Magpie's Song

by Allison Pang

  The courtyard is lined with small stones and leads to a graveled walkway that undoubtedly allows servants to perform their outside duties without being seen by the people who live within. Ghost’s breath becomes labored as we move along, but he doesn’t ask to rest and I don’t offer to stop.

  Gardens and storage sheds branch off from the main thoroughfare, and once or twice voices approach us and then fade out again. Guards, perhaps, but an uneasy thread twists it way through my gut.

  I stop suddenly and have to catch Ghost when he continues moving forward. “What is it?” he asks.

  “I need a better vantage point. I don’t like stumbling around in the dark like this. Let me head up for a better view so we have an idea which way to go to avoid trouble.”

  Ghost leans against the wall. “We need to figure something out fast. I’m bleeding again.”

  “Damn.” We’re not going to be able to hide a blood trail for long.

  “Leave me here, Mags. If what you’ve said is true, there’s no sense in both of us being caught. I’m only going to slow you down.”

  “Just . . . wait here a moment.” A trellis hangs beside us, covered in withered vines. Whatever fruit grows on them has long since given up. The trellis bends beneath my weight but holds steady as I climb.

  There’s no cover here except the darkness itself, but I need a view from above to figure out the best course of action. Maybe I can spot us a proper bolt-hole to hide in.

  My boot scrapes on the crenulations of the gutters at the first landing, and I freeze, my arms aching something fierce from my previous exertions. No cry of alarm is sounded, and I ease my way to the nearest windowsill. The curtains are drawn, but I still go slowly. People accustomed to noises in their houses are very much in tune with sounds that are not, and even though the party is going on strong below, I can’t afford to be careless.

  I spare a glance at the ground, but Ghost has sunk into the shadows as best he can. The whites of his eyes glitter up at me, and I catch the wince of an attempted smile.

  My shift snags my heel, ripping when I scale the outside of the window. I catch my breath on a dormer roof, and I’m off again a few seconds later. I don’t intend to go all the way to the top. The first roof level stretches out toward the front of the manse, and I follow it toward the well-lit courtyard.

  Instinct sends me flattening against the roof as a beam of light sweeps past from the window beside me. It creaks open, a shadowed head poking out.

  “Could have sworn I heard something,” a familiar voice says. “No matter.”

  Inquestor Caskers? My neck aches with tension as I try to see.

  The only answer to his words is a muffled grunt. From this angle, I can only assume it’s Lord Balthazaar. Common sense tells me now is the time to return to Ghost, to make our escape while the two of them are preoccupied, but the next words root me to the spot.

  “And when Balthazaar comes back, we’ll make sure your whore gets a front-row seat. Did you think Molly wouldn’t warn us about what you were doing, hiding in that disgusting flesh house?”

  I’m a gargoyle, perched on a house made of bricks, but it’s all shit. Shit and piss and death, and the rolling taste of bile in my throat threatens to choke the wind out of me. He’s got Lucian in there.

  And Molly Bell has betrayed us.

  Terror grips me in fierce claws, but it’s wrapped in a skin of rage that this monster of a man holds my life—and those of my friends—in his hands yet again.

  No. Not this time.

  Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m in the room, hurtling through the open window to land upon the thick carpet. Lucian pales when he sees me, but he can’t do more than groan behind the rag stuffed into his mouth. It’s a moment of crystal clarity, my vision narrowing so I only see the lieutenant. He’s taken off the sharply pressed suit jacket, and his sleeves are rolled up. A thick cigar hangs between his fingers, a halo of ash and smoke wafting from it.

  Lucian’s glasses are shattered and his nose bloodied, his fine clothes ripped and torn. I don’t stop to think beyond snatching up the poker from the fireplace, and my boot scrapes on the hearth. The lieutenant turns, his mouth dropping wide to shout or gasp.

  Whichever it is, I’ll never know, because I’m thrusting the poker forward into the tiny target, lancing his head upon the point.

  Later I might think on this night’s events and remember how easy it is to kill a man. How the flesh parts before the iron, or the way the bone and viscera shatter beneath the force of my arm. In the end, an Inquestor is merely a man, after all.

