Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  “What gave it away?” I head for the edge of the roof, blood suddenly boiling with the need to move, to stretch my limbs and run. “Which way?”

  He grunts something noncommittal. “Maybe you should leave the dragon behind, aye?”

  The dragon grumbles at him from my shoulder, but I reluctantly agree with Ghost. To tempt fate by leaving the Conundrum is one thing, but we cannot afford another close call with the Inquestors. I untangle the dragon’s tail from the scarf around my neck and pry open the skylight to my room.

  “Go on now. Find yourself a bit of space beside the fire, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

  It clicks out a little snarl at me but slips off my hand to glide to its usual perch on the mantel. I shut the window behind it. “That’s that.” I brush my hands off on my coat and flex my fingers as my heart begins to beat faster. “How about a little race before business? It’s been awhile; I need to make sure everything still works right.”

  He snorts. “Fair enough. First one to the museum, then. We have to head that direction anyway.”

  “Try to keep up.” I wink at Ghost, my mouth curling into a private grin.

  He bows mockingly at the challenge. “Lead the way.”

  I don’t bother with a reply. I simply turn away.

  One, two, three . . .

  I leap into the fog. The wind whips through my shortened hair, the chill shivering over my scalp. I pay it no mind, save that the lack of weight has upset my balance and I struggle not to overcompensate.

  A foot placed just so in the crag of a crumbling brick, my hands gripping a bit of pipe, a push here, a shove there. I call it rooftop dancing because that’s what it truly is. A recognition of the rhythms of a city, the breadth and width of her bones given substance in structures of stone and iron and wood. But a waltz upon the roof requires more than grace and a pretty step. It’s strength and flexibility, and the skill to turn or twist upon a moment’s notice. You need to calculate leaps or falls, skid along slippery shingles, and scrape through a crack of an opening no wider than a flea’s arse.

  Ghost sprints in front of me, his movements easy and familiar; he knows these buildings as well as I do. I follow suit, tracking the fluid motion of his arms and the bob of his head, ears pricked at his slight exhalations, the grunts when his body collides with the structures.

  My heart beats with a fierce glee at finally being set free, even if it’s just for a night. I ignore the burning stitch in my side, the last remnants of my wound, and find myself grinning into the darkness despite it all. The fog has lifted for at least a short space, and the moonlight washes over us.

  I take advantage of this sudden gift of visibility and climb higher, choosing a parallel path to Ghost’s. A few seconds later I’ve overtaken him. He gasps something at me, but I can only laugh. Sparrow and I always played this game, but I marvel at how easy it is to fall into the familiar cadence with him, as though we’ve been doing it forever.

  “Shit, but you’re fast,” he says raggedly when we finally take a rest upon the slanted shadow of a dormer window overlooking the square beside the museum.

  My own lungs sting with the strain, but I merely cock my head at him when he slumps beside me, his chest rising and falling with exertion. “You’ve a keen grasp of the obvious, I see.”

  He kisses me suddenly. It’s a clumsy brush of lips but earnest in its intent. The intimate intrusion catches me off guard, and after a moment, I pull away from the warmth of his mouth, feeling oddly empty. Confusion wars with longing and something else as we stare at each other, my thoughts drowning in silence, overcome by the staccato tick-thump of my heartbeat.

  “What are you doing?” I swallow hard, unsure where this is going.

  He lets out a sharp bark of ugly laughter. “Not the reaction I’d hoped for.”

  “Oh, aye? Should I swoon like in one of those penny romances?” I flutter my eyelashes at him, attempting to shift the mood away from the momentary hurt that flickers over his face. “You just caught me by surprise. Moon Children tend to be a little more direct beforehand, if you catch my drift.” I let out the whistling trill I’d taught him before, my mouth twitching.

  Shock rounds his eyes. “Gods, no. Just because I kissed you doesn’t mean I want to . . . I mean, not here.” He pauses. “Or is that how it is, in clans?”

