by Lian Tanner
In desperation she slipped her free hand into her pocket. She had nothing that would save her, only the silver coins, and there were not nearly enough of them to buy her life, not from these men.
But perhaps there were enough to distract the two soldiers for a while . . .
She flexed her fingers. Then, with her heart in her mouth, she reached past the one-armed man and plucked a silver coin out of the air. “Thank you, Herro,” she said.
The soldiers gaped at her, and at the coin. Goldie put the silver piece in her pocket.
“Oh, there’s more?” she said, hoping that her voice wasn’t trembling as much as she thought it was. And she reached out a second time and plucked another piece of silver out of nowhere.
She put that one in her pocket too. Or at least, she appeared to. Really she palmed it, and when she reached out a third time, it was the same coin that snapped into her fingers, looking for all the world as if someone who could not be seen had given it to her.
But then she held up her hand. “No more,” she said. “It’s a waste of your good money.” She pointed to the bayonet. “I won’t be able to use it, you see. But thank you anyway.”
And she dropped the coin into her pocket and closed her eyes as if she were ready to die.
“Who yoo talkink to?” The voice was so close to her ear that she could feel the soldier’s breath on her cheek.
“That man there,” she said, and without opening her eyes she pointed. “With the big leather purse.”
“Is no one dere,” said the soldier.
Goldie shrugged. “If you say so.”
Silence. It was almost more than she could bear to keep her eyes shut.
The soldier grabbed her again. “Where dat money come from?” he growled.
With an expression of great puzzlement on her face, Goldie opened her eyes. “He’s right there. Beside you.”
Both men stared at the spot she was pointing to.
“Can’t you see him? Maybe he’s a ghost,” said Goldie. She took one of the coins from her pocket and held it up so that the sunlight caught the silver. “Though his money seems real.”
The one-eyed soldier snatched the coin out of her hand and bit the edge of it. Greed warred with superstition on his ravaged face. He turned to the spot where no one stood and held out his own hand. “Yoo gif me money,” he said.
Nothing happened.
Goldie slid her fingers into her pocket and palmed another coin. There were nine, now that the soldier had taken one. She could see the faint shimmer of the Dirty Gate fifty paces to her left. In the world that she had left behind, it stood wide open, but here it was closed. Would nine coins be enough to get her there?
“I could ask for more money,” she said. “But only if you promise not to kill me.”
The men leered at her. “We promise, leedle gel,” said the one with the bayonet. “Yoo get us lots of money and yoo go free.” And he laughed a hungry laugh and winked at his friend.
Goldie nodded as if she believed him. Then she reached out and plucked the coin from the air. She gave that one to the one-eyed man, and the next to his friend.
Seven coins remained.
She let her eyes drift to the left. “Where are you going, Herro?”
“He is goink?” said the one-eyed man. “Tell him to stay!”
“He won’t stay,” said Goldie, “but we could go with him.” And without waiting for permission, she began to walk away from the soldiers. She heard them growling behind her, and the skin on her back tightened. Quickly, she made another coin appear and handed it over.
Six remained.
She led the men through the grass as quickly as she dared. It cost her two more coins. But by then she was standing right next to the Dirty Gate, and safety was only a breath away.
The Dirty Gate was not solid; its iron strips were welded into a giant honeycomb, and it shimmered so quietly in the long grass that it was barely visible, unless you knew where to look. Goldie had once seen Broo wriggle through one of those honeycomb holes. The soldiers could not escape that way, not when the Gate was closed, and neither could the rats from the plague rooms. But Goldie was Fifth Keeper. . . .
The two men were watching her closely. She braced herself. She would only get one chance at this.
With her heart in her mouth, she raised her hand and pointed. “Oh no,” she cried. “He’s going, and he’s— Look!”
The soldiers could not help themselves. Their heads swiveled in the direction she was pointing. Goldie grabbed the last four coins from her pocket and threw them high in the air. They fell into the grass some distance away, as if the ghost had tossed out a parting gift. The soldiers leaped after them, elbowing each other aside in their greed.
Goldie dived through one of the holes in the Dirty Gate.
It was a tight squeeze, and she had no idea what she would find on the other side. It was clear by now that the Beast Road was testing her, and she thought she was ready for anything.
But then she saw the high glass dome over her head, and she knew that she was in the Great Hall of Jewel, a building that no longer existed. Guardian Hope was there too, with crowds of parents and children, and gazetteers scribbling in their notebooks. The Fugleman, his face streaked with ash and blood, stood at the front of the stage, making an announcement.
Goldie looked down at the white silk ribbon on her wrist— the ribbon that tied her to Ma. And just before her memories of the museum and everything about it vanished and the past closed over her as cold and deep as the waters of Old Scratch, she realized that the Beast Road had taken her all the way back to Separation Day . . .
. . . and it was to be canceled! The day she had been waiting for all her life! It wasn’t possible! It couldn’t be canceled! It couldn’t!
But Ma was already urging her toward the whitesmith, to have the silver cuff fastened around her wrist once more, and the silver guardchain attached to it. Pa was patting her shoulder and whispering, “It’s too dangerous, dearling. Perhaps the Protector will try again next year.”
