The Ever Breath Read online

  “We’re just on winter break,” Truman tried to explain. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”

  “There’s no mistake. You’re here for a reason. The Ever Breath,” Coldwidder said, glancing between Artwhip and Truman, “is gone.”

  And then someone back in the restaurant called for Coldwidder. “Where are you? Your customers, Coldwidder!”

  Coldwidder clapped Artwhip on the back. “I guess there aren’t many free jarkmen to choose from. Almost all of us are in the cages filling these streets or in the bowels of prison. Still,” Coldwidder said. “Why you and not me?” And with that, he turned and shouted back in a shaky voice, “Coming!” The door shut, leaving Artwhip, Truman, and Praddle in the alley.

  Down on the alley’s far end, the ruckus tent’s flaps were snapping in the cold air. Light snow began to float down from the sky. Truman remembered the scene in the snow globe—the blood spreading across Artwhip’s shirt, the snowy ground, the tent flaps, the woman in the hood. “Do you believe that the future is the future and there’s nothing anyone can do about it?” he asked.

  Artwhip looked up at the snowy night sky, the ruffled moonlit clouds. He said, “The Ever Breath. I’ve only ever heard people talk about it. It’s the breath of A Being Than Which Nothing Greater Can Be Conceived, and it’s set in stone. That’s what they say. It’s set in stone, but that breath …” He looked at Truman. “That breath is still alive. It’s still breathing. If that’s true, anything can happen.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Us Versus Them

  By the time Binderbee heard Dobbler’s shoes clacking down the tiled hall toward his office, the mouse had written a hasty note with Dobbler’s inkhorn and plume. He kept it brief.

  And then he’d splashed chatterbroth tea on it until it was illegible and dried it out by the fire. He then, very quickly, put the tincture on it and let the words bleed through.

  The original? Neatly folded and hidden in his leather briefcase.

  Dobbler strode into the room, wearing his locust-fairy hat. “I’ll be here late tonight,” Dobbler said over his shoulder to his secretary. “Brew another pot!” Then he spotted Binderbee standing on his desk, next to the fake note from Artwhip’s mother. “Ho! Binderbee!” Dobbler said. “You scared me!”

  “Sorry, sir. I know mice can be frightful.”

  “I’m not afraid of mice! Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just that I forgot you were here.” He whistled and the locust fairies darted off his head and onto the peg on the wall. He sat down behind his desk and smoothed some of the rumpled feathers sticking out of his sleeves.

  There was a light knock at the door and a man with a jowly face and a tight starched collar poked his head in. He was wearing a long overcoat and a fur scarf. “You sent for me, sir?”

  “Oh, Ostwiser. Yes. Come in.” Binderbee was startled. Was this Ostwiser a relation of Artwhip Ostwiser the Jarkman? Dobbler went on, “I was just saying I’ll never get used to mice working here in the Office. Will you, Ostwiser?”

  Ostwiser shook his head. “Doubtful, sir.”

  This was an insult. Why wouldn’t you get used to us? Binderbee thought. We can do just as good a job as you can. Better, if you consider that we can fit into places that you can’t! And why sign a contract with us if we didn’t deserve to be here?

  “I’ve called Ostwiser in to hear this firsthand, Binderbee. Sit down, Ostwiser. This is about your son. A serious matter. He’s a suspected jarkman.”

  “My son?” Ostwiser gasped. “Oh, no. Not possible. The boy is on the up-and-up. He’s going to apply for the new position in the Confessions Department. He told me so just today.” How cruel, Binderbee thought, to bring the father in when he thinks the boy’s about to be accused.

  “Really? Well, I hope that’s the case,” Dobbler said. Then he turned to Binderbee. “Did you find anything in the ruin’t letter?”

  Binderbee looked at Ostwiser. Would he know that Binderbee was lying if he said it was just a letter about a hat? Would he contradict him and send his own son to jail? Binderbee had no choice at the moment. The fake letter was sitting out on Dobbler’s desk. “Sorry, sir,” Binderbee said, pursing his lips and wagging his head. “Nothing.”

