Museum of Thieves (24 page)

There was a brief kerfuffle when the Fugleman and Hope arrived in the middle of the army camp. One of the barbarians disappeared into a large tent with a dozen or so men inside it. The Fugleman could see their shadows on the canvas walls.

A moment later, there was shouting in what sounded like the accent of Old Merne. An officer (judging by the quality of his coat) poked his head out through the tent flap and scowled at them. Then he ducked back inside.

More shouting. The first barbarian came hurrying out again.

The Fugleman drew himself up importantly. He thought about using his charming smile, but decided against it. Among people like these, a smile might be seen as a weakness.

‘My good man,’ he said to the barbarian. He spoke loudly so that whoever was inside the tent would hear him. ‘My good man, I am here on a mission. Tell your commanding officer that I have a proposal for him. A proposal that will make him an
extremely
rich man.’

The barbarian stared at the Fugleman, but didn’t move. There was a rumble of voices from the tent, then the flap was thrust aside and a different officer came out.

The Fugleman didn’t need to be told that this was the supreme commander. It was enough to see the brutal, intelligent face, the unyielding expression, the way the barbarian soldier straightened up when he appeared.

Hope was biting her lip nervously. The Fugleman was afraid too, though he was not so foolish as to show it. For a moment he wished he had brought his new sword with him, instead of leaving it hidden in the House of Repentance. But then he pulled himself together. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment that all his plotting had been leading up to.

He paused for just a second to savour the taste of success. Then he took a step forward and held out his hand. ‘I am the Fugleman of Jewel,’ he said. ‘And I want you to invade my city.’

.

oldie lay in the long grass and stared at the army encampment. Her face and arms were blackened with mud; her belly was pressed against the ground. Broo was no more than a shadow beside her.

It was still at least five hours till dawn, but the camp was buzzing like a beehive. By the light of scores of campfires, men pulled on their shoes, strapped leather waterbottles around their waists and shovelled food into their mouths. Somewhere a horse whinnied. The smell of war was everywhere.

Directly in front of Goldie, across the stretch of trampled mud, was a grindstone. A bare-chested giant of a man turned it around and around, his muscles glistening in the firelight. One of the soldiers held a sword against the stone so that sparks flew and the steel took a fine, sharp edge. His companions waited their turn, jostling each other and laughing in voices that brimmed with violence.

There was a sudden flap of wings overhead. Goldie flinched. Morg’s harsh voice drifted down from the night sky. ‘Betra-a-a-a-ayed! Betra-a-a-a-ayed!’

The soldiers muttered uneasily. In the darkness beside Goldie, Broo’s hindquarters quivered. ‘Morg is rRRight,’ he growled. ‘I, too, smell betrRRayal. I smell the hunger for rRRiches, and for blooOOOd!’

He half-rose out of the grass, his voice trembling with fury. ‘
I
will give them bloOOOod! I will RRRRUN through their stinking camp! I will BRRRRREAK the Fugleman’s neck before he destroys us all!’

Goldie could feel the same fury welling up inside her – the urgent need to
do
something, to do it
now
before the world fell apart around her. Her breath caught in her throat. Her muscles tensed.

In the back of her mind the little voice whispered,
Think carefully before you rush into danger!

Goldie shook her head in frustration. How could she think carefully at a time like this? It was like trying to swim against an enormous current, except the current was inside her, sweeping her along.

Think! Think carefully!

She bit her lip until it hurt, and forced herself to be still. ‘Broo, wait!’

‘We must act before it is too late,’ growled Broo.

‘They’ll shoot you!’ whispered Goldie. ‘You’ll never get anywhere near the Fugleman.’

‘I will RRRUN like a shadow. They will not see me until their DEATH is upon them!’

‘But there are hundreds and hundreds of them! And they’re real soldiers, not like our militia. They’ll kill you! We have to think of another way of stopping them.’

The brizzlehound turned his head to stare at her. His eyes burned so fiercely that she had to look away. ‘Think, then,’ he rumbled. ‘But do not take too long. The end of EVERYTHING is almost upon us!’ He sank back onto his haunches, but the low growl in his chest did not stop.

‘Sinew said the museum’s like a kettle full of steam,’ Goldie whispered, half to Broo and half to herself. ‘The Guardians have nailed the rooms down so they can’t move, and now the pressure is building up. So what we need
. . .
’ She hesitated, working it out as she went. ‘What we need is something that’ll reduce that pressure. Like lifting the lid of the kettle and letting out some of the steam. I think— I think that means we have to let some of the wildness loose. Let it out into the city.’

‘Not the soldiers,’ growled Broo. ‘Not the plague. Not the creature that lies in Old Scrrrrratch.’

‘No. Something else. Something that’s not as dangerous. But— But it has to be big or it mightn’t work.’

A shout from the encampment distracted her. One of the soldiers had been drinking from a leather bottle, and someone had bumped him and splashed liquid all over his sleeve. His companions crowed with laughter. The soldier swore and raised his fist, and the laughter grew louder. One of his friends pulled out a kerchief and dabbed at him in mock concern. The sequins on the kerchief glinted in the firelight.

‘Look!’ breathed Goldie. ‘It’s
Olga Ciavolga’s
!’

For a moment, she couldn’t move or think. Olga Ciavolga would never have given up her kerchief willingly. Where was she? What had the soldiers done to her? Was she still alive, or was she—?

Tears sprang to Goldie’s eyes. She brushed them furiously away – this was no time for tears – and forced her mind back to the problem. How could she let some of the museum’s wildness loose? Where would she find something that was big enough to reduce the pressure, but not as dangerous as these soldiers?

There was another roar of laughter from the camp. A prickle ran down Goldie’s spine.
The kerchief. The knots. The BIG knots . . .

