by Lian Tanner
He weighed the grappling iron in his hand and looked at Goldie, suddenly uncertain. “The wall’s higher than I thought. I’m not sure she can manage it.”
But Morg was already strutting toward him, blinking her wrinkled eyelids. “U-u-u-u-up,” she muttered. She flexed her claws twice and hunched her back. The tips of her feathers shivered. Then, with a thrust of her powerful wings, she launched herself into the air, snatched the grappling iron out of Toadspit’s hands, and began to fight her way upward.
The children watched, their heads tipped back, their mouths open.
“It’s too high,” whispered Toadspit. “She’s not going to make it. Look, she’s dropping! No, wait! She’s trying to catch an updraft!”
The fog in the side street curled and twisted with the movement of the air, and Morg curled and twisted with it, her great wings beating desperately, the grappling iron dragging her down like an anchor.
Goldie dug her fingernails into her palms and whispered under her breath, “Come on, Morg! You can do it! Come on!”
At last the slaughterbird found the current of air she was looking for. It carried her down the street, away from the children, but at the same time it pushed up under her wings like an extra muscle. Goldie and Toadspit ran after her, hauling the haversacks with them.
“Can you see her?”
“No. But she went up near here somewhere. Listen! I heard something!” Toadspit stood very still, his hand on Goldie’s shoulder. There was a whisper of sound, and the rope dropped in front of them, hanging from the top of the wall to the bottom.
“Quick,” said Goldie. “You go first.”
She kept watch while Toadspit shinned up the rope. When she felt his signal, she tied one of the haversacks to the end of the rope and tugged. It slid smoothly upward. The rope came down again, and she tied the other haversack on and sent that one up too.
Then it was her turn. She gripped the rope with both hands and jumped, wrapping her legs around it and pinching it between her feet. The fog drifted past her, carrying the dank smell of the canals, and the silence of a cowed city. In the back of her mind, the world of ancient Merne beckoned.
Goldie gritted her teeth and began to work her way upward.
It took the children nearly an hour to do what they had come to do. By the time they climbed back out of the air vents, the fog had the whole city in its grip and did not look as if it would be easing soon.
Goldie stood on the roof with Jewel blanked out on every side. Inside her, Frisia was whispering urgently, and before she knew it—
—she was in the highlands of Merne with her father the king, hunting a party of von Nagel’s men who had crossed the border from Halt-Bern. The fog had closed in an hour ago, as white as mare’s milk and twice as thick.
Frisia stood beside her father, surrounded by the smell of horses and wet earth. A hawk cried somewhere overhead, but she could see nothing.
“We can use this fog,” said the king. “Soldiers are superstitious creatures on the whole, and von Nagel’s men do not know these hills the way we do. We will demoralize them, frighten them—”
“Goldie?” Someone touched her arm.
For a moment the smell of horses and the deep rumble of her father’s voice lingered. “Take your hand off me!” she snapped—
And then she was back in Jewel, with Toadspit staring at her and that dreadful weakness making her legs tremble.
“I—I mean,” she stammered, “you surprised me. I was thinking. About the mercenaries. And the Guardians.”
She could see that Toadspit didn’t believe her, but she plowed on, because it was true, in an odd sort of way. And besides, she couldn’t bear the expression on his face.
“If the fog lasts, we can use it to frighten them,” she said. “We can ask Sinew to help us, and Olga Ciavolga.”
Toadspit nodded slowly. Goldie could almost see his mind working. “We could get Broo too,” he said. And with that, his eyes began to gleam and the moment of danger was past. They slid one after the other down the side of the building. Morg unhooked the grappling iron and dropped after them, spreading her wings at the last instant so that she landed with barely a thump.
The two haversacks looked no different from before. They were still astonishingly heavy, and Goldie was tempted to throw them into one of the canals and hurry back to the museum to sleep. But if the sacks were found, all their night’s work would be undone, and so she slung one of them across her shoulders again and crept up the street with Toadspit beside her.
At the corner, she hesitated. Her arms and legs ached, and she was tired to the bone from living the lives of two people, five hundred years apart. What was more, it was clear that Frisia was growing stronger, and that frightened Goldie more than she would admit, even to herself.
Still, this was too good an opportunity to miss. She peered through the fog to the unseen spot where the Guardians and mercenaries eyed each other so untrustingly. She nudged Toadspit. “It wouldn’t take long . . . ,” she whispered.
It was one of those moments when Toadspit knew exactly what she was talking about. A grin spread across his face. “. . . and it’d make tomorrow so much better.”
They hid the haversacks behind a fence, with Morg guarding them once again. Then they gathered the fog around them, so they would not be seen—I am nothing. I am dust on the streets. I am a cobblestone dreaming—and drifted along the road to the Treasury portico.
The space between the mercenaries and the Guardians was like a war zone. Nothing crossed it except superior looks and insults. Goldie and Toadspit slid around the edge of it to where the mercenaries were slouched, their various caps pushed back on their foreheads.
Goldie chose the biggest man there, the one who sniggered angrily whenever his fellows growled something about “black crows” or “Blessed Cardigans.” She sidled right up to him, so close that if he had swung around quickly, she would have been lost.
