The Crooked Sixpence (7 page)

She scoured the surrounding area and, in the next tunnel, found scuff marks on the floor and five long scratches down the wall.

Something had happened to Valian.

Ivy collapsed onto the dusty floor, feeling all her confidence ebb. Maybe Valian had been arrested, or maybe someone else had found him and he'd got into a fight and run off. Whatever had happened, Ivy doubted he was coming back. She was going to have to rescue Seb without his help.

After a few blank, cold minutes she reached for Granma Sylvie's soft leather handbag and sniffed. She knew what her granma would tell her, if she was there:
Get up, Ivy. You're all Seb's got. Come on, get up!

Slowly she rose to her feet. To make herself feel more comfortable, she tugged off Valian's leather jacket and replaced it with her duffel coat. The wool still smelled like the vanilla air freshener her mum sprayed around at home. She tucked the silver coin into her pocket, ignoring the strange warmth spreading through her fingers, and tried to concentrate.

Think, Ivy. Think . . .

She went through Valian's pockets and got out the uncommon candle. The old trader's sign had read:
INVISIBILITY CANDLES
.

Ivy examined it closely as it heated her palms. The candle looked like a blob of black pudding with a short wick that burned with a crystal-white flame.

How she had missed that it was already lit, she didn't know. She turned the candle around slowly, careful not to touch the flame. It didn't dance as it moved, like a normal one; it remained straight and unbroken. Ivy somehow suspected that if she did touch it, it wouldn't even feel hot – it hadn't damaged the inside of Valian's jacket, after all. She tried to recall the old man's parting instructions:
blow it out to use it; keep it in your hand at all times.

Blow it out? Right . . .

It was worth a try. Ivy took a deep breath and aimed it at the flame.

Here goes nothing, I suppose.

The white spark wobbled and then faded. A puff of black smoke climbed up from the wick. It curled through the air with a low hiss, spiralling around Ivy. In seconds it had surrounded her in a wall of murky gas, but before she had time to panic, the wall dissolved, and her surroundings were visible again. The wick was left trailing an almost imperceptible wisp of grey mist.

Ivy stuffed Valian's jacket under her arm and pointed the candle ahead of her like a talisman warding off evil spirits. She wondered if it had actually worked; if she really
was
invisible . . .

She guessed there was only one way to find out.

The toes of Ivy's yellow wellies peeped out into the arrivals chamber, her body remaining firmly in the shadows of the tunnel. Her heart was thudding away inside her ribs. In front of her, buzzing with noise, were thousands of people who brought a whole new meaning to the word
stranger
. And she wasn't welcome here, she knew that.

She took a quick step forward while she still had a shred of courage, and began weaving her way through the crowd. Her eyes darted from face to face, checking reactions. It was the strangest thing she'd ever done in her life – making sure she was invisible. She could imagine Seb's face if she ever told him.

A minute went by. Then another. Not a single person made eye contact with Ivy. But that was almost normal. She was so small that not many people did notice her; not many adults, anyway. She couldn't assume that the candle had worked just yet. She had to make sure.

Over by a mountain of studded leather trunks, a man with oiled black hair and a twirly moustache was calling to the crowd.

‘Feast your eyes on the latest Hobsmatch trends this season, ladies and gents!' He gestured to three rails loaded with strange garments. ‘I've got the most talked-about looks from Paris and New York, straight off the Hobwalk.' He slid a floor-length mirror out from behind a rack of thick fur coats. ‘Free to try and take a look!'

Ivy stopped when she saw the mirror. It was the perfect way to test her invisibility. She made her way carefully towards it, her eyes scanning the faces of the nearby traders. None of them seemed to notice her. When she was close enough, she stepped in front of the mirror, and then looked up.

And . . . nothing.

No Ivy. No candle. No leather jacket; no handbag.

Ivy waved her free hand around and jumped up and down. The trail of smoke from the invisibility candle left a scribbly pattern in the air, but it wasn't visible in the mirror, and neither was she. All Ivy could see was the reflection of the bustling arrivals chamber behind her and a woman in a large hat hurrying towards the mirror—

Oomph!

The woman smacked straight into Ivy. Ivy squeezed the invisibility candle tighter as she steadied herself, and quickly shuffled out of the way. The woman – dressed in ankle warmers, leggings and a padded leather jacket – looked as if she'd just woken from a dream.

‘What the . . . ?' she muttered to herself, frowning vaguely in Ivy's direction as she straightened up in front of the mirror.

Ivy's body tensed. She was invisible; the candle had worked – it must have. But now she had a new problem. If no one could see her, then it would only take one step out of place for her to be discovered.

Deciding to avoid the crowd as much as she could, she began skirting the edge of the cave, close to the towers of luggage. After a few moments she came across a group of children gathered around a man sitting on an upturned suitcase. He had long dark hair, a large nose, and wild, bushy eyebrows that moved up and down as he addressed his audience.

‘The Fallen Guild came in the dead of night,' he was saying in a whispery voice. ‘Six hooded figures, desperate for blood.'

The children gasped, eyes fixed on the ground in front of him. Ivy snuck closer to see what had captured their attention.

The man was holding one hand out in front of him, twitching his thin fingers in time with his words. ‘They did not come for the blood of grown men,' he went on, ‘for it was too bitter for them to drink.'

