Disenchanted & Co.

  “I’m sure you do, and for some very good reason,” my best friend said in a murderously pleasant tone, “but we’re not stopping. Not for you, or wardlings, or even Herself if she suddenly appears and steps in front of the cart. George can be King.”

  “Then push me off in the teller’s quarter.” Before Rina could reply I reached for her hand and gripped it. Her fingers felt like ice, and I realized how hard she was trying not to tremble. “Carina, when we first met, when you left my house and went back on the stroll, do you know why I didn’t try to come after you?”

  “Sod you, Kit.” She dug her fingernails into my palm. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “After everything that had been taken from you, you deserved the right to make your own choices and live your own life, no matter what I thought of it.” I kissed her cheek and whispered, “Time to pay me back, my gel.”

  “The Talians want you dead, don’t they?” When I nodded, she swore viciously. “Wrecker, find an alley behind the tellers’ shops. And give Kit two of your blades.”

  I swallowed against the lump in my throat and smiled my thanks as the big man held two of his best knives over his shoulder. “Where are you going from here?”

  “Settle, maybe, if we can make it that far before it snows or the Talians catch up. We’ll stop at the lumber camps for provisions, see if we can pick up some trade.” She reached into her pocket and took out a small, bulging reticule, which she thrust in my hands. “There’s enough here to buy yourself a young horse or an old carri. Take it,” she added when I tried to give it back to her. “It’s the chance to change your mind and get the bloody hell out.”

  The cart stopped, and before I climbed down I tucked away the blades, reached over, and wrapped my arms round Rina. “I’ll see you again someday, you know.”

  She gave me a tight, trembling hug in return. “Not if I see you first, you daft twit.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Once the cart had gone I moved to the end of the alley to check the streets, which appeared empty, and the shopfronts, all of which were dark. Lamplight flickered in some of the windows on the second and third floors, and I noted which of the charm makers was closest to me before retreating back into the alleyway.

  Pulling down the fire escape ladders would have alerted anyone within three blocks to my presence, but fortunately most of them had already been lowered. The tellers might have been spared by the Reapers, but none of them seemed to be assuming they were safe.

  I climbed up to the second floor over the charm maker’s shop, and leaned over to look through the grimy window into the flat inside. One candle stub burned on the opposite side of the room, and I made out the vague silhouette of an old man wrapped in a blanket.

  I tested the window, found it to be locked, and had to tap on it several times before the old man came over and opened it a few inches. “Evening.”

  Frightened, angry eyes glared out at me. “What do you want, gel?”

  I thought of how to put it. “Can you tell me what happens when a particular stone is charmed?”

  “Get stuffed.” The window slammed shut.

  “Wait, sir.” I reached in my pocket for Rina’s gift and tapped it against the window. “I can pay you.”

  The window remained shut for another minute, then rose just enough for me to squeeze through. “Well? Come on, then, before you’re seen.”

  I wriggled through the gap and made a quick if undignified entrance. The flat inside smelled of paper and cabbage, and had almost no furnishings. Great circles of wardlings had been nailed to every wall.

  “Thank you, sir.” As soon as I had my feet under me I bobbed a curtsey for good measure. “I am truly sorry to disturb you on such a night.”

  “My name’s Jasper, not sir, and you’re about as sorry as the cat what got caught with the canary feathers.” He retreated back to his chair by the banked fire and swaddled himself again with his blanket. “Give me ten in silver. No, twenty.”

  I had enough coin in the reticule to pay him a hundred times that, but dutifully counted out twenty and handed him the stack.

  He checked each piece with his teeth before they disappeared under the blanket along with most of his face. “All right,” he said, his voice muffled. “Which stone is it you want to charm?”

  Since there were no other chairs in the flat, I went to stand by the mantel. “Dreamstone.”

  His head poked up. “You climb up into my flat to ask me about a faeriestale? Have you gone off?”

  “So you have heard of it.” As he scowled at me I lifted my hands. “Please, sir—Mr. Jasper,” I corrected myself. “I have to know what happens when it’s charmed.”

