Museum of Thieves (21 page)

Despite the danger that surrounded them, and the pain of his broken leg, Herro Dan found himself smiling.

‘Why are we not singing?’ demanded Olga Ciavolga. ‘Must we leave all the work to Sinew and the children?’

Herro Dan had been singing under his breath for a day and a night, and still he could feel the wild music rising. But he nodded. ‘
Ho oh oh-oh. Mm mm oh oh oh-oh oh
—’ he began. Olga Ciavolga’s voice joined his. ‘
Mm oh oh oh-oh
—’

Suddenly the whole world seemed to –
shudder
.

Herro Dan’s mouth fell open. The song stuck in his throat like a fishbone. He looked at Olga Ciavolga and saw his own fear reflected in her eyes.

There was a heavy footstep outside the tent, and the flap was dragged back. A soldier ducked his head and walked in. Olga Ciavolga’s kerchief hung half out of his pocket.

He grinned at Herro Dan. ‘How yoo doink?’ he said in his heavy accent. ‘Yoo havink a nice holiday? Plenty of sleep? Goot food?’ He laughed. ‘If yoo go back home, tell dem about dis nice place, dey all want to kom here. Am I right? Yes? Ha ha!’

He poked Herro Dan with his shoe. Herro Dan didn’t respond. He and Olga Ciavolga had known soldiers like this when they were children. They had been all over Furuuna in those days, looting and killing with no thought for kindness or mercy. From what he had seen here, nothing had changed.

He closed his eyes. He knew that the song was useless, that the museum was no longer listening. But Olga Ciavolga was right. They must not give up. He began to sing again, so quietly that the sound didn’t pass his lips.

‘Whachoo doink?’ said the soldier. ‘You sleepink? You dreamink about your girlfriend here? Yoo dream while yoo can. Yoo dream plenty. Because tomorrow—’

He walked back to the flap of the tent. ‘Tomorrow we gonna shoochoo. Yoo and de old lady. At first light we gonna shoochoo both.’

.

he massive gate swung shut behind Goldie. The iron bar fell into place with a
clang
that echoed around the cobblestoned yard. It was barely dusk in the world outside, but here, within the high walls of Care, the air was dark and gloomy.

‘Don’t dawdle!’ said Guardian Hope, jerking at the punishment chains. ‘I’ve got more important things to do than hang around while you look at the scenery.’

Goldie stumbled towards the tall building that loomed at the far end of the yard. At first glance it seemed welcoming. The light in the entrance was soft and warm, and the house itself had sweetly curved balconies and high, elegant windows. But as Goldie came closer she saw that those windows were crisscrossed with bars, and the balconies topped with broken glass.

A cold despair gripped her heart. She put her hand in her pocket and her fingers closed around the little blue bird.
I have to escape. I WILL
escape! I WILL!

Guardian Hope marched her up the steps and in the front door like an executioner taking a prisoner to the gallows. There was another Guardian sitting in the foyer. He was completely bald, and he squatted behind his desk like a toad.

‘Golden Roth, runaway,’ snapped Guardian Hope. ‘Chain both legs. No privileges.’ She unfastened the punishment chains. Then, without another glance at Goldie, she left.

The next half hour was a blur. Goldie was marched out of the foyer and down one long corridor after another, sometimes by one Blessed Guardian, sometimes by two. Along the way, she stopped being Goldie Roth and became Number 67: Runaway.

At the end of one corridor she was pushed into a dank concrete room and told to take her clothes off. As she did so, the little voice in the back of her mind whispered,
The scissors.

Goldie fumbled with her smock, as if she was having trouble getting her arm out of the sleeve. One of the Guardians grabbed her and pulled the smock this way and that, all the while complaining about how clumsy children were. Under cover of the fuss, Goldie palmed the scissors, the way Herro Dan had taught her.

She was pushed under a cold shower and scrubbed until her skin hurt, but she kept the scissors hidden in her hand all the while. It was just as well she did. When she was dry at last, and clean, her own clothes were taken away and she was given a grey smock and leggings that smelled as if they had been worn by a hundred children, every one of whom had died of unhappiness.

