It was the middle of the afternoon, and the Protector had not slept for several nights. She was about to put her head down on her desk for a short nap when the captain of militia burst into her office, gasping for breath.
‘Your Grace. The Fugleman—’
The Protector shot upright in her chair. I knew it, she thought. He has corrupted my officers! He has escaped! In the middle of everything else—
But the captain was smiling. ‘The Fugleman— He has found the children!’
The Fugleman
The Protector stared at him, wondering if she had fallen asleep after all, and was dreaming. ‘He has?’
‘I have seldom seen anyone work so hard, Your Grace. He has sent out message after message, and now he has a reply! A runner came from the semaphore station just a little while ago—’
The Protector held up her hand. ‘Where are they? Where are the children?’
‘In Spoke, Your Grace. The descriptions match exactly.’
A bubble of hope welled up inside the Protector. She leaped out of her chair and strode to the door, herding the captain before her. ‘Send a message to the Museum of Dunt. And to Vice-Marshal Amsel. Quickly, man, get a move on. I want a company of militia ready to leave for Spoke within the hour.’
The Protector hadn’t been to the House of Repentance since the day she ordered it closed. She had wanted to pull the whole thing down, but now she was glad she hadn’t. She liked the thought of her brother being chained up in his own dungeons.
He wasn’t in the dungeons now, of course. His legs were shackled to a desk in the middle of the office. From the look of it, he hadn’t been getting enough sleep either.
The Protector pushed past the militia guard. ‘Tell me,’ she demanded, ‘exactly what you have discovered.’
The Fugleman nodded eagerly. ‘The man who stole the children is called Harrow. I know of him by reputation; he is the worst of villains and his men are the rag tag of the peninsula – thieves, murderers and confidence tricksters!’ He wiped his hand across his forehead. ‘However, I gather they have not harmed the children. Yet.’
‘Whereabouts in Spoke are they? Give me an address. I will send the militia after them.’
The Fugleman looked startled. He tried to rise from his chair but was pulled back by his chains. ‘Your Grace, that would not be wise!’
The militia guards took a precautionary step forward. The Protector waved them away and glared down at the prisoner. ‘Did I ask your opinion? The opinion of a traitor? I did not!’
The muscles in the Fugleman’s cheek flickered, as if he was trying to control some great emotion. He bowed his head. ‘I beg your pardon, Your Grace,’ he said in a humble voice. ‘But this man Harrow has spies everywhere. He is completely ruthless. If a body of militia entered Spoke, he would know it within minutes. Before they could get anywhere near the children, he would move them. He might even kill them.’
He paused. A pulse throbbed in his temple. ‘If you will allow me to make a suggestion – just a suggestion, mind – perhaps my informants could attempt a rescue. It would cost money. They are villains themselves and do nothing for free. But they know the secret ways around Spoke. It will still be dangerous, I do not deny it, but there is a greater chance of success.’
The Protector tapped her fingers on the desk, wishing she knew why her brother was being so helpful. What was he really after? Was it just a lighter sentence, or could it be something more?
She remembered the whispers. ‘This would never have happened under the Blessed Guardians.’ Since the children had disappeared, those whispers had grown to a steady rumble. If it became known that the Fugleman was responsible for their rescue, there was no telling what might happen.
The trouble was, if he was right about Harrow, she had little choice but to follow his advice. Her militia were enthusiastic and loyal, and their new training program was beginning to show results. But they were not subtle, or skilled at finding out secrets. If they were put up against a villain like Harrow, in a strange city—
She came to a decision. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Tell your informants to go ahead with the rescue. We will pay for their help. I want to be briefed every step of the way.’
The Fugleman picked up his pen. But before he could dip it in the inkwell, the Protector bent down beside him, so close that she could smell the dungeons, the sour reek of rust and stone and old cruelties.
‘It is a long time since we hanged anyone in this city, brother,’ she whispered. ‘But if I discover that you are playing me false, and the children are harmed as a result of it, I will string you up with my own hands.’