  Crimson splatters my gloves, and my ears are bludgeoned with the wet gurgle of his lungs as they fill with blood. The cigar drops from nerveless fingers, his arms flailing at me. I kick him, the hook of the poker catching on his cheek as I attempt to withdraw it.

  He shrieks, eyes bulging as he claws at his throat. He slumps to the floor, breath hissing from between his lips.

  It’s a feeble, quiet sound, and it fills me with fierce satisfaction. “Sparrow sends her regards.”

  His legs twitch once and then go still, his chest ceasing to move. I drop the poker and rush to Lucian’s side to remove the gag.

  “What have you done, Mags? What have you done?” His voice is little more than a harsh wheeze, but there’s a thump at the door and shouts from the other side.

  “No time.” I haul him to his feet. “Can you climb? Down, I mean?”

  “What?”

  “Ghost is waiting for us below. He’s been hurt, and I can’t get him to safety alone. But the two of you should do for each other while I create a distraction.”

  “You heard what he said,” Lucian says, full of despair. “This whole thing was a setup. They know, Mags. They know.”

  “Then you better get moving,” I counter. “Go on. There’s a trellis there. Even a flatfoot like you should have no trouble.” I pick the poker up in my hand again, feeling the comforting weight of it in my palm.

  He stares at me as though he can’t quite understand who I am. I don’t allow myself to think on it too hard. I’m no hero, but if I’m going to go out, it’s going to be on my terms.

  “You all wanted me in the Pits, right?” I try to smile at him, but it’s halfhearted at best. “They find out what I am, and that’s where they’ll send me. I’m sure of it.”

  “Not like this, Mags. Never like this.” He reaches out to stroke my cheek, but I’m backing away. There’s no time for this sort of nonsense.

  “Go. Find Ghost and get out. Don’t let me give myself up for nothing.” I turn toward the door, unable to look him in the face. I’ll lose my nerve if I do.

  The pounding on the door pops sharply; it’s about to break open. Lucian doesn’t hesitate any longer and I hear him scoot out over the ledge, yelping when he slips on something. “We’ll find a way to get you out, Mags. I promise.”

  “You better.” He grunts in affirmation, and I turn to watch him stiffly toward the trellis, gripping the gutters with white knuckles. I close the curtains behind him and look to the body of the lieutenant lying prone in a puddle of dark scarlet, his stare glassy.

  No time to cover up the evidence. Might as well use surprise as my weapon.

  I wipe the tip of the poker on his jacket and flatten myself behind a convenient tapestry beside the door. A small horde of Lord Balthazaar’s guards spill into the room a half second later, gasping when they see what’s left of the Inquestor.

  At least one of them noses around the drawn curtains, and I squeeze my poker tighter. Time to give Ghost and Lucian a chance to escape.

  Before the guards can investigate any further, I poke my head out from behind the tapestry and cough politely. “I believe you’re looking for me?”

  The guard directly in front of me stares, his jaw dropping. “You did this?”

  I blow him a kiss and bolt for the hallway. A startled cry echoes in my wake, but I don’t look behind me to see if they follow. The thud of heavy boots is answer enoug
h on that account.

  The hallway wraps around the entire floor in a large rectangle, the ornately carved banister giving way to a view of what appears to be a library. I don’t catch much more than some carved statues and shelves upon shelves of books. I duck past a screaming servant girl, shoving her out of the way before the guards can trample her, but I can already see some of them are doubling back to try to trap me on the other side.

  No hope for escape but down, I realize. It’s only one level to the floor below. I’ve fallen farther than that on the rooftops without injury, and this will be no different.

  I hurl the poker at the nearest guard, buying me a few extra seconds. Then I throw myself forward over the banister, twisting as I fall to grab the rungs. I hang the few seconds needed to pick a landing spot, dropping onto the top of the nearest bookshelf. From there it’s an easy somersault to the black-and-white checkered marble floor, and I roll to my feet.

  Shouts and cries of alarm fill my ears, but I skitter across the floor. Have Ghost and Lucian managed to get away? I can only spare the briefest of thoughts on them, concentrating on dashing down the hallway.

