Doubleborn (3 page)

“Do you see this?” asked the tailor, showing Smedge the thimble. “I’ve had this longer than you’ve been alive.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Smedge.

The tailor tapped the thimble against his thin cheek. He spoke so softly that Smedge could hardly hear him.

“Oh, that’s the way of it, is it?” he said. “That’s very interesting. Do you think we might be of use to one another?”

“I think we may,” said Smedge. “Shall I show you to the gate?”

“You know,” said the tailor, “I might be hungry after all. Shall we eat?”

“I can get you some food from the kitchen,” said Smedge.

“No. No, I don’t think so. Not in here. I don’t want to talk in here. Let me buy you something in town? Are you allowed out?”

Smedge leaned forward and whispered, “I can do anything I like here.”

“Good boy,” said the tailor. “That’s what I thought. Come along. We’ll have some food and you can tell me all about Tamrin.”

“And you can tell me about her, too,” said Smedge, under his breath.

You can’t cry for ever, and Tamrin wasn’t even sure why she was crying.

She scrambled back from the river and lay on the grass, her hands behind her head, face up to the blue sky. The air carried the cool, fresh smell that promised rain soon, and the leaves of the trees blew upwards. A hawk circled.

She was a creature of passageways and corners, small rooms and books. Breeze and sunshine were, if not strangers, then distant acquaintances.

What made her cry like that?

She chewed the question slowly.

Distress. She left without saying goodbye to Vengeabil. She might never see him again. No, she would never see him again.

“I’m not going back,” she said out loud.

Her voice sounded odd to her, without a listener. But it was better than not hearing a voice at all.

Distress. She had been called a bully and she wasn’t.

“I’m not,” she said. With more confidence this time.

She thought of the times she had done things to Smedge. Looking back, there were quite a lot, but never, ever without reason. She’d never picked on him but she had stopped him hurting the littler ones. Thinking about it made her want to cry again. She’d stopped him hurting people and he was calling her a bully.

She actually was crying again now.

“This is stupid,” she said.

Distress, then. No. Not distress. Or not just distress. She was angry. The tears came because she was so angry she couldn’t stop them.

She jumped up. This was no good. You can’t just lie looking up at the sky when you’re as angry as this. She jumped up and down, looking around. She had no idea where she was. Her only intention in running away was to go further and further from roads and people, taking ever smaller routes and tracks.

She looked around her, not even sure which direction the college lay in. She didn’t want to find herself back there.

“Which way do I go?” she asked.

“Where do you want to get to?” came the answer.

Tamrin clenched her fists and tried to work out where the voice had come from. ||

“That’s right,” said Tim.

He had never seen Vengeabil angry before. He had never seen much of him at all, in fact. Until recently Vengeabil had kept himself hidden in the storeroom. A year ago Tim discovered that the man also looked after the library, or seemed to. It didn’t make much difference. They were both locked with strong spells that no one could break. Not that anyone would want to go into his kitchen.

Most of the time Vengeabil popped up at the counter in the storeroom as soon as anyone arrived. Some days, if he wasn’t around, there was nowhere else to find him. Other days there was a small passageway that led to the kitchen.

“You can only find it by following the smell,” everyone said. “Old vegetables.”

Tim had found it today. He wrinkled his nose as he brought Vengeabil the news about Tamrin. A stink of stale cooking drifted out to him. The floor was filthy and looked as though your feet would stick to it as you walked across. A scrap of old sack was thrown on the little table, half-covering piles of dirty plates and pots and dishes. Dark, dirty and damp.

“You’re making this up,” said Vengeabil.

“No. Promise.”

“Come in.”

“What?”

Vengeabil smiled at Tim’s confusion. No one was allowed into his kitchen. No one wanted to, anyway. Very few got as far as Tim and were able to put their head round the door to give a message.

“Come in.”

Tim held his breath and stepped through the door.

“Sit down,” said Vengeabil.

Tim stopped.

Vengeabil scowled at him.

“Don’t stand there gurning like a losel. Sit down.”

Tim took a step back, out of the door, stared, stepped forward again and stared harder.

“It’s not a dance,” said Vengeabil. “This is the last time I’m telling you. Sit down.”

“I always felt sorry for Tam, living down here with you,” said Tim.

“I know. You were supposed to.”

Tim pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. Tamrin’s books were in front of him and Vengeabil shuffled them away before Tim could look at them properly.

The kitchen was light, airy, and filled with the scent of freshly baked bread.

“Where does the bad smell come from?” asked Tim.

Vengeabil raised his head and sniffed.

“Smells all right to me,” he said.

He took a big knife from a drawer in the table, tipped the loaf of bread on its side and sawed off the crust.

“Do you like crust or inside?” he asked.

“Either. Sorry. Didn’t mean it was a bad smell now.”

“I know what you meant.”

Vengeabil spread a generous layer of butter on to the bread.

“Jam or lemon curd?”

“What sort of jam?”

Vengeabil raised an eyebrow.

“Lemon curd, please.”

“I make it myself,” said Vengeabil. “Come and look at this.”

Tim followed him to a door. Vengeabil let him through and he found himself in a wide, high, stone-flagged glasshouse, with plants he had never seen before, including a row of five lemon trees, full of fruit.

“Where are we?” he asked. “I’ve never seen this place.”

“You may never see it again,” said Vengeabil. “But now you know the lemons are fresh.”

They went back, Tim sat at the table and bit into the thick slice of bread. The crust was crisp. The inside was soft and springy. The butter was yellow, salty and cool. The lemon curd made his mouth water with a sharp, instant bite, then released a wave of sweetness that made him smile.

“Thought you’d like that,” said Vengeabil.

“Everyone thinks—” began Tim.

The man waved his hand.