  Dobbler looked impatient and tired. His eyes were weighted with fatty pouches for lids. “Nothing at all? Look, I’m working with someone who might know exactly where Cragmeal is and I’m on the brink of getting said person to hand him over to us. And I don’t know if you have noticed, but the beasts in the highlands are growing viciously restless. Howling like madmen. The ruckus tents are getting fevered. There are wild fire-breathers starting small fires in the woodlands. There’s a restlessness that can’t be explained. It’s as if the magical creatures are puffing up on their own power … as if there’s something wrong with the passageway itself, as if the flow of imagination and dream and magic were bogging down somehow … as if the Ever Breath itself were gone.” Dobbler stared at Ostwiser and Binderbee piercingly. “And my said person might know a thing or two about that as well! If we could get in now, while the power is up for grabs, there’s no telling what we could do. And if we can get Cragmeal, once and for all, pegged as the troublemaker he is, if we can make a case to the people of this city that he is a betrayer, that he is the thief of the Ever Breath itself, then we can put him behind bars forever. And then we can make a world where everyone is good, and evil is simply done away with.”

  “But what if he didn’t steal the Ever Breath?” Binderbee asked quietly.

  “Then we still don’t want to miss the opportunity to pin it on him and put him away for good. Evil is evil, Binderbee, and we fight it every way we can!” He drummed his fingers on his desk. “The key to battling evil is to create fear! Then and only then will your people rely on you for protection. Only then will they love you like a strong father. They might not see you as a kind father, but they will respect you.”

  “But—” Binderbee began.

  “But what?”

  He wanted to say something about using fear and how that was exactly what the beasts did—blood-betakers and wolven men and fire-breathers. He glanced at Ostwiser, who gave the slightest shake of his head, as if to say, No, don’t. And Binderbee let the air out of his chest. He didn’t have the courage. Instead he said, “It was just a letter from his mother, after all, telling him to wear the hat. It’s right here if you’d like to read it.”

  “Why would I want to read a letter from someone’s mommy about a hat?” Dobbler said.

  “See! I told you so!” Ostwiser said. “My son is a good boy, sir. He truly is!”

  And Binderbee felt relieved.

  “Fine then, just fine,” Dobbler said, but he glared at Binderbee. “Are you sure?”

  Binderbee nodded. “I graduated from Wesslon University of Technology, first in my class!”

  “A true scholar,” Dobbler said, and he let out a mighty sigh. “You two can go, then. I have work to do.”

  Binderbee started to pack up the fake letter, but Dobbler pinned it under his fist. “Leave this, will you? I think I might need to put someone new on the trail of this Artwhip.” Then he glanced at Ostwiser and said through a bright smile, “For your son’s own protection, of course.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Ostwiser said. His voice jangled with nervousness. “He’s very strong and in no trouble!”

  “It’s just that I’ve made a deal with this new alliance, as I mentioned.” Dobbler looked over at his hat on its peg. “This someone I knew when I was very young, and now has just drifted back into my life. And this new alliance will be a strong one for the Office, especially in the area of surveillance. In fact, even better than you mice,” he said to Binderbee.

  Binderbee felt heat rise in his cheeks. He wanted to blurt out exactly what he’d learned about Cragmeal to prove that Dobbler was dead wrong about mice. But he held his tongue.

  “It’s a very kind offer,” Ostwiser said, “but you don’t need to waste any of your forc
es on my son. He’s just a zwodder-head. You know kids!”

  “I’d just hate for there to be a cage with his name on it one day,” Dobbler said, in the same slick, threatening voice he’d used when he said the very same thing to Binderbee earlier in the day. “Maybe we can nip in the bud any wrong turns the boy might make. Right, Ostwiser?”

  Ostwiser looked down at his hands and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Dobbler turned to Binderbee and held out his palm. Binderbee climbed onto it. This was the most embarrassing part, relying on Dobbler’s hand for a ride down off the desk. Dobbler set him on the floor.

  Ostwiser was holding the door open, and as Binderbee marched out of the office, Ostwiser was saying, “Anything else you need, just call me, sir! I’m at your disposal.”

  “Shut the door on your way out!”

  Ostwiser and Binderbee walked past the secretary’s polished hooves and down the long marble hall. Ostwiser was jotting a note of some kind. Just before he headed into the maze of cubicles and Binderbee headed toward the building’s lobby, he said, “Binderbee.”

