The Hush (22 page)

Three days later, they arrived in Thrace.

It was a growing city: the most densely populated area outside Weser. Its streets were hot and narrow, like strands of heated wire. They swerved and bent, this way and that: alleyways, courtyards, rooftop paths, all brimming with sweaty bodies and brickwork that hoarded the heat.

Chester moved quickly, light on his feet as he retraced old haunts. He wore a loose flannel shirt and Sam's cowboy hat sat low on his head, cloaking his face in the shadow of its rim. If he bent his head low, no one would recognise the scrawny boy who'd run away so many months ago.

‘Is it always this cramped?' Dot whispered.

Chester nodded, darting to the side as a trio of burly men shoved past them. ‘You get used to it.'

‘I don't think I want to get used to it,' Dot said, wrinkling her nose at the men's body odour. ‘I feel like an ant scurrying around in an anthill …'

Chester smiled. ‘At least we get some air.'

That was debatable. There was indeed a chink of sky overhead, startling blue in the mid-morning sun. But
sheets of laundry hung between the buildings above their heads, muffling the breeze and intensifying the stale weight of alleyway air.

As they passed a row of rubbish bins, even Chester had to hold his breath. The air didn't just smell bad, he could
taste
the stink on his tongue. Rotting eggs, old cabbage, maggoty meat …

Had
Thrace always been like this? It must have been. So many months away had spoiled him.

‘Right,' Dot said, when they burst into a market square. ‘Where are we going?'

Chester hesitated. The market was a bustle of activity, obscuring his view of the nearby streets. Farmers sold tomatoes and corn from their stalls, children squealed and darted about, and butchers shouted prices for their freshest cuts. A wrinkled busker played ‘The Captain's Cat' and coins clinked into a hat by her feet.

One man was trying to sell a shabby old griffin, which slumped in a metal cage on the back of his cart. The beast looked thin and mangy; its beak was cracked, its feathers were dull and its fur was grey with age.

‘Caught this one wild, up in the mountains!' he informed a potential customer. ‘Right real bargain he is, and strong as a –'

‘I could buy three pegasus foals for that price!'

‘True, true,' said the salesman, raising a finger, ‘but they're gettin' common as muck nowadays, ain't they? It's still a damn rare chance to get your hands on a griffin. If you're after a real impressive beast to pull your carriage, can't go past –'

‘That old thing?' The customer sniffed. ‘It couldn't pull a wheelbarrow. You'd have more luck selling it to the knackery.'

As they passed, Dot offered Chester a sly grin. ‘What do you think the captain would say if we brought back a griffin instead of a fiddle?'

‘She'd probably try to make me play it,' Chester said. ‘Just to make a point.' He looked around, trying to remember the details of the city. ‘There's a pawn shop on that street down there. They might have an old fiddle, I suppose …'

Dot shook her head. ‘You're one of Yant's spoiled nephews, remember? It has to be a shiny new instrument.'

‘Well, there's a piano shop in the eastern district,' Chester said, ‘and a woodwind shop near Rattenfanger Bridge. But they're not going to have many fiddles to choose from.'

Dot raised a suspicious eyebrow. ‘Are you looking for an excuse to go to your old workplace?'

Chester felt himself flush a little but he stammered a denial. ‘No, really – there aren't many other instrument shops here.'

‘In a city this size?'

‘I'm just telling you what I know. I figured we'd go to a pawn shop, to be honest, but if that's out …'

Chester held his breath. He knew Dot was considering it, that she was weighing up the risks of disobedience. She knew what it was like to fall for an instrument. It was exactly one week until Chester's audition, and he would never perform as well on another fiddle as he would on Goldenleaf.

Dot stared at a sausage stall for a long moment, her eyes
fixed on the smoke that painted patterns on the air. The town smelt cleaner here: there was a whiff of sizzling corn and fresh bread, and dry wind rustled through the market like a sheet.