“Or the year after,” said Ma, trying to cuddle Goldie and push her closer to the whitesmith at the same time.
“No, I can’t wait that long!” said Goldie. The words seemed to burst out of her. “I have to Separate today!”
Her voice rang across the Great Hall. Guardian Hope turned around, her plump face creased with sympathy. “Poor child, you were looking forward to your freedom, weren’t you?”
For some reason, Goldie had not expected Guardian Hope to react like that. It made her forget what she had been about to say.
The Guardian heaved herself up onto the stage. “You’ll see,” she said, “the time will pass quickly.”
At that, Goldie’s voice came back to her. “But they promised we could Separate today!”
“Hush, sweeting,” said Ma. “Don’t excite yourself.”
“It’s the shock.” Guardian Hope put her hand on Goldie’s forehead. “She’s a little upset, that’s all. She’ll feel better soon.”
Goldie brushed the Guardian’s hand away. “I won’t feel better! They promised!”
“My poor dear child,” said Guardian Hope, in the kindest of tones. “I know how hard it is to be unselfish at times like this.”
And Goldie could see from the look in her eyes that she did know, that she had had disappointments too, as dreadful as this one, and that she had borne them bravely.
The Guardian lowered her voice to a whisper. “But if you make a fuss you will hurt your parents. You will hurt me too. Most dreadfully.”
With those words, a splinter of shame lodged in Goldie’s heart. She loved Guardian Hope almost as much as she loved Ma and Pa, and the idea of hurting her—
No! Wait! There was something wrong with that thought. It grated on Goldie like a discord from a badly tuned harp and, for a moment, darkness seemed to close in on her, pitchblack darkness, and the sensation of fur between her fingers.
But then it was gone, and Guardian H
ope’s kind voice was wrapping around her like cotton wool. “Dear child. Dear, dear child. Everyone here loves you, you know. You mustn’t disappoint them. Be patient and it will all turn out for the best.”
Tears sprang to Goldie’s eyes, and she shoved her hand into her pocket. She did so want to be free!
But maybe Guardian Hope’s right, she thought reluctantly. Maybe I’m being selfish and ungrateful and making things hard for everyone else.
Something pricked her finger, and she winced. It was the pin of her brooch, the little blue bird with the outstretched wings. She wrapped her hand around it, and the discord grated on her ears again. Only this time it seemed to trail a word behind it.
Kindness.
A window creaked open in Goldie’s mind, and she knew that someone had said something to her once, about kindness. Something important. What was it?
Ma kissed her cheek, and pushed her closer to the whitesmith. “Not long now, sweeting. Look, we’re third in line.”
“You’ll be glad to get home, I expect,” said Guardian Hope, still smiling. “After such a disappointing day.”
What was it? thought Goldie. She could hear the clink clink of the whitesmith’s hammer as he refastened Jube’s cuff around his wrist, and attached the silver guardchain. Now there was just Favor in front of her.
She squeezed the brooch, and still the memory would not come. But the bluebird’s wings seemed to flutter in her hand, as if they were making a desperate bid for freedom.
A sense of dread took hold of Goldie. There was something at stake here that she didn’t understand.
What WAS it?
“There now,” said Ma. “Favor’s almost done. That was quick, wasn’t it? Be ready, sweeting. You’re next.”
Goldie gripped the brooch in bloodless fingers. The sense of dread was growing, and there was no time left. She took a deep breath and jammed the pin into the end of her thumb.
Somewhere in her past—or perhaps it was her future—a voice said, “Remember what happened to Praise Koch and hold to your true self, no matter how sweetly those around you talk.”
Goldie’s eyes widened. The shame was still there, as sharp as grief inside her. But the voice was sharper. “Hold to your true self!”
I don’t want to wear the guardchain again, thought Goldie, and suddenly she knew that that was the truest thing about her. I WON ’T wear the guardchain again!
As if in response, she felt the brooch grow hot. The pin lengthened and twisted. The blue wings transformed into scissor blades.
Goldie leaned against Pa’s broad chest and whispered words of love. She kissed Ma’s cheek. With a mixture of terror and joy, she slid the scissors out of her pocket and cut through the white silk ribbon with a single snip.
Then, before anyone could stop her, she ran off the stage and out the back door of the Great Hall . . .
. . . and found herself in total darkness, with the cat’s tail between her fingers, and Broo leaning over her shoulder, just finishing the sentence he had begun half a lifetime ago.
“—a light ahead of us.”
The Beast Road
As the sun slid below the western horizon, the Fugleman threw off his cloak and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His temper had cooled, and he was almost looking forward to this absurd challenge. After all, his sister was dead, the city was cowed, and soon the last remnants of the Hidden Rock would be crushed to rubble.
He swung his arms in a circle and stared at the boy in front of him. “So,” he said, in a mocking voice. “This is my mighty adversary.”
The boy did not react. He merely stood with his sword loose in his hand.
The Fugleman slid his own blade from its scabbard and tested its balance, as if he had no thought of starting the duel for another five minutes or so. “Are you ready to entertain these troops with your death, boy? Or do you think your friends inside the museum will come and save you? Let me tell you, by the time they arrive, it will be too late.”
