by Lian Tanner
His mouth watered. And it watered even more when he saw a bronze statuette by Speden and some rare glassware from Nor.
‘Focus, my dear Rump,’ he reminded himself. ‘The Friedl will still be here tomorrow and so will that delightful statuette. Keep your mind on the job.’
He turned away from the artworks and begin to search the room more closely. It did not take him long to find what he was looking for.
With a chuckle, he pulled on his gloves, unscrewed the collar of his walking cane and set to work.
Pummel stood in the Great Chamber, at the foot of the Faithful Throne, wishing he was back in the salt mines. There, at least, his legs had been his own.
Now they seemed to belong to the Harshman. If he said, ‘Walk,’ Pummel walked, no matter how hard he fought against it. If he said, ‘Stand,’ Pummel stood.
It was like the very worst sort of nightmare, which had nothing to do with monsters, but was just a tangled sense of terror, with the sleeper helpless to escape. The only time Pummel came anywhere close to breaking free of it was when he was sent to stand next to Ma.
The shock of seeing her on that little staircase had momentarily robbed him of his wits. And by the time he had gotten them back, it was too late. She had seized him, and so had Arms-mistress Krieg and three grafs.
Pummel had seen the despair in Ma’s eyes, and how she hated what her own hands were doing. Arms-mistress Krieg was the same, and so was one of the grafs. The other two didn’t seem to care.
They had tried the little door, of course, throwing their weight against it until it groaned. But to Pummel’s relief, it had held firm. So they took him to the Great Chamber and pushed him to his knees in front of the Harshman.
The Great Chamber was usually the warmest place in the Strong-hold, with enormous fires in the fireplaces and candles burning all along the walls. Somehow the candles still burned, but everything else was frozen. Icicles hung from the noses of the stuffed bears and brizzlehounds. The rushes crackled underfoot, like a frozen pond just before it breaks. A thin mist hung over everything, so cold that Pummel’s teeth chattered.
The Harshman sat on the Faithful Throne as if he owned it; as if he would sit there forever, as Neuhalt died around him. The hawk perched behind him, as violent and dangerous as the monster it served.
‘You … Are … The … Boy … Who … Helped … The … Heir … Escape,’ rasped the Harshman. ‘I … Will … Kill … You … And … Put … Your … Head … On … A … Spike.’
A groan broke from Ma’s lips. Pummel’s legs shook so hard that only the will of the Harshman kept him upright.
And underneath the horror, he could feel the raashk. It was somewhere on the Harshman, trapped by his blackened heart. Pummel could almost see it, yearning towards him like a wild beast caught behind bars that would not break.
When the Harshman had first come from his grave, the mere touch of the raashk had been enough to make him disappear, to defeat him for hours at a time. Now, he was so strong that he could carry it like the banner of a conquered enemy.
Pummel would have wept, but his tears were not his own, either.
‘Where … Is … The … Heir?’ rasped the Harshman.
Pummel tried so hard not to answer. But to his dismay, his mouth opened anyway, and the words, ‘I don’t know,’ fell out.
The Harshman’s eyes were like burning arrows. ‘Where … Does … He … Hide?’
This time, Pummel was determined not to answer. He wouldn’t give his friends’ hiding place away. He wouldn’t. Not ever.
But once again his mouth opened, though he fought against it every inch of the way. ‘I’ll show you,’ he said.
On the back of the throne, the hawk squealed as if it had spotted its prey.
The Harshman raised his skeletal hand. ‘You … Will … Show … My … Slaves. Go.’
So Pummel went.
Ma and Arms-mistress Krieg went with him, and so did the grafs. Pummel tried to walk as slowly as he could. Once, Ma managed to touch his hand. Once, Krieg managed to grind out the words, ‘I will not!’
But their feet tramped on, like an army whose general will not allow them to stop.
When Pummel stepped behind the tapestry on the third floor of the Keep, and pulled the iron bracket that would open the door to the rathole, he felt as if his heart was dying inside him …
And coming to life again when the rathole proved to be empty.
