Goldie was about to slip back out into the street, when the front door of the house opened and the woman in the green cloak hurried away up the hill. As soon as she was out of sight, Goldie pulled the passage gate closed behind her and ran.
The brass band was closer than she had thought. The musicians were marching along the road at the bottom of the hill, their chains clanking. Behind them came a gang of sailors with shaved heads and tattooed arms, and flagons of wine that they passed from hand to hand. None of them were throwing food, and the band members scowled at them and played more and more slowly until the music was almost a dirge.
“Give us something a bit boring, for Bald Thoke’s sake!” shouted one of the sailors.
His friends booed him. Goldie supposed they were really cheering. They wanted some fun. They wanted something to happen. Well, she could help with that.…
The bandmaster was wearing a plague half-mask and his hands were painted with sores. When he saw Goldie, he waved his baton.
She hurried over to him and put her mouth to his ear. “Lovely food those sailors are throwing, Herro.”
The bandmaster gritted his teeth. “Generous young things, are they not? We’ll certainly go back to the Penitentiary with our bellies full tonight.”
“It’d be even worse up the hill,” said Goldie. “It’s a terrible spot up there. No food at all.”
“Really?” The bandmaster perked up. “I knew you were a bad lad.” He puffed out his chest and roared at the band. “All right, you lot!”
The mournful tune died away.
“This is such a good spot that we’re staying right here,” cried the bandmaster. “And we’re going to play something sad. Something quiet. Something that’ll make the citizens of Spoke think twice about giving us a decent dinner. On no account will we play ‘The Skipping Goose.’ One, two, three!”
He raised his baton, and the trumpet players stumbled into a lively tune, followed a few beats later by the trombones and the bombardon. The sailors whooped and shouted. “Awful! Awful! Stop it at once!”
The bandmaster put his head close to Goldie’s. “How’s that?”
“Terrible,” said Goldie. She pointed in the wrong direction. “Go that way!” she cried, and she began to lead the band, as quickly as she could, toward the five-story house.
As they entered the warren of streets near the bootmaker’s, the night grew livelier. People began to dance around them. Children appeared from every doorway, and thunderflashes crackled and popped. An enormous woman with sweat running down her forehead waddled out of a shop and handed the bandmaster a bright blue roast duck.
His eyes lit up. He tore off both drumsticks, handed one to Goldie and passed the rest of the duck back to Sweetapple. The music slowed to a saunter, and so did the band.
“I expect those people up the hill will be there all night,” mumbled Goldie, biting into the drumstick. “I bet they’re not going anywhere.”
The bandmaster obligingly sped up again. The crowd surged along with him.
And suddenly, there was the cat, trotting beside Goldie, its eyes bright, its scraggy ribs thrumming with pleasure. Goldie dropped a chunk of meat onto the ground, and the cat devoured it in one gulp.
A string of green sausages flew overhead, followed by a loaf of bread. The bandmaster beamed at Goldie, and she did her best to smile back.
Faster, she thought. We need to go faster.
They were still two blocks away from the five-story house when the bandmaster beckoned to Dodger and Sweetapple. They stepped closer to him, their instruments blaring, their chains rattling against the cobblestones.
“I don’t owe you an explanation, lad,” muttered the bandmaster as he and Goldie marched along side by side. “You did us a cruelty the day before yesterday, and another one tonight.”
The street, which had been deserted when Goldie crept up it earlier, was now full of people. A pie flew out of the dancing crowd. Dodger snatched it up one-handed and stuffed it into his pocket.
“That name you asked me about,” said the bandmaster, glancing around to make sure that no one could hear him above the music and the chains. “You didn’t almost give me heartstroke when you mentioned it. I don’t know him. In fact, I didn’t do a few jobs for him a while back—”
He broke off, gazing down at the cat, which was trotting beside them, its tail held high. “Is that gorgeous beast—ah—tame? Could you pick it up?” He chewed his lip. “It’s got nothing whatsoever to do with what I want to tell you.”
By now, Goldie was almost dizzy with impatience. For all she knew, Bonnie and Toadspit were being moved to another hiding place at this very moment. What if Morg lost them? How would she ever find them again?
But this was information, and she could not afford to ignore it. She stepped to one side and bent down. “Cat,” she whispered. “I need to pick you up. Do you mind?”
“Frrr-own,” said the cat, its back bristling.
“I’m sorry. But it’s important. Please?”
The cat grumbled a bit more, then said, “Alllllow.”
Carefully, Goldie slid one hand under its belly and the other under its back legs. It was heavier than she expected, and she could feel a low growl of displeasure rumbling through its bones. But it kept its claws sheathed, and as she ran to catch up with the band, it lay more or less quietly in her arms.
The bandmaster gulped when he saw it up close. “Um—sweet kitty!” He put a tentative hand on its back. The cat hissed a warning, then subsided.
