He tensed, knowing the moment was close. The bowl started to vibrate as the counter-Song struggled to hold together. On the floor nearby, the piece of chalk began to shake, then it rose up onto one tip, spinning. Patch felt his hair stand on end, and the chain around his ankle grew oddly warm.
The Dispersal reached a sudden crescendo and the force of it hit him, almost knocking him over. He managed to keep his hands firmly on the bowl, but he despaired as he felt his counter-Song shatter. From outside came the anguished cries of terrified villagers.
Then silence.
Shaking, Patch took his hands away from the bowl, wary of lifting it. Who knew what he might find there. “Hello?” he said. “Little rat?” There was a pitiful squeak. “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re safe. You can come out now.” The rat peeked out, trembling, looking at him for more reassurance. “Really,” said Patch.
Outside, the shocked silence of the villagers was broken by hesitant cheers. “They’ve gone!” cried a voice. “Look! The rats have all gone!” The cheers grew.
The rat emerged from under the bowl and looked at Patch, a question in its eyes. Its companions were all dead, Patch realized – turned to dust and scattered across vast distances. “Yes,” said Patch. “The other rats… They’ve all gone.”
The rat slumped.
Patch waited a moment before he spoke again. “I have two questions,” he said. “First, were any of the other rats human too?” The rat shook its head, which was a huge relief. “And second,” he said, lifting the piece of chalk from the floor and offering it to the rat. “What’s your name?”
The rat took the chalk and wrote two words on the wall. Patch looked at them and smiled. He held out his hand, taking the rat’s paw and gently shaking it. “Good to meet you, Wren Cobble,” he said. “I’m Patch Brightwater.”
Wren dashed up Patch’s arm to his shoulder, and gave his neck a grateful hug.
“How old are you, Wren?” said Patch.
Wren ran down from his shoulder, and wrote 13 on the wall.
“Same as me!” he said. “And educated enough to read and write! A benefit of your wealthy family, I suppose. I was in training at Tiviscan Castle from the age of ten. It’s a free education, for those with the gift of Piping. That education will come in handy now that I’ll never be a real Piper—”
Wren frowned at him.
“Oh, I mean it,” said Patch. “I’ve played an illegal Song. The Custodians will take me to Tiviscan, I’ll be put on trial, and jailed for five years at the very least! As a criminal, I’ll never be permitted to work as a Piper.” He sighed; his gaze moved to Wren’s chalk-written plea for help, and he read the last part aloud: “You will be well rewarded!” He turned to Wren. “I’m thankful that your parents are rich. Don’t think me greedy, but when I’m released from the dungeons in five years, I’ll need that reward.” He gave her a weak smile, then bowed his head and closed his eyes. If he’d still been looking at her, he would have seen a curious expression cross Wren’s face: a mixture of guilt and worry.
Patch opened his eyes again. “You’ll have one heck of a story to tell your parents,” he said. “When you get back home.”
Wren shook her head and started to write again, Patch waiting patiently as she slowly drew out each letter: Not until curse lifted.
“I’m sure your parents—” started Patch, but Wren jabbed at the words she’d written and added an exclamation mark.
Not until curse lifted!
“Fair enough,” said Patch. He could sympathize, really – his grandparents thought he was still training to become a Piper, and the idea of them finding out the truth made him feel ill. He would leave them to their happy ignorance for as long as he could. “We’ll have to get help from the Custodian Elite, then. They’re in the best position to know what can be done for you.”
She shook her head firmly.
“Saving you from that Song is one thing, Wren,” he said. “But as a prisoner, I won’t be able to do anything more to help you. You’ll need the Custodians. Let me talk to them.”
Wren shook her head again, and mimed a lumbering monster. Patch laughed, because he understood who she meant.
“He’s Rundel Stone,” he said. “One of the Eight who hunted down the Hamelyn Piper. There isn’t a more respected Custodian in the world! He’s no monster.”
Wren put her hand to her chest before taking it away sharply, as if it was painful. The Cold Heart of Justice, she was saying – Stone’s famous nickname.
