Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

No flutter of wings erupted into the room, and for a moment she feared that she might have been too slow. Peering into the box, however, she discovered a pitiable sight. Somehow the scissors had managed to fall from their sheath in such a way that the two points were embedded in the base, one on either side of the bird-thing’s throat. It appeared to be unhurt, but was clearly too terrified to move for fear of shredding itself on the hostile blades.

‘Help…’ it whispered. When she looked at it directly Not-Triss could see only a pattern of staining on the silk lining. When she peered intently at the scissors, however, the figure became visible, and she could see that it had the face of a lean old woman ashen with terror, brows threadbare and pimpled.

Not-Triss reached towards the handles, then hesitated. It occurred to her that pulling the scissors free might not be the best idea, in case they were waiting for a chance to close on the captive creature’s neck with a self-satisfied snip. Snatching a small award cup from one of the shelves, she popped it over the bird-thing’s head, to its evident confusion and outrage. When she tugged the blades free they did indeed close, but clinked harmlessly off the metal. They then settled for twisting in her grip, scraping the skin from her knuckles until she flung them away across the room.

There was a lather of wings, and the bird-thing was not in the box any more. Not-Triss stared around the room in vain, fearing that it had fled in spite of its promises. Then she became aware that there was something bobbing in her peripheral vision. The creature was perched on the silver frame of Sebastian’s soldier photograph, gripping the metal with tiny pale hands.

They looked at each other for a long second, bird-thing and thorn-doll, and then the former flew sullenly down to perch on the desk with an air of concession.

‘Friends now,’ it whispered, its voice as soothing as a rattlesnake lullaby. ‘You won’t tell anybody about this? Not them?’ It jerked a head towards the door, the bedrooms beyond. ‘Not… him?’ A fearful glance towards the night-filled window, and Not-Triss thought of the Architect.

Not-Triss said nothing. Instinct told her there was danger in making promises, and she was suspicious of the creature’s sudden good humour.

‘I know what you’re thinking of asking,’ the bird-thing continued, edging closer to her along the desk in small, companionable sideways hops. ‘You want to know where you can find him . Do not ask that, for I cannot answer it. Our beaks are bound on that matter, and we could not say anything of it if we wished. And anyway, if you have wits you will not want to find him. Of all the Besiders in these parts, he is the most powerful and dangerous. He would tear you to pieces.’

Besiders? Not-Triss nearly asked the question aloud, but bit back the word at the last moment. She had almost used up one of her three precious questions.

‘ He’s not the one you want to talk to,’ the bird-thing continued. ‘I will tell you that for free. You want to talk to the Shrike. The Shrike created you – he will know how he made you and why. He will know something of the Architect’s plans. And he doesn’t belong to the Architect, the way we do. He just works for him when the price is right. So he might not kill you. If you’re clever. And if you know where he can be found.’

Not-Triss closed her eyes and sighed. The hint was obvious. But was there anything more useful she should ask? The bird-thing had already told her that it had never heard of Sebastian, did not know where the real Triss could be found, could not reveal the location of the Architect and was ignorant concerning the letters it delivered.

‘All right,’ she muttered, ‘where can the Shrike be found?’

‘He lives in the Underbelly, beneath the Victory Bridge,’ the thing answered, in crisp, triumphant tones. ‘Of course,’ it continued, with a hint of mockery, ‘knowing where he is will not be enough to get you there.’

Not-Triss could have kicked herself. Now she had little choice but to ask the trailing second question. Without it, the first piece of information was useless.

‘How can I get into the Underbelly to find the Shrike?’ she asked, through clenched teeth.

‘Go down Meddlar’s Lane under the bridge’s end, turn your face to the bricks and start walking. Then keep walking until the sound of the traffic grows faint and you can understand the gulls. Of course –’ and now there was clearly a suppressed snigger in the voice – ‘knowing how to reach the Underbelly is not the same as knowing how to enter it and leave again safely. ’

Not-Triss hesitated a long moment. Her brief advantage over the invisible sniggerer was slipping through her fingers. However, she had already committed herself with her first two questions, and there was no going back.

‘Tell me,’ she said at last, giving in, ‘how do I enter and leave the Underbelly safely?’

The creature leaned forward, and its grin of pleasure was diluted by a gleam of earnestness.

‘Find yourself a cockerel, and a dagger or knife. Before you enter the Underbelly, drive the blade into the ground by any means you can. That is the only way to keep the path open behind you for when you need to leave. Pay no heed to any music that you hear playing. And whatever happens, remember why you are there. If you have questions to ask, keep asking and make it plain that you will not be gone until they are answered. Keep the cockerel wrapped and dumb until you think you are in danger.’

It watched her face for a few seconds more, and the sparks in its eyes became gleams of malicious delight.

‘But hurry, scrap-brat! You have only three days left! Three days! Three days!’

And then it was gone, with only the briefest rasp of sound, like somebody running their thumbnail down a notepad.

Too late, Not-Triss realized that the dead of night was no longer as dead as it had been. From down in the street she could hear the sound of hushed and puzzled voices, and the barking of excitable dogs. Even so, she was slow to make sense of it, her mind still shaken by the bird-thing’s words.

Thus it was that she was quite unprepared when the door suddenly opened, and she found herself bathed in candlelight.

There was no time to dive under the bed. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the candle dazzled her, so that she could scarcely make out the two figures standing behind it.

‘ Triss! ’ Her mother’s tone was beyond anger or incredulity. There was awe and fear in her voice.

Not-Triss could only gape into the light. How stupid she was! For some reason she had assumed that her ferocious battle with the bird-thing would have been inaudible to ordinary ears, like Angelina’s screaming back in the cottage. Now she realized that it had been very, very audible indeed, loud enough to wake the whole street.

The light advanced slowly into the room, and Not-Triss could see that it was held by her father. Not-Triss wondered how she looked to them – a glaring, dishevelled specimen perhaps, hunched like a church gargoyle on the scuffed rug.

‘Triss – what are you doing here?’ Her father’s voice was very, very level.

‘Nothing,’ she whispered. A stupid lie, but she scarcely cared any more. What was one more stupid lie in this house full of stupid lies?

Her mother still hovered in the darkened doorway, and Not-Triss could just make out shocked stars of candlelight reflected in her eyes. Glancing around, Not-Triss could understand her aghast silence. The sacred room was in chaos. Most of Sebastian’s award cups had been jogged off their stands during her battle with the bird-thing, and several photographs had fallen face first. The rug was chaotically rucked, and the wood of the shelves and desk was gouged here and there with fine, deep scratches.