Museum of Thieves (9 page)

The roaring seemed to come from nowhere. Bright headlights sprang out of the shadows at the far end of the road. A horn wailed. Goldie stared in astonishment. It was a street-rig. And it was coming straight towards her.

Time seemed to slow down then. Goldie could hear the boy shouting in the distance, but she didn’t move. She felt as if she was dreaming – as if this was happening to someone else, and she was watching it all from far, far away.

The boy shouted again. And out of the shadows of the vacant block rose – something. Something that took one look at Goldie and began to lope towards her. Something with red eyes and slavering jaws. Something that opened its mouth and bayed! The sound joined with the wail of the street-rig’s horn, and crashed off the high ceiling like thunder.

This is silly
, thought Goldie, in a dreamy sort of way.
The street-rig’s going to kill me. I don’t need a brizzlehound as well.

In the same dreamy way, she wondered which of them would get to her first. She wondered which would hurt more. She wondered if this was her punishment for trying to steal the gold coins, and if Sinew had been planning it all along.

The street-rig was almost upon her now. So was the brizzlehound. It took the ditch in one great leap. Its eyes burned. It opened its awful jaws—

In that moment, Goldie came to her senses. With a desperate cry, she tried to throw herself out of the way. But she was too late. The brizzlehound swerved to meet her. Its teeth snagged in her smock. Its weight knocked her flying. Her knees crumpled and she fell sideways, down, down, down into the ditch.

The last thing she heard before she sank into uncon-sciousness was the sound of the street-rig rumbling past above her. The last thing she felt was the hot breath of the brizzlehound on her face . . .

.

he Fugleman was smiling. He had a particularly charming smile that he used whenever he wanted to persuade people to do things that they really shouldn’t do.

He was using it now on the lieutenant marshal of militia.

‘I wish to congratulate you, sir,’ he said, ‘on your fine work searching for the bombers who took the life of one of our children. We humble citizens of Jewel are grateful for your devotion to duty.’

The lieutenant marshal flushed, and stared at the floor of the Fugleman’s temporary office. ‘I— I regret, Your Honour, that I haven’t taken part in the search.’

‘Nooo?’ The Fugleman raised his eyebrows. ‘I would have thought that
every
man of value would be called upon in such desperate times!’

‘The Protector . . . she no longer trusts me, Your Honour. Because of the runaway girl. And the scissors. It seems there’s a good chance I’ll be—’ He bit his lip. ‘I’ll be court-martialled. It looks as if my career is . . .’ His voice trailed off.

‘But surely the Protector does not blame
you
for what happened?’

‘She does, Your Honour. And so she should. It was my fault—’

‘How could it be
your
fault?’ cried the Fugleman. ‘Are you in charge of the city’s children? Can you, a military man, be expected to act as nursemaid? No, I won’t hear of it! If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine! I should have expected such a thing to happen. I should have been watching more closely.’

‘That’s very generous of you to say so, Your Honour, but—’

‘But it’s true! When is this court martial to be? I shall come along and speak on your behalf.’

The lieutenant marshal looked up, his face filled with unexpected hope. ‘Would you, Your Honour? That could make all the difference!’

‘Consider it done.’ The Fugleman waved his hand. ‘The city can’t afford to lose such valuable men.’

‘I can’t thank you enough, Your Honour! If there’s ever anything I can do to repay you—’

‘No need, no need. It’s my pleasure—’

The Fugleman broke off, as if something had just occured to him. ‘Although, now that I think of it,’ he said, arranging his face into a thoughtful expression, ‘there
is
something you could do. In my position it’s not easy to find a man I can talk to. An intelligent man who won’t broadcast my thoughts to the world . . .’

‘You can say what you like to me, Your Honour,’ said the lieutenant marshal eagerly. ‘I’m as close-mouthed as a stone.’

‘Are you indeed? Well, then . . .’ The Fugleman traced the edge of his desk with his finger, letting the moment stretch out. ‘Her Grace the Protector,’ he said at last, ‘does an
excellent
job of running the city.’

‘She does, Your Honour! I have every respect for her.’

‘But sometimes I fear—’ The Fugleman broke off and shook his head. ‘No, I shouldn’t say it. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sure her judgement is as good as ever—’

He stopped again. The lieutenant marshal blinked at him. The Fugleman sighed inwardly. It seemed that he was going to have to spell the whole thing out.

‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I don’t think the Protector understands
quite
how
much danger the city may be in. Some of the militia are out searching for the bombers, it’s true. But what are the rest doing? Opening doors. Forming an honour guard. Helping old ladies across the road.’

The lieutenant marshal nodded uncertainly. ‘Her Grace believes that it’s important to keep things as normal as possible. To reassure the people—’

‘This is no time for normal!’ cried the Fugleman, suddenly thumping the desk. ‘Forget honour guards! The day may fast be approaching when the Seven Gods will require
real
service! The sort where you and your men march home covered in wealth and glory, with the crowds shouting your name from one end of the city to the other!’

By now, the lieutenant marshal’s eyes were as wide as a baby’s. He licked his lips. He opened his mouth to speak.

The Fugleman held up his hand. The charming smile slipped back onto his face, as smooth as a conjuror’s trick. He stood up and walked around the desk.

‘Of course we hope that such a day never comes,’ he said, putting his hand on the lieutenant marshal’s shoulder. ‘After all, despite yesterday’s bombing, we are still at peace, and long may we stay that way! But if there
should
turn out to be a serious threat to the city—’ He raised his smile another notch. ‘—then I will need men about me whom I can trust.’

