Noir (27 page)

Fo
rty-Eight

C.L.

I stuff me pockets full of sticks of dynamite flares, and round the back of the train. “Masheck, yuh lead us along with Parthena’s guard.” I haul myself up into position on the widow’s walk at the caboose. “I’ll take up the post in the rear.”

“I’d prefer the guard go in the cage.” Masheck gives the Brigsman a stiff look. “Don’t fancy ridin’ up ’ere with no peeler.”

Can’t say that I blame ’im. Who’s to trust ’em now, without Parthena present?

“’Ave it your way,” I say. “But ’urry on . . . we ain’t got no time to waste.”

Masheck nods, races round, and stuffs the hollering Brigsman in through the bars of the train car. “Hey!” he says as Masheck turns the lock. “I didn’t sign up for this!”

“Stop yer blubberin’,” Masheck says. “We’ll let yuh out once we’re into the city. Unless, of course, yuh screw somethin’ up for us.” ’E leans in. “Remember, yuh ain’t got nothin’ to say, until we gets there. That clear?” Masheck makes a tight fist.

The frightened Brigsman nods ’is ’ead.

“Good.” Masheck races back around and plops down on the driver’s mount, quite the spectacle in his white gloves, top hat, and tails. A regular gentleman, give or take a threat or two.

“What about me? What shall I do?” Livinea teeters after me on her toes. She looks up at me, wearin’ a goony grin. Even half out of ’er mind, she has me ’eart poundin’.

“You, my dear, will try your best to stay out of ’arm’s way.” I pop a kiss on her head. “Wanda? Take Livinea into your cage and keep her safe, will yuh, please?”

Wanda nods reluctantly and drags ’er off.

“Whose ’arm?” Livinea looks back at me, confused.

“Never mind.” I wave the thought away. “Later, my sweet!” Livinea blows me a kiss.

I close me eyes and thank the spirit for blessing me with such an interesting creature.

Who’d’ve believed such a lovely would ever go for the likes of me?

“Look what I found.” Reeke’s low, hollow voice pulls me back from me dream. I turn to find him standing in front of me, cherry puff bombs in ’and. And not just any cherry puff bombs: heat-sensing ones, the kind that seek out the heated hearts of their victims.

“Where on earth did yuh scare those up?”

“Under the master’s driving seat.”

“That dirty bugger.” I smile and toss one in the air with my foot. “’E was ’olding out on us all those years, wasn’t he?”

“And I found these.” Martin saunters up, his thick proper accent laced with excitement. In his hand he holds a high-powered crank-and-gear crossbow and a quiver full of rocket-powered arrows.

“Don’t tell me the master ’ad a set of those ’idden, too!”

“No, sir.” Sadar dips his head in a sheepish grin. “Urlick did. I found them in that pack you brought for him from home.”

“Really?” I take one and twirl it around. “I don’t seem to remember packing them.” I scowl. My mind calculates they are far too big for the satchel.

“That’s because they came inside these.” He holds up two empty tins of mustard sardines, not much bigger than his ’and. “They were like prizes inside,” he tells me, wagging the curled-lip tins in the air. “See? They collapse.” He demonstrates, bending both arrows and the bow. The crossbow folds in equal eighths. The arrows do the same. “One tin held a crossbow, the other held its arrows.”

“Good job, I brought one of each.” I examine them, marveling at the compartmental construction. “That Urlick. ’Is mind never ceases to amaze me.”

“I think I’ve got a problem.” Martin appears out of the darkness. “Not much I can do with this!” He swirls the end of an eggbeater around on the end of his thumb, and I duck, screaming at him. “Watch it, will you? That thing is bloody lethal!”

“This?” Martin blinks, holding up the beater, like I’m telling a tale.

“Don’t
crank it
!” I shout. “And whatever yuh do, don’t push that lever there.” I point, then yank my toes away, wincing.

“Not until you’ve seen the whites of their eyes, at least,” Cordelia sings proudly, popping up onto the railing of the caboose beside me.