  “Can’t be charmed since there’s no such stone.”

  “Then how could you know of it? You must have heard something from someone,” I wheedled.

  “Years ago some miners told tales about it. Said it were found in some pisshole in Cornwall. They only wanted to scare folk.” Jasper saw my expression and sighed. “Way the story went, some mage had been digging up half of Cornwall looking for it. Only it were the miners what found it first. The mage brought down a tunnel on their heads, stole it from them, used it to put them to sleep, and left them to die. Only one came out alive, and his people said the mage had used the stone on him.”

  The story was too similar to Hedger’s for me to doubt it. “So charmed dreamstone makes people go to sleep?”

  “Their minds, aye. Their bodies stay awake and do whatever the mage what bespelled them wills. That’s why they are also called the possession stones.” He made a rude gesture. “Only there weren’t no mage, no miners, and sure as Satan no bloody dreamstone.”

  I glanced at the wardlings he’d nailed to the walls. “If a stone like it were real, Mr. Jasper, would it have to be carried or worn by the person it controls?”

  “Why would it, once it was ’spelled? Stones give off power like the sun gives heat. All people’d have to do is stand close enough to be caught in the radiance.” He glared. “Don’t you know nothing about magic, gel?”

  “Until a few days ago, I didn’t believe in it.” I tried to smile, but if what I suspected was true, in a few hours all of Rumsen would belong to the Reapers. “Is there any defense against a stone that could do that?”

  “ ’Course there isn’t. Why would there be? It don’t exist.”

  “The mage in the miners’ story,” I coaxed, “how was he defeated?”

  “Like all the evildoers, by being killed in a body what was outside after dawn.” He chuffed out a breath. “Nothing made of darkness can stand the light of day.”

  Did that mean my grandfather was evil? Dredmore, now, he could be crowned Prince of Darkness and no one would even question it, least of all me. But as annoying as Harry had been since he’d come into my life, he’d never behaved in any particularly evil manner.

  Except to Hedger, who hated him. And Dredmore, who despised him. And my mother, who had made me promise to wear for the rest of my life the pendant she’d made to keep me from seeing him . . .

  Confused and angry now, I strode over to the wall of wardlings.

  “What are you—hey, you quit that.” He got up and tried to stop me from removing one of his talismans. “Is that why you really crawled in here? To steal my only protection from me? I’m calling for a beater.”

  “You’d best shout loudly, then. They’re all up on the Hill.” I brushed his hands away and wrenched the wardling from the wall, throwing it as hard as I could to the floor. Silver-white light exploded across the room as it shattered into three pieces.

  While the light faded and the old charm maker squawked, I picked up one of the pieces and examined it. The outside of the wardling, which appeared to be silver, had cracked like cheap porcelain. Beneath the faux metal coating lay a dirty, speckled gray stone disk.

  “Gimme that.” The old man brought over his candle, and as soon as the light from the flame touched the stone the speckles glinted with all the colors of t
he rainbow.

  The flashing colors made me feel light-headed. “What was the light?”

  “Dispelled its power, you did,” he muttered, snatching the piece from me and turning it this way and that. “Shattering charmed stone always do.”

  “So this is dreamstone.” What was it doing inside the wardling?

  “These wardlings were struck from pure silver, they said,” the old man griped. “Charged me double for ’em.”

  “Evidently they lied.” I picked up the other pieces. “Where did you buy them?”

  “There’s a cargo house down by the dock that deals in stone and metals.” He brought the broken wardling over to the lit candle and studied it again. “Quarry masters have been bringing ’em in by the shipload for months. Can’t keep ’em stocked. Demand was so high they had to start importing ’em from Talia.” He looked up at me. “That’s all being sold now: Talian-made wardlings.”

  Walsh had said something about the Talians forging them, but I’d assumed he meant forged as in hammering them out of metal. I was dealing with another counterfeiting operation, like the one that had robbed Rina’s poor old gent Wiggins of his bacco boxes, only on a much grander scale. “But everyone still believes they’re from the queensland.”

