13 
‘We’re doing it tonight,’ said Ottilie, her voice hushed.
Whistler had left for Fort Richter three days before, but Ottilie had been scheduled for evening or overnight shifts every day, so they had wasted a good part of her absence.
‘Finally,’ said Skip, lacing her boots.
After breakfast, Ottilie had come to find Skip in the sculkie quarters. Maeve had greeted her with a look of disdain, followed by an even more familiar expression of suspicion. What Maeve had to be suspicious of now, Ottilie did not know. Her secret was out – there was nothing more to know. Of course, she was planning on breaking into the Bone Tower that night, but there was no way Maeve could have picked that up. Could she?
‘Shovels,’ Maeve had muttered, inclining her head as she passed.
‘Witch,’ Ottilie had muttered back. She didn’t normally respond, but nerves were making her snappy.
Now, it was only Skip and two other sculkies in the bedchamber.
‘We should wait until midnight, it’s safer,’ said Skip quietly, rising to her feet.
Ottilie managed a tense nod. After everything she had faced, she was surprised at her nerves. She just didn’t like how much of their plan relied on luck.
She was about to be very late to her warding lesson and Skip was due to clean Captain Lyre’s chambers, so they both headed for the door. She was lost in thought, imagining all the things that could go wrong, when Skip grabbed her arm and pulled her backwards.
‘Watch out!’
Ottilie dropped her gaze to the floor. She had been about to step on a dead mouse.
‘Another one?’ Skip pulled one of the scrubbing brushes from the hooks in her belt and prodded at it.
‘Ugh, Skip, don’t do that,’ said Ottilie, wrinkling her nose.
‘You see smooshed dredretches all the time.’ Skip laughed. ‘This is nowhere near as disgusting.’
‘But I don’t poke them. Stop touching it. We should take it outside,’ said Ottilie. ‘What did you mean, another one?’
‘It’s the third dead mouse I’ve found in here in the last month,’ said Skip. She pulled her orange headband off and used it to pick up the mouse, wrapping it carefully like a picnic lunch.
‘Is there a rodent problem?’ Ottilie’s eyes flicked around the room. ‘I haven’t seen any around.’ She didn’t say what she was really thinking – another dead animal, in the room where the wyler had attacked. The thought made her shiver. But there hadn’t been any more dredretches inside Fiory. Sometimes a dead mouse was just a dead mouse.
‘Well, I don’t see any live ones in here,’ said Skip, frowning. ‘They’re always dead. Do you remember –’
‘The one in my boot?’ Months ago, they had thought either Maeve or Gracie had put a dead mouse in her shoe as a prank.
‘Maybe Moravec got a taste for it,’ said Skip, her mouth turned down. ‘She’s probably slaughtering them for fun.’
‘But why would she just leave them lying around?’
‘Because she’s insane, Ottilie.’
The mystery of the dead mice would have to wait for another day. Ottilie had a rodent of a different kind to deal with. They had progressed to the next stage of their warding training, moving into the arena where their fledgling trials had been. It was the only place within the Fiory grounds where they were allowed to work with dredretches.
Perched on one of the large engraved blocks that Ottilie had dived behind during her trial was a small cage, and in it was a shank. It was about the size and shape of a ferret and was covered in yellow spines. The shank had curled itself into a wheel and was somersaulting in all directions, trying to break free of the cage to get at the fledglings sitting cross-legged below.
Wrangler Morse had them removing their rings for as long as they could manage it. Ottilie was struggling a great deal. She didn’t feel any more capable of resisting the sickness than she had the first time that Captain Lyre had brought a jivvie into the room.
Sweating and frustrated, she stared down at the little bronze ring on the ground in front of her, trying to resist the urge to shove it back on her thumb. She couldn’t help thinking it would be a whole lot easier to concentrate if the shank stopped battering against the cage. Of course, there were plenty of distractions like this beyond the walls, and Ottilie knew she was just going to have to get used to them.
The shank slammed into the cage once more. Ottilie’s heart felt sluggish. She retched. Her breath grew short and finally her vision began to cloud. She realised that she must have pushed it too far this time. Her limbs went slack. She swayed and tried to send a signal to her hand to reach for the ring, but she couldn’t move.