  “Often enough.” I shrug. “There’s not time for much else. Boy. Girl. That part didn’t matter if I just wanted a few minutes to forget. We’re sterile, after all.” A sigh escapes me, and I sag against the brick of the dormer. “Not like it matters. There’s no room for romance for Moon Children, Ghost. Not when your lover could be taken for a Tithe.” My voice grows smaller, thinking of Sparrow. “Or for friends, even.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” His mouth quirks into a self-deprecating smile. “And I suppose my timing is off, given the circumstances.”

  “Considering I’m trying to be Tithed, yes,” I agree wryly. “Was all this an elaborate attempt at seduction, then?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Not really. Just taking advantage of the situation, as it were.”

  We sit in silence then, leaning against each other. Despite my previous statements, somehow my hand finds its way into his, and our fingers entwine. A skittering jolt zips up my arm. He says nothing, but the pulse at his neck jumps and I hide a smile.

  “Was that your first?”

  “My first what? Kiss? I grew up in a brothel, Mags. I don’t exactly have a lot of firsts left, aye?” He nudges me. “First Moon Child kiss, though.”

  “Yeah? Want a second?” I’m half joking, though the weight of the Pits presses heavy upon me, making me more reckless than I should be. As distractions go, I’ll take this one.

  He blinks but doesn’t wait to be asked twice. This time I meet him halfway, and a sudden flush of heat erupts beneath my breast, my pulse fluttering like a bird’s wings. When he pulls away there’s something unreadable in his eyes, a sort of grace that wasn’t there before.

  I exhale sharply, but he merely squeezes my hand again before scanning the square below us. “Come on. We’re not too far from the Theatre Quarter. The Twisted Tumblers are expecting me.”

  I cock a brow at him. “All right, then. Show me.”

  The Theatre Quarter is bustling with a quiet frenzy. The nip in the air has driven most patrons indoors, but here and there, pockets of warmth and light spill out onto the cobblestones, punctuated by a cacophony of music and raucous laughter. The river doesn’t flow through this part of the city, and I can’t help but appreciate the distinct lack of salt stink.

  I’m not as familiar with the streets here, but I try to avoid staring like a slack-jawed country cousin, my mind overlaying what I’ve seen of the Theatre Quarter with my memory of the map at the museum.

  I haven’t seen any other Moon Children yet; perhaps our disguises are the reason for that. Years of keeping within the boundaries of my own clan’s territory is a hard habit to break, but I have to trust Ghost on this.

  The Brass Button Theatre looms in front of us at the far end of a rounded park. The building is flanked by a pair of massive stone fountains with ethereal marble sculptures of men and women frozen in various acrobatic feats as if leaping through the water, their faces achingly lifelike. They’re lit up by cunningly placed electric sconces, beams of gold and silver reflecting over the wet marble to give them an ethereal semblance, as though they truly dance upon the waves.

  Patrons of the arts mill about outside, ignoring the damp as they light up their cigarillos and purchase fruits and candies from a nearby vendor.

  “Intermission,” Ghost observes. “They’ll be out here for a few minutes.”

  “Must be nice to freely enjoy such entertainments.”

  He gives me an amused glance from the corner of his eye. “The Upper Tier gentry are as trapped in BrightStone as we are, you know. They’re just better at hiding it. And clearly they’ve money to burn.”

  We watch them, w
rapped in their furs and silken dresses, for another moment or two. These glittering jewels of the upper class are pretty, but it only serves to show how dreary the rest of BrightStone has become.

  We walk the outskirts of the square, but I can’t help lingering to look at the fountains just a little longer.

  “You like those?” Ghost asks.

  “I think they’re beautiful,” I admit, not sure how to explain it. “They look like how I feel when I’m up on the rooftops, when every step seems to lift me higher and farther away. Like I might jump and never come down.”

  “They’ve sculptures in Meridion that put these to shame. Larger too.”

  A scowl creeps over my face. “Is there nothing I can enjoy here without it being made less of?”

  Confusion reflects in his eyes, and he dips his head. “It wasn’t my intention to do so.”

  “Never mind.” I wave him off, though the moment is ruined. I feel like a sham walking about the populace pretending to be something I’m not. Instinct insists I stake a claim somewhere safe that I can retreat to, and I’m tickled with a sudden longing to climb the nearest building.

  But not here in the open.

