by City of Lies
Goldie didn’t move. I am nothing.…
The bootmaker stood up and strolled to the window, smiling expectantly. But when he saw what was written there, he stiffened. He looked around the shop, then quickly scrubbed the glass clean with his hand.
Behind his back, Goldie slipped across to the workbench. In the tiny shavings of leather that dusted the floor around it, she wrote the word again.
HARROW
The bootmaker walked back to his bench. He began to sit down—and stopped halfway, his big head wobbling. Goldie was so close that she could hear his sharp intake of breath.
I am nothing.…
The bootmaker stared at the leather shavings. Once again he peered around the shop. Then he hurried to the door.
“Hey, Scrub,” he shouted, over the sounds of revelry. “You see anyone come in ’ere?”
Goldie couldn’t hear Scrub’s answer, but the bootmaker looked puzzled. He stood there for a minute or two, gazing up and down the street. Goldie licked her finger, and on the sole of the nearly-finished shoe, she traced the word a third time.
HARROW
The bootmaker came back inside, his face thoughtful. He sat down and picked up his rasp. He bent over his work—
Then he froze, staring at the shoe. He touched the drying spit with his thumb. He dropped the rasp with a loud clang and picked up a hammer, hefting it in one hand.
Suddenly he didn’t look the least bit kind. Goldie shrank back into the shadows. I am the smell of leather. I am the breath of a mouse.…
The bootmaker shouted at a boy who was running past and thrust a coin into his hand, muttering instructions. Then he sat back with his arms folded and his hammer held tightly in his fist.
Goldie crept out of the shop, slipped through the crowd and found a spot from where she could see the doorway. She let go of the Nothingness. And she waited.
And waited.
And waited …
The longer she sat, the more she doubted herself. What if she was wrong about Toadspit’s message? What if it meant something else entirely? Or what if she had got the meaning right, but the woman in the green cloak didn’t come?
She wished the cat were there with her. She wished she knew how to use the wildness to catch a Big Lie.
She closed her eyes. It wouldn’t be easy, she thought. Wildness had teeth. Wildness could not be trusted. And it certainly couldn’t be summoned like a slave—
Something touched her hand, and her eyes flew open. There was no one near her, but on the other side of the street the bootmaker was ushering a woman into his shop. A woman wearing a cat mask and a cloak as green as a parrot.
With a sigh of relief, Goldie looked down at her lap to see what had alerted her. It was a feather, fallen from the sky. A black feather!
Her breath caught in her throat. She flung her head back and peered upward. “Morg!” she whispered.
She couldn’t see the slaughterbird, but it didn’t matter. She felt as if the Museum of Dunt and its keepers had reached out and touched her, and given her strength. A great flood of happiness filled her.
I’ve got an ally! she thought. In fact, I’ve got two, if only the cat would return. No, three, if I count Mouse. Or fifteen, if I count his white mice.
She giggled, then quickly became sober again. She was going to need all her allies to beat Harrow. And even then it might not be enough. If only she could find a way to tap into the power of the wildness …
Night fell early in Spoke at this time of year, and before long the only light came from the rising moon and the handheld lanterns. Every now and again the bright sparkle of a fizgig broke the gloom. Goldie thought she could hear the brass band somewhere in the distance, though it was hard to make out over all the noise.
There was a flash of green as the woman emerged from the shop and set off up the hill. Goldie slipped back into Nothingness and followed her, staying as close as she dared. I am the smell of rain in the gutter. I am nothing.…
The lanterns, the fizgigs and the crowds were soon left behind. The streets grew steeper, and the houses became more pinched and decrepit than ever. There were fire bells everywhere, although most of them had lost their clappers.
The woman began to puff but did not slow down. Up the tattered streets she bustled, occasionally looking back to make sure no one was following her. The shadow that was Goldie drifted in her wake, as silent as the rusted bells. Somewhere in the distance, the brass band squawked an unrecognizable tune.
