5. The Lantern Moves On and Kew Sees His First Banquet

5. The Lantern Moves On and Kew Sees His First Banquet

In the morning, they ate some more biscuits and drank some more water and climbed back into the lantern. Sparrow took the empty bottles along, saying that they would refill them at the aviary, there being no sources of fresh water between the waypoint and the tower. To keep them out of the way, Kew put the bottles in his pack, where they nestled amid the books and food he had salvaged from Hawthorn's room. He and Sparrow did not speak, for Sparrow needed to whistle to keep the lantern going.

The roofs and walls of Black's mansions rolled by, clouded by the scratched, dirty panes of the lantern. While the walls of Grey were built of simple dry ashlar, unadorned and practical, Black's were elaborate and finely worked, with cornices and spires and buttresses everywhere. Gargoyles and grotesques sprouted from every roof; flowers and thorns wrapped every window, all of the same shining black stone. The summer sun gleamed along every polished curve and flashed on every spine and flagpole. It was the most beautiful thing Kew had ever seen.

Dreading this journey had been foolish. Black Tower was awe-inspiring, even terrifying, but the West Passage was Kew's territory. He had needed to fear it no more than a cat fears a rat.

The lantern came to a juddering halt. Sparrow whistled, frowned, and whistled again. The lantern twitched but could not move. Sparrow sighed.

"Might need to oil the gear," they said, and sighed again. From a compartment in the lantern floor, they took an oilcan. They opened the door and leaned out to the left to see the gear.

Over their shoulder, Black Tower was stark against the blue sky. The West Passage walls ran straight toward it, limned with sunlight though the road itself was lost in shadow. Across the court rooftops to the east, Red Tower glowed. Through the haze from its beacon, a little thread of bright silver shone.

A train! Kew had never seen one, but he had read of them. Judging by its position relative to him, the train was running along an elevated track or perhaps another wall top. They did not come near Grey; there were stories about why this might be, but probably it was due to the mothers' damnable stubbornness. To take a train—to race along the roofs, almost flying—to arrive at Black Tower like a proper courtier— that would have made an impression on the Ladies!

Sparrow finished oiling the gear and closed the lantern. "Damn thing won't stay oiled," they said, stowing the can. "I hope we can get back to the aviary before it sticks again. No love nor loyalty will keep me out another night, not with things the way they are."

"What do you mean?" said Kew.

"Oh, troubles in the cellars, like always," said the Sparrow. "Only worse now than before. They say there was a hollowman taken down three nights ago—no, four—and that's a deed generations'll remember you for."

"Brigands?"

"That's the least of it," said Sparrow. They took a long sip of water. "The most of it is that something's astir."

"What?"

Sparrow shrugged. "I'm only a Sparrow. There's a lot that's none of my business, and still more that I won't make my business. So I'll only say that when I looked out just now, and I looked back down the Passage just now, do you know what I saw? Clouds. Clouds over Grey Tower. Seemed to me as if they carried a lot of snow."

"But it's summer there," said Kew.

"Summer there and spring in Yellow, I know. But the wheel has a hitch, it seems, and that's a bad sign, and though I've never seen a winter out of season, they say it's always a punishment or an omen."

Sparrow didn't know the whole truth, it seemed. A wrong winter could be an omen of the Beast, which, the records said, sucked vitality out of the earth as it approached. It didn't have to be that, though. The women in grey had clearly shirked their duty in the matter of the masks, and the great Lady of Black could be angry over the mistreatment of such important artifacts.

"Could be a punishment," Kew said bitterly.

Sparrow laughed. "What has Grey Tower ever done, right or wrong, to get itself noticed by those that turn the wheel? Nothing, not since Rose."

"Well, there was the Long Winter in Thistle," said Kew. "And the Interdictions all throughout Bellflower."

"Sure, but that's long, long ago. Song-times, not story-times. Again, it's not my business, and when it comes to the wheel, I won't make it my business. I'll only say this: If it's meant to be an omen, it's not on the approved lists. Which has me a bit rattled."

Sparrow started whistling again. The gear shrieked and shuddered in protest, but it turned, and soon the lantern was skimming along at a fast clip. After a few minutes of boredom, Kew decided to look at Hawthorn's books. He had to brush up on his court etiquette, for one thing, and for another, if there were a list of omens known to Black Tower, he was unaware of it. There were signs of its approach known in Grey. Hawthorn herself had never seen them in her life, but they were written down somewhere, and winter was one of them. But was it early winter, or delayed winter? The latter was preferable, for Grey was not prepared— Kew was not prepared—for the other possibility.

Atop everything in the pack was a cloth-wrapped children's rhyme Hawthorn had received from Blue the day she was taken ill. He had brought it as a memento, though what she'd wanted with it he could only imagine. At the bottom was Times perhaps it was under the mask.

No, not even there. The Downfall of the Thistles was simply missing. Kew had not opened his pack the day before, and in the empty, quiet Passage, he would have noticed anything falling out. Downfall had been removed before he ever left Grey Tower. But nobody had been in Hawthorn's room but him, and the women in grey… and their little apprentice.

It was her. It must have been. She said the women did not take, and he'd believed her. Why had she stolen it? The book was no use to her. They didn't read or write in Grey House. Was it to spite him for startling her? Hawthorn had filled the margins with notes. It was not an ordinary book; it was practically her diary . It was part of her.

"Something wrong?" said Sparrow. The lantern had come to a halt and they were looking at Kew curiously.

Kew shook his head. "It's fine. I just need to head back to Grey as soon as possible. Once I complete my mission, that is."

