The Monster in the Hollows Page 18

  But when Kalmar came to bed, he was noisy. Janner groaned and pulled the covers over his head when the lantern flared to life.

  “Sorry,” Kalmar whispered. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Well, you did,” Janner grumbled.

  He felt Kalmar sit on the bottom bunk at his feet. Janner lowered the covers and squinted at Kalmar. His whiskers drooped, and his wet, black nose caught the lamplight.

  “What is it?” Janner asked, sounding meaner than he meant to.

  “I’m sorry about the Durgan Guild thing. I know you’d rather be making books.” Kalmar scratched his chin, but not like a person would; he raked with his claws in a quick, doglike motion. “I just don’t know what you want me to do. Say it and I’ll do it. I hate feeling like you’re mad at me all the time.”

  Janner sighed. He felt a stone in his heart beginning to move, but he didn’t want it to. He wanted to stay angry so Kalmar would know how much it cost to be his brother. “I’m not mad at you. I just—I just wish I could doone thing I want. One thing.”

  “You went to the library today.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Andyou actually stand a chance of making friends. I don’t. I messed up. Messed up really bad. And now I have these.” He held out his claws. “I’m stuck with these awful things. Stuck with this face.” Kalmar hung his head.

  The stone in Janner’s heart moved a little more and teetered on the verge of rolling away. He sat up on his elbows. When he saw a tear run down the length of Kalmar’s snout, dangle at the end of his nose, and drip to the bed, the stone went with it.

  “It’s not your fault,” Janner said. “The Fangs did this.”

  “You don’t understand.” Kalmar wiped his nose. “I’m a terrible king. I’m a terrible boy. That’s not the Fangs’ fault.”

  “What are you talking about? Are you saying youwanted to get kidnapped?”

  “No.”

  “Are you saying youwanted to get thrown into the Black Carriage?”

  “No.”

  “Are you saying youwanted to turn into a Fang?”

  Silence.

  “Kal?” Janner sensed a coldness in the room. Kalmar had stopped crying and stared at the floor. “Kal?” Janner repeated.

  “Yes,” Kalmar whispered.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I wanted it.” Kalmar wiped his nose. “It only works if you want it. That’s what she said.”

  “What who said?” Janner felt afraid without knowing why, afraid of the answer. With every word Kalmar spoke, Janner felt as if he was inching his way farther into the maw of a black cave.

  “The Stone Keeper. She had such a beautiful voice. They told us in the carriage that we could be powerful. They told us we would know strength and speed and skill, and all we had to do was sing what she told us to sing.”

  “And you sang it?” Janner asked in a quiet voice.

  Kalmar nodded.

  Janner was afraid to ask, but he did anyway: “What happened? What did it feel like?”

  “It felt good. And it felt like dying,” Kal said after a moment. “Like my heart had shriveled up in my chest. But I wanted it. She said the song wouldn’t work unless my heart was in it. And it was.” Kalmar’s voice cracked and he looked away. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Then how did you come back?” Janner asked. “Can any of the Fangs come back like you?”

  “I don’t know. Uncle Artham told me he kicked down the door before the Stone Keeper named me. He said names have power, and he got to me before the change was complete. I don’t know how it works. I’m just glad he found me. I don’t want to be a Fang, Janner. But today when we were running, and when I wrestled Grigory on the field, I felt like it was still in me. Still in my blood. I wanted to let it loose.”

  Kalmar’s eyes met Janner’s, and a cold shiver ran down Janner’s back. The air between them tingled. Kalmar’s eyes were still blue, but Janner thought he saw flecks of yellow at the edges. He couldn’t remember if they had been there before. Maybe it was a trick of the lamplight.

  “I thought I was lost, Janner. I never thought you would find me again. They told me I could either sing the song and fight in Gnag’s army, or die in a cold, dark dungeon. I was scared. And I didn’t want to be king. Istill don’t want to be king. I don’t know how.” Kalmar had a knot of the blanket between his claws and was twisting it as he spoke. “I’m not smart like you are. I don’t know poems and histories, and I don’t dream about Anniera like you do. I just want to be left alone.”

