Alis (12 page)

In a sudden panic she pulled back. What was she doing? They had decided to leave her, and now she had made them change their minds.

“No! I must find Ethan. He’s hurt. You’ve hurt him. Perhaps he’s dead.”

The one with the bundles shook his head. He was dark and heavy, almost a man, his neck so thick and short that his head seemed to grow out of his shoulders. “Nah. He’ll be all right. He was coming round. We don’t kill unless we have to. Ain’t that right, Weasel?”

The tall youth grinned ferociously but said nothing.

Dancer held on to her and said soothingly, “Gone by now. Come with us. Much better. Danger in the dark.”

She let herself be led away.

 

 

The light was gone by the time they stopped at the entrance to a small courtyard. A torch flared in a wall-holder, giving off a smell of pitch. The fair girl went first, taking the torch with her. The gate was old and grass grew at its base. It would not open all the way, and they squeezed through the opening one at a time, Dancer pushing Alis ahead of him. The courtyard itself was very dark, the ground uneven underfoot. Following the flare of the torch they came to an opening.

A voice spoke out of the shadows. “You’ve been a long time. And who is that with you?”

The girl raised the torch and it lit up a pale face framed by long hair: behind him a dusty staircase disappeared up into darkness. Alis saw him only for an instant as he turned away saying curtly, “Bring her inside.”

Could this be her brother?

The room above was lit by a couple of reeking, smoky tallow lamps, and was furnished with nothing but a table and a few battered chairs. As they entered, voices called out greetings and questions.

Dancer pushed Alis forward. A hand lifted a lamp from the table so that it cast its light on her face, dazzling her. There was silence. Then the lamp was replaced on the table and she could see. He was older than the rest, lean and muscular, with the pale face she had glimpsed at the foot of the stairs. The others were quiet and still, deferring to him, except for the knife girl who said in her sharp voice, “This girl says she’s looking for her brother. Claims she used to call him Jojo. We thought we’d better bring her back.”

Alis was trembling with fright. Only Dancer’s grip was keeping her upright. The pale face swam before her. Someone was speaking: “Who are you?”

She made an effort to focus her eyes. The young man who seemed to be the leader was standing with his arms crossed, looking at her. Was it Jojo? She strained to find the remembered face in his features. For a moment she thought she recognized him, and then he was a stranger again. She said as firmly as she could, “My name is Alis. I am looking for my brother, Joel. He is here in the city somewhere, I am sure, and I must find him.”

She was afraid that they would kill her, or worse.

He said, “Perhaps I know him. Tell me about him.”

She did not think he meant it; he was playing with her, before they did whatever they were going to do. And what could she tell him? Half her life had passed since Joel’s disappearance and not a word from him in all that time. For all she knew he might be dead. And yet . . . surely there was something about the eyes, the shape of the brow. He spoke again. It was a stranger’s voice, quenching her hope.

“This brother—this Joel—what is he like?”

“I have not seen him for seven years, since he ran away. He had fair hair and blue eyes. He used to carry me on his back.”

He said dismissively, “He sounds like every older brother. Can you remember nothing more particular?”

Where memory should have been, there was only fear. Then a fragment of the past came back to her. “I bit him once when I was little. There was something I couldn’t do, and he said it was because I was a girl. I said I wasn’t going to be a girl anymore and he laughed at me. He was very good about it—it was bleeding, but he didn’t tell. My mother would have been very angry with me. Now I have told you enough. You are surely not my brother, so let me go.”

“Where did you bite him?”

Would he never leave off? What did it matter to him? “On the inside of his wrist.” She could remember the surprising resistance of his skin between her teeth.

“Where are you from?”

“I am from Freeborne, one of the Communities of the Book.” Too late it occurred to her that it might be a mistake to admit this.

“What is your mother’s name?”

She gave in to his insistence. “She is called Hannah.”

“And your father?”

“Reuben.”

“Who is the Minister?”

“His name is Galin. Please, let me go.” She heard the whimper in her voice. She had not meant to plead, but she could not help herself.

