The brass band wasn’t at all what Goldie had been expecting. There were six musicians plus a bandmaster, and she had seldom seen a more mismatched bunch of people. They were tall and short, men and women, hairy and clean-shaven. They wore ill-fitting striped suits and shuffled around a fountain in the middle of a stone-flagged plaza. Their music rose and fell in waves, sometimes stopping right in the middle of a tune, then starting up again with all the instruments out of time.
The Bandmaster
The bandmaster was a small man with a freckled scalp who waved his baton in the air and bellowed to the watching crowd. Goldie could just hear his voice above the music. It was accompanied by an oddly familiar clanking sound.
‘If you please, Herroen and Frowen! A crust of bread for our breakfast, or a sausage. Feed the hungry and the Seven Gods will ignore you for a whole year!’
Goldie flicked her fingers. The Seven Gods were known for their unpredictable tempers. Attracting their attention – even hearing someone mention their names – could be a dangerous business. Flicking your fingers was a polite way of saying, ‘Please don’t bother yourself with me, Great Wooden. Go and help someone else.’
A woman in the watching crowd held up a cooked chicken. ‘Hoy!’ she shouted, and she threw the chicken towards the band.
Immediately the musicians stopped playing and surged forward in a mass. But they were slow and clumsy, and a ragged girl darted out of the crowd and grabbed the chicken from under the hairy trumpeter’s nose.
The band members groaned. The crowd parted. And now at last Goldie could see what was causing that horrible clanking sound. The musicians wore shackles around their ankles, and a heavy chain that linked them together and scraped against the cobblestones as they walked.
Goldie shivered, remembering the punishment chains that still haunted her dreams.
There was another shout from the crowd. Quite a few people were throwing food now. Sausages, wheels of cheese, a whole stuffed goose tumbled through the air.
The musicians lurched this way and that, grabbing frantically. The one-eyed bombardon player managed to catch a string of sausages. The tall trombonist reached over everyone’s head to snatch up a cheese. But the stuffed goose, and a great deal more, was lost to the darting boys and girls.
Goldie’s mouth watered. Almost before she knew what she was doing, she found herself elbowing her way into the pack of children. They glanced sideways at her, but said nothing. Their mouths were wet with grease. They sucked their fingers and grinned at each other.
‘A goose,’ Goldie whispered. ‘I could eat a whole goose.’
Someone in the crowd threw a pie, but it was too far away to bother with. Next came a flurry of little fried cakes, then some oranges. The children got most of them.
Goldie inched forward, waiting for the right moment. And then she saw it. A leg of roast mutton sailed through the air towards the bandmaster. He gathered up his chain, so that he would have room to leap . . .
Quick as a gull, Goldie dived in front of him and snatched the mutton from his grasping hands. ‘Noooo!’ he wailed, as she darted away with her prize.
The meat was still hot, and dripping with rosemary and olive oil. It smelled better than anything Goldie had ever smelled in her life. Carefully she carried it up onto the fountain, hacked off a slice with Toadspit’s knife and stuffed it into her mouth, beneath the mask. She closed her eyes, to savour it better . . .
When she opened them again, the grey-spotted cat from the ship was standing in front of her. Its ribs stuck out like the hoops of a barrel. Its wild eyes were fixed on the mutton.
‘Do you want some?’ said Goldie. She cut another slice and held it out. The cat’s nose twitched, but it did not move.
Goldie shrugged, too hungry to be patient. ‘I’ll eat it if you don’t want it.’
The wild eyes glared at her. There was nothing soft in their depths, nothing but distrust and hunger, but Goldie found herself suddenly thinking of the museum, and of Broo, the brizzlehound. She bit her lip, and placed the piece of mutton beside her foot. There was a flash of movement, too quick to follow, and both cat and mutton were gone.
She cut another slice for herself. Mutton grease ran down her chin and she wiped it off, and licked her fingers. She heard a groan. The music had stopped and the bandmaster was staring up at her, his face sagging with misery.
