Ambergate (21 page)

“And now, Mather, let us go tell my niece the good news. Come, Caleb, it’s time you set eyes on her. What a day for the dynasty,
eh?” He strode to the door, a jaunty swing in his step, then turned. “You don’t need your bodyguard, Mather. He can stay here
until we return. Let’s not overwhelm my niece in her chamber—give her a chance to have an intimate chat with my son.” He gave
a guffaw. “They can get to know each other, eh?”

As Chance stood and saluted, Caleb pushed by, and his heavy military boots ground into Chance’s feet. He grinned. “Sorry,
did I step on your poor little toes, bodyguard?”

The three of them had left the library, the guards outside
swung the heavy double doors together, and Chance and Nate were alone.

Overwhelmed by the fierce bronze glitter of the Eagle statuettes, the grandeur of so many books, and the sudden hush, Chance
felt he should whisper.

“What in the name of the Eagle was all that about?” he asked Nate.

“Haven’t you heard?” said Nate. “I thought that superior of yours might have told you.” He too had lowered his voice. “The
Lord Protector has decided that his son’s going to marry Miss Leah.”

“I guessed a bit from what they were sayin’,” said Chance defensively. “How do you know, then?”

“I was in here earlier when the Protector told his son. I’ve been prescribed for the Protector, you see—by his physicians.
He was complaining of gout and they thought music would balance his humors. Any time now I could get thrown out, of course,
but I make sure he scarcely notices I’m here. He likes showing me off to visitors—makes him look a man of culture.”

“You mean he’s really goin’ to marry his precious son off to an avian?” said Chance. “Thought he hated them like everyone
else.”

Nate fiddled with a string on his ratha. The candlelight cast shadows on his open face, making it look suddenly secretive.
“He’s changed his mind. Something to do with a prophecy, I think.” He twanged a few melancholy notes. “Can you imagine a wild,
beautiful creature like Leah married to that brute Caleb?” he said softly.

Chance shrugged. “If she’s avian, she’s cursed anyway, cursed by the Eagle. Marriage to Caleb is what she deserves.” It was
worth saying it to see the shock on Nate’s face.

“What do you know about the orphan girl, Number 102?” said Nate, changing the subject abruptly. “Your Mather and the Protector
seem very keen to hunt her down and deal with her—whatever that means—before the marriage. What’s her connection with all
this?”

“I don’t know,” said Chance truthfully. He was about to tell Nate of his own ambitions for capturing Number 102 when it struck
him that the Boy Musician was a mite too inquisitive. He gave him a wary glance and shut his mouth again.

But tomorrow he’d put his plan into action. Number 102—he knew exactly where to start looking for her, after all. He knew
the brand on her arm meant she had come from the Gravengate Home. There was a good chance that if she’d left the barge, she
would have been reclaimed by now.

He’d go armed, of course. This time he meant to trap her.

“You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw it was you up there on the platform,” Doggett said to me as she
hurried me along through the pools of lamplight. “Little Scuff that we all thought was dead!”

Mistress Crumplin let out a small scream. “Pray, Doggett, don’t talk of feathers! Blasphemy, girl!” She looked nervously
into the shadows and clutched the amulet around her neck. “It will be the last Curfew bell soon. Hurry!”

I found myself almost glad to see two familiar faces from Murkmere, even though one was my old rival whom I’d never trusted,
and the other—housekeeper there until three years ago—my single source of terror and pain in that place. But Mistress Crumplin
no longer seemed so fearful now that I had grown: indeed, she looked almost ridiculous in her bulky grosgrain skirts and her
oversized bonnet. Her face, peering out between the black ribbons, seemed to have shrunk and lost its color: it had the same
peaky, frightened look as all the city’s dwellers. I’d been rescued from a worse fate perhaps, but I was still returning to
the Home where I’d spent two bitter, hungry years.

“You don’t say much, girl,” panted Mistress Crumplin as we hurried along. She pressed a none-too-clean handkerchief to her
nose as we passed a dog’s rotting corpse.

“Give her a chance, Dorcas,” said Doggett. “She’s recoverin’ from the shock of that slave market. Bein’ sold—the shame of
it! However did you come to that, Scuff? Good thing we was there lookin’ for a servant, weren’t it, Dorcas?”

“We’ll give you good honest work at the Home,” said Mistress Crumplin. “Work you’re used to—scouring and scrubbing and such.
Cleaning up after them little varmints—always vomiting, or wetting theyselves.”

I saw Doggett smile in the lamplight. “Oh, there’s plenty to do. We’ve not had no spare time before, have we, Dorcas?”

