Secret Guardians Read online

  Krieg’s face paled, and she leaped into the cart. ‘Daisy,’ she said, ‘stop it!’

  Otte’s expression didn’t change.

  Duckling and Pummel scrambled up beside him. ‘I think she’s having one of her fits,’ said Duckling, in a loud voice.

  The arms-mistress nodded, and wrapped one arm around Otte so tightly that he couldn’t do anything but struggle against her.

  Old Lady Skint stood up and strolled across the clearing, with her men at her heels. She knew a problem when she saw one, too. Only for her, other people’s problems were a good thing. ‘Liddle girl ’avin’ a fit, is she?’ she asked mildly.

  ‘She’s had them all her life,’ said Duckling. ‘Best if we keep her quiet over here. Don’t want to interrupt your game.’

  Skint sucked at her teeth. ‘Bolter used to ’ave fits, and the only way to bring ’im out of ’em was to let ’im do what ’e wanted. Why don’t you try it?’

  It sounded like a suggestion. But it wasn’t, not with the slavers standing around the cart with their knives and pistols. Not with their eyes so sharp, and murder in the air.

  Krieg’s free hand crept towards her sword.

  ‘What’s this? What’s this?’ cried Grandpa. And to Duckling’s relief, he came hobbling across the clearing, holding up his skirts with one hand and leaning on his cane with the other.

  ‘I was on the brink of winning, dear Ruby,’ he cried. ‘I swear the next card I pulled would have been the Sting in the Tail. But you deserted me. And for what? A foolish child who has something wrong with her brain pan.’

  ‘The lady thinks we ought to let Daisy do as she wants,’ said Duckling.

  ‘An excellent idea,’ said Grandpa. ‘We should have tried it years ago. Release her, please, Ember, she has caused enough of an upset. We will all ignore her, except for Clodhopper and Tanglefoot. They can make sure she does not walk under a passing cow. Now—’

  With a coy look, he slipped his arm through Old Lady Skint’s, and began to draw her back to the fire. ‘The game is teetering on the edge, is it not? I will wager you – let me see – we have very little coin, but we did have a windfall a few days ago. I will wager you two silver gloats.’

  Old Lady Skint pursed her lips, as if she might refuse the wager. But something must have changed her mind, because she said, ‘Come on, shipmates, I’m gunna win this. No, not you, Fiddle. You stay and ’elp. Make sure the liddle girl don’t come to no ’arm.’

  The rest of the slavers followed her back to the fire. But Fiddle stayed where he was, grinning with one side of his mouth and scowling with the other.

  Krieg was still hanging onto Otte.

  Whatever she’s protecting him from, thought Duckling, it must be bad. But we’ve got no choice, not if we want to get out of this alive.

  ‘Let him go, Ember,’ she said.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Krieg’s arm loosened, and the Heir wriggled away from her. Fiddle watched closely.

  But Otte didn’t do anything at all dangerous. He picked through the bandages he’d made over the last week, and chose three of them. He took out two of his little glass jars, mumbling, ‘Gooseflower for pain. Devil’s foot for infection.’

  He arranged his selections on the seat of the cart. Then he took a deep breath, and the life came back to his eyes.

  But when he saw what he had done, his face turned as white as the bandages.

  One of the Harshman’s favourite occupations was killing people. Actually, he enjoyed killing anything – flies, pigs, passing dogs. But people were particularly satisfying because shedding their blood made him less dead.

  When he had first been dragged from his grave, he had been little more than iron teeth and burning eyes, set in a frame of bones and darkness. No one could see him, and he had few thoughts of his own.

  But then he had killed the beekeeper, the guard, the cooks and Grafine von Stich.

  With each death he had become more visible and more alive. Wrinkled skin now covered his yellow skull. Half a dozen hairs sprouted from his chin. His nose was almost recognisable as a nose.

  He was also a lot more powerful than he had been. So when he went after the Margravine, he did not wait for nightfall, or skulk in dark corners.

  He went straight to the Great Chamber.

  It was almost boringly easy. As he approached, the guards stationed at the massive doors slid to the floor as if they were boneless, and began to snore. Their helmets and gauntlets crackled with ice. So did the bloodstained banners that adorned the walls of the Chamber, and the stuffed bears that stood sentinel below the banners, and the war axes and spears lined up between the bears.

