Unraveller, p.39
Unraveller, page 39
Hugging her plank tightly with both arms, Nettle leaped from the deck.
CHAPTER 50
HIGH STAKES
Aboard the White Boat, Kellen heard the wind rise to a storm wail with eerie suddenness. The white sails above fluttered, then filled abruptly with a loud crack. The indistinct attendees clutched at their flapping cowls and capes, and stared around in concern. Small, shadowy shapes in snow-white gloves could be seen running around the boat, fastening hatches, securing ropes, chasing chairs that had rolled away.
‘What’s happening?’ Kellen asked Cook, but it was clear that nobody knew.
The blast rose to a deafening, jubilant screech. A violent gust bowled Shay Ammet off his feet. There were hisses and thin shrieks as others present flung themselves to the deck. One was borne up into the air, somersaulting, and spread lean blue wings to steady itself.
The wind dropped as quickly as it had risen, and the assembled company gradually rose to their feet again. There were mutters, though, and resentful hisses.
The mysterious gong sounded again.
Shay Ammet looked round in surprise, and found the floating crimson baby inches from his face. As it reached out and touched his face, he gave a gargled noise of pain. The next moment it had gone, leaving a charred black mark on Ammet’s cheek.
That wind must have been the stormwight, Kellen realized. Evidently the Moonlit Market considered Ammet responsible for the disruption it had caused. He was the one who had brought the stormwight to the market.
For the first time in a while, Kellen felt a little fizz of hope. If Nettle had unleashed the spirit of the hurdy-gurdy, perhaps she had managed to escape.
As the crowd settled, Kellen became aware that he could hear a quiet, highlander voice drawing near.
‘Excuse me . . . excuse me . . . is this the sale of a boy called Kellen?’ Of all people, Harland Melbrook was picking his way across the deck, giving uncertain smiles to the slinking, silken figures around him. He looked like a strange joke in that setting with his workaday clothes and two-day stubble.
‘Over here!’ called Kellen, and Harland hurried across to the cage. The farmer looked pale and out of breath, his clothes damp and spray-spattered. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Nettle told me to find you!’ whispered Harland, kneeling down next to the cage. ‘What can I do? How can we get you out of here?’
‘Is Nettle all right?’ asked Kellen. ‘Did she escape too?’ He listened with growing anxiety to Harland’s hurried account of the stormwight’s release.
‘She’s alive,’ Harland assured him. ‘I saw her swimming away from the boat, with one arm over a plank. And that stag-creature wasn’t stopping her. It was walking along after her, jumping from plank to plank. Following. She said she had a plan.’
Kellen didn’t like the idea of Nettle being stalked by the Gladelord, but apparently it wasn’t attacking her. For now she was at large, which was the best news he’d heard all night.
‘She also said . . .’ Harland hesitated. ‘She said you’d know where to find Cherrick. Is he in trouble too?’
‘He’s in a safe place,’ Kellen said bluntly, ‘but he’s badly hurt.’ There was no time for tact. ‘He’s going to die, unless we can find him a new heart.’
Harland exhaled, and stared into the distance, eyes wide and full of moonlight.
‘A human heart?’ he asked.
Yes, was the truthful answer. A human heart. A heart that considers him home. A heart like yours. Kellen knew what Harland was about to say.
The Wilds bred stories. Sometimes you found yourself in one, and not all of them had happy endings. Some were tales of tragedy, doomed love or sacrifice. Perhaps for a long time some twisted string of destiny had been drawing Harland towards this moment, so that he would be in the right place to offer his honest, loyal heart without hesitation.
‘If that’s all he needs—’ began Harland.
‘No!’ snapped Kellen. ‘We’re not ripping your heart out!’
He was remembering what the trapper had told him. One might do for both, but it would be dangerous. Do you know anyone with a small throat? Now that he knew what a ‘small throat’ was, he had an inkling how Gall might be saved. But how could he get the throat-boxes away from Ammet?
Oh.
There was a way that he might deprive Ammet of his throat-boxes, and perhaps the creatures in his power as well. If he had no monsters, maybe Ammet would be unable to threaten Nettle, Yannick or Harland. But there was a price, and the thought of it made Kellen feel sick.
