Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  He rolls his eyes at the broken fire escape ladder and cups his hands. “I’ll boost you up.”

  It rankles my pride, but I lean on his shoulders to step onto his palms. My stitches pull when I raise my arms to hoist myself to the lowest level of the fire escape. He braces my feet on his shoulders and lifts me higher until I’m able to wriggle over the railing.

  He follows suit, scaling the wall with an easy grace.

  I pull back my hood when we reach the top landing, shaking my hair free. The dragon shifts, its wings unfolding with a soft whir. I creep sideways onto the window ledge next to the fire escape, and then the one after that. I stop at the third window and give the lower sash an experimental push. It slides open easily, and I gesture to Ghost before scrambling inside.

  The museum’s attic is as Sparrow and I left it, full of broken artifacts and worn-out furniture. The air is thick with a musty dampness that clings to the skin and coats the pages of the few picture books I’ve tucked in the moldy cushions of a sagging couch.

  I study a crumbling map spread over the largest table with a bittersweet smile. It’s an aerial view of BrightStone and one that I’m most familiar with. I trace my finger over the Everdark River, winding through the city and out to the sea.

  “So that’s your secret for moving across the rooftops so quickly,” Ghost muses. “I don’t think I’ve seen a map quite this detailed anywhere else.”

  “I like it because it shows BrightStone before the Rot. Before the fire that took out the Warrens. I always try to line up the ruins with this, imagining what it must have been like. How things might be different today.” I snort ruefully. “Of course, it’s a wee bit out-of-date. Took a few close calls in dead-end alleys to get me to be more careful about trusting all of it.”

  Ghost grimaces at the bedraggled feathers of a stuffed bird, its moth-eaten body nearly tipping off its rusted brass perch. He touches it bemusedly, watching as a pinion disintegrates beneath his fingers. “I’m not sure this species even exists anymore.”

  “It’s a museum. Lots of stuff here doesn’t exist anymore.” I pause for a moment. “Sparrow named that thing Hideous Lydia. Said it reminded her of those wretched feather hats Lady Lydia wears when she sets up those donation tables in the square.” As Lord Balthazaar’s wife, she always had her pet projects, but it’s easy to pretend to be a philanthropist when your family controls nearly the entire food supply in and out of the city.

  “She wasn’t wrong,” Ghost says. “At least the feathers of this bird look like they belong there.” He brushes the dust off a pile of books, peering at their titles. “Molly says Lydia’s caught the Rot.” He sneezes. “And that’s why Lord Balthazaar said she lost her child.”

  I glance up at him, frowning. “I don’t understand.”

  “He told the masses she was pregnant, and then she conveniently started an extended mourning period after giving birth to a stillborn baby. Dr. Barrows argues the point with Molly all the time, but the running theory is that she really has the Rot and instead of Tithing her, Balthazaar’s hidden her away somewhere.”

  The dragon leaps from my shoulders to glide across the room to the top of a large bookshelf filled with jars of preserved rat fetuses. “What difference does it make?” I ask. “It’s got naught to do with us.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. If such a thing were true, undoubtedly Lord Balthazaar would go to great pains to hide it from the general populace,” he points out. “He may be the main food importer in BrightStone, but no one will buy his stock if it’s suspected there’s plague in his household.”

  I pace by the window and freeze when I see a flash of red below. I gesture at Ghost, and he swears softly, watching as an Inquestor takes a position beneath the fire escape.

  “Pretty pickle.” I sigh. “Where’s there one, there are at least two. If they saw us climb the escape, they’ll be up here quick. Come on.”

  The door handle rattles, and I duck beneath a dusty table. Ghost twists to the far window, taking refuge behind a curtain.

  “—and I assure you, we have no such riff-raff in here,” a female voice says loudly.

  A smile creeps over my face. Archivist Chaunders isn’t one for putting up with nonsense from anyone, least of all the Inquestors. She bustles into the room, her long amber skirts swirling. An Inquestor shoves past her, ignoring the way her lips press into a narrow line.

