Amygdala, p.42
AMYGDALA, page 42
Butika’s face contorted with curiosity, then threat. “I’m ex-Yolsh; I’ll kill if I have to.”
“Sure, sure – we understand. No trouble. Just a little chinwag.”
Raising her head proudly. “Alright. Lead on and make it quick.”
Butika was led like a lamb to the dark alley, believing she was the wolf among them. The pair gave no warning and no signal, and when Teazzer swivelled back, it was with kindly expression. “Alright, how long ya got?”
“I need to be back by the bell,” said Butika.
“Perfec’.”
“Well? Bring me your boss.”
“Why’re you in Miviam?”
“I’ll ask the questions.”
Bazzil chuckled from behind. “Fangs away, lard arse.”
“What did you call me?” Butika took a step toward him, body swaying with power and weight. “I could crush you to pulp!”
“Ex-Yolsh, right?” said Teazzer. “What rank?”
Butika turned back and snarled. “Two.”
“Huh… You’re a proud one, ain’t ya? So, again, why’re you in Miviam?”
To the Kivic animal, death is the violation of body and legacy, a vessel void of personality, robbed of the individual. Empty. And upon such vessels, the blueprints for better beings are written.
Before Dalton and Celia, Butika lay thoroughly conquered, defiled, and humiliated by all Kivic reckoning. The headless husk was folded to the ‘fallen bow’, a position that saw the body planted upon its shoulders, legs arched over a bended torso, limp and splayed wide – designed to expose the underbelly, an area guarded and therefore coveted. Now streaked upon the underside of that mindless thing were future designs written in vilt, and though thoroughly sodden, yet another saw fit to add their likeness. With time, infection would come, and from the flesh, Fowlers would burst conscious, a thorough mix, bearing the code of defilers. This was the darkest death.
“Step aside!” Dalton commanded. “Clear the alley!”
“It’s okay, sir, rotter’s dead,” said a reptilian male. “Askin’ for it, seems to me.”
“You kill her?”
“Nah, sir. We found her like this.” The small crowd nodded. “See?”
Dalton took in a sharp breath. “Right. Well, I need to take a look.”
“Right you are, Captain.”
The group squeezed past, filtering out into Royden, though some went the other way, up toward Vicky Street. Dalton looked at the folded mass. “I told her not to wander off… Another cold lead.”
Celia was circling the body. “But not our last… not yet.” She ran her hand along the arm up to the shoulder. “Wings are broken. Blunt force.” The hand moved then to the ribs, sliding down the wet and shiny chest to the base of the stomach. It trembled at her touch. “No bruising, no scratches. Her killers could be of any size… of any number. At least two, I’d say.”
Dalton studied the dollfaced head, left upon a wooden crate like a trophy. The eyes were rolled and glazed, and the tongue shot from the left side of a crooked jaw, as if trying to lick the red blush from the cheeks. A thin line of blood oozed from the left ear. “Clean strike to the temple, professional, Yolshen. This was an assassination. Flushed cheeks, poor girl.”
“Mmhmm. Shamed before death,” Celia said, pointing to the neck. “There was pressure applied to the throat, but the windpipe wasn’t crushed. They toyed with her.”
“Seen it before,” said Dalton, reviewing the scene. “Yolsh work their whole lives to keep the fever in check. Aye, she was dollfaced long before they killed her. It’s a warnin’.”
Celia joined him in review. “They wanted us to see.”
“Aye. We should leave. Now.”
The two turned from the display leaving Butika behind, for she now belonged to Miviam, her body taken by the hard will of nature, and nobody – and nothing – could stop it.
Dalton led the way to Entervowel through a series of backstreets, selecting those with the highest density of trade. Nothing too open, nothing too dark. He could feel eyes upon him, and it quickened his pace.
Tickletwine was sparsely occupied upon their entry; Laughhouses were normally at their peak at the coming of a black phase; it only made sense for animals to spend their last flecks of light drinking deep and debating their experiences before sinking into a long sleep. Nevertheless, the establishment was far from empty, hosting about fifty, dotted across the space, spread between floors, sipping drinks, reading, chatting.