  His shoulders hunched. “We knew, but silver’s silver. Don’t matter if it’s English or Talian.”

  Unless someone was planning to invade a country. “If every wardling in the city has dreamstone inside it then why haven’t the stones affected the people?”

  “Because it’s always been thought stuff and nonsense. Stones always work their charms, unless . . .” He fell silent, dropping the broken piece and shuffling back from it. “No. Couldn’t be. They’d never put so many unspelled stones in one place. Who’d be mad enough to do that?”

  I went after him and grabbed his arms to keep him from crumpling to the floor. “Why aren’t they working, Mr. Jasper?” When he didn’t speak, I shook him. “Tell me.”

  “A stone don’t work its charm if it’s raw. Never been spelled,” he added, his eyes wide and his voice going hoarse. “Raw stone soaks up power a hundred times quicker, too. Longer it’s left unspelled, the more power it takes.”

  “From what?”

  “Anything what lives: people, animals, plants. That’s why all stone’s spelled for the first time in the quarries, before it’s shipped. To keep us safe.” His face screwed up and he clutched at his chest. “I can’t take any more of this,” he wheezed. “My heart’s no good.”

  “Calm down.” I helped him over to his chair and tucked his blanket round him. “If the stones in the wardlings were never spelled, then they’ve been absorbing power for months.”

  He closed his eyes. “Aye. Go away.”

  “One more question, Mr. Jasper, and I will.” I bent down so I could see his face. “What happens if a mage tries to spell all these raw dreamstones now?”

  He opened one eye to give me a hopeless look. “He’s only got to spell one, gel. Raw stones stay connected to each other, like they are under the ground before they’re mined. That and all the power they’ve soaked up will cause the spell to spread on its own. There’ll be nowhere to hide from them then.”

  I didn’t want to leave him like this, but I had to find Zarath before he cast the spell. “I’ll ask one of your neighbors to take you to the hospital.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m the only one what has a carri.” He sounded more peevish than worried. “I’d rather spend my last hours here, in my place.”

  I felt horrible. “Is your heart really that weak?”

  “Not my heart, gel. The stones.” He made a fretful sound. “With that kind of power, as soon as the spell’s worked, we’ll all go into the dreams. Every man, woman, and child in the city. No one will ever wake up from them. Not ever again.”

  It seemed I was going back to the docks sooner than I’d planned. I persuaded the charm maker to let me borrow his transport, which he stored in the merchant’s carrihouse on the corner. Mr. Jasper gave me his keyfob, which he said the doorman would demand to see before letting me in.

  “I’ll return it as soon as I can,” I promised.

  “ ’Twon’t matter to me if you do,” he muttered, staring into the hearth’s embers. “We’re finished, all of us.”

  I wasn’t giving up, so I hurried down to the corner and presented the keyfob to the lad working the door.

  He looked me over, his cheeks pinking as he did. “You’re not Mr. Jasper.”

  “How astute of you to notice,” I praised him. “I’m Mr. Jasper’s daughter, Constance Payne.”

  He frowned. “You’re Old Jasper’s kid? But he weren’t never married.”

  “Much to my mother’s everlasting sorrow, my father abandoned her after one night of love.” I sighed. “After enduring decades of needling guilt, he came to regret his cruelty and searched high and low for me until we were reunited. Now here I am, to run his every errand and make golden his final years. For which tonight I need his carri. Where is it?”

  “In the back. Stall thirteen.” Reluctantly he handed back the keyfob. “You shouldn’t be out driving by yourself, miss. There’s a bad lot of furriners running about hurting people and setting fires. Burnt the Hill, they did.”

  “Thank you for the concern, but I’ll manage.” I walked back to stalls, found the one numbered thirteen, and surveyed Mr. Jasper’s transport. Of course it was as old and cantankerous-looking as its owner, but as soon as I punched the ignition and cranked the motor it wheezed and chugged to life. As I wasn’t used to driving, I took my time easing it out of the stall, then drove to the front, where the doorman opened the gate. Since it had no glasshield I had to squint against the smoke pouring out of the old coal burner into my face.