It’s Duckling, he thought. She’ll know not to use any of the places I’ve seen. She’ll keep them safe. She’ll find a way out of this.
He didn’t really believe it. There was no way out, not now.
But whenever his mind was his own, he said the words to himself over and over, hoping he could make them come true.
Duckling will save us. Somehow. Duckling will fix it.
Duckling had no idea how to fix it. Even Grandpa, with his talent for getting into awful situations, had never gotten into anything as bad as this.
She could think of only two things to do. The first was obvious. They must find an entirely new hiding place, and not go near the ones Pummel knew about.
‘But he would not betray us,’ protested Otte, as they crept along the passages of the Keep.
‘He wouldn’t mean to betray us,’ said Duckling. ‘But he mightn’t be able to help it. Just as Krieg can’t help searching for you.’
‘He knows there is a rathole somewhere on the eighth floor,’ said Sooli.
Duckling nodded. ‘Which is why we aren’t going to use it.’
The place they eventually settled on was a small bedchamber on the tenth floor of the Keep. The open chests and the strewn clothes made it clear that it had already been thoroughly searched; a fine layer of dust suggested that the search had been several days ago.
Duckling had chosen it because it was one of the few rooms that had two entrances. And because it was very close to the privy.
‘They’ve searched it already, so with any luck they won’t come back,’ she said. ‘And no one’s going to come here for fun, not with that stink. But if they do, we’ve got a way out.’
The cat twitched her tail in disgust at the smell. The chicken managed to wriggle away from Sooli, and Duckling had to grab the bird and bring her back, while Sooli’s face went pale, and her wrists faded.
‘Thank you,’ she gasped, when the chicken was back under her arm again, and she didn’t look quite so ghostly.
‘I wish we could make her understand,’ said Duckling. ‘I wish we could make her remember who she is.’
But although the chicken seemed mostly willing to stay with them, she showed no sign of remembering her true identity. And Duckling didn’t know how to remind her.
The children set brass candlesticks against the inside of both doors, to warn them of intruders. Then they climbed onto the narrow, lumpy bed and slumped down in exhaustion.
Duckling was desperately worried about Pummel. She was worried about Sooli, too, and Grandpa – there was still no sign of the food carts. And she wasn’t at all sure how long she and Sooli could protect Otte from the Harshman.
She closed her eyes, thinking that things mightn’t look quite so bad if she could only sleep for a little while.
But the reek of the privy filled her nose, and she was full of strange jitters and jangles that made her jaw clench and her heart race. The more she thought about the Harshman, the bigger he seemed to grow.
So although she lay still, and her eyes were closed, she did not sleep and she did not rest.
Sooli was trying to weave with hands she could not see. She was trying to weave Pummel’s freedom and the great Bayam’s memory. She was trying to weave death for the Harshman and life for herself.
But she could not feel her hands either, not since the chicken’s brief escape, and the threads slipped through her fingers like water and ran away from her.
‘What sort of Bayam am I?’ she whispered in the language of Saaf. ‘I cannot save anyone, not even myself. I
might as well give up and fall aslee—’
Something twitched deep inside her.
Sooli almost ignored it. She was too frightened to worry about twitches. And besides, it was probably just hunger pangs.
But a good Bayam was supposed to notice everything, including the thoughts that flitted through her own mind. Sometimes those thoughts were just an annoyance, but they could also bring answers. And the quietest thoughts, the ones that came and went as swiftly as a dragonfly, were often the most valuable.
So Sooli put aside her fears and tried to hunt down that twitch. I was thinking that I could not save myself or anyone else. I was calling myself useless. I was thinking that I might as well just fall asleep and—
There! There it was again. Something to do with falling asleep. Something …
‘Duckling,’ she said urgently. ‘How did you know about the Fire Wind? When we were in the salt mine. How did you know its name?’
