better go, Cap’n,’ said Malvery, coughing. ‘Smoke’s getting bad.’
‘Alright,’ Frey muttered. ‘Come on.’
‘What about me?’ Quail said, as they got up. ‘You can’t just—’
‘I can,’ said Frey. ‘You still have one good leg.’ With that, they left, the whispermonger hurling oaths after them.
‘Should we truss up the rest of his men?’ Malvery asked, as they hurried down the stairs at the end of the hall. Pinn, Jez and Silo still had the surviving guards at gunpoint at the far end.
‘No time. Besides, I think they’ll have their hands full saving the house.’ Frey raised his voice to address everyone in the hall. ‘Ladies, gentlemen, we’re out of here! Your boss is upstairs, and only mildly wounded. Go help him if you have the inclination. You’ll also notice that the house is on fire. Make of that what you like.’
Militia whistles were sounding in the distance as the crew of the Ketty Jay slipped through the front gate, their breath steaming the air. Bright yellow flames were pluming from the eaves of the house behind them.
‘This time we’re really not coming back,’ said Frey, as they headed for the dock.
‘One question,’ said Malvery as he huffed alongside. ‘Gallian Thade, this noble feller, you know him?’
‘No,’ said Frey. ‘But I knew his daughter very well. Intimately, you could say.’
Malvery rolled his eyes.
Twelve
Olden Square sat in the heart of Aulenfay’s trade district, a wide paved plaza surrounded by tall apartment buildings with pink stone facias. On a clear winter day such as this, the square was filled with stalls and people, everyone buying or selling. Hawkers offered food or theatre tickets or clockwork gewgaws; street performers imitated statues and juggled blades. Visitors and locals wandered between the attractions, the ladies in their furs and hats, men in their leather gloves and greatcoats. Children tugged at their parents’ arms, begging to investigate this or that, drawn by the smell of candied apples or cinnamon buns.
The centrepiece was a wide fountain. The water tumbled down through many tiers from a high column, on which stood a fierce warrior. He was wielding a broken sword, fighting off three brass bears that clawed at him from below. On the rooftops, pennants of brown and green snapped and curled in the breeze, bearing the Duke’s coat of arms.
Frey and Crake sat on the step of a small dais. Behind them four stone wolves guarded an ornate, black iron lamp-post, one of several dotted around the square to illuminate it at night. Frey was holding a white paper bag in one hand and chewing on a sugarplum. He offered the bag to Crake, who took a sweet absently. Both of them were watching a booth in the corner of the square, from which three Awakeners were plying their trade.
The booth was hung with banners showing a symbol made up of six spheres in an uneven formation, connected by a complicated pattern of straight lines. The three Awakeners were dressed identically, in white single-breasted cassocks with high collars and red piping that denoted their status. They were Speakers, the rank and file of the organisation.
One of them was kneeling in front of a circular chart laid out on the ground. An eager-eyed man knelt opposite, watching closely. The Speaker was holding a handful of tall sticks upright in the centre of the chart. He let go and they fell in a clutter. The Speaker began to study them intently.
‘Seriously, though,’ said Frey. ‘What’s all that about?’
‘It’s rhabdomancy,’ said Crake. ‘The way the sticks fall is significant. The one behind him is a cleromancer: it’s a