He held out his hand, palm up. On the inside of the wrist was a faint white scar. “You bit hard, little sister. I remember it well.” He was smiling faintly, and his features were suddenly familiar.

“Oh!” She felt giddy with joy and relief. “You
are
Joel.”

He said quietly, “My name was Joel once. And I came from Freeborne. My mother was called Hannah and my father, Reuben.” His expression hardened. “Have you been sent to tell me that the Maker forgives and that I should return home? Surely you have not come with the Elders at your heels to fetch me back after all these years!”

She shook her head. “I need help.”

“What help do you seek? I have nothing. I cannot go back there, whatever your trouble is.”

“I cannot go back there, either. They have driven me out and I thought to find refuge with you.”

He looked startled. “What could you have done that they should drive you out? And how have you managed to get here?”

The knife girl broke in impatiently, “Jojo, we’re hungry. You can ask questions later.”

He did not take his eyes off Alis, but he nodded. “Yes, we must eat. Dancer, fetch a chair, and one of you get her something to drink, and food, too.”

He held out his hand. “Come, Alis. You look exhausted. Sit down. Do not be afraid. I am very glad to see you again, and if you need refuge, you shall have it.”

Fear had killed her appetite, but she drank gratefully while the others talked and joked. Joel sat watching her, and she noted uneasily that he frowned from time to time. She glanced covertly at the others, remembering how they had attacked her and Ethan. Joel was their leader. No wonder he had not embraced her, or spoken the loving words she longed to hear. He was a different person now.

When they had finished eating, Joel demanded to hear her story and she complied. Her listeners were mostly quiet while she spoke, although Galin’s age drew a hiss of fury from the fair-haired girl whose name was Edge.

There was silence when Alis stopped talking, then Joel said, “You are right. You cannot go back. You must stay here.”

Before she could thank him, there was a voice from the shadows. “We don’t need no one else.” Weasel thrust forward into the lamplight, his face hostile. There were murmurs of agreement from some of the others.

Joel looked at him steadily. “She’s my sister. I will not turn her away.”

“She ain’t any good to us. Chuck ’er out now.”

Edge was playing with her knife, turning it this way and that, catching the light. Now she turned the blade so that it flashed in the speaker’s eyes. “Lay off, Weasel.” He turned his head away with a curse.

Joel looked at his Alis. Her face was white, and there were huge shadows under her eyes. “Put her to bed,” he said to Edge, and the fair girl led Alis away to somewhere dark and quiet.

W
hen she woke she was lying on a thin mattress under a woolen cover that smelled faintly damp. She could feel the floor beneath her, and her shoulder ached. Across the room a bundle of blankets and a dented pillow showed where someone else had slept. Groggy, and desperate to relieve herself, she staggered across the bare boards to the half-open door. The corridor outside was silent and empty, but a shutterless window halfway along looked down into a courtyard where a girl was drawing water from a well.

Outside, she realized that it was one of the girls she had seen the previous night—a tall redhead called Shadow. She gave Alis a sour look.

“I need . . .” said Alis.

“Over there.” She jerked her head toward the far side of the court.

“And make sure you use the ash to cover. It will stink otherwise.”

When Alis returned, the girl said grumpily, “I suppose you want something to eat.”

They went back up the splintered staircase. The room where they had eaten the night before was empty except for its battered bits of furniture and a scattering of clothes. Shadow brought her a hunk of bread with some strong-tasting cheese, and ignored her while she ate. When the meal was done the other girl said, “I have to go out. Jojo says I’m to take you with me.”

Alis was glad to be away from the stale rooms. As they crossed the courtyard to the gate, she looked about her. The building ran all the way round. There were open stalls at ground level, like stables without doors, and a single story of rooms above. The place was in poor condition, with gaping holes in the roof at some points, and it seemed to be unoccupied. Alis wondered why aloud.

“Fever,” Shadow said tersely. “Whole city had it four years ago.

Worse on this side of the river, of course. Emptied the place out. Won’t last, though.”