  Janner felt the need to comfort his brother, but for some reason he didn’t want to touch him. “You know what Mama would say?”

  “What?”

  “She would tell you that you were the king whether you liked it or not. She would tell you our papa’s blood runs in your veins, and that it’s stronger than you know. She would tell you your name. Your true name. Kalmar Wingfeather.”

  “I know that already.”

  “Well, you’re the king. Don’t forget it.” Janner forced a smile. “I certainly can’t. Every time I turn around I’m having to protect you from something or someone.”

  Kalmar let go of the blanket and looked away. It was ripped to shreds. Janner saw bits of cloth under his claws. “Can you protect me from myself?”

  Kalmar crossed the room and blew out the lantern, then bounded silently up to the top bunk.

  “Kal?”

  But the little Grey Fang didn’t answer.

  Janner lay awake for a long time, unsettled and scared. Through the window he saw a flash of lightning in the distance, and sometime before dawn the sound of thunder marched over the Hollows to rattle the window.

  30

  Borley and the Dagger

  For days, Sara could hardly keep from smiling. She worked every hour thinking about the next meal, which was the only time she could talk with the younger children without drawing unwanted attention.

  Talking with the other tools—children, she reminded herself—helped her believe she wasn’t crazy. Whenever the drudgery of her labor began to numb her mind, she remembered that in a few hours she would be like a normal girl, whispering with other normal children. Sometimes when the meal whistle blew she was surprised at how the hours had flown. Other times she spotted, among all the dirty faces, one of the children she had befriended, and she would watch for him or her to pass again as the hours trudged by.

  The ebb and flow of time was a welcome change from the numbness and monotony her life had been before Janner Igiby. Her mind was awake, and it was sharp, and that meant there was hope.

  Now she noticed things. She noticed that once every several days, the Overseer was joined at the top of the stairs by Fangs. She noticed how the Overseer seemed agitated, angrier at the Maintenance Managers when weapon production was slow. Once she saw one of the Fangs grab the Overseer by the collar and shake him. She couldn’t hear what the Fang was yelling, but after they left, the Overseer had straightened his top hat, uncoiled his whip, and marched down the stairs to scream at every child he saw. Sara noticed the way he and Mobrik the ridgerunner paced the factory floor more than ever, and she saw the worried looks they exchanged whenever Fangs arrived.

  After Janner’s escape they had no longer acted like the rulers of their domain, but like two more “tools,” just a step above the Maintenance Managers. This made Sara wonder who Janner Igiby was. It seemed odd to her that the Fangs would care so much about an ordinary boy’s escape. She spent hours greasing cogs on the rattling coal machine, asking herself over and over what it was about Janner that made him so special. She even went so far as to imagine that he was a prince from some faraway kingdom, and that he would one day return to rescue her.

  On the third day after she first spoke with the little boy named Borley, Sara chose a seat in the mess hall and waited for him to arrive, eager to find out more about him and her other new friends. Borley sat across from her and grinned as if he wanted to tell her something. He beckoned for Sara to
come close.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  From under his shirt, Borley pulled a hunk of metal so black and jagged that it took Sara a moment to realize it was a dagger that hadn’t yet gone through the polishing or sharpening process.

  “Borley, cover that up!” she hissed, looking from side to side to be sure none of the Maintenance Managers were watching. “You could get inbig trouble for having that.”

  Borley’s shoulders slumped. “I thought we could use it to get out.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, dear,” she said. “We can’t just fight our way out. The Overseer would stop us before we started.”

  By then several other younger children had arrived. A little girl with big brown eyes and black hair asked, “Then what do we do, Sara Cobbler?”

  “Nothing, Grettalyn. We do nothing. Right now the best thing we can do is talk. I’m sure someday we’ll get out of here, but we have to beso careful, do you hear? It would be terrible if the Overseer or Mobrik caught Borley hiding the knife and put him in the coffin, wouldn’t it?”

  The children’s eyes grew wide, and they all nodded solemnly.