‘I’ve got a plan!’ declared Kellen before he could lose his nerve. ‘I just don’t have time to explain! Right now, I need you to bid on me. I can give you some valuables to offer. You need to push up the price, and force Ammet to bid everything he’s got!’
For years, Shay Ammet had taken a secret pride in his ability to navigate the Moonlit Market without making ripples or falling prey to its dangers. The fanged and feathered things with which he traded sensed that he was another smiling predator, as clever and dangerous as they were.
It had always been like entering a dance. A dangerous dance involving rapid footwork, but one the steps of which he knew. Now he felt as though the music of the dance were changing every few seconds, while half the dance floor fell away into a chasm.
For the first time, he had been marked. He had been chastised. The indignity stung more than the pain.
And that farmer Harland Melbrook was at the auction, blundering around loose like a lost child. The sight should have been comical, but his appearance made Ammet feel as though he had fallen into a bad dream. How had the man escaped?
Ammet pulled out his portal-box to send a note to Tansy, but when he opened it a deluge of marsh water poured out. He closed it again hastily.
‘Excuse me,’ the farmer was asking people around him. ‘How do I bid? I . . . I have this.’ He was holding up a puzzle bottle, of the sort made by Amicable Affairs. ‘It has a Dancing Star in it. A rare Dancing Star. One that’s walked the cobbles of the capital.’
There was a hiss of interest all around. Appalled, Ammet watched as the Duchess’s bids were removed from one bowl of the scales to make room for the bottle. As far as he knew, the only Dancing Star to have visited the capital was the one he himself had brought there.
‘That creature’s not yours to bid!’ he snapped, unable to contain himself.
‘This Dancing Star is mine by right of capture and possession,’ Harland Melbrook said carefully, as if reciting something he had been told.
‘It belongs to me!’ Ammet declared. ‘I can prove it! If you release it from that bottle, we’ll soon see who it goes to and calls master!’
‘What about that gull-boy?’ asked the farmer, and his mild voice had an edge now. ‘If you let him go, would he fly to you? I don’t think so. He’s not yours to bid, either.’
While Ammet was still struggling to think of an answer, a whisper in his ear made him start.
‘Shay!’
Tansy was standing next to him. She was soaked to the skin, her hair bedraggled. He suspected that she was shaking with rage rather than cold, however. He could see from her face that she had retreated into her dark place. Somebody would probably pay for that.
‘The boat sank,’ she said in a quiet, cold voice. ‘Nettle swam away, and your Gladelord chased her instead of rescuing me!’
Ammet had always made time for Tansy’s grievances, but now he had not a second to spare.
‘The contracts!’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘The contracts I placed in your care! Give them to me!’
Ammet snatched a collection of very damp scrolls from his scowling companion, and raised one over his head.
‘A contract of sale for the Dancing Star!’ he shouted.
‘A contract of sale for the gull-boy,’ retaliated Harland Melbrook, drawing a parchment scroll out of his own pocket.
Again the ground gave under Ammet’s feet. Nothing made sense. He was a child lost in the deepest woods, the darkness glittering with curious, hungry eyes.
The dragonfly-woman stuttered her wings pensively, then apparently came to a decision.
Both goods are claimed by right of capture and right of contract, she buzzed. Both will be taken from here and released, to see which masters they seek.
Enraged, Ammet watched as the puzzle bottle and the birdcage were taken away, the gull a-flutter.
‘I have another bid to make!’ he declared quickly. He took out the twist of Nettle’s hair and held it up. ‘A girl once cursed, who has become a curser. A circle completed. A snake biting its own tail.’ The poetry of it seemed to appeal to the gathering and auctioneer alike.
‘But you don’t have her, either!’ yelled Kellen, gripping the bars.
‘You are mistaken,’ said Ammet loudly, and saw the boy’s face fall.
It probably was not a lie, Ammet told himself. By now it was likely that the Gladelord had recovered the girl. However, it was important to make sure.
