A Disguise Tested
KATIA LOCKED THE door behind her and stashed the key back above the kitchen window. Then she pulled her jacket collar up; the back of her neck was unusually cold.
The movement made the stolen notes crackle in her pocket. No, not stolen. Borrowed. Like the Kingstone, which was in her other pocket, its solidness somehow reassuring. Katia had everything she needed—she could head for the boats. Taking a deep breath, she walked into the street.
Half a dozen steps away from her front door, she heard a shout.
“You there!”
Adrenaline raced through Katia. She fought the impulse to run.
Stay calm . . . He might not mean you . . .
She carried on walking, trying to ignore the sound of running feet getting closer.
“Halt, I said!”
Someone grabbed her arm, spun her round, and Katia found herself face to face with an angry soldier.
“Which house did you just come from, eh?” he snapped.
She couldn’t answer. Her tongue had tied itself into an unhelpful knot.
“Which house?” the soldier repeated, shaking her as an incentive to answer.
Katia’s brain had never worked so fast. He’d seen her come out of the alley, but it served two houses, so . . .
“That one,” she squeaked, pointing at Mister Grimbit’s faded front door.
“With the old man?”
Make this good.
Katia nodded. “My grandad. He sent me out to fetch ointment for his bunions, they always itch something terrible when the wind’s blowing from the west. And a cabbage and some potatoes so he can make soup, and then—”
The soldier rolled his eyes. “Gods, you’re as bad as him for the talkin’ . . . Must run in the family.” He let go of Katia’s arm and peered into her face. “You seen a girl going in or out of the house next door?”
“Me? I’ve seen nothing except Granda’s feet.” Katia was warming to her role. “Believe me, I’d have loved to have seen a girl instead, it would’ve been—”
The soldier smacked the side of her head. “Shut up.”
Katia pressed a hand to her ear, but it didn’t stop the smarting. She blinked hard, willing herself not to cry. Boys got smacked sometimes . . . bet they didn’t cry. She musn’t cry.
The soldier sighed. “Go. Get the damned ointment and the veg.” He leaned close, until he was almost nose to nose with Katia. “And when you come back? If you see me, don’t say a word. Not a single word. D’you understand?”
She nodded, turned round, and carried on walking.
She couldn’t believe the soldier had fallen for it. Had she really fooled him? Surely he was just waiting, making her think she was safe before he pounced and told her what a joke it was that she thought she could pass as a boy.
But no one came running after her, no hand fell on her shoulder like she feared, and she made it to the end of the street with no more problems.
Now her ear had stopped ringing, Katia allowed herself a grin. Her disguise had worked, she’d be able to get on board a ship easily and before she knew it, she’d be in Eraton, saving the prince and delivering the Kingstone. As she worked her way back through town to the docks, her stomach started rumbling and she thought of Troy’s notes in her pocket. How much did she need for a ticket? Could she spare any money for breakfast?
She promised herself she’d only buy one slice of Lamarken cheese, toasted until it was golden and bubbling; she’d save the rest of the money until she’d paid for her ticket. As she was tucking into her long overdue breakfast she noticed the bag man. Perhaps she’d be better off with a bag for the Kingstone, rather than her pocket? She finished her breakfast and wiped her greasy fingers down her trousers before going to have a closer look.
There were saddlebags, book bags, travel bags, ladies handbags . . . all too big and too expensive. Nothing suitable for the Kingstone. But then a basket of soft leather pouches caught Katia’s eye. They looked small enough, and had long drawstring cords. She could wear one around her neck, tucked inside her shirt, next to her skin.
Checking to see that no one was watching, Katia took the wrapped stone from her pocket and matched it against the pouches until she found a pale blue one that was the perfect size. She held it up to the shopkeeper. “How much for this one?”
“They’re all two shilling each,” he said, barely glancing at her.
“I’ll take it.” As Katia handed over one of her precious notes and waited for her change, a huge flock of crows flew overhead, cawing loudly.
The shopkeeper looked up then, startled. “Sending out the crows? They only ever send crows when royalty dies.” He looked thoughtful as he watched the black dots head out to sea. “The king arrived yesterday, you don’t think? Ere, Fredrik,” he called across the road to the toasted cheese seller. “You seen the crows? You think something’s happened to Bertrann?”
Fredrik shrugged. “Find out soon enough. They’ll lay him out in state, wi’ the Kingstone on his fore’ead, while the priests say the rites of passing. I remember seeing it before, back when Toris died. I was a young man in Eraton then, and Toris was laid in state for a week. Thousands filed past him. Only time I’ve ever seen the Kingstone in me life, that.”
The street tilted and Katia braced herself against the wall so she didn’t fall. So that’s what they did when a king died. No wonder they were looking for her already. They must’ve gone to get the Kingstone to lay Bertrann out, found it—and her—missing.
“You all right, lad?” The shopkeeper was looking at her, his face crinkled with concern.
Katia pushed herself away from the wall. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” She took her change and the new pouch from the shopkeeper and hurried after the crows.
Now, more than ever, she had to get to the boats.
She only stopped when she reached the top end of the winding road which led down to the docks, long enough to drop the Kingstone into the pouch. As she slipped the drawstring over her head and tucked it inside her shirt, she heard a shout.
“Mind out!”
Before Katia could react, something heavy banged into the back of her knees, almost knocking her over.
“Whoa—!” She regained her balance with difficulty and turned to see who—or what—had hit her.
Standing in the middle of the road was an elderly gentleman holding tight to a handcart loaded with bags. The insignia on his coat—a pestle and mortar—marked him out as a medical man.