I am nothing. I am a silent rifle from a forgotten battle. . . . The ache in her legs no longer mattered. This was what she had been trained for, and it made her feel more herself than she had felt for days.
She slid her hand into the mercenary’s pocket, as slick as an eel. Her fingers touched a pipe, a handful of coins, a dry biscuit—and something that felt like a hare’s foot. She took the pipe, the coins and the hare’s foot, and left the biscuit where it was. As she inched backward, she saw a shadow drift away from a neighboring soldier.
It was the easiest thing in the world to slide the coins and the hare’s foot into the robe pocket of one of the Guardians. Goldie kept hold of the pipe. But just before she eased her way out from under the portico, she opened her fingers— and dropped it.
The clatter it made as it hit the bare stone was shockingly loud. The Blessed Guardians jumped and shouted. The mercenaries threw up their guns, their bodies tense with anticipation.
Despite the fog, it took the big mercenary no more than five seconds to see his pipe lying snugly at the foot of one of the Guardians. And another two seconds to recognize it.
“Hey, that’s mine! What’s it doin’—” He fumbled in his pockets. “Where’s my money? And my lucky charm?” Anger darkened his face. “I’ve been robbed! The stinkin’ Cardigans have robbed me!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” cried one of the Guardians, but the mercenaries, already infuriated by another day of unpaid wages, did not listen. They descended on the Guardians and wrestled them to the ground. Then they searched them.
“Look, look!” cried the big mercenary, holding up the hare’s foot. “I was right! Stinkin’ Cardigans!”
A second voice howled with outrage. “And this one’s got my knife, the treacherous crow! Let’s teach ’em a lesson, lads!”
Goldie glided away, with the shadow that was Toadspit beside her. The sounds of violence made her feel sick, and she had to remind herself that this was what she had wanted. She was dividing the enemy’s forces. She was fighting a war.
There will be
no mercy, whispered Frisia in the back of her mind. War is not the place for mercy.
The Fugleman makes an offer
"There, you see?” said the Fugleman, smiling his most charming smile and raising his voice so that the squad of mercenaries could hear him. “Did I not promise that you and your fellows would be paid this morning, without fail?”
The fog that had beset the Old Quarter overnight wrapped
around his legs and drifted past the men in front of him. They scowled and made no move toward the bags of coin that had just been brought from the Treasury.
“What’s the matter with them?” the Fugleman murmured to Field Marshal Brace, who stood at his elbow. “They want their money, don’t they?”
The field marshal smoothed the fingers of one of his leather gloves. “There was trouble during the night.”
“I heard. My Guardians came running to me in the early hours of the morning, complaining of ill-treatment at the hands of your men.” The Fugleman waved his hand dismissively. “These things happen.”
“Did they tell you how it started?”
“A false accusation of theft, I believe.”
“Hmm.” Brace studied his boots. “My men are not convinced that this is a genuine payment.”
“What?” The Fugleman laughed. “I oversaw the counting of the money myself yesterday afternoon, and these bags have been sitting in the Treasury waiting for your men ever since. If that is not genuine enough, I don’t know what is!”
At the sound of his laughter, a rumble of discontent ran through the ranks of the mercenaries. Quickly, the Fugleman stripped all expression from his face. This was more serious than he had realized.
His stride as he approached the bags of coin had a military sharpness to it. His eyes were as cold as the fog. He beckoned to one of the front-rank soldiers. “You,” he snapped.
The man stepped forward automatically. The Fugleman pointed to the nearest bag. “Open it. Check the coins.”
The mercenary was as scruffy and uncouth as the rest of his squad, but he understood what was needed. He knelt beside the nearest bag and whipped the tie away from its mouth. His fellows craned forward. The mercenary dug into the bag, raised his hand and let a fistful of silver coins run through his fingers.
The rumble of discontent became a murmur of satisfaction. The Fugleman nodded and turned away. Good. That was settled. Now they could get on with laying a trap for whoever was behind this Hidden Rock nonsense—
“Hang on,” said the mercenary.
There was something in his voice that made the Fugleman swing back so quickly that he almost lost his balance. No one noticed. They were all staring at the mercenary, who was dropping a second fistful of coins, and listening to the sound they made as they fell.
It was nothing at all like the clear, bright chink of silver. A growl rose from the gathered men, and they curled their lips like dogs that have seen their supper snatched from under their noses. Field Marshal Brace hurried forward.
“Settle down!” he snarled. “We’ll get this sorted out. Needle, check the other bags. The rest of you, shut up.”
The Fugleman watched, stunned, as the soldier took out his knife and scraped at the coins. The silver color flaked off like the cheap paint it so clearly was. Beneath it, the coins were nothing but worthless lumps of lead.
The rage that erupted from the mercenaries then almost shook the ground. There were roars of “treachery” and “where’s our money” and “just like last night.”
The Fugleman found himself unable to think. What in the name of Great Wooden was going on? The money had come straight from Treasury! He would have bet the lives of half his Guardians that it was good silver! And yet—
The hair on the back of his neck rose. The Hidden Rock! It had to be!
