Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Read online

  The guards, seeing Sophie’s dark skin, all stepped back. “A foreign spy!” one of them cried, drawing back the flintlock of his musket.

  Prigg’s lip curled in a look of pure disgust. “Your imagination is outstripped only by your stupidity. What spy would waste her time with storybooks?” He grabbed Sophie by one wrist and peered at her hand. “Note the calluses on the inside of her thumb and forefinger, indicating needlework. Observe the dried ink in the beds of her fingernails. And in the tips of her hair . . .” He leaned close, sniffing some clumpy strands that had fallen loose from Sophie’s braid. “Wheat paste.” He let go of her hand and stood back. “She works for the bookseller in Olde Town. Quire, I believe.”

  Sophie was shocked to learn that this important figure knew about her father’s shop, but then, Inquisitor Prigg seemed to know everything about everyone.

  “The bookseller probably put her up to it!” one of the guards said. “You—girl!” He poked his bayonet at Sophie. “Does your master know what you’re doing here?”

  This was a common mistake: Sophie so little resembled her father that few people knew they were related. “You can’t charge me with anything,” she said. “The ban against storybooks doesn’t begin until Pyre Day.”

  “And what a glorious day that will be,” Prigg said in a tone of genuine relish. “But the books were stolen from our Pyre, which is a crime.” He removed a small notepad from his breast pocket and began writing. “You are hereby charged with trespassing and destruction of city property.”

  “Destruction?” Sophie said. “You’re planning to burn them.”

  “The fine is five dulcets—”

  “Five dulcets?”

  “Per book.” Prigg gave a prickly smile and continued writing. “If you cannot pay that fine—”

  “You know I can’t,” Sophie said. “That’s more than the shop makes in a month.” She could feel a flush of hot anger spreading across her face, and she briefly considered what the fine might be for shoving Inquisitor Prigg over the side of the bridge.

  “Very well.” He put his book away. “To ensure you pay this sum, you shall be confined to the High Dudgeon until the debt is discharged.” He nodded to the guards, who marched toward her.

  Before Sophie could respond, two of them had seized her by the arms and lifted her off her feet. The stolen books fell from her hands and onto the ground.

  “Stop it!” she cried, pulling against their grips. “Help!”

  Sophie did not know why she called for help at that moment, for there was certainly no one nearby who could hear her plea, but words, as you know, sometimes have a way of slipping out. And to her profound surprise, no sooner had she called Help than an answer came—

  “LET HER GO!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  DEEDS of DERRING-DON’T

  Let her go!”

  The boy’s words echoed in the still morning air. His voice was as cold as steel and twice as sharp. The blindfold around his head prevented him from seeing the scene below, but he could hear well enough. He fought back a smile, listening to the sounds of confusion as the guards tried to figure out who had just addressed them in such a bold manner. He heard their breathing change as they all slowly peered up toward him.

  “Who on earth . . . ?” he heard the girl say.

  The boy adjusted his grip on the crown of the high lamppost that he was perched upon, the gas flame hissing steadily beside his face. When he was certain he had their attention, he raised his silver blade and pointed it directly at the man they had called the Inquisitor, whose wig reeked of perfume. “I’m not going to ask again.”

  The Inquisitor rapped his cane on the ground—ebony, from the sound of it. “Get down from that lamp this instant!” he shouted. “Climbing city property is expressly forbidden.”

  There was a rustle of black cloth as the boy leapt from the top of the lamppost. In one fluid movement, he opened the flap of his burgle-sack—and out sprang a mangy, catlike creature with four hooves and a wispy horse tail. “Tally-ho!” the creature snarled as it careened through the air, hooves swinging.

  The boy hit the ground with a roll and sprang to his feet, his blade poised at the Inquisitor’s throat. “Is this better?” he asked.

