City of Lies - Lian Tanner [17]
The bandmaster peered at her. “You’re not from around here? Well, that would explain your generosity. I have never heard of one of the street snotties giving back a prize before. And such a prize!”
“I’m from Jewel,” said Goldie.
“Aha, I thought so. And I am from the Spoke Penitentiary.” He bowed again, as if he had just announced that he was the governor of the city. “As are all my friends here.”
“You’re prisoners?” said Goldie.
“Dear me, no. We’re guests! If we were prisoners they would have to feed us all year round. But because we are merely guests, they can turn us out during the Festival to find our own sustenance.”
He wiped his hand on his britches and pulled out a battered pocket watch. “Of course, we have to be back in our cells at a certain time, or they will forget the politeness that is due to guests.” He waggled the leg of mutton at Goldie. “Cut me another slice, my boy. And help yourself. I can see you’re not the greedy sort.”
Goldie cut another two slices. “What’s the Festival?”
“Why, the Festival of Lies,” said the bandmaster. “Starts officially the day after tomorrow. Everyone likes to build up to it, which is why we are here, two days early, and not tucked up snug in our cells with a bowl of hot porridge in front of us. Although—” He chewed thoughtfully. “I do believe I would sacrifice a dozen bowls of porridge for this glorious feast.”
“Why is it called the Festival of Lies?”
“Because that’s what it is. For three days, the entire city turns upside down and back to front. No one tells the truth—unless they’re touching an animal, of course.”
Goldie had a dozen more questions on the tip of her tongue, but the bandmaster was still talking. “It’s a good time for us, the Festival. Did you hear me, back by the fountain?” He raised his baton dramatically. “Feed the hungry, and the Seven Gods will ignore you for a whole year!”
Goldie flicked her fingers.
The bandmaster grinned. “It works too, and everyone in Spoke knows it.” He lowered his voice. “Of course, they could throw half-chewed crusts and boiled tripe and it would work just as well. But we’ve spread the word that the better they feed us, the more likely the Gods are to ignore them.”
They had reached the other side of the plaza by now, and the musicians began to hurry, as fast as their chains would let them, through the winding streets. Goldie trotted beside them, watching for landmarks so she could find her way back again. An idea was growing inside her.
“Why were you imprisoned, Herro?” she said. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Don’t mind at all, lad,” said the bandmaster. “And you know why? Because I’m innocent.” He waved the leg of mutton at the musicians who rattled along behind him. “We’re all innocent. Young Dodger there, with the trumpet, is innocent of robbery with violence. Sweetapple is innocent of poisoning her husband, may Great Wooden rot his soul.” He flicked his fingers. So did Goldie. “And Old Snot—that’s him dribbling over the bass drum—is innocent of running a gang of pickpockets.”
Old Snot grinned toothlessly at Goldie. Sweetapple, who was the tall trombonist with the limp, waved.
“What are you—er—innocent of?” said Goldie to the bandmaster.
“Forgery.” He struck a serious pose with his hand on his heart. “I did not do it, Your Honor. I have no idea how those fake coins came to be in my cellar. I am not a criminal.”
He winked at Goldie, and she laughed. “If I wanted to find out about someone who is a criminal,” she said, “who would I ask?”
The bandmaster puffed out his chest. “I have lived in Spoke all my life. No one has his finger on the city’s pulse the way I do. What’s his name, this criminal of yours?”
“Harrow.”
Goldie wasn’t expecting what happened next. The bandmaster seemed to trip over something. His baton flew out of his hand and clattered onto the cobblestones. The leg of mutton tumbled into the gutter.
“Halt!” he cried. With a great clanking of chains, Sweetapple and the rest of the band shuffled to a stop behind him. The bandmaster picked up the baton and