  “Borley, will you give me the dagger?” Sara asked.

  He handed it under the table, and Sara concealed it in the sleeve of her shirt. She would have to hold onto it until her next shift and then sneak it onto a passing wheelbarrow.

  Then she heard a voice that made her jump so badly that the dagger nearly slipped out of her sleeve.

  “What’s going on over here?” said Mobrik the ridgerunner. He stood at Sara’s shoulder in his usual top hat and ratty black coat, the tails of which dragged the floor.

  The children at the table lowered their heads and sipped their soup in silence, acting sad and sleepy, as Sara had told them to behave when the Maintenance Managers passed. Though her heart pounded and Mobrik’s face was inches from hers, she felt a measure of pride in her friends’ steely nerves.

  “What do you mean, sir?” she asked in the dullest voice she could manage.

  “I saw you talking. Were you talking?”

  “Maybe I was, sir. Other tools have accused me of talking to myself. I don’t realize it’s happening.” She slouched so low her chin nearly touched her bowl. “I’m just so tired,” she said and yawned for effect.

  “It’s you again,” Mobrik said, inching closer. “You’re the tool who helped the boy escape.”

  Sara held still and gave no answer. The dagger was slipping. She bent her arm a little to keep it from falling out, and the point poked through a hole in her sleeve.

  Sara wondered whether she should do something now, before Mobrik spotted the dagger, or wait and hope he didn’t notice. She was as tall as he was, so she stood a chance of overpowering him. Or if she threatened him with the weapon, she might be able to keep him quiet. Or she could run, but she knew how that would turn out; with the Maintenance Managers swinging about from the rafter chains, no one ever made it far. Still, for a wild moment she thought it might be her only chance. She was surrounded by allies, she had a dagger, and the Overseer was nowhere to be seen.

  Then she remembered how patiently Janner had planned his escape. He had spent days in the coffin waiting for the perfect time; he had help from Sara; he had the apples for bribing the ridgerunner—and even then he had nearly been caught. She also remembered how awful her punishment had been for helping him, and she knew she couldn’t put Borley or Grettalyn or any of the others through the same. No, if she was going to make a move, it had to be on her own terms.

  She prayed to the Maker that Mobrik wouldn’t notice the little black point of metal jutting out of her sleeve. He narrowed his eyes at Sara, and she was certain he would see it. If she wanted the advantage of surprise, she was running out of time. Her heart thundered in her chest.

  Then Borley burped.

  Mobrik looked at him and said, “Rude.” Then he skittered away.

  Borley kept his head down till they were sure the ridgerunner had pushed through the door, then they all snorted with laughter.

  Sara planned to get rid of the dagger at her first opportunity, but that night when she lay down she tucked it in the corner at the foot of her cot instead. A plan was forming in her mind, one she thought even Janner Igiby would be proud of.

  She wondered where he was and whispered a prayer for his safety as she sank into a fine sleep in which she dreamed of a castle and a river and a horse on a grassy hill.

  31

  Olumphia’s Warning and Bunge’s Game

  The next morning it rained and rained on the Green Hollows. Nia and the children boarded the carriage in hooded raincoats that did little to keep them dry. The creek at the bottom of Chimney Hill was a roaring rapid, so high that foamy waves lapped over the bridge. When Nia drove the carriage across, Janner voiced his worry that it might wash away, but Nia reminded him that the bridge had stood for hundreds of years and had weathered many such storms. Kalmar was quiet, which had become his usual manner, especially in the morning.

  They joined the train of carriages plodding toward the Guildling Hall, and once again Janner felt the heat of the other children’s eyes. Even with Nia present, they hardly concealed their looks of loathing and distrust. Janner didn’t understand why his mother chose to remain silent; she seemed impervious to the rain and the hatred both. When she rounded the statue in the courtyard, she bade the children goodbye, said, “Remember who you are,” and rode on.

  Janner, Kalmar, and Leeli had no trouble making their way through the children to the school because wherever they walked a bubble of space opened before them. Guildlings shuffled out of the way with hisses and whispers and mutterings of “don’t let it touch you” and “they smell like dogs.”

