There was a long pause. ‘It’s a riddle all right,’ shrugged the leader, and suddenly they all ran off, guffawing loudly.
Hector stood alone and motionless in the gloom. It seemed he was right. Such street urchins did not honour deals. But he was free, and at the realization relief flooded his veins. ‘Sly devils,’ he murmured with more than a little admiration. ‘At least I have my life, if not my clothes.’
Nonetheless, he was coatless, hatless and bootless on the wrong side of the City. He had to get back to the Bridge.
But which way to go?
‘Well, Hector,’ he said ruefully to himself, ‘you wanted adventure and that’s exactly what you got.’
North of the river in the City of Urbs Umida, like so many others of his ilk, Hector lived a life of ease and sophistication with few cares. Unlike those others, however, he was not satisfied. He wanted something else. South of the river, as he was now, he thought he might have found it. The littered streets were narrower, the roads potholed, the gutters oozed slime. The buildings, sooty and rundown with broken shutters and windows, were packed so tightly together they created a maze of narrow alleys in between. People hurried through the shadowed streets, hugging their secrets to them and often up to no good. And the stink! But how Hector loved it. For all its horrors, at least it made him feel truly alive.
Suddenly, without warning, a hand rested on his shoulder. Hector whipped around to see one of the boys, the small one, standing behind him.
‘Now what do you want?’ asked Hector in exasperation. ‘My breeches too?’
‘Nah,’ said the boy, and he almost looked offended. ‘I want to know the answer. I’ll tell yer the way out of here,’ he cajoled. ‘It’s dangerous round these parts for someone likes yerself. You’ll get in worser trouble than wiv us.’
Hector smiled. ‘Very well,’ he said and told him the answer.1 The boy screwed up his dirty face in puzzlement. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said, and before Hector could react the boy pressed something into his hand and ran off.
‘Wait,’ called Hector after him. ‘How do I find my way out of here?’
‘Just keep left,’ came the shouted reply. ‘Past Squids Gate Lane and Old Goats Alley, go through the graveyard and that’ll take you back to the river.’
Hector opened his hand and there in his palm lay his ebony cocoon. ‘Thanks,’ he called, but the boy was gone.
Chapter Two
Gulliver Truepin
Gulliver Truepin went to the window, instinctively taking up a position to one side so he couldn’t be seen. From up here on the fourth floor he had a fine view across the grimy City to the sluggish river. Without thinking, he placed his hand palm down on the wall but grimaced and removed it immediately. The wall was tacky to the touch and he hardly dared to imagine what substance it was that could be so sticky. Quickly he wiped his pale and slender hand on his handkerchief.
It was some years now since Truepin had been in Urbs Umida. He had not missed the place and he would not have come back were it not for the fact that in his line of business – the business of swindling – Urbs Umida had more than its fair share of potential victims. Not on this side, however; they were too smart for his game, many playing it themselves. No, thought Truepin as he looked north over the River Foedus to the red tiled roofs and the gleaming doors and the wide white pavements, his target was them over the river. The rich were easy pickings, surprisingly simple to trick, blinded as they were by their own greed. They deserved whatever they got.
But first he had to find a way to move more easily among them.
Truepin looked in the small fly-spotted mirror on the wall and pulled up his eye patch briefly to reveal his scarred socket and the false eyeball nestled within. The scar, less raised than it used to be and much faded after all these years, wasn’t so bad, but the false eyeball was hardly a pleasant sight. It was dull and yellowing, showing signs of age and its poor quality. He wore it to stop his socket from collapsing, but he was appalled enough by it to keep it covered.
‘Not for much longer,’ muttered Truepin. The day was fast approaching when he could take or leave the patch. He examined his hairline and ran his fingers through his lank locks. He was not entirely sure that they were quite as thick as they had been before. He tutted and reminded himself that this relatively minor problem was a necessary sacrifice for the financial gain.