With anger burning in his veins, he pushed his way through the furious crowd. “There’s treachery indeed,” he cried, “but it’s not mine! Look for a message! Do you hear me? Look for a message!”
No one took any notice of him. Small groups of men were already striding away into the fog, shouting over their shoulders to their fellows, “I’ve had enough! There’s no money here, not for us, anyway!”
Brace was trying to summon them back, with limited success. He scowled at the Fugleman, who had given up trying to get someone to do his bidding and was digging into the bags of coins for the note that he knew must be there.
“Yes!” cried the Fugleman at last, waving a strip of paper above his head. “It’s the Hidden Rock again! Wait! Come back! We have all been tricked!”
“What does it say?” asked Brace.
“It says—” The Fugleman ground his teeth. “The Hidden Rock will SMASH the Harrow!”
“Mmm,” muttered the field marshal. “Mm-hm.”
“Is that all you can say?”
“Well, it’s convenient, isn’t it?”
The field marshal gazed after his departing men. “For you, I mean. Not to have to pay us.”
“ Convenient? Are you insane? Look at what’s happening! I’m losing a quarter of my forces!”
Brace cleared his throat. “My forces. And you can’t expect them to stay without wages. Rules of war. Always pay your men promptly.”
“I. Am. Doing. My. Best—” The Fugleman thought his head might explode with fury. But he managed to stop himself before he said anything he might regret. He could not afford to lose this man’s support.
With a monstrous effort, he dragged his face into the semblance of a smile. “Come with me now,” he grated. “Bring as many of your men as you wish. We will open the Treasury and pay them on the spot.”
“Mmm,” said the field marshal again. He nodded toward the remainder of his men, who were gathering in hostile groups. “I’m not sure it will be enough to keep them here. Once they lose trust . . .”
The Fugleman could not help himself. He snarled, “I will not be hindered like this! Your men will stay, and between us we will deal with these rebels once and for all! Did they think we were bluffing yesterday when we imprisoned their children? Let us show them that we were not!”
Brace looked wary. “I hope you’re not suggesting that we execute those children. Rules of war, Fugleman—”
It was in fact exactly what the Fugleman had been about to suggest. But he shook his head. The most delicious idea was uncoiling inside him.
“There is no need for executions,” he said. He had himself under control now, and his voice was a soothing murmur. “There are other ways of dealing with this. Have I told you about the allies I made while I was in exile? None of them as valuable as you, of course. But interesting. Oh yes, definitely interesting.”
“Allies?” said Brace, as if he couldn’t care less. But there was a spark in his muddy eyes.
“One of them in particular.” With his smile firmly in place, the Fugleman threw back his head. “Come, Brace, things are about to improve. Let us shower your men with silver thalers—real ones this time. Then I will send a message to my ally, making her an offer. One that will benefit us all.”
He winked at the field marshal. “Except for the children, of course. And their parents. Oh yes, and the Hidden Rock. They won’t like it one little bit!”
Ominous days
Despite the Fugleman’s words, the days that followed were ominous ones for the mercenaries. The fog grew worse, and the men patrolling the city—those who had not deserted already—pulled their collars up around their necks and complained bitterly. They had been paid by this time, of course, and their pockets were heavy with silver, but the field marshal was right. Their trust was gone.
“Who knows if it’s real,” grouched a large corporal, pulling out a coin and staring at it suspiciously.
“Could just be a better class of fake,” said one of his four companions.
“Yeah, I reckon those blokes who took off had the right idea. What sorta job’s this? We’re fightin’ men, ain’t we?”
“Course we are!”
“So wher
e’s the fightin’? Where’s the war?”
“Not ’ere, that’s for sure.”
They took out their water canteens and leaned against the nearest wall, with their rifles propped beside them. The fog was so thick that they couldn’t see farther than a few steps in any direction.
“Stinkin’ city, stinkin’ weather,” muttered the corporal. Then his face brightened and he dug in his haversack, saying, “Ya know that pie shop down near the markets? I persuaded ’em to give us a bunch of pies, ha ha ha! Here we go, this’ll gladden yer tonsils!”
He was handing out the fourth pie when it happened. Without the slightest warning, the fog seemed to split open, and something monstrous roared toward them. It was huge and black, and its eyes glowed as red as the fires of Great Wooden’s forge. It sprang upon the mercenaries, tore the pie out of the corporal’s fingers with its massive teeth . . . and was gone.
The five men stood gaping. “What—what—what was that?”
The corporal swallowed. “I dunno, but if it comes back—”
With a shaking hand, he grabbed his rifle. Or at least, he meant to grab his rifle.
“Here,” he said, peering at the wall. “Where’s me gun? Which of you beggars took me gun?”
The fog swirled around him and his companions like a living thing. They stared at each other, and at the empty space where, just a moment before, their rifles had stood.
“Maybe that beast took ’em,” whispered one of the soldiers.
“What would a beast want with our rifles?”
“Listen!” hissed another man.
The sound, muffled by the fog, roused them from their shock. At the far end of the road, someone was throwing something into the waters of the canal.
Splash. Splash splash splash. Splash. Five times.
“Our rifles!”