‘All right,' she said. ‘But you'll have to wait outside – and don't you dare tell the captain about this. We'll say you bought the fiddle from that place near Rattenfanger Bridge.'

Chester stared at her. ‘Thank you.'

She gave him a hard look. ‘Don't thank me, Chester. I'm only doing this because we need your audition to go well next week.' She glanced back at the filthy alleyway and wrinkled her nose. ‘And because I don't plan to spend a minute longer in this city than we have to.'

‘I know,' Chester said. ‘I just …'

He shook his head, unable to quite believe this was happening. After all those hours dusting the fiddle, polishing it, tuning its strings and buffing the gold leaf as it sat on display in the window …

A nasty thought hit him. What if it had been sold? He'd been away for months, after all – perhaps a wealthy traveller had passed through Ashworth's Emporium and plucked Goldenleaf from its nest.

There was only one way to find out.

‘Let's go,' he said.

The Emporium was nestled in the corner of a side street, in a fog of flatulent air. Rubbish bins lined the alley outside, and a fading wooden sign swung forlornly in the shadows.

‘This is it?' Dot said, clearly unimpressed. ‘You've got your heart set on a fiddle from
this
place?'

Chester shrugged. ‘I know it doesn't look like much, but Mr Ashworth makes quality instruments. Besides,
I
made this fiddle.'

Dot didn't look convinced but she nodded. Chester moved towards the door but stopped when Dot suddenly grabbed his forearm. ‘What?'

‘I told you: you're staying out here.'

‘But you'll need me to point out which fiddle –'

Chester stopped. He had caught a glint of gold in the shop window, behind a layer of dust. He stepped forwards and laid his fingers against the glass.

There it was.

It sat in the same position as always: high upon a pedestal, surrounded by velvet cushions. The gold decorations looked garish, but the wood underneath shone dark mahogany. Goldenleaf. Chester stared at the strings, picturing his fingers upon them. He imagined plucking out a note, a scale, a melody. All that lay between him and this fiddle was glass and dust.

Mr Ashworth needs to hire a new assistant
, he thought, remembering all the hours he'd spent scrubbing those windows.

‘Is that it?' Dot said.

Chester nodded.

‘Wait here, then.' She strode across to the door and gave it a push, but it refused to open. Dot frowned then jangled the doorknob. Nothing. ‘It's locked!'

‘Hang on,' Chester said. He turned to the alleyway
wall and retrieved the spare key from behind a loose brick. ‘Here you go.'

‘I can't just break in,' Dot said. ‘If your boss catches me, he'll think I'm a thief.' She paused then amended this: ‘He'll realise I'm a thief.'

‘So I'll come in with you,' Chester said.

Dot gave him a hard look. ‘Do you trust this man with your life?'

In all honesty, Chester wasn't sure. Mr Ashworth had always sent a shiver up his spine. He had always asked about Chester and his father in the tone of a taxidermist enquiring about a burrow of rabbits in the area. But the old man had never hurt Chester. He was just a little odd, that was all. Having a strange personality didn't make you a murderer …

Even as he ran along with these thoughts, Chester knew he was lying to himself. He was making up excuses to walk into that shop. Now he was here with Goldenleaf in his sights, he couldn't bear the thought of walking away.

‘Yeah,' he said. ‘I trust him.'

And before Dot could protest, Chester unlocked the door and led the way into the shop.

‘Mr Ashworth's probably having lunch out the back,' he said. ‘He locks up when he doesn't want customers.'

A bell jingled overhead as they entered. Chester inhaled the scent of the shop: wood and polish, as familiar as the salty cheese sandwiches his father would pack for his workday lunches. But there was an added touch of dust, now, and mustiness in the air.

‘Mr Ashworth?'

No response. Chester frowned then turned to Dot. To his surprise, she had picked up a nearby clarinet and was holding it to her lips. Her eyes were narrow and she looked sharp with nerves. If they came under attack, did Dot really think she could get out a defensive tune in time? A bullet would always move faster than a melody.

‘Mr Ashworth?'

