The Ever Breath (15 page)

“But what if he didn’t steal the Ever Breath?” Binderbee asked quietly.

“Then we still don’t want to miss the opportunity to pin it on him and put him away for good. Evil is evil, Binderbee, and we fight it every way we can!” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “The key to battling evil is to create fear! Then and only then will your people rely on you for protection. Only then will they love you like a strong father. They might not see you as a
kind
father, but they will respect you.”

“But—” Binderbee began.

“But what?”

He wanted to say something about using fear and how that was exactly what the beasts did—blood-betakers and wolven men and fire-breathers. He glanced at Ostwiser, who gave the slightest shake of his head, as if to say,
No, don’t
. And Binderbee let the air out of his chest. He didn’t have the courage. Instead he said, “It was just a letter from his mother, after all, telling him to wear the hat. It’s right here if you’d like to read it.”

“Why would I want to read a letter from someone’s mommy about a hat?” Dobbler said.

“See! I told you so!” Ostwiser said. “My son is a good boy, sir. He truly is!”

And Binderbee felt relieved.

“Fine then, just fine,” Dobbler said, but he glared at Binderbee. “Are you sure?”

Binderbee nodded. “I graduated from Wesslon University of Technology, first in my class!”

“A true scholar,” Dobbler said, and he let out a mighty sigh. “You two can go, then. I have work to do.”

Binderbee started to pack up the fake letter, but Dobbler pinned it under his fist. “Leave this, will you? I think I might need to put someone new on the trail of this Artwhip.” Then he glanced at Ostwiser and said through a bright smile, “For your son’s own protection, of course.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Ostwiser said. His voice jangled with nervousness. “He’s very strong and in no trouble!”

“It’s just that I’ve made a deal with this new alliance, as I mentioned.” Dobbler looked over at his hat on its peg. “This someone I knew when I was very young, and now has just drifted back into my life. And this new alliance will be a strong one for the Office, especially in the area of surveillance. In fact, even better than you mice,” he said to Binderbee.

Binderbee felt heat rise in his cheeks. He wanted to blurt out exactly what he’d learned about Cragmeal to prove that Dobbler was dead wrong about mice. But he held his tongue.

“It’s a very kind offer,” Ostwiser said, “but you don’t need to waste any of your forces on my son. He’s just a zwodder-head. You know kids!”

“I’d just hate for there to be a cage with his name on it one day,” Dobbler said, in the same slick, threatening voice
he’d used when he said the very same thing to Binderbee earlier in the day. “Maybe we can nip in the bud any wrong turns the boy might make. Right, Ostwiser?”

Ostwiser looked down at his hands and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Dobbler turned to Binderbee and held out his palm. Binderbee climbed onto it. This was the most embarrassing part, relying on Dobbler’s hand for a ride down off the desk. Dobbler set him on the floor.

Ostwiser was holding the door open, and as Binderbee marched out of the office, Ostwiser was saying, “Anything else you need, just call me, sir! I’m at your disposal.”

“Shut the door on your way out!”

Ostwiser and Binderbee walked past the secretary’s polished hooves and down the long marble hall. Ostwiser was jotting a note of some kind. Just before he headed into the maze of cubicles and Binderbee headed toward the building’s lobby, he said, “Binderbee.”

“Yes?” Binderbee said.

Ostwiser bent down and stuck out his hand for Binderbee to shake. “You didn’t have to.”

“What? I don’t understand.”

“I’m saying thank you,” Ostwiser said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Binderbee said, but still he shook Ostwiser’s hand.

Ostwiser handed him one of the black-and-white business cards. “Us versus Them,” Ostwiser said, but his tone wasn’t the rah-rah chipper tone that Dobbler had used. Ostwiser’s tone was serious. He looked Binderbee in the eye, and then, strangely enough, the fur scarf around his neck writhed and a set of eyes appeared, giving a wink.

Binderbee gasped.

“The card,” Ostwiser said. “Take a look at it when you get a chance. Brand-new design.”

“I will,” Binderbee said.

“Promise?”

Binderbee laughed. He thought Ostwiser was joking around. But Ostwiser didn’t laugh.

“Okay,” Binderbee said, suddenly serious. “I promise. I’ll take a look at it.”

“Tell my son,” Ostwiser whispered.

“Tell him what?”