‘I kept having weird dreams,’ said Duckling, without opening her eyes. ‘Sometimes the chicken was in them and sometimes it was the old Bayam, only I didn’t realise it was the same person. She was trying to teach me about the winds, but I thought it was only a dream, so I didn’t take any notice. Then one night I listened to her …’
‘So if you could sleep now—’ began Sooli.
‘You might be able to talk to the chicken,’ interrupted Otte. ‘You could tell her who she is. You could ask her how to stop the Harshman!’
Duckling opened her eyes and sat up straight. ‘But I can’t sleep. I’ve been trying, and I can’t.’
‘I can make you sleep,’ said Sooli. Then she remembered her hands and said, ‘At least, I think I can. It was one of the first weavings I learned, and it is not hard, not if the person wants to sleep.’
‘Do it,’ said Duckling. ‘Right now.’ And she lay down again.
Sooli tucked the chicken firmly between her knees and set to work. But she immediately came up against an obstacle. The memory of the weaving was in her hands, not her head. It was her fingers that knew the pattern.
But her fingers might as well not have been there. They had gone too far into the world of ghosts, and she could not find them.
So Sooli pretended she was eight winters old again, sitting in front of her great-grandmother’s hearth, learning the pattern for the first time. She imagined the old woman leaning towards her with that worried smile that Sooli loved so much.
She imagined her great-grandmother’s voice. ‘A sleep weaving is not difficult, but it must be precise. If you weave it too tightly, the person might not wake up for days. Too loosely, and they might not sleep for weeks.’
The old woman’s fingers began to move, and Sooli’s invisible hands moved with them.
At first, Otte watched her closely, and so did the mice and the cat. But slowly their eyes closed, and their faces loosened. Otte slumped down next to Duckling with his mice curled around his ears. The cat’s head sank onto her paws, and she began to snore softly.
The chicken tucked her head deep into her chest feathers.
Duckling sighed … and slept.
First Councillor Triggs was feeling pleased with himself. Over the last couple of days, a dozen of Berren’s citizens had fallen ill and there had been a minor panic, which he had squashed by being firm and kind. He had assured people that the situation was under control in the city – though the Strong-hold was another matter.
‘We must brace ourselves for bad news,’ he had told the gazetteers, and they had scribbled down his words with their pens and portable inkpots, and rushed off to catch the printing presses.
‘I believe,’ Triggs said now, addressing his fellow councillors, ‘that we owe Lord Rump a vote of thanks.’
There was a patter of applause, and Lord Rump, who was seated at the foot of the table, bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Your thanks are important to me,’ he said. ‘And so is the promised purse. Two thousand silver gloats, if my memory serves me correctly.’
Triggs cleared his throat. ‘Ah, yes. That was when we did not know the size of the undertaking. Now it seems too much, does it not? Breaking into a few chosen houses? A tiny bit of poison? Nothing very hard, when you look at it closely.’
Lord Rump went to speak, but Triggs got in first. ‘Of course, you have made things easier for us, and quicker. But we would have got there by ourselves in the end.’
He took a purse from his satchel and laid it on the table. ‘As guardians of the city’s finances, it would be most irresponsible of us to overpay you. So – fifty silver gloats, and even that is generous.’
Lord Rump did not move. ‘Fifty gloats? Fifty? When you promised me two thousand?’
‘Plus our gratitude,’ said Second Councillor Whet.
‘Gratitude will not pay my rent,’ said Lord Rump. His fingertips, clad in leather, tapped the table.
He is wearing his gloves again, thought Triggs, and he sent a meaningful glance to his fellow councillors, a glance that said, Do not touch anything he gives you.
‘Gratitude will not feed me in the manner to which I am accustomed,’ continued Rump. ‘Perhaps you should reconsider. After all, we are colleagues, are we not? We have worked together for the greater good of Neuhalt?’
His eyes grew hard. ‘And if that does not persuade you, ask yourselves this. Do the good citizens of Berren know about your dealings with Old Lady Skint and her crew? Do they know that, on your orders, the slavers snatch children from their families and work them to death in the salt mines? What would they say if they learned this disturbing news?’
