by Garth Nix
‘Arthur!’
It was the Will, calling his name. But the voice was distant and fleeting. Even with the others quiet, all he could hear now was running water, the jangle of the moving chain in the shaft, and the more distant thrum of the subterranean engines.
‘Did you hear that?’ he asked. ‘Someone calling my name?’
‘No,’ said Suzy. She looked herself again. Even the torn rags of her Rat breeches and shirt weren’t too out of place on her, considering her normal choice in clothes. ‘Didn’t hear nuthin’.’
‘Nor I, I fear,’ added Dartbristle. ‘And with my ears, I have won many a Hearing Contest in the fleet.’
‘Never mind,’ said Arthur.
It must have been speaking in my head, he thought. Like the Carp did . . . but from far away. Or perhaps the Will could only escape its bonds for a moment . . .
The sound of the rushing water died away. Dartbristle waved his hat over his head and jumped down. Arthur and Suzy could hear the splash as he landed in the channel.
‘There’s a window up there,’ said Suzy, pointing to a large iron-barred window of dirty, rain-flecked glass that was set into the riveted iron walls about twelve feet up. ‘If I climb up those bottles, and stand on top of that big yellow one, I reckon I could see outside.’
The window let in a subdued greyish light. Looking at it, Arthur realised for the first time that he must have developed better night vision, because he could see quite clearly, even though the warehouse had only one dim lantern hanging from the high ceiling, and the six windows, all on the same wall, did not admit much extra light.
‘Suzy, how light is it in here?’ he asked.
‘In here? If it weren’t for the windows and that lantern, it’d be dark as a dog’s dinner, inside of a dog, and even with the windows and the lantern it’s not much better,’ answered Suzy, who was starting to climb from one bottleneck to another, stepping across an impromptu stairway to her chosen window. ‘But I reckon it is daytime outside, only it’s raining.’
‘What can you see?’ Arthur was now almost himself, apart from his hands, which were still paws and not under his control. They were twitching and wriggling in a very annoying way and he had already slapped himself in the face several times and would have suffered more if he hadn’t got control of his arms and neck and twisted away. His clothes were also reduced to shreds, which was probably just as well, as they would have been terribly restrictive now that he was back to his full height.
‘Rain,’ said Suzy. ‘And not much else. There’s a very tall building, with lots of green lights.’
‘Ow!’ said Arthur as his paws turned into hands but kept twitching, smacking his fingers against the floor. ‘That’s enough! Stop!’
His hands tingled and stopped. Arthur flexed his fingers and gave a relieved sigh. He was himself again, and everything was under control.
Suzy climbed down and both of them went over to look through the trapdoor. There was a rusted iron ladder that led down to an arched passage lined with small red bricks. A thin trickle of water ran down the middle, but from the dampness of the walls it was evident that the water rose nearly as high as the trapdoor when it was in full spate, as it must have been just a few minutes before the Raised Rat went through.
Suzy immediately started to climb down the ladder, but Arthur pulled her back.
‘Hold on! Let’s wait for Dartbristle. We need proper clothes. Besides, there might be more water flooding through.’
‘I was just ’aving a look,’ grumbled Suzy.
‘How’s that cut?’ asked Arthur.
Suzy looked down and felt her chest through her ripped rags.
‘It’s gone!’ she exclaimed. ‘That was at least a four-day cut, that was!’
‘Healed in the transformation, I suppose,’ said Arthur.
‘Maybe I won’t kick old Doc after all,’ said Suzy cheerfully.
‘I’m glad you’re better.’ Arthur knelt down and peered into the flood channel. Though it wasn’t lit at all, he could see at least thirty or forty feet along it. That made him have a second thought about his eyes, and he sprang back up and looked carefully at Suzy. Her eyes looked the same as ever: dark brown, curious and sharp.
‘Suzy,’ he said. ‘My eyes haven’t stayed like a Raised Rat’s, have they?’
‘Nope. They’ve gone bright blue, but. Wot’s called cornflower blue in the inkworks. Only yours is kind of glowing. I reckon it’s to do with the Keys turning you into . . . whatever it is they’re turning you into.’
‘A Denizen,’ said Arthur glumly.
‘Nah,’ said Suzy. ‘Not even a Superior Denizen looks like you do. When that Dartbristle gets back, we’d best smear some grease on your face so you’ll pass as one of us.’
I can’t even be mistaken for a Piper’s child anymore, thought Arthur with unexpected sadness.
Suzy cocked her head, sensing his mood.
‘You’ll still be Arthur Penhaligon,’ she said. ‘Not the brightest, not the bravest, but up for anything. Least, that’s how I see you. Kind of like a little brother, only you’re taller than me now.’
She paused and frowned. ‘I think I had a little brother once. Don’t know whether it was here, or back home, or what . . .’
She stopped talking, and their eyes met briefly. They both remembered the Improbable Stair and their visit to Suzy’s original home, back on Earth, back in time, a city in the grip of the bubonic plague. If Suzy had once had a brother, he’d likely died young and long ago, stricken by the disease.