Something crunched beneath Chester's feet. He looked down to see the broken shards of a sorcery lamp. The shards were covered in dust, as though they'd lain untidied for weeks or even months.

A cold prickle brushed his neck. This wasn't right.

Chester reached up to the ceiling, where another sorcery lamp hung. He brushed it with his fingers in a clockwise swirl, coaxing up the Music that would bathe the room in light. As it began to glow crimson, shadows ran the colour of blood.

‘I don't think anyone's been here in a while,' Dot said.

Chester took another step forwards, wincing at the crack beneath his feet, passing a rack of piano-tuning keys to reach the back room. He pushed the door open, fingers strung with tension, and slipped inside.

The room was destroyed. The tapestry hung in tatters from its railing, desk drawers were upside down on the floor, their contents discarded in an avalanche of papers and stationery. Chester waded forwards through the wreckage, heart sinking as he realised the extent of the destruction.

Half-finished instruments lay smashed in their stands. The air stank of mildew, and more broken glass crunched beneath his feet. Following his nose, he discovered the
source of the stink: an upturned cup of milk, its contents long since soaked into the rug beneath the desk.

‘Mr Ashworth always drank hot milk,' he said, a little stunned. ‘He always …'

‘Chester,' Dot said, grabbing his arm. ‘I think we should leave.'

‘What? Why?'

Dot pointed. Chester looked up from the mess of the mildewed rug to see a dark spatter on the wall. Almost like …

‘Blood,' he whispered.

‘How come no one's been here to clean up?' Dot ran a finger across the desk and held it up to examine the grime. A thin layer of dust blanketed the disorder, much like the dust on the shop's front window. ‘Someone must have noticed that the shop's been closed for weeks …'

Chester shook his head. ‘Mr Ashworth was a strange man. Sometimes he'd go away for months without telling anyone – he'd head off to study new Musical developments in Weser City, or he'd go foraging northward for new types of wood to make his instruments.'

‘So even if the shop was locked up for months –'

‘– the neighbours might not see anything odd about it,' Chester said. ‘We might be the first people to set foot in the shop since …' He wet his lips, stunned by the horror of the scene. ‘Since whoever did this to Mr Ashworth.'

‘We'd better get out of here,' Dot said. ‘In case they come back.'

‘But if this happened weeks ago …'

‘They might have set security spells.'

Chester tensed. Dot was right. When they'd unlocked the door, or when he'd been foolish enough to light the sorcery lamp … any of those actions might have triggered a remote alarm globe. Mr Ashworth's attacker might already know they were here.

They hurried back into the main shopfront. Fighting the urge to run, Chester thought about the risks they'd already taken to be here. He couldn't leave with nothing! He unlocked the front window display, fingers trembling a little, and grabbed Goldenleaf from its perch. He had only a moment to relish the feel of the fiddle against his skin – that familiar old friend, with the waiting hum of its strings – before Dot slammed an empty fiddle case onto the countertop.

‘Hurry,' she said, voice low.

Chester snatched a packet of spare strings from a display rack. He pocketed the strings, placed the fiddle and bow into the case, then closed the lid and buckled it up. Just as he was clicking the final buckle into place, the front door flew open.

A figure stood silhouetted in the gloom of the alleyway. The figure took a slow step forwards – and suddenly Chester's mind was back in Hamelin as he and Sam had fled through the cornfields. As a Songshaper had pointed a gun at his head. The same Songshaper who stood before him now.

It was Nathaniel Glaucon.

Susannah left the post office with a lightness in her step, with Sam and Travis trailing behind her. The city of Thrace stank as badly as usual – rotting rubbish, overflowing drains, a sweaty morass of human bodies – but in an odd way, it reminded her of home. As a fishing port, Delos was home to its fair share of unpleasant smells.

Chester had grown up here. It was a strange thought. She imagined him as a child, laughing and playing in these tangled streets. He might have run errands in the market, or scampered through the nearby alleyways …

As she thought of Chester, the lightness in her faded. She could picture him here, his dark eyes marked by an innocence so different from the cynicism in Travis or the hardness in Sam … Or the ruthlessness she tasted in herself.

