Curse of the Midions (13 page)

It was a cruel face, thin and pale. A pink scar zigzagged from the forehead down over the blind right eye. From a deep, dark socket, the left eye glared at him.

It was the tipper who had very nearly caught him at the river.

In the Grip of the Hawk

“Who's that?” The querulous, old-man's voice came from behind the one-eyed tipper. “Hawk, who is that?”

The thin, black-clad tipper stepped aside. “An errand lad, my lord.”

Jarvey swallowed. Tantalus Midion, his blue eyes piercing beneath shaggy white brows, glowered in the doorway. Jarvey caught his breath. If old Midion could really sense magic, would he sense Jarvey's art? Midion barked, “Boy, what are you doing here?”

Jarvey's voice caught in his throat. “I, uh, some shirts here to—to go back to Oldcastle's for mending, sir.”

“Bah! Sell'em to a rag shop.”

“Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The tipper shot out his hand and grabbed Jarvey's shoulder. “Do you not know whom you're addressing, snipe? Say ‘my lord' to your betters!”

“Yes, my lord. Forgive me, my lord. I never saw you before, my lord.”

“Wait a bit,” old Tantalus growled with a wave of his hand. “Hawk, Oldcastle's is in Holofernes Street. This errand lad can save you a trip. Give him the message.”

“Are you sure, my lord?” The tipper's voice grated. “It is an important message.”

“He'll see it there safe if he knows what's good for him. The Oldcastles know where their loyalty lies, and they have whips for dealing with messengers whose speed displeases me.” Old Midion's lips spread in an evil smile. “But you are young and strong, my lad. No doubt you are fleet of foot as well. Give him the envelope, Mr. Hawk.”

Mr. Hawk's one eye, a strange shade of yellow-brown, glared at Jarvey as the man reached into his leather tunic and produced a heavy tan envelope. He held it out. “To go to the Holofernes Street police station, to be handed to the sergeant of the watch. You are to wait upon his reply and bring it here at a run—at a run, mind you.”

Jarvey reached a shaking hand for the envelope, but before his fingers could close on it, Mr. Hawk twitched it back. “Repeat your orders, errand boy, to make sure you understand them.”

In a quick, breathless voice, Jarvey said, “Take the message to the watch sergeant at the Holofernes Street police station. Wait for a reply and bring it back quickly.”

For a frozen moment Mr. Hawk stood frowning at him, as if vaguely dissatisfied. Then, slowly, he lowered the envelope so that Jarvey could take it. “Thank you, sir,” Jarvey said, and he turned and hurried out as fast as he could.

The guard at the gate stared at him. “Why are you bringing that box back, then?” he demanded.

“Other shirts, need mending,” Jarvey said. He held up the envelope. “And Mr. Hawk gave me this to deliver.”

Without another word, the guard opened the gate and let him out. Jarvey ran along the wall, turned the corner, and ducked out of sight. Holofernes Street? He'd never heard of it. But if he could deliver the letter and return with a reply, at least that would get him back into the palace. Jarvey fell into a jog, and when he reached the fountain, an idea struck him. He made his way to the Broad family's house and rapped on the door.

Red-faced Mrs. Broad answered his knock, her arms dusted with flour and her nose smudged with what looked like butter. “Why, what's the trouble?” she asked, her eyebrows arched in surprise. “Wouldn't they let you in the palace, dear?”

“Oh, Mrs. Broad,” Jarvey said, “I'm in terrible trouble. I'm to take this note to the Holofernes Street tippers' station, and this is my first day as an errand boy, and I don't know where that is!”

Mrs. Broad's faced crinkled in puzzlement. “Don't know that? Why, it's not far past Oldcastle's, love. Look, the quickest way is down Palace Street here across the arched bridge, then left onto Lime Street, and that will run into Holofernes. Just turn left again there, and you'll find your bearings right enough. After you pass Oldcastle's, just straight on for a quarter mile, and there you are.”

“Thank you!” Jarvey called back over his shoulder, because he was already off at a trot.

The arched bridge led not across a river, but over a green parklike stretch of lawn and trees where a dozen Toffs strolled and chatted. Lime Street was a row of shops, and Holofernes a broad cobbled street lined with better shops and thick with Toffs. Jarvey saw the tailor shop of Oldcastle and Son, a grand building with a gilded hanging sign, and he hurried past it before someone could notice his package and ask him about it.

He came to a rubbish bin and disposed of the box of rags. Then he examined the envelope. It had not been carefully sealed. A round blob of wax over the point of the flap held it loosely closed, but a little pressure of his thumbnail would, yes, pop it free. Jarvey darted his eyes around, but Toffs never noticed errand boys. He slipped a single sheet of paper from the envelope and unfolded it.

The handwriting was old-fashioned and looping, but he could read it clearly enough:

 

Jarvey refolded the paper and tucked it back into the envelope. He pressed the blob of wax hard, and it adhered almost as well as it had before he had pried it loose. Well, he thought, Hawk wasn't as sharp as he might have been. He'd written the description, but he'd looked right at Jarvey without recognizing him.

Of course, Jarvey thought bitterly. A street urchin wore rags, and an errand boy wore a kind of uniform. He hesitated for only a moment, then jogged on. He had to get back into the palace. No sign marked the police station, but a uniformed tipper stood beside the door.

Jarvey hurried up to him. “Message for the watch sergeant, from Captain Hawk.”

The man jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Sergeant Wilkes you're wanting. Straight in with you.”

Jarvey pushed through the door. Five or six tippers looked up in idle curiosity. “Sergeant Wilkes?” Jarvey asked.

