North! Or Be Eaten (27 page)

He gritted his teeth, found a handhold on the roofline, and dangled. The crowd below gasped and muttered hungrily. It was oddly comforting to know that if he fell, the mob would catch him. They might carry him away and roast him over a fire later, but at the moment that seemed better than splatting on the brick street like a totato.

He swung a leg up, scooted forward, and rolled onto his back, panting.

As much as he would’ve liked to lie there for hours, he was out of time. The gutter creaked as dirty hands began to climb just as Janner had. He ran across loose shingles to the peak of the roof, vaulted over the wall that had trapped him, and landed on the building on the opposite side.

Immediately, the air changed. He couldn’t be sure if it was his imagination, but the air felt cooler and carried more sound. The clamor of the crowd on the other side of the wall was muted and distant. Janner wanted to rest but forced himself to keep going until the horror behind him was behind him for good.

He crept to the edge and looked down. Another alleyway cluttered with debris, but here the buildings were closer—close enough that Janner was sure he could jump across. Before he could talk himself out of it, he trotted to the apex of the roof, turned, and ran for the edge.

When he landed on the other roof, a grin broke across his face. He scrambled to the other side, found another narrow alley, and jumped again.

Janner leapt from rooftop to rooftop, as spry as a squirrel, smiling with triumph with every landing and wishing Tink were there to see it.

As soon as he thought of Tink, though, the smile vanished. If he had been snagged by one of the crazed hags, surely there would have been some disturbance on Tilling Street, but Janner had found it as quiet as a tomb.

So then where was he?

At last Janner stopped running. The sun was high, the air was hot, and fishy smells choked the air. He might be lost, but he knew he was close to the river, and the
river would be easy to find—he just had to go downhill and away from the wall between him and Tilling Street.

But first he had to find a way off the rooftop. He hadn’t seen any trapdoors or skylights or ladders. The walls of the buildings surrounding him were smoother than those of Tilling Street, so he couldn’t climb down that way.

Then he noticed a gutter pipe running down to the alley. It looked sturdy enough for a twelve-year-old, he thought. He just had to swing over and climb down, but now that there were no crazy people at his heels, Janner found it exceedingly difficult to muster the courage to do so. He sat with his legs dangling from the roof, imagining the simple act of leaning over, grabbing the gutter pipe, and scooting off the roof. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

A ruckus started in the street in front of the building. He crept to the other side of the roof, lay on his belly, and peeked down at the street. It wasn’t much different from Tilling Street, in that old two-story brick buildings faced the cobbled lane, but here the windows were intact, the walkways were relatively clean, and ordinary folk strolled and pushed carts and conversed with one another. It seemed safe enough. Then he saw the cause of the commotion.

A Fang stood guard in front of one of the buildings across the street. It sneered at passersby, who lowered their heads and walked on. Another Fang banged on the door.

“Open up!” it growled.

When no one answered, the Fang kicked the door from its hinges, and the two of them slithered inside. The Dugtowners passed by as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

Directly below, Janner heard voices.

“What’s the fuss about?” asked one man.

“Might be the Florid Sword. Heard he was about last night.”

“I heard that too,” said a woman’s voice. “But I also heard there’s some family the Fangs want to find.”

“Aye. Migg Landers told me yesterday they were from Anniera or some such nonsense.”

“Anniera? Pah!”

“I’m just repeatin’ what he said.”

“Say, where is old Migg? Ain’t seen him today.”

“Me neither.”

“Well, I hope they find the family sooner than late. Things are bad enough around here without the Florid Sword up to his mischief.”

“And the Annierans.”

“Pah!”

“I’m only sayin’ what I heard.”

“Uh-oh. They’re coming back out,” the woman said.

The two Fangs emerged and moved on to the next building, where the banging commenced again.

Janner scooted back from the edge. He had to get out of Dugtown. He had to get to the burrow. He prayed Tink would be there when he arrived.

The gutter pipe. There was no other way down.

With a sigh, Janner tiptoed back to the edge of the roof near the wall, scooted off, and shimmied down to the street before he could talk himself out of it. He squinted up at the roofline where he had been, impressed with himself.

Then something came between him and the noonday sun. A silhouette of someone’s head and shoulders hovered where he had just been. Janner heard a dry chuckle, like the sound of a crackling fire, and in one motion, the silhouette leapt for the gutter, slid down, and landed nearly on top of him.

