Ambergate (25 page)

The boy was looking exceedingly interested. “That’s an old song, is it not, Miss? What do you know of the Amber Gate?”

Caleb Grouted had asked the self-same question at Madam Anora’s. “Nothing much, Sir,” I said hesitantly. “No man knows whether
there is such a thing or no. I heard the song as a child.”

“Don’t we all wish we could find the Amber Gate?” said Titus Molde, winking at the boy. “Wealth beyond dreams, eh, Master
Kester?”

“But it has some sacred importance, hasn’t it, Sir?” said the boy, and frowned. “If there is indeed such a thing, it shouldn’t
be desecrated.” He turned and regarded me gravely. “I’ll take you on, Miss. I can tell you have a sweet soprano voice, which
will improve with practice and good food.”

“Your master will approve, you think?” said Titus Molde.

The boy covered his laughter with his hand. “My master’s not musical, Sir. It is his guests who will appreciate her singing.
But her songs may soothe his temper and therefore be good for his health.”

The two soldiers glanced at each other. “He’s unwell, Master Kester?” said Titus Molde solicitously.

“His physicians fear for his choler from time to time. They prescribe the playing of music to calm him. That’s why I’m there.”
The boy smiled ruefully. “But though I play music, I sing like a saw on wood. That’s why I was so fortunate to meet you and
hear about…” He gestured at me. “What is your name?”

I hesitated. “In my last employment they called me Scuff,” I whispered. “It’s a kind of silly nickname, Sir.”

The boy held out his hand. “Nate, please, not Sir.” He shook my hand in a warm, friendly way. “You know your master is to
be the Lord Protector?” I nodded. “Come, bring your things and we’ll go.”

He gestured down at the bag that contained my box. I picked it up, but he took it from me courteously and slung it over his
shoulder, all the while moving to the door as if he could not wait to get away; as, indeed, no less could I.

“Thank you for your introduction,” he said to Molde, and blushed. “I’m afraid I’ve nothing to reward you with—no money in
my pockets.” He gestured at his clothes. “It’s all show, I’m afraid. My master provides these fine garments so I don’t disgrace
him.”

Titus Molde smiled and clapped him on the back so that he almost fell. “Master Kester, I need no reward for helping my dearest
friend’s daughter! Good luck to you.” Then he patted my hand in an affectionate-seeming gesture. “And I’ll look forward to
hearing of your progress in the Palace, child.”

He stared at me with narrowed eyes as he said those last words, as if to make sure I understood that I’d never be truly free
until I’d done what he asked of me. Both men watched silently as I followed Nate Kester down the stairs, almost tripping over
my long skirts in my hurry.

All the time, deep in my boot, I could feel the dagger, unyielding against my ankle.

The Palace

T
here is a dark shadow that hangs over every child in the Capital. It is the shadow of wings.

In the streets, ravens and kites peck and scatter the heaps of stinking refuse, filling the air with their harsh tumult. By
the river, the gulls cry forlornly, swooping low over the masts of ships at dock. On every street corner, there are the soot-blackened
statues of the Great Eagle on their plinths.

That afternoon when I emerged at last from the Saggy Bottle tavern with Master Nate Kester, the chains of the Gravengate had
been wound up across the river. Above the lethal net of links the sun flickered on the metal facing of the pilothouse so that
the engravings of the Night Birds seemed to move. I could almost hear their foul screeching and cawing.

Panicked, I pushed at my veil, forgetting why I wore it. I was in a stranger’s clothes.
Who was I
?

Nate Kester looked at me in concern. “Are you faint? We’ve a long walk ahead.”

I shook my head. “It’s nothing.”

“Perhaps you are anxious about working at the Palace,” he said kindly. “My father was Keeper of the Keys to the Capital and
worked in the Palace all his life, so I suppose I’m used to it.” He made a wry face. “I’ve been Boy Musician several years
now. In return I get my keep, as will you.”

We were walking along the riverfront, passing large houses, each with its own gilded water gate. Gulls flashed and wheeled
above the oily shingle and squabbled among the muck and weed. The sun was hot on my back, holding the threat of summer, the
return of the Miasma.

“I’ve only a reference, no identification papers,” I faltered.