For Chester, a song was more than just music. More than melody or rhythm, sound or beat or the silence in between. It was air. It was food and water, life itself. He inhaled each note as though it might fill his belly, soak through his skin and paint his bones with starlight.

In a way, Susannah envied him. She had never been a musical girl. Growing up poor on the docks, she'd never had the chance. Her father was a sailor and Susannah's first love was the sea. As a child, she had clambered high up the masts of ships in harbour. She had learnt to scamper up ratlines and swing from the yards, just as Chester had learnt to coax a tune from fiddle strings.

Now, they both found themselves turning those talents to thieving. They had seized the skills they learnt and loved as children and turned them into tools as practical as knives or lamps or lock-picks. There was something cold in that, perhaps. Something hollow.

She remembered Chester at dinner, playing with his stew bowl. He had such long fingers: the fingers of a violinist, fingers that could coax music from a bow, or a song from silence. It was that music that made him useful to the gang. It made him valuable.

It made him vulnerable.

With that thought, Susannah's breath turned cold. Ever since Chester had arrived, she had tried to avoid thinking about his role in the plan. It was a role she'd set out so long ago, so coldly, so utterly without compassion or emotion. The role was to be filled by a Songshaper who was to be a pawn, to be sacrificed in her final game with the Conservatorium.

But now …

Well, now that Songshaper was Chester and she didn't know what to do. She couldn't go through with her original plan, she knew that now. For over a week she had been in denial, refusing to consider the flaw at the heart
of her scheme. To ask Chester to throw his life away … the thought made her chest seize up in a terrible tightness, like the howl of a badly tuned banjo. She
knew
Chester. She knew him as a person, as a friend. Perhaps, even, as more …

But they were running out of time, and she was out of ideas. She couldn't think of any other way to achieve her goal in the Conservatorium. How else was she supposed to finish the plan? Only a week left until the auditions … If she postponed the heist, they wouldn't have another chance for an entire year. She had to find a way to –

‘All right, Captain?' Sam said.

Susannah blinked, startled. She realised she must have been staring into space and gave him an apologetic look. ‘Just tired, I think.'

Sam frowned a little, as though trying to assess the creases in her eyes. ‘You just looked a little … upset.'

‘I'm fine.' She hated the snap in her own voice but shook her head sharply to reinforce the tone. She didn't want to talk about this. She couldn't afford to talk about it. She would think of something. Another option. Another plan.

There was still time.

‘Where to next, Captain?' Travis said.

Susannah turned to Travis, grateful for the change in topic. ‘We could kill some time in the market before we meet with the others.'

Travis brightened up. ‘I once met a lovely girl at a market stall – Annie, her name was. Gorgeous blonde hair, all tumbling over her shoulders while she sold hot sausages to the riffraff …' He sighed. ‘Shame her voice was as shrill as an off-key viola.'

‘No one's good enough for you, are they?'

‘Oh, it's not like that,' Travis said. ‘I can't expect every girl to meet my own standard of perfection.' He gestured down at his own impeccable outfit and winked at her. ‘I mean, can you imagine the girl who could live up to this?'

The market square was hot and dusty but thankfully smelt of fruit and sausages rather than rubbish. They bought a loaf of bread, so fresh that steam rose from its insides when they cracked it open. It was sweet – laced with sugar and currants – and the taste made Susannah's tongue tingle with pleasure.

After a moment, she realised that Sam wasn't eating. He was surveying the crowd with narrowed eyes, his limbs as tense as trip-wires.

‘Sam?' she said. ‘What's wrong?'

He didn't answer. For a moment she feared it was the music of the nearby busker, manipulating Sam's emotions. But she was sure it was only music, not Music with a capital ‘M'. And besides, the tune was upbeat and cheerful – if Sam's behaviour was down to melodic interference, shouldn't he be smiling and bouncing around in response?

