A Clockwork Fairytale (14 page)

Leaving by the back door, he followed the service track at the rear of the palaces. He cut down a cobbled street into the posh part of the second circle where the men of law, men of letters, accountants, doctors, and clockmakers who served the nobs kept smart offices with tiny diamond-leaded windows, timbered walls, and brass door knockers.

He whistled as he trod the familiar route into the high-class shopping area and wove between the gentlefolk and their servants carrying baskets of baked goods, produce, and flowers. Taking a shortcut, he squeezed between some trash barrels and vaulted over a wall into the third circle. Most of the roads here were unpaved and rutted. He went straight across the circle between the seamstresses’ shops, bakers, and key makers, soon reaching the outer circle.

Increasing his pace, Turk stopped whistling and kept a sharp eye on the shadows as he threaded his way along the maze of rat runs between tumbledown taverns, brothels, and the seedy boarding houses where the poor people who worked on the docks lived. Seeing his uniform, the dollymops lounging in the brothel doorways shouted lewd suggestions to him as he passed, but he kept his gaze on his boots. He’d learned quickly that if he so much as looked at them they would try to pull him inside.

When he reached the southern end of the docks, he took the coast path toward South Spit Marshes. The steely gray waters of the Malverne Channel that separated the island from the mainland stretched into the distance, the dark streak of the mainland just visible on the horizon.

Three merchant brigs up from the south swayed at anchor. Above each floated one of the small tethered airships that the Malverne Isle nobs coveted so much. Two of the brightly colored silk envelopes bore the design of the Silver Serpent while the third was decorated with a Golden Dragon. The shouts of the foreign sailors echoed across the water. He paused and watched a man clamber down a rope ladder from one of the airships, his silk neck cloth and sash bright spots of color against the brown wood and pale canvas of the sailing vessels.

Turk had no clear recollection of where he came from, but his tawny complexion and black hair marked him out as a southerner. He remembered floating in the sky, staring down at a ship on the sea below; then plunging down and floundering terrified in the cold water. Only luck had seen him washed up on the mudflats near the trash barges.

He continued along the coast. When the rows of trash barges came into view he checked his pocket watch and cut back across the marshy spit to the trashman’s track to intercept Steptoe. He’d timed it well and waited only a few minutes before he saw Steptoe and two lads pushing the handcart full of fruit and veg out from the city.

“Hey!” He raised a hand.

“What’re you doing here, mate?” Steptoe asked, with a laugh. “I thought you’d forgotten our little excursions to Dante’s kingdom.” He bumped knuckles with Steptoe in greeting and grabbed one of the cart handles to help push so the two lads could take a break. The boys charged around in the reeds, chucking lumps of wet sand at each other and shrieking.

“I’ve been working on something for Gregorio, but I want to keep in with Dante.”

Turk and Steptoe pushed the wooden handcart in companionable silence. Living in the city with fine clothes and fancy food, it was easy to forget the simple pleasures of the sun on his face and the company of a friend. Turk breathed deeply and the sour tang of trash on the air filled him with mixed emotions. His life had been tough but simple on the trash barge, and only a tad more challenging when he became a monk. It had become complicated only when Gregorio sent him into the community to spy. Perhaps he should have asked to be excused from the job and stayed in the monastery. But then he would never have met Melba. A strange flutter of feeling swept through him as he remembered her glowing face while she watched the pink Flower Jinn rise from the rose. He was glad he’d been the one to find her and help her bloom into a young lady.

They pushed on to the farthest barge where Trash King Dante had his throne. As they passed the barges, tykes appeared out of their caves in the trash and swarmed along beside them. The children did not attempt to take the food in the cart and Turk did not offer it to them. All gifts must be given to the Trash King to distribute.

As they approached the final barge, Dante’s gang of six youths roused from where they were playing cards. Dante himself was enthroned on a magnificent carved chair upholstered in red velvet underneath a patchwork canopy of fabric scraps in front of his workshop. He stood, stretched hugely, and ambled to the side of the barge.