  The fires that roared in the huge fireplaces hissed in protest, but they could not stand against the cold that the Harshman brought with him. The flames sank to a sullen glow. The candles that lit the Chamber flickered and went out, one by one. The hunting dogs fell to the floor, sound asleep, alongside the grafs and grafines, the serving men and women, and the children.

  The boy who was pretending to be the Heir slumped on his stool. Beside him, on the Faithful Throne, the Margravine uttered a single word of outrage. The bear claws around her neck rattled. Her hand clutched at an unsheathed sword.

  Then she too fell asleep.

  The Harshman considered killing all of them. There was a barely remembered word trying to surface in his mind – what was it? Ah yes. Fun. Killing these people and their dogs would be – fun.

  But it would take time, and he did not have time, not if he wanted to break out of the Strong-hold and go after the Heir.

  He clanked down the length of the chamber with his hawk flying above him, and if a scarred arm or a flea-bitten leg was in his way, he trod on it. When he came to the throne, he gazed at the Margravine. Her face was pale. Her fair hair was tightly plaited against her head. The scar on her chin showed she was a warrior.

  But that was no protection against the Harshman. ‘I … Am … Going … To … Kill … You,’ he said to the sleeping woman. ‘Then … I … Will … Find … Your … Son … And … Kill … Him … Too.’

  His armour creaked. The hawk above his head cried out.

  The Harshman drew his sword …

  I wish I knew what was happening, thought Pummel.

  Lord Rump and Old Lady Skint had settled back into their game of Scorpion. The man who’d tried to catch the chicken had found some winter apples in the back of the cart, and was eating his way through them. Two other men were digging into a jar of jam with their fingers.

  Everything seemed calm. But even Pummel, who wasn’t very good at reading undercurrents, could tell that the danger hadn’t passed. If anything, it had gotten worse.

  He sat in the cart, trying to work out how he could get Otte to safety. There was no point running away down the road. The slavers would catch them in no time.

  We’ll have to hide, thought Pummel, and he opened his fingers for just long enough to show Duckling that he still held the raashk.

  The smile never left her face, but she caught Arms-mistress Krieg’s eye and something passed between them.

  On the other side of the cart, the men with the jam had begun to argue. As their voices grew louder, Old Lady Skint shouted, ‘Shut your gobs, shipmates. Or I’ll shut ’em meself.’

  Lord Rump took a new card from the pack, and cried out triumphantly, ‘The Sting in the Tail! That does it, my lady. The Sting beats all. Dame Swagger has won.’

  Old Lady Skint bared her teeth at him. ‘Maybe,’ she growled. ‘But some stings are fatal if they’re not treated. And medicine’s costly in the countryside.’

  Pummel wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but he knew it was important. Duckling was following every word, and so were most of the slavers.

  Except for the two who were arguing. Their disagreement suddenly boiled over. Knives came out. Faces twisted with fury. And before any of their fellows could stop them, they flew at each other.

  Old Lady Skint leaped to her feet, bellowing, ‘I
told you to shut up, you cod-livered, half-faced maggots!’ And she hauled the fighters apart, whacking them around the ears with her big fists.

  The two men rubbed their faces, leaving streaks of red.

  ‘I should leave you to bleed to death!’ shouted Old Lady Skint. ‘But I’m too soft-hearted for me own good. Fiddle, dig us out some bandage—’

  She broke off. Her eyes drifted around the clearing until they came to rest on Otte. ‘Bandages,’ she said, in ridiculously sweet tones. ‘Ooh look, the liddle girl ’as some ready for us.’

  She surged through her men, knocking them aside when they didn’t get out of the way quickly enough. ‘Liddle Daisy,’ she said, in that same horribly sweet voice. ‘May I borrow your bandages?’

  Otte’s eyes were fixed on the floor of the cart. Arms-mistress Krieg was breathing hard.

  ‘How fortunate,’ crooned Old Lady Skint, ‘that you ’ave ’em ready.’ She picked up one of the jars and dipped her thumb in it. ‘What’s this, liddle Daisy?’

  ‘Devil’s foot,’ whispered Otte. Two of his mice peeped out of his sleeve. ‘A salve to stop wounds going bad.’

  Pummel stared at him in amazement. Otte had it all laid out before anything happened. He’s got some sort of witchery. And we never knew!

