بخش 15

CHAPTER 28

NOT SAFE AT ALL

PETER, WITH TINKER BELL clinging to him, struggled to fly through the blinding rain, his body hurled this way and that by the swirling wind. He hoped he was heading toward the dock, but the visibility was so poor he couldn’t be certain.

Angling his body downward, he descended and saw that he was over the roof of a long, low building. He followed it to an edge, then dropped as quickly as he dared to the ground. He found himself in a dim, debris-strewn alley between two warehouses. He stood for a moment, panting, hands on knees, water streaming down his body.

“Hey, there!” rasped a voice behind him. “Mind where you drip!”

Peter spun around and saw he was standing practically on top of a scrawny, bearded man sitting on the hard-packed dirt under the warehouse eave, cradling a bottle in his lap. The dirt was quickly going to mud.

“S…sorry, sir,” said Peter.

“Sir? Sir? Haw-haw harrggghkh-TOOEY.” The man’s laugh trailed off into a rough, wet cough, which turned into a spectacular spit. When he was done, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked up at Peter with a broad, toothless smile. “Sorry, lad. Struck me funny is all. Nobody calls old Trumpy ‘sir.’ That’s me name: Old Trumpy. You call me that. What does I call you?”

“Peter,” answered Peter.

“A good name, Peter,” said Old Trumpy. He raised the bottle to his lips and tried to take a swig, only to discover that it was empty. Disappointed, he set the bottle down again, then continued: “I had a dog once named Peter. Or maybe it was a cat. It was an animal of some kind, that much I recall. But it might not have been named Peter. Did you fall?”

“What?” asked Peter.

“One minute,” said Old Trumpy, “you wasn’t here. Next minute you was. But you didn’t come from this way or that,” he said, nodding to each end of the alley. “So I’m asking, did you fall?”

“Oh,” said Peter. “Yes. From the—” He glanced up. “From up there. The roof.”

Old Trumpy nodded sympathetically. “I falls a lot meself,” he said. “I find it’s better if I just sits and don’t bother with the standing.” He frowned, his eyes trying to focus on something just above Peter’s head.

“What did you say your name was again?” he said.

“Peter.”

“That’s right,” said Old Trumpy. “Peter. Well, Peter, do you mind if Old Trumpy asks you a question?”

“No.”

“Is there a very small person sitting on your head?” He pointed a wrinkled hand at a spot above Peter.

Peter’s own hand shot up. Tink. He grabbed her and, ignoring the angry peal of bells, stuffed her under his shirt.

“No, sir,” he said. “I mean, no.”

Old Trumpy blinked several times and looked relieved. “Good,” he said. “Sometimes, when I has me rum, I sees things that ain’t there. First time for a very small person, though. Usually it’s snakes.” He raised the bottle to his lips again, only to discover that it was still empty.

Peter said nothing. Tink, on the other hand, had a great deal to say from under his shirt, including some unkind comments about Peter’s personal hygiene.

“Do you hear bells?” said Old Trumpy, glancing around.

“No!” said Peter.

“Well, I do!” said Old Trumpy, frowning. “That’s another new one. Usually I just sees things.”

Let me out! said Tink, not quietly.

“There it is again,” said Old Trumpy.

“Be quiet,” hissed Peter to Tink.

“What?” said Old Trumpy.

“Nothing!” said Peter.

“I thought you just said be quiet,” said Old Trumpy.

“No,” said Peter. “I mean, yes, I did, but not to you.”

“Then who did you say it to?” said Old Trumpy.

“I, er…to myself,” answered Peter.

“Ah,” said Old Trumpy. “I does that meself sometimes. I’m talking thirteen to a dozen, and then I notice there’s nobody there. The bells is new, though.” He attempted another swig from the bottle. Empty still.

Peter looked toward the near end of the alley. The sky was lighter, the rain abating.

“Sir,” he said. “I’m trying to find a house here in London.”

“Oh, there’s lots of houses here in London,” said Old Trumpy. “Thousands, I should think. Shouldn’t be no trouble finding one.”

“But I’m looking for a certain one,” said Peter. “A particular one.”

“Ah,” said Old Trumpy. “That could be harder.”

“It belongs to a family named Aster,” said Peter. “Lord Leonard Aster.”

“Lord Aster, is it?” said Old Trumpy. “It’s a lord’s house you want?”

“Yes,” said Peter.

“Haw-haw harrggghkh-TOOEY” said Old Trumpy, producing another impressive fountain of phlegm, from which Peter looked away.

“Sorry,” said Old Trumpy. “No offense…What’s your name again?”

“Peter.”

“No offense, Peter, but you don’t look like the nobility type.”

“But do you know the house?” said Peter.

“What house?” said Old Trumpy.

“Lord Aster’s,” said Peter, trying not to show his exasperation. “Do you know where he lives?”

“Not around here, I can tell you that, haw-haw,” said Old Trumpy, gesturing around the filthy alley. As he did, a rat scurried from one rubbish mound to another.

“Well, do you know where I might look for him?” said Peter.

Old Trumpy considered this question thoughtfully for a moment, then said: “Look for who?”

Peter sighed. “Never mind,” he said. He started walking toward the end of the alley.

“You’re off, then?” called Old Trumpy.

