The Uncommoners #2 Read online

  “Ah, but it doesn’t work like that,” Mr. Punch told her, tipping his hat to Seb and Valian. “Good to meet you both at last.” He pointed to the plinth beside Seb. “That stone does all the work.”

  Ivy regarded the gray stone plinth. The pedestal was carved with winged horses and five-pointed stars, and an old book with yellowed pages was lying open on top of it. “The plinth?” she asked.

  “You could call it a plinth,” Mr. Punch said. “Over the centuries it’s had many names: lectern, podium, easel…I call it a stone.”

  “Hang on—this plinth transforms the whole of Lundinor?” Seb leaned away from it, staring. “I don’t understand.”

  “The stone is fond of books,” Mr. Punch explained with a shrug. “If you lay one open on top of it, the stone manifests certain aspects of that book in real life.”

  Ivy considered the grassy meadows, trees and flowers growing in Lundinor; one uncommon plinth had done all that. “So you lay a different book on top of the stone every season?” she asked.

  Mr. Punch opened a gleaming mother-of-pearl chest beside him. It was full of objects, including several leather-bound books. “A Dickens every winter,” he explained. “That’s traditional. Something sunny for spring—this year I used Mary Poppins in the Park—and in autumn it’s whatever takes my fancy. The stone is very rare, as you can imagine. I wouldn’t be able to sell it for less than ten grade.”

  There was a clatter as Valian knocked over the oilcan. “What?!”

  Ivy felt like she’d just had the wind knocked out of her. She scanned the big top, checking they were still alone. There were only five objects in existence that had a ten-grade value. “The stone is one of the Great Uncommon Good?”

  Mr. Punch’s eyes twinkled as he took a Russian doll out of the chest—a man in traditional Russian costume. “Let me tell you a little about where that phrase comes from,” he said, holding the doll on his flattened palm. “Many hundreds of years ago, when tales of five ten-grade objects first surfaced, one man decided to collect the stories together and give each object a name. The bag that you and your friends possess was called the Sack of Stars, and sitting behind us is the Stone of Dreams. It was this same man who named the objects the Great Uncommon Good, believing that they would do extraordinarily good things.”

  The Sack of Stars. That’s what they should be calling it. Listening to the story, Ivy guessed that the Jar of Shadows still had its original name. She wondered what the other two objects might be.

  “But of course the story collector soon realized that, in the wrong hands, the Great Uncommon Good could do extraordinarily bad things,” Mr. Punch continued, opening the Russian doll to reveal a set of ever-smaller figures. “So he set about forming a guild of uncommoners who would hunt down the five objects and keep them hidden from the rest of the world. The guild was called the Rasavatum.”

  Ivy shared a look of confusion with Seb and Valian. “I thought the Rasavatum were mixologists.”

  Mr. Punch blew on the Russian dolls and they began moving of their own accord. A lady in a red dress curtsied to Ivy; a man brushed down his suit, stretching his legs. “The original members were talented mixologists,” Mr. Punch explained. “They needed to conceal the work they were really doing, so they used their mixologist skills to build a reputation as a troupe of mysterious showmen. It allowed them to travel from undermart to undermart, gathering information on the Great Uncommon Good without anyone knowing what they were really up to. It was a fantastic disguise.” At that word, the Russian dolls’ faces froze and they jumped inside each other in ascending order of size, till only the original man remained. Mr. Punch tapped him on the head, smiling. “Over the centuries, members of the Rasavatum have come and gone, but two things remain: our masquerade as mixologists, and our promise to conceal the Great Uncommon Good.”

  “Our?” Seb cocked his head. “You’re a member of the Rasavatum?”

  Mr. Punch put the Russian doll back into the chest and closed the lid. “The very last one. The Dirge made it their mission to discover our identities and hunt us down, but it was against our oath to fight—we are a peaceful guild committed to nonviolence.”

  “So that’s why the Rasavatum went into hiding,” Ivy said. An army of questions marched into her head. She guessed there were few people Mr. Punch could trust with the truth, especially with half the Dirge’s identities still a mystery. She peered into his swirling eyes, contemplating the multiple souls coexisting inside him. She couldn’t imagine the extent of his knowledge or the number of secrets he was guarding.

