Seconds later, as Ark peered up, a face squashed itself against the glass, a face he recognized. Grasp’s man. Surely, if Ark could see the guard, then the guard could see him? But what did eyesight need? Reflection. The moment Salix looked down, he’d see Ark staring back.
14 • GOING DOWN
Instantly, Ark closed his one good eye. It was like Shiv closing her eyes and pretending to be invisible. As if that would help! They were two foxes in a hole and Salix had hunted them down.
As he huddled into the corner, Ark thought back to earlier in the day. Goodwoody’s words suddenly made sense. Maybe what had nearly killed him would now save them. It was worth a try.
Ark stealthily reached into his bag, his fingers fumbling as they searched. Where was it? His hands closed around something soft. Holly prickles ran up his forearms. What could a feather do? The Warden had talked about darkness helping to hide. Of course! Ravens cast a shade that beat all colors as they hid among the trees, still as statues. Instantly, his panic floated away like falling feathers. They were nothing, him and Mucum. That was what Jobby Jones thought of them as he bossed them around all day. Fine, then. That’s what they would become at the very moment Salix’s eyes pierced the dark like daggers.
“Ark! Ark!” The whispered voice should have shocked him. Ark turned, remembering what he thought was a trick of the wind on the treetop. No one. Again. But the voice lulled him like a lullaby. Woe betide me, Lady hide me.
In and out, Ark’s breath grew as long as a strand of spider silk, the air expelled from his lungs a sleepy incense that wove its web, filling his every fiber. Mucum’s head also felt heavy, his body a lump of bog oak as he sank soundlessly into the floor. They were smidgens of darkness, the blanket of black erasing them like a pair of candles pinched at the wick. Nothing becomes of nothing … nothing reflects nothing back.
From a great distance, Ark heard muffled voices. He waited calmly for the wheel to turn, their hidey-hole to be exposed. Instead, the footsteps finally moved off. All that remained was silence.
“I feel drunk!” came a woozy voice. “You sure that blackberry stuff had nuffin’ in it?”
“Nothing,” said Ark, heaving a sigh of relief. His fist was still clamped tight around the feather, but now he relaxed and retrieved his hand from the bag. The drink his mother had boiled and filtered from the wild brambles that encroached on the woodways hadn’t saved them. He blinked his eyes, aware of the dim light of the sewer gas lamps filtering in, aware that by all rights, they were as visible as poppies in a scaffield of barley.
“Lucky he didn’t spot us, eh?” Mucum jabbed Ark in the ribs.
“Maybe.” Ark stood up.
“Hang on a sec! That wasn’t a piece of hocus-crocus, was it?” Up to now, Mucum had thought that Ark’s encounter with the ravens was somewhat exaggerated, no more than a lucky escape. Now he wasn’t so sure.
Ark didn’t answer, still dazed with their success. Was it the feather or had he done it himself? And how had the Warden known? He still couldn’t believe it. Arktorious Malikum, foundling son of a sewage worker, briefly invisible!
“Weird … It’s like I was curled up in me gran’s lap, there.” Mucum shook his head as if to get rid of any remaining soppiness. “Don’t ever tell anyone I said that, right?”
“Whatever.” Ark suddenly thought about his sister, Shiv, throwing sticks off the edge. The image of her little grubby smile was almost too much. Would he ever see her again? But her playful throwing game had given him an idea. There was only one place safe to hide. One place they’d never think of looking. Down. Ark stood up and squeezed past Mucum’s bulk to reach the other porthole.
That single moment of quiet had filled Ark with certainty. He was already turning the wheel. This second valve was well greased and the door opened easily. The smell hit them first. It was the opposite of work — sweet, fresh, hinting at treetop meadows and the hundreds of cruck wells, natural hot baths, springs, and meandering branch tributaries that fed Dendran dwellings high in the canopy as well as filling the leaves with liquid life.
Mucum pushed in beside him to stare at the huge, dark shaft at least thirty feet across that vanished into the hollow depths of the trunk, lit by a string of feeble, flickering gas lamps. “You must be kidding, Malikum! This ain’t no place for the likes of us!”