“That's me, boy,” a fattish, balding man said.

“Message for you, sir, and I'm to wait for a reply.”

Wilkes took the envelope, ripped it open, and read the letter. “Another note about those blasted young'uns. All right, let me tell old One-Eye that we're pursuing all leads, making inquiries, the lot.” He folded himself into a chair at a green-topped table, reached for a sheet of paper and a steel pen, and laboriously scrawled a response. He blotted this, looked up keenly and asked, “Can't read, can you?”

“Me, sir? No, sir,” Jarvey lied.

“Won't bother sealing it then. Back to old Hawk with you then, and take it at a run if you want him to leave you with a whole skin. Impatient man, our Captain Hawk.”

“Yes, sir.”

The scrawled reply told Jarvey nothing that the sergeant had not said aloud, except that it noted that Betsy's full name was probably Elizabeth Dare.

Charley had been right. Some rat had been talking to the tippers.

Jarvey didn't have time to wonder who the rat might be. He had other, more immediate worries.

The Wolf's Lair

Jarvey was streaming with sweat by the time he reached the palace. He gasped up to the nearest gate guard and said, “Message from the Holofernes police station for Captain Hawk. Will you take it?”

“Not me, snipe,” the guard said with a wicked grin. He unlocked the front gate. “In with you, and nip to the back. Careful of the dogs!”

Jarvey followed the path around the house to the back door, accompanied by the two growling dogs. Again he lifted the heavy knocker, and another servant admitted him. Jarvey followed him down the hall, through the big carved double doors, into a wide parlor, almost big enough to be a dance floor. It had a high, domed ceiling, and halfway up, a railed gallery ran around three of the walls. Beneath that, in the shadows, many dark wooden doors pierced the walls to left and right, and the servant led Jarvey to one of these. He tapped respectfully, and Captain Hawk opened the door. “In you go,” whispered the servant, giving Jarvey a shove in the small of his back.

“Your answer, sir, from the sergeant,” Jarvey said. He could not stop his heart from hammering at the foreboding one-eyed stare.

Hawk twitched the paper from Jarvey's hand with a delicate move of his fingers and said, “Come with me.”

He led Jarvey down a familiar arched hallway and through another door. It opened into the library, this time bright with daylight streaming through a wall that was almost all windows. It looked different from the library that Jarvey had seen in Siyamon Midion's house—that room had had no windows at all, just floor-to-ceiling shelves of crumbling, ancient books.

Tantalus Midion sat in a tall chair, bent over a huge volume resting on his desk. He glanced up as they came in. “What now?”

“The answer from the station, my lord.” Hawk gave the old man the folded paper.

Midion read it, his shaggy brows coming down in a fierce scowl. “What's this? ‘An informer has told us the girl Betsy's name is Elizabeth Dare'!” He chuckled in a nasty way. “Well, well, I think we shall be all right, then, in time. Captain, make sure your men do not bungle this. It is of capital importance, I tell you. For weeks now I have known that something is not quite right, something in the very fabric of the city. This Green boy seems to be the key to it all. Fetch him to me, and soon, or I'll have your skin.”

“We shall do everything in our power, my lord,” Hawk said quietly.

Jarvey, without being obvious about it, gazed at the two walls of bookshelves on either side of the room. Volumes tall and short, fat and thin, jammed the shelves. Maybe one of them could tell him—

“Any further orders, my lord?” Hawk asked as Midion turned back to his book.

“Eh? No, no. Give the lad a copper or two and kick him on his way.”

The hard hand of Hawk closed on Jarvey's shoulder, turned him around, and marched him out of the room. “Here,” he said, and dropped four big coins, thin copper pieces with Tantalus Midion's face engraved on them, into Jarvey's hand. “Now back to your business. Next time you're sent to the palace, take care not to be seen by his lordship. He does not like to bother with servants.” Unsmiling, Hawk added, “He could boil the flesh off your bones with a word, or turn you into something nasty.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Jarvey said. “May I go, sir?”

Hawk waved a long, bony hand toward the door, threw back the tails of his black coat, and sat at a table spread with sheets of handwritten notes. He did not look up as Jarvey let himself out into the big room.

 

Jarvey left by the back door, went down the lane and around to the front, and headed for the block of flats where Betsy waited in the attic.

Since he wore the uniform of an errand boy, he chanced walking up to the front door and banging on it. If someone answered, he would ask directions. If the house was empty except for Betsy, maybe she would creep out onto the stairway and peek down from the front window. He knocked loudly, then stood back so she could see him.

Nothing happened. He tried again, without success, and then gave up. He'd have to wait until dark.

Jarvey loitered around, moving when anyone seemed to notice him, walking fast and with his head down, as if he had an urgent message to deliver. His stomach began to growl, and he found a stall selling fried fish. “How much?” he asked.

“One for a copper, three for two,” the woman at the counter told him, and he gave up two of his copper coins in exchange for three hot fillets of fish. He wolfed these down, got a drink at the pump, and so made it through the day. Fog rose with the coming of night, dense and clinging. The chattering servants came home in a long, straggling line, and one of them, a plump, middle-aged woman, unlocked the front door. She stood as the others filed in, asking irritably, “Where's Alice and Penelope, then?”

“Late, as usual,” one of the women said with a laugh. “I think our Alice is chatting with Mr. Blake, the groom, and Penelope will be there as chaperone.”

“I'll leave the door unlocked for them,” the older woman grumbled. “If that girl is going to marry, I wish she'd marry and have done with it!” The door closed on her quarreling voice.