You see, Truepin’s thinning mane was not down to age but to a travelling pedlar’s potion. Truepin had bought the potion hoping that it would cure his ongoing stomach trouble, as the label and the pedlar so enthusiastically claimed. Surprisingly enough the sour brown liquid had cured his ills, but the side effect had been rapid and substantial hair loss. In a fury Truepin had made strenuous efforts to track down the pedlar and after three days and nights he came upon the unfortunate man at a county fair. There, Truepin sneaked up behind him and began to throttle him, stridently demanding to know the remedy.
‘Stop taking the potion and your hair will grow back,’ croaked the pedlar.
‘Is that it?’ asked Truepin.
‘Yes,’ he gasped. ‘You’ll see, it will grow back straight away.’ Then he lost consciousness.
Truepin immediately saw a wonderfully twisted opportunity for personal gain and true to form he seized it. When the pedlar recovered (two sharp slaps to the face helped) he took him to the nearest ale tent, plied him with drink and wheedled the recipe for the potion out of him. It was as he suspected: mainly water, with the addition of colouring and one extra ingredient which, he deduced, both cured the stomach and caused the hair loss. Truepin bottled up a few gallons of it himself and set off for the nearest small village. By the light of the waxing moon he poured copious quantities of the potion down the village well and waited in the wooded outskirts. Within a matter of days all who had taken water from the well noticed extreme hair loss . . . but suffered no longer from indigestion. To every cloud there is a silver lining! The village was in uproar, having no idea what was causing their misfortune or how to cure it.
It was then that Truepin made his entrance proper. He posed as a travelling apothecary and sold his own cure for baldness (in essence a bottle of flavoured water) with strict instructions to drink only the remedy and milk for ten days. Of course, having not drunk from the well for over a week, everyone’s hair was soon growing back and Truepin was hailed as a miracle worker. He was given rooms in the best tavern, fed the finest food the villagers could offer (not so fine, Truepin thought), consulted on – and paid handsomely for – his wise opinions on all matters ranging from mole-catching to bacon-curing.
The trick with conning people was to know when to stop. And this was a maxim by which Truepin lived. After a week or so he bade the grateful villagers farewell and moved on, his purse much the heavier, to another set of victims, and began the whole charade all over again until he had worked his way back to Urbs Umida.
Gulliver Truepin had spent many years now cheating and lying for a living and had a raft of ruses, disguises and pseudonyms in his arsenal. He had perfected the pawnbroker swindle (a little tricky yet ultimately very rewarding), he had made a pretty penny selling ‘genuine’ pieces of Noah’s Ark and had achieved great success with a dancing ferret (until its untimely death). A master of mimicry from an early age, he had long ago discarded his true accent along with his real identity (he was christened Jereome Hogsherd and had begun his life as a lowly peasant). He could switch at will between one mode of speaking and another, allowing him to mingle with the lowest of the low and, as was his preference, the more elevated of society. He had at his disposal the French nuance – he had once played very successfully the part of a Parisian card sharp – and he could drop his aitches with the best of them.
Gulliver Truepin’s success in the field of deception, of which he was very proud, could be measured by the substantial sum of money he had accrued. Unlike others in the same game, he hadn’t frittered it away on drink and women and other questionable pursuits. Gulliver Truepin alw
ays had one eye (literally) to the future. And the future was now. He was tired of the nomadic lifestyle and ready to enjoy fully the fruits of his dishonest labours. He wanted to settle down, and not in any average sense of the word. His sights were set much higher than that. All his ordinary cons and swindles so far had been merely the springboard to his grandest change of identity yet and the lifestyle of luxury he had always desired and believed he deserved.
But for all this he needed even more money. To this end he had a plan, the first stage of which was to be executed tonight. It was simple, old fashioned – he found this usually proved most effective – and it would take a modicum of daring and deceit. Hardly difficult for a man such as Gulliver Truepin.
It was that old chestnut. Blackmail.