  “Sir Clement was a member of the Rasavatum,” Mr. Punch said. “He used the Stone of Dreams to build Lundinor, and the object has been under the protection of our guild ever since. Fifty years ago another of our members tracked down the Jar of Shadows. Since then, I have endeavored to keep it out of the Dirge’s reach.”

  Ivy blushed. “So it was you who hid it in the Skaptikon?”

  Mr. Punch nodded solemnly. There was no anger on his face, only regret. He pulled his legs up onto the platform, turning around so he was facing Seb and Valian. “Under no circumstances must the Dirge be allowed to wield the power of one of the Great Uncommon Good. As guardians of the Sack of Stars, you three must keep it hidden from Selena at all costs.”

  Valian’s expression hardened as he poked around in his inside pocket, checking that the Great Uncommon Bag—the Sack of Stars—was still there. “Selena Grimes—you know who she really is?”

  “I have known since you three unmasked Cartimore Wrench as Ragwort,” Mr. Punch said with a scowl. “I discovered Selena’s true identity by tracing the grim-wolf back to her. The creature has since left her employment.”

  “If you know who she is, why can’t she be arrested?” Seb asked. “The underguard will believe you, surely.”

  “The underguard will listen to me,” Mr. Punch agreed. “But they will not take action without proof. Selena Grimes won their trust years ago; it will not be brushed aside so easily. In any case, the entire force would be unable to stop her on their own.” He fastened his cord jacket. “After I discovered Selena’s true allegiance I began hunting for an object that I knew would vanquish her. Only this morning I got word that it has been found.”

  Ivy wondered what Mr. Punch could be talking about. She had the feeling that he knew everything they’d been getting up to over the last couple of days. Perhaps Johnny Hands had been spying on them.

  “The reason I have summoned you here,” Mr. Punch went on urgently, “is because I am leaving Lundinor immediately in order to retrieve the object. I hope to be back before the Grivens contest begins so I can stop Selena Grimes from opening the Jar of Shadows. Whatever happens while I’m gone, you must keep the Sack of Stars safe. I fear there are other members of the Dirge in Lundinor right now, and they will be watching you three.”

  Mr. Punch’s story of the Rasavatum and his warning about the Dirge were still running through Ivy’s head when she left the big top. Out on the lawn, people stood in small groups discussing the evening edition of the Lundinor Chronicle. Ivy couldn’t see the headline, but she noticed a few of the traders gawping at her. A cold feeling seeped into her bones. “Er…What’s going on?”

  Valian’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know, but I don’t like the look of it.”

  Johnny Hands came shooting across the grass, his jester’s hat wobbling. When he reached them, he dithered, apparently trying to tell them something, but in the end he just shook his head and held up a crisp copy of the Lundinor Chronicle.

  On the front page was a photo of Ivy in the dungarees and cropped black jacket she’d been wearing yesterday. She was grinning from ear to ear, a large bronze trophy cradled in her arms.

  Seb read the headline, his voice growing higher with every word. “ ‘Eleven-Year-Old Girl Becomes Final Competitor in Grivens Contest’?!”

  Ivy was tryin
g to gasp and speak at the same time. “But—that’s not me!” She grabbed the newspaper to examine it more closely. OK, it did look exactly like her, but unless she had an extreme sleepwalking problem that she didn’t know about, she hadn’t entered herself into the Grivens contest. There had to be another explanation.

  “Shape-shifter,” Valian muttered bitterly. “It must be.”

  Ivy scanned the article. “It says here that to enter the contest, players had to deposit one of their gloves in the contest master’s cup and then drink from it.”

  “Yuck.” Seb pulled a face. “Soggy glove juice—what’s that all about?”

  “The drinking part is customary,” Johnny Hands explained. “Grivens contests were always presided over by a contest master—a referee. They were chosen from a handful of retired ex-players, and it was traditional to use one of their old trophies as a cup into which new contestants could deposit their gloves.”

