The Glass of Lead and Gold

by Cornelia Funke

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Glass of Lead and Gold

  About the Author

  Also Available from Cornelia Funke

  About the Publisher

  Copyright

  IT HAD BEEN SNOWING ALL NIGHT, the flakes swirling down on Londra as if the stars were falling from the sky to make the city shine for Christmas Eve. The snow had covered the cobblestoned streets with so thick a blanket that it hushed all the sounds the city made while waking, and its softness made Tabetha nearly forget how cold it felt beneath her worn-out shoes. The narrow alleys she took to get to the river bank were the same as every day, but today the grimy houses lining them looked like they belonged in a baker’s window: the roofs covered with icing, the chimneys puffing powdered sugar into the slowly paling sky. For a moment, Tabetha could almost believe that as the snow melted it would take away all the ugliness and sadness underneath. Maybe then, Londra would emerge as the shiny, magical place Tabetha’s mother had told her about every night, when they’d still lived in the village by the sea.

  Tabetha barely thought about it these days—the draughty cottages by the shores of a grey sea, the nets she had helped her father to repair, the fish drawing their last breath on the planks of his boat, along with starfish and tiny seahorses—all that seemed as unreal as the snow-covered houses surrounding her. Her father had drowned shortly after her seventh birthday, and her mother had packed their bags to begin a new life in Londra, the faraway city filled with laughter and light she had told Tabetha about. They found out, quite soon, however, that the light and laughter came at a price only the rich could afford.

  Her mother had died two years after their arrival in the city. She had become little more than one of the stories she had loved to tell—fairy tales too beautiful to believe in, amid all the poverty and darkness her daughter had experienced ever since. It was not easy to survive alone in Londra, but in three days’ time, Tabetha Brown would celebrate her fifteenth birthday. She’d promised herself a small piece of cake to celebrate the occasion, though she had yet to earn the money to afford such luxury.

  Getting older made life easier. In her first years alone, Tabetha had often been so hungry that she’d been tempted to make her way back to the village—but then she’d remember her grandfather yelling at her or her mother, and how often she’d felt the slaps of his rough hands on her face, or his stick on her back. No. Life was hard everywhere, and Londra was her home now.

  She picked up a stone and chased a bony cat away from a small figure stretched out in the snow. It was a Hob, his thin arms and legs as stiff as sticks. Londra’s population of tiny men and women was almost as numerous as its mice and rats, both in the poor and rich quarters of the city. Hobs didn’t get much bigger than a crow, and could be quite grumpy, but they were hard workers. In return for their services, they usually only asked for an old shirt or coat, to tailor their own clothes from, some food to feed their families—which, admittedly could be quite big—and for lodgings under a stair or closet. They worked in restaurants and factories and in the big mansions on the other side of the city, but they did not always receive the gratitude they deserved and, especially in winter, one found many of them dead in the streets.

  This one was still breathing though and Tabetha leant the tiny creature against a shop window, hoping the warmth seeping through the glass might bring him back to life. Soon after her mother’s death, she’d ended up working for a chimney sweep who’d made her climb up so many chimneys that her skinny legs were soon covered with soot and scars. She’d been sure she’d end up like so many children working for the sweeps, who slipped and broke their necks—until a family of Hobs helped her escape. She had never forgotten that kindness.

  The sweep had never realized she was a girl. It was hard for anyone to survive in Londra, but almost impossible for a woman—the hardship of her mother’s life had been proof of that—so Tabetha kept her hair short, and dressed like a boy. At first, she’d missed her long hair and dresses, but now she preferred the pants and shirts she wore—though she had to add more and more layers of rags to hide her growing breasts.

  Fifteen… No, life wouldn’t get easier.

  Before she reached the steep stairs leading down to the muddy shore of the Themse, she found three more Hobs and, right next to the steps, a coin shimmering in the snow like an early Christmas gift. It was a good beginning to a day that usually made her feel sad. Maybe she’d finally even be able to buy a pair of old shoes from the Leprechaun who lived under the stairs of the theatre, in whose draughty backyard she found shelter during the night.