  “Don’t touch anything,” she snaps. “Most of these items are priceless and deserve to be treated with respect.”An incredulous snort from the Inquestor is the only response, and she reddens. “Just because you hold yourselves as our betters doesn’t mean BrightStone’s history isn’t important.”

  “A treasury of knowledge, to be sure.” His gaze rakes the shadows, and I hold my breath. “And you might show a little respect of your own, mistress. A concerned citizen indicated a pair of miscreants was seen entering this establishment from the upper window. I’d be remiss in my duty if I failed to investigate the possible presence of thieves.”

  Her jaw tightens. “As you will, then.”

  I ease back to rest on the balls of my feet, every muscle freezing as the Inquestor slows when he reaches the bookshelf.

  Oh shit. The dragon. I’ve left it out in the open.

  “What’s this?” The Inquestor raises a finger to poke at it. It doesn’t move, but the barest trace of smoke feathers up from its nostrils.

  Archivist Chaunders cocks her head around his shoulder, her brows drawn and heavy. “We haven’t had time to catalog that one yet, so I can’t give you any details on it.”

  He raises a brow, clearly not convinced. She lurches forward suddenly, clutching at his arm so they’re both slightly off-balance.

  “Clumsy me,” she says, patting his arm. “Here now. Since you’re so interested in this piece, let me clean it up for you and find out what I can about it. Next time you return I’ll tell you what I’ve discovered.”

  He looks over at the shelf, but the dragon is gone, and he shakes his head. “But . . .”

  “No ‘buts’ about it, young man. I’d be remiss from my duty if I didn’t give you a full report on its historical significance. Undoubtedly an allegorical reference to IronHeart, taken form in bronze sculpture.”

  “There was smoke coming from its nose.”

  “Aye, well. It’s not that hard to create the effect if you have the right tools.” She pulls her goggles over her eyes. The right one twists as though it’s focusing on something only she can see and scans the room.

  She hesitates only briefly when her field of vision crosses my table and Ghost’s curtain, but she passes us by. “There. I’ve scoped the place out and can tell you whatever you’ve heard, no one is in here now. Perhaps they’ve already left again?”

  He backs up a step to peer out the window, signaling to his compatriot below with a salute. “Not likely.”

  “I know a lot, boy. I’ve been around far longer than your city’s arrival, and I expect to be here when you’re finally gone.” She taps her goggles. “These can read nearby body heat, and I assure you, it’s not picking up anything but the two of us.”

  My thighs are beginning to cramp, and I shift in my coat so that I’m leaning against the table leg.

  But the archivist is already ushering the Inquestor out. “Believe me, I’m very grateful you’re looking out for our artifacts. Can you imagine if some of these got into the wrong hands? Just think . . .”

  The door shuts behind them, her nattering voice fading. I ease onto my knees, ears pricked in case the Inquestor decides to reappear. The curtain twitches a moment later, and Ghost’s face peeks out.

  “That was close,” he whispers. “Dr. Barrows was right about that dragon, Mags. You have to keep it under wraps or you risk bringing everything down.”

  “It’s not like I knew they would come up here.” I crawl out from beneath the table. “Concerned citizen, my ass. I suspect this was Rory’s parting shot.” I let out a quick whistle, my heart sinking when th
ere’s no response. “Where the hells did it go?”

  “She must have taken it.” Ghost rubs his face. “We’re going to have to get it back somehow.”

  “I’ll manage it. There’s a room downstairs where they catalog artifacts for research. She’ll have taken it down there. We can steal it back.” His brows raise at me and I shrug. “Used to sneak in and look at the exhibits in the middle of night. Besides, rooting around in the slag heaps means trying to figure out how much our finds were worth. If I could prove what it was, then Rory would have more justification in setting the price.”

  A smile crosses over his face. “You’re a surprising person, Mags.”

  “Why? It’s not like anyone else will teach us anything of their own accord. You think I’d let a locked door stop me from taking a peek?”

  “Indeed I did.” I whirl as Archivist Chaunders opens the door to fix me with an exasperated stare. “And by all rights I should have let him find you.”