Distantly, she sensed herself flopping sideways, but then something changed. She felt a tingle sneaking up her arm. Someone pulled her back up to sitting. She squeezed her eyes and opened them. The bronze ring caught her gaze. Someone had slipped it back on her thumb.
It was Scoot. Struggling with warding as much as she was, Scoot must have put his ring back on earlier and noticed that she was in trouble.
‘You all right?’ There was no anger in his eyes.
Ottilie nodded, screwing up different bits of her face, trying to get the feeling back. ‘Thanks, Scoot.’ She struggled to shape the words. Her tongue felt numb, as if she’d been drinking icy water.
He smiled and Ottilie felt a knot loosen in her stomach. Was the fight over? Did something need to be said?
‘Careful there, Ott!’ said Wrangler Morse. His red beard was pulled into two braids that dangled in front of her face. ‘Don’t push yourself too hard.’
Gully and Preddy turned to look. Neither had put their ring back on, and they both seemed fine. Why was she so bad at this?
Wrangler Morse interpreted her expression correctly. ‘You’ll get there,’ he said. ‘It takes some longer than others. No telling why. There are better ways to risk your life than sitting near a caged shank,’ he added, ruffling her hair. ‘All right everyone, enough for today. Rings on.’
They used to walk out of their warding lessons feeling sleepy, perhaps a little bored, but very calm. Now the hour left them shaken and weak. Scoot drifted out by her side. Neither of them spoke, but neither did anyone else. No-one had the breath to spare. He glanced sideways at her and she at him: the fight was over.
Beneath a starry sky, Ottilie, Alba and Skip met outside the root cellar.
‘What if Montie wakes up and finds you gone?’ said Ottilie, following Alba inside. The temperature seemed to drop with every step she took. The air pricked at her skin like tiny needles and she hugged herself tightly, wishing she’d worn her gloves.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ said Alba, as Skip pulled the door shut. ‘She’ll just think I’ve snuck off to read – which is half true,’ she said, smiling mischievously. ‘Here, we need to move this.’
They hauled sacks of potatoes and other heavy vegetables out of the way. The work took the edge off the chill and Ottilie was grateful for it.
‘This is the first door I ever found,’ said Alba. ‘There are secret tunnels and passages all over the place. I mightn’t have found any of them if I hadn’t accidentally rolled a yam under the shelf.’ She got down on her stomach and slipped feet first under the lowest shelf. ‘Follow me,’ she said, her head disappearing.
Ottilie hesitated. She had never much liked small spaces. Back in the Swamp Hollows, Gully was always finding places like this and dragging her along – but no matter how often she tackled them, the fear never completely went away.
Skip seemed perfectly fine. Her face glowed with excitement as she disappeared beneath the shelf. This was clearly her idea of a good time.
Ottilie closed her eyes and thought of the kappabak. She remembered her feet dangling above its jaws. This was nothing compared with that. She just wished her nerves would listen to reason.
‘Come on, Ottilie,’ hissed Skip, from somewhere below.
Clamping down on her fear, she jumped to the ground and slid under the shelf. Shimmying backwards until her feet found the opening, she shuffled down, dangled off the edge and dropped.
It was uncomfortably dark. Ottilie fumbled in her pockets, finally locating the dry glow sticks and dropping them into a vial of water. Greenish light fizzed to life as she hung it around her neck.
‘I don’t think I’ve been in this one,’ said Skip. ‘Where does it come out?’
‘This one?’ said Ottilie. ‘You know about the tunnels too?’
Skip shrugged. ‘I don’t know them as well as Alba.’
‘All sorts of places,’ said Alba to Skip. ‘Most of the tunnels are linked, you just have to find the doors.’
‘Not past the boundaries, though? Is it safe to keep these a secret?’ Ottilie was thinking of the wyler. She had given up hope that the Hunt would discover how it got in. When the yickers had attacked in Floodwood, a crack had been found in the boundary wall almost immediately. But they had checked it since the wyler attack, and there was nothing wrong. The general consensus seemed to be that the wyler had crept through the gates behind a huntsman.
