The City of Guardian Stones

by Jacob Sager Weinstein

  Mom turned pale and backed away. I couldn’t blame her. After all, the last time they had met, Lady Roslyn had tried to drain the blood out of Mom’s veins.

  “Come,” said one of the Saltpetre Men, gripping my elbow as two others took hold of Mom and Little Ben.

  “Take a deep breath,” I warned them.

  “Why should we —” Little Ben began, but before he had finished, the shambling guards had already sunk through the ground, taking us with them.

  Compared to the last time the Saltpetre Men had pulled me somewhere, this wasn’t so bad. I had a nice lungful of air, and the trip lasted only a few seconds.

  Admittedly, it was a few seconds of being dragged through the earth by supernatural beings, with rocks and pebbles and roots scraping my skin, and a constant unnerving pressure on my closed eyelids, and dirt pouring into my ears. But when we dropped through the ceiling of the room below and crashed to the floor, the Saltpetre Men’s muddy legs splayed out and absorbed most of the impact, and once I had shaken the dirt out of my ears, I was ready to go. Mom and Little Ben must not have heeded my oxygen-related advice, because they needed a minute or two of gasping and coughing.

  I used the time to take in the scene. This was an older part of the building than the fluorescent-lit corridors we had entered by. It was even older than the room I had been locked up in the last time I was a prisoner here. The floor was made of ancient wooden planks laid on a layer of dirt that was visible in the wide gaps between them. On either side of us, rusty iron bars blocked off prison cells. The cells all seemed to be empty. Every once in a while, I’d catch a slight flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I looked at it directly, there wouldn’t be anything there.

  Where were the other prisoners? Surely, the three of us and Lady Roslyn couldn’t be the only ones.

  “Come,” said the Saltpetre Man again. (Other than Inspector Sands, they were not creatures of many words.)

  The Saltpetre Men led us past empty cell after empty cell, finally coming to three that seemed to satisfy them. Each of our guards removed a large key chain from his waist, unlocked a door, and swung it open on screeching hinges.

  The one who had spoken to us before pointed into the first one. “You,” he said to Mom. “Go.”

  Mom looked nervously inside. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’ll be right next door.” To reassure her, I stepped into the middle one without being asked, and I waved to her. “See? We’ll be able to see each other through the bars.”

  Looking reassured, she went into her cell, and Little Ben walked into the one next to me.

  “Ooh, cool!” he said, pointing to the rear wall. A wooden pipe ran along it, with a faint mist spraying out of pin-sized holes along its bottom. “I bet that’s the water Lady Roslyn was pumping. What do you think it’s for?”

  I had seen something similar in an interrogation room before. “Magic river water. To make sure prisoners tell the truth.”

  The guards took off our handcuffs and slammed the doors shut.

  The moment they did so, Little Ben and Mom vanished. I could still see into their cells through the bars in mine – but now the cells were empty.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Mom?” I called. “Little Ben?”

  No answer.

  There wasn’t even anybody in the corridor outside. The three guards had vanished entirely.

  I remembered how empty the cells had seemed from the outside. There must be some magic in the bars, I thought. This must be what Inspector Sands had meant when he promised to keep us in the highest-security wing. In the part where I had been kept last time, all the prisoners were together in one big room, and let’s just say it hadn’t ended up being particularly orderly.

  Here, though, none of the prisoners could know the others even existed. There was no way they could plot mischief.

  As a law-abiding citizen, I was generally in favour of mischief-free prisons, but now that I was in one, I was starting to think a little disorder might be a good thing. But how could I bring it about?

  I didn’t have a lot to work with. There was a rough mattress stuffed with straw on the floor, and against the back wall, underneath the wooden pipe, were a toilet and a rough-hewn wooden table with a dented tin cup, a quill pen, a bottle of ink, and a pad of paper.

  There were words preprinted on every page of the pad:

  That explained the magical mist. When you were in the presence of magic, breaking a promise was as dangerous as lying. So by making people promise not to escape in exchange for a meal, they guaranteed that nobody would escape. Or, at least, that nobody would escape on a full stomach.

  Well, I wasn’t signing anything. I pulled off a piece of paper, dipped the quill in ink, and wrote a message: Write back if you get this.

  I folded the paper and slipped it into what I knew was Little Ben’s cell, even if I couldn’t see him. As soon as I let go of it, the paper vanished, just like Little Ben had.