‘Ooh, look, this is nice,’ said one of the Blessed Guardians, holding up Goldie’s blue enamel brooch.

‘That’s mine!’ said Goldie.

‘Correction,’ said the Blessed Guardian, ‘it
was
yours. Fly away, little bird!’ And she dropped the brooch into the pocket of her robes. Then she held out Goldie’s compass. ‘This is yours too, I suppose? Well, you can have
this
one back. Not that it’ll do you much good in here.’

And she snorted with loud, ugly laughter and continued snorting on and off all the way down yet another corridor, until they came to a solid wooden door with a great black bolt across it.

The Guardian shot the bolt back and pushed the door open. ‘Silence!’ she shouted, although there was not a sound coming from the room. ‘No talking! Eyes down if you want to keep your privileges!’

The room was long and there were twenty or more beds lined up around the edges. Most of them seemed to be occupied. The Blessed Guardian marched Goldie between them, gripping the back of her neck so that she couldn’t look left or right. Halfway down the room, she stopped and pushed Goldie towards an empty bed with grey sheets and blankets. ‘Welcome to your new home,’ she said, and snorted with laughter again.

There was an iron staple in the wall above the bed, with chains and fetters dangling from it. The Blessed Guardian took the fetters down and snapped them around both Goldie’s ankles, so that her legs were held in a sort of vice and could barely move. She put a padlock through the hole in the fetters. ‘Double chains!’ she said. ‘You
have
been a bad girl!’

She pulled a plaque out of her pocket and hung it on a hook above the bed, next to the iron staple. Then, with a sweep of her robes, she strode back to the door.

‘Night night, sleep tight,’ she said. ‘Mind the tarantulas don’t bite!’ And with one final snort of laughter she slammed the door, shot the bolt, and was gone.

Goldie sat on the bed, clutching her compass in one hand and the scissors in the other. Her whole body felt cold and numb. The fetters on her ankles seemed to be trying to drag her through the floor. On the other side of the room, someone began to sob, a desperate, frightened sound.

‘Hush, Rosie,’ murmured a nearby voice. ‘There aren’t really tarantulas. You know she just says that to scare us.’

‘I wish there
were
tarantulas,’ said a different voice. ‘We could train them to bite Guardian Bliss.’

Quiet laughter rippled across the room and was gone. Somewhere a chain clanked. The sobbing stopped.

‘What’s your name?’

It was the same voice that wanted to train the tarantulas. Goldie peered around the room. The only light came from a feeble lamp that guttered and smoked as if it might go out at any moment.
I feel just like that lamp
, thought Goldie.

‘She’s a runaway!’ hissed another voice. ‘It says so on her plaque!’

‘A runaway? I don’t believe it.’

‘It says so, look!’

‘I
still
don’t believe it.’

‘We’ve never had a runaway before!’

‘Do you think she’s got any food on her?’

‘Oh, if only! Hot banana bread!’

‘Mango custard and cream!’

‘Almond cakes!’

The whispers darted back and forth across the room like mice. Goldie’s eyes were getting used to the dim light now, and she counted twenty-three girls sitting up in bed, staring at her. The youngest was no more than three or four, and the oldest seemed to be about fifteen. They were all terribly thin and wretched looking, but their eyes were curious and they didn’t seem unfriendly. All of them wore guardchains, and several of them also had fetters on their ankles.

‘What’s your name?’ The questioner was a small, dark-haired girl, four beds away on the opposite side of the room.

This time Goldie made herself answer. ‘Goldie Roth.’

‘Goldie Roth.’ ‘Goldie Roth.’ The information was passed down the room, whispered from girl to girl until it disappeared into the shadows at the far end.

‘Did you really run away?’ The dark-haired girl seemed to ask the questions for the rest of them. She wasn’t the oldest by some years, but even in the feeble light there was something bright and stubborn about her face.

