Rye took a deep breath and started to go down. There was no turning back now.
The main street in the Shambles was a mud walkway called Little Water Street that ran parallel with the river’s bank. It was much busier than the streets Rye had travelled in the village itself. People milled about alone or in groups, both men and women, and no one seemed surprised to see a young girl walking alone after dark. Rye remembered some advice her mother had given her once: Walk strong, act like you belong, and no one will be the wiser.
Rye pulled her cloak and hood tightly round her and moved with purpose. Catching the eyes of a passer-by, she nodded curtly and kept walking.
Those on the streets of the Shambles wore colourful cloaks in hues Rye almost never saw in the rest of the village – bold reds, rich greens and vibrant purples. People kept to themselves, which is not to say they were quiet. She heard a woman laugh as she and her companion stumbled arm in arm into a dark alley. A gimpy man dragged a wooden leg behind him with a step-tap-step-tap.
The shopkeepers were busy even at this late hour, their windows flung open to entice customers in. An artist with a needle tattooed the enormous back of a shirtless man, who grimaced and sipped his ale with every pinch. A shyster played a shell game for bronze bits, making a small blue stone disappear and reappear under halved coconut shells through sleight of hand.
The commotion grew as Rye reached the end of the street. Wandering into the dense crowd, she looked up. In the shadow of the village’s most impressive structure – the great arched bridge that spanned the River Drowning – rose a brooding building made of heavy timber and stone. Candles burned in each window and the revellers spilled down the front steps and caroused in the glowing street. Rye had never seen the Dead Fish Inn this busy before. Boisterous conversations floated through the air and over the river, where Rye could see lights bobbing on the water. Boats and rafts filled the docks tonight. Given all the unfamiliar flags, Rye suspected they’d sailed from towns far upriver to join the festivities.
Wind gusted off the water into Rye’s face and set the black flag flapping over the inn’s massive, iron-studded doors, the white fish bone logo swimming against the breeze. Rye always found it curious that an inn would need doors so thick. Two hulking guards stood watch at the front, joined together from the waist down by some dark magic. Their identical faces, under thick mops of white-blond hair, scrutinised all who tried to pass. Rye knew the intimidating guardians to be Folly’s twin brothers, Fitz and Flint, who, since birth, had shared a single pair of legs. They had the final say over who was allowed passage in or out of the Dead Fish. With their keen eyes and quick fists, there was no sneaking past them. Fortunately, Rye knew another way inside.
She slipped unnoticed down a darkened walkway and tiptoed through the alley behind the inn, taking care to be quiet until she tripped over a body on the ground.
“Ouch,” a voice grumbled, and a dirty hand grabbed Rye’s leg.
“Baron Nutfield?” Rye whispered. “Is that you?”
“Yes!” The voice smelled of ale and onions.
“Let go of my leg and go back to sleep,” Rye said.
He did.
Baron Nutfield was the old man who lived in the alley behind the Dead Fish. He actually lived in a guest room, but the Flood boys threw him in the alley whenever he failed to pay his bill. He spent more time outside the Dead Fish than in it. He claimed to be a nobleman in a county far to the south, but he never seemed able to find his way back there.
Rye reached down and picked up a pebble. She looked up at the third floor and counted three windows over from the left. Taking aim, she threw the pebble and it bounced off the glass with a rattle.
Nothing happened.
She picked up another, larger stone and tried again. This time it went clear through the glass.
“Pigshanks,” Rye whispered.
Her mother would scrub her tongue with soap if she heard her use language like that, but Rye was pretty sure Baron Nutfield didn’t mind.
“Hey!” an angry voice called from above. A man’s head jutted out of the broken window, but he couldn’t see her in the dark.
Maybe it was three from the right, Rye thought.
“Here,” Baron Nutfield said. He reached up and handed Rye another stone. “Put a little more arc on it this time.”
Rye tossed the stone at the window three from the right.
A lantern blazed to life. The window creaked open and a rope ladder slowly slid down the wall.
“YOU’RE FILTHY,” FOLLY said.
“It was a long walk.”
“Is that sick in your hair?” Folly asked.
“Pumpkin. Long story,” Rye said. “I like your dress.”
“Thanks,” Folly said, and did a little twirl. “Mum let me wear it for the Black Moon Party.”
It was dark-green velvet with gold trim. Like Rye, Folly didn’t wear dresses very often.
Folly’s room was small, but it was her own. She didn’t have to share one like her brothers did. It was decorated with glass bottles of all shapes and sizes, each filled with a colourful concoction of potential ingredients – frogspawn, belladonna blooms, dollops of earwax. Folly was always trying to make magical potions. They never worked, but Rye gave her credit for trying. Folly’s parents didn’t seem to mind. With eight sons and a whole inn to run, they hardly noticed the chemical fires and pungent fumes wafting from their daughter’s room.
“Are you ready?” Folly asked.
Rye nodded. This was going to make the whole trip worthwhile.
“OK,” Folly said. “Stay close to me and try not to draw attention to yourself. My father will be too busy to notice, and nobody else will care that we’re here.”
“Got it,” Rye said.
Folly opened her door and they stepped into the hall. Sound and heat roared from below. The four-storey inn was open from floor to ceiling, with a central staircase leading from one level to the next. Rye and Folly walked to the edge of the railing and peeked down. Hanging from the beamed ceiling, fixed with an anchor chain, was a chandelier fashioned from the sun-bleached skeleton of some long-extinct sea monster. Its bones were covered with hundreds of beeswax candles that bathed the inn in the glow of soft light.
All the tables were filled and people stood shoulder to shoulder at the bars. Barmaids pushed through the crowds, delivering trays of mugs and goblets that seemed to make everyone happier. A huge black shark roasted on a spit over the stone fireplace. Its jaws, filled with sharp teeth, were wide enough to fit a person inside. Every now and then a barmaid would cut off a piece, slap it on a plate, and deliver it to a hungry patron. With each cut, the juices of the shark steak dripped into the fire, sending flames shooting into the air, and everyone would cheer.
“Come on,” Folly said, and they took the stairs down to the second floor.
The second floor was busier than the third. Guests made their way in and out of their rooms, some disappearing behind latched doors. Over the noise of the crowd, Rye could hear music. There were drums, maybe a lute. Rye was spellbound by the festivities. She crossed her legs and leaned her head against the railing, soaking in the sights and sounds.
The Dead Fish drew an unusual