“Jakob, then? Claus?”
No and no.
“The girls—Laila or Sanna? Ulla, then?”
But the raven continued to stare away into the growing darkness, and she began to wonder if she’d imagined that nod or taken it to mean more than it did. Birds nodded their heads all the time—bobble, bobble, bobble. And though her grandfather conversed with animals, she never had.
The raven rattled the bars with his beak as though urging her to keep on trying. So she asked about Stephen and Mayhew. When he still looked away, she threw up her hands.
“That’s it, raven dear. I can’t think of anyone else. Winifred can’t write, and neither can Tobias.”
Now he was all motion, bobbing his head, tapping the bars, and bobbing his head again.
“Tobias?”
An unmistakable yes.
“Someone wrote it for him, then. Somebody he trusts. And . . . he thinks, he hopes, I also have such a person, like Ulla or Jakob, who will read it to me—which means he doesn’t know what happened. He thinks I’m still at the Magnussons’—”
The raven croaked, looked down at the message and up at her again.
“What?”
He danced on the window ledge; she could feel his agitation. But what was he trying to tell her? How she wished she could understand!
It came to her suddenly that if she had such a bloody wonderful gift that the Magi had seized and detained her, then perhaps she could use it to save herself.
“Give me a minute,” she said, stepping back from the window and shutting her eyes. Then she let herself go, slipping into the unknown depths of her own spirit.
It was like being in a windowless room; and though there was no light, she could sense movement around her. She waited for them to come, whatever they might be. She could feel them all around her, pulsing with energy, like bubbles rising in boiling water. Somehow she knew they were part of her, her own latent powers—waiting for her to reach out and claim them.
Come, she whispered, terrified. Help me. The throbbing increased, like a pounding heartbeat. Come, she kept saying, come. I’m ready.
From far away she could hear the raven’s froglike croak—but it was soft, soft, hardly above a whisper. You must learn to read and develop your powers. And you need to do it quickly.
“I will,” she said as though in a trance. “But please, don’t leave me.”
I didn’t want to leave you before, but I didn’t have the power to stay. Now I’m back, and this time I can fly. I will go anywhere you want me to.
She continued to stand there, eyes squeezed shut, clinging to the last wisps of her heightened powers as they threatened to fade away.
Is it possible that you don’t recognize me in my beautiful new feathers?
She looked around in the darkness now, beyond the pulsing shapes, where something glowed faintly in the distance. It was the thing she wanted—the understanding, the answer to the riddle. She moved toward it with painful lethargy, as in a dream. And when her way was inexplicably blocked, she reached out, her hands spread wide . . . and then the dam broke; a flood of clarity washed over her. She felt it enter her body like a cleansing breath. It seemed to lift her off her feet, and she was restored, as if waking from a much-needed sleep.
She opened her eyes and looked at the raven again. He cocked his head to the side. And she did—she did recognize him, then!
“Oh,” she said, tears stinging her eyes.
Say my name.
“Uncle.”
Say it again.
“Uncle! Oh, Uncle!”
Yes.
“We’ll fight side by side, the way we did before.”
I’ll do everything in my power. I can carry messages and gather information.
“And comfort me so I won’t feel alone.”
Yes. But, Molly—you have to do the rest.
She reached through the grille and stroked his wing feathers, thinking. What could she send to Tobias that would tell him where she was?
You can do it. You’re the clever one.
“I’m trying.” It didn’t have to be wonderful, just something he would recognize.
And finally it came to her.
“Uncle,” she said, “you must be patient. This will take a little time.”
I am always patient.
“So you are.”
She went to her desk, a beautiful piece of carpentry, dark wood inlaid with light, rounded in the back to fit against the wall of the room, curving in front as if to embrace her. On the desktop sat a penholder with several quills, sharpened and ready for use. There was a crystal bottle filled with ink, several sheets of paper, a blotter, and a neat stack of books. This was to be her place of study, then. They’d provided her with everything she’d need.
She tore a thin strip off one of the sheets of paper, small enough to fit around Uncle’s leg. Then she opened the bottle of ink and chose a pen. She’d seen people writing before and knew there were tricks to avoiding splatters and inkblots. So she followed their example, not dipping the pen into the bottle too deep and tapping it gently against the rim to release any surplus of ink. Finally, poised to write for the very first time, she looked up at the raven.
How I missed you, Molly!
“Don’t distract me, Uncle dear,” she said with a grin, then leaned over and, with fierce concentration, began to draw a circle on one end of the strip. It was not as round as she would have liked, but Tobias would understand. Then inside the circle, side by side, she wrote the only letters she knew: M and W. It was a crude picture of her necklace. He couldn’t possibly mistake who it had come from; it was practically like signing her name.
Now, on the other end of the narrow strip, she drew a little picture: a sort of box, and on top of it another, smaller box, then a third that was smaller still. And on top of all that—she was running out of room—she drew towers. They looked more like beehives, and she only had room for three, but she thought he’d understand. Finally, at the top of one of the towers, she drew a line pointing to a round window.