Dalton made for the islanded bar top, walking ahead of Celia. He placed an elbow on the table and tapped with his bony white claws. “Fetch the Minstrel, lad,” he said to the serving Jester.
Upon glimpsing the Yolshen gold, the Jester tipped his hat. “Yes, Captain.”
The Minstrel appeared from the second floor, eyeing Dalton from the wooden balcony, beaming down a proud and mothish face. He descended like a gentle King, dressed in a fine Lockettian attire that meandered behind. “Ah, good Captain! What can I do for you?”
“Just here to ask a few questions.”
The Minstrel fluttered his delicate wings and moved behind the bar. “Of course. Drink?”
“Water, please,” said Dalton.
“Nothing else?”
“Just water.”
The Minstrel glanced to Celia. “And your friend?”
“Nothing for me,” she said.
“Very well.” He poured Dalton a pint of water, adding a rich blue dye for the sake of style. “So then, Captain, what can I assist you with?”
“I’m lookin’ for a girl: a Fowler with white fur, red polka dots, silver eyes, and a stripy tail. I was told she was here early sixth. Seen her?”
The Minstrel brought a fist to his mouth. “No Fowlers by that description.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he said, then widened all eight eyes. “Unless you mean Lacemaker?”
“Her name’s Lucy.”
“Lucy Lacemaker, yes. That her?”
Dalton leaned forward. “Possibly. Got her records?”
“I do.” The Minstrel brought over a heavy black book and flipped to the back page. “If you wish to see them, I’ll need you to record your request here.”
“No problem, pass it over.” Dalton darkened his claw in a pot of ink provided by the Jester, and after signing his signature, slid the book back. “Done.”
“Very good,” said the Minstrel, flipping through the pages. “Lucy Lacemaker: writer for Ruthergush Inkhouse. Energetic, loud, interesting character. But we rarely see her.”
Dalton leaned over and scrutinised the page, inspecting the illustration, the details concerning her height, weight and history. “Wha’ ’appened to her eye?”
“No idea.”
Celia joined them at the bar. “Not a Fowler anymore, huh. We should be careful.”
“Agreed,” said Dalton, caressing the page. “And Ruthergush… Who’s their Bookeeper?”
The Minstrel gestured to the door. “Mycroft at Browbeater; just across the street.”
“You’ve helped a great deal.” Dalton finished his water. “Cheers.”
Their crossing of the street was swift, with sharp glances to the left and right, and when they entered the Bookburrow, they shut the door behind them.
“We’re being followed; let’s get this done fast,” said Celia.
“No argument there.”
Mycroft laboured at the centre of the building, inspecting heaps of paper through tired eyes in need of rest, but when they fell upon Dalton, they shot to life. “Captain! Wa la wa, welcome to Browbeater! How can I assist you?” He spoke as if shaken from a dream.
“We’re after Lucy Lacemaker,” Dalton said, stepping up to the desk. “What can you tell us?”
Mycroft nodded, erecting his posture. “Yes, yes, I see. An interesting girl: well humoured, good conversationalist, a bit of a haggler. In fact, she was–”
“–Anythin’ about her tha’ strikes you as odd?”
“Nothing. She pops in every so often to trade in books… and sometimes to submit a few documents; I think Wyley has her on the accounts, though she’s a fine writer.”
“And what about Ruthergush? These documents, anythin’ strange at all?”
“Everything is in order.”
Celia stepped in. “It could be small: new materials, contracts from outta town, little things.”
Mycroft presented a bundle of papers. “I’ve seen nothing of that nature.”
Dalton squinted, scanning his eyes over each page. “Right, seems fine.”
“Hang on,” said Celia, sniffing the air. “The ink, it’s fresh. When were these submitted?”
Mycroft chuckled. “Well, that’s what I was going to say: Lucy was just here.”
“When?” asked Dalton.
“Not long before you arrived – not even a bell back.”
“Did she say where she was goin’?”
“Shakels Square, I think she mentioned. Wanted to see the markets.”