  “Yes?” Binderbee said.

  Ostwiser bent down and stuck out his hand for Binderbee to shake. “You didn’t have to.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “I’m saying thank you,” Ostwiser said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Binderbee said, but still he shook Ostwiser’s hand.

  Ostwiser handed him one of the black-and-white business cards. “Us versus Them,” Ostwiser said, but his tone wasn’t the rah-rah chipper tone that Dobbler had used. Ostwiser’s tone was serious. He looked Binderbee in the eye, and then, strangely enough, the fur scarf around his neck writhed and a set of eyes appeared, giving a wink.

  Binderbee gasped.

  “The card,” Ostwiser said. “Take a look at it when you get a chance. Brand-new design.”

  “I will,” Binderbee said.

  “Promise?”

  Binderbee laughed. He thought Ostwiser was joking around. But Ostwiser didn’t laugh.

  “Okay,” Binderbee said, suddenly serious. “I promise. I’ll take a look at it.”

  “Tell my son,” Ostwiser whispered.

  “Tell him what?”

  “You’ll know what to tell him.” Ostwiser gave a nod and walked on down the marble hall back toward the offices.

  Binderbee watched him go, then scratched his head. Once he walked out through the revolving door into the cold, whipping wind, he looked at the card. It was plain, black-and-white, similar to others he’d seen before. And then he flipped it over.

  There was Ostwiser’s scrawl:

  Save my son. You’ll need help. Go to Otwell Prim, Ogre Herdsman of Fire-Breathers. Jarkman. Old friend of mine, back before I worked for the Office. Be quick and true of heart.

  Ostwiser, with his fur scarf and jowls, was going to buck the Office? He was going to help Binderbee? Could Ostwiser be a secret agent? Who was Us and who was Them? Binderbee wasn’t sure anymore. But he could use the help and protection of an ogre.

  Binderbee folded the card in half and then into quarters, stuffed it in his briefcase, and ran through the revolving door into the cold foggy air.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Into the Ruckus Tent

  To get to the ruckus tent’s open flaps, Artwhip, Truman, and Praddle had to walk down the alley, passing by a row of caged creatures. Truman didn’t want to look any of them in the eye. The man in the tweed suit had spooked him. And so Truman tucked in his chin as if simply trying to keep his neck warm. He decided to distract himself by asking questions.

  “Why do they have ruckus tents?” he asked Artwhip. “What are they?”

  “They’re sanctioned by the Office of Official Affairs only in that the Office doesn’t care much what goes on inside of them. The Office’s stance seems to be that if folks go in there and become so unruly that they injure themselves, well, so be it! There has to be an outlet for madness of various sorts, and the Office has decided that this is the place. A container for chaos.”

  The alley was narrow and they were passing by the cages so closely that they could hear the creatures breathing. Some were moaning. Truman saw the sad eyes of a two-headed fox, pacing a circle in its cage under one of the US VERSUS THEM! posters. Truman looked away quickly.

  “Do you know anyone with the initials T.T.S.?”

  “I’ve been running through everyone I know,” Artwhip answered, “from my Academy days, my old neighborhood, my new neighborhood…. I can’t think of anyone.”

  “Why did the note writer use initials, anyway?”

  “In death warnings, only initials are required,” Artwhip said, “which always seems a little cowardly to me. If you’re going to kill someone and you’re giving due warning, shouldn’t you at least sign your full name?”

  “It seems unfair that you’d have to spend your time trying to figure out initials instead of getting ready for the person who’s coming to kill you,” Truman said.

  “Exactly,” Artwhip said.

  They were at the tent flaps now, about to go inside, but then they heard a screech echo down the alley. A vulture had one of the cages gripped in his claws. Beating his broad wings, he lifted the cage up into the night sky.

  “I saw a whole flock of vultures last night,” Truman said. “They were all carrying cages.”

  “Things aren’t right,” Artwhip said. “C’mon.” He grabbed Truman by the shoulder and they hustled into the tent.