“You’ll know what to tell him.” Ostwiser gave a nod and walked on down the marble hall back toward the offices.

Binderbee watched him go, then scratched his head. Once he walked out through the revolving door into the cold, whipping wind, he looked at the card. It was plain, black-and-white, similar to others he’d seen before. And then he flipped it over.

There was Ostwiser’s scrawl:

Ostwiser, with his fur scarf and jowls, was going to buck the Office? He was going to help Binderbee? Could Ostwiser be a secret agent? Who was Us and who was Them?
Binderbee wasn’t sure anymore. But he could use the help and protection of an ogre.

Binderbee folded the card in half and then into quarters, stuffed it in his briefcase, and ran through the revolving door into the cold foggy air.

To get to the ruckus tent’s open flaps, Artwhip, Truman, and Praddle had to walk down the alley, passing by a row of caged creatures. Truman didn’t want to look any of them in the eye. The man in the tweed suit had spooked him. And so Truman tucked in his chin as if simply trying to keep his neck warm. He decided to distract himself by asking questions.

“Why do they have ruckus tents?” he asked Artwhip. “What are they?”

“They’re sanctioned by the Office of Official Affairs only in that the Office doesn’t care much what goes on inside of them. The Office’s stance seems to be that if folks go in there and become so unruly that they injure themselves, well, so be it! There has to be an outlet for madness of various sorts, and the Office has decided that this is the place. A container for chaos.”

The alley was narrow and they were passing by the cages so closely that they could hear the creatures breathing. Some were moaning. Truman saw the sad eyes of a two-headed fox,
pacing a circle in its cage under one of the
US VERSUS THEM!
posters. Truman looked away quickly.

“Do you know anyone with the initials T.T.S.?”

“I’ve been running through everyone I know,” Artwhip answered, “from my Academy days, my old neighborhood, my new neighborhood…. I can’t think of anyone.”

“Why did the note writer use initials, anyway?”

“In death warnings, only initials are required,” Artwhip said, “which always seems a little cowardly to me. If you’re going to kill someone and you’re giving due warning, shouldn’t you at least sign your full name?”

“It seems unfair that you’d have to spend your time trying to figure out initials instead of getting ready for the person who’s coming to kill you,” Truman said.

“Exactly,” Artwhip said.

They were at the tent flaps now, about to go inside, but then they heard a screech echo down the alley. A vulture had one of the cages gripped in his claws. Beating his broad wings, he lifted the cage up into the night sky.

“I saw a whole flock of vultures last night,” Truman said. “They were all carrying cages.”

“Things aren’t right,” Artwhip said. “C’mon.” He grabbed Truman by the shoulder and they hustled into the tent.

The ruckus tent had a lofty top, propped up by poles. There were actors and actresses in cake makeup and thick, velvety costumes reciting lines while clomping across wooden stages raised above the dirt floor—not to mention jugglers. When Truman and Artwhip stepped into the tent,
there was a woman—just about a foot tall—spinning over-head, hanging on to a cloth swing by her teeth.

But the ruckus tents were also loud and foul-smelling and overpacked. There were bullhorn speakers in here as well, but Truman could barely hear the warnings above all the noise. One hand on the hilt of the dagger hidden under his coat and shirt, Artwhip led the way, past a row of drunkard booths selling Clamberskull, onion ale, vino delight. Praddle sat on Truman’s shoulder and named all the strange creatures. Keg-bellied horned men and urfs, even a few glowskins (who glowed more brightly when drunk), were chanting and singing and falling all around the dirt floor. Passing by a small group of knurls, he heard one whisper, “Down with Cragmeal! Traitor!” Bleary-eyed, they lifted their drinks.

A drunken fairy, flapping just a few feet off the ground, flew right into Artwhip. She crashed to the ground, crumpling one wing. “Curse you!” she said. “Curse you!” And then she began to cry.

“Too late,” Artwhip said. “Already cursed.”

The beggars swarmed anyone who walked into the tent. Some had sealed eyes and others had nubbed wings. They cried to Artwhip and Truman, “Just a bit for me and me babes at home. They’re stomach-sick, sire. Just a bit …”

“Hold on to what’s yours,” Artwhip said to Truman over his shoulder.

Truman tightened his grip on the snow globe and Praddle, and kept marching forward as fast as he could.