Turk had brought food to the trash barges ever since he joined the Shining Brotherhood. Just before he became a spy, Dante had turned up, dressed like a nob, routed Gwinnie from her position as Trash Queen and claimed the trash barges as his territory. Now he looked like a parody of a nob with his stained frock coat and dented top hat. His lapels glittered with an assortment of doodads and jewelry, while his long dark hair was braided with lengths of ribbon and silk.

Dante was an enigma. He was reputed to be one of the most skilled gadgeteers on Malverne Isle and could have earned a fortune supplying doodads and gadgets to the nobs. Yet he chose to live on the trash barges and tinker with mechanical trash. Turk had no idea what to make of him.

Dante propped a dirty boot on the side of the barge and rested his hand on his knee. “Well Master Turk, sir, you’ve thrown your lot in with the bluejackets, I see.”

Turk ignored the mocking lilt to Dante’s voice and strode forward, knuckles raised. Dante kept him waiting just a few seconds before he bumped his fist against Turk’s in greeting. “Sorry I haven’t been for a while,” Turk said. “Work has kept me away.”

“Running your little band of spies and thieves a full time job is it, mate?” Dante quipped.

“Without a doubt.” Turk stood back and gestured to the cart as the hungry rabble gathered on the shore, waiting for the Trash King’s signal to tuck in.

Folding his lean body, Dante leaped down to the shingle, and strolled over to the handcart. He tossed up an apple, caught it, and then backhanded it to Turk. “Thank you,” Turk said and bit into the fruit, trying to forget the fact it had been in Dante’s filthy hand. They’d been through this ritual before. Dante liked to assert his authority, so he gifted Turk an apple, even though Turk had brought him the whole cartload.

With a gesture of his hand, Dante invited the tykes to eat. They swarmed forward all elbows and teeth, some more animal than human after years of scavenging to survive.

Dante wandered around the outside of the rabble and sat on a wooden mooring post. “So why the bluejacket guise, Turk?”

“It’s a free pass throughout the city.”

Laughing, Dante nodded knowingly. “The Royal Victualler rules supreme, hey.”

For someone who spent his time on a sandspit a mile outside the city, Turk had noticed many times that Dante had a very good grasp of island politics.

It bothered Turk that Dante knew what he looked like and also knew he had been a monk before he became a spymaster. The Trash King was quick-witted enough to have guessed that Turk worked undercover for the Shining Brotherhood. Turk hoped Vittorio never questioned Dante about him. The Trash King would probably not think twice about turning him in for a handful of coin.

Turk narrowed his eyes on the young Trash King, who couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. Dante tried to evince a common demeanor but behind the grime he had a noble appearance. His bright blue eyes were a similar color to Melba’s. What secrets was he hiding? Turk needed leverage to win Dante over so he would cooperate in rehousing the trash tykes in a refuge. The time had come to find out who the Trash King really was.

***

Melba ran downstairs from the roof garden with her three flutterby Flower Jinns dancing around her head. The first one she’d made left a trail of silver glitter everywhere it went. Gwinnie would do her nut when she saw the mess. Melba had raised her other two Jinns from a yellow rose and a red rose. The pink one she’d called Dusty had a mischievous nature and was still her favorite.

When she reached the level her bedroom was on, she headed right, but Dusty darted off along the hall in the opposite direction, leaving silver speckles on the carpet. “Hey, rascal!” Melba trotted after it, holding up her skirts so she didn’t trip. Dusty disappeared inside a room. Finding the door ajar, Melba cautiously followed. She found herself in a bedroom the same size as her own, with the same view out of the window over the second circle. But everything else about it was different.

Although she saw nothing to tell her this was Turk’s bedroom, the smell of lemon spice gave it away. The room was plain and sparsely furnished with a narrow bed, a dark wood chest of drawers bearing a small mirror, and a chair beneath the window. Plain gold paper covered the walls, while the curtains, chair, and bedspread were dark blue silk. The only decorations were a gold Earth Blessing hung on the wall over the bed and a small set of sacred clay tubular bells dangling from the curtain rail to catch the breeze from the window.