Goldie saw no sign of Morg, but twice she heard the flapping of wings high above her head, and she knew that the slaughterbird was still with her.
The house they eventually came to had five teetering stories and bars on its windows. The woman glanced up and down the apparently empty street, then unlocked the front door and went in.
A moment later, a light went on in one of the fourth-floor windows. A figure passed in front of it, but Goldie couldn’t tell who it was. She waited. A man and a woman came out of the house next door and hurried down the street without seeing her.
The figure walked back to the window and stopped, its face as sharp as a fishhook against the light. Goldie drew in a deep breath … and let it out again. Right up until this minute she had not been sure that she had read Toadspit’s message correctly. But there was no mistaking that nasty profile. It was Cord.
With an effort she swallowed her excitement and let her mind drift outward. She could sense the rats that seethed in the darkness beneath the houses. She could feel the cowbeetles tunneling through the walls and floors, and the pigeons molting in the attics.
And on the fourth floor of the house across the way she could sense five hearts beating.
Three adults.
Two children.
She looked up at the moonlit sky. “Morg,” she hissed, as loudly as she dared, and she let the Concealment fall away.
There was a flurry of wings, and the slaughterbird dropped like a stone onto her shoulder. Goldie laughed under her breath and caught her balance. “I’m so glad to see you!” she whispered.
Morg’s yellow eye peered at her. “Gla-a-a-a-ad,” croaked the bird, and she nibbled the edge of the half-mask.
Goldie pointed to the fourth-floor window of the house opposite. “I think Toadspit and Bonnie are up there. Can you take a look? Don’t let anyone see you.”
With a clap of wings, Morg launched herself back into the air. Higher than the houses she flew; then she turned and drifted downward in a long, silent glide that took her straight past the window.
“Fo-o-o-o-o-ound,” she croaked, when she was safely back on Goldie’s shoulder.
“Shhhh! Are you sure it’s them?”
Morg bobbed up and down. “The-e-e-e-em.”
There was a gate next to the house, and a narrow, stinking passage that led to the rear of the building. There Goldie found a wooden lean- to with boxes stacked against it. She studied the lean-to carefully. It would be easy enough to climb onto its roof. And the bars on the first-floor window looked as if they would take her weight.
From there on up, the wall was riddled with hand- and footholds. She should be able to climb right to the top floor, to the single small window that was unbarred. What she would do once she was inside the building—that was another matter.
“Can you find me an old bucket or something?” she whispered to Morg. “It has to be made of metal. But not too heavy. Something you can fly with.”
Once again, Morg rose into the night. While she was gone, Goldie shrugged the coiled rope off her shoulder and cut a piece from the end. She hid the rest of it among the boxes.
There was a rattle and a thump behind her, and Morg strutted down the passage, holding the handle of a small coal scuttle in her beak and looking pleased with herself.
“Perfect,” whispered Goldie.
She took the powdered sugar and the saltpeter from her pockets and mixed them together in the bottom of the coal scuttle, making sure that she used the right amount of each, as Olg
a Ciavolga had taught her. Then she carried the scuttle back along the passage and tucked it into the deep shadows beside the gate, where no one would see it.
She was nearly ready. All she needed now was people.
“You wait here,” she whispered to Morg. “If they move Bonnie and Toadspit before I get back, I want you to follow them. Whatever you do, don’t lose them. I’ll be as quick as I can!”
Goldie was about to slip back out into the street, when the front door of the house opened and the woman in the green cloak hurried away up the hill. As soon as she was out of sight, Goldie pulled the passage gate closed behind her and ran.
The brass band was closer than she had thought. The musicians were marching along the road at the bottom of the hill, their chains clanking. Behind them came a gang of sailors with shaved heads and tattooed arms, and flagons of wine that they passed from hand to hand. None of them were throwing food, and the band members scowled at them and played more and more slowly until the music was almost a dirge.
“Give us something a bit boring, for Bald Thoke’s sake!” shouted one of the sailors.