“Come, come, sire, you’ve got a soft heart, no?”

“Spare just a coin? Just one coin for a beetle-eyed beggar!”

“You have to say no,” Artwhip said. “It’s hard, but you have to.”

“I don’t have any money,” Truman said. “Sorry, I really don’t.” He was caught in a small crowd for a moment, and when he looked up, he saw Artwhip talking to a woman wearing a long cloak. A hood was blocking her face from view, but Truman was afraid that he would recognize her face. She might be the woman he’d seen in the globe, that very first scene where Truman had seen Artwhip bleeding in the snow.

“Excuse me,” Truman said to the beggars. “Sorry, I don’t have anything. Excuse me.” He fought his way to Artwhip’s side and grabbed his shirt. “Sorry to interrupt. I have to tell you something.”

“Just a second,” Artwhip said, not even looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the woman. Over the hooded cloak, she also wore a shawl. She was young and willowy thin, with skin the rich color of mud. And although her skin was dry, almost as if covered with scales, she was beautiful. Her eyes were shiny and golden, like honey. “This woman is telling me something important.”

“I was just saying that someone stole my money pouch, and I’m supposed to bring medicine back to the bog for one of our newborn bog-colts. And now I’ve gotten turned around and I’m so hungry that I’m light-headed.”

Artwhip looked a little lovestruck and seemed tonguetied. “Um, uh, sure,” he said. “Here.” And he gave her all the money in his pocket.

“Thank you,” she said, and then she stuck out her hand. “I’m Erswat.”

Artwhip shook her hand. “Artwhip.”

Truman coughed, as urgently as he could. “Artwhip! I need to talk to you. Privately.”

The woman looked at him and smiled, waiting for an introduction.

“Oh,” Artwhip said. “And this is Truman—and his mewler, Praddle.”

“Nice to meet you.” She didn’t seem like a killer, but Truman was still suspicious. Nothing here was quite what it seemed to be. And hadn’t he seen her there, at the scene of the crime? “This place prinkles my flesh with fear,” she said. “But we’re supposed to love it, aren’t we.”

“I think we are,” Artwhip said. “But I don’t like it either. It’s just too much.”

The bogwoman looked at him, surprised that they had this in common.

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Truman said. “I have a lot of allergies and a strong gag reflex.”

“Are you ill?” the woman asked.

“Very!” Truman said, shoving Artwhip away from her. “We have to go! Nice to meet you.”

“Hey,” Artwhip said, “stop shoving!”

“Well, thank you again. I won’t forget this,” she said to Artwhip. “I hope you feel better,” she told Truman. And she gave a nod and then blended into the crowd.

Artwhip stood there, frozen in place, and watched her go.

“She was the one!” Truman said.

“What one?” Artwhip asked dreamily.

“The one who was there in the scene when you were stabbed.
She
might be your killer.”

“I don’t think so.” He smiled and gave a laugh.

“But that was her! I swear!”

“That beautiful bogwoman? I think I’d let her stab me if she wanted to.”

“If you’re dead, you can’t fulfill your mission!”

“I know, I know,” Artwhip said.

They turned down one aisle between stalls and then another, in hopes of losing anyone on their trail. They passed a bookseller with a magnifying glass, plucking small book-scorpions out of the innermost pages of an encyclopedia. A horn sharpener was filing the horns of a young horned man to sharp points.

A bear wearing a blue tuxedo was refusing to ride a bicycle for his trainer. They were arguing back and forth.

“I need more money than this! Who can work under these conditions for so little pay?”

“You signed a contract!”

Finally the bear roared, but then politely took off his top hat and jacket, handed them to the trainer, and strode away.

Then they saw a sign that read
GLOZELIA THE FAMED FUTURIST.
The stall was swathed in gauzy purple silks and Glozelia wore a glittering robe and veil. She was studying the skittering paths of mice in a pen. She closed her eyes, flung back her head, and with her arms outstretched, she shouted, “Ruin! Ruin!” And then she hissed, “Unless …”

No one was listening except Artwhip and Truman, who paused for a moment. “Unless what?” Artwhip asked.

The futurist snapped her focus onto Artwhip. She lifted her veil and, parting her long, shiny black hair, revealed a second mouth on the back of her head, “You! It’s you, is it?”