Patch sighed. He could understand why Wren would be wary of putting herself at the man’s mercy. There were plenty of stories about how Stone sometimes applied the law far too strictly, and as a rat, Wren had certainly been guilty of stealing food and scaring the villagers. “Yes, but who can blame him for his cold heart?” said Patch. “He vowed to find the children of Hamelyn and bring them home, safe and sound. Rundel Stone and the rest of the Eight did all they could: they caught the Hamelyn Piper, and brought him to Tiviscan to be imprisoned. But the children weren’t found, and their fate is still unknown. Rundel Stone couldn’t keep his vow. That’s enough to leave anyone with a cold heart.”
Wren was standing with her arms folded. She wasn’t having it.
“Very well,” said Patch. “We’ll leave Stone out of it. I know his apprentice, Erner Whitlock. Honest and decent. You’ll like him. When I get a chance to talk to him alone, I’ll have to tell him about you, okay? There’s no other choice.”
After a long pause, Wren gave him a reluctant nod.
“Strange to think I’ll actually meet Rundel Stone,” said Patch. He recited the rhyme every child knew – the names of the Eight, the heroes assembled by the Piper’s Council to capture the Hamelyn Piper. “Palafox, Corrigan, Kellenfas, Stone,” he said. “Casimir, Hinkelman, Drevis and Throne. My grandmother has a way with stories, and she told me their adventures every night. A race against time, hunting across every nation of these lands and into the Islands of the Eastern Sea, until they finally caught the Hamelyn Piper and locked him away to rot in the dungeons of Tiviscan Castle.” He paused, knowing that it was in those very dungeons that he would be spending the next five years – or maybe ten! “To be jailed by one of my heroes…”
Wren nodded, downhearted. She set down her chalk, climbed onto his shoulder again, and curled up.
Patch was glad of the company. “It’s at least a week’s journey to Tiviscan Castle from here by horse. Ever seen it?”
Wren shook her head.
“It’s impressive,” he said. “It sits on a cliff, and the dungeons extend deep into the rock. The deepest of the dungeons is called the Dark. No natural light reaches it.” He sat on the floor, miserable. “The Hamelyn Piper is imprisoned in the Dark, of course. At the deepest point of the deepest dungeon. It’s said that each night the prisoners in the dungeons can hear him scream – scream until he’s hoarse and can cry out no more.”
He fell silent and closed his eyes.
After a while, Wren ran down to the ground and picked up her chalk. She wrote, but Patch was lost to his misery. She squeaked to get his attention.
You’re too young for prison, she’d written.
“I’m not,” he said. “Children younger than me have been jailed there.” The Tiviscan dungeons were mainly used for those who broke the laws of Piping, so almost all the prisoners were Pipers themselves. Even the youngest child, discovering their own Piping ability for the first time, could accidentally break the law and end up in a cell. Although, Patch knew, it would often be just for a day, to scare them and make sure they didn’t do it again. He honestly didn’t know the longest time someone his age had been imprisoned for. Perhaps he would be setting a new record.
He could see that Wren was trying to think of something else to write.
“Look, I know you’re trying to cheer me up,” he said. “And thank you. But the only things that are important are that you’re okay, and I’m not alone.”
Wren nodded. She set down her cha
lk and clapped her paws together to get rid of the chalk dust, coughing as a little cloud of it engulfed her.
“It’d be easier with a quill and paper,” said Patch. An image of a tiny feather cut to a quill came into his mind, and he smiled. “Perhaps Erner will get you that. Although…” A thought had occurred to him. “Have you heard of Merisax hand speech?” Wren shook her head. “Merisax is a language used by mercenaries and pirates. My dream was to join the Custodian Elite, and they’re required to be fluent, so I spent a lot of time learning it.” Ah yes, his dream… Long since shattered. He sighed. “Anyway, with Merisax you only use your hands to talk. It allows for total silence in setting an ambush – you can hold a conversation without giving away your position. It’s also useful in battle. Or in a loud tavern. Or any time you can’t speak—” He gestured towards Wren and paused, waiting for the penny to drop. When it did, Wren’s face lit up. “How about I run through some phrases, to give you a feel for it?”
She gave him a brisk nod and sat facing him, eager to begin.