  “We were sloppy,” I admit. “And I don’t move as fast as I used to at the moment.” I pull up my shirt to show her my stitches.

  Her face softens, the gray hair frizzy beneath the goggles now pushed onto her forehead. “That was bad business there, Maggy. I’m sorry about Sparrow.”

  Ghost does a double take. “You know each other, I gather?”

  I give him a sour grin, and the archivist laughs. “Yes. Maggy and Sparrow would bring me interesting things they’d find, and in return I let them hide out here from time to time.” She gives the bookshelves a fond look. “It made for fine entertainment on rainy days, I imagine.”

  I flush. “Where’s the dragon?”

  She pats her shawl with a gloved hand. “Hiding in here apparently. It’s a rather tenacious little thing, isn’t it?”

  Reaching behind her shoulders, she gives an odd wriggle and pulls the dragon from beneath the shawl. It leaps to the bookshelf for a moment before taking to the air to find my shoulder again.

  “Isn’t that interesting?” The archivist’s steely eyes find mine and she pins me beneath a gimlet stare. “I’m not even sure I really want to know where you found it, but I’d be especially careful, Maggy. The Inquestors may only be attempting to protect the secrets of Meridian inventions, but I wouldn’t risk being seen with one.”

  “You know what it is?” Ghost stares at the archivist. “What it’s used for?”

  She shrugs. “It’s one of d’Arc’s inventions. Or Meridian spies, or ways of communication between the Inquestors and those on Meridion. Or they are IronHeart’s children, looking for their lost creator.” A wry smile crosses her face. “Any theory might be right, so take your pick.”

  IronHeart.

  The words chill me, and I fight the urge to touch my clockwork heart. What if Dr. Barrows is right? I have no memory of where the heart came from. And if d’Arc built it, why do I have it?

  “’Ware IronHeart’s breath and IronHeart’s claws, for when IronHeart roars, Meridion falls,” I mutter, almost like a warding prayer. I’m not superstitious, but the familiar words feel somehow darker, all the same.

  Ghost rolls his eyes at me. “IronHeart is a metaphor.”

  “Is it?” The archivist points at my dragon. “Be careful about dismissing metaphors, my lad. Sometimes they have a way of sneaking up on you and biting you in the ass.” She stills. “I take it this isn’t a social visit?”

  “I need to find out about the Pits,” I say, ignoring the warning look Ghost shoots me. “Are there any old maps? Maybe in the archives?”

  “Well there’s certainly nothing available on public display,” she says, but she opens the door to the main hallway and ushers us through. I already know my way around, so I take the lead down the first set of stairs, Ghost trailing behind.

  The museum is made up of three floors, but only the first two are actually used for the display of artifacts available to the public. A central, shared space pillars each floor, so that you can peer over the railing at the visitors below. The skull of some enormous ocean beast hangs from thick wires, its mouth wide enough to swallow us whole as we pass by. It looms over the entirety of the museum proper, the blackness of its eye sockets seeming to swallow the shadows.

  I glance behind me to see Ghost standing before a bit of parchment enclosed in glass. His mouth is drawn into a tight line, and I retreat to stand beside him, peering over his shoulder. “What is it?”

  “A time line,” Archivist Chaunders notes, her wrinkled face growing dreamy, the way it always does when she’s warming to a subject. “This one shows us the details of when BrightStone converged with Meridion.”

  “Ancient history,” Ghost scoffs. “The floating city showed up here twenty-five years ago and never left, slowly placing BrightStone beneath its rule and using the plague as an excuse to close it off from the outside world.” He says it matter-of-factly, reciting it in a singsong voice.

  Archivist Chaunders smirks. “Someone’s been studying D’Arc’s Manifesto, have they?”

  He ducks, flushing. “My . . . mother used to read it to me,” he says smoothly, as though realizing he’s said too much.

  I crane my head over the archivist’s shoulder, straining to figure out the numbers. The time line stretches across both pages, and the upper left corner has an etching of a winged dragon.

  Year 1032. MF.

  I see it but can’t figure out what it means. Frustration grinds my belly. “What does it say?”