"Homesick?" said Sparrow, and started whistling without waiting for an answer.

"Not exactly," Kew muttered.

If one couldn't trust even the women, then one thing was plain now, a thing he had suspected for some time. The Guardians did not belong in Grey. Hawthorn had occasionally wondered aloud why they were housed there, in the oldest part of the palace. Black made more sense. It was at one end of the West Passage, and it was the seat of power. The women in grey stayed in their house because their role was small, and because they were stubborn, but the Guardians were entrusted with the defense of the entire palace. They belonged where they could do some good, where their voice would not be lost in the dust and ruin of Grey. They belonged in the court of the Ladies of Black Tower.

When Kew became the Guardian, he would petition to move. Surely nobody meddled with other people's belongings in Black. It was a place of order, not chaos.

Something bumped against the lantern, and Sparrow stopped their music. Their body went very still.

"What—" said Kew, but Sparrow flung their hand out to cover his mouth.

The two of them waited. Sparrow's head swiveled, looking through each of the three panes in turn. The sunlight turned the scratched glass nearly opaque. Where the glass was shadowed and clear, it faced the opposite wall. A few kestrels perched on the top. Perhaps one of them had—

Thud . The lantern trembled. It came from the metal side, where the gear attached. Sparrow let out a long exhalation that sounded like despair. Kew quickly—but with scrupulous silence—put everything back in his pack. He had nearly finished buckling it closed when the lantern shook again. This time, he caught a glimpse of a dark shape flashing past the window.

"Jackals," whispered Sparrow. "If we move, they'll chase us."

"And if we stay still?" said Kew, even more quietly.

"They may ignore us."

"May?"

Thud went the metal wall again, right next to Kew. Sparrow motioned furiously for quiet just as the wall beside them shuddered under an impact. Two jackals, then. Possibly more.

Silence fell. Kew's heart was pounding so loudly, it would almost be better to speak just to drown it out. He held his breath and listened. Totally unconcerned, one of the kestrels took flight, diving into the depths of the Passage after some prey.

Bang! went the top of the lantern, and answering bangs came from the sides and bottom. They were surrounded, and the jackals were not going away.

"Hold on," said Sparrow. "And cover your eyes."

They let out an earsplitting whistle. The basin of light flared like the sun. Kew flung his arm across his face, but the light that had soaked into his robe shone just as brightly. He slammed his palms over his eyes. They flashed black and red as the light dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened. Meanwhile, Sparrow whistled their old arpeggio so fast that the notes nearly stacked into a chord. The lantern jerked forward, pushing Kew against the glass with the force of its speed.

As it rocketed away, there were barks and howls behind them. Kew could not open his eyes, and could barely hear over Sparrow's noise, but it seemed the jackals were falling away. He tried to take deep, regular breaths, but his heart was thumping more quickly than Sparrow could whistle.

Sparrow paused to breathe, but the lantern's momentum propelled it along. Kew began to relax slightly. They could do this. Jackals would give up the chase if it took long enough. Sparrow's lungs just needed to hold out.

The barking had gone silent. They had outpaced the jackals. As the light dimmed, Kew smiled in relief and took his hands away from his face.

Thud went the glass beside him. A huge yellow eye stared into his own. The light brightened again. Yelping, the jackal veered away.

With the next note, the gear caught. The lantern shrieked, stopped. Kew's body rattled against Sparrow's armor. Sparrow rattled against the door. The ancient latch sheared off, and the door flew open.

Sparrow's upper body fell out of the lantern. The light dimmed. Their hands scrabbled for the sides of the door and caught it by a few fingertips. Green jaws closed around their wrist. Their eyes met Kew's.

"They hate light!" said Sparrow. "They hate—"

A green head clamped onto their shoulder and yanked them from the lantern. Lithe bodies streamed past, running down the face of the wall as easily as if it were a road. A long scream rose from the dark depths of the Passage.

A Guardian's first duty is to protect. Kew scrambled to the open door and looked out. If he could just get to Sparrow—A landing platform stuck out from the wall a few yards below. Sparrow lay there, facing up, surrounded by green and brown bodies. Clever long-fingered paws had wrenched their cuirass away, tearing their torso open. Their eyes were wide and glassy. As jackals' teeth unspooled their guts, they saw Kew.

They whistled a new note, and the door started to close. Kew tried to keep it open. He had to get out. He had to help. This was the West Passage; Guardians protected it. And Kew was practically a Guardian. But the door continued, inexorably, to close. The last thing he saw before it shut was Sparrow's eyes going dim.

The lantern's light kept flaring and dying. Kew put his head between his knees and tried to breathe. He needed to get out of there. He needed to move the lantern. Sparrow's tune was engraved in his memory, but his trembling lips would not let him whistle at first. Again and again he tried. All the while he tried not to hear the jackals feasting. At last he formed the first note.

The wheel twitched. It had stuck again, of course. Even if he could somehow open the door to escape, the jackals were still there. Kew whistled again, more loudly. The wheel grated, but it turned. He whistled the next note. The wheel protested, but turned once more. He whistled the third note. It moved a little more easily.

Below him, the jackals barked again. He had caught their attention. But as long as he heeded Sparrow's last words, he might be all right.

He whistled the fourth note, and the wheel stuck. He tried again. It wouldn't budge. On the third try, something snapped. Kew held his breath and sat very still. Nothing happened. Maybe that snap had just been the rust breaking. If that was even how lanterns worked, and Kew was far from informed on this point. But he knew he could not stay there, so he whistled the fourth note again.

The gear's housing tore free and the lantern plummeted into the depths.