Triggs smiled. ‘A threat. I was expecting something like it.’ He took a sheet of paper from his satchel and held it up, out of Lord Rump’s reach. ‘But I can threaten too. Here I have your confession—’
‘I made no confession,’ cried Lord Rump.
‘Your confession,’ continued Triggs, ‘to the assassination of the Margravine.’
Rump snarled at him. ‘That is not my signature.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Triggs. ‘But it is close enough to convince the common people of your guilt. They will tear you to pieces, Lord Rump. Whereas if you cooperate, you will at least escape with your life. And a purse.’
‘A very small purse!’
‘The only one that is on offer.’ Triggs took another sheet of paper from his satchel, along with a pen and ink pot. ‘Now, if you will just sign here to say that you have been paid in full and are completely satisfied?’
Lord Rump grumbled and protested a little more, but at last he sighed hugely and said, ‘So, you have beaten me. I should have known better than to trust you. Very well, I will sign your paper. Here, hold my cane while I do so.’
Triggs had been expecting this too. He took a pair of fine leather gloves from his satchel and put them on. His fellow councillors did the same. Then, safe from Lord Rump’s poisons, they sat back, smirking.
But Lord Rump did not look at all dismayed. Instead, he beamed at them, as if he was the one who had come out on top.
Triggs felt a trickle of unease. ‘You said it yourself, we have beaten you. Now sign the paper.’
Lord Rump shook his head. ‘I do not choose to sign, Councillor. I have not been paid in full, and I am not satisfied.’
He leaned forward, peering into Triggs’ eyes. ‘Tell me, First Councillor, are you feeling a little queasy? Is your vision blurred?’
Triggs blinked – and blinked again. He was feeling queasy. His vision was blurred.
‘Impossible,’ he croaked. ‘I did not touch your cane. We beat you. We outsmarted you. We—’
He tried to continue, but could not. Something was wrong with him. He could breathe, but he could not speak or move.
Around the table, the same expression of horror was on every face except Lord Rump’s. He was smiling. ‘You did not think I would try the cane trick again, did you? After you had seen it? Dear me, I am not so foolish.’
He stood up and rang the bell. When the secretary arrived, he
held up his hand in warning. ‘Do not come past this door,’ he cried. ‘The sickness has struck down the privy councillors.’
The secretary, an elderly man, blanched and backed away.
‘I will make sure they are taken care of,’ said Rump. ‘But in the meantime, they have asked me – no, they have begged me to make sure that food deliveries to the Strong-hold are started up again. The sickness inside the walls has burned itself out at last, and we do not want our friends to starve.’
The secretary hurried off. Triggs tried to grind his teeth, but he could not even do that.
Lord Rump straightened his waistcoat and strolled around the table, taking Triggs’ ruby tiepin and silver rings, Whet’s emerald earrings and necklace, Bagon’s diamond cufflinks, and the silver and opal bracelet that Fourth Councillor Dred had worn for the first time today.
They stared at Rump with helpless loathing in their eyes. He beamed back at them. ‘I shall return,’ he said, tucking the stolen jewellery into various pockets. ‘And when I do, we will discuss your future. In the meantime, I do not like to leave you dangling. You are wondering, are you not, how I poisoned you?’
He brushed a speck of dust from the ruby tiepin and stuck it in his cravat. As he strolled out the door, he looked back over his shoulder and whispered, ‘It was inside the fingers of your gloves.’
Then he winked, and closed the door behind him.
The chicken was dreaming. It was a strange sort of dream for a chicken, because it completely lacked earwigs, beetles and worms. There wasn’t even a grain of corn.
Instead, there was Wilygirl. And she was being very annoying. She kept poking the chicken with her fingers, and saying, ‘Wake up, Bayam. Remember who you are. Remember Lodosh and Kaleem. Remember Seleeg and Potoq. Come on, we need you. Wake up!’
The chicken turned away from her and summoned up some mice, little brown ones with fat tummies, that ran away in the most enticing fashion when she chased them. Now that was the sort of dream—