With that, Dalton and Celia bolted from the central library, down the corridor and out into the street, senses narrowed and sharp. Like ravenous bloodhounds they sprinted the length of Entervowel, a speed that sent pedestrians darting from their path. The hunt was nearing its end.
5. Get the Girl
Before young eyes danced the motion of trade, and it never stopped, immortal in its wonder. The craft of ideas bore a special breed of magic for Lacemaker, and the square was rife with it. Before her, a kindly Candymaker presented a collection of goodies: toffees, mints, chocolates and jiggling jelly treats.
“And so,” she went on, “unlike some other products, our candies are made with pure granulated sugar, and our syrup is the thickest and sweetest in the city!” Her voice was brimming with pride.
Lucy delighted in the fragrance. “So, where are ya based?”
“Our factory is up in the Hammerlow, by Westshire.”
“And wha’ brings you to Miviam?”
The Candymaker shrugged and smiled. “The best way to spread a product is to start a conversation! We travel the towns around the Vambalaya; everybody wants something sweet when the cold comes – it warms the body.” She leaned in, elbows to the table. “And what’s your trade?”
“I’m an Inker at Ruthergush.”
“Not sure we get their papers up in the Hammerlow.”
“I wanna run my own Inkhouse in the future.”
“I always thought Inkers could sell their papers with a candy or two – paired together for extra incentive.”
Lucy giggled. “I’ll make a note of it!”
The Candymaker gestured to her stock, a mingling of sweets held within wooden drums. “Take one, see what you think!”
There was something about the colour blue that caught Lucy’s eye. I bet blue tastes good, she thought. Not sure why. She took the cubic candy and tossed it into her mouth. Ah, a toffee! She chewed with delight. “It’s delicious!”
A card was produced from the Candymaker’s breast pocket and handed down, pinched between thin fingers. “Here’s our details; pass it to your Editor, or if you ever get that Inkhouse, write us a letter!”
“I’ll certainly do tha’!” Lucy slid the card into her notebook, then fastened it back to her hat. “Cheers, ol’ love!”
“Be seeing you!”
Lucy met Shale at the centre fountain, fiddling with her belt, surrounded by the musk of fresh fragrance. “New perfume?”
Shale beamed, presenting a fancy purple phial. “Richard West has a stall out here selling his latest mix – I can’t believe I got a bottle!”
“What did you trade?”
“A fancy old ring; I’ve had it for a while, but my nails are so long I never bothered.” Shale flexed her long tapering claws.
Ludwig walked up, glanced between them, hands pocketed, and frowned. “Can we go now?”
Lucy nodded to the market. “Why don’t you have a look about? You might find somethin’ you like!”
“Support our rivals?”
“Don’t be so dramatic! They’re just sellin’ stuff.”
“And burying Ruthergush with every sale.”
“You talk as if Ruthergush has a right to succeed.”
“I do not! But what chance do we have against all these larger industries?”
“They started small.”
“It’s not exactly a fair outcome, is it?”
“Well, it’s not an equal outcome, no.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“They’re not the same thing.” Lucy knitted her brows. “And who wants to be equal anyway? It’s a horrible idea!”
“How can that be horrible?”
“Well, we’re all different, aren’t we? We get an even start, but tha’ doesn’t mean we get an even finish, nor should it!”
Ludwig crossed his arms. “You’re saying Ruthergush deserves to go under?”
“I’m not sayin’ it deserves anythin’. But the only way to avoid disparity is to force everyone to be the same, to think the same. If that’s your parity, I’ll kindly pass.”
“Ludwig,” Shale began, taking a step toward him, “you’ve got to admit: Ruthergush has been slipping for a while. I never met Ruby, but I’ve read her papers. The difference in quality is incontrovertible. Now and again, we’ll get a good story, but most of the time, Wyley pushes for lowbrow satire. Whenever I suggest something, he either changes it or rejects it outright!”
“Then quit.”
“We are,” said Lucy, hands on hips.
There came a long and cold silence. Ludwig was stunned. “… What?”
“I’m going to find somewhere for us to eat,” said Shale moving away. “We’ll talk about this then. No arguing.”
Lucy turned to follow but Ludwig stepped in her way. “You’re abandoning Wyley? After everything, you’re walking out?!” His voice was broken.