She was rather enjoying this. In a stab of inspiration, she added a bird, not a very good one, flying through the air. And she was done. Her message said, This is from Molly, I am in a tower at Harrowsgode Hall, and the raven will help us. What more, really, was there to say?
When she was done, Uncle repeated his contortions—balancing on one foot, holding on with his beak, slipping claw and leg though the grille. Molly grabbed her linen coif from the floor where she’d flung it when they’d locked her in and tore off one of the ribbons that hung down on either side. Then she delicately wound the paper around the raven’s leg and secured it firmly with the ribbon.
“You’ll come back?” she said, missing him already.
Your tower shall be my roosting place. You have only to call.
And then he pushed off from the sill, wings spread wide. Whosh, whosh, whosh came the sound of his flight—silken, like the rustle of a lady’s gown. Out over the city the raven flew, touched by the light of the rising moon, until he was lost in the darkness.
20
The Ratcatcher’s Apprentice
“TOBIAS,” RICHARD SAID, “I don’t mean to alarm you any more than you are already, but this is really not a good development.”
“Not good? She’s confined in a tower at Harrowsgode Hall, and you’re telling me that’s not good?”
“For you, lad,” Richard said. “I meant for you. I never thought they’d move so quickly. The business with the barrister was troubling, a sign of things to come. But this, well, it’s an altogether different matter. And though naturally you’re brooding about it and feeling hopeless—”
“I’m not brooding, Richard,” Tobias mumbled into his hands. “I’m thinking.”
“Well, that’s good. Glad to hear it. Now if you’ll just pick up your head and give me a moment of your attention, I believe you’ll find what I have to say worth hearing.”
Tobias did, admitting to himself that h
e had been brooding, just a little.
“Now that they’ve got your lady where they want her, you’re of no use to them anymore so we need to move fast, before the Watch shows up and—”
“Richard! You’ve made that point endlessly. I’ve fully grasped it. Move on.”
“All right, then. Can you swim?”
“Not really. I’ve bathed in a river. I know that if you beat your hands against the water, it helps you stay afloat.”
“Good enough. Now, the walls are high, but the moat is deep and will protect you somewhat from your fall. It’s not a sure thing, but people have gone over before and survived. The problem will be the guards. They’re always up on the ramparts, day and night, and—”
“Are you suggesting that I leave the city?”
“I’m suggesting that you save your own life.”
“I won’t do it.”
“Why not? Do you really think you can rescue Molly from a tower at Harrowsgode Hall?”
“No. I think that if I leave her behind and save myself, then my life will not have been worth saving.”
“Even if you can’t possibly help her?”
“Even then.”
“The saints protect us from heroes,” Richard muttered. “All right, I’d expected nothing less from you, so it happens that I’ve thought of something else.”
“Good. Tell me.”
“I’ve got a job tonight—a silk merchant over in the Western District has rats in his warehouse. I’ve been out there these last few days getting things set up. Now I’m ready to start with the trapping. For that I always bring my apprentice along, to help carry the gear, and set the traps, and so on. Tonight that will be you. I’ve never worked for this client before, so he won’t know the difference. Nor will my apprentice, because he only ever learns that I have a job when I summon him to come.”
“But what’s the point?”
“To get you to a safe hiding place. I’ve already told the merchant he’s to leave the storeroom alone, to not so much as set a foot inside it until I’m finished. I always insist on that; if I don’t, they’re sure to make a mess of my preparations.
“Now, get off that bench and come with me. We need to turn you into a credible apprentice, and I think we’d best begin with your hair. It’s altogether the wrong color for a Harrowsgode lad. But some ashes and a little goose grease ought to do the trick. And don’t look at me like that! This is no time to be vain about your beautiful hair—”
“I’m not!”
“—because you’re likely to look a good deal worse before this business is over. Now, I’ll lend you my old cloak, and you’ll be carrying the traps, and the bag of meal, and the lanterns, and so on. You’ll look the part—but curse you for being so tall, Tobias; it’s really most inconvenient! When I’m conversing with my client, you’ll have to sit on a wall and hunch over. Or better still, hide in the shadows.”
“And keep my mouth shut.”
“That too. Now, I should catch a good number of rats tonight, which’ll keep the merchant content. I’ll explain that he has to be patient till I’ve gotten ’em all, and that will take some time. You’ll be safe in the storeroom for a week or more, with me coming and going day and night. I’ll bring you food and water, and empty your chamber pot, and bring such news as comes my way. After that we’ll just hope I get a new job, and a new hiding place.”
Tobias sighed.
“It won’t be pleasant, lad, I understand. But unless you have a better idea, it seems you have only two choices: go over the wall or hide in the dark.”
“I’m useless either way.”
“You’ll be even more useless without your head.”
“So you keep mentioning. What about you? What’ll you say when the Watch comes asking for me?”
“I’ll tell ’em lies. I’ll say you left on account of great lords not much liking being lodged with ratcatchers. They’ll know I’m spinning ’em a story, and they’ll try to scare me with threats. But rest assured, they won’t do me any harm. They need me to kill their rats—which they believe carry the plague, so it’s important to them—and my apprentice isn’t near ready to take over. I’ll be all right.”