‘Give me everything I left in your care!’ he whispered to Tansy. ‘Then go and find out what’s taking the Gladelord so long! Bring Nettle back here!’
Tansy gaped at him in shock. She was not used to him ordering her around so bluntly.
‘I can’t go out there by myself!’ she protested.
‘We have no time!’ he whispered fiercely. ‘I have just promised to hand over a girl who was once cursed and who is now a curser. When the auction ends, I must be able to provide such a girl, one way or another!’
One way or another. Did Tansy understand the implied threat? Yes, she was hurriedly emptying her pockets, and passing him everything he had entrusted to her, even the portal-box. He would reassure Tansy later, and convince her that of course he hadn’t really been threatening to hand her over in Nettle’s place. But for now Tansy needed to be frightened enough not to argue.
As Tansy hurried away, still looking aghast and hurt, Shay Ammet placed the twist of Nettle’s hair in the scales, and watched them tilt in his favour.
When the door of the birdcage opened, Yannick erupted from it like a fish-scented arrow from a bow. Four swift beats of his wings, and the cold, sweet rightness of the air was his. He was king of the wind, the upturned world his plaything.
Below him was the luminous White Boat. There was little left of Ammet’s vessel, except one half of the hull and a scattering of floating timbers. The boats of the market were discoloured blots against the glossy surface of the water, like tarnish-spots on an old mirror.
He circled tree-high, scanning the moonlit scene for Nettle. He could sense her, the prickly, contradictory cinders-and-milk feel of her mind. Yannick gave his screeching cry, rending the secretive quiet of the night.
Yannick! He could feel Nettle’s relief at hearing his voice. He followed the tug of her thoughts, her voice in his mind.
He saw the Gladelord first. The tall antlered creature stood upon a floating timber, using a broken plank to paddle along and keep pace with a grey-sailed sloop. Two crow-faced men called to it from the rail of the boat, but it ignored them. Its pale, indistinct face was turned towards a third figure on the deck of the sloop, one that Yannick recognized at once.
Nettle! he called, as he wheeled down to land on the rail beside her. Once again, he felt the irreplaceable sense of wrong-rightness as their minds jarred into an embrace. Too much, always too much, and necessary as air.
The crow-faced sailors had eyes like chips of coal, and dark purple rags that fluttered like feathers. In grindstone voices they called out to the Gladelord, wheedling and haggling, offering a string of stone coins from a drowned city if it would glide away and find trouble elsewhere.
These creatures . . . Yannick murmured.
They pulled me out of the water, answered Nettle, but Yannick could tell that she didn’t trust them, either. I think they’re afraid to do anything to me while the Gladelord’s there.
‘Gladelord!’ Another voice rang out across the water. ‘What are you doing?’
A flat-bottomed, yellowish-pale boat was approaching, with a single woman standing in it. She did not row or paddle, nor was there any sail, but still the boat glided steadily forward. As the boat drew closer, Yannick realized that its knobbly, ugly surface was made of bones of different sizes, glued together with something honey-dark.
The woman’s clothes were dripping, her auburn hair clinging dankly to her face. It was Tansy, her expression cold and dull with malice. Yannick sensed that this was her true face, and something inside him tore a little, in a way that promised pain later. Tansy cast no reflection in the water, and Yannick guessed that she had haggled badly for her new boat.
‘Don’t just stare at Nettle!’ Tansy shouted at the Gladelord. ‘Capture her! Bring her back to the White Boat!’
The stalemate shattered like glass. Both crow-sailors drew their curved knives as the Gladelord leaped on to the sloop’s deck in one uncanny bound. Yannick launched himself into the air, ready to dive at anyone who came near his sister, and filled the air with his rent-metal screeches.
For Harland, it was like being caught in a fever dream. Nothing made sense, nothing stayed still, and he didn’t fully understand the plan he was following. All he could do was trust his instincts, and the frantic, muddy boy in the cage.
‘Ammet has two special boxes!’ the boy was saying. ‘You need to force him to bid them. It’s your husband’s only hope!’
They were interrupted by the sound of a gong, followed by a sharp cry. Shay Ammet, the man who had held Harland prisoner, was clutching at his own face in pain and outrage. Harland realized that there were now two small seared marks on Ammet’s cheek instead of one.