  There were already two-dozen mudlarks out on this early Christmas Eve morning, searching the frozen mud of the river bank for copper wire, old coins, metals and other sellable goods. Tabetha knew them all. Most of the others were older than her. Mudlarking was not a healthy business. The filth-ridden mud often reached up to their knees and any small wound could cause lethal infection.

  Then there were the tides. Tabetha had watched with her own eyes how the rising waters had swept away an old woman and her son. But the river bank was a dangerous place—even on a day like this, when the tide was low and the mud was frozen—for it was the hunting ground of Watermen and Kelpies, not to mention drunken sailors, Elven-dust dealers and smugglers of all kinds.

  None of the other mudlarks suspected that Ted, as Tabetha usually introduced herself, was a girl. She stayed away from them anyway, as she was sure each of them would steal from her if she gave them the opportunity. Nobody could be trusted. Nobody. She had only survived because she never forgot that.

  When Tabetha reached the end of the stairs, she spotted an unfamiliar figure: a stout, balding man, far too well-dressed for a mudlark. He was handing Limpey some kind of paper. Maybe he was a preacher, who’d come to convince them to go to church tomorrow for Christmas. Some of the others would follow such an invitation for sure, as they were all very talented pickpockets. Tabetha had tried that trade, too, but it had made her feel ashamed, whereas discovering things in the river mud filled her with pride. The objects she found were all lost and broken, like she was, but they’d survived the river, they’d come a long way, and they each had their own story to tell.

  None of the other mudlarks had Tabetha’s patience when it came to scanning the river bank, or her sharp eyes when it came to spotting treasure in the mud and debris the huge river brought back from distant seas and washed up from long-forgotten times. Tabetha was not sure whether she loved or hated the Themse. At times, its shores felt like her only home, but on days like these—when other people sat in their houses, surrounded by their families—the wide ever-moving waters made her feel even more homeless.

  Stop it! she told herself. Self-pity was the poison she feared most. It fed on your heart. Most of the time, they all waded through the poisonous mud barefoot, with their trousers rolled up, but today the cold meant the mudlarks kept their leaking boots on.

  The small piece of torn rope Tabetha spotted after just a few steps was a good example of the treasure the others so easily missed. She made sure her face expressed only boredom while she bent down, to make sure she didn’t give away that she’d found something of value. A few shimmering scales clung to the rope; Mermaid scales. The river had carried them all the way from the southern coast, where Tabetha had seen them so often on the beach near her village.

  Mermaid scales were very sought after by tailors, who embroidered the robes of their rich clients with them. She was just carefully slipping her find into one of the leather pouches she’d tied to the old belt the river had brought her, when she saw that the well-dressed stranger she’d spotted from the stairs was watching her. H
e looked strong and fast, despite his age—always an important consideration, in case one had to run—but none of the others seemed worried. His coat was not as well-tailored as that of the banker who had his coachman stop by the stairs every Sunday, after church, to throw a few handfuls of pennies down—but the man’s boots certainly cost more than her findings would earn her in ten years, and the scarf around his stout neck at least three. What was his profession? Tabetha could usually guess, but not in this case.

  “I hear you’re one of the best mudlarks on the river.”

  His accent was New Caledonian. Tabetha’s grandfather came from up north. As for the compliment—it was definitely made up, to flatter her. None of the other mudlarks would ever admit she was better than most of them.

  The man had a scar on his forehead and another one on his hand, but he didn’t look like a soldier or professional fighter, and no policeman could afford those boots. A Thumbling peeked out of his coat pocket, its pale, amber eyes scanning Tabetha’s pockets and pouches. Thumblings were the most gifted thieves, and although they were barely bigger than a gin bottle, not even the most fast-fingered human could compete with them.

  “Don’t worry. He steals only when I tell him to.”