“Is that true, Richard, or are you spinning me a story, too?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Then slather me with grease and ashes and let’s be on our way.”
21
In the Dark
TOBIAS KNEW AS MUCH about ratcatching as he knew about the art of war—that is to say, absolutely nothing. But it seemed to him, as he surveyed the field of combat in the silk merchant’s warehouse and Richard described his tactics in rather painstaking detail, that the two were very much the same—except that this battlefield was small, and dark, and filled with empty crates.
The floor of the storeroom was flagstone, so Richard hadn’t been able to dig down to bury his traps. But he’d encountered this problem many times, and like any good commanding officer he had an alternate strategy at hand.
He’d positioned the empty crates to form two walls, one on either side of the rathole, so the creatures would be forced to run between them, along a path of Richard’s choosing. Then he’d hauled in dirt and built a ramp that rose to the height of the traps. These he’d buried, one every couple of feet, covering them first with half an inch of dirt, then a pile of sawdust mixed with meal. Over this he’d sprinkled a few drops of aniseed oil to whet their little rodent appetites. Then he’d waited, letting them feed for a few nights, putting out fresh bait every morning, till they’d grown bold and trusting.
Now hostilities had been officially declared; combat was about to begin. Quietly, the lantern shielded so as not to alarm the rats, Richard started near the rathole and worked his way back: setting each trap, arranging fresh piles of meal upon them, then moving on to the next one.
Tobias had been disappointed that Charley couldn’t come. But Richard had said no. Charley was old and had suffered a rat-bite two years before. It had gone bad, as rat-bites so often did, and Richard had all but given him up for dead. But he’d survived, brave Charley, and had earned his retirement as a house pet, eating scraps from his master’s table.
“You don’t want to get bitten by a rat, Tobias,” Richard added unnecessarily.
So they’d left Charley at home and brought Constance instead. She was the smallest of the dogs, young and eager to perform the task that she’d been bred and trained to do. Now they waited in the dim light, perched on a crate at the far end of the room, Constance in her master’s arms, quivering with excitement.
“Richard,” Tobias whispered, “what happens when you leave?”
“You’ll go to sleep. Then, come morning, you’ll wake and use the chamber pot, then open the little iron box of food we brought and break your fast—”
“You know what I mean.”
“Actually, I don’t. Waiting is waiting, lad. You pass the time and manage not to get arrested. What else is there?”
“Doing something. Coming up with a plan. Getting Molly out of the tower.”
“Perhaps the solitude and the darkness will help you think of something. I find ideas often come to me quite unexpectedly in the night, when I’m restless and can’t sleep.”
“I hope so. Waiting goes against my nature.”
“A man of action, are we?”
“You may laugh, but—”
“Shhhh. Listen.”
There was a scrabbling sound, then a nibbling, then a soft metallic twang followed by a thump and a snap: the first casualty of war.
Now more rats came, one or two at a time, some skirting the edges of collapsed piles where a fellow rat had just disappeared, continuing down the run to the next pile, or the next, until they stepped on a metal plate and were swallowed by a trap. Tobias found it all mildly disturbing.
Rats, as Richard had pointed out more than once, are intelligent creatures; and after a while they became more guarded. They refused to go near the meal anymore. It was time to wrap things
up.
Richard had hung a board, hinged to the wall, directly over the entrance to the rathole. It was held in the raised position by a hook, to which a long string was attached. Now he gave it a tug, yanking out the hook and causing the door to drop. With the rathole blocked, and with no avenue of escape, the creatures began to scatter—out the far end of the run, up the sides of the crates, anywhere their little rat-brains told them might be safe.
Now came the mopping-up operation, Constance’s moment of glory. And if the trapping had been disturbing, this was truly disgusting.
When it was over, Richard unshielded the lantern and went about gathering the little corpses and tossing them into a sack. That done, he went from trap to trap, pulling out the live ones and putting them into a cage. In all there were thirty-seven rats.
“An excellent haul for one night,” he said. “It should more than satisfy my client. I’ll come back in the morning and set it all up again. But for now we both need to get some sleep.”
“What’ll you do with the rats?”
“Kill ’em, bury ’em. Folks here aren’t like the Austlinders, who were always wanting the live ones so they could try their dogs against ’em in the rat-pits. Sometimes I keep a few for training my young ratters—”
Suddenly he stopped speaking. He stood, a cage of cowering rats in one hand, a sack of dead ones in the others, and stared at his boots, mouth open. Tobias followed his gaze but saw nothing unusual. Then Richard set down his burdens, sat on the nearest crate, and smiled.
“Y’see?” he said. “What’d I say just a minute ago about ideas popping into your head? They’re like dry tinder; they just need a spark to set them alight. So when you asked, ‘What’ll you do with the rats?’—why it was just such a spark, don’t you know.”
“Does that mean you have an idea?”
“Yes, lad, it does. I have a great mountain of an idea.”
“Do you plan to tell me what it is?”
“Hold still. Let me enjoy myself.”
“It’s that good?”
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