Spindly-legged children wore soiled rags that could hardly be called clothes. Nearly every home was in a dreadful state of disrepair, fronted by trash piled in malodorous heaps. The smells of filth pressed in from all sides until he could hardly breathe.
Worst of all were the dull and empty gazes of everyone he saw. Whether child or adult, their expressions were those of people who had no room in head or heart for anything but the basest survival. Raffa hadn’t known before that hope was the light behind a person’s eyes.
But even in such grim surroundings, the day had begun in earnest. Carts and wagons, horses and mules, flocks of ducks and geese, and herds of sheep being taken to market—all were crowded in a chaos of bleats and honks and cursing drivers. Raffa noticed that here on the main thoroughfare no one else was on foot except for those herding the animals. The traffic was too heavy and hazardous.
So he turned off at the first lane he came to, then made a second turning onto another lane that seemed to parallel the main street. But it immediately began twisting, doubling back on itself and leading into blind alleys. It didn’t take long before he was thoroughly lost.
He stopped to try to get his bearings. Across the lane, he saw a tiny house that looked a bit better tended than its neighbors. There were no heaps of trash at the doorway, and the window ledge held a few chipped pots of surprisingly healthy herbs and flowers.
Standing at the door was a girl a few inches taller than he was. Most of her blond hair was bound up in a cloth. She balanced a crying baby on one hip. Two more small children sat on the ground at her feet, one plucking at the hem of her skirt, the other playing with her bootlace.
“Shusss, shusss,” the girl said to the baby, joggling it gently. She looked up and down the lane. “Where has he got to? I swear I’ll topple him—”
She caught sight of Raffa and glared at him, a deep frown-furrow between her eyebrows. “What are you staring at?” she demanded.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m not— I wasn’t staring.” The confidence that had emerged during his encounter with the fare collector evaporated in an instant. Girls around his own age were always the hardest to talk to.
“In that case, make yourself useful,” she said. “You know Jimble? Seen him anywhere?”
Raffa shook his head. “Don’t know him,” he said. “But could you tell me where the Commons is?”
“The Commons? I’d be headed there myself if Jimble were here! I’ll be late, and it’s all his fault!” The girl had grown very red in the face and was almost shouting now.
Raffa shuffled a few steps away from her, wishing he had spoken to someone else instead. “Um, if you could just point me in the right direction—”
“And you think you can just waltz in through the gates as if you’re a Commoner?”
Raffa was taken aback. He hadn’t considered that it might be difficult to enter the Commons, and it occurred to him then that he knew very little about the place. What if he were thwarted in his attempt to reach Garith?
“You’re from one of the settlements, aren’t you,” the girl said with a sniff. “You don’t know the least thing about Gilden.”
“Not yet, but I will soon enough,” he retorted. “I’m going to be living at the Commons. My uncle is already there. He’s been appointed a Commons apothecary, and I’m going to be one, too.”
He didn’t know why he had lied—maybe because he was nettled by the way the girl was scoffing at him.
She narrowed her eyes and looked at him skeptically. “I’ve heard about the new pothers—there’s been talk in the kitchens. They say the Chancellor herself is overseeing them. But you . . . what are you, all of nine years old?”
Raffa bristled. “I’m twelve,” he said indignantly, “and I’ve been doing apothecary work my whole life.”
But the girl had already lost interest in the conversation and was scanning the street again. Just then a boy darted around the corner and galloped up to them.
“Faults and fissures, where have you been?” the girl scolded. “Wait till I tell Da—”
“Aw, Trixin, don’t tell him. I’m here now, aren’t I?” Jimble was around ten years old, fair and blond, a smaller male version of his sister. Trixin—so that was her name.
“If I lose my job, where would we be?” Trixin said. “I don’t have time to punish you now, but you can be steady sure I won’t need reminding later!”
From somewhere distant, a bell tolled once, then again. As the sound faded, it seemed to take all the color in Trixin’s face with it.