With that, he pushed the lieutenant marshal out the door. ‘Come and see me again when you have thought about this,’ he said. ‘Take your time. No hurry.’

He turned back to his desk, humming with satisfaction. The militiaman was a fool, like all of his sister’s minions. But he was also ambitious. And there was nothing more useful than an ambitious fool.

Goldie was wet and cold, and every part of her body ached. She lay very still, trying to remember what had happened.

Somewhere nearby, the boy was talking. ‘She could have been killed! Why didn’t she get out of the way?’

‘You were like that when you first came here,’ said a deep, gravelly voice. ‘You could not take care of yourself. You waited for someone to rescue you.’

‘I was never that stupid!’

‘I remember the time when you—’

Goldie shifted her leg and her sandals squelched in the mud.

‘Sshh!’ said the boy. ‘I think she’s awake!’

There was a brief scuffle and the sound of running feet. Then Sinew’s voice said, ‘Great whistling pigs! What happened, Toadspit? Is she hurt?’

Slowly, Goldie opened her eyes. She was lying under the tree in the middle of the vacant block, with Sinew and the boy crouched beside her. There was no sign of the person with the gravelly voice.

‘Are you all right?’ said Sinew, his face lined with concern. ‘Have you broken anything?’

Goldie moved her arms and legs carefully. ‘I— I don’t think so,’ she said.

Sinew helped her sit up, then he took off his coatee and put it around her shoulders. He looked severely at the boy. ‘Toadspit, I thought we told you to take care of her.’

‘She was all right when I left her,’ protested Toadspit. ‘Then the Shark came roaring out of nowhere and she didn’t have the sense to get out of the way!’

Despite Sinew’s coatee, Goldie had suddenly begun to shiver so violently that she could hardly speak. ‘It was a s-street-rig,’ she said, ‘not a sh-shark! And there was a b-b-b-brizzlehound! A real, live
b-brizzlehound
! It tried to k-kill me!’

‘Not
a
shark,’ said Toadspit. ‘
The
Shark.’

‘It’s the name of Herro Dan’s street-rig,’ said Sinew. ‘But it’s not like Dan to drive so carelessly.’

‘He wasn’t driving,’ said Toadspit. ‘There was no one in it at all.’

Sinew raised a startled eyebrow. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m not blind, Sinew. The Shark was roaming around on its own!’

Goldie stared at them both in disbelief. ‘Didn’t you
hear
me? There was a
brizzlehound
!
’

Before anyone could answer her there was a puff of wind and Olga Ciavolga and Herro Dan came hurrying across the vacant block. Between them, to Goldie’s amazement, trotted a dog. A little white dog with one black ear and a curly tail that waved over its back like a flag.

Goldie had never seen a real live dog before. Dogs carried diseases, and quite often they went mad and bit people. There hadn’t been a dog in Jewel for more than two hundred years.

Toadspit must have seen the expression on her face, because he frowned and said, ‘That’s Broo. He saved your life. You should be grateful.’

Goldie looked at him blankly.

‘He knocked you into the ditch,’ said Toadspit. ‘You were just standing there! The Shark would’ve run you over.’

It seemed to Goldie that the boy was talking in riddles. She shook her head in angry confusion. ‘It was the
brizzlehound
that knocked me into the ditch. And it wasn’t trying to save me. It was trying to
kill
me!’

Sinew cleared his throat. ‘The shadows are deep in this part of the museum, and the light is uncertain. The noise and the headlights would have made it even worse. A small dog could easily appear monstrous.’

‘No!’ said Goldie. ‘That’s not what happened!’

But when she looked around, trying to remember the moment when that . . . that
thing
had risen up out of the thornberry bushes, she found that it was already fading into a confused blur. The shadows
were
deep. The light
was
uncertain. Could it have been a little dog?

No.

I don’t know.

. . . Maybe.

Olga Ciavolga leaned down and patted Broo on the head. ‘You are a clever boy.’ She had a slight accent, as if she had been born somewhere other than the Faroon Peninsula. ‘Tonight you get extra bones.’

The little dog wriggled with pleasure and wagged his tail.

‘But what’s this about the Shark?’ Herro Dan’s kind face was worried. He squatted down next to Goldie. ‘Is it true, lass? Did my street-rig nearly run you down?’

Goldie nodded.

‘By my life, I’m sorry,’ said the old man.

‘Tsk, what good is sorry if she is squashed?’ muttered Olga Ciavolga.

‘I wouldn’t have had this happen for the world,’ Herro Dan said to Goldie. ‘The old Shark’s never gone off by itself before.’

‘So why now?’ said Sinew.

‘Reckon it’s this trouble,’ said Herro Dan, getting to his feet again. ‘It’s stirrin’ things up. Old dangers. New ones, too, from the look of things. We best be on our guard, all of us.’

‘You should’ve heard the Shark’s horn!’ said Toadspit. ‘It was howling like a lost baby.’

‘And lost we shall be,’ said Olga Ciavolga sharply, ‘if we do nothing but be on our guard! We must discover where this trouble is coming from, and stop it!’

Herro Dan nodded. ‘Sinew, tomorrow you go out into the city again. Talk to everyone you know. Ask questions. The bombin’, start with that, it has to be part of it—’

Goldie’s head was beginning to throb and the water from the ditch felt as if it had seeped into her bones. She sniffed unhappily. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about her. Maybe they’d decided that she wouldn’t be useful after all. If only Ma and Pa were here! A tear trickled down her cheek at the thought of them.