A deep silence filled the room. She breathed in the lemony scent and let the peace wrap around her. This room made her feel anchored and safe just like Turk did. In front of the mirror lay a simple oval wooden brush and comb set, not a fancy silver-backed affair like the one in her own room. She stared in the mirror and brushed her curls, imagining Turk standing in the same place brushing his black hair flat and neat.

She walked around the room, running her hand over his furniture. She set the tiny clay tubes ringing and closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sweet chimes. Inside the built-in wardrobe, she discovered a neat row of jackets, trousers, frock coats, and tailed evening jackets with silk lapels. On a shelf above sat a selection of hats and below a row of polished shoes and boots. Neatly folded in the bottom corner were her three jacket and trouser sets he’d taken back. The brown ones still fitted her, but she preferred to wear her dress now because it was pretty and it pleased Turk.

In the other side of the wardrobe was a strange mix of clothes that must be his spying disguises. Hanging at the end, she found a Shining Brotherhood habit. She pulled it out and the light shone on the fine fabric, giving the characteristic gold hue. She tried to imagine Turk disguised as a monk. It disturbed her that she
could
visualize him wearing the habit. She hung it back quickly and closed the door.

Why did he have such a simple room when he owned a palace in the inner circle? His plain wooden bedstead looked like the one Master Maddox had. She smoothed her hand across the dark blue silk coverlet and imagined Turk lying there.

She’d understood what Gwinnie meant when she accused her of trying to get into Turk’s bed. The dollymops in the outer circle were always ready to favor the sailors to earn a coin or two. She’d sniggered and joked about sex with Maddox’s other lads, but until now, she had never thought she might do it herself. What would it feel like to lie in this narrow bed with Turk, to have him touch her, to put her hands on him? A strange heat swept over her skin and burned in her cheeks.

Without consciously deciding to, she climbed onto his bed and lay flat on her back staring up at the ceiling. This was what he saw when he tried to fall asleep. She turned on her left side and stared at the two cut-crystal handles on the wardrobe door. Then she rolled over and looked at the window. The curtains billowed and the breeze set the tiny tubular bells dancing, filling the room with sweet hypnotic music.

Stroking the pillow beneath her head, she breathed the smell of lemon spice. Tears filled her eyes and her chest tightened. She had tried not to think about leaving Turk, but soon he would send her away. She wanted to be a spy but even more than that, she wanted to stay with Turk.

No, she
needed
to stay with him.

She needed to hear him laugh, to watch his face while he worked, to go skylarking across the rooftops with him. The thought of leaving him hurt worse than a punch in the guts.

***

Turk whistled as he breezed in through the back door. His trip to the trash barges made him feel as though life was returning to normal. Gwinnie was waiting for him in the entrance hall with a feather duster in her hand and a scowl on her face. She pointed to a trail of silver glitter on the carpet. “I won’t have them unnatural creations making a mess in me house. Ain’t you who has to clean it up.”

He suppressed a smile. “It won’t be for long. The Flower Jinns only live a week.” And if he received a prompt audience with the king, Melba and her Flower Jinns might be gone sooner than that. The thought dampened his spirits as he traipsed up the stairs to change. He frowned when the trail of silver dust headed to his bedchamber.

The door stood open. He stepped inside and the ground rocked beneath his feet. Melba lay on his bed, a soft splash of sky blue against the midnight darkness of his coverlet. Her chest rose and fell gently while three Flower Jinns rested beside her on his pillow, their wings trembling softly. He grasped the doorframe until he was sure of his legs again. “Melba,” he whispered, but she didn’t respond.

The blood beat in his ears and he sensed it pumping beneath his skin as if his outer protective layer had been stripped away. He closed the door and sidled around the room with his back to the wall, eyeing the bed as if it were a beast about to devour him. Feeling behind him, he gripped the arms of the chair beneath the window and lowered himself to the seat.