They made their way through narrow streets to a kind of market, a few poor stalls selling cooking pots, bits of cloth, knives, and some food. Shadow bought here and there, spending only in small coins that she took from a belt round her waist. Later they searched musty shops full of old clothes and battered pots until Shadow found someone willing to give a good price for Ethan’s jerkin. Poor Ethan. Alis wondered what had happened to him and longed to know that he was safe. It was her fault if he was not. But he was used to the city, and the boy they called Mute had said he would be all right. Surely he would find his way back to the inn where the horses were stabled, and the woman Molly would look after him.

Over the evening meal, Alis learned that there were seven in the gang, including three girls. There had been eight but one of the boys had been killed the previous month. No one seemed to care much except Shadow, who pushed her food away when the death was mentioned.

Edge was making tiny punctures on the back of her forearm with the point of her knife. Weasel, sitting next to her, was arguing with Joel about something. After a while Edge stopped what she was doing and looked at him sideways. Then she reached across and rested the knife on the back of his hand.

He stopped speaking and looked down. She was pressing hard with the flat of the blade. Everyone went silent. Weasel sat quite still, his face tight with fury. Joel said warningly, “Edge,” and after a moment she put the knife away. Dancer flapped his hands and said reproachfully, “Not nice, not safe,” and some of the others laughed. But Weasel looked murderous. Later Alis watched them cross the courtyard in the evening sunlight. Edge was throwing the knife up into the air and catching it as it fell: the others left a wide circle around her.

Left alone, Alis wondered anxiously what she should do. Her first joy at finding Joel was turning to dismay. Her brother was a leader of thieves. Perhaps they were killers, too. She could not stay in such a wicked place, and the girl Edge terrified her. But she could not go out into the city alone. Even Ethan had not been safe. She had been taught to pray to the Maker, but over last few the months she had not dared to do so. Hesitantly she began:
O Maker of the world, hear my prayer and help me in my trouble . . .
She paused. Was anyone listening?

She did not try again.

The next day was hot. Shadow sat in the sunny courtyard with another girl, Fleet—slender, dark-haired, with an elfin face and long dark lashes. They had taken a blanket and spread it on the tussocky ground, propping up a couple of moth-eaten parasols for shade. There they remained all day, sometimes sleeping, sometimes talking with their heads close together. Lonely and fearful, Alis did not dare join them.

When evening came, the two of them—plus Dancer, Weasel, and Edge—prepared to go out. Hours afterward, lying sleepless, Alis heard them come back. From the room down the corridor, there was laughter and the sound of money being counted.

For a week or two, Alis spent most of the days sitting in the courtyard or wandering through the endless neglected rooms. Sometimes she went with Shadow on her domestic errands. Then, one evening, as Weasel and the others prepared for their night’s work, Joel gave instructions that Alis should go with them. To her he said, “You’re going to have to learn to be useful so you’d better see how we work. But stay well back; don’t get in the way.”

As they were leaving, he said softly so that the others could not hear, “Take care, Alis.”

 

 

Under their wraps, Fleet and Shadow had on only the skimpiest clothing. Dancer wore a pair of loose green trousers, with a grimy waistcoat of red silk over a ragged shirt. When they stepped from the courtyard into the street, he bowed extravagantly to Alis and offered her his arm. Fearful of offending him, she took it.

The heat of the day lingered in the air as they made their way through the warren of lanes and alleys. In places the cobbles were slimy with filth, and the central gutters ran with foulness; Alis was glad of Dancer’s arm. Nearer the river there were crowds of people, and among them, some who were obviously visitors from the north side—groups of men conspicuous by their clothing and a certain bravado. There were stalls set up along the embankment, and the sound of laughter and shouts was in the air. Fiddle players and jugglers vied for attention under flaring torches. Now Dancer went ahead, leaving Alis with Weasel and Edge. Fleet and Shadow wandered along arm in arm, giggling and exchanging banter with the stallholders: the others stayed back a little, always keeping the two girls in sight.