“Second bell,” she said in a voice barely more than a whisper.
Jimble looked fearful. “Quick! Go now and tell them—”
“They won’t even let me in after second bell.” Trixin’s demeanor had completely changed. She had wilted like a broken-stemmed flower.
Raffa felt sorry for her and, in a way, even sorrier for her brother, whose expression was both miserable and terrified. It was clearly Jimble’s fault that Trixin would lose her job for not being at work before second bell.
Maybe, Raffa thought, there was a way to help her. And help himself at the same time.
“I have an idea.” He spoke much more boldly than he felt. “If you take me to the Commons, you can tell them you’re escorting one of the new apothecaries, and that’s why you’re late. Maybe they’ll think that’s a good enough excuse.”
“You’re a pother?” Jimble’s eyes lit up with interest. “Can you show me some magic?”
“Jimble, leave off,” Trixin snapped. “You’re in enough trouble already.” Then, to Raffa, “It probably won’t work—”
“Course it will!” Jimble burst out. “And besides, what’ll you lose by trying?”
Trixin hesitated for a moment longer, then came to life again. She kissed the top of the baby’s head and handed him to Jimble. “Beans in the pot for the dinner,” she said. “And be sure to keep them all quiet until Da’s had his sleep.”
She stooped over and untangled her skirt and bootlaces from the fingers of the toddlers clustered at her feet. “Be good and I’ll bring you a story,” she said to them.
All brisk business now, she started off up the lane. “Come on, then,” she said over her shoulder, “you—what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” Raffa muttered, which drew a giggle from Jimble. “It’s Raffa.”
As he hurried after Trixin, a much-cheered Jimble shouted after them, “Thanks, Raffa! Come back sometime and show me some pother magic!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“SO you work at the Commons?” Raffa said, trotting at Trixin’s heels.
“Second assistant, pickles and jams,” Trixin replied as she avoided one of the many patches of broken cobbles in the lane.
Raffa pondered her response. There was more than one assistant just for pickles? The Commons suddenly seemed even more intimidating than before. To reassure himself, he reached up and secretly gave the sleeping Echo a gentle pat.
As they came to a crowded junction, Raffa groaned. He could see the Commons in the distance, on a rise overlooking the rest of the city. It would be slow going getting through the traffic—perhaps hours before he reached Garith.
“Don’t you know a quicker way?” he asked Trixin.
Trixin narrowed her eyes, staring at him. “Maybe,” she said.
Maybe? What did that mean? It had to mean yes, because otherwise she would have said no.
“I have to get to my friend as fast as I can,” Raffa said. “And wouldn’t it suit you as well, so you can find out about your job sooner rather than later?”
Trixin took a small step closer. “Listen,” she said, “I do know a quicker way, but you can’t tell anyone. It’s—it’s a secret.”
Anything to reach Garith more quickly. “I can keep a secret,” Raffa said.
“All right. . . . See that building there, with the fellow keeping watch?” She pointed her chin toward an inn across the street. A burly man with dark hair and a heavy brow sto
od in front of the doorway.
“That’s an inn for Commoners,” Trixin said. “We need to get in there.”
Raffa stared at her, uncomprehending. “But neither of us is a Commoner.”
Trixin flashed him a look of impatience. “Of course we’re not! So we need a way to distract the watchman. What about something from your rucksack? You have all sorts of secret magicals from the Forest, don’t you?”
Raffa hesitated for only a moment. He was in a hurry to reach Garith. And here was a chance to show Trixin a little of what he knew about botanicals.
A distraction. It would have to be something easy and quick. What did he have with him that might work?
He reached into his rucksack and pulled out something wrapped in a linen rag. “Wait here,” he said, and darted up the street.
CRACK! Crack-crack-crack-CRACK!