  “The cup is uncommon,” Valian added. “Once a glove is placed inside, its owner is bound to enter the contest. Withdrawals are forbidden. If a player fails to show up…” He grimaced. “Well, you’ve seen what happens to people’s hands when they make a bad Trade—imagine that happening, but to all of you.”

  As Ivy remembered Selena Grimes’s rotting hands, her throat became dry. “But—look,” she said, wiggling her fingers. “I’ve still got both my gloves.”

  Johnny Hands studied them carefully. “That damage—has it always been there?”

  Ivy appraised the small hole in the left thumb. She’d almost forgotten about it. “No. I snagged it on a branch a few days ago.”

  “What did you say?” Valian asked.

  Ivy held out her hand so he could see the hole for himself. “You remember—in the Great Oak Tree, at Sir Clement’s old house.”

  “But…part of it’s missing,” he said, throwing Johnny Hands an uneasy look.

  “What does that mean?” Ivy asked slowly, already fearing the answer.

  “It means that if we check inside the contest master’s cup, we’re likely to find a scrap of your glove,” Johnny Hands said. “And the cup needs only a thread in order to register entry.”

  Valian stared at Ivy. “It means you’re going to have to play, Ivy. Tonight.”

  As she recalled just how confusing the game in the carousel had been, Ivy’s legs went weak. “But—I can’t. I don’t know how. I’ll be—”

  “Killed,” Johnny Hands finished matter-of-factly. “And though I hate to point out the obvious, that’s exactly what whoever is behind this deception wants.”

  Suddenly they heard a commotion behind them. Ivy spun around as excited shouts filled the air. A large group of people were running backward onto the lawn. As heads turned, Ivy recognized some of the faces—they were journalists from the Barrow Post. Some were shaking snow globes while others were holding feathers, scribbling madly in midair. A few of them rushed to join the crowd as it parted.

  Selena Grimes appeared in their midst. Her dark hair had been styled into an elaborate braided updo and she was wearing a long silver gown with flared sleeves, like a medieval queen. Ivy recalled Mr. Punch’s warning to keep the Sack of Stars away from the Dirge. Immediately she grabbed Seb’s sleeve and turned to run.

  “Well, this is fortuitous!” Selena declared. “We are joined by our final contestant!”

  Ivy froze as several photographers broke from the pack to swarm around her, shaking their snow globes in her face. She cowered, shielding her face.

  “Stop it! Go away!” Seb tried to elbow them aside—but there were too many.

  Selena Grimes glided toward her, the horde following.

  “Ivy Sparrow,” she said in a honeyed voice, “may I offer my sincerest congratulations.” She hovered closer and spread her arms wide as if to give Ivy a hug.

  Ivy went rigid with shock. She tried to step back, but there was a journalist right behind her. Selena’s cold, hard arms came around her shoulders. Ivy gave a muffled shriek but was too angry and scared to even move.

  Selena’s cold breath kissed Ivy’s cheek as she lowered her lips to Ivy’s ear. At an almost imperceptible volume she said, “Enjoy the game, child. It’ll be the last you ever play.”

  Valian’s eyes flicked from left to right as he checked the contest rules. The newspaper supplement was so long, the paper flapped over his shoulder like a scarf in the wind. “Here it is—they’re operating a forfeit system. Living players are allowed to have a spotter with them to stop them from being killed.” His face brightened as he turned to Ivy. “You’re gonna be fine.”

  She gave him a doubtful smile, keeping her head down as they approached the House of Bells. Everyone was staring at her. She wished she could become invisible like one of the dead.

  “What does this spotter thing entail?” Seb asked, peering over Valian’s shoulder. “Could I do it?”

  Valian read back through the rules. “Ivy has to play the game by herself, but the spotter stands behind her, outside the chalk circle, and pulls her out of the Krigvelt if it appears she isn’t going to make it.”

  Seb shrugged. “OK…that’s doable. Valian’s right, Ivy. You’re gonna survive this.”

