Ambergate (23 page)

“And you’re mine, Shadow.” He stuck out his hand and I did the same, and we clapped our palms together in our old salute,
much to the cat’s displeasure. Then Dog bustled them both away before I had a chance to say goodbye.

She rushed back down again, seconds later, to find me staring abstractedly at nothing. “What are you doin’ dreamin’?” she
shouted at me. “Move yourself! Get out of here!”

I started, and stared at her. “But it was you who told the soldiers at Murkmere about me. Why are you protecting me now?”

She had the grace to look ashamed. “I didn’t do nothin’ the second time, and I said nothin’ when the first lot came back after
you’d gone. Anyhow, now I’m givin’ you the chance to go, and I won’t tell, honest. This time I’m not thinkin’ of me own advantage.
You’re a good girl, Scuff, and always have been, so go. You’ve more wit in you than you had—you’ll survive.”

And then the knocking came again.

They didn’t bother with waiting to see Mistress Slyde. They allowed Dog upstairs to fetch my bag, but made her give it to
them. They took me straight out then, leaving Dog gabbling by the front door. “She’s innocent of everythin’, a good girl!”

The clock behind us chimed a doleful midday as the two men marched me out of the dark hall into the drizzle. I didn’t look
at their faces, but I did notice they were not armed. Why should they be? They were big, strong. They didn’t hurt me; they
had no cause, for I walked docilely between them and didn’t protest. There was no use. We didn’t go far: through the crowded
back street behind the warehouses on the river—the long one that is called the Cut—past the stalls of fishmongers and butchers.
The men, dressed in the dark jerkins and breeches that many soldiers wear when not on ceremonial duty, stuck either side of
me, and I made no move
to escape. There were no thoughts in my head, only a dreadful feeling that my doom had finally caught me up and there was
nothing I could do about it.

We were still in Gravengate, because every now and then I saw the great pilothouse across the water as we passed an opening
onto the riverfront. The tide was out, and there was mud under the jetties; seagulls wheeled over our heads.

“In here,” said one of the soldiers. They guided me toward the back door of a tavern that stood on the edge of a black canal.

“Here?” I said, confused.

For answer they pushed me inside, urgently but not ungently. Then they crowded in behind me and shut the door.

We were in some sort of lobby at the back of the building. From behind a door facing us came the deep roughness of male voices
and the clash of pewter; the air was thick with the stale smell of stingoe, the peppered beer. A dilapidated flight of stairs
led upward.

One of the soldiers nudged my back. “Up you go.”

There was only one flight. At the top was a landing with two closed doors. The man behind me pushed me forward and opened
one of them, keeping hold of my arm as he led me inside. Then suddenly, bewilderingly, he let me go; the door was slammed
behind me, and I heard the key turn in the lock on the other side. They were still somewhere near—perhaps in the next room;
there was the sound of voices raised in argument, but I couldn’t make out what was being said.

The room was small, furnished only with a pallet on the floor and a couple of shabby chairs. The floorboards were littered
with old stubs of nero leaf rolls and stained orange with the dried spittle of mastigris. A cracked window looked out onto
the canal below. A single swan had appeared, sailing along on the black water. It looked so pure in the filth of the city.

But what Significance could it have for me now
? I thought; and if I’d not been so frightened I would have cried for my lost hopes. I had no chance of True Love now, or
use for any Messenger. I could only wait to hear my fate.

My heart beat faster. Footsteps were approaching the door. The key turned in the lock, and the two men came in, filling the
tiny room. I was still at the window and I pressed against it, my heart in my throat.

“My name is Titus Molde,” the first man spoke abruptly. He was in his early thirties perhaps, well-built, meaty; his jerkin
strained across his chest. Beneath it he carried a slight paunch, surprising in a soldier. He looked me all over. “We’ll not
hurt you. Sit down.”

I had to sit down anyway, for my legs were trembling.

He sat down too, although the chair protested. Closer, he had a blunt face and frown marks engraved on his forehead. Like
all soldiers, his bright gold hair was cut almost to his scalp: a prickly crown. He did not look pleasant.