It sounded like the lash of a half dozen whips all at once. Horses shied and whinnied, there were startled cries from passersby, and two or three babies began to wail. The watchman’s head swiveled, and he stared at the street but didn’t move from his post.
There was a few moments’ silence and then—
Crack-crack-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
At this second outburst, a flock of geese being herded to market went into a frenzy of honking and flapping. The geese waddled every which way, snarling the foot traffic. People began shouting and milling about in utter confusion.
And the watchman crossed the street, bellowing for order.
Raffa was alarmed at the furor he had created, but Trixin’s eyes were alight with mischief. “I wish Jimble could’ve seen this!” she said as they scurried toward the now-unguarded door. “What were they? Did you magic them?”
Raffa had scattered a handful of burstbean pods on the street opposite the inn. Unnoticed by the passersby, the pods had exploded harmlessly but noisily whenever anyone stepped on one.
“Not magic,” he said. “You can find them in the Forest. I mean, if you know where to look.”
“Isn’t it dangerous there?”
Raffa couldn’t resist the chance to pay her back for her earlier gibe at him for not knowing the city. “Oh, I’ve been there lots of times. You have to be careful, but it’s safe enough if you know what you’re doing.”
“You couldn’t pay me to go there,” Trixin said with a shudder.
Raffa cast a glance over his shoulder as they slipped inside the inn, hoping that no one would be hurt in the commotion. First the fare collector and now the inn watchman: He had twice used botanicals for his own ends rather than for healing. Words of reproach sounded in his head—but to his surprise, it wasn’t his father’s voice he was hearing.
It was his own.
Was it all right to do what he had done, because his goal was to keep Garith from harm? Or was he just making excuses? Raffa squirmed at these uncomfortable questions.
Trixin headed down a short corridor and pushed open a heavy wooden door. Stairs led to a dark cellar crowded with barrels and crates and dimly lit from above by cracks in the ceiling planks. She wove her way between the obstacles. Raffa followed, wondering what they were doing.
There was another door at the back of the cellar. As Trixin held it open for him, Raffa finally had a chance to ask. “I thought we were going to the Commons,” he said.
“We are,” Trixin said. “There are lots of underground passages like this one. They wander all over the place. But go the right way and you’ll end up at the gates. The trick is knowing where to go in and come out. I don’t use this way often—only when I’m late. It’s faster than the streets.”
She stepped through the doorway. “It’ll be dark now,” she said. “Keep your right hand on the wall to guide you.”
“I can do better,” Raffa said. He burrowed into his rucksack and pulled out the light stick.
“What is it?” Trixin asked.
Raffa explained. “Go ahead, touch it,” he said.
“You sure it won’t burn me? Or—or—or turn me into a toad or something?”
Raffa rolled his eyes. City folk . . . “If your brother were here, he’d touch it,” he teased her.
Trixin made a face, then took a quick poke at the green glow. She immediately examined her fingertip, as if expecting it to fall off. Having survived the ordeal, she looked quite proud of herself.
“Odd upon strange that it’s cold,” she said. “You’d think there would be some warmth to it.”
Raffa handed her the stick. “You’re leading, so you take it.”
Trixin gingerly took hold of the stick. Then she turned and hurried ahead of him through a series of narrow passageways. From time to time there were a few stone steps, always downward.
In a low voice, she explained why the underground passages were so little-known and used. “Only the guards are supposed to use them,” she said. “Most people think they’re haunted. But I don’t believe that for a second. I think it’s just a story made up to keep anyone else from coming down here. The Quake, you know?”
Raffa understood what she meant. So many thousands had been swallowed alive during the Great Quake that for years afterwards rumors had persisted of tapping noises and faint cries for help from below ground. Raffa had been raised to treat such talk as nonsense, but he knew there were those who had never once set foot in the cellars of their own homes—even here in Obsidia, which had been spared the worst Quake damage.
After what felt to him like at least a hundred turns, Trixin paused and whispered over her shoulder, “From here on we have to be really quiet.”