Quickly she turned to Broo. ‘What if I stole the kerchief and released one of the Great Winds? Would it blow out into the city? Would it reduce the pressure enough?’

‘I do not know,’ rumbled Broo. ‘Even Olga Ciavolga has never released one of the Great Winds.’

Goldie stared at him, her heart beating wildly. She had no idea if it would work. It might make things worse. And the thought of trying to get close enough to the soldiers to steal the kerchief made her feel sick. What if they caught her? What would they do to her?

Don’t try and push the fear away . . .

She ran her tongue over dry lips. ‘I can’t think of anything else to do, Broo. I’m going to try it. You’d better stay here.’

The hackles on the back of Broo’s neck rose. ‘I am a BRRRRRIZZLEHOUND! We do not stand aside while our friends go into DANGERRRR!’

‘You
must
stay here,’ whispered Goldie. ‘So that if I . . . um . . . if I fail, you can still make your run for the Fugleman.’

‘I do not LIKE this plan. These men are like idlecats. If they catch you they will TEARRRRR you limb from limb.’

‘They mightn’t,’ said Goldie, although she was horribly afraid that the brizzlehound was right. ‘
Please
stay here.’

Broo rumbled his disapproval. But then he bent his head and licked her face with his enormous tongue. ‘You are as BRRRRAVE as a BRRRRIZZLEHOUND. Go well. I will be watching.’

Goldie turned back to the army camp. This would be harder than anything she had ever done before. But the shadows and the bustle and noise would all help to hide her. She settled lower into the long grass. She slowed her breath. She made herself a part of the mud and the firelight.
I am nothing. I am a shadow . . .

Her mind drifted outwards like sparks from a fire. She could sense Broo’s deep, slow heartbeat beside her. She could sense a family of mice somewhere nearby, scurrying hither and thither. She could sense a dreadful, raging hunger from the army camp.

I am nothing. I am a shadow . . .

As silent as a wisp of smoke, she drifted out of the long grass and across the bare earth. There was a wagon right in front of her. She slipped beneath it and the noise of the camp closed around her. The scrape of swords. The rumble of the grindstone. The brutal laughter of the men. She pressed herself against the wagon wheel, wishing she could crawl into a hole and disappear.

It took all her courage to creep out from beneath the wagon. Her stomach churned, but her feet trod carefully in the mud, and the little voice in the back of her mind whispered advice.
Keep to the shadows. Don’t move suddenly – sudden movements catch the eye. Go through that little alleyway between the tents. Watch out! Someone’s coming!

A man blundered down the alleyway towards her, stinking of beer. Goldie faded into stillness.

I am nothing. I am the smell of smoke on the night air . . .

The soldier shouted something that she couldn’t quite make out. From inside one of the tents, there came an answering shout. The soldier laughed and slapped his thigh with a noise like a pistol shot. Then, without a backward glance, he strode past Goldie and out into the firelight.

The men around the grindstone were growing noisier. Two of them had begun to wrestle and the others were roaring encouragement. Goldie crouched in the shadow of the nearest tent, watching them. Somewhere in that seething mass was the man who had Olga Ciavolga’s kerchief. Which one was he?

That one?

No.

That one!

No. There were too many of them. How was she going to find him?

A whisper from the little voice.
Let your mind seek the kerchief.

Goldie let her thoughts drift towards the soldiers. It was hard to ignore the awful hungry heat of them, but she made herself think about other things.

Winds, great and small. A cool breeze in the middle of summer. A knotted kerchief.

And there it was, like a bright spark in the middle of darkness! She could see the soldier now, hanging around the outside of the mob, thumping his fellows on the back and laughing uproariously. The kerchief was in his right-hand pocket.

Goldie slid out of the shadow of the tent, her eyes fixed on the soldier. Fear and excitement welled up inside her and she let them drift away.
No thoughts. Nothing. I’m a shadow . . .

The mob of men was heaving backwards and forwards. The shouting was so loud that she was almost deafened. The soldier,
her
soldier, strode away around the outside of the circle, and she thought she had lost him. But no, there he was again, standing with his hands on his hips and shaking his head as if he was disappointed in the way the fight was going.

She was so close now. Just a little further. Slowly. Slowly.
Ahhhh
.

As the men fought and shouted, the shadow that was Goldie reached out its hand. Slipped it into a pocket. Closed its fingers over the kerchief—

There was a sudden yell, and the crowd surged sideways. The man in front of Goldie cannoned backwards, straight into her. Her fingers lost their grip on the kerchief and her hand flew out of the soldier’s pocket. She stumbled and fell.

She was on her feet again almost immediately.
I am nothing!
I am a shadow!

But it was too late. They had seen her.

Before she knew what was happening, she was surrounded by a crowd of huge, bellowing men. She shrank back from them, her legs shaking so that she could hardly stand. One of the men grabbed her hair in his big fist and hauled her up until she was on tiptoe. He peered in her face, then turned around and shouted to his fellows, ‘Is a leedle gel!’

The men argued briefly over what to do with her. Then two of them herded her away from the others, past the grindstone and between the wagons. ‘Dis way!’ they shouted, and they pushed Goldie towards a fire where a dozen men shovelled food from a cauldron.

‘What is dis?’ growled the man tending the cauldron. ‘Haf you brought us our sopper?’ He grabbed Goldie’s arm and pinched it hard. ‘Ha! Not enough meat on dis one. Haf to mek her into soop!’

The soldiers guffawed loudly and urged Goldie onwards. Past a row of horses, past a huddle of tents and wagons and a patch of bloodied earth where two men were butchering a goat. Goldie felt as if she was going to be sick. Her heart was a small hard lump inside her. She had failed. Soon Broo would make his run for the Fugleman, and be killed in the attempt. Ma and Pa would be lost. The city would be lost.
Everything
would be lost.