“You’re working in the Gravengate Home—both of you?” I faltered.

“Mistress Crumplin, she worked at the Palace for a while when she left Murkmere—didn’t you, Dorcas?—for all that it was only
six weeks before you got yourself throwed out!” Dog giggled.

Mistress Crumplin straightened her bonnet. “Mistress Slyde—she’s Matron of the Home these past few years—took me on immediate
as Housekeeper. There’s no disgrace in that. It’s an excellent position.”

Doggett nudged me. “As for me, I told you I was comin’ to the Capital, didn’t I? I’ve not been here long, mind—not had time
to find meself a husband yet. Dorcas was kind enough to employ me as Assistant Housekeeper, so here I am.”

“What about Aggie?” I said in a low voice. “How are they faring at Murkmere?”

“Aggie was forever talkin’ about you and all. She was sure you wasn’t dead, though she were cold to her aunt a good while
after. And Miss Jennet—well, she said she’d not forgive herself if you had gone and died.” Doggett’s voice soured. “I doubt
no one misses me.”

“Aggie relied on you, Dog,” I said. “She must miss you.”

I drew my jacket closer around me. Mistress Crumplin saw the amber stone and her eyes gleamed. “Why, ain’t that Miss Aggie’s?”

“She gave it to me.” I did not want to be thought a thief.

“You don’t want to be showing off such a jewel in Gravengate, young lady. Attracts all manner of vagrants. Best give it to
me for safekeeping.” She held out her hand eagerly.

I shook my head and pushed the amber down my bodice,
out of sight. “I’ll keep it hidden, Mistress Crumplin. I must give it back to Aggie.”

“If we all had amulets like that one,” she said with a sniff, “we’d not fear the Night Birds of the Capital, would we, Dog?”

We all jumped as the last Curfew began to toll over the city; the grimy church we were passing joined in, with a sudden loud
clanging from its crooked bell tower. A dark cloud of pigeons flew up around the belfry, disturbed from their roost. Before
I could touch the amber, Mistress Crumplin gave me a spiteful prod; her fingers were no less painful than they had been.

“Oh, my, we’re late! Come along, girl, do!”

Before us a giant bird rose out of the night sky, its wings outstretched; I saw the shine of its eyes. But it could not fly
from its plinth. It was one of the Eagle statues of the Capital that I had so feared as a small child, with their sinister
marble eyes that seemed to watch every movement of the people toiling beneath them.

We hurried by, out on the riverfront, where houses of dark, cracked stone leaned over the black water. I knew I was near the
Home now, for we were walking toward the holding column of the Gravengate, and on the far side of the river I could see the
great square pilothouse, its metallic facing engraved with silhouettes of the Birds of Night. From it, the chains that formed
the Gravengate would shortly be wound up above the water level to block the further passage of shipping upriver after dark
and keep the city secure.

As a child, at first I had watched from the windows of the
Home whenever I heard the grinding of the Gravengate’s wheel. I saw the chains rise, to lie over the surface of the black
water like serpents; weed, rubbish, even gray, bloated corpses caught among their rusty coils. Sometimes the huge links trapped
the living, for as the chains were raised, the smaller and flimsier boats tossed in the turbulence, throwing out their human
cargo, and the last cries of drowning sailors mingled with the seagulls’ wails.

They meant nothing to me: those deaths. I had lived with a dead body in the cellar for three days. But after a time I stopped
watching the Gravengate rise from its dark secret bed: there was no novelty in it any longer.

Mistress Slyde was a tall woman in middle age, with a hard mouth and straight, graying hair drawn back so tightly into a bun
that it looked as if it had tugged all kindness from her face. Even in the tallow light I could see her dark clothes were
immaculately starched and pressed.

“Is the girl healthy?” she asked Mistress Crumplin, stalking in a wide circle around me. She shot out a hand and pinched my
upper arm so painfully I flinched. Her mouth tightened. “There’s some muscle on her, I grant, but is she used to hard work?”

“Oh, yes, Ma’am. I can guarantee it. We all worked hard at Murkmere.” Mistress Crumplin twisted her hands together earnestly,
her voice shaking. She was frightened of this woman, I thought, frightened of losing her livelihood in the dark, dangerous
city.

“Then find her some clothes,” Mistress Slyde said, as if I weren’t there with the two of them in the dim basement kitchen.
Her nostrils twitched as she spoke. “Discard what she’s wearing; burn the lot. And her hair is far too long, and lice-ridden,
no doubt. Tomorrow I shall cut it all off.”

