Museum of Thieves (6 page)

.

row Berg’s bread roll tasted so wonderful that Goldie could hardly bear it. She finished it in half a dozen bites, and licked her fingers until every single crumb was gone. Then she huddled back in the shadows of Lame Poet’s Bridge.

‘Leave the city,’ Frow Berg had said. But how was she supposed to do that? And even if she managed to get out of Jewel onto the Spoke Road, she didn’t have any money or food. What was she supposed to do,
walk
all that way? By
herself
?

Her legs started to shake again. The night closed in around her. For a moment she was almost over- whelmed with panic. Then she remembered Favour’s words.

‘You’re braver than any of us. If anyone can do it, you can.’

She knew that Favour was wrong. She wasn’t brave at all. But her friend’s faith in her was like a small spot of calm in the middle of the panic.

She fumbled in her pocket and took out her compass. The needle glowed a bright luminous green, pointing back the way she had come. That must be north. So the Spoke Road must be
that
way. East.

Goldie climbed to her feet. She could have eaten another five bread rolls. She was still thirsty too, and the rippling of the water beneath the bridge was like torture. But she knew that the canals were salty and disease-ridden, and she made herself walk away from the sound.

The streets of Jewel at night were very different from their daytime selves. The houses seemed to loom over Goldie like living creatures. She kept thinking she heard footsteps, or the sinister sound of someone breathing close behind her. Her skin prickled, and she took out the scissors again, and turned this way and that, trying to catch any sign of movement. But all she saw was shadows.

She was approaching one of the bridges over Dead Horse Canal when she heard someone whistling a tune. She froze. On the far side of the bridge, half-hidden by the parapet, stood a man with his back to her.

As quietly as she could, Goldie tiptoed away. There was another bridge further up the canal. She would cross there.

But when she reached the second bridge, she saw a dark figure leaning against the stone arch. A low whistle reached her ears. It was the same man!

Goldie shrank back into the shadows, holding the scissors out in front of her like a knife. Who was he? She could not see him clearly, but she thought perhaps he wore a black coatee, like the man who had been watching her in the street and at the Separation ceremony.
Was
it him? Was he following her? What did he want with her?

She remembered the stories she had heard about the slaver, Captain Roop. About how clever he was at luring Separated children into his traps. About how innocent he seemed – right up until the last minute.

This
man looked innocent enough. He had his back to her, as if he didn’t know she was there. But he
did
know. She was sure of it. He was listening for her footsteps, even while he whistled, and for the breath in her lungs, and for the frightened beating of her heart . . .

She slunk away, trying not to breathe. When she looked back, the man hadn’t moved. Her heart settled a little.

But when she came to the next bridge,
he was already there
.

Suddenly the night took on an even more sinister tone. Every shadow seemed to hide one of Captain Roop’s men. Every sound was the scrape of Natkin Gull’s oars. The man’s whistling – had it changed? Was it a signal? Was Old Lady Skint closing in on her at this very moment?

Goldie crept back the way she had come. She wasn’t going east any more, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to escape from the man in the black coatee.

But every time she thought she had got away from him, he appeared again.

On the other side of a plaza.

Or in a doorway.

Or in the middle of a street.

Not once did he turn and look at her. Not once did she see him move. But bit by bit he drove her through the dark city.

Goldie leaned against the wall of a cul de sac. She had been walking for ages, and she was too tired now to be afraid. Which was just as well, because there was no way out of the little dead-end street, except the way she had come. And the man would surely be waiting for her if she tried to turn back.

With a groan, she slid down until she was sitting on the ground. She had no idea where she was. She remembered trudging up a hill, with rich-looking houses on either side of the road. But there were several hills in Jewel, and this could be any one of them.

Goldie didn’t really care. She just wanted to lie down and sleep. If the slavers came, they’d have to carry her. She wasn’t going a step further.