  Janner stared at the soggy ground and thought about how nice it had been at the library without Kalmar around; for a few hours he had almost believed he was an ordinary boy. He was still troubled by what Kal had told him the night before, he still felt rumblings of frustration about the bookbindery guild, and worst of all, he was afraid—afraid to look his own brother in the eye. He was afraid he would see those yellow spots creeping into the edges of the blue—because if they were there it meant something that Janner didn’t want to imagine.

  As they crossed the threshold out of the rain and into the school, Grigory Bunge stuck out his foot and tripped Kalmar. The floor was slick already, so when Kal fell, he jarred Leeli enough to take her down with him. Her crutch slid away and she sprawled on the wet floor. Grigory didn’t seem to mind that he had caused Leeli’s fall and made no move to help her. The floor was filthy from all the wet boots, and Leeli’s dress was covered in mud.

  Janner helped her up and brushed her off, trying to control his anger and decide whether to fight, or yell, or calmly find a teacher and let him or her discipline the Bunge boy.

  Kalmar, though, had already made his decision. He crouched on all fours, bared his teeth at Grigory Bunge, and growled.

  The sound stilled the room. The children in the hall backed away with fear in their eyes. Even Grigory Bunge looked scared. Janner hardly recognized his brother. The way his snout curled made his fangs seem longer, and the fur on the back of his head and neck was raised and quivering.

  “Kalmar, don’t!” Janner said.

  He stepped between Bunge and the wolf, realizing as he did so that he was afraid of Kalmar too. He remembered his scars, the bright fire of pain in his shoulders, legs, neck, and back when Kalmar had fought him in the water. His senses told him that this was no longer Kalmar in front of him; this was a Grey Fang, all the way down to the marrow.

  “Kalmar, it’s me!” Janner said. “Calm down!”

  But Kalmar’s eyes remained locked on Grigory’s. Leeli limped forward and in a trembling voice hummed a melody in Kal’s ear.

  The wolfish growl faltered and one ear twitched. He looked away from Grigory and focused on Janner, blinked a few times, and in an instant he was Kalmar again. Janner took him by the hand and stood him up, and
the tension seeped from the hall.

  “Keep your dog on a leash, Wingfeather,” Grigory sneered.

  “It’s hard with all the rats loose in the hall,” Janner said.

  Grigory Bunge grinned wickedly and raised his fists. Janner prepared himself for a beating.

  “Oy! What’s going on here?” Olumphia Groundwich pushed through the crowd, and in seconds the guildlings dispersed. Her hands were on her hips and her whiskers trembled. She looked at Leeli’s muddy dress and gasped. “Bunge! Did you do this?”

  “I didn’t mean to, Guildmadam.” Bunge put on a look of concern. “Leeli, isn’t it? Are you all right? I’m really,really sorry that happened.”

  “Then why didn’t you help me up?” Leeli asked.

  “I was scared of the—the—ofhim.” Grigory pointed at Kalmar and pretended to be afraid. “He was growling at me, Guildmadam! I thought he might attack.”

  Olumphia pointed her long arm down the hallway and said, “Get out of my sight, Bunge. You’ll be late for lectures.”

  “Yes, Guildmadam. Sorry, Guildmadam.” Grigory hurried past Janner and flashed him a look of dark glee.

  “Come on. We don’t want to be late again,” Janner muttered. He hefted his pack to his shoulder and made to follow Grigory to the lecture hall.

  “Stop right there, guildling,” Olumphia ordered. “To my quarters, Wingfeathers. We need to talk.”

  As they followed her to the office, Janner’s blood boiled. Once again, he was in trouble, and once again, it wasn’t his fault. Why wasn’t Grigory getting punished?

  Olumphia slammed her door behind the children and told them to sit. She sat at her desk and looked long and hard at all three of them. Janner was determined not to apologize, so he busied himself counting the guildmadam’s whiskers. He almost laughed when he realized the ones she had plucked on their first day had already grown back.