“I can’t do this anymore, Ludwig,” she answered. “You might call this a ‘good cause’, but I decide what’s good for me, not you!”
“But we can save Ruthergush, all of us, together!”
“We can’t!”
“It’s our home!”
“Not anymore!” Lucy took a breath. “Locket’s Law exists for a reason.”
“To protect those above.”
“It protects nobody! That’s the point! If everyone thought like you, we’d still be livin’ in the dirt, crawlin’ on our bellies, equally flat! It’s easy to criticise the ladder’s design when you occupy the lowest rung!”
“And you don’t?”
“The difference is I wanna climb it while you wanna burn it!”
“Don’t you care about anyone beyond yourself? Can’t you see why I might be reluctant to let another piece of my life die!?” Ludwig glared at her, but she gave no reply. “Lacemaker!”
The surrounding world began to blur as Lucy found herself scrutinised by the red eyes of a Yolshen Captain, joined by the blue of another menacing stranger. From a distance they watched, then moved toward her. She took a step back. “Are they lookin’ at me?”
“What?” Ludwig spotted the pair closing in. “I don’t know. Who are they?”
Lucy turned and walked. “You need to go.”
“But what’s happening?”
“Shut up and walk away.”
Dalton called out from across the square: “YOU, STOP!”
Driven to action by blind panic, Lucy and Ludwig broke into a sprint. They heard some commotion behind, their pursuers pushing through the thick market crowds, offering a moment of opportunity, a fleeting chance.
Lucy and Ludwig felt only a crushing terror as they made for the edge of the square, hopping crates and dodging stalls. Lucy ran on all fours like a cat, Ludwig like a sprinter, his coat wafting behind. The adrenaline numbed their feet, emboldened their minds.
“Don’t follow!” Lucy called out, darting over a black gate. “They’re after me!”
“I’m not leaving you!” Ludwig squeezed through the wide bars. “Get to the docks!”
They made for a spiralling set of steps, leading to the cool depths of the town; the further they descended, the colder the air became, and as they ran, their hot breaths hung in the air. Ludwig’s pace was slowing, hampered by fatigue, but Lucy was yet untouched.
They turned onto the row of docks, the icy channel rumbling through a network of dark bricked tunnels. Light swam with the water as sapphire and mint, granting the space an eerie glow.
Ludwig led Lucy past a myriad of transports, finally stopping before a dinky boat, no longer than thirty feet. The engine was worn, the chains were rusted, and the wood was overgrown, spotted with red fungus, dressed in weed. The boat hovered pathetically.
“It’s perfect!” Ludwig declared, jumping aboard.
Lucy took one sniff, then winced. “It’s a death trap!”
“I can sail it!”
She hopped on and untied the docking line. “After all this, all I’ve been through, I’m not gettin’ killed by a bloody boat!”
Ludwig stood at the helm, gripping it tightly. “Neither am I.”
Celia arrived at the dock ahead of Dalton whose face was drawn with pain, wincing with every step. “Leave this to me,” she said to him, glancing at his ribs. “You catch up!”
“We stick together!”
“We’ll never catch ’em if we do!” Celia took inspection of the landing, sniffing the air, then the ground. She caught a whiff of fear, then, in the distance, spied a raggedy vessel fleeing for the dark tunnels, Lucy Lacemaker aboard. “There!”
Dalton snarled. “Fine, get after ’em!”
With no hesitation, Celia leaped from the dock, cutting through the waves like a wriggling blade. The water bore a bitter bite, but her experience proved the bitterer. Her neck became slashed with gills, her fingers and toes grew shimmering webs, and a great fin bloomed from her tail.
The watery world turned black as the light thinned to a few coils of electric blue. Far below was Douser territory, glowing deep in the belly of Miviam, and perched upon outcrops of rock were the sunken vessels of ancient ships, plundered of their wealth.
The channel grew wider, wound upward and downward, curled and cascaded. There came proud stony bridges, diverging tunnels, walkways networked above as the ceiling grew higher. Celia watched the ragged boat bank to the left, into a tighter tunnel that spiralled further down. She followed, battling onward, closing the gap with a rapid pace.