‘Of course she didn’t, Bonnie,’ said the girl in the bed on Goldie’s right. She was one of the older ones. ‘No one runs away, it’s impossible.’

‘It’s
not
impossible,’ said Bonnie. ‘I’ve told you before, Candour. And this proves it.’

‘What does it prove?’ said Candour. ‘The Blessed Guardians made a mistake, that’s all. Or maybe they’re just sick of writing “Unsafe”.’ She waved her hand at her own plaque.

Wearily, Goldie shook her head. ‘It’s not a mistake. I
did
run away.’

There was a hiss of satisfaction from Bonnie. ‘I told you!’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ said Goldie. ‘I just— I was going to be Separated and then they changed their minds because of the bomb. So I ran.’

She found herself wondering why she had bothered. It had made no difference in the end. Here she was, chained more tightly than ever. Broo was probably bleeding to death, Sinew and Toadspit were captured, there was a strong possibility that Olga Ciavolga and Herro Dan were already dead – and if Sinew was right, the rest of them were going to die very soon.

Around her, the whispers were starting up again.

‘Guardian Bliss told us about the bomb. Twenty children were killed!’

‘And another twenty lost their arms and legs!’

‘And
another
twenty were blinded!’

‘Guardian Bliss said the bomber will probably come back soon—’

‘—and he’ll be looking for a new target—’

‘—somewhere with lots of children who he can kill all in one go!’

‘Somewhere like Care!’

There was another anxious sob from Rosie, the little girl who was afraid of tarantulas. ‘Is it true? Is the bomber coming here?’

Goldie didn’t want to talk any more. ‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘And there was only one person killed.’

‘See, I told you,’ said Bonnie again, looking around the room. ‘It’s like the tarantulas, we can’t believe anything they say. There’s nothing horrible coming to get us. Or at least nothing more horrible than Guardian Bliss.’

Another murmur of laughter.

How can anyone laugh in this place
? thought Goldie. She dropped the scissors and the useless compass onto the bedside table and dragged her fettered legs up onto the bed. Then she lay down on her back, closed her eyes and tried not to listen to the flurry of questions directed at her.

‘So how did you get away?’

‘Where did you go?’

‘What was it like being out on the streets by yourself?’

‘What did you eat?’

‘Yes, what did you eat?’

‘Did you miss your ma? Did you cry?’

‘
I
would’ve cried.’

‘How long were you on the loose?’

‘I want to know what she
ate
!’

The girl called Candour laughed disdainfully and said, ‘Don’t tell me you all believe her? I
think she’s making the whole thing up.’

Goldie felt a flash of irritation. She did her best to ignore it. What was the point in being angry? She couldn’t
do
anything.

‘No one runs away,’ continued Candour. ‘The first person who saw you would turn you in. You know they would, they’re all terrified of the Guardians.
I
think she’s some sort of spy. I
think the Guardians have put her in here to find out our secrets.’

Goldie didn’t want to move. She wanted to lie there and feel numb and not think about anything important. But the anger was flaring up inside her again, like a not-quite-extinguished spark.

She sat up. ‘Why should I care about your stupid secrets?’ she snapped. ‘There are things happening that you don’t know anything about! And there
is
something horrible coming.’

She paused, remembering Sinew’s words.
Everything on the other side of the Dirty Gate will break out into the city. War. Famine. Plague.
Thousands of people will die. The city will fall.

‘At least,’ she said, ‘it’ll come if someone doesn’t stop it.’

‘What do you mean, something horrible?’ said Bonnie.

‘Like the bomber?’ whispered Rosie. ‘But you said the bomber’s not coming!’

‘And who’s going to stop it, whatever it is?’ said Candour sarcastically. ‘You, I suppose.’

Thousands of people will die. The city will fall.

Goldie took a deep breath. ‘Yes, me,’ she said. ‘Me and Toadspit. We
have
to stop it.’

As soon as the words were out of her mouth she knew that she was right. This was no time for despair. Sinew and Olga Ciavolga and Herro Dan would expect more from her. She must be like those children who carried their baby brothers and sisters through the night . . .