From his lodgings Truepin could also see the Nimble Finger Inn opposite. He had an appointment there in fifteen minutes. He went to the bed, where two sets of clothes were laid out on the coverlet. The quality and finish of each set could not have been more different. On the one side was a smart black velvet jacket and matching breeches, on the other a coarse greying shirt and threadbare waistcoat. He ran his hand over the velvet regretfully. But this was not the time to indulge his taste for quality. He pulled on the latter outfit delicately, as if he could hardly bear the feel of it on his skin. Over these clothes he threw a tatty brown cloak. He looked down at the accompanying boots, worn and scuffed, and shook his head.
‘Not long now,’ he thought, ‘and I can cast off these rags for the last time.’ He could endure this discomfort because he knew that the end was in sight.
The light was fading as Gulliver crossed the road. A dark-haired young boy with piercing eyes, oddly underdressed for the weather, bumped into him halfway across. Truepin, suspecting a pickpocket, grabbed him and snarled at him menacingly before releasing him roughly and slipping into the Nimble Finger. He purchased a jug of ale (he would have preferred sparkling wine, of course, but it was not available) and took a seat in a dark corner. His dress ensured that he blended in with the crowd. Easily done too, for no one in the Nimble Finger wished to draw attention to him or herself. Truepin waited, sipping distastefully at his warm ale.
‘Truepin?’
He looked up to see a stout fellow in a dark coat and hat swaying over the table. He nodded. The newcomer slid clumsily in beside him.
‘Ale?’ offered Truepin, though he suspected from the man’s drowsy demeanour and reddened nose that he was already gin-sozzled enough.
‘Aye,’ came the gruff reply. Truepin poured another cup.
‘So,’ said the man after a long noisy swig, ‘I believe you want a new name.’
‘I do.’
‘And a title?’
‘Indeed.’
‘It’ll cost yer, and cost good,’ the man slurred.
Truepin nodded. ‘I have the money.’ Or I will soon, he thought.
‘Then it is done. Come back at midnight – it’ll be ready.’ With that the fellow swallowed the other half of his ale and disappeared into the crowd.
Truepin sat back and allowed himself a moment to smile. And so it begins, he thought. Now for the next stage. A change of clothes and off to the dwelling of Mr Augustus Fitzbaudly.
Chapter Three
Northside
Hector sat motionless in the butterfly house. He was hot, almost uncomfortably so, despite being in his nightshirt. His feet were sore, cut to shreds from his barefoot run home, and his nerves were still on edge. All around him flew butterflies of every size and hue alighting on the luscious plants and flowers that grew up the glass walls of their home.
Such beauty, thought Hector, and yet only a short while ago he had been surrounded by ugliness and enjoying that too . . .
The journey home from the south had felt interminable. Loping along, head down, trying to avoid looking anyone in the eye, Hector had still attracted plenty of unwanted attention. Not because he had lost his clothes, but because those that were left were so clean. There were plenty of badly dressed boys about, but none with such white stockings. But soon enough, on account of the piles of manure and rotten vegetables on both street and pavement, he looked no different to the numerous other guttersnipes ducking and diving in and out of the crowds. Hector had just learned, like everyone else, that in this place it was often better not to stand out.
He passed riotous taverns and unlit shops and pawn-brokers’ windows. He looked down alleys and saw crouched and still figures, dead or alive he couldn’t tell, and strange shadows at the gin pipes gulping down the fiery liquid that warmed the throat and dulled sorrows before inevitably leading to their downfall. He dodged carts, milkmaids, foul-mouthed beggars, knife-grinders and travelling players.
When he finally reached the river Hector allowed himself to think for the first time that he might get home safely. He leaned over the low parapet to see up close the dark waters of the infamous Foedus. The smell of the river that day would stay with him all his life. In later years the aroma of just one atom of its chemical make-up would instantly transport him back to Urbs Umida and dredge up bittersweet memories of the south side. For some cities the river was its lifeblood; for Urbs Umida it was more like the Styx in the Underworld and Hector’s fervent imagination momentarily conjured up Charon, the mythological ferryman of souls, and his punt poling down the river. When he looked again he realized it was only a poor river-taxi man.