Raffa didn’t like the sound of that, but she did not explain further.
They continued for a little longer, until the passage ended in a solid rock wall.
Trixin held the light higher. “It looks like a wall, but there are footholds and handholds cut into it,” she whispered. “It’s a bit tricky—you’ll just have to follow the best you can.”
“Give me the light,” Raffa whispered back. As Trixin began to climb, he put the stick between his teeth. Now he could see what she meant. It was a huge slab of rock with shallow indentations chiseled into its surface. He guessed that it had somehow ended up here as a result of the Quake.
The climb was not an easy one, and Raffa was impressed by Trixin’s agility. She seemed to scale the wall as lightly and easily as a squirrel climbing a tree. He followed much more slowly, but the light stick helped reveal the nooks and crannies, and at last he scrambled to the top.
Overhead was a square trapdoor that swung open when Trixin pushed on it. She jumped and caught hold of the edge of the door’s frame, then hoisted herself through, one elbow, arm, and leg at a time.
It took Raffa a lot longer to climb through the trapdoor. First he threw his rucksack to her—three times before she caught it. Then he jumped and grabbed the frame. It took all his strength to get his elbows over the edge, and he wondered how she had made it look so easy.
Clearly impatient, Trixin grabbed one of his arms and helped haul him up, at the cost of scraping his stomach against the rough wood.
“Yow,” he couldn’t help saying.
She turned on him with a fierce glare and put her finger to her lips.
Raffa picked up his rucksack and looked around. They were in another cellar. Unlike the first, this one was empty of all but a few cobwebs. Trixin strode through it quickly, then tiptoed up a flight of stairs to a closed door.
She put her ear to the door and listened for what seemed to Raffa like a long time. Then—
“Get back!” she gasped.
She started down the stairs so suddenly that Raffa was caught off balance. He stumbled backwards, flailing his arms and getting tangled up somehow with Trixin. They fell in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.
Raffa was dazed but unhurt, save for what was sure to be a good-sized bruise on his bottom.
Trixin scrambled to her feet. “Come on!” she said.
Too late. The door at the top of the stairs opened, and a guard in full un
iform looked down at them.
“Hoy!” he shouted. “You stay right where you are, the both of you!”
“Let go of me! I’m telling you, I work at the Commons! Send someone to ask—” Trixin struggled against her captor.
“Shut it!” the guard shouted at her.
Another guard held Raffa tightly by the arm. As painful as it was, the guard’s grip was the only thing holding him upright: His legs seemed to have gone boneless.
Arrested for trespassing! Raffa had never in his life been in trouble with the law. His throat burned with fear and shame. How could this have happened? What would Da and Mam say?
He swallowed hard to keep himself from bawling. Trixin, on the other hand, seemed defiant rather than distressed; she continued to screech at the guards. Raffa couldn’t help admiring her spirit. At the same time, he was furious with her for getting them into this trouble.
The guards dragged them up the stairs and outside, whereupon Raffa saw that Trixin’s secret passage had ended up underneath the guards’ barracks. He and Trixin were pushed up against the wall of the building. The two guards stood less than an arm’s length away, hands on their bluggen clubs.
“It’s the Garrison for the pair of you,” one of the guards said.
The Garrison! It was the name of the Commons prison—even the word sounded ominous. Raffa had a pathetic vision of himself huddled in the corner of a dark, dank, rat-infested cell, with no way of getting word to anyone. And instead of heroically rescuing Garith, he himself now needed rescuing. What else could go wrong?
Then he felt a small movement under his tunic. Echo!
His heart pounded. If the guards found Echo, they would surely take him away. Raffa might never be able to find him again!
No. He couldn’t let that happen, not in a million years. Raffa felt the strength returning to his limbs. Thinking quickly, he turned around and buried his face in his arm against the wall. He began to make sobbing noises, which in his state of mind was not at all difficult.