Now at this point, it would be wonderful if Peter knew what he was looking at. While certain things in life may seem obvious to seeing people like you and me, this was not so for Peter. Books, for example, with all their adventure and wonder, were completely lost on him. Though he could tell you how many pages a volume had just by holding it, or how old it was just by smelling it, or who had read it before just by ruffling the pages, he had no way of telling what the title was (unless, of course, it was gilded on the spine). But these six yolks had neither spine, nor gilding, nor anything else that would help Peter identify them.
“What are you?” he asked, taking the open box in his hands. Had Peter been able to see, his heart would have stopped. A smile would have crept across his face, and his dry throat would have let loose its first real laugh in ten miserable years. Because Peter Nimble had stumbled across something too wonderful even to imagine—something that could only be described as fantastic.
CHAPTER THREE
PETER versus the MUMBLETY-PEG GANG
The rain had stopped by nightfall. Peter left the house for work just as the courthouse clock struck ten. He had wasted his precious napping hours poring over the Haberdasher’s box, so he was exhausted before even setting foot outside. He winced at the thought of how difficult the night ahead of him would be; Mr. Seamus never made idle threats, and unless Peter wanted to get a beating, he needed to steal a great deal of loot before sunrise.
Peter figured the best place to start would be with the Haberdasher. He knew firsthand that the man had a purse overflowing with coins, and that velvet bag alone would be enough to satisfy Mr. Seamus. While the boy told himself that this was the reason he was searching for the Haberdasher, the real reason was something different altogether. The truth was, Peter had a burning desire to learn more about the strange little eggs in the strange little box. Every drop of his burgling sense told him that these six yolks were worth far more than his entire life-stealings put together.
Sneaking past Uncle Knick-Knack’s Pawn Shop (where he often did business) and the shuttered stands along Market Row (where he also did “business”), Peter finally reached the place where the Haberdasher had been stationed. He sniffed the cold air for any signs of the man’s trail. Nothing. He dropped to the ground and felt for wheel tracks in the puddles. Nothing. He swept the streets, haunted the inns, and scoured the docks, but he found not a single clue. It was as though the man had never been there. The only proof of his existence was the box tucked under Peter’s arm and the great mystery that came with it.
Peter was growing frustrated. He had spent hours trying to find the elusive Haberdasher and still had two nights’ worth of burgling ahead of him. “If only I had someone to tell me what these eggs really are,” he muttered as he slid out of the upstairs window with four candlesticks, two cuckoo clocks, and a cheap leather skullcap. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden scream.
Screams, as you know, are dreadful, shrill noises that tiresome people make when they want attention. They are rarely effective, as most hearers simply plug their ears and go on about their business. But there is another kind of scream that cannot be ignored so easily: the cry of a creature facing death—a primal, desperate gasp that speaks not to the ears, but to the very quick of our beings. Peter had heard that sound only once before, when freeing himself from a bag of drowning kittens. He was now hearing that terrible scream again, and it was very close.
Peter stood stock-still on the roof’s edge. One of the most important skills that any burglar must master is remaining still. Though less glamorous than safe-cracking and wall-scaling, it is just as useful. After Mr. Seamus’s training, the boy had even learned how to stop his heart from beating so that guard dogs would ignore him in the darkness. (This trick had thus far failed to work on Killer.) Peter listened to the cold night air. The first scream had been so short that he had missed its exact location.
A few moments later, he heard the cry again. It was one of the animals by the town stables. Peter weighed the half-empty bag around his shoulder. He had a lot of burgling to do and couldn’t afford another distraction. The screaming continued until he could bear it no longer. He stowed his loot and went to investigate.
Peter raced through the town until he came to a small alley that ran behind the stables. He could hear what sounded like a horse neighing. He heard other sounds, too—jeering voices and the occasional clatter of metal against cobblestone. The alley made a sharp turn, and Peter’s foot caught against an old jug. He stumbled, almost dropping his precious box of eggs. Regaining his balance, he poked his head around the moonlit corner to listen.
“What a shot!” someone cheered. “Right on the stripe!”
“That’s a fault! Blade’s gotta turn twice!” another whined.
“Shut up an’ throw already!”
Peter inched closer, trying to assess the situation. The animal smelled like a nag or mule—he couldn’t be certain so close to the stables. Whatever the breed, it was putting up quite a struggle. Just then a deep voice spoke, silencing the others. “Step aside, you babies. Lemme show you how it’s done.” The words sent a chill down Peter’s spine. He recognized that voice. It belonged to Pencil Cookson.
Pencil Cookson was the meanest, nastiest, most dangerous boy in the port. He was several years older than Peter and twice his size. Pencil was also an orphan, but for different reasons altogether. It was said that when he turned eight, his father—a drunkard facing debtor’s prison—had sold his son as a cabin boy to a local ship’s captain. Pencil was deathly afraid of the water, and he refused to go. When his parents tried forcing him, he overpowered them both, mother and father, and dispatched them with a pencil he had been using to complete a grammar lesson. (That was how he had gotten his name.) Shortly after orphaning himself, Pencil assembled a crew of the vilest, most heartless boys in town. They called themselves the Mumblety-Peg Gang.