But no sooner had she closed her eyes than a wisp of night breeze touched her face. Clinging to it was the unmistakable smell of freshly cooked almond cakes.

Goldie’s eyes snapped open.

At the far end of the cul de sac was a small, ugly stone building. The grand houses on either side loomed over it, as if they were trying to cram it out of existence. But the ugly little building had a stubborn look to it, like an old man refusing to move from his favourite chair. The smell of the cakes seemed to be coming from its open doorway.

Goldie dragged herself to her feet and stumbled down the cul de sac and up the steps of the little building. The smell drew her onwards like a promise. Through a dimly lit entrance hall. Under a stone archway. Up to the door of what looked like an office.

She had just enough sense left to pause on the threshold. The watergas lamps were lit, but the office was as deserted as the entrance hall. There was a rickety old desk in the middle of it, and there, piled high on a plate, were the almond cakes, with a bowl of milk next to them. Goldie stumbled forward and picked up the bowl, feeling as if she might die of happiness.

She gulped half the milk straight down, and ate six cakes, one after the other. Then she drank the rest of the milk and ate another three cakes. All the while, her eyes scanned the office.

It was small and cluttered. Bits of paper lay on every surface, weighed down with rocks and lumps of coloured glass. Shelves overflowed with books and old coins and cracked porcelain statues. In one corner there was a small harp. And above the open door . . .

Goldie nearly choked on the cake she was eating. On a perch above the door sat an enormous stuffed bird. It was at least twenty times as big as the clockwork birds in the Great Hall. Its feathers were as black as sin and its beak was cruel. Its yellow glass eyes seemed to glare at Goldie as if it blamed her for its death.

Goldie gasped aloud. ‘It’s a slaughterbird! Just like the one on the Bridge of Beasts!’

Fascinated, she circled around underneath it. The bird stared into space.
If I reached up
I could touch its feathers!

She shivered and backed away. She knew that she mustn’t linger in this strange place. She took one last look around the office, and her eyes fell on the coins. There were so many of them, and they were in such untidy heaps that she was sure the owner wouldn’t miss a few. And they would make her trip to Spoke so much easier.

I’m already a thief
.
I might as well steal something else.

She hurried over to the nearest shelf. Her fingers closed around a small pile of coins. She slipped them into her pocket.

There was a rustling sound from the perch above the door. Goldie spun around, her heart banging against her ribs. The slaughterbird – the stuffed slaughterbird, the
dead
slaughterbird – unfolded its enormous wings and blinked down at her. Then it opened its beak and began to screech in a voice like rusty iron.

‘Thie-e-ef!’ screeched the slaughterbird. ‘Thie-e-e-ef! Thie-e-e-ef! Thie-e-e-ef!’

There was a thunder of footsteps in the corridor outside the office. A man’s voice cried, ‘Got you!’ And the door slammed shut, trapping Goldie and the slaughterbird inside.

Goldie was not the only thief in the city that night. As the Great Hall clock struck one, a man wearing a hooded cloak hurried down Old Arsenal Hill and slipped through the canal gate.

There was a small private water-rig moored at Old Arsenal Dock. The hooded man clambered into it and turned keys and gas switches until the motor came to life. The water-rig edged away from the dock and chugged quietly down the middle of the canal. When it came to Beast Dock, the man cut the motor and tied the rig to an iron ring. Then he hurried up the steps and climbed the safety fence.

The Protectorate, when he came to it, was in darkness. He slipped around the side of the building and stopped at a small window. He took out a wafer-thin knife and eased it into the crack between the window and its frame. As gently as if he was tickling a baby, he wiggled the blade backwards and forwards. He swore under his breath at the slowness of it, but his hand remained steady.

There was a faint
click
, and the window swung outwards. The man straddled the sill and dropped down into the storeroom below. He fumbled past shelves and boxes to the open door, and then along the lightless corridor and up a short flight of stairs. He bumped his shins a dozen times before he found the room he was looking for.