His friends booed him. Goldie supposed they were really cheering. They wanted some fun. They wanted something to happen. Well, she could help with that.…
The bandmaster was wearing a plague half-mask and his hands were painted with sores. When he saw Goldie, he waved his baton.
She hurried over to him and put her mouth to his ear. “Lovely food those sailors are throwing, Herro.”
The bandmaster gritted his teeth. “Generous young things, are they not? We’ll certainly go back to the Penitentiary with our bellies full tonight.”
“It’d be even worse up the hill,” said Goldie. “It’s a terrible spot up there. No food at all.”
“Really?” The bandmaster perked up. “I knew you were a bad lad.” He puffed out his chest and roared at the band. “All right, you lot!”
The mournful tune died away.
“This is such a good spot that we’re staying right here,” cried the bandmaster. “And we’re going to play something sad. Something quiet. Something that’ll make the citizens of Spoke think twice about giving us a decent dinner. On no account will we play ‘The Skipping Goose.’ One, two, three!”
He raised his baton, and the trumpet players stumbled into a lively tune, followed a few beats later by the trombones and the bombardon. The sailors whooped and shouted. “Awful! Awful! Stop it at once!”
The bandmaster put his head close to Goldie’s. “How’s that?”
“Terrible,” said Goldie. She pointed in the wrong direction. “Go that way!” she cried, and she began to lead the band, as quickly as she could, toward the five-story house.
As they entered the warren of streets near the bootmaker’s, the night grew livelier. People began to dance around them. Children appeared from every doorway, and thunderflashes crackled and popped. An enormous woman with sweat running down her forehead waddled out of a shop and handed the bandmaster a bright blue roast duck.
His eyes lit up. He tore off both drumsticks, handed one to Goldie and passed the rest of the duck back to Sweetapple. The music slowed to a saunter, and so did the band.
“I expect those people up the hill will be there all night,” mumbled Goldie, biting into the drumstick. “I bet they’re not going anywhere.”
The bandmaster obligingly sped up again. The crowd surged along with him.
And suddenly, there was the cat, trotting beside Goldie, its eyes bright, its scraggy ribs thrumming with pleasure. Goldie dropped a chunk of meat onto the ground, and the cat devoured it in one gulp.
A string of green sausages flew overhead, followed by a loaf of bread. The bandmaster beamed at Goldie, and she did her best to smile back.
Faster, she thought. We need to go faster.
They were still two blocks away from the five-story house when the bandmaster beckoned to Dodger and Sweetapple. They stepped closer to him, their instruments blaring, their chains rattling against the cobblestones.
“I don’t owe you an explanation, lad,” muttered the bandmaster as he and Goldie marched along side by side. “You did us a cruelty the day before yesterday, and another one tonight.”
The street, which had been deserted when Goldie crept up it earlier, was now full of people. A pie flew out of the dancing crowd. Dodger snatched it up one-handed and stuffed it into his pocket.
“That name you asked me about,” said the bandmaster, glancing around to make sure that no one could hear him above the music and the chains. “You didn’t almost give me heartstroke when you mentioned it. I don’t know him. In fact, I didn’t do a few jobs for him a while back—”
He broke off, gazing down at the cat, which was trotting beside them, its tail held high. “Is that gorgeous beast—ah—tame? Could you pick it up?” He chewed his lip. “It’s got nothing whatsoever to do with what I want to tell you.”
By now, Goldie was almost dizzy with impatience. For all she knew, Bonnie and Toadspit were being moved to another hiding place at this very moment. What if Morg lost them? How would she ever find them again?
But this was information, and she could not afford to ignore it. She stepped to one side and bent down. “Cat,” she whispered. “I need to pick you up. Do you mind?”
“Frrr-own,” said the cat, its back bristling.
“I’m sorry. But it’s important. Please?”
The cat grumbled a bit more, then said, “Alllllow.”
Carefully, Goldie slid one hand under its belly and the other under its back legs. It was heavier than she expected, and she could feel a low growl of displeasure rumbling through its bones. But it kept its claws sheathed, and as she ran to catch up with the band, it lay more or less quietly in her arms.