Below them, a series of rusty metal rungs descended into the gloom.
“We’ll be fine….”
“No, we won’t!” Mucum unwittingly crossed himself. “It’s another country down there!”
“Exactly. The guards will never follow us.”
“Save us from acorn nutters! The guards won’t follow us ‘cos they fancy still being alive in the mornin’, unlike you, Mr. Holly High ‘n’ Mighty!” Mucum craned his head up, trying to make out various outflows that ran off the main shaft, empty at this moment, waiting for the tide to turn.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” said Ark. But the certainty was beginning to fade.
“Oh, so yer suddenly the expert, eh? I don’t see yer tide tables!”
“I know what I’m doing.”
“Like you did with the King? That little swim has left your brain full of doo-doos! You’ve forgotten yer basic trainin’! Turn on the tap and what do yer get? Water! Where’s it come from?”
“The day that you teach me anything …,” said Ark as he grabbed hold of the first rung and swung his legs over the side.
Mucum flared up. “You don’t get it, do yer? The roots are thirsty; they suck up water from way, way down and when this baby blows” — Mucum pointed at the shaft that Ark was climbing into — “it hits over a hundred in seconds flat. You’ll be shot straight like a cork from a bottle. When your little stick body slams into that roof … SPLAT! I don’t wanna be the one sweeping bits of yer insides into the sewers.”
“Then don’t,” said Ark as he disappeared over the edge. “No one saw you. You’re not in trouble. Go home.”
“Why me, Diana?” implored Mucum, wondering if the Goddess even took notice of an insignificant sewage worker. “I had a nice little earner going, a job for life until Malikum came along and ruined it all! It’s not fair!” he ranted. But despite the complaining, being confronted by homicidal rodents and chased by sword-swinging soldiers, if he was being honest, he was having the time of his life! Mucum reached for the top rung. “Wait for me!” he shouted, his voice echoing into the depths.
The rungs were solid enough, though crusty with oxide and slimy from the constant damp in the air. After the first few steps, Ark settled into the rhythm, ignoring the heavy breathing above him. If Mucum wanted to follow, that was his business.
“Yer not sulkin’?” Mucum gasped after a few minutes.
“No.” Ark was secretly glad not to be alone, but he wasn’t going to let on.
The echoes of their grunts bounced off the dripping, trickling walls.
Mucum found the going slow, worried any moment that the spindly rungs would snap under his weight. “Wait up, will yer?”
Ark was twenty feet below, scampering down the ladder like a spider. He paused and looked up, his eyes catching the dimming reflection of the gas lamps. “You were the one worried about the tide!”
“Don’t get clever with me!”
Ark waited, allowing Mucum to catch up. There was a reason why he’d stopped. Stepping off into the shaft was bad enough, but at least they had light to see by. But now the shaft descended into a blankness, the ladder vanishing as if it were a drawing rubbed out at one end.
“Can’t go on,” said Ark. His arms and legs were soldered to the ladder. In Arborium, there was always light, whether it was moon, sun, gas, candle, or lamp. It was a world of shadows, constantly shifting and moving. This dark beneath them spread like an endless cruck pool.
“Yeah, you can!” Mucum’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “Close yer eyes, mate, and jes’ listen to me, right. It’s one rung at a time. Think of Shiv. She’d be loving this!”
Ark kept his eyes tightly clo
sed, picturing his sister’s beaming smile. For her, this would be the best adventure in the whole wide-wood. His foot twitched, unfreezing.
Mucum breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s the one. Your little sis is ’ere wiv you, right now, laughin’ ’er ‘ead off!” He followed Ark down as the light above him dwindled into a spot, then a pinprick, then … he shivered. His eyes were now useless. If he fell, it might be all the way to the center of the earth. “We’re gettin’ there, mate! Yer doin’ all right.” The trick was to fill this emptiness with words; otherwise the blackness would soak into his eyes, stuff up his lungs, and … “How yer doin’?”
Ark gave an invisible smile. “Fine. Legs ache a bit.” Blood oozed from cuts on his fingers as the rusty metal bit into his skin. Hand, foot. Hand, foot. Ark’s thoughts drifted as they descended farther from all they knew. What were they? Tiny insects drifting down a single water shaft, one among a million trees.
