Paul Durham - The Luck Uglies

“Aren’t you afraid to go out?” Quinn said.

“You made it, didn’t you?” Rye said.

“I’m only three houses away. You’re going to the other side of the village.”

“I’ll be fine,” Rye said, trying to convince herself. She pulled her cloak round her shoulders and her hood over her head. “Thanks for your help, Quinn.”

“You owe me. And hurry back. How am I going to explain this if your mother gets home before you?”

Rye grabbed her lantern. “I won’t be late. Remember, don’t let Shady out.”

Rye herself had never been out on the Black Moon. It was forbidden for women and children under the Laws of Longchance. Normally it was a half-hour walk to Folly’s house. Rye intended to go as fast as she could to minimise her time on the streets.

Mud Puddle Lane was dark under the best of circumstances, never mind with no moon in the sky. Rye kept her lantern lit at first, although she planned to cover it as soon as possible. She could hear voices and laughter behind the doors, but the dirt street was empty. She could smell tangy-sweet hickory fires from the chimneys; someone was cooking a celebratory treat.

When she reached the end of her road, she stepped carefully over the crumbled section of the village’s wall, now overgrown with weeds and moss. Rye and Quinn played on the wall every day, so she was able to navigate it well, even in the dark.

After Mud Puddle Lane, she crossed into Nether Neck and Old Salt Cross, where the open spaces between houses closed and the cobblestone streets narrowed. In Old Salt Cross the second and third floors of buildings jutted over the streets like tree limbs in a dense forest. Street lamps, though sparse, lit the corners and she was able to dim her lantern. Rye stayed in the shadows, darting from one alley to the next. Other people roamed the village, although most moved silently and alone. Rye avoided everyone. If someone approached, she stepped into a doorway until he passed. There were short cuts to Folly’s, but she intended to stay away from Market Street at all costs. Running into her mother would be scarier than getting snatched by a Bog Noblin.

Rye picked up her pace as she grew more comfortable with the darkness. Skipping from cobblestone to cobblestone, she imagined herself leaping across the rooftops. She gave herself a shiver, wondering whether there was a masked gargoyle up there watching her right now.

She leaped over puddles and flew from an alley on to Dread Captain’s Way when the tall figure stopped her in her tracks. Rye fell backwards on to her bottom and her lantern hit the ground with a rattle. Its flame flickered and died.

The figure loomed over her in its dark robes, orange eyes glowing like fire.

RYE PROTECTED HER face with her hands and peered through her fingers. Spidery wrists stretched from billowing black sleeves, long claws poised to pluck out her eyeballs. Its sharp-toothed mouth scowled down at her from its pumpkin head. Its face was carved like that of a feral cat, with whiskers and angular eyes whose glow came from the candle inside.

Rye lowered her hands. The claws were nothing more than branches, the menacing figure just a Wirry Scare mounted on a tall wooden frame. Apparently wirries weren’t the only things these stickmen frightened. It meant she wasn’t far from the Dead Fish Inn. Maybe Folly helped put up this one herself.

Rye straightened her clothes and scolded herself for being so easily spooked. Before she could rise, she heard the shuffling of boots, the clinking of metal on stone, and a voice yelling, “Did you hear that? It came from over there.”

The source of the voice hurried towards her. Rye looked for somewhere to hide. She lurched forward and rolled under an abandoned farmer’s wagon filled with rotting hay. It wasn’t a moment too soon, as three figures emerged from the alley she’d used.

Rye pressed herself flat on the cold, damp cobblestones. Villagers were not the tidiest folk. She was surrounded by rotting vegetables, other rubbish and an old shoe. She pinched her nose and peered through the spokes of the wagon’s one large wheel.

A man in a brown cloak led the way, scurrying out of the alley like a crab. He was bent and bow-legged, but moved much faster than one would expect given his rickety looks. Behind him lumbered two heavily armoured soldiers, one carrying an enormous axe over his shoulder. They wore the black and blue crest of the House of Longchance on their shields – an iron fist and a coiled, eel-like serpent displaying a gaping maw of teeth. Their armour sounded like Lottie when she got loose amongst Abby O’Chanter’s pots and pans. Rye had never seen, or heard, soldiers armoured so heavily in the village.

The man in front peered through the shadows.

“Bring the light,” he called. “Where are you, rat?”

From the alley, a much smaller person appeared carrying a large lantern. The link rat’s light rattled as he ran. Rye had never met a link rat before, but she’d heard about them from Folly. Link rats were children – usually orphans – paid to guide travellers through Drowning’s streets after dark. It sounded like terribly dangerous work for a child, but if one got lost, hurt or stolen, well, there was always a replacement. Orphans weren’t hard to come by in Drowning. Rye knew Quinn had suffered from nightmares about becoming a link rat ever since he’d lost his mother. It was why he clung so tightly to his father’s side.

When this particular link rat caught up with the other men, Rye saw that he was not much taller than her. His clothes hung in tatters off his narrow shoulders and his straight black hair fell past his ears. Rye also got a better look at the first man’s face squinting in the light. She recognised the dustball eyebrows. It was Constable Boil.

“Over here,” the Constable said, waving to the link rat. “What’s that?”

The link rat moved forward, casting the lantern light on the Wirry Scare. Boil’s feet scuffled forward and the clank of armoured boots stopped less than a metre from Rye’s nose. From under the wagon, Rye could only see their legs.

“Another one,” Boil growled. “Superstitious simpletons. Chop it down.”

Rye watched one of the soldiers brace himself and listened to the chop of the axe. She flinched as the Wirry Scare creaked and splintered.

“You,” Boil said to the other soldier, “keep your eyes peeled. I heard noises over here.”

Rye held her breath and watched the soldier’s feet circle round the wagon. The link rat seemed to have noticed something on the ground. Constable Boil’s feet shuffled round the wagon in the opposite direction. She was surrounded on all sides. When she turned back, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest.

The link rat was just a boy, probably not much older than Rye. His eyes stared into hers without blinking, irises reflecting strange colours in the dim lantern light. Then he looked towards Rye’s own lantern, which lay on its side where she had dropped it, in plain view on the street not far from where the Constable and soldiers were now searching. He turned back towards her again. Rye shook her head, placed her palms together and pleaded with him silently. Her efforts seemed lost on him. It was like he wasn’t looking at her, but through her.