“We
will
have you, child,” said a skeleton of a man. His long, mud-caked fingers wrapped around Janner’s arms and held him in an iron grip.

Janner was too frightened to scream, and if he did, it would only bring the Fangs running. Either way, he was caught. Was it better to be in the grip of a mad old beggar or the Fangs of Dang?

Before he had time to wonder, the man whistled, and a rope dropped down from the other side of the wall. In moments the rope was tied around his arms and chest, and Janner was heaved upward. The ragman clambered up the gutter past him, swung up to the roof, and disappeared. Up Janner went, so tired of running that it was a strange relief to finally be caught.

In seconds, he scraped to a stop at the top of the wall, and more of those horrible, dirty hands pulled him over.

Janner landed on his back on the roof of a house with his eyes clamped shut.

The sound of many people breathing, rasping, and whispering was so terrifying that it was several moments before Janner cracked an eyelid. Legs everywhere, like tree trunks in a forest, except the roots of these trees bore ugly yellow toenails as long as toes themselves, curling up and down like monstrous ribbons.

“What…what do you want?” Janner asked.

At the sound of his voice, the crowd gasped and cackled with glee.

“I want what is mine,” said a woman.

“Aye, Gorah is next in line,” said a man.

“Lucky Gorah,” the rest muttered.

Then the hags and ragmen picked Janner up and carried him away.

J
anner was carried over their heads, a cork bobbing on the surface of a dirty river. The men and women were mostly silent. Those who made any sound at all wept. His arms were still bound at his sides, and he lay still, lulled by the floating sensation. They took him back to Tilling Street. The hags and ragmen carried him into an old building and set him gently on the floor, to his surprise. The woman, Gorah, stepped forward and poked him in the chest.

“Stay put, boy. We’ll find you wherever you may run, just like we find all the others.” She lowered her voice. “When darkness comes, I’ll get what’s mine. You’ll see.”

She cackled and clapped her hands like a little girl, hopping from one gnarled foot to the other. The others set to wailing and dancing as well. Janner closed his eyes and tried to shut out the sound.

After several minutes, most of the people filed from the room. Gorah and six others remained. They squatted against the wall and rocked to and fro, staring at Janner like hungry dogs.

Janner thought about his family. He felt certain that with Podo in charge, they must have made it safely back to the burrow by now. He had led them through great dangers before. But Tink? There was no telling where Tink could be.

Janner’s eyes drooped. Gorah hummed a melody that must have been intended to be a lullaby, and as terrible as it sounded, the song did its work. He slept.

It was dark when he woke.

A single lantern lit the room. Gorah still crouched in the corner, glowering at Janner exactly as she had when he drifted off.

“It’s almost time, child,” she said, shifting on her feet.

“Time for what, ma’am?”

Gorah laughed so hard that she toppled forward and rolled onto her back, kicking her feet in the air. “‘Ma’am!’ He called me ‘ma’am’!” She laughed until her eyes watered with tears, and Janner realized she was no longer laughing but weeping.
Again, he was mystified by the behavior of these strange people. All he had done was try to be polite, and now she was crying.

“Ma’am?” he said.

“Enough talk.” She wiped her face with a rag from the floor. “And if you call me ‘ma’am’ again, you won’t like me half so much as you do now.”

One of the ragmen appeared in the doorway with an excited look. “It’s time, Gorah.”

Gorah walked to Janner, grabbed the end of the rope that bound him, and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, child. The Overseer’s waiting.”

She led Janner into the street. A crowd, holding torches, stood in the middle of the road. In the center, rising above them like a king on a dais, a round-faced man wearing a black velvet top hat sat atop a carriage so much like the Black Carriage that Janner had to look twice. The man wore fingerless gloves and a tattered suit with tails and purple lapels; in one hand he held the reins, while with the other he waved smugly at the beggars gathered around. When he smiled, his smooth face creased into too many wrinkles, and a wide set of buttery brown teeth gleamed.

When Gorah appeared, leading Janner by the rope, the crowd parted and let them through. The Overseer stood and spread his arms wide.

