Hollowpox The Hunt for Morrigan Crow - Jessica Townsend Page 0,71
Thing in advance. As the teams peeled off in opposite directions, Morrigan heard Cadence say, ‘We’ll give it back later, Anah. Stop your moaning.’
Morrigan was in a group with Thaddea and Francis, and Thaddea immediately took charge.
‘Right.’ She beckoned them closer, speaking in a low voice. ‘We need to steal something impressive, because we’re already at a disadvantage over the other two groups.’
‘How do you figure that?’ said Francis.
Thaddea looked at him and gave a huge, theatrical shrug. ‘Let’s think. One of them’s got a mesmerist and one’s got Arch, whose knack is literally theft.’
Morrigan scrunched her nose. ‘Thaddea, I don’t think this is meant to be a comp—’
‘EVERYTHING IS A COMPETITION.’
Francis and Morrigan glanced at each other in a silent understanding that it was probably best to let Thaddea have this one.
They were supposed to stay within a one-block perimeter, regroup when their heists were complete and report back to Wunsoc as a unit. Thaddea chose their mark carefully: a big, sprawling pawn shop called Secondhand City.
‘How impressive does this thing have to be, then?’ Morrigan asked as they made their way up and down the cluttered aisles, eyeing the teetering stacks of furniture, antiques and oddities.
Francis shrugged. ‘What about a bicycle? Or a suit of armour. Ooh – what about this gramophone? I’ve always wanted a gramophone.’
Morrigan frowned. ‘You do know we don’t get to keep it afterwards?’
He cast a longing look at the antique music player. ‘Oh. Right.’
‘You two are thinking about this the wrong way,’ said Thaddea. She pulled her long tangle of red hair into a messy ponytail and rolled up her sleeves. ‘We’re not here to do the bare minimum. We’ve got to go big or go home.’
‘Oh, good! I vote we go home,’ said Morrigan, and Francis laughed.
They wasted ten minutes running up and down the aisles, making dozens of suggestions that Thaddea turned down.
‘What about that?’ Francis pointed out a mannequin. ‘We could dress it up in clothes and pretend it’s one of us. Just walk right out of here.’
Thaddea rolled her eyes. ‘That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever—’
‘Shhh,’ said Morrigan, holding an arm out to stop them as they came to the end of an aisle. There were voices coming from the next aisle over. They peeked around the corner and saw two men standing next to a large, spherical, mechanical-looking thing made of metal and rusting in places. It was almost as tall as they were.
‘… had five offers come in already and it’s only been here a week. Real collector’s item, this is.’
The customer looked sceptical. ‘What is it?’
‘A railpod, innit,’ replied the other man, who must have been the shop owner.
‘Doesn’t look like a railpod to me,’ said the customer.
The owner lowered his voice. ‘That’s ’cos it’s not a local design, is it? This is rare, genuine, bona fide property of the Wintersea Party—’
‘Oh, pull the other one! It’s just some rusty old piece of junk. I’ll give you thirty kred for the scrap metal.’
‘Thirty? You’re having a laugh, squire. I won’t sell it for less than a thousand.’
‘One thousand kred? You’re out of your mind!’ The potential buyer shook his head and sauntered away, chuckling.
They watched the shop owner chase him all the way down the aisle until they were out of sight, then Francis ran eagerly to the machine. ‘It looks a bit like a railpod but it’s too small for that. And look – it’s got a propeller and a motor. This is a vessel made for the water.’
Morrigan walked around it, trailing her hand on the metal sidings. ‘You think it’s a boat?’
‘Weird-looking boat,’ said Thaddea, jiggling a rusty handle.
The door fell open, revealing a small space inside with a single seat and controls for a navigator. They gathered around, peering inside.
Thaddea and Morrigan withdrew immediately, covering their noses.
‘Ugh, it stinks,’ said Thaddea. ‘It smells like seaweed and dead fish.’
Morrigan nodded in agreement, trying not to retch. It wasn’t just seaweed and dead fish. There was something else familiar but hard to define – a sort of muddy, decaying smell. She didn’t dare take her hand away from her nose and mouth, and instead said in a muffled voice, ‘Shut the door, Francis, it’s disgusting.’
‘It’s not a boat, it’s a submarine.’ Francis was apparently too excited to notice the smell. ‘Look, that’s a periscope! And that stuff there is sonar equipment, I’m sure of it. It’s a personal vessel, made to transport one passenger. I think … I think it’s for spies!’