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Authors: William Alexander
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like grasshoppers. “Patch never says very much, anyway. He’s Patch. The tall one. She’s Nonny. She really doesn’t ever say anything. I’m Essa. We shared a stage last night, when I played Jack and you were trying to keep a giant mask from slipping off your head.”
Rownie meant to protest that the giant mask had been in no danger at all of slipping off his head, and that he had worn it very well, thank you—but instead he said something else.
“You use coal.” He did not mean to say that, but it bothered him enough to make his mouth say it without permission. He knew what made automatons move. He knew where coal came from. “The gearworked mule runs on coal.”
“Fish-heart coal!” Essa protested. “We only use fish hearts to make Horace go. It takes several dozen to get a decent blaze going, but the fishmongers down by the docks sell them in bulk, and they work almost as well as the stuff made out of . . . larger hearts.”
“Really?” Rownie asked. He didn’t know fish hearts were flammable.
“Really,” said Essa.
“Who’s Horace?” Rownie asked.
“Horace is the mule,” Essa told him.
“It is?” Patch asked. Nonny also looked confused. This was clearly news to them as well.
“Yes,” Essa said. “I named it today. It needs a name, and I think it looks like a Horace.”
Semele shushed everyone. “I am thinking that we should speak softly now. The Guard are marching alongside us, and the walls are not thick. Please sit down, yes.”
Everyone sat down, except for Rownie, who was already sitting on the floor.
Patch stared at the wall in a dour and gloomy sort of way, as though he expected the Guard to arrest them regardless of what they said or did.
Nonny sat on a crate and patiently began to fold a piece of paper into different shapes. She made it crane-shaped, and then lizard-shaped, and then gear-shaped. Rownie recognized the writing on the paper. It was a copy of the notice advertising Tamlin Theatre, the one he had seen on the bridge.
Essa sat down, started fidgeting, stood up again, and climbed one of the cabinets nailed to the wagon wall. There she hung upside down by her knees and hummed a tune to herself.
Semele took off her spectacles, wiped them with a rag, and put them on again.
The wagon stopped. Essa stopped humming. Everyone listened.
Outside, Thomas shouted something brief.
“Is he calling for help?” Essa whispered. It was a very loud whisper. “I think maybe he just called for help.” She reached into an open crate and carefully unsheathed a stage sword. “I couldn’t really hear him, though. He might have said ‘Bang, fallen dromedary.’ It kind of sounded like that. What sort of signal do you think that is?”
“I do not think he spoke of dromedaries,” said Semele. “I am thinking that he said ‘The Changed call for sanctuary,’ which signifies that we are at the litchfield gates.”
Essa groaned. Patch sighed. Nonny folded the piece of paper into a mask shape.
“Do we really need to sleep in the litchfield?” Essa asked. “The best thing about coming home to Zombay is having a better place to stay than litchfields or crossroads or crossroads inside litchfields.”
Semele shook her head. “The Guard marched us here,” she said. “It is not safe to go home and show them where home is.”
Rownie understood very little of the conversation, though he listened carefully. He sifted words through hishead like fine dust through his hands, and he caught what he could. As the youngest he was used to piecing together his understanding from snatches of overheard conversations, and the rest he set carefully aside on the shelf in the back of his mind.
Metal shrieked against metal somewhere outside. Rownie didn’t know what the noise was. He didn’t think it was Graba’s leg. He didn’t think so. It sounded like a gate fighting against its own hinges.
The wagon started up again, and this time there was no sound of accompanying Guard-boots. It
Rownie meant to protest that the giant mask had been in no danger at all of slipping off his head, and that he had worn it very well, thank you—but instead he said something else.
“You use coal.” He did not mean to say that, but it bothered him enough to make his mouth say it without permission. He knew what made automatons move. He knew where coal came from. “The gearworked mule runs on coal.”
“Fish-heart coal!” Essa protested. “We only use fish hearts to make Horace go. It takes several dozen to get a decent blaze going, but the fishmongers down by the docks sell them in bulk, and they work almost as well as the stuff made out of . . . larger hearts.”
“Really?” Rownie asked. He didn’t know fish hearts were flammable.
“Really,” said Essa.
“Who’s Horace?” Rownie asked.
“Horace is the mule,” Essa told him.
“It is?” Patch asked. Nonny also looked confused. This was clearly news to them as well.
“Yes,” Essa said. “I named it today. It needs a name, and I think it looks like a Horace.”
Semele shushed everyone. “I am thinking that we should speak softly now. The Guard are marching alongside us, and the walls are not thick. Please sit down, yes.”
Everyone sat down, except for Rownie, who was already sitting on the floor.
Patch stared at the wall in a dour and gloomy sort of way, as though he expected the Guard to arrest them regardless of what they said or did.
Nonny sat on a crate and patiently began to fold a piece of paper into different shapes. She made it crane-shaped, and then lizard-shaped, and then gear-shaped. Rownie recognized the writing on the paper. It was a copy of the notice advertising Tamlin Theatre, the one he had seen on the bridge.
Essa sat down, started fidgeting, stood up again, and climbed one of the cabinets nailed to the wagon wall. There she hung upside down by her knees and hummed a tune to herself.
Semele took off her spectacles, wiped them with a rag, and put them on again.
The wagon stopped. Essa stopped humming. Everyone listened.
Outside, Thomas shouted something brief.
“Is he calling for help?” Essa whispered. It was a very loud whisper. “I think maybe he just called for help.” She reached into an open crate and carefully unsheathed a stage sword. “I couldn’t really hear him, though. He might have said ‘Bang, fallen dromedary.’ It kind of sounded like that. What sort of signal do you think that is?”
“I do not think he spoke of dromedaries,” said Semele. “I am thinking that he said ‘The Changed call for sanctuary,’ which signifies that we are at the litchfield gates.”
Essa groaned. Patch sighed. Nonny folded the piece of paper into a mask shape.
“Do we really need to sleep in the litchfield?” Essa asked. “The best thing about coming home to Zombay is having a better place to stay than litchfields or crossroads or crossroads inside litchfields.”
Semele shook her head. “The Guard marched us here,” she said. “It is not safe to go home and show them where home is.”
Rownie understood very little of the conversation, though he listened carefully. He sifted words through hishead like fine dust through his hands, and he caught what he could. As the youngest he was used to piecing together his understanding from snatches of overheard conversations, and the rest he set carefully aside on the shelf in the back of his mind.
Metal shrieked against metal somewhere outside. Rownie didn’t know what the noise was. He didn’t think it was Graba’s leg. He didn’t think so. It sounded like a gate fighting against its own hinges.
The wagon started up again, and this time there was no sound of accompanying Guard-boots. It
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