City of Lies (13 page)

I
am nothing. I am the smell of leather. I am a cockroach in the walls
.…

Goldie crouched behind the counter of the bootmaker’s shop, Concealed in Nothingness. The rope was slung around her shoulder, the lever tucked in her waistband. In one pocket, she had a twist of paper containing powdered sugar, and an old tinderbox that she had begged from a street stall. In the other pocket was a bag of saltpeter, the stuff that people used to preserve meat.

Several hours had passed since she had stepped out of the horde of children. During that time, the bootmaker had retreated from the doorstep. Now he bustled around his workbench with the fish mask pushed up onto his forehead. He had a kind face.

Goldie drifted over to the steamed-up window … 
I am nothing
 … and touched it with an unseen finger. A clear dot showed in the middle of the glass, lit by the lanterns that were beginning to appear in the street outside. Goldie glanced at the bootmaker, then traced a single word in large letters.

HARROW

Outside the open door, people were dancing and singing raucous songs. But the bootmaker obviously preferred to work. He picked up a shoe, pulled it this way and that, then slipped it onto an iron last and began to smooth its sole with a rasp. Goldie waited for him to notice what she had done.

When minutes had passed and he still hadn’t looked up, she rapped sharply on the glass. The bootmaker raised his head. “Hullo?” he said. “Someone want me?”

Goldie didn’t move.
I am nothing
.…

The bootmaker stood up and strolled to the window, smiling expectantly. But when he saw what was written there, he stiffened. He looked around the shop, then quickly scrubbed the glass clean with his hand.

Behind his back, Goldie slipped across to the workbench.
In the tiny shavings of leather that dusted the floor around it, she wrote the word again.

HARROW

The bootmaker walked back to his bench. He began to sit down—and stopped halfway, his big head wobbling. Goldie was so close that she could hear his sharp intake of breath.

I am nothing.…

The bootmaker stared at the leather shavings. Once again he peered around the shop. Then he hurried to the door.

“Hey, Scrub,” he shouted, over the sounds of revelry. “You see anyone come in ’ere?”

Goldie couldn’t hear Scrub’s answer, but the bootmaker looked puzzled. He stood there for a minute or two, gazing up and down the street. Goldie licked her finger, and on the sole of the nearly-finished shoe, she traced the word a third time.

HARROW

The bootmaker came back inside, his face thoughtful. He sat down and picked up his rasp. He bent over his work—

Then he froze, staring at the shoe. He touched the drying spit with his thumb. He dropped the rasp with a loud clang and picked up a hammer, hefting it in one hand.

Suddenly he didn’t look the least bit kind. Goldie shrank back into the shadows.
I am the smell of leather. I am the breath of a mouse.…

The bootmaker shouted at a boy who was running past and thrust a coin into his hand, muttering instructions.
Then he sat back with his arms folded and his hammer held tightly in his fist.

Goldie crept out of the shop, slipped through the crowd and found a spot from where she could see the doorway. She let go of the Nothingness. And she waited.

And waited.

And waited …

The longer she sat, the more she doubted herself. What if she was wrong about Toadspit’s message? What if it meant something else entirely? Or what if she had got the meaning right, but the woman in the green cloak didn’t come?

She wished the cat were there with her. She wished she knew how to use the wildness to catch a Big Lie.

She closed her eyes. It wouldn’t be easy, she thought. Wildness had teeth. Wildness could not be trusted. And it certainly couldn’t be summoned like a slave—

Something touched her hand, and her eyes flew open. There was no one near her, but on the other side of the street the bootmaker was ushering a woman into his shop. A woman wearing a cat mask and a cloak as green as a parrot.

With a sigh of relief, Goldie looked down at her lap to see what had alerted her. It was a feather, fallen from the sky. A
black
feather!

Her breath caught in her throat. She flung her head back and peered upward. “Morg!” she whispered.

She couldn’t see the slaughterbird, but it didn’t matter. She
felt as if the Museum of Dunt and its keepers had reached out and touched her, and given her strength. A great flood of happiness filled her.

I’ve got an ally!
she thought.
In fact, I’ve got two, if only the cat would return. No, three, if I count Mouse. Or fifteen, if I count his white mice
.

She giggled, then quickly became sober again. She was going to need all her allies to beat Harrow. And even then it might not be enough. If only she could find a way to tap into the power of the wildness …

Night fell early in Spoke at this time of year, and before long the only light came from the rising moon and the handheld lanterns. Every now and again the bright sparkle of a fizgig broke the gloom. Goldie thought she could hear the brass band somewhere in the distance, though it was hard to make out over all the noise.

There was a flash of green as the woman emerged from the shop and set off up the hill. Goldie slipped back into Nothingness and followed her, staying as close as she dared.
I am the smell of rain in the gutter. I am nothing.…

The lanterns, the fizgigs and the crowds were soon left behind. The streets grew steeper, and the houses became more pinched and decrepit than ever. There were fire bells everywhere, although most of them had lost their clappers.

The woman began to puff but did not slow down. Up the
tattered streets she bustled, occasionally looking back to make sure no one was following her. The shadow that was Goldie drifted in her wake, as silent as the rusted bells. Somewhere in the distance, the brass band squawked an unrecognizable tune.

Goldie saw no sign of Morg, but twice she heard the flapping of wings high above her head, and she knew that the slaughterbird was still with her.

The house they eventually came to had five teetering stories and bars on its windows. The woman glanced up and down the apparently empty street, then unlocked the front door and went in.

A moment later, a light went on in one of the fourth-floor windows. A figure passed in front of it, but Goldie couldn’t tell who it was. She waited. A man and a woman came out of the house next door and hurried down the street without seeing her.

