Shades of Grey (24 page)

“Over here!”

I caught sight of Jane, who gave me a smile and a cheery wave. Delighted that she seemed to have changed her mind about me, I quickened my pace and was not more than twenty feet away when I stopped dead in my tracks.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” I said it between gritted teeth, not daring to move. The smile on her face had now gone.

“I did,” she replied, “and now perhaps you’ll tell me everything I want to know.”

I had been lured onto the smooth, grass-covered area that is typical of the space beneath the spread of the yateveo. I looked nervously upward at the sinewy, barb-covered vines and thought of making a dash for it, hoping that the carnivorous tree had caught a deer earlier and was still sluggish, or that I was still “one trip in hand,” as it took two triggered sensors to initiate a strike. But since I knew full well that a hungry yateveo could catch an antelope running at full tilt, I decided not to risk it.

“So,” said Jane, walking up to the edge of the spread, “it’s time to tell me what you know and, more important, who you’ve told.”

“Listen,” I said angrily, “don’t you think this joke’s gone far enough? Besides, you only said you’d kill me if I mentioned your nose, and I haven’t mentioned it once.”

In answer, she threw a stick at my feet. It hit a root sensor, and the yateveo raised its barbs in readiness to strike. One more hint of movement and I would be exactly where I am now—inside the digesting bulb with an assortment of corroded spoons, slowly losing consciousness and musing upon how I got there.

“Are you mad?” I exclaimed. “You can’t kill me!”

“I’m not going to kill you,” she replied. “The yateveo is. A tragic, tragic accident. After the mourning is over—perhaps tomorrow at tea time—you’ll get your name on the departures board, along with anything notable or worthy you might have done. Have you
actually
done anything noble or worthy, by the way?”

“Given the opportunity of a long life,” I answered slowly, “I might.”

“Good try, but no deal. Now, tell me what you know.”

I took a deep breath. It was time to come clean.

“I don’t know anything,” I told her, relieved to be able to finally tell the truth. “The ‘shamefully ludicrous idiot who fancies you’ act
wasn’t
an act. Yes, I’m curious about what you and Zane were up to, but it’s nothing more. All I really want to do is have tea with you, and perhaps pretend that there is a viable alternative to a life of string manufacture with the Oxbloods.”

“No one can be that deluded,” she replied, looking around for another stick to trigger the yateveo. “Did you see the unfinished ceiling in the town hall?”

“Yes.”

“Did your father?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you see anything else?”

“Somebody faded.”

“Did they tell you anything?”

“No—but she wanted to.”

“Hmm. And how did you know to visit Zane’s place?”

“Dad gave me his spoon,” I said with a nervous squeak in my voice. “It had his postcode engraved on the back.”

Jane stared at me for a moment, then shook her head sadly. “So you really are as stupid as you look?”

“I’m far more stupid than that,” I assured her, “but then curiosity has
always
gotten me into trouble. You should have heard Old Man Magenta sound off when I tried to improve queuing.”

“Normally I would tend to look on curiosity with favor,” she said, “but I think this time it’s far safer to just have you eaten. Unless, of course, you can think of a good reason why I shouldn’t?”

The very real possibility of death focuses the mind wonderfully. Chasing an intriguing Grey girl with a retroussé nose was as pointless as her killing me now. But all was not lost. I still had something to barter with. Perhaps the
only
thing I had ever had to barter with—here or anywhere else.

“Listen,” I said, “I have no idea what you’re up to, and it’s none of my business. You can kill me if you want, but it’s just possible I might turn out to be useful.”

She laughed. “What makes you think you have anything that I could possibly want?”

“Your hair,” I said. “It’s red.”

She stared at me. I had surprised her.

“Who told you that?”

I pointed to my eyes. I could see more red than most, and perhaps as much asany. Everyone would know for sure after my Ishiharaon Sunday, but right now Jane needed to understand that I might one day be up the ladder.
I could be of use.
She cocked her head to one side and stared at me. I could see that my plea was having an effect, so I told her I would be
so
unobtrusive from now on that “even the mice wouldn’t see me.”