  Now, at this point, it might be wise to pause our scene and better describe our blindfolded rescuer. The cleverest among you will likely have already guessed that this strange boy was, in fact, the famous Peter Nimble—Vagabond King of the unmapped seas and Greatest Thief Who Ever Lived. As for his furry companion—why, that was none other than Sir Tode, knight errant and storyteller laureate of the kingdom of HazelPort. For the moment, let us be satisfied to know that Peter Nimble had been following this particular girl for nearly a week and had no intention of losing her to any Dudgeon, High or otherwise.

  He removed his hat—a handsome tricorn with a great white feather he had purchased at a bazaar in the Freckle Islands—and offered Sophie a gallant bow. “My lady.”

  By now the guards had dropped the girl and were turning their muskets on him. Peter concentrated on the sounds of their footsteps, listening as the men shifted their weight and moved to encircle him. He knew his own weapon was not impressive: It was a short blade with an oddly shaped edge. But what it lacked in reach it made up for in strength and sharpness. And, unlike an ordinary sword, this blade could never be knocked from his grip. “Leave the girl here, and go on about your business,” Peter said to the Inquisitor. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I will if I have to.”

  “Are you threatening a public officer?” the man said.

  Peter shook his head. “I don’t make threats.”

  “Guards!” the Inquisitor cried, drawing a needle-thin sword from his cane. “Arrest this interloper!”

  The men charged for Peter, who gave an irritated sigh. “I warned you.” So saying, he leapt into battle—his blade raised. The fight was too close for long muskets, and so the guards were forced to take jabs with their bayonets. Steel clashed against steel, one boy against four trained soldiers. This, however, was no ordinary boy. Peter Nimble was as fast as any fighter who had ever lived, and no sooner had he struck a blow to his right than he managed to spin around and parry on his left. Whenever one of the guards tried to strike Peter from behind, Sir Tode was there to deflect him with a well-placed head-butt or bite to the rump. It was a dance they had performed a hundred times over the past two years as they roamed the map in search of adventure. One that rarely ended well for their enemies.

  Peter sliced and stabbed at his opponents, taking special care not to hurt the girl, who was scrambling across the ground to retrieve her fallen books. She was shouting something at Peter, but he couldn’t take the time to listen. “Just stay down, my lady!” he called, hopping deftly onto the rail of the bridge.

  The girl kept yelling, and it took Peter another moment to realize that she was not screaming out of fear, but out of rage. “Stop it!” she shrieked, pushing through the guards to meet him. “Stop it, right now!”

  Peter wasn’t sure why the girl would interrupt her own rescue, but he could tell she was serious. “If you insist!” He took one final leap toward his enemies, spinning his body like a dervish as he moved among them, his coat flying out behind him. This was a befuddling trick from his thieving days, and when he had finished moving, he had all four of their muskets slung over his thin shoulder.

  The guards stared at him, unarmed and dumbstruck. Peter allowed them a moment to absorb what had just happened before saying, “Boo!”

  All four guards screamed and ran along the bridge toward the Pyre. Sir Tode, not being one to pass up a good chase, clopped after the men, snarling and snapping at their heels.

  “Cowards,” Peter said, tossing the guns off the side of the bridge. They hit the water with a satisfying splash. He turned to the Inquisitor, who had remained at his post, still clutching his blade. “I suggest you follow your men . . . unless you’re wanting a duel.”

  The man did not say anything fo
r a moment. Peter could hear his tense breathing, his teeth grinding, his heart racing—it sounded as if he were genuinely considering the offer. “Blind rogues and hooved cats?” He wasn’t talking to Peter but to the girl. “I’m sure the city council will be very interested to learn of the company you keep, Miss Quire.” He shoved his blade back into the sheath of his cane and retreated to the shore.

  Peter brushed a bit of dust from the brim of his new hat and fit it over his head at a rakish angle. He turned to the girl and flashed a winning smile. “Well, that was fun.”

  Now, Peter Nimble had performed a number of daring rescues in his career, and while every one was a little different, the reactions were generally the same. As a rule, most people seem to appreciate being rescued by dashing strangers. Most people, perhaps, but not Sophie Quire.