“So your guardian said. Stolen from you your first night.” Nate shook his head, watching me. The ratha under his arm gleamed
in the yellow sunlight. “The pickpockets are appalling in the Capital.”

I was sure he didn’t believe the story. “How will I get through without them?” I said, nervous. “Will they search me?”

“I’ve briefed one of the guards, a friend of mine. He’s on duty in the security office today.” Nate smiled; he had an open,
engaging smile. He’d have many friends.

He stared at me. “If you removed your hat and veil, it would give you more air.”

I pressed my hat down more firmly, worried he might take it from me himself, he looked so concerned. “I have terrible scars—on
my forehead, you know—from the Miasma. Last summer, it was.”

Now he looked at me in astonishment and respect. “You survived the Miasma? You must have a strong constitution.”

“Like an ox,” I assured him.

“Strange. You look so fragile. There’s no telling, is there?” He peered closer. “You were lucky not to be scarred on your
cheeks and chest. They are still—perfectly smooth.”

“Tell me how you heard about my singing,” I said quickly.

“I was in a tavern not far from the Palace.” He blushed again. “It’s a respectable place, I do assure you—the Dancing Bear.
I go there from time to time and I suppose people know I play a bit. Someone asked for a tune, so I obliged.” He stroked his
ratha. “Then one of those men with you asked for a song. I explained I’d no voice for singing, and we fell into conversation.
It ended with him offering me the opportunity to hear his own little ‘songbird.’ I was curious, I suppose.” He hesitated.
“When I saw you, I knew I had to rescue you, however ill you sang.”

“Rescue me?”

“You looked so distressed. Something wasn’t right. That room—locking you in like a prisoner…. They kidnapped you, didn’t they?”

I shook my head.

He sighed. “You look frightened again. At least they didn’t try to sell you. Did they harm you in any way?”

I tried to keep my voice steady. “They did nothing to hurt me.”

We walked on in silence. We had left the river and the tall brick houses that we passed now had once been elegant, but had
fallen into disrepair and ruin long ago. Their marble
front steps were chipped and broken; the wrought-iron railings and imposing porches broken or hidden by thick fronds of ivy.
On one balcony a woman in a tattered silk dress, grubby wig perched askew on her head, tried to hang sacking over a broken
window.

It was difficult to breathe beneath my veil. I felt dizzy with heat.

Nate looked at me. “Why don’t we break our journey at the Cathedral? It’s close by. We can rest there.”

We walked across a square of cherry trees toward the great West entrance.

I have been here before—once, long ago
.

Wings of stone grew out from the walls of the Cathedral and threw shadows at our feet. Above us rose a magnificence of gables
and pinnacles and long columns. The windows were decorated with stone tracery as delicate as lace; the spire dazzled like
silver in the sun, and in the ribbing live ravens perched as motionless as the stone birds around them. I looked up and clutched
my amber, then I saw that Nate was not afraid.

On all sides of us people streamed over the grass.

“This Protector has little time for churchgoing,” said Nate. “But my father told me that in the old days the Protectors used
the Cathedral on great religious occasions. They always had the Ceremony of Anointment there, and state weddings and funerals.
It’s falling into ruin now, but there’s still some
kind of folk memory that brings the people here from all over the city”

Prayer mats were spread out beneath the pale pink cherry trees. I lingered longingly by the religious icons displayed for
sale, for they were such pretty things: the five Birds of Light, each intricately carved in wood, and stone eggs painted to
represent the World Egg.

“Come,” said Nate, looking warily around. “There are thieves about here.”

I’d noticed a tiny wrinkled man staring at us from beneath a tree where a stack of Legend sheets were displayed. When I looked
back next he was nowhere, had vanished into one of the shadowy alleyways off the square, perhaps. There’d been something strange
about him: he’d not been dressed in rags but feathers.

Nate steered me beneath an arched gable; the stone was crumbling, the doors long rotted. I touched the stone as I went through,
feeling the cold strike my fingertips. I remembered the feeling of the carved grooves in the stone, the feeling that the place
was entering me through my flesh and bones.