“How deep d’yer reckon this goes?” Goose bumps on Mucum’s skin told him it was growing colder. His voice sounded different, as if the echo had been swallowed.
The voice brought Ark back. “A mile for the height of the tree, but the roots could go down much farther.” His eyelids felt odd. Something forced them open. “Look!”
The word finally meant something. Mucum stared. His eyes, grown used to the endless beetle-blackness, were suddenly shocked. Light seeped up from beneath them. And the rungs had taken on a different quality. They were no longer rusty, but smooth and cool to the touch. “Told yer!” he said. The shaft had widened significantly. “Must be near the bottom!”
Visibility increased, though they couldn’t see where the light came from. The walls were lined with a lush carpet of plant life that clicked and skittered with bleached white beetles.
“Look!” said Ark again.
Dotted amongst the ferns were millions of pairs of shiny black oval shells, which gave off a tangy smell that made Mucum’s belly lurch with hunger.
Ark’s silent prayer of thanks was interrupted by an ominous rumbling sound, followed by a rush of air that filled his lungs with the scent of the sky. As if in response, every single shell snapped open, revealing a yellowish, glowing pod plopped at the center. It was like watching a flock of lit-up butterflies unfolding their wings. “Let there be light!” he whispered. With one hand hooked on a rung and his legs anchored, Ark reached with his free hand through the fronds of a plant to touch one of the pods. It was soft and alive, quivering under his fingertips. The moment he removed his hand, the shell clicked shut.
“While you’re playin’ with your new pet, have you worked out what’s goin’ on yet?” The look on Mucum’s face was pure terror.
“What?” said Ark, entranced.
The shaft now echoed with the sound of the shells sliding against each other.
Mucum’s voice shook. “If these slimy creatures are opening up shop, it might be ‘cos they’re thirsty!”
“I don’t understand.” Ark’s legs and arms throbbed with the effort of the climb. What was Mucum on about? But then the ladder began to vibrate and understanding slammed into Ark’s brain. “Oh …,” he whimpered.
“We’re in the squit!” Mucum screeched.
They both clung to the thin rungs of the ladder. Not that it would make any difference.
The tide was on the turn and two insignificant sewage workers were perched directly in its path.
15• BRIBERY OR EXECUTION
“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Petronio couldn’t resist crowing. He licked off the cold, midnight dew that had formed on his upper lip and wiped his face with his sleeve as Mercury ambled along.
Flinty ignored him as his boys led horse and rider down the rubbish-strewn woodway. The gang’s black clothes merged into the fog, turning them into floating wraiths.
After half an hour, Petronio sensed a series of shapes behind the trees on his right, blurred by the fog. Lamps set into the interspersed trunks and regular posts along the woodway showed a set of low, squat buildings with blacked-out rectangles for windows, their straight edges in strict contrast to the curves of branch and leaf. As the gang moved on, Petronio saw that this settlement dwarfed the Court of King Quercus. Fenestra was right. This mission could be the turning point.
They skirted the edges of the barracks for a further twenty minutes before finally pulling up near a corner trunk. The walkway between acted as a drawbridge, currently open, the ropes on either side slack. The double doors beyond were sheathed in iron and shut fast. Embossed into the archway was a figure of a brown, overmuscled bear with its huge jaws clamped around a dying wild dog. They had finally arrived at their destination: the armories of Moss-side.
The stallion was nervous, his hooves skittering on the wood as Petronio pulled gently on the reins.
Suddenly, the hollow slits on either side of the doors were filled with pointing arrows.
A voice boomed into the darkness, “Who goes?”
Flinty was having none of it. Despite carrying no shield, he marched straight across the drawbridge and up to the right-hand slit, until the arrowheads were virtually resting against his chest. “Who goes? Who buddy goes? I do, mate!”
The voice from behind the slit faltered, but only momentarily. “What business do you have before I put more prickles in you than a hedgehog!”
“Look at my face!” Flinty ordered, without a hint of fear. “Recognize the family resemblance, by any chance?”