“Yes,” said Peter, picking his way carefully over a pile of rubbish and jumping back as several rats scurried out. “I’m off.”

“What’s your name again?” called Old Trumpy.

Peter stopped, sighed, turned around. “Peter,” he said.

“Right, Peter,” said Old Trumpy. “Listen, son, you be careful out there. It ain’t safe ’round these docks, especially for a young lad like you. And it ain’t safe for nobody nowhere in London when dark comes.” He drew a finger across his throat. “You can’t trust nobody out there, lad. Nobody. That’s why Old Trumpy stays in here.”

Peter, saying nothing, turned away and resumed picking his way toward the end of the alley, leaving Old Trumpy talking to himself.

“Ain’t safe for nobody,” he muttered. “Not nowhere at all, not with night coming.”

Then he tried another swig from the bottle, which, to his mild surprise and considerable disappointment, remained empty. CHAPTER 29

A BONE TO PICK

SLANK WAS WATCHING the crew of Le Fantome like a hawk.

He’d been at sea since the age of thirteen; he knew sailors, and he knew that London, with its many temptations, beckoned to them powerfully, despite Nerezza’s orders to remain on the ship. Guards were posted at the gangway to keep the crew from walking off, but Slank knew that many of the men—if they thought nobody was watching—wouldn’t hesitate to slide down a line to the dock, or even jump into the filthy Thames and swim for it. And once they’d gotten ashore and filled their bellies with grog, it was only a matter of time before they were wagging their tongues about the ship’s strange voyage—and the even stranger passenger it carried.

But Lord Ombra did not want word of his presence to get out, not yet. And Slank shuddered to think of the consequences if Lord Ombra was displeased. So Slank passed the idle hours awaiting Ombra’s appearance prowling the decks, keeping close watch on the increasingly restive crew.

At the moment, most of the crew had gathered forward along the rail to watch a bloody, drunken brawl taking place outside the Jolly Tar, a notorious dockside pub. With the men temporarily distracted, Slank decided to scale the rat lines that led to the crow’s nest. From here, high above the deck, he had a good view of the ship and a stunning view of the city, stretching into the distance under a late-morning sky dark with coal soot.

Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. The fight ended, and the crew of Le Fantome went back to sitting around. Slank fixed his attention on the bow lines, then the stern, then back again. He looked port and starboard; he kept his ears attentive for the sound of whispering. A light breeze blew, bringing with it the scents of the city, some foul, some—like the smell of fresh food cooking—sweet. The furled sails slapped, a sound familiar and pleasant to any sailor. As the stiff fabric flapped, its folds opened and shut, like the bellows of an accordion.

What was that?

Slank stared aft, into one of the folds of a sail attached to the mizzenmast. He had the perfect angle as the breeze blew and the sail sagged open. The breeze calmed, and it slipped shut again, like a giant purse closing.

Slank frowned, trying to make sense of what he’d seen. The furled sail sagged open, and there it was again.

He quickly lowered himself from the lookout basket, scurried down the rat lines, crossed the deck, and ascended the mizzenmast faster than he’d gone aloft in years. He climbed to the folds in the second sail from the top. He pulled on the heavy sailcloth, one fold to the next, searching for what he thought he’d seen. Several men gathered on the decks below, watching, wondering what Slank was doing.

There! Slank reached and held the last of the folds open. He leaned over and peered down into this fold, confused by what he saw: three apple cores, eaten to the seeds; a bone, also gnawed practically to the marrow.

A rat? But what rat would climb up here to eat? A bird?

Slank hooked his knee around a line and lowered himself upside down into the fold of canvas, drawing mutters of interest from the sailors below. He grabbed the bone, then pulled himself back up. Steadying himself, he studied the bone, twisting it in the gray light.

Teeth marks. Not picked clean by a bird’s beak, as he might have expected. Not the gnawings of a rat, either; no, these looked like human teeth marks, too small to be a man’s. They were more the size of a…

Slank stared out toward the rooftops of London, then glanced at the decks below. Could their stowaway have left these behind? But the apple cores were not nearly rotten enough; they were far too fresh, too recently eaten. The stowaway had jumped ship weeks ago.

Slank frowned, remembering another ship and the boy who’d gone overboard at sea—only to reappear later, alive. He thought about the rumors of a ghost haunting the ship—after the stowaway had gone overboard.

Could it possibly be?

Slank stared at the bone, his grip tightening on it, as he would love to have squeezed the throat of the flying boy. If, somehow, the boy had been on the ship, and was now here in London, what did that mean for Ombra and his plan? Did Slank dare mention it? Back on the island, Ombra had cautioned him about his hatred for—his obsession with—the boy. Did he dare bring up his suspicions now, without better proof than some old bone and some apple cores? Yet Ombra himself had clearly suspected something was amiss on the ship, with his constant demands for searchers and extra guards….

Slank decided that, for the time being, he would keep his suspicion to himself. He pocketed the bone and climbed back down to the deck, inventing a story to explain his unusual behavior to the watching sailors.

Yes, he’d keep quiet for now. But when he got off the ship—as he would soon enough, he’d be looking for the boy. And if he found him…

Slank put his hand into his pocket again and gripped the bone until it snapped.