The Uncommoners #2 Read online

  The photo accompanying the main article showed a man with a chiseled jaw and slick black hair taking a sip from a huge brass cup. He was surrounded by snow globe photographers and screaming fans. Ivy swallowed, trying to dispel the bitter taste at the back of her throat. If they wanted to stop the Dirge from opening the Jar of Shadows at the contest, they were running out of time.

  Hearing a clatter across the street, she glanced around. Brewster’s Alehouse was packed, as always—revelers released flaming burps as they lounged at picnic tables outside. Ivy spied a scrawny figure hunched over a row of metal bins in the alley beside the building.

  Alexander Brewster. He swayed on the spot, a mountain of bulging bin bags in his arms. His thin legs wobbled as he took a step….

  “Hold on!” she called, hurrying over.

  Alexander’s pale face poked out from behind the black bags. “I think I’ve picked up too many,” he fretted.

  Ivy grabbed the top bag, and together they unloaded the rest into the dustbins.

  “There’s no time to take the rubbish out,” Alexander said, sighing once they’d finished. “We’re so busy that Pa is having to whip up batches of Dragon’s Brew overnight. Every day we’re selling out.”

  Ivy brushed her hands clean on her dungarees. “That’s good, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s a great achievement. Everyone wants your dad’s ale.”

  Alexander’s mouth twitched. “I guess.” He set the last lid back on a dustbin. “Thanks for helping, er…”

  Ivy held out her hand. “It’s Ivy—Ivy Sparrow.”

  He shook it with old leather gloves the color of oxblood.

  Ivy helped him collect the glasses from the outside tables before wishing him luck with the rest of his shift and going back to join Seb and Valian. The featherlight mailhouse was only a short walk away.

  “Isn’t this better than skyriding?” Seb asked as they came to a fork road off the Gauntlet. “We have our feet on the ground, our lunch still in our stomachs….”

  Standing on the corner in front of them was a dilapidated wooden hut. A mosaic sign propped up behind the dusty window said POTTER’S POINT. The weedy garden was packed with eager customers and stallholders selling empty plant pots of all different shapes and materials—terra-cotta, plastic, glazed pottery and glass.

  As Ivy searched for some indication of what they did, her eyes picked out a face among the shoppers and she froze. “No way…” She pointed with a shaky hand. “Is that…?” She was too shocked to finish the question.

  Seb followed the line of her finger and his brow crinkled. “The chief officer of the Outlander ship?”

  Ivy examined the man’s features carefully, making doubly sure that it was the same person. White line through his eyebrow, curly blond beard…“It’s definitely him,” she decided. “I don’t understand—he’s dead.”

  Valian narrowed his eyes. “We have to follow him. Judy can wait.”

  Head down, the chief officer shuffled away from the plant-pot sellers, his hands in the pockets of his smart black uniform. As he turned toward the East End, Ivy, Seb and Valian kept their distance, using trees and clusters of crowd as cover. The shabby quarter had undergone a spring transformation into a patchy forest of silver birch trees, complete with ramshackle cottage shops and ragged tents. Scarlet toadstools poked out of the ferns in the undergrowth, and wind rustled through the spindly branches.

  The traders here all wore a similar style—their Hobsmatch was Victorian and tatty: mud-stained tailcoats, threadbare trousers and moth-eaten petticoats were the favored choices.

  The chief officer emerged from the forest at the edge of a vast swamp. Ivy squinted into the thick white mist. Small groups of men and women sat fishing in the tall reeds. In the distance, on the far bank, lay the misshapen silhouettes of shepherds’ huts. The chief officer trudged around the swamp and entered a green hut, third along from the left. There were dim lights on inside.

  Ivy approached one of the fishermen. “Excuse me,” she asked politely, “do you know whose hut that is?”

  The fisherman lifted his cap to see. “The green one? Not sure, love, sorry.” Ivy was about to step away when he added, “Only two fellas have gone inside since I got ’ere, and that was hours ago. Both of ’em were dead: one sticky and yellow; the other ’ad an extra arm.”