‘What was that for?’ Ammet shouted at the surrounding night, giving up all pretence of calm.
One of your creatures has shed blood, buzzed the auctioneer.
Blood. Harland remembered the quiet girl who had freed him, and the stag-monster following her, and hoped that she was safe.
‘Hey!’ The caged boy had reached out through the bars, and was tugging at Harland’s trouser leg. ‘Wake up! The auction’s about to end, and Ammet hasn’t bid the boxes! You have to bid something! Anything! Quickly!’
Harland tried to focus and think, but it was not easy. There were silken murmurs in his ear. Other offers, other bargains, invitations to step aboard a low, forest-green boat, misty with pipe-smoke and incense . . .
‘No, thank you kindly,’ he murmured.
If you meet a thing of the Wilds, be courteous, his mother had always told him. But be careful too. Humans are walking treasure chests of precious things – dreams and memories and toes and teeth. All those things are worth more given than stolen, so they’ll try to trick you into surrendering them.
A treasure chest . . .
Harland pushed forward hastily towards the huge scales and the insect-woman that sat at its summit.
‘My lady!’ he began, hearing how desperate and clumsy he sounded. ‘Please – I need to bid again! I . . . know there are things humans can offer that have worth here. Thoughts, dreams, memories . . . things I can’t put in the scales. I’m sorry, I don’t know the worth of what I have. But I’m sure you do.’
The great, insectile eyes settled upon Harland. In the myriad lenses, he saw his reflection shrunken and multiplied into a hundred identical, uncertain faces. What did she see? Two useless short-sighted eyes, hands calloused with work, a simple set of workaday wits, memories full of terrace-cutting and hay-gathering. A man reeking of ordinariness.
In spite of this, she did not banish him with a firmly shaken head. Her glittering gaze evidently saw something of value.
What are you willing to give? she buzzed.
‘Anything but my heart,’ said Harland. ‘That’s spoken for. I just need enough to beat the other bids.’
All your memories before your fifteenth birthday, suggested the auctioneer. Harland had the feeling that, in her alien way, she was trying to help. Your voice. And your daydreams.
Harland felt an aching horror at the thought that he might lose all these things, but he nodded quickly before he could lose his nerve.
As the auctioneer declared the new bid, Harland watched the face of Shay Ammet, who looked frustrated and conflicted as he searched his now-empty pockets. There was nothing to stop Ammet throwing his own dreams or memories into the scales, but Harland didn’t think he would. This sort of man would always find other people for the dirt, danger and hard work. He would sacrifice anyone or anything but himself.
Ammet scowled for a long moment, then produced two matching wooden boxes, one of them very wet. With a set and angry expression, he dumped them into his bowl of the scales, which sank like lead with an audible clang.
For a moment, Harland felt nothing but relief. The boxes were in the scales, and Harland’s own bid was overturned. He would not lose his voice, his daydreams, his childhood memories. The next moment he was ashamed of himself. How could he stop bidding when a boy was about to be sold like a calf at market?
He glanced at the auctioneer, but she shook her head.
Nothing you have left is worth enough, she buzzed quietly.
Harland hurried to the boy named Kellen.
‘I’ve nothing left to bid!’ he said. ‘What do we do?’
‘Nothing,’ said the boy, managing a shaky smile. ‘Ammet wins the bid. Which means he has to hand over the boxes, some of his monsters and Nettle too if he’s caught her. That’s what we wanted. This was my plan.’
Hunched in his cage, Kellen watched the auctioneer raise a small staff and whirl it with a whistling sound. The answering patter of applause was like rain.
The auction was over.
It had to be this way, thought Kellen, hugging his knees.
The moon’s glare was now softened by the thin cloud streaming across it like smoke. The gleam of the boat itself was becoming muted, sinking into dimness the way a mind slides into sleep. Shadowy shapes could be seen making the White Boat ready, skimming up the masts and riggings with the speed of lizards scaling a wall. On the far side the deck, Ammet and Cook were arguing with each other and an owl-eyed clerk.