  The stranger smiled, his thin lips revealing three silver teeth. Tabetha tried hard not to stare at them. They were marked with some kind of ancient lettering.

  “Have you ever found a piece of glass that looked like it could be part of this?”

  The bit of paper he produced from his pocket was a clipping from a newspaper. When he handed it to her, she noticed that the skin on his left hand was covered with burn marks and two of his fingernails were missing. He clearly had a dangerous profession.

  There was an illustration on the clipping, one of those black and white etchings she loved to look at. Tabetha couldn’t read, but those images allowed her to learn about the world nevertheless and she picked up every newspaper she found on the street, just to look at them. This one was quite boring though, compared to the ones showing battles or faraway cities. It showed only a glass with a slender stem and delicate engravings of Sand Fairies and Fire Elves.

  “No one will find this, mister,” she said. “Thin glass like that has no chance of surviving the river.”

  Glass, porcelain, burnt clay… The mud of the Themse was spiked with millions of shards from mugs, bottles and plates, and it took a very skilled eye to detect whether they had any value. Most of them didn’t, but the older ones sometimes got you some money from the collectors on Celt Street, who were obsessed with everything ancient. Tabetha loved the stories they told when she brought them something they got excited about: stories about old kings and knights, enchanted swords, Fairies whom princes killed themselves for or child-eating Witches. She had found quite a few of the small pots the Witches sold their potions in. They were almost as common as the clay pipes men used to smoke Elven dust in. The pipes with bowls shaped like faces brought good money.

  “What’s so special about that glass?” Tabetha said, handing the newspaper clipping back to the stranger.

  “Keep it.” He gave her another silver-toothed smile. “The glass only has sentimental value, but I will pay three silver shillings if you find me a fragment.”

  Sentimental value? They all thought it was so easy to sell lies to children. But three silver shillings… It was more than she earned in ten good months, even if she searched the mud for sixteen hours a day.

  “You can find me at the Red Lion. You know where that pub is?”

  Tabetha nodded. It was a place for rich people who liked to pretend they were less well-off than they were.

  “Ask for Bartholomew Jakes.” The Thumbling still had his eyes on her pouches. “But if you don’t find a piece of that glass before the end of Christmas Day, don’t bother. I need it by tomorrow night, and I am not interested in old coins or whatever else you usually sell.”

  He gave her a nod, plucked a seagull feather off his well-tailored sleeve and walked back to the stairs, in his fine boots.

  Tabetha looked at the image in her hand, and glanced over to the others. No-teeth Harry, Limpey, Frogeater… They all held a clipping, and they returned her glance with the same fierce frown she gave them. Tabetha had been friends with another mudlark only once. Midget. A Waterman had killed him, when he went after a wooden crate floating by on the dirty waves. She hadn’t been able to go near the river for more than a week after that. It is hard to lose a friend, especially when you have only one.

  It began to snow again. The river swallowed the flakes like a huge, wet, grey-skinned beast, and Tabetha searched the cold mud until the sun set, veiled in chimney smoke, and the waters of the Themse turned as black as the boots the scarred stranger had worn. She found some copper wire, a tin spoon and a few coins, of which she suspected one to be quite old. Along with the Mermaid scales, it wasn’t too bad a harvest, but as always, she made sure she looked disappointed when she headed for the stairs.

  The river bank was even more dangerous at night, and even the boldest mudlarks left with the last light of day. Tabetha was sure they’d all searched for the glass, but of course none of them would have given away their success by leaving suspiciously early or—as a boy called Oyster had once foolishly done—by climbing up the stairs smiling and whistling. No-teeth Harry and Limpey had stolen the golden ring he had found the same night, after beating him up.

  No. There were no smiles when they headed up the stairs. They all wore their mudlark faces, expressionless and smeared with river mud. “We should turn ourselves into Goyl, Ted,” Midget had once teased her. “All stone, with fire in our eyes.”