“Sure, sure – we understand. No trouble. Just a little chinwag.”
Raising her head proudly. “Alright. Lead on and make it quick.”
Butika was led like a lamb to the dark alley, believing she was the wolf among them. The pair gave no warning and no signal, and when Teazzer swivelled back, it was with kindly expression. “Alright, how long ya got?”
“I need to be back by the bell,” said Butika.
“Perfec’.”
“Well? Bring me your boss.”
“Why’re you in Miviam?”
“I’ll ask the questions.”
Bazzil chuckled from behind. “Fangs away, lard arse.”
“What did you call me?” Butika took a step toward him, body swaying with power and weight. “I could crush you to pulp!”
“Ex-Yolsh, right?” said Teazzer. “What rank?”
Butika turned back and snarled. “Two.”
“Huh… You’re a proud one, ain’t ya? So, again, why’re you in Miviam?”
To the Kivic animal, death is the violation of body and legacy, a vessel void of personality, robbed of the individual. Empty. And upon such vessels, the blueprints for better beings are written.
Before Dalton and Celia, Butika lay thoroughly conquered, defiled, and humiliated by all Kivic reckoning. The headless husk was folded to the ‘fallen bow’, a position that saw the body planted upon its shoulders, legs arched over a bended torso, limp and splayed wide – designed to expose the underbelly, an area guarded and therefore coveted. Now streaked upon the underside of that mindless thing were future designs written in vilt, and though thoroughly sodden, yet another saw fit to add their likeness. With time, infection would come, and from the flesh, Fowlers would burst conscious, a thorough mix, bearing the code of defilers. This was the darkest death.
“Step aside!” Dalton commanded. “Clear the alley!”
“It’s okay, sir, rotter’s dead,” said a reptilian male. “Askin’ for it, seems to me.”
“You kill her?”
“Nah, sir. We found her like this.” The small crowd nodded. “See?”
Dalton took in a sharp breath. “Right. Well, I need to take a look.”
“Right you are, Captain.”
The group squeezed past, filtering out into Royden, though some went the other way, up toward Vicky Street. Dalton looked at the folded mass. “I told her not to wander off… Another cold lead.”
Celia was circling the body. “But not our last… not yet.” She ran her hand along the arm up to the shoulder. “Wings are broken. Blunt force.” The hand moved then to the ribs, sliding down the wet and shiny chest to the base of the stomach. It trembled at her touch. “No bruising, no scratches. Her killers could be of any size… of any number. At least two, I’d say.”
Dalton studied the dollfaced head, left upon a wooden crate like a trophy. The eyes were rolled and glazed, and the tongue shot from the left side of a crooked jaw, as if trying to lick the red blush from the cheeks. A thin line of blood oozed from the left ear. “Clean strike to the temple, professional, Yolshen. This was an assassination. Flushed cheeks, poor girl.”
“Mmhmm. Shamed before death,” Celia said, pointing to the neck. “There was pressure applied to the throat, but the windpipe wasn’t crushed. They toyed with her.”
“Seen it before,” said Dalton, reviewing the scene. “Yolsh work their whole lives to keep the fever in check. Aye, she was dollfaced long before they killed her. It’s a warnin’.”
Celia joined him in review. “They wanted us to see.”
“Aye. We should leave. Now.”
The two turned from the display leaving Butika behind, for she now belonged to Miviam, her body taken by the hard will of nature, and nobody – and nothing – could stop it.
Dalton led the way to Entervowel through a series of backstreets, selecting those with the highest density of trade. Nothing too open, nothing too dark. He could feel eyes upon him, and it quickened his pace.
Tickletwine was sparsely occupied upon their entry; Laughhouses were normally at their peak at the coming of a black phase; it only made sense for animals to spend their last flecks of light drinking deep and debating their experiences before sinking into a long sleep. Nevertheless, the establishment was far from empty, hosting about fifty, dotted across the space, spread between floors, sipping drinks, reading, chatting.
Dalton made for the islanded bar top, walking ahead of Celia. He placed an elbow on the table and tapped with his bony white claws. “Fetch the Minstrel, lad,” he said to the serving Jester.