  But a distraction, a large one, could be just the thing. After all, who would count a couple of staggering gentlemen in a wave of panicked, drunken people?

  Mind made up, I weave and duck past startled servants and scandalized dinner guests. My shift is torn and bloodied, and I can only imagine what my face must look like as I run into the ballroom. A small part of me nearly snatches a carving knife from the roast beef on the serving table, but bloody or not, I doubt I look like much of a threat.

  No, better to hit everyone where it hurts the most.

  “I’ve got the Rot!” I shriek, lunging forward as I smear my crimson fingers over my mouth.

  There’s a singular moment where it’s almost as though I’m moving in slow motion, captured in the tiniest of details. A woman dropping her fork. Pie hitting the floor. Coats and dresses tangled mid-dance, guests with lips parted in surprise as their brains do a mad scramble to interpret what they are seeing. And then they scatter like leaves in a winter storm, eyes filled with raw terror as they shove one another out of the way in an effort to escape.

  A solitary giggle bubbles out of me, and I make a halfhearted effort to give chase, but my antics have had the desired effect. Guards dash about, trying to stay out of the way of the mob. From the foyer I see carriages streaming from the estate, tires kicking up gravel. With any luck Lucian and Ghost will have found their way into one of them.

  A flash of red catches my attention, and I flinch away from a bird-masked Inquestor who lingers in the doorway. Lightning sparks in his hand. “You have a great deal to answer for,” he says, electricity erupting from the Tithe wand again.

  The pain drives me to the floor in a white oblivion. Seconds or hours, I can’t actually tell how long it goes on, but when it lets up, I’m left gasping, curled in upon myself.

  When the guards drag me from the room, I don’t bother fighting it. I’ve nowhere left to go.

  Bitter lies and sweet truth

  Fall upon my tongue

  Like berries made of frost and blood

  And words that taste of dung.

  CHAPTER 15

  Lord Balthazaar stares at me from the other side of the bars. My eyes are nearly swollen shut, but the reek of his perfume hangs in the air. I can always tell when he’s been here to watch me because the stink of him lingers. He never speaks, and I can only imagine what delight he takes in watching a Moon Child wither before him. Perhaps he only seeks to take out his anger out on me.

  Somewhere along the way my head was shaved when they were unable to remove the ink completely from my hair. Arms bound behind my back, my wrists ache worse than anything I’ve ever felt, fire licking up my bones until they’re numb with it. I cannot get comfortable; I merely lie upon the brick floor, shivering as the chill creeps into my limbs.

  This time there are others with Balthazaar. Dark shadows waver in the corners of my vision, whispers tickling my consciousness. Bleary, I wriggle into a semblance of a sitting position, trying to focus on the people before me. My gaze draws low over the fine cut of their red robes, and I cough behind my gag.

  Inquestors. Tithers with their bird-face masks.

  They’ve come to take me to the Pits. A thin line of terror spins its way into my guts, but I haven’t been fed in at least two days and it’s hard to come up with the strength to care.

  One Inquestor studies me from beneath a tall hat and puffs on a cigarillo. Even with blurry vision, I can’t mistake him for anyone but the High Inquestor. From this distance, I catch a glimpse of ice-blue eyes set in a bearded face, a scarred cheek, and a sensuous mouth that he wets with a careful tongue. “What a loathsome creature. But the brand is unmistakable. The Tithe roster indicates she’s already dead. We should find out how she managed such a deceit.”

  Balthazaar puffs on his own pipe, tapping on the bars to catch my attention. “Forgive me for not caring in the slightest.” He stoops down to my level, his voice shaking in fury. “Do you have any idea of what you’ve done, you stupid girl? How many people I’ve had to bribe to keep quiet about your little stunt? The amount of money I’ve had to spend?”

  “Pish on your money. It’s not like you don’t have enough of it.” The red cloaks part to reveal Molly Bell, swathed in an elegant dress and coat, a plucky feathered hat perched upon her curls. Her lushness only serves to remind me of the filth I’m caked in, but the illusion is destroyed a moment later when her mouth splits to reveal the pointed, gleaming teeth.