  The lad held up his hand for me to brake, and once I had he handed me some gogs for my eyes. “You take care, miss,” he yelled over the sound of the old motor.

  I wanted to climb out and hug him, but settled for strapping on the eyewear and giving a fond wave.

  The carri puttered along steadily as I drove it to the Silken Dream. From Bridget’s storefront I could see the houses on the Hill still burning out of control, and the long line of carris and heavily laden carts clogging up the roads down. If anyone survived this night, it would likely be the rich, as they had all the cops dancing attendance on them.

  I knew Bridget kept a spare keylace in one of the lilac-filled planters flanking the front door, which I used to let myself in. The dresses on the forms in the front were all ball gowns, which would be impossible to put on without a maid, so I went to the back storeroom. There hung a selection of day and evening frocks on long racks, and I searched through them looking for something simple I could pull over my head.

  “Thieving bitch. Get your filthy hands off my clothes.”

  I whirled round to see Bridget standing behind me, a pistol in her fist. “Bridget, it’s me.” I pulled up the gogs to show her my face.

  “Kit?” She lifted the lantern in her other hand and peered, and then lowered the gun. “What in nine hells are you doing here?”

  “I needed something to wear.” I gestured at my stained, torn skirts. “Something a bit cleaner.”

  She set down the lantern. “Rumsen’s been attacked, there are Talians out there torching the ton and slitting the throats of disbelievers, and not a cop to be had away from the Hill.” Her voice climbed to a piercing octave. “And you’ve come to borrow a dress?”

  I nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind lending me another one that will end up fit only for a ragbag.”

  “Blind me.” Bridget flung her hand about. “Take whatever you want. I don’t care. Take it all.”

  “Only need one, but thanks.” I pulled a pretty light green silk from one of the hangers. “Why are you still here in the city?”

  “Charlie got wind of this yesterday,” she said as she came over to help me. “I told him to take the kids and go south. We’ve a place down in Zhuma, on the coast, where they can wai
t it out. They’ll be safe there.”

  I knew her husband to be an extremely practical man who would naturally protect his family first. “He wouldn’t leave you behind.”

  “He thinks me and my parents are following him by train. Lift your arms.” As I did, she pulled my skirts over my head and tossed them aside. Wrecker’s knives, which I had forgotten, fell to the floor. Gingerly she retrieved them. “Why are you carrying kneecapper blades?”

  “Because a cannon’s a bit too bulky.” I watched her set them on a pin table. “Why aren’t you and your parents on a train now?”

  “You know Da; he won’t leave the mill to burn, not with all the goods still on the looms. Mum won’t leave him, so I had to stay to look after them. I only chanced coming to the shop to see if any of the gels were using it as a hidey-hole.” She stripped off my petticoats. “God, you reek. Don’t you ever bathe?”

  “Not of late.” I wriggled as the first fresh petticoat went over my head, and withstood another atop that before I protested. “That’s enough. Any more and I won’t be able to run.”

  “These are silk, not cotton. You can fly in them.” Bridget eased the dress over my head and worked it down, straightening the full skirt and adjusting the sewn-in waister. “I’m going to the mill when I leave here, and that’s where I’ll stay until it’s finished. You should come with me, love. Mum and Da have laid in enough supplies to last us to Doomsday, and Charlie left five of the stablemen behind as my guards. They’re proper bruisers, all of them.”

  I shook my head. “When you get to the mill, take down all the wardlings your Da has about the place. “I picked up a thin hairpin from a dressing table and tucked it inside my mouth. “Then toss them in the gin.”

  “What?” She stopped buttoning me up. “That’ll mash ’em to pieces.”

  “Exactly.” I told her what Mr. Jasper had said, and added, “You don’t have to believe it. Just do it for me. Please.”

  “No, I believe you.” She backed away from me and pulled out the pistol. “What I’d like to know is, how did a stupid little twit like you find out?”