“Yes, No,” said Patch, thumbs up, then thumbs down. “Hurry up. Slow down. Come over here. Go away.” With each example, he gave Wren enough time to mimic the sign he was showing her. “Keep going. You’re an idiot. Pass the rum.” Next he made a throat-slitting motion. “Kill,” he said. “Lots of variants of kill, actually. Lots. That’s pirates and mercenaries for you, I suppose. Kill quickly. Kill slowly. Kill everyone. Don’t kill anyone.” He thought for a second. “That last one’s probably not used much. Let’s see… Don’t do that here. I’m bleeding. You’re bleeding. Please stop the bleeding. You’re on fire. The ship is on fire. The ship is sinking. Oh no it’s a shark. Maybe we should murder the captain.”
Wren studiously copied each action, deep in concentration.
Patch continued. “You smell terrible. Run away. If you do that again I’ll kill you. The eyes are important for that one,” said Patch. “Otherwise it’s a bit too much like Pass the rum. I expect that’s caused a few fights in its time. Anyway, that should give you the flavour of it. What do you think?”
Yes, kill everyone, oh no it’s a shark, signed Wren.
“Well,” said Patch. “It’s a start.”
It was several hours before Erner Whitlock returned, and by then Wren had shown herself to be exceptionally quick at learning Merisax. Patch reckoned she would soon get to grips with it – something that had taken Patch months to achieve.
When the keys rattled in the door, Wren hid under Patch’s blanket. Patch stood as Erner came inside.
“Your coat,” said Erner, handing it to Patch. “We’ll be setting off shortly.”
Patch put the coat on, immediately glad of its familiar feel. He looked at Erner, and noticed that the Apprentice Piper was uneasy. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Erner smiled nervously. “I should be asking you that. Patch, I want you to know that I—” He stopped and shook his head. “I’m sorry, about how things are.”
Patch put his hand on Erner’s shoulder. “I know,” he said. “It’s the way it must be, though. How’s your boss?”
“Virtus Stone is unusually quiet,” said Erner. “He’s even moodier than normal.”
“I could have guessed he was in a bad mood when he chose the Dispersal to deal with the rats,” said Patch. “A bit over the top, don’t you think?”
Erner shrugged. “The Virtus is the best Piper I’ve ever seen, by far. To him, the Dispersal is easy, and it was certain to do the job.” He paused, before lowering his voice. “To be honest, it was overkill. I think he’s cross from all this traipsing across frozen terrain, chasing you.”
“I hope he cheers up on the journey back,” said Patch. It seemed like a good opportunity to mention Wren. “Actually, there’s something I need to talk to you about—”
“Silence!” came a voice. Rundel Stone swept through the doorway, and Patch took a step back from Erner. Even given the circumstances, Patch felt awed to be in the presence of a legend. “We leave in five minutes. The weather conditions are deteriorating. I’ve purchased another horse from the villagers for our burden.” He looked with disdain at Patch when he said it; instinctively Patch opened his mouth to object, but the glare from the Virtus stopped him. “No speaking!” said Stone. “Understand? Not now, not while we travel. Never. You are a criminal. A disgrace to Piping. Oh, I know all about you, Patch Brightwater. I make it my business to know. A promising young student, you wanted to join the Custodian Elite, but instead you embarrassed yourself and vanished with your tail between your legs. Then you chose to misuse the skills you’d managed to learn, to lead me on a merry chase while my time would have been far better spent elsewhere, dealing with problems that – unlike you – actually matter.”
Patch opened and closed his mouth in silence, like a dying fish.
“Five minutes!” said Stone. He turned to Erner. “Come, Apprentice,” he said, and left. Erner gave Patch a regretful look and went with his master, locking the door behind him.
Wren poked her head out from her hiding place.
“So much for meeting your heroes,” said Patch. “We’ll get to speak to Erner on his own, sooner or later.” He held his coat open. “Handmade by my grandfather, this coat. Deerskin. His gift to me when I first went to Tiviscan. A little big back then, but now it’s perfect. Cool in summer, warm in winter, with endless pockets. Come on then, hop inside.”
Wren wasn’t too sure.
“I will not squash you,” said Patch. “I promise.”