  Without another word, we drift up one winding road packed with sagging row houses and then another, cutting through a narrow alley before finding ourselves on the outer steps of an inn. The bedraggled, stuffed cormorant nailed to the stoop would give Hideous Lydia a run for its money.

  “Charming,” Ghost murmurs, but he follows me as I climb the fire escape to the windowsills and higher up until we reach the roof.

  I resist the urge to pace, the relief I’d felt only a short while ago now gone, as though it’s the very city strangling me. Above us, Meridion is lit up, glittering like a cluster of stars and just as far out of reach.

  Something prickles my shoulder, and I flinch, nearly sliding from the roof. I lean on Ghost for balance. “The hells take it,” I say as I realize what it is when a puff of steam warms my ear.

  “How did it get out?” Ghost frowns at it. “And more importantly, how did it find you all the way over here?”

  The dragon’s ember heart glows, but if the little monster has answers, it’s not sharing.

  “Maybe it went up the chimney again. We’ll have to be careful going back if we don’t want anyone to see it.”

  Ghost’s frown grows deeper, but he’s not looking at the dragon. “We’ve got company.”

  I hear the scrape of footsteps from the nearby rooftops and catch the glimmer of pale hair beneath the moonlight.

  “Don’t move,” a reedy voice calls out from the next roof over.

  Ghost raises his hands. “It’s all right. It’s just me.”

  A puzzled silence follows, and a scruffy boy peers around a chimney, his hands cradling a crossbow. Judging by his apparent age, he must be newly changed. His pale hair twists tightly about his soot-blackened face in a series of tiny braids.

  “Ghost, is it?” the boy confirms. “Aye. Josephine’s been expecting you for days now, but she never said nothing about no lady coming with you.”

  “Mags isn’t a lady,” Ghost retorts, grunting when I kick him in the shins. “She’s one of us, as you can see from her delightful manners.”

  The boy lowers his weapon and slinks out from behind his perch. His mouth drops when he sees the dragon on my shoulder. “Are you bringing that to trade?”

  “We’ll discuss that with Josephine,” Ghost interjects before I can say anything. He gestures at the boy. “This is Tin Tin, one of Josephine’s errand runners.”

  “Lookout,” Tin Tin insists, scowling. “They let me take the bow tonight. See?” He waves it at me, and I duck out of the way as the point swings by my head. A sheepish grin splits his lips. “Sorry. It’s not cocked.”

  On closer inspection, I see he’s right, but I still don’t want it aimed at me. It’s not a standard crossbow, but it’s not Meridian tech, either. Rather, it’s a bastardized custom job with a mechanical auto-cock and a pistol trigger.

  I make a noise of appropriate enthusiasm. Tin Tin beams at me, a scrappy little bulldog of a lad with a puffed-out chest and slightly bowed legs.

  “Right. We’re all settled, then?” Ghost winks at me when Tin Tin flushes. “To the Rookery, if you’d be so kind.”

  “Follow me. We’re to use the north door this evening.” He slings the crossbow over his shoulder and shimmies down a drainpipe.

  Ghost waves at me to follow and then brings up the rear as we find ourselves in a dark corner of a dead-end alley. Stacked barrels and a crate of empty bottles are piled on one side. Tin Tin gives one of the barrels a careless shove, exposing a rust-encrusted grate nestled within the cobblestones.

  My nose wrinkles at the faint whiff of piss. “The stink pipes? Really?”

  “It’s the only way to the north door,” Tin Tin says cheerfully, tugging a key from his vest and squatting down to fiddle with what must be a lock, though I’m damned if I can see it. “Besides, these have been abandoned for a while. They only fill when the river overflows.”

  “A regretful fact,” I say, trying not to breathe too deeply. “They smell like they could use a good cleaning.”

  A second later the grate creaks open to reveal a tunnel. I shudder when Ghost pulls out a lightstick and drops straight down without hesitation, swallowed by the darkness. I stifle a shudder, but I see the outline of his silhouette at the bottom. It’s not too far.

  I slide down the hole and land beside him, my knees bent for the impact. The two of us move to the side to let Tin Tin through after he somehow manages to hold on long enough to relock the grate.

