Angel Arias (18 page)

Markes nodded. Now that Gurney had gone, he sagged into himself. He lay down on the blanket beside Naif and fell asleep almost instantly.

Jarrold mirrored his action on the other side of her and Naif found herself in between the two. Suddenly, too tired to think of anything else, she lay down and joined them.

G
urney’s return wrenched Naif from a dream about Lenoir. He was scolding her about the state of her clothes and hair, and about how dirty she was. His face hovered above hers, his lips pursed with disapproval. Anxiety gnawed at her. She wanted him to be amused, not angry. She wanted him to touch her softly, and put his lips to hers. She wanted him to . . .

‘Naif!’

The whisper straight into her ear sent her jerking upright. ‘Lenoir!’

There was silence as she blinked herself into awareness. Gurney had returned and was standing near the low doorway. Markes was on his feet. Jarrold was kneeling. He was the one who’d woken her.

‘Who the devil’s Lenoir?’ he asked.

‘Never mind,’ said Markes abruptly. ‘Let’s go.’

They followed Gurney into the corpse room and waited there. They could hear him telling the coffin maker that his father wished to see him in the front of the house.

When the coffin room was clear, he opened the door and signalled for them to come. The back doors to the workshop were ajar and Naif could see the dead cart. The horse harnessed to it was pulling hay from a net strapped to its bridle.

They went outside and squeezed down the narrow gap between the cart and the wall.

The cart appeared to have a flat back tray but Gurney pulled open a panel which showed a space underneath. With practised fingers he clipped back the panel door, took a broom from where it leaned against the wall and slid it into the space.

‘What’s that for?’ whispered Jarrold.

‘Making sure there’re no bodies in there. Sometimes the little ones get pushed to the back and stick there.’

The broom made soft clunking noises as he spoke.

Naif’s stomach began to hurt. She looked at Markes, who was biting his lip. He had his hands jammed hard into his pockets as though trying to hold himself together.

‘Right,’ said Gurney. ‘Naif goes first.’ He looked at her. ‘Slide right to the back and lie crossways. It’s the only way. The false tray’s only wide enough for two
fits.
’ He added as an afterthought, ‘A
fit
is a normal-size dead body.’

Jarrold helped push her in as far as he could reach. The top of the tray was only a short distance from her face as she wriggled into position. Markes got in next. She heard him groan and then felt his head press into her arm.

Jarrold was last. The thick-chested boy had trouble fitting into the space left and she could hear Gurney swearing with the effort of pushing him.

Then the panel closed quickly and she heard footsteps.

‘What are you doing, lad?’ said a voice.

‘Sweeping the tray, sir. Father said to,’ replied Gurney.

‘Well, while you’re there you can show me which deader is which. Took the old Blather woman to the Frooms’ crypt last week by mestake. Them cheap boxes all look the same. Damn things get heavier by the week too. Why the
fross
do these
cundas
have to be buried in their boots?’ The carter’s voice trailed off as he and Gurney moved inside.

In the silence Naif could hear Jarrold and Markes breathing. Jarrold sounded steady and even, but Markes was gulping.

She shifted her hand and felt along until she encountered what she thought was his shoulder. She squeezed it and he responded by clasping her hand.

Slowly his breathing began to settle.

Then she heard scraping and the cart began to shudder. Right above her face, as if they were about to collapse in on her, two coffins were slid into place. She found she was holding her breath and squeezing Markes’s hand harder than she needed to, so she tried to relax both.

Gurney and the driver exchanged a few more words and the cart lurched forward. The road was pitted and uneven and Naif’s forehead banged against the false floor. She let go of Markes’s hand and covered her face with her fingers to protect her nose but already she could taste blood in the back of her mouth.

The trip was an agony of jarring. Only her deep determination not to cry out and give them away kept Naif from screaming. When the motion finally stopped she wanted to weep. Blood trickled from her nose and she pressed her finger to it to stem the flow.

The driver creaked down from his seat and his boots clattered over the cobblestones as he went off to sort out his delivery.

‘Now,’ said Jarrold. ‘As quick as we can.’

Naif heard a thump as he kicked the panel open and the cart began to rock. Once Jarrold was out, he yanked Markes by the feet. She felt his body heat evaporate as he was pulled free. She tried to wriggle around but found herself wedged.

‘Naif?’

‘I’m stuck.’

‘Reach for my hand.’

She did as Markes said but felt only air. Panic gripped her. The driver would be back in a few moments to unload the coffins. If she wasn’t out she’d be trapped until his next drop-off. She’d be separated from Markes and Jarrold.

‘Help me,’ she cried as she squirmed frantically to free herself. Her foot was caught in the side of the tray. No matter how she twisted it wouldn’t come free.

Markes crawled back in until he could reach her hand. He tugged her towards him and pain stabbed through her ankle.

‘My foot’s caught in the side.’

‘I’ll look,’ said Jarrold.

‘He’s coming back,’ said Markes. ‘I can hear him.’

She felt Jarrold’s fingers prodding her foot through the gaps in the planks. He grasped her ankle in his strong fingers and twisted it again. This time it came free and Markes hauled her out so hard they both fell onto the ground.

Without a word they got up, ran around the side of the burial chamber and slid down among the bushes. Like the Raspart tomb, the Mortgens’ was lined by a thick border of firs.

They waited and listened as the driver shifted the horse so that the cart lined up with a chute.

‘You doing a double load today, Felix?’ asked a softly spoken voice.