“I know what everyone thinks,” he said. “Smelly old Vegetables, the storeman. In his stinky kitchen, with his sad little friend, Tam, the college dunce. Thrown out for being too naughty to learn. I know.”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” said Tim.

“Why not? It’s what everyone thinks. You think I don’t know what they call me? You think that smell comes from nowhere? Eh? I don’t want people knowing how I live here. I don’t want scruffy schoolboys pestering me for bread and treats. So I keep them away.”

Tim finished his bread with a sense of such loss that he wanted to cry.

“I won’t tell,” he said.

“I know. That’s why you’re here. Now, what’s happened to Tamrin?”

As he asked the question a small stream of stars fell from his fingertips and bounced on the floor. Tim looked at him, looked down at the stars. Vengeabil was waiting for Tim’s answer. He hadn’t seen the stars tumble from his hand. Tim was trying to decide whether to tell Vengeabil what had happened when a small, skinny cat, old and slow, only about as big as a mouse, appeared round the table leg and began to lick up the stars.

More voices followed. Louder, harsh and coming closer fast. Tamrin pulled a face. Her lonely place far from the road was quickly becoming as busy as the market square in Canterstock.

“Quick. This way.”

A hand seized Tamrin’s arm and pulled her into a thicket. Thorns dragged across her skin, cutting into her arms, her cheeks, her legs.

A face stared at her and a hand went to her lips. Tamrin obeyed. Something about the woman who had grabbed her made her pay attention.

The woman inclined her head to the left and Tamrin nodded. The voices approached.

“Gone.”

“Not gone.”

“Gone.”

“Can’t have gone.”

“Where?”

“Can’t see.”

“Stop.”

Four figures. No, five. Six. At least. Red and booted. Leather-clad. Thick-bodied, with spindly legs. No faces. They had hoods drawn over their heads, masking them. Tamrin looked more closely. No. There were no hoods. They had no faces. Just shiny shells with eyes. And that wasn’t leather. It was them.

Tamrin looked to her companion for help, for an explanation. The woman put her finger back to her lips.

She mouthed silently to Tamrin: they’re chasing me.

“Look.”

“Where?”

“Bushes.”

“River.”

“Not going on water.”

“No. Not water.”

“Bushes.”

They spread out, scything their long arms, beating down undergrowth. Three were moving away from Tamrin, two were heading straight for her. The woman’s face pleaded with her.

Tamrin nodded. She closed her eyes, pursed her lips and blew. When she opened her eyes again she and the woman saw a mist blossom out and cover the whole thicket where they crouched, frozen for silence. Tamrin hoped that the figures would see a tree, old and wide, obstructing their path.

“Not here.”

“Here.”

“Followed her.”

“Run off.”

“No.”

“Can’t.”

“Must have.”

“Follow?”

“Go back.”

“Go back.”

“Find later.”

“Later.”

“Kill.”

“I kill.”

“Finder kills.”

They disappeared, arguing still in brittle voices.

Tamrin couldn’t move. The woman took her arm, gently this time, and drew her close.

“It’s fine. They’ve gone.”

Tamrin was shaking. The woman put her arm around her and waited.

“What were they?” Tamrin asked when she could breathe normally again.

“Shall we get some sun?” the woman asked with a smile. “I’m getting cold.”

Tamrin tried to smile back. She blew hard and the mist in the thicket faded and died. They crawled out and she screwed her eyes up against the suddenness of the sun.

“What were they?” she asked again.

“What are you?” asked the woman. “Making that mist to hide us.” She smiled again. “I’m Winny,” she said. “You saved my life.”

“What were they?”

Tamrin knew that Winny wanted her to say what her name was and she wasn’t ready for that.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if they’ve got a name. Or where they come from. I saw them kill a man. Back there.”

The world outside the college was becoming as unpleasant as the life inside.

“They weren’t men?” she said. “In armour or something?”

“No.”

Winny untied her scarf and dabbed Tamrin’s cheek.

“That’s just making it worse,” she said. “Let’s get some water.”

They found a still section of the river where the water pooled. Winny wetted the scarf and cleaned the blood from Tamrin’s face and arms.

“Those were terrible thorns,” she said. “I was just on the road over there. Collecting. I heard the noise of the things and I hid in the hedgerow.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why did you hide?”

“You heard them. You heard their voices. Wouldn’t you hide?”

Tamrin took the scarf and started to clean the blood from her legs. The scratches weren’t deep. They’d soon heal.

“You’re not scratched,” she said.

“No?” Winny examined her arms. “Well. Old skin,” she smiled. “It’s tougher.”

Tamrin looked carefully at her.

“You’re not old.”

Winny’s face was smooth enough. Small creases framed her eyes. She had taken the sun a little. Her arms were browner than her cheeks. Her hair was short enough to be a man’s, but cut like a woman’s.

“What do you mean, they killed a man?”

“They were carrying him above their heads. They’re very strong. They tossed him one to another and swung him round. He was screaming and his legs looked broken. One of them threw him very high and, just as he was about to catch him, stepped aside and let him fall to the ground. His back snapped and his head thudded on the road.”

“He was dead?”

Tamrin hated the story. Didn’t want to hear it. Needed to know how it finished.

“No. Nearly dead. They just fell on him and started to eat him alive. Then he died. Not soon enough.”

Tamrin moved away from Winny. She dipped the scarf in the pool to rinse it out. The blood swirled red around it.

“I must have moved too quickly,” said Winny. “Trying to get away. To get further out of danger. They heard me and chased me. You know what happened next.”

Tamrin was cold now. Even in the sun. Her face and limbs damp from washing.

Winny stood up.

“Thank you for saving me,” she said. “I have to go. You can keep the scarf.”