And without further warning he leaped forward.
But the boy was no longer in his path. He had darted away and was on the other side of the circle.
The Fugleman snorted. “Do you expect me to chase you? I am quite comfortable here, I assure you.” And he leaped a second time, driving his sword through the air toward the brat’s neck.
Again the boy ran. And again and again, as if his only desire was to draw out the proceedings for as long as possible.
The Fugleman shook his head in disgust. “I thought I was supposed to be fighting a duel. Instead, it seems I am on a rabbit hunt!”
The mercenaries and the Blessed Guardians laughed. Field Marshal Brace nodded. “You must engage, lad,” he said. “If you don’t, your challenge is forfeit.”
For once, it seemed, the rules of war were on the Fugleman’s side. He turned back to the boy, who had gone very still. “Come here, little rabbit,” said the Fugleman, beckoning. “It is time to fight.”
The boy took a step forward, as if hypnotized. The Fugleman looked into his eyes, expecting to see blank terror.
Instead, an unexpected smile crossed the brat’s face, as if he was thinking of someone or something he loved. He fixed his gaze on the Fugleman and said in a calm, clear voice, “If I have to die tonight, I will make it count for something.”
Then he leaped forward. The duel had begun at last.
Goldie sat down very suddenly on the rock floor of the tunnel. Broo hadn’t noticed her absence, and neither had the cat. She must have been gone for no more than the blink of an eye.
A timeless place . . .
“Why have you stopped?” growled the brizzlehound. “I’ve been—” began Goldie. But where she had been was so
enormous that she could not explain it. She ran her finger over the unmarked ball of her thumb and wondered what would have happened if she had failed any one of the three tests.
But she had not failed them. And now they were over. She scrambled to her feet again. The cat pressed against her. “Liiiight,” it purred.
“I have told her that already,” snapped Broo. “There is no need for you to say it.”
Goldie blinked. The darkness pressed upon her as heavily as ever. “A light? Where?”
And then she saw it, growing on the rock walls like moss, so faint that she might have been imagining it.
“Broo,” she whispered. “Do you know what it is?”
“A plant,” rumbled the brizzlehound. “It will not harm us.”
The farther they went, the more the moss light spread. Before long Goldie was able to let go of the cat’s tail and walk unaided, peering around uneasily. The tunnel was opening up now into a series of caves, and she thought of the Place of Remembering and wondered what lay ahead.
“Salvation,” she whispered.
Behind her, Broo growled. At exactly the same moment, the cat stopped in its tracks, the hackles on its back so rigid that its scrawny body seemed to double in size.
“What is it?” breathed Goldie.
“There is something ahead,” growled Broo.
“Croooowd,” agreed the cat in an angry wail. It was not as lame as it had been, and Goldie no longer felt the least bit tired. She wondered if there was something in the air of the caves, some healing quality.
Then she realized what the cat had said, and she whispered, “What sort of crowd? Is it dangerous?”
For once the two creatures were in agreement.
“Yessssss!”
“GRRRRREAT danger!”
Goldie’s legs trembled. She had thought the tests were over.
As the three of them crept forward, the path widened, and huge boulders began to appear on every side, with bones scattered between them.
Human bones.
“I can hear water,” whispered Goldie. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly get the words out. “No, it’s wind!”
The wind seemed to come from all around them, sighing and moaning like a living thing. It blew one way and then the other, scooping
between the boulders and running invisible fingers across Goldie’s arms. Broo’s lip drew back from his teeth in a snarl. The cat’s spine curved like a bow, and its tail bristled. Both of them glared up at the towering boulders, as if they were the enemy. As if they were the danger.
And then Goldie saw it.
Every part of her shrank from the sight. She wanted to run, but she dared not move. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands and swallowed her scream.
The boulders were not boulders.
They were brizzlehounds. And idle-cats.
Real idle-cats!
They towered above Goldie, their fangs as long as her hand. Their massive paws rested on well-chewed bones.
Their gray-spotted coats rippled with muscle, their tails switched to and fro in their sleep, and they smelled like slowstalking death.
The brizzlehounds were no better. Every single one of them was as black as night, but there the resemblance to Broo ended. Their skulls were brutal, and some dream had set them all to snarling and grinding their teeth. There were at least a hundred of them—no, more! Five hundred, stretching to every corner of the cave, and five hundred idle-cats as well. Their sleeping breath moaned in and out, as if they might wake at any moment.
Goldie cowered in the very middle of the path, her own teeth chattering with fright. Broo and the cat pressed against her. Every hair on their bodies stood on end and, for the moment, at least, their hatred of each other was forgotten.
“We must not LINGERRRRR!” growled Broo. “Sssshhhh!” hissed Goldie.
But the beasts around them did not stir, and after a minute
or two she found the courage to whisper, “Keep going!”
The path took them to the very center of the cave. And there they stopped, breathless. Directly in front of them was the biggest idle-cat of all. Its eyes were closed. Its ears flicked back and forth, as if it was dreaming. Tucked between its front paws was a small iron casket.
“Is that it?” breathed Goldie. “Is that what we have to bring back?”