For those of you who have never played it, mumblety-peg is a rousing game for rough boys consisting of tossing a knife and trying to make it stick into the dirt. It is a relatively harmless pastime—unless, of course, it is being played by Pencil Cookson and his Mumblety-Peg Gang. It was a known fact that these boys were so tough that instead of aiming at the ground, they aimed at each other’s feet . . . or even worse, at the feet of whatever unlucky victim they managed to corner.
Peter sorted through the shouts, cries, and clanging from the alley. It sounded like there were five boys out tonight. Plus one victim. From the scuffling of their steps, Peter concluded that the gang must have pinned the animal to the ground and was trying to get the knife to land in its backside. Peter pressed himself against the wall, glad he was safely hidden.
Or at least he thought he was hidden; the very next moment, the game was interrupted by a shout. “Oi! Who goes?!” one of them hollered in Peter’s direction. “Thought I seen somethin’ move by the street there.” The rest of the gang turned and stepped closer.
Peter remained completely still. He could tell by the coolness of his skin that he was standing in shadow, away from the moonlight. Just to be safe, he stopped his heart from beating.
“I don’t see nothing,” Pencil said after a moment. “Just some old barrels.”
There came a thud! and some frantic neighing.
“Hey! The clopper’s tryin’ to get away!”
“We ain’t done playin’!”
“Keep her down!”
Apparently, the animal had tried using the distraction to escape from its persecutors. Peter relaxed a bit as the gang’s attention fell back to the game.
Now, the first thing that a boy—or anyone, for that matter—should do in a dire situation is ask himself the Rascal’s Questions. Peter, being a master thief, knew the questions by heart.
Where was he?
Behind the town jail, just before midnight.
Were there friends nearby?
Peter had no friends. Besides, being a thief, he didn’t want to be spotted out at night.
Were there weapons nearby?
Peter thought for a moment and smiled. Perhaps he had something even better.
He slipped out of the alley and ran to the local jail. One dead bolt later, he was through the door, surrounded by dozing prisoners. Peter tiptoed through an empty cell block and gently removed a long chain and several sets of shackles from the wall. For an ordinary person, moving chains quietly is an impossible task: no sooner do you lift one end than the other drops, or goes chink, chink against your arm. Not so for Peter Nimble. In no time he had returned to the alley and was silently fixing the shackles around each of the bullies’ ankles.
Peter’s expert fingers latched the clamps shut without a single member of the gang noticing. He threaded one end of the chain through the bullies’ fetters and led the other around the corner, across Town Square, and to the roof of the courthouse.
Any respectable town has at least one tall building in it, and atop this building there usually sits a big, important clock. Peter’s town was no exception. The courthouse belfry had recently been gutted to make way for an enormous mechanical clock—a bold first step into a more modern world. Every hour, a mechanical pelican sprang out like a cuckoo to squawk the time and put on a little show, flapping its wings and spinning in a circle. Peter could hear that the hands of the clock were approaching midnight. He hoped that the gears controlling them were strong enough for his purposes.
Taking the chain in his mouth, he unlocked a maintenance panel and slipped inside the tower. Every inch was filled with slowly turning clockwork. Peter found the mechanical pelican sitting dormant between two giant cogs, waiting for its next performance. He knelt down and looped the chain around the creature’s brass feet. While securing the links, the master thief could feel faint vibrations of the Mumblety-Peg Gang stomping and cheering at the far end of the square. Peter’s plan was set; all he had to do now was keep the gang from killing their victim before midnight.
Peter returned to the street and followed the chain back to the stables. At the mouth of the alley, he remembered the empty ale jug he had tripped on before—a perfect distraction. He picked up the jug and took aim at the meanest, nastiest, most dangerous voice of the bunch.
Crack! The jug smashed square against the back of Pencil’s head, shattering into a hundred pieces. “Arghhh!” he shouted, massaging his bruised crown. “Who’s there?!”
It was too late now for retreat. Peter stepped into the moonlight. “Behind you,” he said, trying his best to sound brave. “And there’s another one coming if you don’t leave off.” This was actually a lie; Peter hadn’t been able to find a second ale jug anywhere.
“Well, looky-look,” Pencil said, stepping closer. “Seems we got ourselves a do-gooder.”
“I—I’m warning you,” Peter’s voice faltered. “You leave that horse alone.”
“Horse?” one of the other boys said, snorting. “What are you, blind?” This last remark, even though it was true, was still a mean thing to say.
“Hey, I seen you before,” another boy said. “You’re that mincy little kid Seamus keeps ’round—the worm!”
“We’ll see who’s mincy,” Peter said by way of comeback. “You’ve got ten seconds.” The gang laughed, circling closer, flipping their blades in their hands. Peter remained where he stood, only moving to dodge the occasional swipe of a knife. “Five more seconds!” he said.
“Then I better move fast,” Pencil said. Quick as death, he snatched Peter’s throat and lifted him clear off the ground.
The boy gagged, struggling to pry the choking fingers from his neck. “Almost . . . time . . . ,” he gasped.