  Neither of them had ever seen a Goyl. Goyl lived on the continent and hated to cross open water, so they rarely made it to Albion, but everyone had heard about them. They were the stone-skinned siblings of man: golden eyed and at home underground, where they built cities from precious stone. Tabetha imagined them to look like the statues in front of the Queen’s palace, staring down from their pedestals with empty marble eyes.

  There were rumours that the Goyl king had beaten the Albion fleet, and that they built flying machines and could turn humans into Goyl just by scratching your skin with their claws. But those were only tales to scare children. Midget had sometimes pretended he was a Goyl, chasing her down the river bank, clawing the cold, wet air with his dirty fingers. Curse that Waterman. She really missed Midget. Sometimes she dreamt of the Waterman dragging her down too, all the way down to the bottom of the river, to keep her prisoner amongst his piles of golden treasure—people said that’s what they did with girls.

  The snow made it easier than usual to wash the stench of the mud off their hands. The others hastily headed home to whatever wretched place they found shelter at for the night, but Tabetha decided to stop at an inn first, one which overlooked the river and was mostly frequented by sailors and dock workers: the Fuentes’ Soup Kitchen. Tabetha couldn’t read the name, but the metal sign above the door—shaped like a seal with a woman’s head—had always stirred her curiosity, and only a few months ago the cold had finally drawn her through the narrow door, into the smoke-filled room behind it with its handful of wooden tables.

  The smells that welcomed her when she opened the door on this Christmas Eve were so delicious they made her empty stomach hurt.

  The girl who was arguing with a drunken guest at the counter was probably not much older than Tabetha, though in the red dress she wore she looked grown up. The pearls in her chestnut hair proved to be Will-o’-the-Wisps and Grass Elves when Tabetha came closer, but the lipstick and the soot-lined eyebrows were definitely real. Her name was Ofelia, as far as Tabetha remembered, and she was the oldest daughter of the owners and usually served at the tables or helped with the dirty dishes.

  Tabetha had come looking for Ofelia’s mother, but she couldn’t see her anywhere. The Fuentes had opened the Soup Kitchen just a year ago. Rumour had it they employed a Troll woman as their cook, who had killed three men in her home
country before she had come to Londra, because they hadn’t appreciated her cooking. Everyone knew that Trolls were very touchy, and deadly when they were angry, but as Tabetha had never set foot in the Fuentes’ kitchen, she wasn’t sure whether to believe the story. Some of the other mudlarks also swore that Ofelia Fuentes’s mother was a Witch, but they said that about almost every woman, especially the ones who managed to make a living for themselves.

  Alfonso Fuentes, Ofelia’s father, was said to be one of the main gardeners at the Queen’s palace, and it was also said that some of the vegetables for the Fuentes’ soups came from the royal gardens. That story, Tabetha had decided to believe, as she liked the idea of tasting royal tomatoes and leeks when she ate her bowl of soup in the humble inn. As for the Witch rumours, they were definitely nonsense, as all Fuentes women had black eyes, and everyone knew that the eyes of Witches were green with catlike pupils. Who cared anyway, as long as she was not the child-eating kind? The soups the Fuenteses served made one believe the world was a benevolent place. That was worth taking the risk that a Witch served them. And, they accepted the coins she found by the river as payment.

  The small restaurant was as warm and wel-coming as usual on this cold Christmas Eve, and no one found it surprising that the walls were covered with letters and postcards from guests who had found the feeling of home at the plain wooden tables. Most of them came from places Tabetha had never heard of, and they all held the promise the river murmured to her when she was scavenging its muddy shores: that the world was vast and filled with miraculous things, creatures and places.

  “Good evening. Could I get some of that spicy bean soup, please?” she asked, chasing a Grass Elf, barely bigger than a coin, from her forehead. Their dust was in high demand, as it gave sweet dreams, but Tabetha couldn’t afford to get lost in them. Those dreams were only lies anyway, and waking up from them only made facing reality harder.