“No,” she said after a moment’s thought, “I think you should carry on being curious. To keep the prefects distracted.”

“Did I say unobtrusive? I actually meant annoyingly inquisitive.”

“Annoyingly inquisitive is good—just not anywhere near me. Breathe a word about Zane, Rusty Hill or anything else and I’ll make good on my promise. If you agree, nod your head.”

I nodded my head, and she walked away without another word.

“Hey!” I said, although not
too
loud, as a yateveo can sense vibrations. “What about me?”

But she had gone. I looked nervously around at the barbed vines, which were still poised, ready to strike if I moved even a muscle.

“Plums,” I said to myself.

I
n case you’re confused, don’t be. This
wasn’t
the time that Jane had me eaten by a yateveo—that comes later. As far as carnivorous trees go, she and I have some past history, and none of it good. Or at least, not for me.

It took thirty-eight minutes for Dad and Fandango to finally come and look for me, and when they found me, I was all sweaty, with tremors in my leg muscles. They were more amused than concerned.

“Well, well,” said Dad with a faint snigger, “outwitted by a tree, Eddie my lad?” He kept his voice low, and trod carefully.

“Sweet revenge for all those crackling log fires,” added Fandango. “Where’s my water can?”

“It’s over there. Can you do something? I’m beginning to get cramps.”

Dad walked quietly to the other side of the tree, then rolled a log into the area under the spread. With lightning speed the yateveo’s barbed vines dove down, grabbed the log, whisked it high up into the canopy, paused for a moment and then flung it off into the forest, where we heard it land with a distant thump. The tree looked large enough to multiple-strike, so after waiting a minute or two for the vines to settle, Dad rolled a second log in, and the branches again descended, but this time slower. By the fourth log the barbs were striking at a decidedly languid pace, and I simply walked out, easily dodging the vines as they made a lazy swipe in my direction.

“I got caught by one once,” said the Colorman a few minutes later, once they’d had a good laugh at my expense. “I wouldn’t be here now if there hadn’t been several people half digested beneath me. Mind you,” he added, “if you
do
get eaten, upside down is the way you want to be—it’s all over quicker.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said grumpily. “Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and you missed a pair of rhinosauruses, by the way. Crossed the road about thirty yards away. I logged their codes if you want them.”

Ordinarily, missing megafauna might have been annoying. But I had a lot more on my mind. Most important was how I should leave Jane well alone and concentrate on winning Constance and getting away from East Carmine just as quickly as I could. I’d throw in some misdirected curiosity, too, just to keep Jane happy.

About three-quarters of the way through the quarantine, Dad ran through the list of
specifically
Rot-like symptoms, such as accelerated nail growth, numb elbows and a certain brittleness of the ears. None of us had any of those, so we knew by then that we were clear. Mildew makes itself known within two hours of infection. Sometimes sooner, but never later.

“I understand that you’re taking your Ishihara with us?” asked Fandango once the quarantine period was up and we were heading back to East Carmine.

“It’s a huge honor,” I said, and meant it.

“My daughter Imogen is being shown the spots this year as well,” he remarked. “She’ll be quite Violet—a recessive throwback to a
very
purple maternal grandmother, you know.”

“Is that so?” I said, recalling Tommo’s accusation that Imogen was the product of purchased parentage at the Green Dragon. “You must be very proud.”

“We are
hugely
proud, and want only the best for her. Speaking of which, you don’t know any Purples who are a bit slack-hued but rolling in moolah? I’ve had a bit of interest, but nothing terribly exciting—mostly Lilac lowbies wanting to pay in bouncing goats.”

I thought of Bertie Magenta. His smarter, elder and Purpler sister would inherit Old Man Magenta’s Synthetic Pigment Enrichment Plant and the head prefecture. Bertie had scored a dismal 53 percent Purple on his Ishihara last year, and had a brain the size of a broad bean. Despite this and solely due to his hue, he would live a very comfortable life. If his sister married away and no higher Purple arrived, he might even make head prefect—which was a chilling thought right there all on its own.