‘What you askin’ that for, Reverend?’

‘I see your under-tray’s unlocked.’

‘Eh? What’s that?’

‘Fross,’ whispered Jarrold. He covered his face with his hands as they heard the driver move to take a look.

‘You maybe pick up some free travellers?’

‘Nah, Reverend. Came straight from the Deadtaker’s. Only two
fits
on board. Loaded them meself with the help of the ’taker’s kid.’

‘The hinge must be dickery then.’

‘Must be.’

‘Get the body inside. The family will be here for first viewing soon.’

‘Aye. Would you be lending me a hand, Rev? The boots are weighing him down. My back’s not what it was, neither.’

The Reverend made an unhappy noise and they heard scuffling and some grunts and a door closed.

Naif peered out. ‘The Rasparts’ chamber is still a distance away. I thought Gurney said it would bring us close.’

‘Your friend is loose with his truths, Jarrold,’ said Markes tersely. ‘We won’t be able to walk there without being seen.’

‘We could take the dead cart while he’s inside and drive it there,’ suggested Jarrold.

‘But there’s another body in it still. The dead need respect. They need to be taken to their rest,’ said Naif.

‘We took their clothes,’ said Markes.

‘This is different,’ Naif said firmly. ‘They’re on their final journey. They should be able to do that undisturbed.’

Jarrold pulled a disappointed face. ‘I’ll go and look at the front of the chamber then, see if that way is clear.’

‘Stay hidden,
fero
,’ said Markes.

Jarrold gave him a deprecating look. ‘Make sure you two keep quiet. I don’t think the Reverend was convinced about the latch on the panel,’ he countered.

He crawled off on his hands and knees and left Markes and Naif alone together.

‘Have you decided how you’ll help Emilia?’ Naif whispered. The question surprised even her. She had not thought to say it aloud.

He gave her a troubled look. ‘I have an idea, if she’ll come with me.’

‘Where? To Sanctus? To Ixion? Neither place is safe, Markes.’

‘It is worse here – for her.’

‘Perhaps,’ she agreed. ‘But she might not see it that way.’

‘Naif, I want to tell you something –’

But she put a finger to his lips. The door had opened again and voices drifted to them.

The Reverend called farewell to the driver and the wheels creaked as the cart pulled away.

Markes opened his mouth to finish what he’d started to say but a strange rustling sound stopped him.

Without warning a long wooden cane poked through the bushes, narrowly missing his shoulder. A moment later it withdrew and then stabbed through the bush again, this time directly at Naif’s feet. She lifted her knees to avoid contact, curling into a tight ball. The cane stabbed once more, this time wavering in the air between them.

Naif and Markes froze, watching the stick as if it were a poisonous snake.

‘Reverend?’ called out the driver. ‘You lost something?’

‘Thought I heard a noise here in the bushes, Felix.’

‘The family’s arrived.’

Voices began calling to each other from the front of the chamber above the sound of jingling harnesses. The cane withdrew slowly and the Reverend’s footsteps faded as he hastened inside.

Naif let out a choked breath, and then recoiled against Markes with fright as Jarrold’s face appeared from the next bush.

‘What was he up to?’ asked the boy.

Naif tapped him lightly on the head. ‘You’re lucky he didn’t see you.’

‘Frossing lucky!’ hissed Markes. The dark shadows under his eyes had deepened and Naif could see he was beginning to fade again.

‘What did you see?’ she asked Jarrold.

‘Six horses, one sled and a grumehl. We could take one of them to get to the Rasparts’.’ He grinned as if excited by the idea of stealing something, and Naif thought of Rollo. Jarrold was like a mixture of her brother and her friend.

‘That will attract too much attention,’ she said.

‘Either way we’ll be seen. At least we’ll get there quickly.’

‘Have you ever driven sled-hounds?’ asked Markes.

‘Once. My uncle let me.’

‘That’s once more than me.’

‘And me,’ said Naif.

Jarrold grinned. ‘That makes me an expert.’

Naif looked at Markes and he shrugged.

‘All right,’ she sighed.

‘Let’s go! The viewing mightn’t take long.’

They crawled among the bushes until they reached the front corner of the chamber. Quick glimpses told Naif it was just as Jarrold said; horses stamping their feet, reins tied to a mottled brass railing and the sled close by, hounds biting and licking each other. The grumehl was parked a little further on.

‘The hounds’ll start up the minute we get near them. Don’t let them scare you, Naif, just get on the sled.’

Markes took her hand. His face looked as drained as dead Toola’s had been as she lay in her grave-drawer.

‘Now,’ whispered Jarrold.

The three burst from the bushes and ran behind the haunches of the horses to the sled. Markes and Naif climbed onto the seat while Jarrold unleashed the leads that tethered the hounds.

Immediately they began baying. The lead hound jumped at Jarrold and knocked him down. He scrambled up and jumped aboard, cursing the dog in a practised tone.

‘Hold on,’ he said as he twitched the reins and pulled the whip from its holder. With surprising confidence he cracked it above their heads and the hounds stopped pulling in different directions and snapped into unison.

As the doors to the crypt flung open, the sled ran out of the cobbled street and careered in the direction of the Rasparts’ crypt.

On the streets, heads turned their way, but no one attempted to stop them.

They overshot the next corner and they had to do a long loop around the Rasparts’, coming back at it from the other direction. As they passed through the closest intersection to the chamber, a sled crossed their path: wardens.