Mistress Crumplin bobbed a nervous curtsey. “I trained this girl at Murkmere myself, Ma’am. You know how hard it is to find
staff these days. I can assure you she is a good kitchen maid…”

“You may use her in the kitchen, Crumplin. But I wish to use her too.” Mistress Slyde came closer and, holding a candle to
my face, examined me from all angles as if I were a cow at market. “She hasn’t a pleasant expression, I fear—not an amenable
girl, for one of her lowly degree. Never mind, hard work should cure her rebellion. If it persists, we’ll take her back to
market and sell her off. Meanwhile, there’s plenty for her to do here. Send her up at eight to help me with the girls’ dormitory.”

Mistress Crumplin gave me a stiff black shift to put on over my bodice and drawers, and a pair of yellow stockings. “You’ll
wear ‘em if you’re wise,” she said as she saw my face. “They frightens the rats away. We all wear ’em.” And she pulled up
her skirts to show me her own lumpy yellow ankles. Then, in spite of my protests, she carried away my raspberry silk skirt
and Shadow’s jacket. I managed to rescue Miss Jennet’s letter and store it in my box, but I never saw my clothes again.

For the next hour maybe I worked alone in the kitchen, moving awkwardly in my unfamiliar clothes as I scoured
pans and washed dishes. As the darkness came down outside, cockroaches ran from beneath the skirting boards, scuttling over
the floor and work surfaces. Wherever I trod, I could feel bodies squash beneath my boots. The whole room moved.

Mistress Crumplin was snoring by the fire. She had poured herself a large glass of neat slowfire and drunk three-quarters
of it.

“I knows I can rely on you, Scuff, my dear,” she said as she settled herself. “Like the old days, ain’t it? Now, if you’re
a good girl all will be well for you, but if you ain’t—well, Mistress Slyde ain’t one to be reckoned with, I’m warnin’ you.”

I didn’t hear a squeak or sigh from the children. They would have returned from the neighboring building, where I remembered
spinning flax all day. It was as if ghosts inhabited the house above me. But I knew they must be there, for there were so
many dishes to wash, and they were so shiny I’m sure they had been licked clean by the children, as we used to do. The pans,
on the other hand, were encrusted with ancient food, even rust and mold. But I was not surprised; I knew Mistress Crumplin’s
slovenliness of old.

I must bear this for tonight
, I thought.
Tomorrow I’ll escape…

Dog was winding the standing clock in the hall. She came back with the key after a while and made a great display of helping
me, though I think she was more eager to talk. “I’ve not said nothin’ to Mistress Crumplin about harborin’ a criminal here,
Scuff.”

“You don’t believe I’m truly a criminal, Dog, do you?”

“Whether I do or don’t, that don’t matter. You help me in the house and that, do my work for me, and I’ll help you. I’ll not
say nothin’ if you work hard. But if I find myself gettin’ weary, then I shall complain. And I might complain to you, then
again I might complain to Mistress Slyde.”

“You know I am a hard worker, Dog.”

“You’ve escaped them so far, Scuff; you must be lucky, eh? But what if the Militia come knockin’ on our door?”

“Why should they think I’m in the Capital?” I asked, but my mouth was dry.

“If they see your arm—Number 102—that’s a giveaway” She snatched my wrist, and I drew it away at once.

“They can’t check everyone,” I said. “There are too many in the Capital. I believe they think I’m dead.” I looked at her.
Could I trust her? What if they offered a reward for information?

She gave a hollow laugh. “You might as well be dead workin’ here! I tell you, Scuff”—she gave a quick glance at the snoring
housekeeper and lowered her voice—“that Slyde, she’s a right bossy cow, and the pay’s nothin’ neither. As for you, poor little
orphan girl”—she looked mocksad at me—“bein’ reclaimed, you won’t get nothin’ to pay your way.”

A bell rang impatiently somewhere above us. Dog gave me a shove toward the door. “That’ll be Slyde wantin’ help with the girls,
third floor. Her husband sees to the boys at night, top floor.”

“Husband?”

She pulled a face. “Twin of her, he is. You wouldn’t want to meet either of ‘em in your worst nightmare.”

The narrow stairs were in darkness, but I needed no candle to feel my way up. Time moved backward. It was as if I’d never
left that smell of mildewed walls, old food, and unwashed bodies. Beneath my feet, the bare boards creaked in the same mournful
way. I could hear the solemn
tick-tock
of the tall hall clock below me, the slow echoing
tick
of death-watch beetles in the narrow walls around me, the scratching of mice behind the skirting.