while the sounds were blown or rasped or plucked from instruments, they searched in vain for a melody.
“It begins,” Goon said.
He took the lead, hurrying them up to the corner of the street.
“What does?” Jilly wanted to know.
“The king appears—as he must once a moon. It’s that or lose his throne.”
Jilly wanted to know what he was talking about—better yet,
“1789,” she said. “That’s when the Bastille was stormed and the French Revolution began. Uh, 1807, slave trade was abolished in the British Empire. 1776, the Declaration of Independence was signed.”
The skookin backed away from her, as did the others, hissing and spitting. The notmusic continued, but its tones were softened.
“Let me see,” Jilly went on. “Uh, 1981, the Argentines invade—I can’t keep this up, Meran—the Falklands. 1715 ... that was the year of the first Jacobite uprising.”
She’d always been good with historical trivia—having a head for dates—but the more she concentrated on them right now, the further they seemed to slip away. The skookin were regarding her with malevolence, just waiting for her to falter.
“1978,” she said. “Sandy Denny died, falling down some stairs ....”
She’d got that one from Geordie. The skookin took another step back and she stepped towards them, into the light, her eyes widening with shock. There was a small park there, vegetation dead, trees leafless and skeletal, shadows dancing from the light cast by a fire at either end of the open space. And it was teeming with skookin.
There seemed to be hundreds of the creatures. She could see some of the musicians who were making that awful din—holding their instruments as though they’d never played them before. They were gathered in a semicircle around a dais made from slabs of pavement and building rubble. Standing on it was the weirdest looking skookin she’d seen yet. He was kind of withered and stood stiffly. His eyes flashed with a kind of dead, cold light. He had the grimmest look about him that she’d seen on any of them yet.
There was no way her little bits of history were going to be enough to keep back this crew. She turned to look at her companions. She couldn’t see Goon, but Meran was tugging her flute free from its carrying bag.
What good was that going to do? Jilly wondered.
“It’s another kind of truth,” Meran said as she brought the instrument up to her lips.
The flute’s clear tones echoed breathily along the street, cutting through the jangle of notmusic like a glass knife through muddy water. Jilly held her breath. The music was so beautiful. The skookin cowered where they stood. Their cacophonic noisemaking faltered, then fell silent.
No one moved.
For long moments, there was just the clear sound of Meran’s flute, breathing a slow plaintive air that echoed and sang down the street, winding from one end of the park to the other.
Another kind of truth, Jilly remembered Meran saying just before she began to play. That’s exactly what this music was, she realized. A kind of truth.
The fluteplaying finally came to an achingly sweet finale and a hush fell in Old City. And then there was movement. Goon stepped from behind Jilly and walked through the still crowd of skookin to the dais where their king stood. He clambered up over the rubble until he was beside the king. He pulled a large clasp knife from the pocket of his coat. As he opened the blade, the skookin king made a jerky motion to get away, but Goon’s knife hand moved too quickly.
He slashed and cut.
Now he’s bloody done it, Jilly thought as the skookin king tumbled to the stones. But then she realized that Goon hadn’t cut the king. He’d cut the air above the king. He’d cut the—her sudden realization only confused her more—strings holding him?
“What ... ?” she said.
“Come,” Meran said.
She tucked her flute under her arm and led Jilly towards the dais. “This is your king,” Goon was saying.
He reached down and pulled the limp form up by the finewebbed strings that were attached to the king’s arms and shoulders. The king dangled loosely under his strong grip—a broken marionette. A murmur rose from the crowd of skookin—part ugly, part wondering.
“The king is dead,” Goon said. “He’s been dead for moons. I wondered why Old City was closed to me this past half year, and now I know.”
There was movement at the far end of the park—a fleeing figure. It had been the king’s councilor, Goon told Jilly and Meran later. Some of the skookin made to chase him, but Goon called them back.
“Let him go,” he said. “He won’t return. We have other business at hand.”
Meran had drawn Jilly right up to the foot of the dais and was gently pushing her forward.
“Go on,” she said.
“Is he the king now?” Jilly asked.
Meran smiled and gave her another gentle push.
Jilly looked up. Goon seemed just like he always did when she saw him at Bramley’s—grumpy and out of sorts. Maybe it’s just his face, she told herself, trying to give herself courage. There were people who look grumpy no matter how happy they are. But the thought didn’t help contain her shaking much as she slowly made her way up to where Goon stood.
“You have something of ours,” Goon said.
His voice was grim. Christy’s story lay all too clearly in Jilly’s head. She swallowed dryly.
“Uh, I never meant ...” she began, then simply handed over the drum.
Goon took it reverently, then snatched her other hand before she could draw away. Her palm flared with sharp pain—all the skin, from the base of her hand to the ends of her fingers was black.
The curse, she thought. It’s going to make my hand fall right off. I’m never going to paint again ....
Goon spat on her palm and the pain died as though it had never been. With wondering eyes, Jilly watched the blackness dry up and begin to flake away. Goon gave her hand a shake and the blemish scattered to fall to the ground. Her hand was completely unmarked. “But ... the curse,” she said. “The bounty on my head. What about Christy’s story ... ?”
“Your curse is knowledge,” Goon said.
“But ... ?”
He turned away to face the crowd, drum in hand. As Jilly made her careful descent back to where Meran was waiting for her, Goon tapped his fingers against the head of the drum. An eerie rhythm started up—a real rhythm. When the skookin musicians began to play, they held their instruments properly and called up a sweet stately music to march across the back of the rhythm. It was a rich tapestry of sound, as different from Meran’s solo flute as sunlight is from twilight, but it held its own power. Its own magic.
Goon led the playing with the rhythm he called up from the stone drum, led the music as though he’d always led it.
“He’s really the king, isn’t he?” Jilly whispered to her companion. Meran nodded.
“So then what was he doing working for Bramley?”
“I don’t know,” Meran replied. “I suppose a king—or a king’s son—can do pretty well what he wants just so long as he comes back here once a moon to fulfill his obligation as ruler.”
“Do you think he’ll go back to work for Bramley?”
“I know he will,” Meran replied.
Jilly looked out at the crowd of skookin. They didn’t seem at all threatening anymore. They just looked like little men—comical, with their tubby bodies and round heads and their little broomstick limbs—but men all the same. She listened to the music, felt its trueness and had to ask Meran why it didn’t hurt them.
“Because it’s their truth,” Meran replied.
“But truth’s just truth,” Jilly protested. “Something’s either true or it’s not.”