  “Are you insane?” she shouted, her voice hoarse from screaming at him. “You nearly killed those men!”

  Peter almost fell over as she wrenched a book out from under his boot. He listened as she riffled through the pages, as though inspecting the book for damage.

  “And what were you doing up on that lamppost, anyway?” she demanded. “Were you following me?”

  Peter stepped back, caught off guard. “I . . . um . . .” Obviously he had been following her. People didn’t just spend their mornings climbing lampposts for the fun of it. But to hear her describe the activity, you would think it was the worst thing in the world. “In case you forgot,” he said finally, “I just rescued you.”

  “Rescued me?” The girl got right in his face. She was radiating indignation like a furnace. “I was going to have to pay a fine . . . Now I’m party to attempted murder. Who knows what they will do to me, or my father? One word from the Inquisitor and we’ll be on the street or worse—and it will all be thanks to you!”

  Peter opened his mouth but closed it again. He could feel his whole face flushing with anger, or perhaps embarrassment—he wasn’t sure which. All he knew was this was not what he had planned. “I . . . I was only trying to help,” he said, inching back.

  “Next time, resist the urge.” The girl yanked her cloak over her shoulders with a dramatic flap. “And if you’re going to throw something into the river,” she added, “why not start with that ridiculous hat? You look like an ostrich in mourning.” With a dramatic heel, she turned away and ran toward the road.

  “Oh, yeah?” Peter called after her. “Well, you look like an ostrich in . . . in pyjamas!” But it was too late. The girl was already out on the streets. Peter did not know why he’d yelled the remark about pyjamas—which, even he had to admit, was a rather weak retort; he was only aware of wanting to have the last word.

  He remained on the bridge, listening to the sound of the girl’s footsteps as she ran between two stone buildings. If he concentrated, he could still make out her heartbeat, pounding hard against the books clasped to her chest. A part of him wanted to call her ugly—which was a serviceable insult for most occasions—but he didn’t actually know what she looked like. He could, of course, remove his blindfold and look at her, but he knew from experience that that was a bad idea. So long as he was blindfolded, the world could be full of a million swirling possibilities, but the moment he looked at a thing, it was irrevocably reduced.

  Peter Nimble had spent the first ten years of his life blind. All that had changed, however, when a mysterious benefactor named Professor Cake had magically restored his sight with a pair of emerald-green eyes. At first, Peter was overjoyed by this miraculous gift. But miracles, as you probably know, often come at a price. Suddenly the Greatest Thief Who Ever Lived found himself a little less great. He could still smell and hear and feel things well enough, but not the way he once had. His sight restored, Peter Nimble had become . . . ordinary. It did not help that whenever people looked into his eyes, they reacted with hushed awe. Perhaps it was the unusual green color? Whatever the reason, the effect only made Peter feel like more of a fraud. And so, for now, the blindfold remained.

  He came to attention as Sir Tode returned from his chase, his small horse hooves clopping merrily against the stones. “I say!” the creature exclaimed, out of breath. “Nothing like a bit of heroics to get the vitals flowing! Though I could have done without that bayonet to the rump.” He stopped next to Peter and peered about. “Er, where’s the girl gone?”

  “Back to the shop,” Peter muttered. And good riddance, he thought. He snatched the hat from his head and ripped the feather from the band, silently cursing the merchant who had sold it to him.

  Sir Tode seemed not to notice the boy’s mood. “A bit younger than I expected,” he said, scratching behind his ear with one hind hoof. “We’re certain she’s the one?”

  “That’s her, all right.” Peter knelt down and opened the mouth of his burgle-sack. “We should go.”

  The knight clambered into the bag and made himself comfortable. “Not a bad introduction, I’d say. Getting the girl’s assistance should be good as done—seeing as how we saved her life.” He gave a knowing chuckle. “In my experience, damsels are more than willing to help the heroes who rescue them.”