  Fury shunts through me at her appearance, but I’ve nothing to show for it but a grunting mumble through my gag. She ignores me, glancing up at the High Inquestor with a saucy smile, but I’ve lived with her long enough to know it’s an act. Somewhere beneath the lace and rouge, Molly Bell is very, very afraid.

  “I’ve already told you how it was done: unbeknownst to me at the time, the doctor living beneath my roof found her and took her in. By the time I realized it, the girl had already healed.” Her tongue flicks out to run over her lower lip. “It would have been a waste to turn her over to you.”

  “And just where is this doctor now?” The High Inquestor continues to watch me, paying no attention to Molly’s simpering. I try not to register my surprise at her words, torn between helping her play whatever game this is and simply hoping I manage to survive. “I find it hard to believe you had no knowledge of planned conspiracy beneath your very roof!”

  “I’m not omnipotent,” she retorts. “I hired what I thought was a well-educated bonewitch to see to my girls. He never gave any indication he was working against the Inquestors. Or that he was from Meridion. The moment I had my suspicions, I made sure to communicate them to you, as per our working agreement.” She shrugs. “As to where he is, I haven’t the faintest. I have had no contact with him, but should that change, of course . . .”

  Relief skitters through me, though it’s tinged with fear.

  “No doubt.” The High Inquestor lets out a long-suffering sigh before turning to bark orders at one of the Inquestors behind him.

  Molly approaches the bars and squats down to my level. To her credit, her face doesn’t wrinkle in disgust, but her nostrils flare ever so slightly. “Where is the dragon, Mags?” I sneer something rude at her from behind my gag, and her eyes narrow. “Don’t be a prat. I’m trying to save your damn life. If you tell them where it is, I’ll arrange for your freedom.”

  I see it then, echoed in the shadows of her eyes. Molly’s like a spider so tangled up in her own web that even she has no way out of it. Dr. Barrows had been wrong to trust her, but I doubt he’d had any options given his circumstances. And maybe her intentions really had been good at one point. But fear makes betrayers out of the best of us, and Molly isn’t anywhere close to that.

  Not that I really give two shits about her reasoning at the moment. I have no idea where the dragon is, so any attempt at bargaining is less than fu
tile. I close my eyes and ignore whatever entreaties she makes.

  “The Hells take you, then,” she mutters.

  The creak of the opening door whines in agonizing clarity, and the clang of keys and booted heels approach. Molly retreats to the far side of the room as the door to my cell is opened.

  I wriggle away from it, a worm struggling through mud. My legs drag through something wet, but I don’t stop to think on it. My breath wheezes around the gag; it’s damp with my spit and cuts into the corners of my mouth, burning my lips wherever it touches.

  Head down, Mags. Breathe. Slow. Slow.

  But it’s laughable. Exhaustion sets my limbs to trembling, and I gag, dry heaving as coughs rack my lungs.

  “Well done.” The High Inquestor grunts in disgust when I lash out with my foot, kicking piss-soaked straw at his boots as I continue to hack. He snatches me by the neck, gloved fingers nearly twisting to pull my face up as he removes the gag. He ignores my coughing fit, waiting until I go silent.

  Sour drool ropes from my lips, but my hands are still tied so there’s nothing for it but to let it drip onto my shift. I turn toward Balthazaar. My voice is a hoarse rattle, and it takes me three tries before words form. “Why do you hate us so?”

  His brows raise at my audacity. “I don’t. You’re simply a means to an end, no different from breeding sheep for wool.”

  “Breeding Moon Children to find a cure for your wife, you mean,” I mutter, an angry sneer burning its way through my mouth. “Too bad for us you didn’t try becoming immortal, too.”

  Lord Balthazaar pales. “How dare you!”

  I should hold my tongue and safeguard what I know, but freed from my gag, my words are careless and sharp, the only weapons I possess. “She asked me to suffocate her. I just thought you should know.”

  The High Inquestor slaps me hard across the face. “Lord Balthazaar showed remarkable restraint in not having you killed upon discovery, a fact for which he will be commended. Such restraint will not be shown to your fellow conspirators once we find them.” He shoves me away. “And we will find them.”