  Ivy had a horrible feeling she had met those two characters before. “Why is the chief officer meeting them?” she asked Seb and Valian.

  Valian glanced at the fisherman’s rod. “Can I borrow that for a minute? I’ll owe you one grade.”

  The man shrugged and shook his hand. “I haven’t caught a bite for a while anyway.”

  Valian took the rod and started around the edge of the swamp. “Come on—we can use this rod to find out what’s being said inside.”

  They snuck up to the green hut, ready to spring into action. The frilly curtains at the windows were all drawn, but smoke rose steadily from the chimney.

  “Uncommon fishing rods catch bites,” Valian explained, keeping his voice low. “It can be a bite of anything: cake, data…even a bite of conversation.” He raised the rod toward the chimney and lowered the hook into the smoke. In seconds, something was tugging on the line. Carefully Valian reeled it in toward where they were crouching. A set of voices emerged from the hook as if it was a speaker:

  “Glad you got my message,” one said. It sounded like Mick the Stretch. “I received your payment. Here’s what you asked for: coordinates for where my sources think this jar of yours is being hidden.”

  There was a pause, then another familiar voice. “There? How did you find it?”

  Jack-in-the-Green. Ivy shivered.

  “Squasher’s friendly with one of the guards,” Mick answered. “The jar was smuggled in there last night.”

  Suddenly the front door of the shepherd’s hut swung open and Jack-in-the-Green stepped out. Valian lowered the fishing rod onto the ground, and they all ducked.

  Huge yellow eyes scanned the mist over the swamp. Jack-in-the-Green adjusted his emerald suit before taking a feather out of its pocket. Ivy squinted, desperately trying to make out what he was writing, but only one word at the top was clear: Selena.

  “He’s sending her the coordinates,” Valian hissed.

  To Ivy’s annoyance, the broken soul of one of the dead flitted into her ear, making her skin prickle. She tried to ignore it, but it was close by….

  Jack-in-the-Green suddenly shook himself like a dog with wet fur. In an instant, the seven-foot green-skinned creature was transformed into a man with a curly blond beard. The chief officer of the MV Outlander.

  Ivy, Seb and Valian remained quite still until he had tramped most of the way back around the swamp. Then, very quietly, they left their hiding place and began to trek after him. Ivy sensed the dead creature start to move too, following.

  “We’ve got to get those coordinates,” Valian said. “If the Jar of Shadows—”

  “Shh,” Ivy hushed, raising a finger to her lips. “There’s someone else here.” She tried reaching out with her whispering, this time focusing on her immediate surroundings. Perhaps all the adrenaline running through her system had sharpened her senses—because it worked: she could pinpoint the presence of one of the dead approaching through the long grass. She spun on her heels and stamped into the bog.

  “Ouch!” cried a shrill voice. A wobbly red and blue jester’s hat loomed out of the shadows. “What do you think I am? An ant?” Johnny Hands had a scowl on his face and a hand to his chest.

  Ivy squared her shoulders. “You were following us! And you were hiding outside the shepherd’s hut.”

  Johnny Hands folded his arms. “What if I was? A ghoul has to work. There are several parties interested in Jack-in-the-Green’s whereabouts, I’ll have you know. I don’t suppose you saw what he wrote in that featherlight…? My pat
ron would be very interested to find out.”

  Ivy narrowed her eyes, wondering who Johnny Hands’s patron was. Still, if Johnny was spying on Jack-in-the-Green, at least he wasn’t working for the Dirge.

  “I can pay you for the information,” he added. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a candy-pink plastic yo-yo.

  Ivy gasped. “But that’s mine!” The yo-yo had saved her life on several occasions. She hadn’t forgotten the confident feeling it gave her.

  “I’m afraid, my dear, that it was yours,” Johnny Hands said. “You lost it and I claimed it. Uncommoners pretty much invented ‘finders keepers.’ ”

  “What will you trade for it?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “I’m only exchanging it for one thing,” Johnny Hands told her. “The contents of that featherlight.”

  Ivy kept her face blank. There was a way to intercept featherlight messages, she knew. “The yo-yo first, then I’ll tell you what was in that message.”