“I’m sorry, my boy,” the doctor gasped. “This damn cart is devilish difficult to manoeuvre.”
Katia rubbed the back of her legs, wincing at the bruises she was sure were already forming. “S’alright. Not too much harm done.”
“Good, good.” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “Why aren’t you in school?”
“Oh, er . . .”
Quick. Think of a reason.
Seeing that she was floundering for an excuse, the doctor waved it aside with a grunt. “I used to bunk off too, when I was younger. The odd day doesn’t hurt. The School of Life, that’s what more of you youngsters need nowadays. Lessons in how to earn a living.” His face brightened as he sized her up. “Speaking of which, how’d a strong lad like you like to earn a penny or two?”
Katia pulled a face. She didn’t have time to be running errands, she needed an excuse.
“I’m heading down to the docks to catch the next boat back to Eraton,” the doctor continued. “There are two pennies in it for you, if you’ll take the cart for me . . .” He tailed off, waiting expectantly.
She could get right into the docks on legitimate business—no one would bat an eye at seeing a boy carting bags. She’d be stupid to pass this up.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Good.” The old man fumbled in a pocket and dug out a penny. “Just so you’re not tempted to leave me and the cart halfway down the hill, it’s one now, one when we get down there,” he said, handing over the coin and nodding in the direction of the docks. He stuck his hand out and Katia shook it. His grip was firm and cool, if a little papery. “Master Ignatius Thorn. Doctor. And you are?”
“Troy. Troy Nasalter,” Katia said quickly.
Well, she was wearing her brother’s clothes. Might as well borrow his name, too. At least until she got to Eraton and could go back to being Katia.
“Pleased to meet you, Troy. Now, let’s head off, shall we?”
The cart was every bit as difficult to handle as Master Thorn had said, in spite of the fact that Katia was younger, stronger, and taller than the doctor. It bumped and rumbled over the uneven road, catching on cracks so that she had to push with all her weight to keep it moving. By the time they reached the last curve in the road and were entering the docks proper, Katia was sweating.
Round the corner, it got easier; the incline steepened slightly and the cart’s own weight helped to bump it over the slabs.
“Slow down, Troy,” Master Thorn panted. “I can’t walk so fast.”
Katia pulled back on the handles, but the cart pulled harder. She was being forced to walk more quickly to keep pace with it.
“Slow down, I say.”
Her feet were moving faster and faster, she was trotting behind the cart now as it picked up even more speed. Katia hauled on the handles. Nothing happened.
“I can’t!” she shouted. “It won’t stop.”
She tried to dig her heels in, but they only scraped across the stone as the cart dragged her onwards. She daren’t let go. The cart and bags would end up in the water.
There was a jolt as the cart ran over a large bump and gained fresh momentum. Katia had completely lost control, was running to keep up . . . She refused to let go. She had to stop the runaway cart . . . Above the rumble of its wheels, she heard a shout and running footsteps. A man in a red jacket overtook her and cut straight across her path.
“Move!” Katia yelled. “It won’t stop!”
The man braced himself. With an impact Katia felt all the way up her arms, the cart ran into him with tremendous force. Instead of disappearing under the wheels, the man stayed on his feet—gods knew how—and the cart forced him backwards, shuddering and juddering all the while. It had lost some of its speed though, and Katia dug her heels in once more and pulled with all her might, trying to help.
Suddenly the cart slewed sideways and tipped, spilling Master Thorn’s bags all over the path.
“It’s stopped. Oh, thank gods,” Katia murmured weakly, doubling over. As she tried to catch her breath, a hand fell on her back.
“You all right?”
Slowly she straightened up. Her rescuer peered into her face, and she was surprised to see he wasn’t as old as she’d thought, a young man, barely older than Ned, with the same easy confidence that came so well to her elder brother. A shadow of a beard coloured his chin and mousy brown hair flopped over his eyes. He looked vaguely familiar . . .
“I’m fine . . . just . . .” Katia took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
“Look at the state of these!” Master Thorn shouted. He’d caught them up with a speed that belied his age and was inspecting his bags.
“Sorry,” Katia mumbled, straining to right the cart.
“Here, let me.”
With the stranger’s help, the cart was soon back on its wheels. Katia reloaded the bags while the doctor vented his feelings.
“You just forfeited your second penny, Troy. Fancy tipping the cart over.”
“Well, I didn’t do it on purpose. I—”
Master Thorn ignored her. He turned to the young man and gave an odd little bow. “Sir, I thank you. If it were not for your intervention, I’d be fishing my best shirts and most of my medical equipment out of the water. In fact, I think I’ll carry this one myself from here.”
The young man’s eyes twinkled as the doctor snatched a small wooden box from Katia’s hands. “It’s nothing. Your boy just needs to grow some muscles.” He winked at Katia and she felt the colour rush to her cheeks. “Can you manage this last stretch on your own, d’you think?”
“Yes,” she snapped, more sharply than she’d intended.
“Then good day to you both,” he said, and set off down the path.
“Sir! Your name?” Master Thorn called after him.
“Mynott Cosgrove.”
“Master Thorn. Until we meet again, Mister Cosgrove.”
Mynott waved but didn’t look back.
Master Thorn began rifling through his pockets. “Now then, where is my ticket? I have it somewhere . . .” He pulled out a slip of paper and peered at it short-sightedly. “The Mermaid,” he muttered. “Dock 13. This way, Troy.” He tucked his medicine box under his arm and limped off down the last bit of sloping road.
“I’ll bring these, then, shall I?” Katia gripped the handles of the cart and trundled after him.