“What are you doing running around loose?” I snag the apparatus away from Martin and scoot a giggling Cordelia off into the caboose. “’ere, and take this. Yuh little expert sharpshooter.” I pass off the eggbeater with a wink. “Careful now. Yuh know what it can do. Places, people!” I hike myself up into the rumble seat on the back of the platform, steamrifle at the ready across my knees. A symphony of barred doors clanks into place, and I give Masheck the high sign for the train to pull away. “We’ve a city to surprise tonight!”

“What are you doing passing this animal train through the city streets at night?” A Brigsman calls up to Masheck at the top of Market Street, at the junction of Middlesex and Blythe. We haven’t done too badly. Almost made it past the market section of the city before being detained. Lucky us, the Brigsmen are slow tonight.

“We’ve been instructed to set up camp for the night, . . .” Masheck lies, flipping through fake papers he finds under the seat next to him, trying to look official, “at a Piglingham Square?”

The Brigsman looks up, scowls. “Have you?” He shifts his weight to the other foot and sneers up his nose. “And where’s your permit?”

“What permit?”

“The one granting you permission to camp for the night.”

“Oh, that one,” Masheck says, all calm and cool-like, as if ’e’s done this a million times before. At of the corner of ’is eyes I see a devilish glint spawnin’, and I bite my lip. “It’s in ’ere.” Masheck points to ’is trouser pocket. “Do yuh mind?”

“No.” The Brigsman signals, leaning on the carriage. “Go a’ead.”

Masheck smiles all nice-like, reaches into ’is pocket, and comes out with a right punch to the Brigsman’s face. The officer’s jaw rocks to one side as his nose goes splat! All of it waggling through the air in slow perpetuated motion. ’E falls, ’is ’ead meeting the ground with a sleep-inducing thud. The burly beast doesn’t move.

“Oh, my girders,” Livinea cheers. “That was
brilliant
!” She bobs up and down and claps her hands. “Wasn’t it, Wanda?” She elbows ’er.

“Yes, until he wakes up and tells ’is friends what’s happened to ’im,” I say, crawling to the top of the caboose, looking over at ’is sleepin’ carcass.

Masheck twists around from his post and grins. “Not to wor-ry,” he teases, mimicking Livinea. “He won’t be wakin’ up any time soon.”

“But they’s awake . . .” I divert my eyes to the top of the street, where two more Brigsmen draw their batons. They rush toward us, shoutin’ and screamin’ for us to stand down or they’ll bang us about. One blows ’is whistle. And like dogs, several more appear on the ’orizons of adjoining streets.
’Ere we go.

I’d rather ’oped this would ’appen a little closer to our final destination, but—I draw a tattered breath—ambushers can’t be choosers, now can they?

“Consider the
allow-Urlick-and-Eyelet-enough-time-to-enter-the-palace diversion
officially launched!” I stand and ’url the first hissing cherry puff bomb the Brigsmen’s way.

Fo
rty-Nine

Eyelet

Parthena throws back the carpets, and the weak greyish light of first twilight floods in. She unhitches the lock on the Loony Bin wagon door, and it groans slowly open. The tension releases from my spine. I suck in a deep breath of trusting relief and stand to exit.

“Thank you,” I say, jumping past her to freedom on the ground.

“This way,” Parthena hisses, traipsing up a path between two buildings toward some steps, soft on the balls of her feet, her shoes like hushed children being herded into church. Urlick jumps down from the wagon and we follow.

“Where are we?” It’s dark, but still I should know, I lived here for years—yet I don’t recognize the surroundings. I stop in the middle of the stone walk. “This is not the way into the palace.” I turn.

“Of course not.” Parthena swings around, looking annoyed. “Did you think they’d allow me to bring the wagon right up to the front palace steps?” I look back at the wagon’s shabby grey tin cover and rusting bars, wooden wheels caked with mud. “This is the laundresses’ entrance. The palace is on the other side of the wall.” Parthena huffs and turns back around. “Come on.” She starts away and signals us to follow.