  “Come on.” Tin Tin jogs off down the tunnel, one foot on either side of the narrow trench that runs down the center. A sluggish rivulet courses down the trench, and whatever liquids it holds within, I’m pretty sure water isn’t one of them.

  I sigh and follow, Ghost bringing up the rear again. It’s a maze of pipes and tunnels down here, and the darkness presses hard upon me. Is this what the Pits are like? Endless passageways of shadows and shit?

  I shiver into my coat. “The gods can have it.”

  Tin Tin lights up an electric lantern hanging from his belt and whistles low when we approach a metal panel set within the center of one of the walls. Two short bursts and one long.

  The dragon hisses in my ear, and I catch a faint knocking on the other side of the panel. Tin Tin raps on the door in response, and it swings open. I grind my teeth when I spot yet another tunnel, but a pair of Moon Children wave us through.

  “Josephine’s in the workshop,” the taller one says, his gaze flicking over Ghost. He seems unsurprised at the change of hair color, which can only mean Ghost has done this before.

  Tin Tin nods, turning off the lantern. No need for it here anyway, as the corridor is fitted with a strip of softly glowing lights, running the length of the floor to illuminate the passage.

  Ghost sees where I’m looking and points to a control panel in the wall. “They skim off the theatre’s power supply.”

  “Bold,” I mutter, impressed. Rory would never have dared such a thing.

  “I’m so glad you approve,” Josephine drawls from the doorway at the end of the passage. I startle, flushing when her mouth curves into an amused smile.

  I study her as she and Ghost exchange their greetings. She’s older by several years, two thick braids framing her face, held back by a thick pair of welder’s goggles. A wide scar rivers over her cheek to cut through her left eye and slash through her mouth. Based on her reputation, I’m unsurprised at it, as well as at the square jaw and the nose that’s obviously been broken multiple times. She’s short, like Penny, but her curves aren’t due to excess of flesh; rather, she’s built like a brick wall, the bare arms on display rampant with sinewy muscle.

  No wonder Rory wouldn’t cross her. A flick of her leather-bound wrist and she’d break him in half.

  She rubs her forehead with a greasy hand, tucking a wrench into the apron tied around
her waist. “And here I thought you’d be a no-show, Ghost. You’re overdue by at least a week.”

  “I brought him, just like you told me,” Tin Tin says proudly. “And wait ’til you see what the lady has for trade.”

  Josephine sucks hard on her lower lip when she spots the dragon. “Indeed. And who might ‘the lady’ be, I wonder?”

  “Raggy Maggy. Formerly of the Banshee clan,” I snarl, ignoring Ghost’s warning cough. Stupid to blurt it out like that, but something about the way she cracks her knuckles makes me think honesty really is the best policy here.

  “Oh yes. I’ve heard of you.” Her mouth purses, and she crosses her arms, leaning against the door. “You look remarkably well-fed for a corpse, I must say.”

  Refusing to be cowed, I cross my own arms, mimicking her pose. “The mind boggles. I’ve a cat’s own luck, and I shed lives like skin.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re standing here now.” An edge creeps into her voice. “I don’t recall extending this invitation to any but Ghost.”

  “There’s been a change of plans.” Ghost steps forward to place himself between me and Josephine, but somehow it feels like it’s all for show. “She’s a part of this now.”

  “So I see.” Josephine stares at me a moment longer, her gaze resting heavily on the dragon. “All right, then. If Ghost vouches for you, I’ll let it go. But heed me, Raggy Maggy. If you bring the Inquestors down upon me or mine, I’ll make sure the only skin you have left will be the one mounted on my wall.”

  I can only nod at this. Ghost hasn’t elaborated on exactly what we’re doing here to begin with so I’ve no choice but to accept her terms, such as they are. And they’re fair, considering I’m technically trespassing.

  Whatever she sees in my face must be good enough for her because she opens the door behind her and waves us through. Tin Tin trudges after us.

  I stifle a groan when I see more passageways. By this time I’m so mixed up there’s no chance I’ll ever find my way out without help. We pass a boiler room and then another, finally coming to stop beside what can only be her workshop.