No, it wasn't the music. Something else was wrong.

She touched his arm lightly, trying not to startle him. ‘Sam? What do you see?'

Sam's eyes were fixed on a figure in the crowd. Susannah followed his gaze, frowning, and settled on a man in an olive-green coat. A neatly trimmed goatee curled below his lip, and he wore a silver pendant in the shape of a nautilus shell.
Songshaper.

‘Nathaniel Glaucon,' Sam hissed.

‘Who?'

‘The Shaper that chased us out of Hamelin,' Sam said. ‘Damn near put a bullet in Chester's head.'

Susannah stiffened. Her body was tense and alert, now – ready to charge, or pounce, or flee. Survival instinct flooded her veins, screaming at her to run for it …

But she couldn't run. Two members of her gang were still here, somewhere in the sprawling mass of the city. She was their captain and she was their friend. She wouldn't leave them. And until she knew the Songshaper's purpose here, she wouldn't let this danger out of her sight.

The marketplace bustled around her, a sea of shouts and clanks and the sizzle of roasting corncobs. Susannah followed Nathaniel, who wove through the crowd like an expert, dodging and weaving through groups of passing shoppers. He moved ever closer to the edge of the square, shifting in the direction of a particular side street …

‘He's not here to go shopping,' Susannah said, pausing a moment for the others to catch up. ‘He's looking for something.'

Or someone
, her mind added.

Susannah stamped down on that thought and countered her panic with another dash forwards. For a moment she lost sight of him as he slipped into the crowd, just another shadow in a tangled knot of limbs. ‘Where …?'

‘That way,' Travis pointed. He was taller than her by at least a foot and he peered over the heads of the bustling shoppers. ‘Down that street to the right.'

They hurried after the Songshaper, ducking and weaving through the crowd. People swore as Susannah shoved past,
but she waved them off with a muffled apology. After almost a minute of elbows, protests and assorted curses, she was funnelled by the crowd into the side street.

‘Down there, Captain!' Travis called, somewhere in the crowd behind her. ‘To your left, just near –'

His voice was drowned out in the rush. Susannah cursed under her breath. They were too close to the market and it was nearing noon, the busiest time of the day, when local workers swarmed to purchase lunch from the stalls.

She pushed into the side street, where the crowds mercifully thinned. This street was narrow but mostly deserted. The main source of life was a row of rubbish bins, buzzing with the wing-beats of tiny black insects.

‘I assume this isn't a popular shopping area,' Travis said in distaste, holding his nose as they passed a doorway.

They reached the end of the street and peered around the corner. Susannah spotted the Songshaper immediately: a lone silhouette against the bricks of the next alleyway.

‘Come on,' she whispered. ‘This way.'

She peeked into passing windows, studying the types of shops in the area. Taxidermist, embroiderer, glass blower … These weren't popular mainstream shops, like bakeries or tailors. They were curiosities, mostly, selling odds and ends and offering peculiar services. Such shopkeepers couldn't afford the rent in more popular areas.

Susannah couldn't imagine an instrument shop in this part of the city. Were they barking up the wrong tree? Perhaps it was just a coincidence that Nathaniel Glaucon was in Thrace; perhaps he wasn't looking for Chester after all …

Up ahead, Nathaniel vanished through a doorway.

Susannah turned to the others, the question on her lips.

‘Don't reckon there'd be an instrument shop down there, Captain,' Sam said, frowning. ‘In all them shadows. How's it supposed to get any customers?'

‘Perhaps it isn't an instrument shop,' Travis said. ‘It could be a secret meeting place for Songshapers or something. Perhaps he's sending a message to his superiors in Weser.'

The others gave him incredulous looks.

‘What?' Travis said. ‘It could be.'

Susannah shook her head. ‘Well, only one way to find out.'

A minute later she stood in front of the shop. Dust clung like skin to the window, but she could still make out the shapes inside. A clarinet, a banjo, a gleaming silver triangle. Above the door, a faded old sign read
Ashworth's Emporium
.