Upon glimpsing the Yolshen gold, the Jester tipped his hat. “Yes, Captain.”
The Minstrel appeared from the second floor, eyeing Dalton from the wooden balcony, beaming down a proud and mothish face. He descended like a gentle King, dressed in a fine Lockettian attire that meandered behind. “Ah, good Captain! What can I do for you?”
“Just here to ask a few questions.”
The Minstrel fluttered his delicate wings and moved behind the bar. “Of course. Drink?”
“Water, please,” said Dalton.
“Nothing else?”
“Just water.”
The Minstrel glanced to Celia. “And your friend?”
“Nothing for me,” she said.
“Very well.” He poured Dalton a pint of water, adding a rich blue dye for the sake of style. “So then, Captain, what can I assist you with?”
“I’m lookin’ for a girl: a Fowler with white fur, red polka dots, silver eyes, and a stripy tail. I was told she was here early sixth. Seen her?”
The Minstrel brought a fist to his mouth. “No Fowlers by that description.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” he said, then widened all eight eyes. “Unless you mean Lacemaker?”
“Her name’s Lucy.”
“Lucy Lacemaker, yes. That her?”
Dalton leaned forward. “Possibly. Got her records?”
“I do.” The Minstrel brought over a heavy black book and flipped to the back page. “If you wish to see them, I’ll need you to record your request here.”
“No problem, pass it over.” Dalton darkened his claw in a pot of ink provided by the Jester, and after signing his signature, slid the book back. “Done.”
“Very good,” said the Minstrel, flipping through the pages. “Lucy Lacemaker: writer for Ruthergush Inkhouse. Energetic, loud, interesting character. But we rarely see her.”
Dalton leaned over and scrutinised the page, inspecting the illustration, the details concerning her height, weight and history. “Wha’ ’appened to her eye?”
“No idea.”
Celia joined them at the bar. “Not a Fowler anymore, huh. We should be careful.”
“Agreed,” said Dalton, caressing the page. “And Ruthergush… Who’s their Bookeeper?”
The Minstrel gestured to the door. “Mycroft at Browbeater; just across the street.”
“You’ve helped a great deal.” Dalton finished his water. “Cheers.”
Their crossing of the street was swift, with sharp glances to the left and right, and when they entered the Bookburrow, they shut the door behind them.
“We’re being followed; let’s get this done fast,” said Celia.
“No argument there.”
Mycroft laboured at the centre of the building, inspecting heaps of paper through tired eyes in need of rest, but when they fell upon Dalton, they shot to life. “Captain! Wa la wa, welcome to Browbeater! How can I assist you?” He spoke as if shaken from a dream.
“We’re after Lucy Lacemaker,” Dalton said, stepping up to the desk. “What can you tell us?”
Mycroft nodded, erecting his posture. “Yes, yes, I see. An interesting girl: well humoured, good conversationalist, a bit of a haggler. In fact, she was–”
“–Anythin’ about her tha’ strikes you as odd?”
“Nothing. She pops in every so often to trade in books… and sometimes to submit a few documents; I think Wyley has her on the accounts, though she’s a fine writer.”
“And what about Ruthergush? These documents, anythin’ strange at all?”
“Everything is in order.”
Celia stepped in. “It could be small: new materials, contracts from outta town, little things.”
Mycroft presented a bundle of papers. “I’ve seen nothing of that nature.”
Dalton squinted, scanning his eyes over each page. “Right, seems fine.”
“Hang on,” said Celia, sniffing the air. “The ink, it’s fresh. When were these submitted?”
Mycroft chuckled. “Well, that’s what I was going to say: Lucy was just here.”
“When?” asked Dalton.
“Not long before you arrived – not even a bell back.”
“Did she say where she was goin’?”
“Shakels Square, I think she mentioned. Wanted to see the markets.”
With that, Dalton and Celia bolted from the central library, down the corridor and out into the street, senses narrowed and sharp. Like ravenous bloodhounds they sprinted the length of Entervowel, a speed that sent pedestrians darting from their path. The hunt was nearing its end.