  A moment later, a paper slipped through the bars into my cell – from the other side, where Mom was.

  I unfolded the message. It said Write back if you get this.

  For a moment, I thought Mom had had the same idea, but then I realized it was in my own handwriting.

  It was the same note I had slipped between the bars.

  I picked up the quill pen and shoved it through, but this time, I kept my eyes on the bars across my cell. As soon as I let go of the quill, it popped out on the opposite side, a little higher and faster than it had been when I let it go, and smacked me on top of the head.

  Interesting. Maybe the magical teleportation field had got a bit out of alignment over the centuries. I filed the fact away in my mind. I didn’t see how it could be useful, but every bit of security that didn’t work the way it was supposed to was something I might exploit.

  I thought back to that flicker of inspiration I had felt when I drank from the pump. It’s worth a try, I thought, and I went and stood under the wooden pipe. A faint spray of magical river water soaked my hair. Was that the tingling of an idea I felt, or just cold water sinking into my scalp?

  Probably cold water. No ideas came, and soon I was shivering. I wished I could brainstorm with Little Ben, but nothing could go from one cell to the next, and there I was, standing under a freezing pipe like an idiot, while —

  Wait a minute. The pipe. The water hadn’t run out, although small amounts of it were constantly spraying through the pinholes. A constant fresh supply must be coming from somewhere. And the only place it could be coming from was the next cell over.

  That must be why the pipes were wood and the bars were cast iron. I knew that metal transmitted magic as well as it did electricity, so the bars must have transmitted whatever magical force hid the prisoners from each other. And maybe wood insulated magic as well as it did electricity, so the wood pipes let the magical water circulate without radiating too much power.

  Could I slip a message into the pipe? No – the pinholes were too small to fit anything through, and in any case, the paper would dissolve before Little Ben ever saw it.

  There was another possibility: Morse code. I didn’t know if Little Ben knew it – but he was always surprising me (and himself) with new skills. With the tin cup, I tapped out a message against the pipe: “C-A-N Y-O-U H-E-A-R M-E”

  I waited anxiously. After a few long seconds, a message thumped back: “W-O-W C-O-M-M-A I K-N-O-W M-O-R-S-E C-O-D-E F-U-L-L S-T-O-P S-O C-O-O-L E-X-C-L-A-M-A-T-I-O-N M-A-R-K E-X-C-L-A-M-A-T-I-O-N M-A-R-K E-X-C-L”—

  I interrupted by banging on the pipe a few times. “I-F Y-O-U S-P-E-L-L O-U-T P-U-N-C-T-U-A-T-I-O-N W-E W-I-L-L B-E H-E-R-E A-L-L D-A-Y A-N-Y I-D-E-A-S O-N H-O-W T-O E-S-C-A-P-E”

  “M-A-X-I-M-U-M S-E-C-U-R-I-T-Y A-R-E-A M-U-S-T H-A-V-E G-U-A-R-D-S O-N A-L-L S-I-D-E-S”

  “W-H-A-T A-B-O-U-T B-E-L-O-W”

  “O-O-O-H G-R-E-A-T I-D-E-A M-A-I-L R-A-I-L R-U-N-S U-N-D-E-R U-S B-U-T H-O-W T-O G-E-T T-O I-T”

  How indeed? I didn’t have many
resources at my disposal. As old as the prison was, it seemed pretty solid, and I didn’t think I could tunnel all the way through it with only a quill pen.

  Unless … maybe there was something I could try. It was a long shot, but it might just get us down to Mail Rail, whatever that was.

  “I-S M-A-I-L R-A-I-L A T-R-A-I-N W-H-E-R-E D-O-E-S I-T G-O”

  “C-L-O-S-E-S-T S-T-O-P F-R-O-M H-E-R-E I-S K-I-N-G E-D-W-A-R-D S-T-R-E-E-T”

  “I-S T-H-A-T L-E-S-S H-E-A-V-I-L-Y G-U-A-R-D-E-D T-H-A-N H-E-R-E”

  There was a pause, and I imagined Little Ben thinking it over. “I-T I-S A-N O-R-D-I-N-A-R-Y O-F-F-I-C-E B-U-I-L-D-I-N-G S-O P-R-O-B-A-B-L-Y”