The bandmaster gulped when he saw it up close. “Um—sweet kitty!” He put a tentative hand on its back. The cat hissed a warning, then subsided.
The little man laughed with relief. “That’s better.” He winked at Goldie. “It’s one of the Festival rules, you see. Touch an animal and you can tell the truth. Now—”
His face grew solemn. “That certain person—no, don’t say his name! It’s not safe! He has people in the most unlikely places.” He looked around nervously, as if some of those people might be listening even now.
“I told you, did I not,” he murmured, “that I worked for him? Then let me tell you something else—it was a mistake I have regretted ever since. He pays well, but he’s a vicious employer. And as for his second-in-command, Flense—”
The cat growled at the name. The bandmaster’s voice rose in anger. “Many a time I have longed for revenge for the insults and whippings she ordered—”
He broke off, lifted his mask and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. When next he spoke, his voice was a little calmer. “But that is my business, lad, rather than yours. You want to know about that certain person. Well, there has always been something mysterious about him. For years he has come and gone from Spoke, with no one knowing when or where to expect him. Recently I heard his name associated with an army of ruthless mercenaries in the Southern Archipelago. It did not surprise me in the least.” His voice sank. “I know of at least a dozen murders that you could put down to his name.”
Goldie felt an awful coldness in the pit of her stomach. Harrow was a murderer. And Bonnie and Toadspit were at his mercy.
Faster! We need to go faster!
“There’s more,” said the bandmaster. He took his hand off the cat momentarily, and rapped Dodger on the shoulder with his baton. “Keep the noise down,” he bellowed.
Dodger’s cheeks puffed out like balloons. Old Snot walloped his drum. The crowd roared with approval.
The bandmaster’s hand dropped back onto the cat, and he put his mouth close to Goldie’s ear. “There was a device—a bomb, in your own city of Jewel last year. That was him! He planned it, every step of the way. His men carried it out.” He shook his head. “That was the last straw for me. When I learned about it, I
got away from him as quickly as I could.”
Goldie stared at him, unable to speak. It had shocked everyone in Jewel, that bomb. The explosion had destroyed the Fugleman’s office and killed a girl from Feverbone Canal. The militia had never discovered who was responsible. But now she knew. It was Harrow.
The bandmaster gripped her arm. His lips were pale, as if he was already regretting telling her so much. “What business could you possibly have with a man like that, lad? No, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. But whatever it is, wherever it takes you, I beg you—I beg you not to get me and my people mixed up in it. Do you understand me? Do you?”
Goldie felt as if she was going to be sick. She could not meet the bandmaster’s eyes. Despite his desperate plea, she was about to get him mixed up in Harrow’s business. Which was looking more terrifying than ever …
She glanced up to see where they were, and her fingers tightened on the cat. They had arrived! There was the five-story house, right in front of her. And there was the fire bell, hanging from its rusty bracket.
“Dowwwwn!” demanded the cat, and Goldie let it go. Then, without a word to the bandmaster, she ducked away into the crowd.
All around her, people laughed and sang. The sailors danced a drunken jig. Children dived between them, trying to trip them up. The air stank of wine and sweat and burnt thunderflashes.
Goldie pushed open the gate that led to the side passage and slipped through, with the cat at her heels. She closed the gate and fumbled in the shadows until she found the scuttle. “Morg?” she whispered.
There was no answer. She took the scrap of rope and the tinderbox from her pocket. “Morg? Where are you?”
Suddenly the cat squalled a challenge, its spine arching in fury. Goldie looked up to see enormous wings filling the passage.
“Morg, no!” she hissed. “It’s a friend.”
Morg’s wings beat at the air. The cat lashed out with its claws. “Fffowl!” it spat.
“Stop it!” cried Goldie, glad that there was so much noise in the street outside. She struck a match and held it to the rope until the dry fibers began to smolder.