5. Get the Girl
Before young eyes danced the motion of trade, and it never stopped, immortal in its wonder. The craft of ideas bore a special breed of magic for Lacemaker, and the square was rife with it. Before her, a kindly Candymaker presented a collection of goodies: toffees, mints, chocolates and jiggling jelly treats.
“And so,” she went on, “unlike some other products, our candies are made with pure granulated sugar, and our syrup is the thickest and sweetest in the city!” Her voice was brimming with pride.
Lucy delighted in the fragrance. “So, where are ya based?”
“Our factory is up in the Hammerlow, by Westshire.”
“And wha’ brings you to Miviam?”
The Candymaker shrugged and smiled. “The best way to spread a product is to start a conversation! We travel the towns around the Vambalaya; everybody wants something sweet when the cold comes – it warms the body.” She leaned in, elbows to the table. “And what’s your trade?”
“I’m an Inker at Ruthergush.”
“Not sure we get their papers up in the Hammerlow.”
“I wanna run my own Inkhouse in the future.”
“I always thought Inkers could sell their papers with a candy or two – paired together for extra incentive.”
Lucy giggled. “I’ll make a note of it!”
The Candymaker gestured to her stock, a mingling of sweets held within wooden drums. “Take one, see what you think!”
There was something about the colour blue that caught Lucy’s eye. I bet blue tastes good, she thought. Not sure why. She took the cubic candy and tossed it into her mouth. Ah, a toffee! She chewed with delight. “It’s delicious!”
A card was produced from the Candymaker’s breast pocket and handed down, pinched between thin fingers. “Here’s our details; pass it to your Editor, or if you ever get that Inkhouse, write us a letter!”
“I’ll certainly do tha’!” Lucy slid the card into her notebook, then fastened it back to her hat. “Cheers, ol’ love!”
“Be seeing you!”
Lucy met Shale at the centre fountain, fiddling with her belt, surrounded by the musk of fresh fragrance. “New perfume?”
Shale beamed, presenting a fancy purple phial. “Richard West has a stall out here selling his latest mix – I can’t believe I got a bottle!”
“What did you trade?”
“A fancy old ring; I’ve had it for a while, but my nails are so long I never bothered.” Shale flexed her long tapering claws.
Ludwig walked up, glanced between them, hands pocketed, and frowned. “Can we go now?”
Lucy nodded to the market. “Why don’t you have a look about? You might find somethin’ you like!”
“Support our rivals?”
“Don’t be so dramatic! They’re just sellin’ stuff.”
“And burying Ruthergush with every sale.”
“You talk as if Ruthergush has a right to succeed.”
“I do not! But what chance do we have against all these larger industries?”
“They started small.”
“It’s not exactly a fair outcome, is it?”
“Well, it’s not an equal outcome, no.”
“That’s what I mean.”
“They’re not the same thing.” Lucy knitted her brows. “And who wants to be equal anyway? It’s a horrible idea!”
“How can that be horrible?”
“Well, we’re all different, aren’t we? We get an even start, but tha’ doesn’t mean we get an even finish, nor should it!”
Ludwig crossed his arms. “You’re saying Ruthergush deserves to go under?”
“I’m not sayin’ it deserves anythin’. But the only way to avoid disparity is to force everyone to be the same, to think the same. If that’s your parity, I’ll kindly pass.”
“Ludwig,” Shale began, taking a step toward him, “you’ve got to admit: Ruthergush has been slipping for a while. I never met Ruby, but I’ve read her papers. The difference in quality is incontrovertible. Now and again, we’ll get a good story, but most of the time, Wyley pushes for lowbrow satire. Whenever I suggest something, he either changes it or rejects it outright!”
“Then quit.”
“We are,” said Lucy, hands on hips.
There came a long and cold silence. Ludwig was stunned. “… What?”
“I’m going to find somewhere for us to eat,” said Shale moving away. “We’ll talk about this then. No arguing.”
Lucy turned to follow but Ludwig stepped in her way. “You’re abandoning Wyley? After everything, you’re walking out?!” His voice was broken.