There was a huddled whispering, as if the hidden soldiers were in conference. A second voice came back rapidly. “Master Flint. I do apologize. Our duty officer, Tomo here, is new on the job and had no idea that the son of our esteemed commander had decided to pay a visit … at two thirty in the morning.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Got a guest. Wants to see me old man. Says it’s urgent.”
The slits were suddenly empty of arrows. There was a grinding noise of hidden cogs as the doors slowly drew open, pulled by massive chains.
“All yours now.” Flinty stared at Petronio, hate in his eyes. “I’ll see you later.” It was either a promise or a threat. He stalked off down the woodway, his gang melting into the shadows.
“Come on, boy!” whispered Petronio, stroking Mercury’s neck. “There might be some oats for you!” He walked the horse across the drawbridge and ducked his head under the archway. The doors closed behind him with an ominous clang. There was no going back now.
The soldier who stood in the courtyard to greet him wore a scowl in place of a welcome. Petronio wondered at the chain-mail skirt. Its wraparound features might protect your bits, but it was just too girlish for his liking. The sword strapped to the man’s side was another matter. It certainly wasn’t there for ceremony.
The man’s eyes widened, taking in Petronio’s ridiculously slashed doublet and cross-gartered stockings. “What dressed-up boy’s prank is this?” His card game had been interrupted by an adolescent! A perfect hand — Ace of Trowels and King of Chestnuts. Flipping stick! A week’s wages rode on the outcome.
Petronio forced his breathing to stay calm. “I don’t see any little prank, sir!”
“Ya insolent piece of puffed-up puppy fat! Shall I ask my men to make sport wiv ya?” he snarled. “Target practice, p’raps?”
Petronio slid off his horse and stood facing the soldier, who towered over him. “Or perhaps you could take me to Julius Flint. I have a message for him.”
Some of the other soldiers spilled out of the gatehouse, ready for some entertainment.
“By yer accent, I can see yer traveled far. Tell yer what!” The soldier walked around Petronio as if he was inspecting a cut of meat. “We’ll keep yer horse, which I ’ave to admit is a rather fine specimen. Then we’ll give yer a good beatin’, ‘n’ after, when yer got the message, we might let yer wander back to whatever pompous hole yer crawled out of!”
A pack of hooligans was one thing. Highly trained soldiers were another. This would require a different form of persuasion. Petronio wished he
could use his trump card. The son of High Councillor Grasp would be treated with instant deference. However, his business had to stay secret. Any of these men could have mouths bigger than their brains. The sergeant had to be played carefully.
“You know, I think your superior would be most disappointed to learn that his guest had been treated in so rough a manner. Indeed, if Commander Flint were to later find out that a certain opportunity had been missed because” — he paused and stared straight into the man’s pockmarked face — “an inferior officer had decided to act on his own initiative … well, I’d hate to be in your shoes, sir.”
The sergeant came to a halt in front of Petronio, doubt clouding his face. It was enough. The seed was planted.
“Full of yourself, ain’t yer?”
“No. But I suggest you wake him, just for safety’s sake? Yours, not mine.”
The sergeant had happily skewered a few radicals on the end of his sword over the years. Now a fourteen-year-old was giving him orders! What was the wood coming to?
“Fine. Let’s wake Commander Flint out of his well-earned slumbers and see what he does with you!” The sergeant looked around. “And I dunno what you lot think this is. Get back on duty!” he barked.
The other soldiers grumbled as they drifted back to the gatehouse. Fighting was in their blood. All these years of peace were seriously bad for their health.
“Before I take yer to see me master, we need to do a little search! You can make it easier by ‘andin’ over any weapons, yer know, catapults and other toys. Wouldn’t want the master attacked by a trained kiddie assassin, would we?” The sergeant had to have his moment of satisfaction.
“Absolutely!” said Petronio. One second, he was unarmed and the next, there was a knife in his hand that in no way resembled a toy. The move was so sudden, it forced the sergeant to step back. “I do understand. Can’t be too careful these days!” The knife flipped over until its carved bone handle was offered to the sergeant.
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