  Ivy held out her hand. Her fingers and thumb were trembling so much, she could see ten of them. “If Selena Grimes is behind this, I don’t think it matters what we do,” she said quietly. She glanced warily at Johnny Hands, wondering if it was wise to reveal everything they knew about Selena Grimes and the Dirge….If he had earned Mr. Punch’s confidence, she reckoned he could be trusted. “She’s probably devised a plan to get rid of the three of us once and for all.” Now that she thought it through, it all made sense—the shape-shifter who had impersonated her must have been Jack-in-the-Green.

  Seb gritted his teeth. “Can’t Mr. Punch stop this?” he asked Johnny Hands. “He’s meant to be the most powerful man in Lundinor.”

  “Unsurprisingly I’m a step ahead of you there,” Johnny Hands replied, adjusting his gloves. “As soon as I read the headline, I sent Mr. Punch a featherlight. It must have been only moments after he’d left Lundinor. I’ve received no response as yet.”

  Ivy paused on the steps to the House of Bells. She could only hope that, wherever Mr. Punch had gone, he’d find what he needed and get back in time to stop Selena. As she opened the shop door, the bells inside sprang into fevered conversation. They trembled as she passed, chattering about the Grivens contest. Ivy tried to ignore them.

  “Ivy?!” a voice cried. “Is that you?” The door at the back swung open with a bang, and Ethel rushed out, her headscarf flapping. Under her arm she was carrying a square piece of wood.

  She stopped in front of them, hesitating. She frowned at Valian and Johnny Hands, then turned to Ivy. Her lip wobbled. “I’ve been to the underguard station. Your gran is still at the mansion; she asked to stay behind after they left. I’ve sent her three featherlights already, but I think they’re having trouble getting through. I’d go and fetch her myself if the place would let me.”

  Ivy knew that the Wrench Mansion would only reveal itself to a member of the family; it had been built with uncommon bricks that liked to move—that was no doubt part of the problem.

  Seb slung down his rucksack. “Maybe I can use the saltshaker. If Granma’s still got the pepper pot with her, we might be able to see what’s going on.”

  “Good thinking.” Ethel pointed to the desk at the rear of the shop. “Do it over there. We need the space ’ere to practice.” She held out the piece of wood—a chopping board.

  Ivy edged away.

  “Now don’t worry—it’s a common one,” Ethel said. “I just thought we should sit down and review everything. The contest begins at eight; that means we’ve got a little under two hours.” She raised an eyebrow at Johnny Hands. “As you’re ’anging around, you can ’elp. I’m a little rusty with Grivens. I s’pose
you’ve played it before?”

  He smoothed down his waistcoat. “Madam, I’ve been playing it for the best part of five centuries.”

  Ethel pursed her lips. “Well then.”

  They sat cross-legged in the middle of the shop floor, with Johnny Hands hovering above it. He spread a handful of wooden figures across the chopping board in the middle. “Every Grivens game begins in the same way.”

  Ivy tried to ignore her nerves and pay attention. Having seen the game played on the carousel, she found some of what Johnny Hands told her familiar.

  “Each player chooses a bell, a suitcase and a glove from a box of Grivens pieces.”

  “Does it make any difference which pieces you choose?” Ivy asked.

  Johnny Hands twisted a bell piece between his fingers. “Yes, but there is no way of telling which piece will be strongest; it’s all down to luck.”

  Ivy’s spirits sank. “I see.” It was like most card games—there was no way to control the hand you were dealt, only what you did with each card afterward.

  Johnny Hands rotated the chopping board. “When all four players have chosen their first piece to put in the red zone, the board is spun to activate the next stage of play.”

  “In the Krigvelt,” Ivy remembered. She would never forget seeing Seb appear on the helipad of that skyscraper.

  “The Krigvelt will be in a different place every time,” Ethel explained, “with different challenges. I’ve ’eard of everything from a tropical island and an underground sewer to the top of a mountain. You ’ave to withstand the dangers of the environment, not just the attacks from the other players.”

  “When you go into the Krigvelt, your first aim is survival,” Johnny Hands told Ivy. “You have to work out what your Grivens pieces can do—they might be able to attack one of your enemies or protect you from attack. Each Grivens piece has a different characteristic. Gloves are usually defensive, while suitcases are attacking. But there are exceptions.”