Museum of Thieves Page 6

  She tried the door that led to the museum’s front rooms, but it was locked. ‘Have you got a key?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the boy. ‘Maybe not.’ And he turned and walked off.

  Goldie ran after him, keeping well away from the slaughterbird. ‘Didn’t you hear me? I’m going to give myself up.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll really help,’ said the boy sarcastically.

  Goldie flushed. ‘You can’t keep me here, not against my will.’

  ‘No one’s keeping you anywhere,’ said the boy.

  ‘Yes, you are. The door’s locked!’

  ‘Can’t you get past a little thing like a locked door?’ The boy snorted. ‘I don’t know why Sinew thinks you’re going to be so useful.’

  Goldie stopped dead. She had almost forgotten that she wasn’t here by chance, that she had been led here. Driven here. ‘Useful?’ she said. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the boy over his shoulder.

  ‘Why did Sinew bring me here? Why did he hide me? What does he want?’

  ‘No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-thi-i-i-i-i-ing,’ mocked the slaughterbird.

  ‘I am going back,’ Goldie called after them.

  The boy heaved a loud sigh, and turned around. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You can do what you like, for all I care. If you love your precious Guardians so much, go and throw yourself on their mercy—’

  ‘I don’t love them! I hate them!’

  ‘—but it won’t do your parents any good.’ His voice was bitter now. ‘They’ll still be sent to the House of Repentance. And it’ll only make things worse for them, knowing that you’re in Care.’

  ‘Ca-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-are.’

  Goldie didn’t want to believe him. But deep in her heart she knew that he was right. Once the Blessed Guardians got their hands on someone, they did not let go.

  Oh, Pa! Oh, Ma! I’m so sorry!

  She could have wept then, out of fear and guilt and fury, but the boy and the bird were watching her. So she said, as calmly as she could, ‘Well then, I— I— I’ll go to Spoke.’

  ‘A lot of good that’ll do,’ said the boy, turning away again. ‘At least if you stay here you might be able to help.’ He sniffed. ‘Though I doubt it.’

  ‘Help?’ said Goldie. ‘You mean help Ma and Pa? How?’

  The only answer was a derisive croak from the slaughterbird, and before long the boy and the bird were out of sight, hidden by rows of cabinets and display cases.

  Goldie tried the door again, though she knew it would not open. She felt as if she was teetering on the blade of a knife. On one side of the blade lay Spoke, and Ma’s relatives, and safety, if she could reach it. On the other side was the museum with its unanswered questions and its dangers (a slaughterbird!) – and the possibility that she might be able to help . . .

  When she caught up with the boy, he didn’t seem at all pleased to see her. The bird on his shoulder looked bigger and blacker and more terrifying than ever.

  ‘Um . . . what’s its name?’ said Goldie.

  ‘She,’ said the boy. ‘Morg is a she, not an it.’

  ‘Mo-o-o-o-o-o-o-org.’ The slaughterbird ruffled its feathers and glared at Goldie.

  She took a step backwards. ‘Does it— Does she bite?’

  The boy’s mouth twisted in an unpleasant smile. ‘Yes. She likes eyes especially. If you were lying on the ground with a broken leg, she’d wait until you were too weak to fight her off, then she’d peck your eyes out one by one. Plop. Plop.’

  He’s trying to scare me, thought Goldie. He doesn’t know that I’m scared half to death already.

  ‘That sort of thing doesn’t happen,’ she said. ‘Not nowadays. Not here.’

  The boy shook his head as if he couldn’t believe how stupid she was. ‘You think you’re still in Jewel,’ he said, ‘but you’re not. You’re in the museum now – and anything can happen.’

  The back rooms of the museum were very different from the front. The ceilings were high, and the walls were lined with huge gilt-framed paintings of soldiers with long side-whiskers, and fat-faced queens in old-fashioned dresses.

  One of the paintings seemed to stand out from the others. ‘Who’s that?’ said Goldie, pointing at a young girl in brightly polished armour with a sword and longbow in her hands. On a banner above the girl’s head, a black wolf snarled.

