Twelve-year-old Carmen has a secret: she can talk to her cat Grim. But the powerful Brotherhood has banned pets, and the penalty is death.
Ward is the most wanted boy in the world. The only thing standing between him and the hangman's noose is maste...
To reach Bareheep's port from Pillock Bay, ships had to navigate the river Yar. The river wound through an extensive marshland, splitting to flow past both sides of Good Island (home to a few stunted trees and the foundations of a building of the Old People), rejoining briefly before forking again. The eastern arm narrowed as it passed the market gardens, slipped under Kildare Bridge, and vanished into Xandra Wood; the western was broader but it terminated immediately at the docks.
It was into a berth here that the ship, looking more like a river barge than anything, slunk the next morning, its crew white-faced and haggard, a jury-rigged sail flapping feebly where the mast had stood. Nobody welcomed it. Wharfmen with grim faces tied it off. They wore grubby coats and grubbier caps, and did not speak.
The Wharflands were a graveyard of shipping containers in various stages of rot, interspersed with ship frames like prehistoric skellingtons; beyond lay an overgrown field, then a low area of mean shanties with dark windows. Finally, the city climbed to a distant summit of spires. The sun glowed feebly through a blanket of clouds.
There was a pier adjacent to the docks, along which stretched a line of buildings under a single roof. The white letters painted on the roof had faded almost completely away: SAM SUNG CHANDLERY. Vast coils of rope slumped outside the doorways. Lanthorns swung, and shadows moved behind the windows.
Three chaises waited near the ship. Horses snorted and stamped. One of the chaises tilted alarmingly as Snapper hoisted himself up onto the box seat. He was about to speak to the driver when there came a tap on his shoulder.
"Handel."
"Oh. Corvus. Well." Snapper licked his lips.
"I wanted to thank you," Corvus said.
"Um. For what?"
"For attempting to rescue -"
"Oh it was nothing," Snapper said quickly, his attention focused on the chaise's handrail.
Corvus laid a hand on his forearm. "Your bravery didn't escape my notice. Very little does, you know."
Snapper glanced at the old man before returning to the mysteries of the handrail.
"Well, good day," Corvus said, and shuffled off towards his own chaise, his staff in his hand and the archon perched on his shoulder. His luggage stood beside the chaise: it consisted of a suitcase and a covered birdcage.
"Slough and Bellows," Snapper said to the driver. His voice was not quite steady.
"Aye," the driver said, and the chaise clattered off.
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