“A child!” He hopped down from his perch and looked into Janner’s eyes. “And a healthy one too! Where did you find him?” He straightened and put his hands on his hips. “If I knew where to find such healthy children, I would trouble you no more, dear citizens!”

“He came to us, Overseer,” said Gorah. “Today he appeared on Tilling, a gift from the Maker.”

“A gift from the—? Ah. Yes, of course. The Maker.” The Overseer gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “And do you have another?”

The crowd parted, and a man appeared, leading a boy with a sack over his head.

“Tink!” Janner cried.

One of the men slapped Janner in the face. “Quiet, you.”

Janner was so overcome with relief to see his brother that he hardly felt the sting on his cheek. Then they removed the sack from over the boy’s head, and Janner’s heart sank. The boy was younger and much skinnier than Tink. Whoever he was, he was terrified.

“Another for you, Overseer,” Gorah said.

“Good, good,” said the man in the hat, appraising the thin boy. “Mobrik! The ledger!”

He clapped, and the side door of the carriage opened. A ridgerunner skittered out with a thin, leather-bound book in his arms. The little creature was dressed like the Overseer, in a tattered black suit and top hat, and it was plain he was uncomfortable in the human clothes. The Overseer snatched the ledger from him with a show of great impatience.

“Thank you, Mobrik,” he droned while he flipped through the pages of the ledger. “Name?”

“Barnswaller,” Gorah said meekly.

“Barnswaller…Barnswaller…” The man ran a finger down the page. “Ah. Was his name Jairy Barnswaller?”

Gorah gasped. “Yes! Jairy!”

“Sorry.” The Overseer shrugged. “Says he tried to escape and was taken to Throg. Who’s next?”

The woman wailed. Her cry cut to Janner’s heart. She collapsed to the ground and thrashed about, and he felt tears in his own eyes. The crowd stepped over her and pushed closer to the carriage.

Over the sound of Gorah’s grief, a man said, “I’m next. Name’s Mykel Bolpin. Her name was Lily. Like the flower.”

“‘Like the flower,’” the Overseer mocked. He flipped through the pages again. “Will someone quiet the woman, please?” One of the ragmen grabbed Gorah by the wrist and dragged her away. “Thank you. Hard to think around here with all the racket. Now, let’s see. Yes! We have a Lily Bolpin. Would you like your daughter, sir?”

The man was too shocked to speak.

“Sir?” the Overseer pressed.

“Y-yes sir. Please, sir.” The man clasped his hands together to keep them from shaking.

“Very well, then. I’ll take these two. She’ll be here at dawn.”

The man sank to his knees and looked to the heavens, his eyes shining in his dirty face like jewels in a mud hole.

“Mobrik! Get them,” ordered the Overseer.

The ridgerunner took the ledger, then jerked the rope so hard that Janner nearly fell. He’d been staring at Gorah Barnswaller, who wept in the gutter beside the road. The ridgerunner scrambled into the carriage and tugged the rope again. Janner had faced the Black Carriage itself, so getting into the Overseer’s carriage was no great feat. He climbed inside, sat on the bench beside Mobrik the ridgerunner, and thanked the Maker there was at least a chance that Tink had made it to the burrow.

The other boy, however, didn’t fare so well. He wept and thrashed and fought bravely against his bonds until the Overseer ordered him knocked unconscious. They threw the poor child into the carriage at Janner’s feet, as limp as a doll. Through the narrow window, Janner saw Gorah still wailing. He saw the ragged crowd dispersing into the dark of Tilling Street. And he saw the man, Mykel Bolpin, still kneeling in the road with a look of absolute joy on his face.

“S-sir?” said Bolpin to the Overseer.

“What?” The Overseer’s voice was flat and cold.

“How old is she now?”

After a moment, the man said, “Mobrik! The ledger!” Mobrik leapt from the carriage again and handed the ledger up to the Overseer. Pages flipped. “She was twelve when she arrived at the factory. That was the year after the Great War. So what’s that, eight years ago? Now she’s twenty. Twenty years old.”

Twenty?
In eight years, Lily Bolpin, whoever she was, hadn’t been able to escape from the Overseer, whoever he was? Janner felt a dread seep through him. Maybe what Podo always said was true. Maybe there
was
always a way out, like in Ships and Sharks. But what if that way out didn’t come for eight years? What if Janner was twenty before he escaped from “the factory”?