Halfway across the bridge, as he passed under the sign of the Nimble Finger Inn, a tavern of such ill repute it was known to all, north and south, Hector knew the end was in sight and it spurred him on. In his haste he tripped on an upturned cobble and lurched into a dirty-looking fellow crossing the street.
‘Trying to pick my pocket?’ snarled the man, grabbing Hector’s arm and pinching his chin to tip his face towards his own. It was not a pretty sight. The man wore a filthy black eyepatch and a grey beard, and he gave Hector a violent shake before releasing him. Hector stumbled off as quickly as his tired legs could carry him until he reached the broad, bright streets of the north . . .
Now, some hours later, safe in his father’s butterfly house, the south again was a distant world. Outside the gentle moon glowed through the glass. A butterfly, as black as night, alighted on Hector’s palm where it sat quietly. He could feel its legs delicately pinching his skin. It must be newly hatched he decided, and carefully brought it closer to his face for a better look.
‘Hector?’
The sound of the voice caused Hector to jump. He looked up to see his father standing in the doorway. The butterfly flew off, ascending in a gentle spiral to the glass roof.
‘What are you doing down here at this time of night?’ his father asked, a concerned look on his face.
Hector shrugged. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Similarly he wondered why his father was out here so late. Hector had noticed that he seemed preoccupied with something these last few days. Business, I suppose, he thought. To divert attention away from himself he pointed to the black butterfly, now settled on the white flowers of a nearby shrub.
‘I see you have a new one. Pulvis funestus, if I’m not mistaken.’
His father smiled. ‘Yes, you are correct. Though it’s usually just called Blackwing. Quite striking in large numbers. When they flock together they create a cloud of black dust that has been superstitiously described as like a cloud of death. As you see, they are very fond of Lippia citriodora, or lemon verbena as it is better known. They adore its citrusy smell. But it’s late. Come back up to the study. I have something to show you.’
The grass was wet with night dew and Hector took off his slippers and walked barefoot to soothe his feet. If his father noticed, he said nothing.
In Augustus Fitzbaudly’s study glass cases lined every wall, each case holding a butterfly: dark brown Hairstreaks, ragged-winged Fritillaries, elegant Swallowtails and Painted Ladies. Hector prided himself on knowing all their common and Latin names. Augustus’s fascination with lepidoptery, the study of butterflies and moths, start
ed after Hector’s mother died. As his father spent more and more time on his collection, Hector realized that to have his attention he too would have to develop an interest in these insects. At first he had been squeamish about some of the practices, but by now he anticipated eagerly the brown-paper wrapped packages stamped in large black letters ‘Urbs Umida Lepidopterist Supplies’ containing cocoons, butterfly eggs or caterpillars.
‘Here it is,’ said Augustus, and he held out a glass case twice the size of all the others. Within, its huge wings spread in the still symmetry of death, was the largest butterfly Hector had ever seen, its colours a myriad vibrant blues and greens and sparking purple.
‘Papilio ingenspennatus,’ said Augustus. ‘Its wingspan can measure up to a foot. Like the Blackwing, it is capable of surviving in the cocoon in very low temperatures, developing fully but not emerging until it is warm enough.’
Hector looked on in awe. He had never seen anything like it. Even in such still repose it seemed to shimmer.
‘Did you go over the Bridge today?’ asked his father suddenly, catching him off guard. ‘I saw you come in earlier. You looked a little dishevelled to say the least.’
There was no point denying it. Besides, was that a twinkle in his father’s eye? ‘I wanted to see what it was like on the other side, that’s all,’ said Hector lightly, still staring at the butterfly before him.
‘An adventure then. And what did you think? Ugly, filthy, smelly?’ Augustus was watching him keenly.
Hector knew that was the answer his father expected. And it was true. How could he forget the ugliness, the grime and the stench? But the very thought sent a thrill of excitement through him too. ‘Over here everyone is so polite,’ he explained. ‘Or at least they pretend to be. The ladies twirl their parasols and show off their new gowns. The men bow and smile and make boring conversation. But it’s all a show. They don’t mean a word of it.’