The mutton turned to ashes in Goldie’s mouth. She flushed and tried to look away, but the man’s unhappy gaze held her. She could hear Olga Ciavolga’s voice in her ear, as clearly as if the old woman sat beside her.
‘To move quietly, to be quick of hand and eye, that is a gift. If you use it to hurt other people, even in a small way, you betray yourself and everyone around you.’
Like all the keepers of the Museum of Dunt, Olga Ciavolga was a thief. But she had very strict rules about when it was all right to steal and when it was not. And this was not.
With a sigh, Goldie climbed down from the fountain and pushed her way through the crowd, which was thinner now. Most of the food had been thrown and people were wandering away. The children had raced off, chucking oranges at each other.
‘We’ll be here again tomorrow, Herroen and Frowen,’ said the bandmaster wearily. ‘Don’t forget. Feed the hungry, the Seven Gods will ignore you, blah blah blah.’ He sounded as if he didn’t expect anyone to feed him ever again.
The musicians tucked their instruments under their arms and began to shuffle across the plaza. Goldie hurried after them. ‘Um, Herro—’ she said.
The bandmaster’s face sagged even further. ‘Come to gloat, have you, lad? Come to wave my rightful breakfast under my nose—’
Goldie held the mutton out to him. He broke off, blinking. ‘You’re right, Herro, it’s yours,’ she muttered, trying to sound like a boy.
The bandmaster stared at her as if he thought it might be a trick. She thrust the mutton into his hands and turned away, before she could change her mind.
‘Wait,’ mumbled the bandmaster.
Goldie looked back at him. He had already bitten a mouthful of meat straight off the leg and was chewing desperately, as if he hadn’t eaten for days. The bombardon player was patting him on the back and trying to sneak pieces of mutton. He batted her hands away and beckoned to Goldie.
‘Come here, come here, lad. Don’t be afraid.’
As Goldie retraced her steps, the musicians stared at her. ‘Am I right in thinking you have a knife?’ said the bandmaster, wiping his mouth on his striped sleeve.
Goldie nodded.
The bandmaster made a stiff little bow. ‘Would you be so good as to cut a slice for each of my companions here? And – ah – another slice for yourself?’
Goldie didn’t wait to be asked twice. While the bandmaster held the mutton steady, she whipped out her knife and cut off several big chunks.
‘Ah— Perhaps a little smaller,’ said the bandmaster hastily. ‘My companions have eaten this morning, after all, and I have not.’
‘Sorry,’ said Goldie, and she cut the chunks into pieces.
‘Yes, yes, that’s better,’ said the bandmaster, watching the meat hungrily. ‘And some for you – good, good. And now I believe it is my turn again. Yes, definitely my turn.’
With his mouth full, he said, ‘Would you care to walk with us? We must not be late, but I am curious—’ He broke off and licked his lips. ‘Mm, that is truly the sweetest mutton I have tasted for years. Hardly mutton at all. I suspect it was lamb only yesterday, prancing in the fields beside its doting mother. Are you too busy eating, or could you cut me another slice?’
‘Where are you going, Herro?’ said Goldie, hacking at the meat as they walked. ‘Why are you – um—’ She pointed to the chains.
The bandmaster peered at her. ‘You’re not from around here? Well, that would explain your generosity. I have never heard of one of the street snotties giving back a prize before. And such a prize!’
‘I’m from Jewel,’ said Goldie.
‘Aha, I thought so. And I am from the Spoke Penitentiary.’ He bowed again, as if he had just announced that he was the governor of the city. ‘As are all my friends here.’
‘You’re prisoners?’ said Goldie.
‘Dear me, no. We’re guests! If we were prisoners they would have to feed us all year round. But because we are merely guests, they can turf us out during the Festival to find our own sustenance.’
He wiped his hand on his britches, and pulled out a battered pocket watch. ‘Of course we have to be back in our cells at a certain time, or they will forget the politeness that is due to guests.’ He waggled the leg of mutton at Goldie. ‘Cut me another slice, my boy. And help yourself. I can see you’re not the greedy sort.’