  “MF is ‘Meridion Founding.’” Ghost points to the tick mark. “Everything before that is BrightStone history only. Everything after is indicated by an MR for ‘Meridion Rule.’”

  “Very good.” Archivist Chaunders is impressed. “And here at 1034 MR is when the Rot first appeared.” Her face grows grim. “Didn’t take them long to crack down on us after that. The Salt Diaspora occurred as a desperate measure to control the plague . . . and in 1036 MR, the Pits were founded.”

  I shudder, and the archivist smiles soothingly at me. “The Pits as they are now are not well-documented, I’m afraid, but we do have some basic maps of the original salt mines.” She gestures for us to follow, continuing to chatter at us as we go.

  “Of course, these drawings are at least twenty years old,” she says, “and mines have a way of changing shape. Tunnels collapse, new caves are discovered. It’s hard to say if the Pits bear any resemblance to them at all anymore.”

  “Someone must know,” I insist as we come to a door.

  Archivist Chaunders pulls a key from a ring hanging at her waist and fumbles with the lock. “You’re right. Someone must,” she agrees, fussing at a cabinet to retrieve a set of parchment scrolls. “The Meridians hired the same men who used to work the mines to build the Pits, digging through the rock to make whatever facilities the Meridians wanted.”

  “And we can’t ask one of them?” I wonder aloud.

  There’s an odd tremble in the archivist’s voice as she turns away. “No, dear. They’re all dead.”

  I sip from the mug of steaming tea before me, nodding when Ghost holds out a few lumps of sugar. We’re crouched at a cluttered table at the back of the records room, a struggling light bulb overhead bathing us in shadows every few seconds.

  “There was an accident, you see,” Archivist Chaunders says, her eyes distant. “Or that’s what they called it. I never believed it, and neither did my mother. Or any of us with miners in the family, for that matter . . .”

  “What happened?” Ghost prompts her after sharing a quiet look with me.

  Archivist Chaunders sets down her mug. “Part of the mines collapsed. My father had said they were to be working on the last of it—a chamber that needed reinforcing.” She shivers. “I was waiting for him by the entrance with some supper, as I always did. The explosion shook me off my feet, the ground rumbling like an earthquake. Smoke and dust were everywhere, coating the ground, my hair, the very air itself. I waited and waited, but he never came out. None of them did. The Meridians made a big show of rushing about, but
it didn’t matter by then.”

  A slow horror creeps over my skin, watching the expressionless bent of her face as she speaks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “Why would you? There’s nothing about it in the museum.” She eyes the dragon on my shoulder sadly. “Just like there’s nothing about clockwork dragons. I’m not allowed to talk about it or put anything about the Pits on display. I’m not even supposed to have the things in here that I do—those mine blueprints, the samples of Rot collected by the Salt Temple, the early interviews with the sick—but it’s what I am.” Her voice grows hard. “History is written by those in power, but there is always another perspective, even if it cannot be told. Never forget that.”

  Her eyes gleam as bright as an owl’s, and she turns to Ghost. “And I think it’s about time you both stopped playing games.”

  Ghost sets his cup down a little too quickly. “Your pardon?”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday,” she says dryly. “D’Arc’s Manifesto is forbidden reading material, and yet a Moon Child recites it to me as though it’s nothing. Between that and the dragon and asking for blueprints of the mines . . .”

  Ghost nudges me with his foot beneath the table, but I don’t need the subtle reminder to tread carefully here. On the other hand, I’ve known the woman for far longer than I have Ghost or Dr. Barrows.

  The dragon nips at my ear, and I reach up to stroke it, its thumping ember heart soothing against my fingers. “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m sure.” Her gaze darts between me and Ghost. “You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?”

  A cough escapes me. “Maybe. Probably. If you’re thinking we’re planning on sneaking me into the Pits to find evidence of a Meridian conspiracy in the creation of the Rot, that is.” I give her a forced half smile as something unreadable crosses over her face.

  “I . . . see. Give me a moment.” She whisks out the door then, leaving Ghost and me standing there holding the maps. I frown, unsure what she’s about, but a minute later she reappears holding several battered notebooks.