  ‘Some old princess,’ said the boy.

  ‘She’s not old.’

  The boy rolled his eyes. ‘I meant olden days. She was some sort of warrior, hundreds of years ago.’

  Goldie looked closer. The painting was cracked with age, but the girl seemed to stare proudly back at her. ‘Princess Frisia?’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘You know, the children’s story. The warrior princess of Merne.’

  ‘How should I know?’ The boy shrugged and kept walking.

  Goldie hurried to keep up with him. ‘Where are we going?’ she said.

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘How am I supposed to help?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ She looked more closely at him. ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I? Didn’t you used to live in the Old Quarter? Near Gunboat Canal? What are you doing here?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  The display cases that they passed held suits of armour and skeletons and whips with knotted lashes. Between them were piles of whaling pots and boneshaker bicycles and old wooden carts. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. Spider webs hung from the rafters.

  Goldie had never imagined that such a place could exist within the boundaries of Jewel. She thought of her parents’ warnings and shivered. Poisonous insects . . . dust . . . purple fever . . .

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing at something made of iron, with cruel, spiky jaws.

  ‘Mantrap,’ said the boy, and he grinned at the look on her face.

  Above Goldie’s head a whale skeleton groaned as if it was dreaming of the sea. The hair of a stuffed water rat stirred. Something flapped leathery wings. With each movement, with each sound, her skin prickled.

  But at the same time the blood surged through her veins and she had never felt so alive. I’ve been asleep! she thought. I’ve been asleep all my life and now I’m waking up!

  The rooms seemed to go on and on. Goldie knew that the museum couldn’t possibly be this big, but still it stretched in front of her. The doorways that they passed through were as wide as boulevards. The glass cases formed a never-ending line.

  And then they went through a doorway, and it was as if they had stepped out into the very middle of a road. Except that the ceiling was still there, high above them. And there were no roads like this in Jewel.

  Directly in front of them was a vacant block. It was covered in thornberry bushes and deep shadows. In the middle of the block was an enormous tree, and cradled in the branches of the tree was a little wooden house, with a rickety ladder leading up to it.

  Goldie had never seen anything quite so interesting. She took a step towards the tree – and stopped. Right at her feet, so close that Ma and Pa would have had heartstroke if they had seen it, was a ditch.

  A huge ditch, more than twice her height, with water in the bottom.

  Dirty water.

  Filthy water.

  Disease-ridden, child-drowning water . . .

  And suddenly everything that had happened to Goldie in the last day and a half caught up with her. Her excitement drained away and all that was left was fear. She stood staring at the ditch with her mouth open and her head awash with warnings.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said the boy, who was already scrambling down one side of the ditch and up the other. ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘Um . . . no.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘I knew you’d be useless,’ the boy said. And, without a backward glance, he disappeared into the shadows of the vacant block, with M
org on his shoulder.

  Goldie didn’t know what to do. At first she thought she’d wait there until he came back. Then she heard a faint creaking noise, as if someone was tiptoeing towards her, and she decided that it would be better to go and find Sinew or Herro Dan.

  But the thought of walking all by herself through the dim rooms, with the creaking sound trailing along behind her, made her feel sick. So in the end she stayed where she was.

  The roaring seemed to come from nowhere. Bright headlights sprang out of the shadows at the far end of the road. A horn wailed. Goldie stared in astonishment. It was a street-rig. And it was coming straight towards her.

  Time seemed to slow down then. Goldie could hear the boy shouting in the distance, but she didn’t move. She felt as if she was dreaming – as if this was happening to someone else, and she was watching it all from far, far away.

  The boy shouted again. And out of the shadows of the vacant block rose – something. Something that took one look at Goldie and began to lope towards her. Something with red eyes and slavering jaws. Something that opened its mouth and bayed! The sound joined with the wail of the street-rig’s horn, and crashed off the high ceiling like thunder.