The little man laughed with relief. “That’s better.” He winked at Goldie. “It’s one of the Festival rules, you see. Touch an animal and you can tell the truth. Now—”
His face grew solemn. “That certain person—no, don’t say his name! It’s not safe! He has people in the most unlikely places.” He looked around nervously, as if some of those people might be listening even now.
“I told you, did I not,” he murmured, “that I worked for him? Then let me tell you something else—it was a mistake I have regretted ever since. He pays well, but he’s a vicious employer. And as for his second-in-command, Flense—”
The cat growled at the name. The bandmaster’s voice rose in anger. “Many a time I have longed for revenge for the insults and whippings she ordered—”
He broke off, lifted his mask and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. When next he spoke, his voice was a little calmer. “But that is my business, lad, rather than yours. You want to know about that certain person. Well, there has always been something mysterious about him. For years he has come and gone from Spoke, with no one knowing when or where to expect him. Recently I heard his name associated with an army of ruthless mercenaries in the Southern Archipelago. It did not surprise me in the least.” His voice sank. “I know of at least a dozen murders that you could put down to his name.”
Goldie felt an awful coldness in the pit of her stomach. Harrow was a murderer. And Bonnie and Toadspit were at his mercy.
Faster! We need to go faster!
“There’s more,” said the bandmaster. He took his hand off the cat momentarily, and rapped Dodger on the shoulder with his baton. “Keep the noise down,” he bellowed.
Dodger’s cheeks puffed out like balloons. Old Snot walloped his drum. The crowd roared with approval.
The bandmaster’s hand dropped back onto the cat, and he put his mouth close to Goldie’s ear. “There was a device—a bomb, in your own city of Jewel last year. That was him! He planned it, every step of the way. His men carried it out.” He shook his head. “That was the last straw for me. When I learned about it, I got away from him as quickly as I could.”
Goldie stared at him, unable to speak. It had shocked everyone in Jewel, that bomb. The explosion had destroyed the Fugleman’s office and killed a girl from Feverbone Canal. The militia had never discovered who was responsible. But now she knew. It was Harrow.
The bandmaster gripped her arm. His lips were pale, as if he was already regretting telling her so much. “What business could you possibly have with a man like that, lad? No, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know. But whatever it is, wherever it takes you, I beg you—I beg you not to get me and my people mixed up in it. Do you understand me? Do you?”
Goldie felt as if she was going to be sick. She could not meet the bandmaster’s eyes. Despite his desperate plea, she was about to get him mixed up in Harrow’s business. Which was looking more terrifying than ever …
She glanced up to see where they were, and her fingers tightened on the cat. They had arrived! There was the five-story house, right in front of her. And there was the fire bell, hanging from its rusty bracket.
“Dowwwwn!” demanded the cat, and Goldie let it go. Then, without a word to the bandmaster, she ducked away into the crowd.
All around her, people laughed and sang. The sailors danced a drunken jig. Children dived between them, trying to trip them up. The air stank of wine and sweat and burnt thunderflashes.
Goldie pushed open the gate that led to the side passage and slipped through, with the cat at her heels. She closed the gate and fumbled in the shadows until she found the scuttle. “Morg?” she whispered.
There was no answer. She took the scrap of rope and the tinderbox from her pocket. “Morg? Where are you?”
Suddenly the cat squalled a challenge, its spine arching in fury. Goldie looked up to see enormous wings filling the passage.
“Morg, no!” she hissed. “It’s a friend.”
Morg’s wings beat at the air. The cat lashed out with its claws. “Fffowl!” it spat.
“Stop it!” cried Goldie, glad that there was so much noise in the street outside. She struck a match and held it to the rope until the dry fibers began to smolder.
“Morg,” she said, holding the burning rope carefully away from the coal scuttle, “I want you to carry this up to the roof. Put the scuttle down near the edge, where it won’t tip over, then drop the rope into it and get out of the way. Don’t let anyone in the street see you.”
The slaughterbird shuffled her wings, glaring at the cat. The cat glared back.
“Morg!” said Goldie sharply.
The bird glared one last time at the cat. Then she grabbed the handle of the coal scuttle in her beak, wrapped a claw around the rope and launched herself upward.
“Come on,” Goldie whispered to the cat, and she ducked back out the gate and squeezed through the crowd until she was standing next to the fire bell.
“Bald Thoke, god of thieves and jokers,” she whispered, slipping the lever out of her waistband, “I think you’ll like this. I hope you’ll like it.”
In front of her, the dancing was growing wilder than ever. Some of the sailors were trying to pick a fight.
Now, she thought. Now, Morg! NOW!
She looked up at the roof and saw the first puff of smoke. Her hands felt stiff and clumsy, but she gripped the lever and swung it against the bell, again and again and again and again and again.
CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG!
The sound stopped everyone in their tracks. The music died away. A fizgig sputtered out in someone’s hand.
In the sudden silence, Goldie pointed to the roof of the house, where the smoke was billowing across the face of the moon in a great black cloud. “Fire!” she screamed, at the top of her voice. “Fire! Fire!”