I feel the flush of embarrassment rush to my cheeks. Of course this isn’t the palace. What was I thinking? Even I used the servants’ entrance when I lived here. I look up at the sign over the door, and my mind finally registers our whereabouts. Have I really been gone that long? I’m struck with a sudden pang of remorse for all that’s been lost to me. My mother. My father. My heritage. My home.

Urlick grabs my hand and yanks me forward. “No,” I say, hooking my head left. “This way’s better.”

Parthena purses her lips. “Trust me,” I say, heading off in the opposite direction, down a narrow corridor between two towers.

“She should know.” Urlick turns and follows me, leaving a confused, unasked question hanging from Parthena’s lips. She swallows it down and leaps after us, but I’m sure that’s not the last I’ll hear of this.

“In here,” I whisper and slip through the stable pass to the servants’ entrance, where I jerk open the heavy wooden double-gate door.

Parthena gasps at my actions, then clutches her heart.

“Don’t worry.” I wink. “There are no alarms on these doors. They shut them off to accommodate the servants. In the mornings, they go from here to there, fetching hot water from the laundresses’ room back to the kitchen to cook. Alarms would only slow down the process, so the Ruler ordered that they be removed. A major design flaw of the castle.”

“How do you know all this?” Parthena winces.

“Let’s just say I had cause to be on the premises for a while.” I turn from her, not willing to offer more, and zigzag my way around the cookery, through the east doors, and out to the hallway. Parthena and Urlick follow, falling into a neat line behind me, backs pressed tight up against the wall. The tick of the clock in the grand ballroom thrums in time with my heart. I look both ways before crossing.

Urlick rushes along behind me, as does Parthena, as I skirt the next corner briskly and break into a slight jog. Running through the open space of the well-furnished parlour and the library, I stop again in the next hall. “How much farther?” Urlick hisses, catching up with me.

“We need to make it to the back stairs,” I say. “If we can get that far without running into . . .” I round the next corner and draw back, my boot sliding to a squeaky stop on the freshly waxed floors. “Her!”

Urlick slams into my back. Parthena into his. We stand there, three frozen, gawking, frazzled faces, each holding our breath.
Don’t move
, I mouth to them, bringing a quick finger to my lips.

“What was that?” The old woman standing in front of me sniffs the air. Parthena and Urlick look on, confused. “Who are you? What is your business here?” The old woman’s heels snap in tight half circles this way and that. I curl to one side, avoiding her spindly fingers—but just barely.

Urlick pulses his eyes at me.

She’s blind
, I mouth.
She can’t see.

He exhales, relieved, letting out a little too much
oh
.

“I may be blind,” the old woman scoffs. “But I have other senses. Now identify yourselves before I ring the bell.” She pulls a dainty brass tinkler from her pocket.

“It’s me, Matriarch Burgess.” I drop my head, hoping she remembers me. “It’s Lettie.”

“Lettie?”

I elbow Urlick in the gut. “And friends.” I lift my brow.

The woman pulls back, her jaw feverishly churning. She shivers inside her cone of oversized clothing. “Lettie,” she repeats. “But that’s not possible. They told me Lettie was dead.”

“I know,” I say. “It must be strange to hear my voice, but it’s true. I’m very much alive and standing before you.” She reaches out, running her weathered fingers over my face, stopping at the scar on my forehead. The one I acquired while riding wildly down the palace staircase at the age of three, under Matriarch Burgess’s watchful eye.

Her body language softens, her elderly bones settling back into their ninety-year-old droop. “Lettie, what are you doing here, child?” She looks back and forth over her shoulder, futilely. “You know they’ll kill you if they see you here?” she whispers, her forehead rumpled with concern.

“I had to come,” I say. “There is something we have to do.”

“We?” Her head cranks in Urlick and Parthena’s direction.

“Can you keep a secret?” I pat her hand.

“Of course I can.” She takes in a breath. “You know better than that. Besides, at my age I can barely remember my own name, let alone give away a secret.” She turns and sniffs the air, then smiles. Her wrinkled skin gathers into a nest of sunshine at the corners of her eyes. “This one always was my pet,” she tells Urlick.

“And you were always mine.” I squeeze her hand.

