!’
Goldie hiccuped with frightened laughter. ‘Nothing’s right!’ But she stopped all the same, and looked at the brizzlehound uncertainly.
Broo’s growl rose to a crescendo. Goldie heard a scratching noise. The hair on the back of her neck stood up—
An enormous rat was crawling down the stairs towards her. Its fur was matted and filthy; its head swung from side to side as if it couldn’t see properly. As she backed away in horror, it staggered off the bottom step, dragged itself along the floor a little way . . . and fell over.
‘What’s the matter with it?’ she said in a small voice.
Broo’s whole body was stiff with fury. ‘Plague. The PLAGUE RRRRROOMS are on the move.’
After that, Goldie didn’t want to go up Harry Mount. But there was no alternative. And so, slowly, carefully, with her head low and her eyes peeled for danger, she began to climb.
There were no more rats. But Harry Mount was even steeper than usual. It rose up high and narrow, like a staircase in a nightmare. Before long, the banister petered out, and in its place was an enormous drop that seemed to go down and down forever. Goldie crawled upwards on all fours, keeping as close to the brizzlehound as she could, and trying not to look over the edge.
Once, she thought she heard gunfire, and she stopped and pressed herself against the wall. Planks and nails dug into her back. Broo stood over her, trembling with rage.
They were nearly at the top when Harry Mount began to tremble in exactly the same way.
‘It’s trying to shift!’ gasped Goldie.
She was right. The step she was standing on heaved up and down like a ship in a storm. Planks creaked and groaned, but did not break. Nails screeched but did not come loose.
‘Hurry!’ growled Broo. He bounded up the last few steps and loped through a doorway. Goldie followed him.
‘Look!’ she cried, pointing upwards.
They were in the Lady’s Mile. But the banners that usually hung from the ceiling were gone. In their place were long hempen ropes, and at the end of each rope was a hangman’s noose.
‘Hurry!’ growled Broo. ‘HURRRRRRRY!’
Goldie raced down the Lady’s Mile, ducking her head to avoid the dangling nooses, and ran through the doorway at the far end. And there before her – much closer to the front of the museum than it should have been – was the Dirty Gate. It was wide open, and Morg was sitting on top of it. On the ground below her was Guardian Comfort. A little way past him, piled up like logs of wood in the moonlight, were the militiamen.
They were all dead.
Goldie stared, stricken, at the crumpled bodies. Nothing had prepared her for this. ‘I hope it didn’t hurt,’ she whispered.
Broo growled.
‘Sshh,’ whispered Goldie, as if the dead men were merely asleep and she didn’t want to wake them.
Broo growled again. Morg clacked her beak. Her hungry eyes were fixed on Guardian Comfort’s face.
‘Get out of it, Morg,’ said Goldie. ‘Leave him alone.’
The slaughterbird gave a disappointed croak and flapped off into the darkness. Broo shifted impatiently. ‘These men are dead,’ he growled, ‘and we cannot bring them back to life. If we want to save the living we must go ON!’
‘But we’re too late!’ said Goldie. ‘The soldiers must have broken out already.’
‘If they had come through the Dirty Gate,’ growled Broo, ‘do you think I would not SMELL them?’ He shook his great head. ‘No. This was just a skirmish. They have not yet made their move. But,’ he snuffed the air, ‘there is something happening in the army camp. The Fugleman is there.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘I do not know,’ growled Broo. ‘But I will not cower here like an unweaned pup while there is a chance we might yet STOP HIM!’
There was a brief kerfuffle when the Fugleman and Hope arrived in the middle of the army camp. One of the barbarians disappeared into a large tent with a dozen or so men inside it. The Fugleman could see their shadows on the canvas walls.
A moment later, there was shouting in what sounded like the accent of Old Merne. An officer (judging by the quality of his coat) poked his head out through the tent flap and scowled at them. Then he ducked back inside.
More shouting. The first barbarian came hurrying out again.
The Fugleman drew himself up importantly. He thought about using his charming smile, but decided
against it. Among people like these, a smile might be seen as a weakness.
‘My good man,’ he said to the barbarian. He spoke loudly so that whoever was inside the tent would hear him. ‘My good man, I am here on a mission. Tell your commanding officer that I have a proposal for him. A proposal that will make him an extremely rich man.’