“Right you are!” Pencil tightened his grip. “Almost time you join us for a game of mumbl—”
You may well have guessed that Pencil Cookson was about to say “mumblety-peg,” and you would be right. But his words were cut off by the sound of the great clock striking midnight. The mechanical pelican sprang from its perch and began to spin and squawk, winding the chain around its body like thread on a spool. The bullies’ shackles pulled tight. Pencil, in his shock, let go of Peter. Before any of them knew what was happening, the five boys of the Mumblety-Peg Gang were whipped off their feet, dragged through town, and lifted halfway up the clock tower, where they dangled by their ankles like a bunch of nasty, cursing grapes.
While Pencil and his gang took in the view from the courthouse, Peter climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. He could hear uneven snorting at the end of the alley and knew that the animal had not fled. He could smell blood on the stones from where it had been cut. “Are you all right?” he said, moving nearer.
As he approached, a pungent musk filled his nose. It was a smell he had learned just that afternoon—the smell of zebra. “You belong to the Haberdasher,” he said, reaching out a hand. Instead of recoiling, the beast inched closer and pressed its nose against his palm.
Peter knelt down and took the zebra’s head in his thin arms. “What have they done to you?” he said, gingerly stroking its nape. The animal shivered under his gentle touch. Peter pressed a hand against its ribs, feeling the faint pulse. As he soothed the creature, its heartbeat slowly strengthened, finally returning to normal.
“I suppose your master left you behind,” he said, helping the zebra to its feet. “If only you could tell me about those eggs.” At the mention of eggs, the beast whinnied softly in his ear. If he didn’t know better, Peter would have guessed that it had understood him. But that was impossible . . . animals couldn’t understand speech any more than they could talk themselves.
As if in reply, the zebra limped to the end of the alley where the Haberdasher’s box was lying. It took the box in its bruised jaw and brought it to Peter’s feet.
The boy was uncertain what to do. “You want me to open it?” Peter asked. The zebra whinnied again, nudging his hand toward the box. Peter crouched down and slipped his finger into the battered lock. Click! The lid popped open.
“Now what?”
He heard the creature lower its head and sniff at the contents inside. It took one yolk, then another, in its teeth and dropped them carefully into Peter’s open palm. Then the animal stepped behind him and tugged the bandage away from his eyes.
“I—I’m sorry,” he said. “I still can’t tell what you want.”
He reached a hand out beside him, hoping the zebra might instruct him further, but the beast had inexplicably vanished. “Hello?” he said, turning around. He strained to hear hoofbeats or snorting, but there was nothing—only the two mysterious yolks in his palm. He rolled the round balls between his fingers; something about their size and texture was hauntingly familiar. He pressed his nose against their warm skins. “I know that smell from somewhere,” he murmured to himself. “But where?”
It was in this moment that Peter had what doctors call a “flashback.” This is a fancy medical term that means to remember things from one’s past. Peter gasped as his entire being was overcome with smells and sounds from long ago. He remembered shouts and roars. He remembered being stuffed into a basket. He remembered owning his very own pair of yolks just like these, until they were viciously pecked from his sockets.
“It’s a pair of eyes,” he said. He sat back in a daze. Could it be true? It was all too perfect for a blind boy to end up stealing a box full of eyes. Three pairs, just waiting to be found. He studied each pair, now able to detect slight differences in their weights and sizes. The first pair was molded from the finest gold dust. The second had been carved from slick, black onyx. And the final pair was made of two uncut emeralds—the purest jewels he had ever touched.
Peter took up the golden eyes in his hand and felt his pulse quicken. This was the pair that the zebra had selected for him. The animal was telling Peter what to do.
The boy released a deep breath and steadied his hands. Ever so gently, he slipped the two eyes into his sockets.
He blinked.
And just like that, Peter Nimble vanished into thin air.
C
HAPTER FOUR
SIR TODE and the FAMILIAR VOICE
The next moment, Peter found himself underwater. This change of environment caught him so off guard that he wasn’t even able to take a breath, instead catching a lungful of stinging brine. He flailed his legs, kicking in a direction he desperately hoped was up. When his head finally broke the surface, he heard two sounds: the first was the thunderous roar of falling water, the second was a great symphony of tinking glass. He spun around, blindly searching for anything that might help him keep afloat. One of his hands knocked against something small and hard. An ordinary glass bottle. He swept both arms wide, feeling bottles of various shapes and sizes floating all around him. Where was he? Currents churned around his thin legs, towing him back into their depths. He sputtered as he struggled to keep his head above water. “Help!” he cried out, coughing. “Someone help me!”
As you may have guessed, Peter could not swim very well. His few encounters with water had taught him to keep a healthy distance from the stuff. He tried to recall what led him to this dreadful predicament. That last thing he remembered was slipping a pair of golden eyes into his sockets. Then—poof!—suddenly he was in deep water, surrounded by hundreds of tink-tinking bottles.
And now he was about to die.
For a thief, death is something of an occupational hazard. Peter had more than once contemplated the possibility of his end, whether by gallows or guard dog. But the thought of drowning now filled him with sadness. He had discovered the box of eyes only to lose it a moment later—he didn’t even have a chance to try the other two pairs.