  That was good news. But just in case there was some security there, we’d need backup. “C-A-N Y-O-U U-S-E T-O-I-L-E-T T-O T-E-L-L O-A-R-O-B-O-A-R-U-S T-O M-E-E-T U-S T-H-E-R-E”

  “Y-E-S B-U-T M-A-Y T-A-K-E S-E-V-E-R-A-L H-O-U-R-S F-O-R H-I-M T-O G-E-T M-E-S-S-A-G-E”

  “T-H-A-T G-I-V-E-S M-E T-I-M-E T-O P-L-A-N B-E R-E-A-D-Y F-O-R E-S-C-A-P-E T-O-M-O-R-R-O-W M-O-R-N-I-N-G”

  “H-O-O-R-A-Y”

  I sat there in silence for a few minutes, working out the details of my plan. The more I thought about it, the more overwhelming it seemed. I was in a jail built to hold the most dangerous magical criminals Britain had to offer. What made me think I could outwit centuries of protections? What if I was destined to spend the rest of my life trapped in a little cell, unable to see anybody I knew and loved, even if some of them were just a few feet away?

  I was beginning to cry when a thumping from the pipe interrupted my thoughts. I listened, puzzled. It was rhythmic and familiar, but it wasn’t Morse code.

  It must be Mom, I thought. She had heard my tapping and didn’t know Morse code but wanted to communicate.

  As soon as I figured that out, I realized what the rhythm was. It was an old family lullaby she and all my aunts used to sing to me. The lyrics were nonsense words, but I knew them by heart.

  I tapped along, singing to myself:

  Ann browsed bridger luna doona,

  Eggs feather thorn, a la kenner.

  I couldn’t see her or touch her, but Mom was right next door. She loved me, and she was thinking of me. And maybe – maybe – my plan would work and I’d see her again tomorrow.

  I curled up on the mattress and drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 9

  I was woken by the screech of the iron door opening. A Saltpetre Man stood outside in the corridor, pushing a cart with a steaming bucket of something that smelled like rotten porridge. “Gruel,” the Saltpetre Man said, then pointed to the pad of paper. “Ssssign.”

  Drowsy as I was, I knew it would be a bad idea to promise not to escape. “No, thanks,” I said.

  As I blinked the sleep out of my eyes, I glanced around. I could see through the bars into the adjoining cells again. Opening the door must have broken whatever magical circuit kept them hidden.

  To my left, Mom sat on the floor, eating a bowl of what I presumed was gruel.

  “Mom! You shouldn’t have signed it!” I called. She didn’t respond.

  To my right, Little Ben was still asleep. “Little Ben! Can you hear me?”

  No response. My door is open, but their doors are still closed, I realized. I can see them, but they can’t see me.

  “Sssssign,” the guard repeated.

  “I’m not hun —” I began. Then I felt my stomach rumbling and remembered the enchanted mist, and I decided to stick with the truth. “I’m not having gruel today,” I said.

  He swung the gate shut, and Mom and Little Ben disappeared.

  In a moment, he was going to open Little Ben’s door. Should I tap out a warning on the wooden pipes? No – since I couldn’t see or hear what was going on, I stood a good chance of starting the message before Ben woke up or after it was too late.

  Instead, I grabbed a piece of paper, quickly wrote Don’t Sign, and held it up against the bars. Little Ben would see me as soon as the guard opened his door and broke the magic invisibility circuit.

  I stood there holding the paper up until the sound of Morse code on the pipes told me that the guard had left.

  “T-H-A-N-K-S F-O-R T-H-E W-A-R-N-I-N-G A-R-E W-E E-S-C-A-P-I-N-G T-O-D-A-Y”

  “A-S-A-P B-E R-E-A-D-Y”

  “I A-M T-O-T-A-L-L-Y R-E-A-D-Y I H-A-V-E N-E-V-E-R D-O-N-E A J-A-I-L-B-R-E-A-K T-H-I-S I-S A-W-E-S-O-M-E”

  How to tell Mom to get ready? I once again tapped out a rhythm, but I did it in double time, so that it sounded more like a call to action than a lullaby:

  Ann browsed bridger luna doona,

  Eggs feather thorn, a la kenner.

  The rhythm repeated, just as fast. At the very least, Mom knew I was there.

  All right then.