  The ruckus tent had a lofty top, propped up by poles. There were actors and actresses in cake makeup and thick, velvety costumes reciting lines while clomping across wooden stages raised above the dirt floor—not to mention jugglers. When Truman and Artwhip stepped into the tent, there was a woman—just about a foot tall—spinning over-head, hanging on to a cloth swing by her teeth.

  But the ruckus tents were also loud and foul-smelling and overpacked. There were bullhorn speakers in here as well, but Truman could barely hear the warnings above all the noise. One hand on the hilt of the dagger hidden under his coat and shirt, Artwhip led the way, past a row of drunkard booths selling Clamberskull, onion ale, vino delight. Praddle sat on Truman’s shoulder and named all the strange creatures. Keg-bellied horned men and urfs, even a few glowskins (who glowed more brightly when drunk), were chanting and singing and falling all around the dirt floor. Passing by a small group of knurls, he heard one whisper, “Down with Cragmeal! Traitor!” Bleary-eyed, they lifted their drinks.

  A drunken fairy, flapping just a few feet off the ground, flew right into Artwhip. She crashed to the ground, crumpling one wing. “Curse you!” she said. “Curse you!” And then she began to cry.

  “Too late,” Artwhip said. “Already cursed.”

  The beggars swarmed anyone who walked into the tent. Some had sealed eyes and others had nubbed wings. They cried to Artwhip and Truman, “Just a bit for me and me babes at home. They’re stomach-sick, sire. Just a bit …”

  “Hold on to what’s yours,” Artwhip said to Truman over his shoulder.

  Truman tightened his grip on the snow globe and Praddle, and kept marching forward as fast as he could.

  “Come, come, sire, you’ve got a soft heart, no?”

  “Spare just a coin? Just one coin for a beetle-eyed beggar!”

  “You have to say no,” Artwhip said. “It’s hard, but you have to.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Truman said. “Sorry, I really don’t.” He was caught in a small crowd for a moment, and when he looked up, he saw Artwhip talking to a woman wearing a long cloak. A hood was blocking her face from view, but Truman was afraid that he would recognize her face. She might be the woman he’d seen in the globe, that very first scene where Truman had seen Artwhip bleeding in the snow.

  “Excuse me,” Truman said to the beggars. “Sorry, I don’t have anything. Excuse me.” He fought his way to Artwhip’s side and grabbed his shirt. “Sorry to interrupt. I have to tell you something.”

&
nbsp; “Just a second,” Artwhip said, not even looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the woman. Over the hooded cloak, she also wore a shawl. She was young and willowy thin, with skin the rich color of mud. And although her skin was dry, almost as if covered with scales, she was beautiful. Her eyes were shiny and golden, like honey. “This woman is telling me something important.”

  “I was just saying that someone stole my money pouch, and I’m supposed to bring medicine back to the bog for one of our newborn bog-colts. And now I’ve gotten turned around and I’m so hungry that I’m light-headed.”

  Artwhip looked a little lovestruck and seemed tonguetied. “Um, uh, sure,” he said. “Here.” And he gave her all the money in his pocket.

  “Thank you,” she said, and then she stuck out her hand. “I’m Erswat.”

  Artwhip shook her hand. “Artwhip.”

  Truman coughed, as urgently as he could. “Artwhip! I need to talk to you. Privately.”

  The woman looked at him and smiled, waiting for an introduction.

  “Oh,” Artwhip said. “And this is Truman—and his mewler, Praddle.”

  “Nice to meet you.” She didn’t seem like a killer, but Truman was still suspicious. Nothing here was quite what it seemed to be. And hadn’t he seen her there, at the scene of the crime? “This place prinkles my flesh with fear,” she said. “But we’re supposed to love it, aren’t we.”

  “I think we are,” Artwhip said. “But I don’t like it either. It’s just too much.”

  The bogwoman looked at him, surprised that they had this in common.

  “I think I’m going to throw up,” Truman said. “I have a lot of allergies and a strong gag reflex.”

  “Are you ill?” the woman asked.

  “Very!” Truman said, shoving Artwhip away from her. “We have to go! Nice to meet you.”

  “Hey,” Artwhip said, “stop shoving!”

  “Well, thank you again. I won’t forget this,” she said to Artwhip. “I hope you feel better,” she told Truman. And she gave a nod and then blended into the crowd.