  This is silly, thought Goldie, in a dreamy sort of way. The street-rig’s going to kill me. I don’t need a brizzlehound as well.

  In the same dreamy way, she wondered which of them would get to her first. She wondered which would hurt more. She wondered if this was her punishment for trying to steal the gold coins, and if Sinew had been planning it all along.

  The street-rig was almost upon her now. So was the brizzlehound. It took the ditch in one great leap. Its eyes burned. It opened its awful jaws—

  In that moment, Goldie came to her senses. With a desperate cry, she tried to throw herself out of the way. But she was too late. The brizzlehound swerved to meet her. Its teeth snagged in her smock. Its weight knocked her flying. Her knees crumpled and she fell sideways, down, down, down into the ditch.

  The last thing she heard before she sank into uncon-sciousness was the sound of the street-rig rumbling past above her. The last thing she felt was the hot breath of the brizzlehound on her face . . .

  .

  he Fugleman was smiling. He had a particularly charming smile that he used whenever he wanted to persuade people to do things that they really shouldn’t do.

  He was using it now on the lieutenant marshal of militia.

  ‘I wish to congratulate you, sir,’ he said, ‘on your fine work searching for the bombers who took the life of one of our children. We humble citizens of Jewel are grateful for your devotion to duty.’

  The lieutenant marshal flushed, and stared at the floor of the Fugleman’s temporary office. ‘I— I regret, Your Honour, that I haven’t taken part in the search.’

  ‘Nooo?’ The Fugleman raised his eyebrows. ‘I would have thought that every man of value would be called upon in such desperate times!’

  ‘The Protector . . . she no longer trusts me, Your Honour. Because of the runaway girl. And the scissors. It seems there’s a good chance I’ll be—’ He bit his lip. ‘I’ll be court-martialled. It looks as if my career is . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘But surely the Protector does not blame you for what happened?’

  ‘She does, Your Honour. And so she should. It was my fault—’

  ‘How could it be your fault?’ cried the Fugleman. ‘Are you in charge of the city’s children? Can you, a military man, be expected to act as nursemaid? No, I won’t hear of it! If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine! I should have expected such a thing to happen. I should have been watching more closely.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you to say so, Your Honour, but—’

  ‘But it’s true! When is this court martial to be? I shall come along and speak on your behalf.’

  The lieutenant marshal looked up, his face filled with unexpected hope. ‘Would you, Your Honour? That could make all the difference!’

  ‘Consider it done.’ The Fugleman waved his hand. ‘The city can’t afford to lose such valuable men.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough, Your Honour! If there’s ever anything I can do to repay you—’

  ‘No need, no need. It’s my pleasure—’

  The Fugleman broke off, as if something had just occured to him. ‘Although, now that I think of it,’ he said, arranging his face into a thoughtful expression, ‘there is something you could do. In my position it’s not easy to find a man I can talk to. An intelligent man who won’t broadcast my thoughts to the world . . .’

  ‘You can say what you like to me, Your Honour,’ said the lieutenant marshal eagerly. ‘I’m as close-mouthed as a stone.’

  ‘Are you indeed? Well, then . . .’ The Fugleman traced the edge of his desk with his finger, letting the moment stretch out. ‘Her Grace the Protector,’ he said at last, ‘does an excellent job of running the city.’

  ‘She does, Your Honour! I have every respect for her.’

  ‘But sometimes I fear—’ The Fugleman broke off and shook his head. ‘No, I shouldn’t say it. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure her judgement is as good as ever—’

  He stopped again. The lieutenant marshal blinked at him. The Fugleman sighed inwardly. It seemed that he was going to have to spell the whole thing out.

  ‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I don’t think the Protector understands quite how much danger the city may be in. Some of the militia are out searching for the bombers, it’s true. But what are the rest doing? Opening doors. Forming an honour guard. Helping old ladies across the road.’

