Darkwood (20 page)

“Thank you. You may go.” The king waved his hand.

The assayer ducked his head. “Your Highness, I have one further piece of information that may interest you. As I was preparing to leave, an individual of very large size approached me. Of immense size, this man was, such size as made his fellows seem—”

“Size noted,” the king snapped.

“This man spoke not a word but led me behind the building in question, where there stood a kiln. And beside the kiln was a row of boots.”

“Boots?” The king raised his eyebrows.

“Children's boots, by their appearance. The large man picked up a pair that might have fit a child of three or four, and tossed them on the fire. Then he walked away.”

“And what do you assume from this?” asked the king.

“I make no assumptions, Your Highness. I merely relay facts.”

But Annie knew what to assume. Hauler had wanted the assayer to know there were children at the Drop. And if Hauler wanted to help the other children, that meant … She felt a sudden surge of hope for Gregor and had to clap her hand over her mouth again to keep from grinning.

As soon as the assayer left, Page started to pace the short distance of the dais. Her gown swirled with every turn. Through Page's stockings Annie could see the bulge where the broken ankle bones had fused unevenly.

“Obviously Gibbet wasn't at any great pains to explain this away,” Page muttered. “Even an imbecile would notice the mine chipping out twenty years ahead of schedule.” She looked up. “Not that you're … I didn't mean …”

The king gave a tight smile. “Of course not. And you are correct about Gibbet. He must have known his smuggling would be exposed eventually, and the visit by the assayer has made the case plain.” He looked at Annie. “He has known himself exposed for some weeks already. Miss Trewitt here escaped through his tunnel, after all.”

“But he would never guess she'd come here!” Page exclaimed.

“He doesn't have to guess,” Annie said.

“What do you mean?” The king's voice was sharp.

“He has an informant,” she clarified. “Someone who—”

“Yes, I'm aware of what an informant is. Do you realize the gravity of the accusation you're making?”

Annie forced herself to meet his gaze. Her heart felt suspended high in her chest, the way it had after she and Gregor jumped from Quail Rock, hanging a moment in midair before plummeting into the river. She took a deep breath.

“The potion you use on the gardens to make the flowers bloom in winter, the potion you used on me, it's the same one Gibbet gives to the men at the Drop. And to the children.”

The king opened his mouth, but she hurried on.

“The farm where Chopper caught me—the garden there is like this one, always in bloom. And the workers at the Drop all smell the same. They all smell sweet. I think if you give too much, it puts the person to sleep, but if you give just the right amount, they … they sleepwalk. They sleepwalk through everything, they don't complain, they don't try to run away. Chopper's garden is full of it, all the plants, so if you eat them you fall asleep, like I did. Either someone at the palace has passed the potion along to Gibbet without you knowing, or—”

“Or I sanctioned its use on the miners? Is that what you're suggesting?”

Annie stole a look at Page. She was gaping—literally gaping—at the king.

“Terrance?”

“The potion has been used to beautify the palace gardens since long before I was born. It was a gift to the first Terrance
Uncton from a friend and fellow surveyor. There is nothing dangerous about it.”

Annie looked at the portrait on the wall behind them. “What was the name of the man who gave Uncton the potion?” she asked.

The king followed her gaze. A strange look came over his face, as though he wasn't sure whether to be frightened or pleased.

“Gibbet,” he said. “The Gibbet family has been a friend of the crown for a long time. Until now.”

“Then there is no informant.” Page sounded relieved. “And the king would never allow that stuff to be used on the miners.” She looked at Annie as if to say,
You see, he's not so bad
.

He sanctioned its use on me
, Annie wanted to answer, but she didn't.

“Would it be so very bad if I had?” asked the king.

“What?” Page and Annie said at the same time.

“With the failure of the farms in the region, and the”—he spoke the next words rather quickly—“the incorporation of the fisheries, the people of Dour County may have found their opportunities for work somewhat curtailed. Would a man be so terrible to provide them something to make the difficult work of mining more palatable?”

Without a word, Page descended the dais and walked to the door.

“Would a man be so terrible?” the king called after her. “Would a man be unlovable, who did so?”

Page threw open the door.

“You are not excused!” the king bellowed.

She slammed the door behind her.

He raised his arm over his head. Annie felt a flash of panic and rage. But it was only, after all, to pull the tasseled rope that hung beside the throne.

Annie caught up with Page outside the door to her room. Her sister's limp had been more noticeable coming up the stairs and even now, standing still, she shifted her weight from her bad leg to her cane. Watching her, Annie felt a sudden surge of love so strong she didn't know what to do with it. In the old days, she would have grabbed her around the waist and not let go. Now she took Page's hand in her own and simply held it.

“I don't want to stay here any longer,” Page whispered.