When Stone and Erner came back a few minutes later, Wren was snuggled up in his pocket. Patch was led outside. The Elite Pipers’ horses stood waiting, a smaller horse beside them. Next to the horses stood Greta, the only person there to bid him farewell; the other villagers of Patterfall had stayed indoors.
“Good luck, Patch,” said Greta. She looked at Stone. “Don’t be harsh on the lad. He meant well.”
Rundel Stone said nothing in reply.
As Stone had instructed, Patch stayed silent as they rode. It made him miserable. He had too much time to think – about his past, and about his future. Neither was a place he was keen to visit. With Stone’s expert Piping to clear the snow, it only took a day of travel for them to get out of the valley and reach lower altitudes. Heading south, winter’s icy grip weakened quickly. Wren was a little pocket of extra warmth near his heart.
Each night, they camped in the cover of woods and forests, using three of the traditional Piper’s shelters that had been part of Patch’s training – tiny oilskin tents that, when folded up, took hardly any space in their horses’ packs, but when assembled gave just enough room for a single curled-up sleeper. The tents kept out the cold, but even better was how the privacy let Patch help Wren learn her Merisax signs at night, until the light from the fire dwindled.
Each morning, Erner hunted for prey soon after dawn, when rabbit and fowl were more vulnerable to one of the various luring Songs. While he was gone, Stone got to work lighting a fire. Only on the third morning did they swap roles. When Stone went to hunt, Patch realized the chance had come to talk to Erner.
“Morning, Erner,” said Patch, emerging from his little tent.
Erner had just struck his firesteel to light the fire. “Morning, Patch,” he replied.
“Um, Erner?” said Patch.
Erner looked up, the fire doing well. “Yes?” he said, at which point Wren emerged from Patch’s pocket, scurried to his shoulder, and waved.
“A rat!” said Erner, startled. Wren signed something, and Erner’s surprise turned to astonishment. “That’s Merisax hand speech!” he said. He watched the rat intently as she repeated what she’d signed. He stared in shock. “You want me to what?” he said, appalled.
“She didn’t mean that,” said Patch. “She’s learning.” He turned to Wren and signed: both hands opening and closing in fists. “This is ‘Help me’, Wren,” he said. “What you just signed… Well, it’s very much not, and I don’t want to ever see you do that again.�
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Wren grumbled.
“No, I won’t tell you what it means.” Patch turned back to Erner. “Erner, this is Wren. She’s human, she was cursed by a Sorcerer, and she needs help. She lived among the rats in the village, and I suspect she was the reason those rats were so successful at avoiding traps and poison.” He glanced at Wren, who was trying to look as innocent as possible, but given how bright she’d shown herself to be, Patch had no doubt about it.
Erner’s eyes widened in horror. “Wait…there were people among the rats?”
“None of the other rats were human,” said Patch. “Luckily. Wren came to me when the Dispersal was about to happen, and I protected her from it, but with me in prison she’ll need someone else to—”
“You protected her?” said Erner. “From that Dispersal? I felt how powerful it was.”
Patch waved away the compliment. “Trust me, it wasn’t easy. Look, we’d rather not involve the Virtus and he’ll be back any minute.”
“Why don’t you want to involve the Virtus?” asked Erner.
Wren signed something incredibly rude again, and Patch thought that this time she knew exactly what she was saying. He turned to Erner. “She thinks that Rundel Stone is so stubborn he’d probably arrest her for being, I don’t know, a talking rat without a licence. Or something.”
Erner laughed wholeheartedly, then suddenly stopped. “Ah. I see your point.”
Patch nodded. “Exactly,” he said.
Erner agreed to keep Wren’s presence a secret, and to begin investigating a cure for her curse the moment they reached Tiviscan.
As they continued their journey, Wren’s grasp of Merisax came on in leaps and bounds, and teaching her provided Patch with a welcome distraction from what awaited him when they reached their destination.
At last, ten days after setting off from Patterfall, the three horses trudged through rain on the rising road; ahead, they could see the sheer cliff on which Tiviscan Castle sat, overlooking forest. To the rear of the Castle was Tiviscan town, a ramshackle spread of buildings that flowed from the Castle’s gates towards grassy plains and hills.
A Darkness of Dragons Page 4