We stood in the nave. All around us, in the central aisle, men and women with careworn faces murmured their prayers, their
desires and fears rising up into the high vaulted roof with the ravens that flew in through the open entrance. The sun glowed
through the colors of the stained-glass windows, so that it seemed the kneeling figures had been sprinkled with rose petals.
They looked in supplication toward the stone statue of the Great Eagle on the altar, while their small
round-eyed children perched on the edges of pews like rows of starlings.

We sat down in an empty pew. I was glad when Nate moved a little way from me. I closed my eyes and felt the Cathedral breathing
its chill breath all around me.

This is where I committed my crime
.

That morning long ago I’d managed to escape from the Home before we left for the weaving factory. Finally, I must have wandered
into the square. It was early, the Cathedral almost empty.

But someone saw me as I ran away afterward, my mouth covered with blood, the lump of undigested sacrifice heavy in my belly—the
Bird-Scarer, who is employed by the vergers to wave the ravens away from the sacrificial meat. He pointed at me; he had a
loud, accusing voice, and I was frightened. The ravens flew up in a black, croaking cloud.

I ran and ran, all the way back to the Home. It was the only place I knew. They whipped me. They didn’t know what I had done,
only that I had given them the slip that morning. Then I was sick over their boots.

I had nightmares for weeks afterward.
Krak-krak-krak
.

I’d dropped my handkerchief in the Cathedral. It had my number sewn into it. Number 102.

When I opened my eyes I saw there was a different Bird-Scarer now up in the chancel by the altar, a gangling youth
with a pockmarked face. He looked scared to death himself as he flapped the big black birds away from the meat.

A voice in my ear said “Little one” so suddenly, I thought it was in my head. “Little one!”

Bright eyes crinkled at me from a wrinkled, walnut face.

“Who-who are you?” I stammered, drawing back in alarm. To my horror, a little clawlike hand tried to lift my veil.

Nate slid along. “Don’t bother the young lady, Gobchick,” he hissed sternly.

“Aye—Gobchick,” said the tiny man sadly. His eyes were ageless, but his face was old and pitifully thin: the grooved skin
clung to the bones of his cheeks.

“Go away,” repeated Nate. “Leave us alone.”

“I don’t believe he intends any harm,” I said.

“Gentle,” nodded the old man. “Gentle Gobchick, my Master’s Fool.” A single tear rolled from his eye. “Cast out,” he mourned.
“Cast out! Time for laughter gone.” His feathered costume was worn and tattered, the colors faded by sun and run together
by rain.

“We’ve no money,” I said softly. “We can’t help you.”

“Don’t need money. You’re my little one.”

“You’re mistaken,” I whispered. “I don’t know you.”

He clutched my sleeve again. “Come with me, little one! Come, see Gobchick’s place.” He clasped his brown palms together then
put them to his gaunt cheek to mime sleep. “Master should have asked me, his Gobchick. Gobchick knows about the Amber Gate.”
He put his head on one side like a bird, and his eyes slid away.

“The Amber Gate?”

He nodded fervently. A smile lit his face. He stroked my hand, although I tried to draw it away. “Gobchick show. You come
with me, little one.”

“He used to be the Protector’s Fool,” whispered Nate. “He’s cracked in the head these days. He must have taken a fancy to
you. Come on, we’ll leave.”

“He says he knows about the Amber Gate.” The name suddenly seemed strangely enticing to me. But now I could not even remember
the words of the song I’d sung.

The man had curled his small, hard hand around mine and was pulling at me with surprising strength, so that I found myself
rising. I heard Nate grumble as he slid out of the pew after us. Gobchick capered and chattered like a small child, giving
little beckoning gestures to draw me on down a side aisle, past candlelit chapels to the Birds of Light. Behind, Nate kept
his head bent, as if embarrassed to be seen in such company.

But no one saw us, no one looked up from praying or moved their gaze from the Great Eagle; no one saw when Gobchick slipped
behind the altar screen.

But then he chittered in alarm. There were men working beyond us in the gloom of the apse: stonemasons, with mallets and pickaxes.
I could see a huge pile of broken stone under an arch that was supported by wooden props. Closer, two were sitting around
an oil lantern in a pool of yellow light, eating bread and passing a flagon between them. As we hesitated, they saw us and
stood up, and suddenly a soldier stepped out from the shadows between two stone piers. I shrank back against Nate. He was
armed with a rifle.