The barbarian stared at the Fugleman, but didn’t move. There was a rumble of voices from the tent, then the flap was thrust aside and a different officer came out.
The Fugleman didn’t need to be told that this was the supreme commander. It was enough to see the brutal, intelligent face, the unyielding expression, the way the barbarian soldier straightened up when he appeared.
Hope was biting her lip nervously. The Fugleman was afraid too, though he was not so foolish as to show it. For a moment he wished he had brought his new sword with him, instead of leaving it hidden in the House of Repentance. But then he pulled himself together. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment that all his plotting had been leading up to.
He paused for just a second to savour the taste of success. Then he took a step forward and held out his hand. ‘I am the Fugleman of Jewel,’ he said. ‘And I want you to invade my city.’
.
oldie lay in the long grass and stared at the army encampment. Her face and arms were blackened with mud; her belly was pressed against the ground. Broo was no more than a shadow beside her.
It was still at least five hours till dawn, but the camp was buzzing like a beehive. By the light of scores of campfires, men pulled on their shoes, strapped leather waterbottles around their waists and shovelled food into their mouths. Somewhere a horse whinnied. The smell of war was everywhere.
Directly in front of Goldie, across the stretch of trampled mud, was a grindstone. A bare-chested giant of a man turned it around and around, his muscles glistening in the firelight. One of the soldiers held a sword against the stone so that sparks flew and the steel took a fine, sharp edge. His companions waited their turn, jostling each other and laughing in voices that brimmed with violence.
There was a sudden flap of wings overhead. Goldie flinched. Morg’s harsh voice drifted down from the night sky. ‘Betra-a-a-a-ayed! Betra-a-a-a-ayed!’
The soldiers muttered uneasily. In the darkness beside Goldie, Broo’s hindquarters quivered. ‘Morg is rRRight,’ he growled. ‘I, too, smell betrRRayal. I smell the hunger for rRRiches, and for blooOOOd!’
He half-rose out of the grass, his voice trembling with fury. ‘I will give them bloOOOod! I will RRRRUN through their stinking camp! I will BRRRRREAK the Fugleman’s neck before he destroys us all!’
Goldie could feel the same fury welling up inside her – the urgent need to do something, to do it now before the world fell apart around her. Her breath caught in her throat. Her muscles tensed.
In the back of her mind the little voice whispered, Think carefully before you rush into danger!
Goldie shook her head in frustration. How could she think carefully at a time like this? It was like trying to swim against an enormous current, except the current was inside her, sweeping her along.
Think! Think carefully!
She bit her lip until it hurt, and forced herself to be still. ‘Broo, wait!’
‘We must act before it is too late,’ growled Broo.
‘They’ll shoot you!’ whispered Goldie. ‘You’ll never get anywhere near the Fugleman.’
‘I will RRRUN like a shadow. They will not see me until their DEATH is upon them!’
‘But there are hundreds and hundreds of them! And they’re real soldiers, not like our militia. They’ll kill you! We have to think of another way of stopping them.’
The brizzlehound turned his head to stare at her. His eyes burned so fiercely that she had to look away. ‘Think, then,’ he rumbled. ‘But do not take too long. The end of EVERYTHING is almost upon us!’ He sank back onto his haunches, but the low growl in his chest did not stop.
‘Sinew said the museum’s like a kettle full of steam,’ Goldie whispered, half to Broo and half to herself. ‘The Guardians have nailed the rooms down so they can’t move, and now the pressure is building up. So what we need . . .’ She hesitated, working it out as she went. ‘What we need is something that’ll reduce that pressure. Like lifting the lid of the kettle and letting out some of the steam. I think— I think that means we have to let some of the wildness loose. Let it out into the city.’
‘Not the soldiers,’ growled Broo. ‘Not the plague. Not the creature that lies in Old Scrrrrratch.’
‘No. Something else. Something that’s not as dangerous. But— But it has to be big or it mightn’t work.’
A shout from the encampment distracted her. One of the soldiers had been drinking from a leather bottle, and someone had bumped him and splashed liquid all over his sleeve. His companions crowed with laughter. The soldier swore and raised his fist, and the laughter grew louder. One of his friends pulled out a kerchief and dabbed at him in mock concern. The sequins on the kerchief glinted in the firelight.
‘Look!’ breathed Goldie. ‘It’s Olga Ciavolga’s!’