That reminded Arthur of the plagues back home, the modern ones, and the hospital, and the Skinless Boy who had taken his place, and his brother calling about the nuclear strike on East Area Hospital. He felt a tide of anxiety rise up from somewhere in his stomach, almost choking him with responsibilities. He had to find the Will here, and defeat Saturday, and get back home in time to do something about the nuclear attack before it happened . . .
‘It’s not a good idea to stop breathing,’ said Suzy, interrupting Arthur’s panic attack. She clapped him on the back and he took a sudden intake of breath.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s just, it’s just—’
‘Ahoy there, children!’
Dartbristle climbed out of the flood channel, carrying a large cloth bag marked LAUNDRY. He tipped it up and emptied a pile of clothes and boots onto the floor.
‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘Stuff should resize to fit, if it ain’t worn out. I picked up a few sets to be sure.’
The clothes were dirty off-white coveralls that had lots of pockets. Arthur picked up a set, hesitated a moment, then stripped off his rags and put on the coveralls as quickly as he could. The coveralls immediately resized themselves to fit, and several oil stains moved around as well to get better positions, some bickering before they established their pre-eminence.
‘Odd clothes,’ said Suzy doubtfully. She put on the coveralls, but tore a strip of blue cloth off her old rags and added it as a belt.
‘You’ll get utility belts at the depot,’ said Dartbristle.
‘I like a bit of colour,’ sniffed Suzy.
‘There’s boots there,’ Dartbristle pointed out. ‘You’ll need them for the climbing and jumping and whatnot.’
‘Climbing and jumping?’ asked Arthur. He sat down and pulled on a pair of the boots. They were made of soft leather and had strange soles that were covered in tiny tentacles like a sea anemone. They gripped Arthur’s finger when he touched them.
‘Everything up past the ground-floor level here is made up of desk units,’ said Dartbristle. ‘Open iron boxes with a lattice floor, stacked and slotted into a framework of guide rails, and moved up, down and across by shifter chains. The Piper’s children here are grease monkeys – they keep the chains oiled, free up obstructions, service the pneumatic message tubes and so on. Requires a lot of climbing, jumping and the like. If you’re going to be looking around the Upper House, you’ll need to fit in as grease monkeys.’
&
nbsp; ‘Who said we’d be looking around the Upper House?’ asked Arthur suspiciously.
Perhaps I should slay this Rat now, came an unbidden thought. He knows too much and I probably don’t need him . . . Stop . . . stop! I don’t want these thoughts . . .
‘The message that came through advising me of your arrival,’ Dartbristle replied. ‘Said you’d be looking for something, and to offer you any reasonable assistance.’
‘Yes,’ said Arthur, keeping a tight lid on the nasty, selfish thoughts that were roiling in the depths of his head. ‘Thank you. We are looking for something. In fact—’
He took a breath and decided to go for it. He had to trust people, even if they happened to be Raised Rats. Or Denizens. Or Piper’s children.
‘I’m looking for Part Six of the Will of the Architect. It’s here somewhere. Trapped, or held prisoner. Have you heard anything about it?’
Dartbristle took off his hat and scratched his head. Then he took off his mask and scratched his nose. Then he put both back on and said, ‘No, I’m afraid not. The grease monkeys might—’
‘Maybe,’ said Arthur. ‘But I want to check them out first, so keep it secret for now. Remember, we’re newly returned from the Army and washed between the ears.’
‘Aye, I’ll remember,’ said Dartbristle. ‘We’re good with secrets, we Raised Rats. Are you ready to go?’
The question was addressed to Suzy, who was playing with the sole of one of her boots.
‘Reckon,’ she said, slipping on her footwear. ‘Down that tunnel?’
‘Yes, we have to avoid the Sorcerous Supernumeraries, as I said,’ replied Dartbristle. ‘We should have an hour or more before the next flood.’
‘How can you tell?’ Arthur asked. He looked up at the window. ‘Doesn’t it depend on the rain?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Dartbristle as he led the way down the ladder. ‘You see, it always rains here, and always at the same, steady rate. Makes traversing the flood channels and stormwater drains very predictable.’
‘It always rains?’ asked Arthur. ‘Why?’
‘She likes the rain,’ Dartbristle told him. ‘Or maybe she likes umbrellas.’
There was no doubt who ‘she’ was: Superior Saturday, who Arthur was beginning to think more and more must be his ultimate nemesis, and the cause of not only his own troubles but those of the entire House and the Universe beyond.
Now he was in her demesne. She, and her thousands of sorcerers, were somewhere up above him. Hopefully in ignorance of his presence, but possibly all too aware that he had come within her reach.
ELEVEN
AS DARTBRISTLE HAD claimed, the flood channel did not suddenly fill with rushing water as Arthur half-feared it might. All the way along he listened carefully for the sound of an approaching deluge, and was ready to race back to the ladder and the warehouse. Then, when he caught sight of a ladder ahead, he had to hold himself back from trampling over the Raised Rat to get to it and climb out.