“I can’t do this anymore, Ludwig,” she answered. “You might call this a ‘good cause’, but I decide what’s good for me, not you!”
“But we can save Ruthergush, all of us, together!”
“We can’t!”
“It’s our home!”
“Not anymore!” Lucy took a breath. “Locket’s Law exists for a reason.”
“To protect those above.”
“It protects nobody! That’s the point! If everyone thought like you, we’d still be livin’ in the dirt, crawlin’ on our bellies, equally flat! It’s easy to criticise the ladder’s design when you occupy the lowest rung!”
“And you don’t?”
“The difference is I wanna climb it while you wanna burn it!”
“Don’t you care about anyone beyond yourself? Can’t you see why I might be reluctant to let another piece of my life die!?” Ludwig glared at her, but she gave no reply. “Lacemaker!”
The surrounding world began to blur as Lucy found herself scrutinised by the red eyes of a Yolshen Captain, joined by the blue of another menacing stranger. From a distance they watched, then moved toward her. She took a step back. “Are they lookin’ at me?”
“What?” Ludwig spotted the pair closing in. “I don’t know. Who are they?”
Lucy turned and walked. “You need to go.”
“But what’s happening?”
“Shut up and walk away.”
Dalton called out from across the square: “YOU, STOP!”
Driven to action by blind panic, Lucy and Ludwig broke into a sprint. They heard some commotion behind, their pursuers pushing through the thick market crowds, offering a moment of opportunity, a fleeting chance.
Lucy and Ludwig felt only a crushing terror as they made for the edge of the square, hopping crates and dodging stalls. Lucy ran on all fours like a cat, Ludwig like a sprinter, his coat wafting behind. The adrenaline numbed their feet, emboldened their minds.
“Don’t follow!” Lucy called out, darting over a black gate. “They’re after me!”
“I’m not leaving you!” Ludwig squeezed through the wide bars. “Get to the docks!”
They made for a spiralling set of steps, leading to the cool depths of the town; the further they descended, the colder the air became, and as they ran, their hot breaths hung in the air. Ludwig’s pace was slowing, hampered by fatigue, but Lucy was yet untouched.
They turned onto the row of docks, the icy channel rumbling through a network of dark bricked tunnels. Light swam with the water as sapphire and mint, granting the space an eerie glow.
Ludwig led Lucy past a myriad of transports, finally stopping before a dinky boat, no longer than thirty feet. The engine was worn, the chains were rusted, and the wood was overgrown, spotted with red fungus, dressed in weed. The boat hovered pathetically.
“It’s perfect!” Ludwig declared, jumping aboard.
Lucy took one sniff, then winced. “It’s a death trap!”
“I can sail it!”
She hopped on and untied the docking line. “After all this, all I’ve been through, I’m not gettin’ killed by a bloody boat!”
Ludwig stood at the helm, gripping it tightly. “Neither am I.”
Celia arrived at the dock ahead of Dalton whose face was drawn with pain, wincing with every step. “Leave this to me,” she said to him, glancing at his ribs. “You catch up!”
“We stick together!”
“We’ll never catch ’em if we do!” Celia took inspection of the landing, sniffing the air, then the ground. She caught a whiff of fear, then, in the distance, spied a raggedy vessel fleeing for the dark tunnels, Lucy Lacemaker aboard. “There!”
Dalton snarled. “Fine, get after ’em!”
With no hesitation, Celia leaped from the dock, cutting through the waves like a wriggling blade. The water bore a bitter bite, but her experience proved the bitterer. Her neck became slashed with gills, her fingers and toes grew shimmering webs, and a great fin bloomed from her tail.
The watery world turned black as the light thinned to a few coils of electric blue. Far below was Douser territory, glowing deep in the belly of Miviam, and perched upon outcrops of rock were the sunken vessels of ancient ships, plundered of their wealth.
The channel grew wider, wound upward and downward, curled and cascaded. There came proud stony bridges, diverging tunnels, walkways networked above as the ceiling grew higher. Celia watched the ragged boat bank to the left, into a tighter tunnel that spiralled further down. She followed, battling onward, closing the gap with a rapid pace.