For a moment, she couldn’t move or think. Olga Ciavolga would never have given up her kerchief willingly. Where was she? What had the soldiers done to her? Was she still alive, or was she—?
Tears sprang to Goldie’s eyes. She brushed them furiously away – this was no time for tears – and forced her mind back to the problem. How could she let some of the museum’s wildness loose? Where would she find something that was big enough to reduce the pressure, but not as dangerous as these soldiers?
There was another roar of laughter from the camp. A prickle ran down Goldie’s spine. The kerchief. The knots. The BIG knots . . .
Quickly she turned to Broo. ‘What if I stole the kerchief and released one of the Great Winds? Would it blow out into the city? Would it reduce the pressure enough?’
‘I do not know,’ rumbled Broo. ‘Even Olga Ciavolga has never released one of the Great Winds.’
Goldie stared at him, her heart beating wildly. She had no idea if it would work. It might make things worse. And the thought of trying to get close enough to the soldiers to steal the kerchief made her feel sick. What if they caught her? What would they do to her?
Don’t try and push the fear away . . .
She ran her tongue over dry lips. ‘I can’t think of anything else to do, Broo. I’m going to try it. You’d better stay here.’
The hackles on the back of Broo’s neck rose. ‘I am a BRRRRRIZZLEHOUND! We do not stand aside while our friends go into DANGERRRR!’
‘You must stay here,’ whispered Goldie. ‘So that if I . . . um . . . if I fail, you can still make your run for the Fugleman.’
‘I do not LIKE this plan. These men are like idlecats. If they catch you they will TEARRRRR you limb from limb.’
‘They mightn’t,’ said Goldie, although she was horribly afraid that the brizzlehound was right. ‘Please stay here.’
Broo rumbled his disapproval. But then he bent his head and licked her face with his enormous tongue. ‘You are as BRRRRAVE as a BRRRRIZZLEHOUND. Go well. I will be watching.’
Goldie turned back to the army camp. This would be harder than anything she had ever done before. But the shadows and the bustle and noise would all help to hide her. She settled lower into the long grass. She slowed her breath. She made herself a part of the mud and the firelight. I am nothing. I am a shadow . . .
Her mind drifted outwards like sparks from a fire. She could sense Broo’s deep, slow heartbeat beside her. She could sense a family of mice somewhere nearby, scurrying hither and thither. She could sense a dreadful, raging hunger from the army camp.
I am nothing. I am a shadow . . .
As silent as a wisp of smoke, she drifted out of the long grass and across the bare earth. There was a wagon right in front of her. She slipped beneath it and the noise of the camp closed around her. The scrape of swords. The rumble of the grindstone. The br
utal laughter of the men. She pressed herself against the wagon wheel, wishing she could crawl into a hole and disappear.
It took all her courage to creep out from beneath the wagon. Her stomach churned, but her feet trod carefully in the mud, and the little voice in the back of her mind whispered advice. Keep to the shadows. Don’t move suddenly – sudden movements catch the eye. Go through that little alleyway between the tents. Watch out! Someone’s coming!
A man blundered down the alleyway towards her, stinking of beer. Goldie faded into stillness.
I am nothing. I am the smell of smoke on the night air . . .
The soldier shouted something that she couldn’t quite make out. From inside one of the tents, there came an answering shout. The soldier laughed and slapped his thigh with a noise like a pistol shot. Then, without a backward glance, he strode past Goldie and out into the firelight.
The men around the grindstone were growing noisier. Two of them had begun to wrestle and the others were roaring encouragement. Goldie crouched in the shadow of the nearest tent, watching them. Somewhere in that seething mass was the man who had Olga Ciavolga’s kerchief. Which one was he?
That one?
No.
That one!
No. There were too many of them. How was she going to find him?
A whisper from the little voice. Let your mind seek the kerchief.
Goldie let her thoughts drift towards the soldiers. It was hard to ignore the awful hungry heat of them, but she made herself think about other things.
Winds, great and small. A cool breeze in the middle of summer. A knotted kerchief.
And there it was, like a bright spark in the middle of darkness! She could see the soldier now, hanging around the outside of the mob, thumping his fellows on the back and laughing uproariously. The kerchief was in his right-hand pocket.
Goldie slid out of the shadow of the tent, her eyes fixed on the soldier. Fear and excitement welled up inside her and she let them drift away. No thoughts. Nothing. I’m a shadow . . .