Twelve-year-old Carmen has a secret: she can talk to her cat Grim. But the powerful Brotherhood has banned pets, and the penalty is death.
Ward is the most wanted boy in the world. The only thing standing between him and the hangman's noose is maste...
When they reached the Cathedral they found it in an uproar. Scowerers were racing in every direction. The noise was terrific.
"Oi Flip!" Ward called out as the Reverser rushed past with Lightfinger in tow. Wrinkler had a policeman's truncheon in one hand and a half eaten sausage in bread in the other. He turned to them and spoke through a full mouth. "Hant you heard?"
Ward had no idea what he was talking about, and didn't care. "We need Scowerers," he said. "You and Lightie for starters."
Wrinkler swallowed what was in his mouth and swung the truncheon around like a propeller. "Good (unprintable word) luck with that. We're going to Parliament."
Parliament was the abandoned train station that served as Hector headquarters. It lay across the road from the houses of Parliament. Enemy territory. The Scowerers were no more welcome there than the Hectors were at The Cathedral.
"Where you bin anyway?" Wrinkler said.
"Old City," Ward said.
Wrinkler's eyes widened slightly. "Kidsman tole us to meet at Parliament and prepare for something big."
News travelled fast in the underground. Nick had clearly wasted no time getting messages out to the clans.
"What's the lurk?" Mildew said.
"If he wanted us to know he woulda tole us, I guess," Wrinkler said.
"We need your help," Ward said.
Wrinkler stuffed what remained of the sausage and bread into his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. He swallowed. "I'll see what I can do. Can't guarantee nothing. Okay Lightie, let's go."
"Meet us at the Derricks by three," Ward called out.
Wrinkler didn't answer, or even turn his head.
The Cathedral soon cleared out. Ward took the Oliphant and parchment from his pocket, tilting the latter so that the firelight from the nearby hearth shone on it.
"What've you nutted out so far?" Mildew said.
"Well I – I think these things are the notes I have to blow," he said, pointing at the parchment. "And like Carmen said the ones that are lower are probably low notes and the higher ones – um. So, there're only..." he counted them "...five different notes here."
"How many notes can the Oliphant play?" Mildew said.
"Don't know. Not many." Ward put the end of the flute in his mouth and blew some hooting notes, covering different holes with his fingers each time. A shiver ran up his spine – he didn't think he'd ever get used to that sound. It wasn't unpleasant, but it made him think strange thoughts. Jaggles had once told him how the mere scent of blood could drive a domestic fel feral. The sound was like that. It drew curious looks from the few remaining Scowerers in the Cathedral, who either hadn't yet left for Parliament, or were too young to go.
"There's five," he said. "I think. Can you hold the parchment up in front of me? Right. So it starts on the third note, which is – this one. Okay." He slowly and haltingly began to play the melody. It became smoother and stronger as he repeated it, but always, it faltered at the end of each line.
"What's wrong?" Mildew said.
"These're different," Ward said. "See? This one has a dot after it. And this one's got a funny little tail. I don't know what they mean." He sighed and lowered the Oliphant. "Slops would know."
"Well Slops isn't here, so you'd better nut it out. We don't have much time. Come on, let's get down to the river."
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The mere scent of votes can drive a domestic author feral.