  Peter set his jaw, recalling the sting of the girl’s parting words. “She might not be your typical damsel.” He fastened his coat and stepped into the fog.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE BOOKMENDER of BUSTLEBURGH

  Sophie’s father was waiting for her when she finally reached the bookshop. “You are late,” he said, not looking up from his work. “We opened our doors half an hour ago—what if a customer had come?”

  They both knew that this was a highly unlikely scenario, given how few people set foot in their shop these days. “I’m sorry, Papa.” She closed the door and removed her cloak. If her father noticed the torn hem or the mud on her apron, he chose not to say anything. “I was . . . slowed down a bit on the way home,” she said.

  Sophie had spent the entire journey home mulling over her encounter with the blindfolded boy. A part of her felt bad for being so ungrateful, but every time she pictured his cocky grin, she felt a new wave of anger. The boy could have gotten himself killed, and it would have been her fault. It was one thing to read about sword fights in a story, but to see clashing blades in front of her was altogether more horrifying. She shut her eyes, trying to banish the memory from her mind, and turned back to her father.

  Augustus Quire sat hunched over his desk, working sums into a ledger that stubbornly refused to show a profit. “I would ask what business drew you out of bed at so early an hour, but I suspect I do not want to know.” He absently tried to drink from his mug of tea, which he had long since emptied.

  Sophie set the three rescued books on the counter in front of him. His pen stopped. “Again, Sophie?” He did not ask where the books had come from. He did not need to. “How many times have I warned you about this?”

  “I couldn’t just leave them there to burn.” She ran a hand over the worn cover of the topmost book, the collection of Saint Martin tales; it was embossed with a picture of a roaring bear. “They deserve better than the Pyre.”

  Augustus removed his spectacles and massaged his temples. “You sound like your mother.” This was something he often said to her, and she never quite knew if it was meant to be a compliment.

  Sophie’s mother had died when Sophie was still an infant. The circumstances of her death were a complete mystery to Sophie, being something her father refused to discuss. “It’s troublesome luck to trouble the dead,” he would always say, citing an old hinterland proverb. The only memento of her mother Sophie possessed was a silver necklace on which hung a round sleigh bell. The curious thing about the bell was that, no matter how much Sophie shook it, it never seemed to make a sound.

  Sophie studied her father, who was now gazing past her to the empty workbench at the back of the shop. Augustus Quire was the sort of man who looked old beyond his years. His hair was thin, his movements were deliberate, and he never raised his voice. Indeed, many customers assumed he was Sophie’s gran
dfather. That or her master. Sophie had learned from neighbors and old customers that her father had once been quite different—an avid reader who could recite lengthy passages verbatim from every book he read. Sophie often tried to picture what he had been like in those days, but some things were beyond even her imagination.

  “You shouldn’t worry about me, Papa,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Most of those guards can barely tie their laces.”

  He blinked, as if startled from a dream. “It is not the guards who frighten me.” He replaced his spectacles. “You are a smart girl. But even smart girls can get into trouble. These are dangerous times we live in, led by dangerous men.” He was, of course, speaking of Prigg. For as long as Sophie could remember, her father had feared the day when the man might direct his attention toward them.

  “The shop will be fine, Papa,” Sophie said, inching back. “Even after Pyre Day, we can just sell other kinds of books.”

  Her father waved a hand. “I do not worry for this shop. What is the point, even, of a bookshop in a city that no longer reads stories? To lose this place would be a disappointment. But to lose my daughter?” He fixed his eyes on her, and Sophie wondered for a moment if he had somehow learned about her capture on the bridge. “That would be more than I could bear.”

  That he might one day lose his daughter was a constant fear for Augustus Quire. His every conversation, even over the smallest things, seemed to return to this subject. Sophie grabbed her father’s hands in her own. She knelt, saying, as she often did when he was in this state, “I will never leave you, Papa. Never.”

  Her father smiled, though not in a way that said he entirely believed her. “You have books to mend,” he said, and returned to his own work.