Ottilie did not believe it. There were too many eyes on those gates when they opened. Wylers were quick, but they weren’t invisible. Someone had snuck it in. She didn’t know how they had managed it, but if it was the hooded witch, a bit of magic would surely have been useful.
Alba interrupted her thoughts. ‘I don’t know any tunnels that cross the boundaries. This one only reaches as far as the old stables.’
‘Why are there two sets of stables?’ said Ottilie. She had jogged past the old stables before. They were a desolate complex of abandoned stalls and training yards, with a huge stone barn that looked almost churchlike.
‘They decided to move the horses years ago, because the old stables were too near the boundary wall,’ explained Skip. ‘The horses sensed the dredretches and could never settle.’
‘That’s why people call it haunted,’ added Alba. ‘They say it’s haunted by the spirits of horses that died of fright.’
They spoke in hushed tones. Ottilie was sure there was no way they would be overheard, but there was something about the air down there that warned her to keep quiet. She pressed her palm against the surface of the tunnel wall. By the greenish light of the glow sticks she could see rocks wedged in unusual formations, as if they were confused fragments of ancient sculptures. Withered roots slithered behind and between, and here and there little shadows scuttled, their features distorted by the imperfect light.
Ottilie found her mind wandering back to her first journey with Bill, through the Wikric tunnels. If it weren’t for Bill she would never have found Gully. If he hadn’t broken into their hollow and guided her, however reluctantly, all the way to where the swamp picker held the recruits – Ottilie paused mid-thought, surprised by her own mind. Not recruits, pickings … kidnapped children. Was she already forgetting that the Narroway Hunt was in the business of kidnapping?
‘This is it,’ said Alba.
Ottilie twisted back to the present and shook out her hands as if she could flick off her nerves like water. Around the corner there was a steep stairway. At the top was where the danger lay. Once they were out in the open night, they risked being seen. Ottilie followed Alba up and helped her push open the trapdoor, which was partially sealed with mud.
The rumours were understandable. There was something about those abandoned stables. Whether the spirits of horses truly lingered in those decaying stalls, Ottilie couldn’t know, but fear was very present, as if echoes of their terror hung in the air, like a fog she could feel but not see. It was no wonder people avoided the place.
They passed through the shadowed stalls and out into a yard. Ottilie could see the Bone Tower above. A midnight moon hung high, just a sliver in the black. She was about to suggest they head over as soon as possible, when something white caught the fringe of her gaze.
She didn’t want to look. A ghost horse was not something she had a desire to see. A low growl greeted them from across the yard.
‘What is that?’ said Skip, her voice sharp.
The pale shape was moving towards them through the dark. It couldn’t be a ghost. Ghosts didn’t growl, did they? Well, certainly a ghost horse wouldn’t growl. But then Ottilie remembered the white wyler. Her heart pounded and she reached for the knife sheathed at her back.
‘She knows we’re not supposed to be here,’ said Alba nervously.
‘Who?’ said Skip.
‘Hero,’ said Ottilie with a sigh. The leopard shepherd.
Skip and Alba didn’t seem to share her relief. Hero’s teeth were bared and her growl deepened as she drew near, but Ottilie was so used to hostile felines that she didn’t blink an eye.
‘She shelters here sometimes,’ said Alba breathlessly. ‘I think she likes the solitude. It’s right by the perimeter but the shepherds stay out. They don’t like it.’
‘She clearly wants us to leave,’ said Skip. ‘How are we going to get past?’ She pointed up at the Bone Tower.
‘I brought her some fish. It’s salted, but she should be used to that.’ Alba produced three fat chunks of fish wrapped in a large leaf from the pockets of her dress. Keeping her eyes fixed on Hero, she carefully held them out and inched towards the snarling leopard, as if she were walking on ice.
‘Are you sure this will work?’ asked Skip.
‘I’ve given her eggs before. She should like this better,’ said Alba.
She placed the chunks of fish on the ground and scurried back to stand beside Ottilie. Hero sniffed at the fish, growled and then, as if giving them leave to pass, lowered her whole body to the ground and ate it.
‘Quick,’ said Alba. ‘But don’t run.’
Skip powered ahead, in a jerky half-run. Ottilie followed, in less of a hurry, and Alba, probably calmed by her confidence, stayed close to her side.