  Johnny Hands smirked. “The message first, then I’ll hand over the yo-yo.” He held out a gloved hand.

  “I don’t technically have the message yet,” Ivy admitted. “We’re on our way to get it. Do we have a deal or not?”

  Johnny Hands’s dark-ringed eyes narrowed. “Well played, Ivy Sparrow.” He shook her hand and slammed the yo-yo into her palm. “But I’m coming with you.”

  The tall, wobbly brick tower of the featherlight mailhouse was now covered in dark vines, and there was moss on the tiled roof. Multicolored feathers of different sizes flew in and out of the building through teacup-sized holes.

  Judy was waiting outside when they arrived, one roller skate resting up against the mailhouse wall. “You’re late—what happened?” She spied Johnny Hands. “Oh.”

  “Glorious to meet you too, my dear,” he said, tipping his jester’s hat in her direction.

  “He’s going to wait outside,” Seb explained in a strained voice.

  Johnny Hands muttered something that sounded like “Rude” before gliding off.

  Judy led Ivy, Seb and Valian into a small circular room at the bottom of the mailhouse. The last time Ivy had seen it, her great-uncle Cartimore Wrench—aka Ragwort—was living there, and it had reeked of unwashed clothes, rotting apple cores and filth. Now the space was clean and bright, and the air smelled of ladies’ perfume and coffee. Jars filled with different feathers were arranged on shelves, each labeled with neat handwriting. Ivy read, among others, Long-Haul Albatross, Quick-Noting Pigeon and Send-a-Song Nightingale.

  “There’s no time to explain, but we need you to intercept a featherlight for us,” Ivy told Judy hurriedly. “Can you do that?”

  “Er—technically yes, but my mum will kill me.”

  “It was sent a few minutes ago to Selena Grimes,” Seb added. “We think it gave the location of the Jar of Shadows.”

  Judy frowned. “I see. I’ll try my best. Do you know what feather he used?”

  “Greeny yellow with a fluffy gray tip,” Valian said. “I memorized it.”

  She nodded. “Sounds like parakeet. We’ll need to go upstairs; you can help.”

  A set of winding timber stairs led them to the top of the tower.

  “I’m afraid it’s bad news about Amos Stirling,” Judy said as they climbed. “I sent him a featherlight with a special long-distance feather—it would have found him anywhere. But…it didn’t even leave the mailhouse.”

  “So he’s Departed,” Valian said. “They’re the only people you can’t send messages to. When they’re gone, they’re gone. I’ve tried it with Rosie. The feathers always leave. That’s how I know she’s still alive.”

  Ivy turned around. “You know Rosie’s alive? Why didn’t you say so?”

  Valian blinked. “Of course she’s alive. Did you think it was just wishful thinking? Why would I have been looking for her all this time if she was…” He shook his head without finishing.

  “Valian, we’re sorry,” Seb said behind them. “We should have had more faith. We’ll help you find her when this is over, we promise.”

  Judy called down from the top of the stairs. “Come on, we haven’t got long!”

  An even smaller room sat beneath the circular roof. The floor was carpeted in fluffy down, which whirled into the air every time the tower shifted.

  “The only way to intercept the message—if it hasn’t already been received—is to call all traveling feathers back here,” Judy explained. “Between us, we’ll have to grab any parakeet ones that come in, and then resend the others. It will only amount to a short delay for most messages; I doubt anyone will notice.” She cringed. “Except my mum, but I’ll deal with her later.”

  Judy unhooked a horn hanging in the middle of the room and put it to her lips. Ivy expected to hear an ear-piercing sound, but when Judy puffed out her cheeks and blew, she heard nothing at all.

  “Quickly,” Judy instructed, hanging the horn back up. “Stand by the holes. Get ready to catch anything green. It’s easier than it sounds; you just need to be focused.”

  Ivy stood by six holes, arms outstretched. For thirty seconds or so nothing happened, and then a storm of dull thuds encircled the roof and feathers began swooping in through every hole.

  “Grab them!” Valian yelled.