On the end of each of his fingers was tied a short length of white string, the kind you'd use to fasten a brown paper package. Ivy realized that something uncommon was being used when she looked down at the floor and saw six hooded figures rising from the dust. The stringless puppets appeared to be made of dirt, leaves and tiny pieces of rock. She blinked, astonished, as the puppets jerked and swayed in perfect synchronization with the five pieces of string, despite the fact that they weren't attached.

‘Instead,' continued the puppeteer, ‘it was the sweet, innocent blood of children that quenched their thirst.' His voice was dark and hollow. ‘And do you know how they captured little children?' He twitched his fingers, sending the hooded figures rocking towards the children, their arms extended like zombies. ‘They'd sing songs late, late into the night, when the children's parents were fast asleep and they were still dreaming. And the children would rise from their beds and go out into the street . . .' He spread a hand wide, nodding to the six creepy puppets. ‘That's why the Fallen Guild named themselves after a song; a
Dirge
.'

The children screamed in terror and quickly hurried away. The puppeteer chuckled to himself as he removed the string from his fingers and allowed the hooded figures to disappear back into dust.

Ivy shivered as she swiftly moved on. She had assumed that the puppeteer was telling some sort of dark fairy tale, but now she had a horrible feeling there was more to it than that. She wiggled her fingers around in her pocket, feeling for the uncommon coin. She remembered that the word
Dirge
was written around the edge; she just didn't know why.

She gazed at the crowd. No matter how scared she felt, she knew she had to focus on Valian's instructions. Everyone's Hobsmatch was bulky and distracting, but if she could nestle alongside someone as they passed through the Great Gates, she might be able to get in undetected. She had to choose a suitable candidate. Some traders were too fast or too doddery; some kept stopping to talk to people or pick up extra goods. Eventually Ivy settled on a huge man in a purple turban; on one shoulder he carried a large cardboard box full of leather footballs – perfect for her to sneak under.

As she approached the gates beside him, Ivy counted at least a dozen underguards. She scanned their faces but couldn't find Officer Smokehart or the one with the grey moustache who'd taken Seb. She shuffled to a stop as the big man paused to take something out of his pocket.

Ivy's eyebrows drew together when she saw what it was: a pair of yellow rubber gloves.

She looked at the other traders. They were all doing the same: putting on a pair of gloves – from thick knitted mittens to fur-trimmed driving gloves.

‘Stay in line, please!' one of the underguards called. ‘Let's keep this orderly.'

Ivy remembered what the old candle trader had told her: that she must be wearing gloves in Lundinor.
Thank you, invisibility candle
, she thought as she carefully squeezed between the two lines to see what everyone was waiting for.

At the head of every queue, mounted on a table, sat a polished silver bell, each one supervised by a pair of underguards. Ivy had never seen bells that size before. They looked like you'd be able to hear them ringing a mile away. There was a symbol engraved on the front of each one: a swirling fingerprint.

The underguards appeared to be instructing each trader to ring one of the bells before passing through the Great Gates. It was too noisy for Ivy to hear what they were saying, but she could tell one thing:

They're checking for something.

Sneaking past them might not be as easy as slipping through the crowd.

She retreated behind Mr Turban, a horrible feeling knotting up her insides. As they approached the bells, she held her breath.

‘Gloves, sir?' the underguard at their checkpoint asked. The man nodded. Ivy's heart was in her mouth as she watched him reach out and ring the large silver bell.

But the bell didn't ring.

It
spoke
.

‘Thaddeus Kandinsky,' it said, in a high, sing-song voice. ‘Sports equipment specialist trader. Primary undermart: Helsior in Norway.'

Ivy gasped. She was shaking now – but she had to keep it together.

The underguard nodded. ‘Very well, sir. Come on in. Enjoy your visit.' He stretched over and handed Thaddeus Kandinsky a tea-stained old pamphlet the size of a postcard. ‘You might find this useful.' Ivy saw what was printed on the front:

LUNDINOR
Farrow's Guide for the Travelling Tradesman

Thaddeus Kandinsky stuffed the guide in his pocket, right by where Ivy was hiding, and plodded through the checkpoint.

Following him closely, she had no time to feel relieved. Past the Great Gates was another tunnel ending in a large dark hole. Thaddeus Kandinsky was swept along by the crowd as they all funnelled through, and Ivy struggled to keep up with him. She stretched up onto her toes to try and see above the heads in front but it was no use. However, she did notice something curious. There were words carved into the tunnel walls:

Rules, Laws and Bye-laws

No goods may be traded before the raising of the glove on Christmas Day or after the extinguishing of Old Meg on Twelfth Night. Any outlawed transactions which are discovered shall be investigated and the perpetrators fined. Penalty: 50 grade

No uncommoner shall take the pitch, lodgings, spot, corner or shop of another trader without prior written consent from the trader – to be approved by a quartermaster. Penalty: 30 grade

As Ivy's eyes scanned the list of rules and bye-laws, she grew more and more anxious. In a few minutes she'd be in Lundinor, in the very heart of this unbelievable place. She tried to prepare herself – maybe the undermart would have street stalls like Portobello Market, or even little shops like Covent Garden.