The other man stood with his arms folded across his chest. He was youngish also, lantern-jawed, with dust-colored hair.

“You have led us a merry dance,” said Titus Molde. “All
the way from Murkmere. It seems we have succeeded in finding you at last. But I need to check a few details. Show me your
arm.”

It was a brusque command, not to be disobeyed. I held out my arm, the one with the brand, for I knew that was what he wanted
to see. He leaned closer; he smelled of sweat, like raw onions. He gripped my forearm in his callused fingers and turned it
over to study the scar.

“Number 102 and the Gravengate symbol.” He drew in a breath of satisfaction. “See, Flint?”

The other man peered closer and nodded. “You were right. She’s the one.” He looked at me in a sort of awe, as if one so young
could yet do something so wicked.

“Better make double sure,” said Titus Molde. He nodded at the bag on the floor. “Have a look in there, Flint. See if there’s
anything to identify her.”

My precious mahogany box was brought out and opened. Flint squinted inside. “Toiletries. A comb, soap. Ah, this looks more
like it.” He brought Miss Jennet’s letter out and passed it across.

Titus Molde broke the seal and scanned it swiftly. “We already know this girl was at Murkmere. So—she can cook, she can clean,
she can sing too. No relevant information.” He turned to me and his eyes raked my face. “Tell me, do you remember your name?”

“Scuff, Sir,” I faltered. “That’s what they called me at Murkmere.”

“You were purchased at the Gravengate Orphans’ Home by the late steward of Murkmere, Silas Seed. Is that correct?”

I nodded.

“Do you remember being called by any other name before that?”

I shook my head.

“Do you remember where you were before you were in the Home?” He was impatient and having difficulty keeping his voice hushed;
it was by nature loud and domineering.

“I was still in the Capital,” I said. “We lived in a cellar below the streets, Sir.”

“‘We’? Who was with you?”

“A woman. She looked after me. She told me”—my voice trembled—“to call her Mother.”

The two men exchanged glances.

“What happened to her?” said Titus Molde.

“She died. I was hungry. I went above, and that was the day they caught me for the Orphans’ Home.”

His face was grim. “But before the cellar?”

I shook my head again. I was puzzled that he didn’t ask about my crime. “I don’t remember,” I whispered.

“Is the number enough to convince them, Flint?” Titus Molde stood up and began to stride around restlessly in the cramped
space, going from window to door and back again, and all the while staring at me. The reek of onions grew stronger.

The other man stood back, staring at me also. “They’ll take your word for it Titus.”

“I don’t think so. There’s too much to prove, too much riding on it.”

Titus Molde came back and sat down.

“I want you to tell me everything, anything you can remember.” He sounded as if he would not stand for any waste of words.

My mouth was very dry. “I committed a crime, Sir, as you know. I do admit it. It was a long time ago.”

A quick look passed between the two men.

“Recount it, then,” said Titus Molde impatiently. “It may help.”

I wrung my hands together. “I know I committed a terrible blasphemy. I was young, Sir, and very hungry, that’s all I can say
in my defense.”

“Stop havering and tell us.”

And so I confessed everything.

That evening, Titus Molde ordered some food and candles from the tavern below, and he and Flint took them in to the girl,
Number 102. She was crouched on the pallet in the fading light, and started as they came in.

Flint lit a candle and stuck it on a platter. The girl took no notice of the bread and meat, but snatched up the cup of watered
wine and gulped it down.

Titus Molde examined her critically, kneeling beside her and bringing the candle so close she flinched, though she did not
move away. He wasn’t aware of how he must appear to her by the same flickering light: a burly young man in the
sweat-stained jerkin he’d stolen from a soldier, no pity in his face, and the light of madness in his eyes.

She was a pretty girl beneath the dirt, he thought, though too small and scrawny for his own taste. She had her mother’s striking
dark blue eyes, her father’s nut-brown hair. She would inspire awe in his group when he chose to show her. She had the blood
of the legendary leader Robert Fane in her veins: she might be a brave girl. She was what he, Titus Molde, needed to become
the next leader of the rebels, the man who would one day take command of the country. He would use her to advance his own
ambitions. Hadn’t his voices told him to do so?

