City of Lies (14 page)

A string of green sausages flew overhead, followed by a loaf of bread. The bandmaster beamed at Goldie, and she did her best to smile back.

Faster
, she thought.
We need to go faster
.

They were still two blocks away from the five-story house when the bandmaster beckoned to Dodger and Sweetapple. They stepped closer to him, their instruments blaring, their chains rattling against the cobblestones.

“I don’t owe you an explanation, lad,” muttered the bandmaster as he and Goldie marched along side by side. “You did us a cruelty the day before yesterday, and another one tonight.”

The street, which had been deserted when Goldie crept up it earlier, was now full of people. A pie flew out of the dancing crowd. Dodger snatched it up one-handed and stuffed it into his pocket.

“That name you asked me about,” said the bandmaster, glancing around to make sure that no one could hear him above the music and the chains. “You didn’t almost give me heartstroke when you mentioned it. I
don’t
know him. In fact, I
didn’t
do a few jobs for him a while back—”

He broke off, gazing down at the cat, which was trotting
beside them, its tail held high. “Is that gorgeous beast—ah—tame? Could you pick it up?” He chewed his lip. “It’s got nothing whatsoever to do with what I want to tell you.”

By now, Goldie was almost dizzy with impatience. For all she knew, Bonnie and Toadspit were being moved to another hiding place at this very moment. What if Morg lost them? How would she ever find them again?

But this was information, and she could not afford to ignore it. She stepped to one side and bent down. “Cat,” she whispered. “I need to pick you up. Do you mind?”

“Frrr-own,” said the cat, its back bristling.

“I’m sorry. But it’s important. Please?”

The cat grumbled a bit more, then said, “Alllllow.”

Carefully, Goldie slid one hand under its belly and the other under its back legs. It was heavier than she expected, and she could feel a low growl of displeasure rumbling through its bones. But it kept its claws sheathed, and as she ran to catch up with the band, it lay more or less quietly in her arms.

The bandmaster gulped when he saw it up close. “Um—sweet kitty!” He put a tentative hand on its back. The cat hissed a warning, then subsided.

The little man laughed with relief. “That’s better.” He winked at Goldie. “It’s one of the Festival rules, you see. Touch an animal and you can tell the truth. Now—”

His face grew solemn. “That
certain person
—no, don’t say his name! It’s not safe! He has people in the most unlikely places.” He looked around nervously, as if some of those people might be listening even now.

“I told you, did I not,” he murmured, “that I worked for him? Then let me tell you something else—it was a mistake I have regretted ever since. He pays well, but he’s a vicious employer. And as for his second-in-command, Flense—”

The cat growled at the name. The bandmaster’s voice rose in anger. “Many a time I have longed for revenge for the insults and whippings she ordered—”

He broke off, lifted his mask and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. When next he spoke, his voice was a little calmer. “But that is my business, lad, rather than yours.
You
want to know about that
certain person
. Well, there has always been something mysterious about him. For years he has come and gone from Spoke, with no one knowing when or where to expect him. Recently I heard his name associated with an army of ruthless mercenaries in the Southern Archipelago. It did not surprise me in the least.” His voice sank. “I know of at least a dozen murders that you could put down to his name.”

Goldie felt an awful coldness in the pit of her stomach. Harrow was a murderer. And Bonnie and Toadspit were at his mercy.

Faster! We need to go faster!

“There’s more,” said the bandmaster. He took his hand off the cat momentarily, and rapped Dodger on the shoulder with his baton. “Keep the noise down,” he bellowed.

Dodger’s cheeks puffed out like balloons. Old Snot walloped his drum. The crowd roared with approval.

The bandmaster’s hand dropped back onto the cat, and he put his mouth close to Goldie’s ear. “There was a device—a bomb, in your own city of Jewel last year. That was
him
! He planned it, every step of the way. His men carried it out.” He shook his head. “That was the last straw for me. When I learned about it, I got away from him as quickly as I could.”

Goldie stared at him, unable to speak. It had shocked everyone in Jewel, that bomb. The explosion had destroyed the Fugleman’s office and killed a girl from Feverbone Canal. The militia had never discovered who was responsible. But now she knew. It was Harrow.

The bandmaster gripped her arm. His lips were pale, as if he was already regretting telling her so much. “What business could you possibly have with a man like that, lad? No, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. But whatever it is, wherever it takes you, I beg you—I
beg
you not to get me and my people mixed up in it. Do you understand me? Do you?”

Goldie felt as if she was going to be sick. She could not meet the bandmaster’s eyes. Despite his desperate plea, she
was about to get him mixed up in Harrow’s business. Which was looking more terrifying than ever …

She glanced up to see where they were, and her fingers tightened on the cat. They had arrived! There was the five-story house, right in front of her. And there was the fire bell, hanging from its rusty bracket.

“Dowwwwn!” demanded the cat, and Goldie let it go. Then, without a word to the bandmaster, she ducked away into the crowd.

All around her, people laughed and sang. The sailors danced a drunken jig. Children dived between them, trying to trip them up. The air stank of wine and sweat and burnt thunderflashes.

Goldie pushed open the gate that led to the side passage and slipped through, with the cat at her heels. She closed the gate and fumbled in the shadows until she found the scuttle. “Morg?” she whispered.

There was no answer. She took the scrap of rope and the tinderbox from her pocket. “Morg? Where are you?”

Suddenly the cat squalled a challenge, its spine arching in fury. Goldie looked up to see enormous wings filling the passage.

“Morg,
no!
” she hissed. “It’s a friend.”

Morg’s wings beat at the air. The cat lashed out with its claws. “Fffowl!” it spat.