“What can I do for you, child?” she asks, her expression sensing I’m in trouble, the same way it used to when I was small, seeking asylum from a scolding from my mother.

“Perhaps you could help us get to the main bedroom of the house?” My voice lilts up weakly, worried she’ll ask why. Matriarch Burgess’s eyes flash. “If I promise you nothing bad will happen,” I add quickly.

“Well, that won’t be any fun.” She frowns.

“All right, so some
teensy
bit of bad will happen, mixed in with a whole lot of good. What do you say?” I foolishly pinch my fingers in the air, showing her the measure as if she can see it. Urlick stifles a laugh.

The matriarch ponders my request a moment. “How about some cookies first?”

“No, thank you, Matriarch.” I clasp my hands. “We’re sort of in a bit of a hurry.”

“Well, then . . .” Wiry brows jump over milky eyes. “I suppose it can’t be any worse than what’s already happened. Things have gone all to
hell
around here since my son died.”

“Yes, I know,” I say. “I’m sorry for that.” I turn to a stunned-looking Urlick and Parthena and explain, “This is the former Ruler’s mother.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, madam.” Parthena curtsies awkwardly.

Urlick leans in. “What if we could promise you, if you help us get to the Ruler’s room, we’ll set everything right again?”

“Then I’d say you’re just the bloke I’ve been waiting for.” Matriarch Burgess slips her arm through Urlick’s. “Now, if you could be so kind as to point me in the direction of the lift.”

The lift comes to rest on the lip of the second floor. Urlick secures the crank and sets the levers to automatic. He folds back the cage’s accordion door, careful not to make too much noise, and we shuffle out—all but Matriarch Burgess. “I’m afraid this is where we part ways,” she whispers, hanging back. “The last thing I need is to get caught up in a pither-pother. Such a commotion at my age could do me in. Then again, so could bad fish.” She smirks. “At any rate, since my son’s untimely demise and the subsequent change of regime, I fear I’m living here on borrowed time. Don’t want to give the new administration any good reasons to cut me short.” She raises a wary brow. “God knows there’s been talk of that already,” she mutters. “Anyway, the room you’re looking for is on the left, third door down. You have about a half an hour before her dressing brigade shows up. Good luck, my pet.” She blows me a kiss, trips the switch on the elevator, and starts her descent.

“Thank you,” I call, her white hair sinking below the floorboards. She looks up through the elevator cage one last time. “Give her
hell
!” She shakes her fist before completely disappearing.

Parthena snorts. “Full of spunk, isn’t she?”

“Come on, we’d better get going before someone hears that lift and comes to investigate.” I sidestep down the hall toward the room. My eyes catch sight of something, glinting gold in the flickering shards of streetlamp light that seep in through the south windows. The brass doorknob of the conquest room. I’ve almost reached it when—

“Unhand me at once!” The Matriarch’s voice filters up through the elevator shaft. “Good gracious, can’t an old woman take a wrong turn without launching a criminal investigation!” She’s shouting now, clearly trying to warn us we’ve been discovered. It’ll only be a matter of time before guards head up the stairs. “For goodness sakes, I’m quite capable of opening the door myself! Unhand me, I said! Let me
be
!”

I turn and race the remaining few steps to Penelope’s bedroom door—Parthena and Urlick follow in tow—and burst through the door into a lavishly decorated dressing room. Louis XIV pink and blue silk furniture lines every wall. “Through here!” I shout, dashing forward, falling hard on the handle of a second inner door, the door to the bedchamber, bouncing back when my shoulder slams into it. “It’s locked,” I turn and say.

“Not for long!” Parthena kicks out a boot. Wood chips splinter everywhere.

A pillow-squish-faced Penelope flies up in her bed, looking like a startled dwarf. Royal-purple drapes adorn either side of the massive four-poster. A golden canopy stretches the length of the wood beams overhead. Penelope’s hair rises from her crown like a tornado. She strips the night blinders from her eyes, and gasps.

“Good morning, Penelope!” Urlick launches his face out in front of hers. “What’s the matter? Not expecting company?”