The Legendary Scarlett and Browne

The death-defying conclusion to the;"audacious,";"razor-sharp," and "raucous";exploits of the notorious outlaws Scarlett and Browne from the bestselling author of Lockwood & Co., Jonathan Stroud. Throughout their lawless careers, Scarlett McCain and Albert Browne have gotten out of trouble by shooting first, then running away. Now that''s no longer an option.; In this non-stop thrill-ride of a novel, we witness Albert’s return to the terrifying Stonemoor prison, follow Scarlett’s search for her long-lost brother, see a town besieged by the cannibal Tainted, and join the final confrontation against the cruel forces of the Faith Houses. Along the way, our rebellious anti-heros will have to face up to the secrets of their past, and accept the challenge of shaping a better future.

Auteur

Jonathan Stroud

Échantillon de lecture
1

That afternoon, for his latest crime against the Faith Houses, the barber-­surgeon Harold O’Shaughnessy was escorted from the town. It was a fine day for an execution. A fresh breeze made the pennants flap bravely on the stockade. Spring sunshine lit the treetops. The sky was eggshell blue. As O’Shaughnessy remarked to his jailer, things could have been worse. At least he wasn’t going to be eaten in the rain.

A festive crowd had gathered on the moat bridge. Some drank beer, others sipped coffee; everyone ate slices of fruit cake provided by the Yeovil Women’s Institute for the occasion. The ceremony itself did not take long. O’Shaughnessy was prodded with the poles of justice and cursed by the town elders. His clothes were daubed with yellow paint, signifying moral turpitude, and flecked with meat paste to encourage the attentions of wild beasts. Then he was made to stand on the expulsion stone just outside the gate, while the chief Mentor gave the final declaration.

“For repeated irreverence, for holding injurious opinions, for chafing against the moral fabric of society; for refusing to partake in Faith House duties, and for general slander and corruption of the young, Harold O’Shaughnessy is hereby sentenced to three nights’ enchainment in Far Forest glade. After three nights, if he is yet living, his soul shall be considered cleansed, and we shall welcome him back with open arms.”

The Mentor finished; there was the briefest rustling as he folded up his paper. On his stone the barber stared impassively at the sky, while the crowd below chewed their cake in wonder. Three nights? Three nights in the forest?

One thing was certain. The Faith Houses really wanted to be rid of him.

Now a drumbeat started, courtesy of a lad tapping a tom-­tom covered in Tainted skin. The chaining party set off, the Mentor at its head, followed by the acned drummer, then four militiamen escorting the condemned man. O’Shaughnessy, who was a small, dapper person with olive skin and a neat black beard, smiled and nodded at his neighbors as he passed them. He was determined to put on a good show. Last of all came the sergeant of the iron posts, his blood-­red bowler shining in the sun.

The procession crossed the bridge, then left the road by a dirt track that led off across the bright grass of the meadow. A barrier of trees rose up ahead. The path plunged into the forest, and the air became thick with the resinous odors of the pines. It was shady in the woods. The drum beat softly, and the militiamen drew their pistols. The barber’s step faltered. They had to urge him on by yanking on his ropes.

In due course they reached the edge of the safe-­lands, where the path ended in a sunlit clearing. Here two iron posts, eight feet tall and festooned with chains, stood atop a concrete platform. The glade was filled with wild scrub, with black rocks jutting from the soil. It was an oppressive place and very still. The forest enfolded it like the mouth of a metal trap.

The Mentor gave his orders, and the militiamen led the criminal to the nearest post. O’Shaughnessy attempted pleasantries with the men, each of whom had been a friend or neighbor, but they refused to speak to him. Why should they? For them, as for most of the folk in Yeovil, he was already dead. It would have been like chatting with a ghost.

Soon enough the work was done. O’Shaughnessy was chained in position. The men gathered close together on the path, wide-­eyed, watching the forest. The tops of the trees were flecked with pink. The sun was going down.

Now the sergeant of the iron posts stepped close to inspect the chains.

O’Shaughnessy had been waiting for the chance. “Jim,” he whispered. “Jim.”

The sergeant ran his big hands along the links, testing them. He didn’t look up.

“Jim,” O’Shaughnessy said again. “For old times. Keep it a little loose for me.”

The sergeant glanced across to where the Mentor stood watching them, light glinting on his glasses and his mop of sandy hair. He cleared his throat. “Can’t,” he said.

“Leave me a gun, then.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“A knife. A gun. Anything.”

“I’m sorry, Harold.”

There was a silence. “Well,” the barber said, “I guess I’ll see you in three days.”

The sergeant sighed. “Harry,” he said softly, “I give you a couple of hours at most.”

O’Shaughnessy maintained his attitude of careless defiance until the party left the glade. As the drumming faded, he let his shoulders sag. He slumped to a sitting position, chains clinking against the platform. A couple of hours? He knew he’d be lucky to get that.

But perhaps there was a chance. It was not unknown for human wanderers to walk the woods. Robbers, for example, or other outcasts. . . . Such folk might visit the posts to pick among the bones. Perhaps someone would come! Someone who might be induced to free him! The fragment of hope made O’Shaughnessy’s heart grind against his chest.

First, however, he must survive the night.

The clearing was still. Frogs croaked in an unseen pond. The forest canopy was picked out with a last sweet crispness, but the trees below were dark and dim. The barber found his attention drawn to a particular spot on the far side of the glade. Here one half-­fallen pine crossed in front of another, so that the space below had the appearance of an arch. The gap was really no blacker than anywhere else. . . . Nevertheless, he found it hard to look away.

Time passed. Daylight withdrew from the clearing. Birds transected a corner of the glade, black seeds caught on the currents of the air. They flowed over the treetops and out of sight. Now a bright, barbarous moon rose above the treetops, sharp as a scimitar.

O’Shaughnessy became aware that the quality of the silence had changed.

How was it different? He tensed, listening. . . . The frogs no longer croaked. The birds had gone. . . . Moonlight slanted past, carrying tumbling dust and spores. Below the glittering posts the Yeovil path was a white seam, twisting away into the dark.

His skin crawled. He stared at the black notch in the trees.

No, it was all right. There was nothing to be seen.

But what about behind him? With sudden urgency, he got to his feet, fighting against the weight of the chains. He craned his neck, shuffled his feet, turned laboriously around the post. The chains made a clinking and a grating as he moved. The noise was loud and the barber regretted it, but he could not bear to think of death creeping up silently at his back.

Now he faced the rear of the glade. What did he see? A wal…