  The lieutenant marshal nodded uncertainly. ‘Her Grace believes that it’s important to keep things as normal as possible. To reassure the people—’

  ‘This is no time for normal!’ cried the Fugleman, suddenly thumping the desk. ‘Forget honour guards! The day may fast be approaching when the Seven Gods will require real service! The sort where you and your men march home covered in wealth and glory, with the crowds shouting your name from one end of the city to the other!’

  By now, the lieutenant marshal’s eyes were as wide as a baby’s. He licked his lips. He opened his mouth to speak.

  The Fugleman held up his hand. The charming smile slipped back onto his face, as smooth as a conjuror’s trick. He stood up and walked around the desk.

  ‘Of course we hope that such a day never comes,’ he said, putting his hand on the lieutenant marshal’s shoulder. ‘After all, despite yesterday’s bombing, we are still at peace, and long may we stay that way! But if there should turn out to be a serious threat to the city—’ He raised his smile another notch. ‘—then I will need men about me whom I can trust.’

  With that, he pushed the lieutenant marshal out the door. ‘Come and see me again when you have thought about this,’ he said. ‘Take your time. No hurry.’

  He turned back to his desk, humming with satisfaction. The militiaman was a fool, like all of his sister’s minions. But he was also ambitious. And there was nothing more useful than an ambitious fool.

  Goldie was wet and cold, and every part of her body ached. She lay very still, trying to remember what had happened.

  Somewhere nearby, the boy was talking. ‘She could have been killed! Why didn’t she get out of the way?’

  ‘You were like that when you first came here,’ said a deep, gravelly voice. ‘You could not take care of yourself. You waited for someone to rescue you.’

  ‘I was never that stupid!’

  ‘I remember the time when you—’

  Goldie shifted her leg and her sandals squelched in the mud.

  ‘Sshh!’ said the boy. ‘I think she’s awake!’

  There was a brief scuffle and the sound of running feet. Then Sinew’s voice said, ‘Great whistling pigs! What happened, Toadspit? Is she hurt?’

  Slowly, Goldie opened her eyes. She was lying under the tree in the middle of the vacant block, with Sinew and the boy crouched beside her. There was no sign of the person with the gra
velly voice.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Sinew, his face lined with concern. ‘Have you broken anything?’

  Goldie moved her arms and legs carefully. ‘I— I don’t think so,’ she said.

  Sinew helped her sit up, then he took off his coatee and put it around her shoulders. He looked severely at the boy. ‘Toadspit, I thought we told you to take care of her.’

  ‘She was all right when I left her,’ protested Toadspit. ‘Then the Shark came roaring out of nowhere and she didn’t have the sense to get out of the way!’

  Despite Sinew’s coatee, Goldie had suddenly begun to shiver so violently that she could hardly speak. ‘It was a s-street-rig,’ she said, ‘not a sh-shark! And there was a b-b-b-brizzlehound! A real, live b-brizzlehound! It tried to k-kill me!’

  ‘Not a shark,’ said Toadspit. ‘The Shark.’

  ‘It’s the name of Herro Dan’s street-rig,’ said Sinew. ‘But it’s not like Dan to drive so carelessly.’

  ‘He wasn’t driving,’ said Toadspit. ‘There was no one in it at all.’

  Sinew raised a startled eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m not blind, Sinew. The Shark was roaming around on its own!’

  Goldie stared at them both in disbelief. ‘Didn’t you hear me? There was a brizzlehound!’

  Before anyone could answer her there was a puff of wind and Olga Ciavolga and Herro Dan came hurrying across the vacant block. Between them, to Goldie’s amazement, trotted a dog. A little white dog with one black ear and a curly tail that waved over its back like a flag.

  Goldie had never seen a real live dog before. Dogs carried diseases, and quite often they went mad and bit people. There hadn’t been a dog in Jewel for more than two hundred years.

  Toadspit must have seen the expression on her face, because he frowned and said, ‘That’s Broo. He saved your life. You should be grateful.’

  Goldie looked at him blankly.

  ‘He knocked you into the ditch,’ said Toadspit. ‘You were just standing there! The Shark would’ve run you over.’