City of Lies (7 page)

“I’m from Jewel,” said Goldie.

“Aha, I thought so. And
I
am from the Spoke Penitentiary.” He bowed again, as if he had just announced that he was the governor of the city. “As are all my friends here.”

“You’re
prisoners
?” said Goldie.

“Dear me, no. We’re guests! If we were prisoners they would have to feed us all year round. But because we are merely guests, they can turn us out during the Festival to find our own sustenance.”

He wiped his hand on his britches and pulled out a battered pocket watch. “Of course, we have to be back in our cells at a certain time, or they will forget the politeness that is due to guests.” He waggled the leg of mutton at Goldie.
“Cut me another slice, my boy. And help yourself. I can see you’re not the greedy sort.”

Goldie cut another two slices. “What’s the Festival?”

“Why, the Festival of Lies,” said the bandmaster. “Starts officially the day after tomorrow. Everyone likes to build up to it, which is why we are here, two days early, and not tucked up snug in our cells with a bowl of hot porridge in front of us. Although—” He chewed thoughtfully. “I do believe I would sacrifice a dozen bowls of porridge for this glorious feast.”

“Why is it called the Festival of Lies?”

“Because that’s what it is. For three days, the entire city turns upside down and back to front. No one tells the truth—unless they’re touching an animal, of course.”

Goldie had a dozen more questions on the tip of her tongue, but the bandmaster was still talking. “It’s a good time for us, the Festival. Did you hear me, back by the fountain?” He raised his baton dramatically. “Feed the hungry, and the Seven Gods will ignore you for a whole year!”

Goldie flicked her fingers.

The bandmaster grinned. “It works too, and everyone in Spoke knows it.” He lowered his voice. “Of course, they
could
throw half-chewed crusts and boiled tripe and it would work just as well. But we’ve spread the word that the
better
they feed us, the more likely the Gods are to ignore them.”

They had reached the other side of the plaza by now, and
the musicians began to hurry, as fast as their chains would let them, through the winding streets. Goldie trotted beside them, watching for landmarks so she could find her way back again. An idea was growing inside her.

“Why were you imprisoned, Herro?” she said. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Don’t mind at all, lad,” said the bandmaster. “And you know why? Because I’m innocent.” He waved the leg of mutton at the musicians who rattled along behind him. “We’re all innocent. Young Dodger there, with the trumpet, is innocent of robbery with violence. Sweetapple is innocent of poisoning her husband, may Great Wooden rot his soul.” He flicked his fingers. So did Goldie. “And Old Snot—that’s him dribbling over the bass drum—is innocent of running a gang of pickpockets.”

Old Snot grinned toothlessly at Goldie. Sweetapple, who was the tall trombonist with the limp, waved.

“What are you—er—innocent of?” said Goldie to the bandmaster.

“Forgery.” He struck a serious pose with his hand on his heart. “I did not do it, Your Honor. I have no idea how those fake coins came to be in my cellar. I am
not
a criminal.”

He winked at Goldie, and she laughed. “If I wanted to find out about someone who
is
a criminal,” she said, “who would I ask?”

The bandmaster puffed out his chest. “I have lived in
Spoke all my life. No one has his finger on the city’s pulse the way I do. What’s his name, this criminal of yours?”

“Harrow.”

Goldie wasn’t expecting what happened next. The bandmaster seemed to trip over something. His baton flew out of his hand and clattered onto the cobblestones. The leg of mutton tumbled into the gutter.

“Halt!” he cried. With a great clanking of chains, Sweetapple and the rest of the band shuffled to a stop behind him. The bandmaster picked up the baton and the meat and brushed the dirt off them. “No harm done,” he said.

He turned back to Goldie. “Now, what were we talking about, lad?”

“Um—Harrow,” said Goldie.

The bandmaster screwed up his face, as if he was thinking. “Noooo, can’t say I’ve ever heard the name. Is he a local man?”

“I don’t know.”

“There you are, then. He’s probably from Lawe. A most disreputable city, Lawe. All the worst criminals come from there.”

He took out his pocket watch again. “Oops, we’re late. Pick up those chains,” he roared at the band. “Double-time! Hup two three four, hup two three four!”

As they jogged off, he glanced over his shoulder at Goldie. “
So
pleased to meet an honest lad,” he cried. Sweetapple
waved again, and Dodger winked. Then, with a great deal of noise, they were gone.

Goldie stood unmoving in the middle of the street. Despite the roast mutton, a hollow feeling had opened up inside her. As a trained liar, she could tell when someone else was lying.

The bandmaster
did
know Harrow. And the name struck fear into his heart.

“O
ver the last few days,” said Sinew, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table, “I have tracked a hundred different rumors. I’ve learned that the citizens of Lawe are plotting against their government, that Old Lady Skint has a new slave ship and that the mercenary army that was terrorizing the Southern Archipelago has left for unknown shores. But about the children I’ve discovered nothing.”

In the basket by the stove, little dog Broo whimpered in his sleep.

“Whoever has taken them,” said Sinew, “has covered their tracks too well. I need to go and search for them myself.”

The sharp-eyed old woman who sat opposite him shook her head. Despite the warmth of the stove, she wore a blanket over her shoulders, as well as two knitted jerkins and four or five skirts. Her feet were thrust into militia boots. “We cannot spare you, Sinew.”