  Ivy caught the first two by mistake—they weren’t even green—and dropped them onto the floor. She shook her head, trying to concentrate.

  “Got one!” Seb shouted over her shoulder.

  “It’ll only last a few…more…seconds,” Judy called, her voice strained.

  The thudding stopped abruptly and the air cleared. Ivy turned around empty-handed, looking disappointed. “I didn’t get any—sorry.”

  Judy and Seb were holding one green feather each; Valian had a peacock plume. When he saw everyone staring at it with quizzical expressions, he gave a thin smile and dropped it onto the pillow of feathers at his feet. “Similar color. My mistake.”

  “You open the message like this,” Judy told Seb, stroking her green feather backward—from tip to quill. With a quick swish, it wrote a short message in the air.

  Dear Cecil,

  You won’t believe this, but they’ve got one of those sports commentary bells in…

  Ivy shook her head. “It’s not that one.”

  Judy snatched back the feather and ran her fingers along it in the opposite direction. It immediately disappeared with a tiny puff. “Seb, try yours.”

  Seb was holding his feather as if it was a priceless sword, balancing it between both palms. Taking a breath, he stroked it as Judy had instructed and it began to write:

  Selena Grimes,

  Griddlex-gump, gallen-glow, murdle-pop, saddle-blow…

  Ivy’s senses prickled. “That’s it! But…what does that mean? It’s nonsense.”

  Valian stepped closer, watching the feather write two more lines. After it had finished, it bounced gently on the spot, the text glowing with a faint golden light. “Looks like Dead Man’s Code,” he said. “It’s an ancient language the dead developed in order to keep secrets from the living.”

  Judy examined the message. “My mum had to study Dead Man’s Code to be mailmaster. She taught me how to read it.” Her eyes widened as they followed the writing. “The Jar of Shadows is being hidden….” She put a hand to her mouth before continuing to read faster. “Jack-in-the-Green asks Selena to join him there this afternoon to search for it together!”

  “So,” Valian said, “where is it?”

  Judy grabbed the green feather, stroking it quill to tip so it vanished. “Sorry—if Selena doesn’t receive the feather soon, Jack-in-the-Green will know it was intercepted,” she explained. “He might come here for my mum.”

  “Good thinking,” Seb told her. “Er…where is the Jar of Shadows?”

  Judy knelt down and
began stroking each of the feathers, sending them back on their way with a little puff every time. “You can’t go there. It’s too dangerous.”

  Ivy crouched to help her. “Judy, we have to,” she said firmly. “Someone’s got to stop the Dirge from getting their hands on the jar. The lives of all the uncommoners in Lundinor are at stake. You’ve got to tell us.”

  Judy sighed. “It’s hidden in the Skaptikon.”

  “Wait…that ‘living nightmares’ place?” Seb asked. “How are we going to search fo—?”

  He was cut off by a loud crackle as Johnny Hands floated through the roof and hovered in the middle of the room. “Visiting the Skaptikon is not like going on some jolly holiday,” he declared in a deep voice. “Don’t be fools.”

  Ivy fell onto her bottom. “You were listening!”

  “Of course I was listening.” He stared at them. “You can’t go to the Skaptikon. The less said about that place, the better. It still gives me nightmares, and I don’t even sleep.”

  Valian cocked his head. “Hold on…you’ve been to the Skaptikon?”

  Johnny Hands rubbed his gloves together nervously. “Not as a prisoner, but I was there when they built it. The IUC recruited me to test it out.”

  The International Uncommon Council…Ivy didn’t know what to say. Testing the Skaptikon couldn’t have been a pleasant experience.

  “One of the designers once told me that the way to fight the Skaptikon was to beat it at its own game. To fool it, like it fools you.” He shook his head. “Of course, he also said that old socks made great tea bags, so who knows?”

  Valian said, “So you’re saying there could be a way to get into the Skaptikon safely?”

  Johnny Hands raised a scruffy eyebrow. “My dear boy, like I said, the Skaptikon is no place for a jolly holiday. It has its own atmosphere inside—not even gravity behaves in the same way. It’s all back to front and upside down.”