Titus Molde had been listening to the voices in his head for a while now.

Even before Robert Fane’s death they would whisper to him how he, Titus Molde, would make an even greater leader. When Robert
Fane died, the voices rose in such a buzz of excitement that Molde had to shake his head to clear it. They had chosen him,
they were saying; they would help him. Now was his chance.

Titus Molde told no one about his voices, not even Jed Flint. If he did, they might go away and help someone else.

Since the girl had confessed her “crime” to him earlier that afternoon, the voices had suggested an extraordinary idea to
him—an idea that, if it worked, would open the way to his taking over the rebel leadership without opposition.

“Listen to me carefully,” he said to her, trying to keep his voice calm though excitement filled him. “You have confessed
to me, and you know your punishment is most likely
to be the death penalty. Stealing from the Almighty Himself is the most heinous crime of all, punishable by death.”

She gazed at him with eyes that were filled with despair and said nothing. It helped that she seemed to assume he and Jed
Flint were soldiers.

“If I said to you I had the power to grant you life and freedom on one condition, and would do so if you fulfillled it, what
would you say?”

She looked at him in astonishment and frowned, as if she did not believe him. Jed Flint stirred, raising his eyebrows in question
at Molde, who ignored him.

He repeated, “What would you say to that condition?”

She croaked out, “Why, yes. I’d say yes.”

He paused to shake his head, then took a deep breath. “You would have to stay here for a few days until I’d made arrangements.
You’d have all you needed—food and warm clothing—and I would ensure you were safe in the meantime.”

She looked around her. “Here?” she faltered.

“It is the safest place for you. It would be a secret agreement between us. Only my trusted colleague Jed Flint here will
know.” He watched her carefully. Excitement burned like a fever in his blood. He had to speak loudly above the voices. “Do
you still say yes?”

She nodded again, large-eyed.

He did not want to frighten her immediately, so he smiled; he did not know he had a brutal mouth. “You do not know what the
condition is yet.”

She shook her head fervently, as if she did not care—as if it did not matter to her and she would do whatever was
asked of her. She appeared increasingly amazed—confused—and that was good. Lucky for him again that she had spent so much
time in a cellar and was easily duped.

“You will swear on the Divine Book?” he said.

For a moment she seemed anxious. He waited, regarding her face without compassion.
So young and smooth, so innocent
. Then, as he knew she would, she nodded, as if swearing on the sacred scriptures were reassuring to her and could not involve
her in anything wrong.

Flint, looking bemused, brought in a leather-bound book from the other room, where it was often used for the swearing-in of
new members to the cause. The girl put her hand on it and said in a tiny voice, “I swear.”

“Good,” said Titus Molde. “And now I shall tell you what you must do.”

“Holy Wings, Titus, what have you made her agree to?” said Flint in admiration and horror.

It was a short time later, and he and Titus Molde had left the tavern and were returning to their lodgings in the meanest
and cheapest part of the city—among the summer plague pits. They kept to the shadows along the riverfront, in the direction
of the Gravengate. It would be dark soon, and dangerous for Titus Molde of all men to be out after Curfew, in case he was
discovered by the Capital’s Lawmen, commonly known as the Enforcers.

The two men moved quietly past the deserted warehouses,
their heads together, talking low while they smoked their nero leaf rolls. The entwining wreaths of smoke behind them dissolved
almost immediately into the damp air.

Molde’s boot sank into a deep pool of mud, and he pulled it free with a curse. But inside he was jubilant, still simmering
with excitement. He wondered how far he could trust his old ally, Jed Flint, or whether he would have to kill him in the end
to ensure his secrecy. The voices would advise him.

“That girl’s the figurehead that could draw the splits amongst us together, Jed,” he said. “She could unite the rebel factions
all over the country—with my help, of course. She needs to prove to our own men that she possesses the legendary courage of
her father. Then they’ll accept her. The other group in the Capital, the old guard in Seacoal Lane, won’t have any choice.
We’ll ride roughshod over them. It will be her and me together, and they’ll have to agree to it. They won’t get her unless
they accept me—for leader.”