Emily Rodda - The Silver Door

The wagon slowed and stopped, its roar giving way to a sullen hissing. Rye tried to move and instantly an arm tightened around his shoulders.

‘Do not stir!’ a harsh female voice rasped in his ear. ‘Sit like a rock if you value your life.’

‘Will I throw Four-Eyes out, Bird?’ a man growled from the front of the wagon.

‘No, Bean!’ Rye’s captor barked. ‘We might need him yet. Stay at the wheel and keep the fire stoked. We won’t be stopping for long.’

So the trader’s wagon had been taken over. Rye hoped desperately that the invaders were starving scourers bent on stealing Four-Eyes’ stock. If that was it, he, Sonia and Dirk had a chance.

But what if the Master had somehow found out that three strangers from the Saltings were aboard the wagon? What if the invaders were soldiers, sent to take them prisoner?

Rye could not turn to look at Dirk, but Sonia’s face was swimming in the dimness straight ahead of him. A bearded man squatted behind her, holding her tightly. The blade of a bone knife gleamed at her throat.

Sonia’s eyes were huge with fear. Her lips were slightly parted. She was staring at Rye’s neck—at the knifepoint hovering under his chin.

The woman called Bird moved uneasily. ‘Shut your witch’s eyes!’ she hissed at Sonia. ‘Shut them or your friend here will regret it!’

She moved the knifepoint a fraction. Sonia hastily did as she was told.

Rye thought of the little brown bag of powers. It was there, lying against his chest, under his shirt, well below his captor’s arm. If only he could get to it—get his hands on the armour shell! But the black eyes of Sonia’s captor were fixed on him, watching for the slightest movement.

‘Chub!’ Bird snapped. ‘Is the big one safe yet?’

‘Yes,’ a frightened female voice replied from behind them. ‘But he only stopped struggling just now, Bird. He’s strong as a bloodhog!’

‘Come and see to the witch,’ Bird ordered. ‘Make haste!’

The sickly sweet smell suddenly became much stronger as a dark-clad figure carrying a pad of white cloth moved in front of Rye and bent over Sonia.

With a choking cry Rye tried to hurl himself forward, but Bird was ready for him. She held him with a grip of iron, and her knife hand remained steady.

‘Do that again and you’ll cut your own throat,’ she snarled. ‘The witch hasn’t been harmed. Myrmon isn’t a poison. It’ll make her sleep, that’s all.’

The dark figure straightened. As it sidled out of the way Rye saw that Sonia had slumped sideways, and that her bearded captor was easing her down onto the floor.

‘That will put a stop to her mischief,’ Bird said fiercely.

‘She … is not a witch!’ panted Rye. He could feel blood running down his neck and realised that the knife had pierced his skin. He could not have cared less.

Bird snorted. ‘So you say. But I’ve got eyes in my head, and ears as well. You’re the three Bones of the Den called magic, and I’d believe Bones a thousand times over before I’d believe you. Folk call him mad, but they forget how he fought the Master in his time. My old granny doesn’t forget, though. She’s told us of those days often.’

So the invaders were not soldiers. They were against the Master, not for him!

‘We—we are no friends of the Master, Bird,’ Rye burst out. ‘We are your allies! Let us go! Steal what you like from the trader’s wagon—we will never tell a soul, I swear!’

It was as if he had not spoken. ‘Itch, help Chub drag the giant out,’ Bird said to the man crouching beside Sonia. ‘Then Bean can get us moving again.’

They were going to leave Dirk, drugged and helpless, alone in the Scour!

‘No!’ Rye begged. ‘Please—’

‘Quiet!’ Bird snapped.

As Itch crawled to his feet, Rye realised with a shock that he was very short indeed—no taller than a Weld child of eight or nine. In fact, he looked like FitzFee! He had the same strong build. He even carried a heavy bow on his belt, as FitzFee did.

And Chub, the wielder of the reeking white cloth, might well be just like him, Rye realised now. Chub had also seemed short, but at the time Rye had been too afraid for Sonia to think about what that might mean.

Rye’s heart leaped. Could it be that Itch and Chub were related to FitzFee? Were they cousins, perhaps, who had fled to the east to escape Olt? If so …

He decided to take a chance. ‘Does the name FitzFee mean anything to you?’ he asked loudly.

Itch’s face went blank. Rye felt Bird stiffen in shock, and heard Chub gasp loudly in the shadows to his right. Plainly they all recognised the name. Hope flared in him.

‘FitzFee is our friend,’ he hurried on. ‘FitzFee would tell you—’

‘Hold your tongue or lose it, sorcerer!’ Bird burst out, her voice shaking. ‘We know your tricks!’

Rye froze. What had happened? What had he done? His captor was panting. Her hand was trembling, and the knifepoint was scratching Rye’s skin, stinging and burning.

‘Go, Itch!’ Bird ordered. ‘I can deal with him.’

‘Bird, there is a cage of ducks here, just like they said!’ Chub squeaked from the other side of the wagon. ‘Live ducks! Six of them!’

Rye felt Bird tense, but she did not hesitate. ‘It can’t be helped,’ she snapped. ‘Put them out with the giant. And get rid of that pad of myrmon, Chub, for pity’s sake! You’ll have us all fainting, next.’

Silently Itch moved out of Rye’s view. Now! Rye thought. Very slowly, concentrating on not moving his shoulders, he began to edge his hand up towards the little brown bag.

He heard bumping and panting as Chub and Itch heaved boxes and sacks out onto the track to clear a path, then dragged Dirk’s body away. A few moments later, feet came padding back and there was a scraping sound as the duck cage was moved and lifted. The ducks quacked sleepily as they, too, were carried out.

Bird’s hand had stopped trembling but she was still breathing rapidly, and her body was rigid with tension. With agonising slowness Rye moved his fingers upwards.

‘Ready, Bean!’ he heard Chub call.

With a clank, a hiss and a creak the wagon began to move, very slowly at first and then a little faster. Pebbles shifted and cracked under the mighty rollers. The puffing, roaring sound began. The speed increased. The metal walls rattled, and the floor began to vibrate.

Bird breathed out. Her body relaxed a little. Plainly she had feared that Bean would not be able to make the monstrous vehicle start again. Rye gave a little grunt and lurched very slightly, as if the shuddering of the wagon had thrown him off balance. At the same time, he slid his hand up and pushed it inside his shirt so that the bag of powers was under his fingers.

‘Good work, Bean!’ Bird shouted over the noise of the wagon. ‘Now, Chub and Itch, clear everything else out! Everything but the jell safe and that black coat and cap I chose before.’

‘There’s some g-good stuff here, B-Bird!’ a male voice with a slight stammer complained. Itch , Rye thought, trying to loosen the neck of the little bag with his fingertips.

‘Yes, Bird!’ Chub cried shrilly. ‘Some of our own good tarny roots and goat meat, for a start! And the biggest bloodhog skull you’ve ever—’

‘Keep your minds on what we’re doing, for pity’s sake!’ Bird shouted, her voice sharp with irritation. ‘The wagon’s got to look the part or they’ll get suspicious. The plan’s risky enough as it is!’

Chub and Itch made no more protests. Fresh air, dust and steam wafted into the wagon as the hide curtain was pulled aside. Rattling, dragging sounds began, followed by dull thuds as goods were tossed out of the open doorway onto the side of the track.