“Stop it!” cried Goldie, glad that there was so much noise
in the street outside. She struck a match and held it to the rope until the dry fibers began to smolder.

“Morg,” she said, holding the burning rope carefully away from the coal scuttle, “I want you to carry this up to the roof. Put the scuttle down near the edge, where it won’t tip over, then drop the rope into it and get out of the way. Don’t let anyone in the street see you.”

The slaughterbird shuffled her wings, glaring at the cat. The cat glared back.

“Morg!” said Goldie sharply.

The bird glared one last time at the cat. Then she grabbed the handle of the coal scuttle in her beak, wrapped a claw around the rope and launched herself upward.

“Come on,” Goldie whispered to the cat, and she ducked back out the gate and squeezed through the crowd until she was standing next to the fire bell.

“Bald Thoke, god of thieves and jokers,” she whispered, slipping the lever out of her waistband, “I think you’ll like this. I
hope
you’ll like it.”

In front of her, the dancing was growing wilder than ever. Some of the sailors were trying to pick a fight.

Now
, she thought.
Now, Morg! NOW!

She looked up at the roof and saw the first puff of smoke. Her hands felt stiff and clumsy, but she gripped the lever and swung it against the bell, again and again and again and again and again.

CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG!

The sound stopped everyone in their tracks. The music died away. A fizgig sputtered out in someone’s hand.

In the sudden silence, Goldie pointed to the roof of the house, where the smoke was billowing across the face of the moon in a great black cloud. “Fire!” she screamed, at the top of her voice. “Fire!
Fire!
”

I
t didn’t seem to matter that the smoke disappeared as quickly as it had come. In this flammable city, everyone knew what to do. They leaped into action, and buckets of sand and water appeared from nowhere.

The sailors pounded on the front door of the house. There was a shout from inside. “Go away.”

“Are you mad?” cried the sailors. “The place is on fire!”

They had forgotten about the Festival and speaking in lies. They kicked at the door until it crashed open. Goldie saw Cord trying to block their entrance. One of the sailors
waded into him with his fists, but Cord managed to fight his way to a flight of narrow stairs, where he stood his ground, shouting over his shoulder, “Smudge! Git down ’ere!”

It was not only the sailors who had forgotten their lies. Fear had driven the Festival from everyone’s minds.

“We’ll be burned to the ground,” shrieked a woman behind Goldie. “They won’t let anyone upstairs to fight it.”

“Won’t they just?” cried her companion. “We’ll see about that!”

There was no time to waste. Goldie wriggled through the crowd. But before she could reach the gate, a hand grabbed her by the scruff of the neck.

The bandmaster thrust his face into hers. “What’s this?” he hissed. “What’s this you’ve dragged us into? It’s
him
, isn’t it. Didn’t I
beg
you not to get us mixed up in his business? Didn’t I? What’s he going to think when he hears that my band brought all these people here tonight? He’s going to think I was part of it!” He shook his head in fear and anguish. “Let me tell you, boy, you’ve signed my death warrant, and that of all my fellows, as surely as if you’d taken that little knife of yours and sliced our throats open!”

With a roar, he pushed her away and shouted to his musicians, “Come on, we’re getting out of here.” And he and the rest of the band clanked away down the hill.

Goldie watched them go, her hand over her mouth. Had she
really
signed their death warrants? No, she couldn’t
bear
it—

She pulled herself together. There was no time for regrets. She must get Bonnie and Toadspit out before it was too late.

She slipped through the gate, ran down the passage and dragged the coil of rope from its hiding place. Inside the house, the noise of the brawl was growing. Someone was ringing the fire bell again.

Goldie tore off her boots and shinned up onto the roof of the lean-to. The bars of the first-floor window were just above her head. She tested them, then hoisted herself up. She climbed as quickly as she could, her body pressed against the wall, her bare feet searching for crevices in the ancient wood. Her fingers scrabbled at knotholes. Her heart thundered in her ears.

By the time she came to the third story, her shoulders were aching and the rope was growing heavier and heavier. She pressed her ear to the wall. It sounded as if the sailors were farther up the staircase now, but Cord and Smudge were still holding them at bay. She took a deep breath and kept going.

The next bit was the trickiest. Centuries of sun and rain had worn this part of the building down almost to its bones. There were toeholds aplenty, but Goldie soon found that not all of them could be trusted. Sometimes they held right until
the last minute, then crumbled under her, and she had to press herself flat and cling by her fingertips while her feet thrashed frantically for another hold.

By the fourth floor, she was soaked with sweat and had almost stopped breathing a dozen times.

To her relief, the highest part of the house had been added by someone who liked decoration. There were ledges and windowsills, and crisscross patterns in the wood, and iron curlicues that stuck out invitingly. Goldie scrambled up until she was next to the topmost window. She tested one of the curlicues and slung the rope over it.

There were no bars on the window, but it was fastened from the inside. Goldie took out the lever and forced it between the frame and the sill. She wiggled it back and forth, then wrenched sharply. The catch broke. The window groaned upward, and with a roar, the noise of the fighting poured out to meet her.

She heard the crack of wood and the stamp of feet and the bellow of angry voices. Someone shouted with pain. There was a thunderous crash and the window frame rattled. Quickly Goldie slid over the sill and into the house.

The room she found herself in was empty except for a heavy table bolted to the floor. The carpet beneath her feet was sticky. In front of her, winding down into the darkness, was a staircase.

She ran down it without bothering to Conceal herself. The
whole house was shaking, and the noise of the fighting made the air as thick as syrup. She raced across the fourth-floor landing and tried the handle of the only closed door. It wasn’t locked. She threw it open, ducking backward at the same time. Something crashed past her head.