  ‘Such a clever liddle girl.’ Old Lady Skint patted Otte’s head, and he flinched away from her. The mice dived back inside his sleeve.

  ‘She has always been interested in such things,’ said Arms-mistress Krieg, in a tight voice. ‘She carries bandages with her everywhere, in case someone is hurt.’

  ‘And now someone is ’urt,’ said Old Lady Skint. ‘How about you do the honours, liddle Daisy?’

  She grabbed Otte by the elbow, hauled him out of the cart and carried him across the clearing, not bothering with his crutches. Arms-mistress Krieg would have followed, but the pistols stopped her. So Pummel and Duckling went in her place.

  ‘Ooh look, you’ve got just the right number of bandages,’ said Old Lady Skint. ‘One for Bolter’s shoulder. One for ’is arm. And one for your ear, Puddin’, to ’old it in place so it don’t fall off. How’d you come to ’ave just the right number, liddle Daisy? Lucky guess, was it? Or somethin’ else?’

  Otte hunched his shoulders and said nothing. But the slaver captain didn’t seem to mind. She pushed Bolter and Puddin’ to their knees and dropped Otte beside them, along with the bandages and little glass jars. ‘Mince!’ she shouted. ‘Get water. Now.’

  She watched keenly as the Heir of Neuhalt bathed Bolter’s shoulder, smeared it with salve, and wrapped it in a bandage.

  ‘Very neat,’ she said. ‘Very tidy. Very … witchy.’

  Over by the cart, Arms-mistress Krieg snarled, ‘She is no witch. She is just lucky.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Old Lady Skint. ‘I ain’t like some people, who don’t believe in witchery. And I ain’t like others, who don’t like it. I don’t mind a witch, so long as she’s part of my crew.’ She beamed. ‘Which Daisy is now.’

  No, thought Pummel.

  ‘No!’ snarled Arms-mistress Krieg, raising her sword. ‘You shall not have her!’

  Old Lady Skint’s eyes hardened. ‘Scuttle. Mince. Ugly. Secure the snotties.’

  Mince seized Otte and held a pistol to the boy’s head. Two other men grabbed hold of Pummel and Duckling.

  ‘Now you,’ Old Lady Skint said to Krieg, ‘had best throw down your weapons, or the liddle girl gets ’er brains blown out, witch or no witch.’

  With a groan, Arms-mistress Krieg dropped her sword. Fiddle snatched it up. The arms-mistress took a knife from her belt and dropped that too.

  ‘And the rest,’ said Old Lady Skint.

  Arms-mistress Krieg shook her head, but then she took another knife from her boot, and handed it to Fiddle.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Fiddle. ‘Mince over there ’as an awfully shaky trigger finger, don’t you, Mince? It’d be a shame if ’e slipped.’

  Mince laughed and ground the barrel of the pistol against Otte’s forehead.

  Pummel flinched. The arms-mistress cried, ‘That is all! Do not hurt her!’

  Old Lady Skint bent down and peered into Otte’s face. ‘Are you ’urt, liddle witch? No? Good.’

  As Fiddle tied Arms-mistress Krieg’s hands behind her back, Pummel watched in agony. This can’t get any worse, he thought.

  But then it did.

  Otte’s eyes went blank, and he reached forward, trying to get back to the cart and his potions.

  ‘That’s interestin’,’ said Old Lady Skint. ‘We’ve taken Ember’s sword and knives. And the children can’t ’ardly move in case their throats get cut or their brains blown out. But accordin’ to the liddle witch ’ere, somethin’ else is gunna ’appen. You gunna kick up a fuss, Dame What’s-’er-name?’

  ‘I am too old for fusses,’ said Lord Rump with great dignity.

  ‘Mebbe so,’ said Old Lady Skint. ‘But let’s be sure of it. Grab ’er, boys!’

  And before Lord Rump could react, he was trussed up too.

  Pummel sagged in his captor’s arms. Now all hope was truly lost. Otte would be taken away, and the rest of them would probably be killed on the spot.

  Duckling was keeping a close eye on Grandpa. He knew that Otte was the true Heir of Neuhalt, and if he could see a way to use that information, he would. He’d sell anyone, if the price was right.

  But Mince stuffed a gag in Lord Rump’s mouth before he could utter a word, which meant that the secret of Otte’s identity was safe for now. Krieg wouldn’t say anything, and neither would Pummel.