The figure walked back to the window and stopped, its face as sharp as a fishhook against the light. Goldie drew in a deep breath … and let it out again. Right up until this minute she had not been sure that she had read Toadspit’s message correctly. But there was no mistaking that nasty profile. It was Cord.

With an effort she swallowed her excitement and let her mind drift outward. She could sense the rats that seethed in
the darkness beneath the houses. She could feel the cowbeetles tunneling through the walls and floors, and the pigeons molting in the attics.

And on the fourth floor of the house across the way she could sense five hearts beating.

Three adults.

Two children.

She looked up at the moonlit sky. “Morg,” she hissed, as loudly as she dared, and she let the Concealment fall away.

There was a flurry of wings, and the slaughterbird dropped like a stone onto her shoulder. Goldie laughed under her breath and caught her balance. “I’m so glad to see you!” she whispered.

Morg’s yellow eye peered at her. “Gla-a-a-a-ad,” croaked the bird, and she nibbled the edge of the half-mask.

Goldie pointed to the fourth-floor window of the house opposite. “I think Toadspit and Bonnie are up there. Can you take a look? Don’t let anyone see you.”

With a clap of wings, Morg launched herself back into the air. Higher than the houses she flew; then she turned and drifted downward in a long, silent glide that took her straight past the window.

“Fo-o-o-o-o-ound,” she croaked, when she was safely back on Goldie’s shoulder.

“Shhhh! Are you sure it’s them?”

Morg bobbed up and down. “The-e-e-e-em.”

There was a gate next to the house, and a narrow, stinking passage that led to the rear of the building. There Goldie found a wooden lean- to with boxes stacked against it. She studied the lean-to carefully. It would be easy enough to climb onto its roof. And the bars on the first-floor window looked as if they would take her weight.

From there on up, the wall was riddled with hand- and footholds. She should be able to climb right to the top floor, to the single small window that was unbarred. What she would do once she was inside the building—that was another matter.

“Can you find me an old bucket or something?” she whispered to Morg. “It has to be made of metal. But not too heavy. Something you can fly with.”

Once again, Morg rose into the night. While she was gone, Goldie shrugged the coiled rope off her shoulder and cut a piece from the end. She hid the rest of it among the boxes.

There was a rattle and a thump behind her, and Morg strutted down the passage, holding the handle of a small coal scuttle in her beak and looking pleased with herself.

“Perfect,” whispered Goldie.

She took the powdered sugar and the saltpeter from her pockets and mixed them together in the bottom of the coal scuttle, making sure that she used the right amount of each,
as Olga Ciavolga had taught her. Then she carried the scuttle back along the passage and tucked it into the deep shadows beside the gate, where no one would see it.

She was nearly ready. All she needed now was people.

“You wait here,” she whispered to Morg. “If they move Bonnie and Toadspit before I get back, I want you to follow them. Whatever you do, don’t lose them. I’ll be as quick as I can!”

G
oldie was about to slip back out into the street, when the front door of the house opened and the woman in the green cloak hurried away up the hill. As soon as she was out of sight, Goldie pulled the passage gate closed behind her and ran.

The brass band was closer than she had thought. The musicians were marching along the road at the bottom of the hill, their chains clanking. Behind them came a gang of sailors with shaved heads and tattooed arms, and flagons of wine that they passed from hand to hand. None of them
were throwing food, and the band members scowled at them and played more and more slowly until the music was almost a dirge.

“Give us something a bit
boring
, for Bald Thoke’s sake!” shouted one of the sailors.

His friends booed him. Goldie supposed they were really cheering. They wanted some fun. They wanted something to happen. Well, she could help with that.…

The bandmaster was wearing a plague half-mask and his hands were painted with sores. When he saw Goldie, he waved his baton.

She hurried over to him and put her mouth to his ear. “Lovely food those sailors are throwing, Herro.”

The bandmaster gritted his teeth. “Generous young things, are they not? We’ll certainly go back to the Penitentiary with our bellies full tonight.”

“It’d be even worse up the hill,” said Goldie. “It’s a terrible spot up there. No food at all.”

“Really?” The bandmaster perked up. “I knew you were a bad lad.” He puffed out his chest and roared at the band. “All right, you lot!”

The mournful tune died away.

“This is
such
a good spot that we’re staying right here,” cried the bandmaster. “And we’re going to play something
sad
. Something
quiet
. Something that’ll make the citizens of Spoke think twice about giving us a decent dinner. On
no
account will we play ‘The Skipping Goose.’ One, two, three!”

He raised his baton, and the trumpet players stumbled into a lively tune, followed a few beats later by the trombones and the bombardon. The sailors whooped and shouted. “Awful! Awful! Stop it at once!”

The bandmaster put his head close to Goldie’s. “How’s that?”

“Terrible,” said Goldie. She pointed in the wrong direction. “Go that way!” she cried, and she began to lead the band, as quickly as she could, toward the five-story house.

As they entered the warren of streets near the bootmaker’s, the night grew livelier. People began to dance around them. Children appeared from every doorway, and thunderflashes crackled and popped. An enormous woman with sweat running down her forehead waddled out of a shop and handed the bandmaster a bright blue roast duck.

His eyes lit up. He tore off both drumsticks, handed one to Goldie and passed the rest of the duck back to Sweetapple. The music slowed to a saunter, and so did the band.

“I expect those people up the hill will be there all night,” mumbled Goldie, biting into the drumstick. “I bet they’re not going anywhere.”

The bandmaster obligingly sped up again. The crowd surged along with him.

And suddenly, there was the cat, trotting beside Goldie, its
eyes bright, its scraggy ribs thrumming with pleasure. Goldie dropped a chunk of meat onto the ground, and the cat devoured it in one gulp.