  I pulled another piece of paper off the pad, scratched out the message on the front, and wrote a new one on the back:

  I, Hyacinth Hayward, solemnly swear that this paper is not at the one precise point in the plumbing system where an explosion would open up a gap that would let me and my mom and Little Ben get down to Mail Rail.

  At the moment, the note happened to be true. But if there was a precise pressure point anywhere in the plumbing system, then as soon as the note reached it, the note would be a lie. Which would make the note explode. Which could open up a gap that would let us get down to Mail Rail.

  I folded the paper into a tight little bar. Then I poured the remaining ink out of the ink bottle, stuck the paper inside to keep it dry, and closed the lid on the bottle.

  “Here goes nothing,” I said. I flushed the bottle down the toilet.

  Then I waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Well, it had been a long shot. Maybe there was no such pressure point. Maybe the toilet didn’t flush with enchanted river water. Whatever the case, I was out of options, unless I could somehow crack open the wooden pipe and try my luck with that. But without a saw, I had no way of getting inside it.

  Unless…

  I picked up the tin cup, took careful aim, and threw it hard through the bars on one side of the cell. It came flying out of the bars on the other side and made it nearly all the way across, but fell a little bit short.

  I picked it up, cocked my arm, and threw it even harder – so hard that I nearly wrenched my shoulder. The cup zipped through the bars, shot out of the other side, and this time made it all the way across, passing right through the bars again.

  It came through again, going even faster than before, and shot across the room and through the bars. When it reappeared, it was going fast enough to whistle faintly as it rocketed across. A few more passes and it was a blur, and then a glowing red blur as the friction of the air heated it like a satellite on re-entry.

  All right. Time to intervene.

  I lifted up the table, holding it at what I hoped would be the right angle. Then I thrust it into the path of the cup –

  – sending the cup smashing into the top of the wooden pipe –

  – and knocking off a huge chunk of it.

  Which was exactly what I had hoped would happen, except that I hadn’t predicted what the cup did next. It shot into the wall, ricocheting back through the bars on one side of the cell –

  – and shooting out of the bars on the other, even faster.

  It came straight at my head. I dove out of the way, and it carried on back into the bars and right out the other side, faster still.

  Meanwhile, the damage I had done to the pipe hadn’t gone unnoticed, because the air filled with a loud alarm: AA-OOGAH! AA-OOGAH!

  CHAPTER 10

  Dodging the comet-like tin cup as it whizzed past, I ducked over to the table, dipped the quill in the pool of ink I had spilled on the floor, and quickly scrawled a new note, same as the old one. Or, at least, same words. The handwriting was a lot messier this time around, because you try writing a note with a quill pen while a magically ricocheting tin cup tries to take your head off.

  Having already used the ink bottle, I didn�
�t have anything waterproof to transport the note in. I ripped a few cloth strips off the ratty blanket and wrapped them around a handful of straw from the mattress, sticking the note inside. It wouldn’t stay dry for long, but it was the best I could do.

  I shoved it through the hole I had made in the pipe. “Good luck, little note! Go find a weak —” I began, but then had to stop to dive to the floor as the tin cup nearly decapitated me once again.

  The water in the pipe swept the bundle away. I held my breath.

  Nothing happened.

  Darn it.

  The door screeched open. “No esscapess!” hissed the Saltpetre guard, brandishing a pair of iron manacles.

  And that’s when the floor exploded.

  The hard-packed dirt blasted upwards, sending rough wooden flooring planks spinning, bending the ancient iron bars at their bases, splintering the wooden pipes completely, and, by the way, throwing me all the way up to the ceiling. I crashed into it and plopped back down, right at the edge of a huge pit that had opened in the middle of the floor.

  With the iron bars warped and twisted, the tin cup came shooting out at an even wonkier angle, lodging deep in the Saltpetre Man’s forehead. He didn’t seem to notice. “No esscapess!” he hissed again.

  All the damage had clearly broken the magical circuitry, because I could see Mom and Little Ben, and they could see me. “Hyacinth!” Mom exclaimed. “Are you OK?”

  “Don’t worry about me!” I yelled over the still-sounding klaxon, which was now joined by the gushing of water burbling out of the broken pipe and the distant sounds of more explosions. “Get over here.”

  Little Ben dropped to his knees and crawled under the remains of the bars, but Mom wasn’t sure. “I signed a note, sweetie. I promised I wouldn’t escape!”