Goldie cut another two slices. ‘What’s the Festival?’
‘Why, the Festival of Lies,’ said the bandmaster. ‘Starts officially the day after tomorrow. Everyone likes to build up to it, which is why we are here, two days early, and not tucked up snug in our cells with a bowl of hot porridge in front of us. Although—’ he chewed thoughtfully, ‘I do believe I would sacrifice a dozen bowls of porridge for this glorious feast.’
‘Why is it called the Festival of Lies?’
‘Because that’s what it is. For three days, the entire city turns upside down and back to front. No one tells the truth – unless they’re touching an animal, of course.’
Goldie had a dozen more questions on the tip of her tongue, but the bandmaster was still talking. ‘It’s a good time for us, the Festival. Did you hear me, back by the fountain?’ He raised his baton dramatically. ‘Feed the hungry, and the Seven Gods will ignore you for a whole year!’
Goldie flicked her fingers.
The bandmaster grinned. ‘It works, too, and everyone in Spoke knows it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Of course, they could throw half-chewed crusts and boiled tripe and it would work just as well. But we’ve spread the word that the better they feed us, the more likely the Gods are to ignore them.’
They had reached the other side of the plaza by now, and the musicians began to hurry, as fast as their chains would let them, through the winding streets. Goldie trotted beside them, watching for landmarks so she could find her way back again. An idea was growing inside her.
‘Why were you imprisoned, Herro?’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Don’t mind at all, lad,’ said the bandmaster. ‘And you know why? Because I’m innocent.’ He waved the leg of mutton at the musicians who rattled along behind him. ‘We’re all innocent. Young Dodger there, with the trumpet, is innocent of robbery with violence. Sweetapple is innocent of poisoning her husband, may Great Wooden rot his soul.’ He flicked his fingers. So did Goldie. ‘And Old Snot – that’s him dribbling over the bass drum – is innocent of running a gang of pickpockets.’
Old Snot grinned toothlessly at Goldie. Sweetapple, who was the tall trombonist with the limp, waved.
‘What are you – er – innocent of?’ said Goldie to the bandmaster.
‘Forgery.’ He struck a serious pose with his hand on his heart. ‘I did not do it, Your Honour. I have no idea how those fake coins came to be in my cellar. I am not a criminal.’
He winked at Goldie, and she laughed. ‘If I wanted to find out about someone who is a criminal,’ she said, ‘who would I ask?’
The bandmaster puffed out his chest. ‘I have lived in Spoke all my life. No one has his finger on the city’s pulse the way I do. What’s his name, this criminal of yours?’
‘Harrow.’
Goldie wasn’t expecting what happened next. The bandmaster seemed to trip over something. His baton flew out of his hand and clattered onto the cobblestones. The leg of mutton tumbled into the gutter.
‘Halt!’ he cried. With a great clanking of chains, Sweetapple and the rest of the band shuffled to a stop behind him. The bandmaster picked up the baton and the meat, and brushed the dirt off them. ‘No harm done,’ he said.
He turned back to Goldie. ‘Now, what were we talking about, lad?’
‘Um— Harrow,’ said Goldie.
The bandmaster screwed up his face, as if he was thinking. ‘Noooo, can’t say I’ve ever heard the name. Is he a local man?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There you are then. He’s probably from Lawe. A most disreputable city, Lawe. All the worst criminals come from there.’
He took out his pocket watch again. ‘Oops, we’re late. Pick up those chains,’ he roared at the band. ‘Double time! Hup two three four, hup two three four!’
As they jogged off, he glanced over his shoulder at Goldie. ‘So pleased to meet an honest lad,’ he cried. Sweetapple waved again, and Dodger winked. Then, with a great deal of noise, they were gone.
Goldie stood unmoving in the middle of the street. Despite the roast mutton, a hollow feeling had opened up inside her. As a trained liar, she could tell when someone else was lying.
The bandmaster did know Harrow. And the name struck fear into his heart.