“Does he have to be at all smart?” I asked.

“If he’s got the cash, I’m not bothered.”

“I know this fellow,” I said, “not the sharpest banana in the bunch. In fact, some might say he has the mind of a clodworm. But his father
is
the head prefect.”

“Totally perfect!” said Carlos with a grin. “Two percent finder’s fee, lad.”

“How does Imogen feel about it?”

“She’ll do what we think is best,” replied Fandango in a tone of voice that I didn’t much care for. “Besides, an engagement will bring closure to an unsuitable
attachment
. You could compose a telegram to your friend, speaking of Imogen’s dazzling attributes. You might like to mention that she’s willing to offer any serious purchaser an evening on appro. I’ll get a photograph and a list of her virtues to you just as soon as I can.”

He took my silence as agreement and patted me on the shoulder. Although I couldn’t be sure, I thought he’d just offered to broker his own daughter for some youknow with Bertie, a slack-hued cash machine he knew nothing about. I shook my head. He
couldn’t
have. He must have meant a meal or something.

“Twenty-nine miles,” Fandango announced sadly as we pulled up outside the stockwall gates to smarten ourselves up and put our spots back on. “If we pile on the mileage at this rate, the Ford will be worn out in less than two centuries.”

T
he word that a Colorman had arrived swiftly got about, and by the time I escorted him to our house, a gaggle of inquisitive villagers had collected to stare. Not just at
him,
but the gears on his bicycle and his richly colorful coveralls. In the relative drabness of East Carmine, he shone like a beacon of hope—an example of how colorful the world
could
look, if only we could afford the pigment, and had time and opportunity to collect the scrap.

“You’re very popular,” I said, showing him upstairs to his room.

“It’s National Color they’re fascinated by,” he replied. “I’ve seen people commit unspeakable acts simply to secure a colored orchid. Do you have an interest in color, lad?”

“My shade of mustard won best runner-up at Jollity Fair last year,” I said, honored to be given the opportunity to boast. “I went for a darker shade than the others: 33-71-67.”

“Hmm,” said the Colorman, expertly visualizing the color in his head, “not bad. Tell me, what would we use to stain a primrose?”

“62-62-98, sir.”

“And a carrot?”

“31-87-97.”

He was impressed. “You know your colors.”

“My mentor was a retired mixer,” I explained. “Greg Scarlet.”

“I met him once or twice,” replied the Colorman thoughtfully. “Fine chap. Perhaps you and I should speak again. Undo my shoelaces and take off my boots, would you? Let me give you my laundry—and please, call me Matthew.”

I delivered the painting as soon as I had dealt with the Colorman’s laundry and changed into more appropriate day clothes. Red Prefect Yewberry seemed happier than anyone I’d ever seen before when I handed over the Caravaggio.

“We’ll lodge it with the Cochineals,” he announced, staring in admiration at the canvas. “They’ve already got a van Gogh and know how to look after these things. I may have it copied into a painting-by-numbers, and have it painted with synthetics so all may gaze upon its splendor.”

“Our Mrs. Alder has
The Shipwreck of the Minotaur
on her upstairs landing,” I said, eager not to be outdone, “and Ruth G-9 has a Renoir.”

“You should have a look at our Vermeer,” replied Yewberry. “It’s in the Greyzone, but you might persuade one of them to escort you in and out.”

 

At a few minutes to one I wandered across to the town hall. The Rules didn’t state which meal was mandatory, but it was always lunch. Lucy Ochre was one of the few faces I recognized among the many who were milling about outside, chatting cross-hue before we were confined to our tables. Luckily, the presence of the Colorman seemed to have eclipsed the news about my run-in with the yateveo.

“Hullo!” I said, but Lucy looked at me blankly.

“It’s Eddie Russett.”

“Sorry,” she said, “I was miles away. Thanks for your help with the Lincoln this morning. I might have to ask for it back, though. Mummy will notice it’s gone.”