‘I'm going to kill them,' she muttered. ‘Both of them.'

‘Is this where Chester used to work?' Travis said.

She nodded.

‘Well, I can hardly imagine it had many customers, down here in –'

He was cut off by a shout inside the building. They froze. Susannah looked through the window and saw two figures: Dot and Chester, posed defensively behind the counter …

Nathaniel Glaucon stepped into her line of sight.

‘Well, boy,' he said. ‘Long time no see.'

Susannah held her breath and listened. The shop
door was partially ajar, allowing the indoor conversation to trickle out onto the street. Sam moved towards the door but Susannah held up a hand to halt him. If they simply barged inside, Nathaniel might shoot someone in the chaos. They needed time to think, to assess their options …

Chester clutched a fiddle case to his chest defensively, like a father protecting his baby. ‘What the hell are you doing here?'

‘Looking for you, boy.' Nathaniel stepped forwards. Glass crunched beneath his boots. ‘Did you really think you'd get away so easily?'

‘What have you done to Mr Ashworth?'

‘Who?'

‘Mr Ashworth! The man who owned this shop, you –'

Nathaniel Glaucon glanced around the shop, as though noticing his surroundings for the first time. ‘This? You think I had anything to do with this?' He shook his head. ‘Oh no, boy. I have no interest in this shop. This is the first time in my life I've set foot in the place.'

‘Then how did you know I'd be here?'

‘Because it's my duty, boy.' Nathaniel pulled a sphere from his cloak. ‘I'm here to bring a fugitive to justice.'

His fingers stroked the glass surface, coaxing out a quiet gold shine. A faint trickle of light concentrated in its centre. A swirl of golden smoke rose from the globe, fizzling and hissing, as its tendrils melted into the shape of a familiar face.

Susannah stared at it, horrified. This globe wasn't just a radar designed to pick up illegal connections to the Song.
This device was personalised. It was programmed to locate a specific person.

Chester.

‘Do you like it?' Nathaniel said. ‘An impressive little device, is it not? And right now it is screaming through my fingertips that my target is right here in this room …'

‘That's a locator globe!' Dot's voice was high, but she sounded more excited than afraid. ‘They're not supposed to exist! It's impossible to lock a tracking device onto a single soul's melody – there's too much interference from the Song!'

‘Oh, it's possible.' Nathaniel took another step forwards. Even through the dusty window, Susannah could make out his smirk. ‘Quite a recent invention, but certainly possible.'

He drew a pistol from his belt and aimed it straight at Chester's head.

‘And do you know what else is possible?' He flicked off the safety catch. ‘Ensuring that justice is done.'

Susannah jerked to action. ‘Go, go, go!'

There was a terrible bang as the pistol fired, so sharp and shocking that Susannah's head jolted backwards as the sound slapped her ears.

Sam was onto Nathaniel in an instant, knocking him to the floor, his beefy hands wrapping around the Songshaper's throat. Dot was shouting, stumbling aside with a cry of outrage. But in that moment, Susannah was barely aware of them. She staggered forwards, her entire body so tense that she felt ready to shatter. In the aftermath
of that gunshot blast, all that mattered was Chester.
Where is he? Where is he?

He couldn't be …

Then she saw him. He stood behind the wrestling figures, his arms still tight around the fiddle case. He was pale with shock, but still standing. Still alive. Susannah let out a breath – more of a cry, really – when she spotted the bullet hole in the wall.

It had been close. Too close.

‘Captain!' Dot said. ‘How'd you find us?'

Nathaniel Glaucon gave a furious screech, thrashing wildly as Sam threw his own weight upon Nathaniel's heaving chest. The pistol skittered across the floor; Travis scooped it up with a cry of triumph. Nathaniel kicked and writhed, snarling like a feral dog, but it was no use. He was trapped. He pursed his lips to hum a melody but Sam slapped a hand across his mouth.