  As for Duckling, it felt strange to hold such a large bargaining chip and not use it. But she was trying very hard to be more like Pummel and less like Grandpa. So she wouldn’t say anything either.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Old Lady Skint put her hands on her hips and inspected her captives. ‘The question now is, what are we gunna do with yez?’

  ‘Take the liddle witch with us,’ said Mince. ‘Slit the throats of the others.’

  ‘Not s’posed to kill folk in Neuhalt,’ said Fiddle.

  ‘Oo’s a good little boy then,’ sneered Mince. ‘Doin’ what the Privy Council tell ’im.’

  Fiddle shook his head. ‘It’s just common sense. We’ve got a nice liddle deal goin’ ’ere, and we shouldn’t muck it up. I say we sell the rest of ’em to the salt mines.’

  Mince puffed out his chest, offended. ‘Not s’posed to do that in Neuhalt, neither. Not unless they’re Saffies.’

  ‘And oo’s gunna know about it?’ retorted Fiddle. ‘If we kill ’em, there’s dead bodies to be rid of. If we sell ’em to the salt mines, there’s coin. I know which I’d rather.’ He turned to his captain. ‘We won’t get much for the old dame, but the others should fetch a decent price.’

  ‘They should indeed,’ said Old Lady Skint, and she nodded at Ugly, Mince and Scuttle. ‘Throw the snotties in the cart.’

  The three men picked up the children and tossed them into the back of the cart, where they landed on top of each other. Otte grabbed his bag of potions and began to sort through it.

  Duckling caught Grandpa’s eye. It was the slyest of looks, nothing that anyone else would have noticed. Then she breathed slow and deep, and readied herself. Pummel had said that the raashk still worked. She hoped he was right.

  Fiddle strapped the arms-mistress’s sword to his own belt, and Old Lady Skint picked up Grandpa’s walking cane. ‘Let’s get goin’,’ she said. ‘We’ve a long journey ahead. Mebbe those bandages are for our blisters.’

  Duckling caught Grandpa’s eye again and gave a tiny nod.

  At that, Lord Rump let out the most terrible groan. He tried to say something through his gag. His eyes rolled up. His knees began to buckle.

  Duckling screamed, ‘Granny! Your heart!’ And she dived towards the corner of the cart, crying, ‘Her pills, where are her pills?’

  Pummel stared at Lord Rump, horrified. One of the slavers laughed.
<
br />   Duckling’s fingers closed over a familiar jar. ‘I’ve found them, Granny,’ she shouted. ‘Hang on!’ She unscrewed the top of the jar with shaking hands – and threw a fistful of pepper in the face of the nearest man.

  He fell to the ground, howling and rubbing his eyes. Every single slaver in the clearing stared at him.

  That’s when Krieg attacked.

  Even unarmed, with her hands tied behind her back, the arms-mistress was a force to be reckoned with. She kicked the pistol out of Fiddle’s hand, then threw herself against him so he couldn’t get to his knives. Mince tried to grab her, and she kicked him too, then elbowed Ugly so hard in the belly that he fell to his knees groaning.

  Grandpa gave a muffled roar and launched himself at Old Lady Skint. She was a big woman, but Grandpa was bigger. His forehead hit her nose. Duckling heard a crack.

  Skint’s men rushed to her aid, shouting at each other. They fired their pistols into the air. They tried to control Arms-mistress Krieg, who was still kicking anyone she could reach.

  For a precious moment, no one was looking at the children.

  Duckling grabbed hold of Otte with one hand and Pummel with the other, and hissed, ‘Now!’

  Pummel shot her a single startled glance. Then he put the raashk to his eye, took a deep breath, and tipped the three of them off the cart and into the solid rock face behind them.

  While parts of the Strong-hold still slept under the Harshman’s icy influence, and other parts woke to the shock and horror of an assassination that had somehow happened right in front of them, the Harshman inspected himself.

  To his delight, he found that skin now covered his hands as well as his skull. His ears had begun to look almost exactly like ears, and in the cage of his ribs there was a heart – though it was a shrivelled, blackened thing that did not beat.

  What’s more, he was beginning to feel things that he had not felt for five hundred years. Old rage crawled through his bones. Old hatreds gnawed at him like rats. Old memories surged up so bright and hard that he could see the long-distant past as if it was yesterday.