“But we can’t simply leave them—”

Sinew’s protest was cut off by the third person at the table, an old man with a broad brown face, and brass buttons down the front of his jacket. “Olga Ciavolga’s right,” he said. “We need you here, lad. The rooms are gettin’ restless again.”

The Museum of Dunt was never entirely quiet—there was so much wildness contained within its walls that its rooms regularly shuffled back and forth like a giant pack of cards.

But ever since the children had gone missing, that shuffling had grown worse. Even now, in the middle of the night, the gallery known as Vermin whispered and twitched, and the ancient dangers of war, famine and plague, locked away deep inside the museum, woke from their dreams and looked around with bright, vicious eyes.

“This place don’t like it when its friends are in trouble,” said Herro Dan.

“All the more reason,” said Sinew, “for me to go and look for the children! The sooner they’re back here, the better for everyone.”

Olga Ciavolga nodded. “That is true. But think on this, Sinew. Right now there are
three
children in peril. If you go, and Dan and I lose control of the museum, every child in the city will suffer a terrible fate. And so will the adults.”

Sinew leaned back in his chair and blew out a frustrated breath. “You’re right, of course. It’s just—we
know
these three! They are our friends. And I can’t help worrying about them.”

Olga Ciavolga raised an eyebrow. “Do you think you are the only one who is worried?”

“No, of course not. But what have we done, apart from chasing useless rumors? Nothing! They must think we’ve deserted them—”

“What about Morg?” interrupted Herro Dan. “She’s a good finder, our Morg. We could send
her
to look for ’em.”

There was a whir of wings from the rafters overhead, and an enormous black shape swooped down and landed on the old man’s shoulder. “Mo-o-o-o-org,” croaked the slaughterbird.

“Yes, I’m talkin’ about you,” said Herro Dan. He smiled and scratched the bird’s chest fondly; then his face grew serious again. “Do you reckon you can find ’em for us? I dunno where they might be.”

Sinew leaned forward. “Look out to sea, Morg. Try and find the ship that took them. And if you don’t have any luck there, try the cities.”

“Look for thefts,” said Olga Ciavolga, “big and small. Look for the shadow that a theft leaves on the air.”

“And if you find the children—” said Herro Dan.

“
When
you find them,” Sinew corrected him.

The old man nodded. “When you find ’em, do your best to help ’em. And bring ’em back safely.”

“Ba-a-a-a-ack,” croaked Morg, shifting from foot to foot to make sure that the old man scratched the right spot.

“All right then.” Herro Dan stood up and opened the kitchen door. “No point hangin’ around. Off you go.”

The bird on his shoulder bobbed her head several times. Then, with a great flurry of feathers, she launched herself out into the corridor.

As the sound of her wings faded, Sinew heaved a sigh. “That’s something, I suppose. But I wish—” He picked up his harp, and half a dozen anxious notes trickled out into the kitchen. “I wish we knew where the children were! I wish we knew what was happening to them!”

“Museum’ll tell us soon enough,” said Herro Dan. “If the rooms settle down, then the children are safe, and on their way home. But if things keep gettin’ worse—”

He stopped. All three keepers looked grimly at each other. In the basket by the stove, Broo began to whimper again and would not be comforted.

In the street outside the bread shop, everything was quiet. Goldie crouched in the darkness of the doorway, her mask firmly in place.

She had not used a picklock for six months, but her fingers had not forgotten their skill. She slid the bent wire into the keyhole above the blade of her knife and began to push the pins up, one by one. As each pin slid out of the way, she heard a faint click.

Several streets away, a man was singing loudly and drunkenly about a lost child. Goldie tried not to listen.
Concentrate
, she told herself.

The last pin clicked into place. Quickly she glanced up and down the street, then pushed the door. It opened a crack and stopped. The door was barred from inside.

Goldie took the iron lever from her waistband and eased it through the gap until she could feel the bar. She braced herself and pushed the lever upward. The bar rose smoothly—

Stop!
hissed the little voice in the back of her mind.

Goldie stopped. She stepped away from the door for the space of five breaths, and let the night air tuck around her like a blanket. Then she gripped the lever in cold hands and started again.

This time she pushed the bar up so carefully that anyone watching would hardly have seen it move. When she came to the place where she had stopped before, she paused.
She pressed her ear to the gap. She shifted the lever a hair’s width—and heard the faint scrape of a wire.

Carefully she backed the lever off and slid her makeshift picklock through the gap. There was the wire. Now, if she could just hook it in place—
exactly
in place—so the wire would not move while she lifted the bar—

She had it. The bar rose and slid to one side. The wire strained to move, but she would not let it. With her heart in her throat she eased the door open just far enough and squeezed through into the gloom of the bread shop.

Something brushed against her leg. She gasped and nearly let go of the wire. The gray-spotted cat glared up at her, then dashed behind the counter.

“Are you following me?” whispered Goldie. “What do you want?”

There was no answer, of course. She shrugged, hoping the cat would not make a nuisance of itself, and turned to inspect the door.

It was as she had thought. There was a row of alarm bells hanging above the lintel. She reached up and disconnected them. Then she unhooked the picklock, leaned against the door with her eyes closed and let her body and her mind settle into the stillness of the Third Method of Concealment.

Imitation of Nothingness was one of the most important things she had learned in her training as a thief. It didn’t
make her invisible, but it
did
make her unimportant.
So
unimportant that even the light passed over her without stopping. As long as she moved slowly, there wasn’t one person in ten thousand who could see her.