Annie glanced up and down the hallway. “Together, with Sharta, we could leave,” she said. “We could leave tonight! We'll need weapons, a map, food. Can he hunt for himself, do you think?”

Page was looking at her strangely.

“And lanterns! Of course we'll need lanterns. And plenty of matches and candles.”

Page kept looking at Annie in that strange way. Then, slowly, she smiled. “You're mad, you know that?”

“You said Sharta wanted to warn his pack about Gibbet. So we'll do it! Then you and I can …”

“Storm the orphanage and rescue Gregor?”

“Well, why not?” Annie said hotly. “With Sharta …”

“Perhaps not Sharta alone.”

“What do you mean?”

Page's voice turned brisk. “I'll get what we need. Be ready an hour after dark.”

The fourth time she tripped over Prudence Annie bent down and scooped her up, slinging her over one shoulder like a stole. Already she was dressed in everything she owned. She had even polished her new boots, which needed polish about as much as the knick-knacks had needed dusting and the chairs straightening. She wished she had all those things to do over again. She tried the door, knowing it wouldn't budge. Page had locked her in before she left, in case anyone came by to check. Strictly speaking, she and Annie were both still prisoners of the crown.

At last the dark came. Fifteen, twenty, thirty-five, forty, fifty, fifty-five … at exactly sixty minutes past dark, a piece of paper appeared under the door.

It was a page cut from a book, a very old book. The lettering was curly and hard to read. A gold border ran around the edge of the paper. Thumbnail-size paintings of animals filled the margins. The title of the book was written at the top:
A Compendium of Creatures
. Below that were a big gold letter
B
and the words
Badger—Brightling
.

Badger, Barry Owl, Beaver, Bellaphel, Bittern. In the middle of the page was an entry somewhat shorter than the others.

Black Wolf
:
(pl. wolves) Warm-blooded and carnivorous. Forest-dwelling. Similar in form to Frigian Ice-wolf, with pelt of black or russet hue. Largely nocturnal, vision exceptionally keen. Habits unknown. Much feared for its eerie cry. Common folk names: Witch's Wolf, Kinderstalk
.

In the margin was pictured the tiny, perfect likeness of a kinderstalk. It might have been Sharta, except with two bright dots of amber for the eyes. Annie turned the page over. On the back, where the black painted kinderstalk showed through the paper like a stain, Page had written a few lines:
It's time you knew their proper name. I'll be back for you. Don't hate me
.—P

After an hour the bone key cracked in her hand. Page had jammed something in the lock from the outside. An icy breeze touched Annie's damp skin, the back of her neck.
The window must be open
, she thought vaguely, and shivered. Then she raised her head: the window.

She could have picked a bouquet of flowers easily from where she sat on the sill, but this part of the vine was still new growth. The woody stem of the main plant clung to the palace wall several feet to her right. She would have to jump to reach it. Far below her the lawn glittered with frost beside vivid flowerbeds.

Isadore leapt onto the sill beside her, then onto the vine, easy as that. Prue followed him, stopping first to rub her cheek
against Annie's knee. Annie looked down again, but this time she saw the yellow cliffs of the Drop, the river at the bottom of the gorge. She closed her eyes, as if that would keep her from seeing his face.

For Number Five, then. Do it for him
.

She scooted to the farthest edge of the sill and crouched low on her haunches, as she had seen the cats do.

For Number Five. For Number Five. Don't look down. For Number Five. Jump!

Her body sailed through the darkness. Everything went quiet and for a moment she felt free and full of grace. Then she landed and got a face full of flowers, a fistful of leaves, a knee full of wall.

One backward, groping step at a time, she made her way down. The vine flexed under her weight and she couldn't help calculating how much heavier she was than the cats, how tiny were the actual fibers that held the plant to the wall.

She couldn't see the cats, couldn't see much of anything besides the green of the vine and the white stone of the wall behind it. Despite the cold, her eyes burned with the sweat trickling off her forehead. Every so often she would stop and lean out to see how far she was from the bottom. Each time, the lawn seemed just as far, the ladder of leaves just as high.

Still, she had to be getting close, and Page and Sharta couldn't be far ahead of her. The blind leading the lame, wasn't that the saying? Annie gasped as her foot slipped and
she skidded a few feet down the vine. She supposed she deserved that.

She was about to take another step when she heard a strange noise above her. The sound was a creak and at the same time a whisper, like the sound a ship makes floating at dock. For a moment she was confused; she had the sensation of tipping backward, but she still had a tight hold of the vine. Then she understood.

The bindweed groaned as it loosed itself from the stone, one fingerlike branch after another snapping free. The top of the vine, already loose, had curved over itself like a question mark, its leaves hissing and whispering as they fell. She climbed frantically now, slipping more than climbing, her hands flayed by the rough stem, the hiss of the dying vine growing louder, chasing her, until the stem broke free under her hands and she plunged toward the earth.