Maybe all my worries have made me claustrophobic, Arthur thought with some concern. But then he told himself it was perfectly normal to be concerned when walking along what was basically a big underground drain, in the middle of a heavy rainstorm. People got drowned all the time doing stupid stuff like that, and as he had thought before in the Border Sea, Arthur was particularly concerned that the Key would keep him sort of alive underwater and he might take a long time to die.
However, he managed to stay calm, and didn’t streak up the ladder like a rat up a drainpipe. Instead he remembered what Suzy had said about his looks, and paused to pick up some mud, which he smeared on his face and front. After that he climbed out slowly, and so had time to adjust to the light and noise that was filtering down the access shaft to the channel.
The chamber above was very different from the warehouse. It was smaller, sixty feet square, and had thick stone walls without any windows and only a single door, which was shut and barred. But it was full of light, from the dozens of lanterns that hung on wires of different lengths from the arch-beamed ceiling high above, and it was full of noise, from the thirty or so grease monkeys who were sitting on simple wooden benches at six old oak tables – or not sitting, since a good number of them were jumping over the tables as part of a dozen-person game of tag, or doing cartwheels along them, or playing shuttlecock with improvised shuttles and bats, or constructing curious pieces of machinery. Or completely monopolising a tabletop by lying asleep on it, as one nearby grease monkey was doing.
As Dartbristle helped Suzy out and she and Arthur stood at the rim of the trapdoor, all this activity ceased. The children stopped their games and activities and turned to look at the new arrivals.
‘Wotcher!’ said Suzy, and went to tip her hat. She got halfway to her head before she remembered it wasn’t there, and so had to be satisfied with a wave.
The grease monkeys didn’t wave back. They stood there, staring, until the one who was apparently asleep on the table rubbed her eyes and sat up. She looked like a typical Piper’s child, with her ragged, self-cut hair, dirty face and oil-stained coveralls. But from the way the other grease monkeys’ eyes shifted toward her, Arthur could tell she was the boss.
‘Mornin’,’ she said. ‘Dartie here says you’ve been demobbed and sent back, with a washing between the ears behind you.’
‘That’s right,’ said Arthur. ‘Uh, I think.’
‘I’m Alyse Shifter First Class,’ said the girl. ‘I’m gang boss of this bunch, the Twenty-seventh Chain and Motivation Maintenance Brigade of the Upper House. What’re your names and classifications? Don’t tell me your House precedence – we don’t bother with that here.’
‘Uh . . . I can’t quite . . . remember,’ said Arthur. ‘I think my name’s Ray.’
‘Got your paperwork?’ asked Alyse, holding out her hand.
‘Lost it,’ muttered Arthur.
‘Somewhere,’ added Suzy vaguely. ‘Think my name’s Suze, though.’
‘Suze and Ray,’ said Alyse. ‘Well, what’s your classification?’
‘Uh . . .’ Arthur let his voice trail off as he looked around in what he hoped was a gormless manner, till he spotted a long line of coats and other items hanging from coat hooks down the far wall. Each hook held a duckling-yellow peaked rain-cap, a rubberised yellow rain-mantle and a broad leather belt loaded with pouches, tools and a holster that held a long, shining silver shifting wrench.
‘I think I used to do up nuts,’ he said. ‘For bolts?’
Alyse looked at him.
‘You got long enough arms for it,’ she said. ‘Nut-turner, I guess. Maybe First Class. What about you?’
‘Dunno,’ said Suzy. ‘Forget. Reckon I could turn my hand to anything, though.’
Alyse looked her up and down and shrugged.
‘Nice under-belt,’ she said. ‘Blue-sky wisher, are you? You must be a Wire-flyer?’
‘Maybe,’ agreed Suzy guardedly.
‘What’s a Wire-flyer?’ Arthur asked.
‘You did get scrubbed good and proper,’ said Alyse. ‘Try and remember! I’m talking installation, not maintenance. A Wire-flyer flies the guide wires up, so as the Rail-risers can put up the rails for the Chain-runners and the Hook-’em-ups can slot in the desk unit and the Nut-holders and Bolt-turners make it fast and the Shifter gives the word. Only if we’re not building up, the Wire-fliers do odd jobs, help out the Chain-oilers, stuff like that. Coming back to you now?’
‘A . . . a bit,’ said Arthur. He didn’t need to act confused by her explanation.
‘Have to see it, I reckon,’ said Suzy. ‘Picture paints a thousand words. Is that tea over there?’
‘It’ll come back to you,’ declared Alyse, ignoring Suzy’s question. She held out her palm, spat in it, and offered her hand to Arthur. ‘Welcome to the Twenty-seventh Chain and Motivation Maintenance Brigade, or as we like to call it—’
‘Alyse’s Apes!’ roared the assembled grease monkeys.
Arthur shook hands, and Alyse spat
again. Suzy spat on her own hand and Arthur thought he should have spat on his too, and hoped his recently washed-between-the-ears state would let him be forgiven for this lapse in Piper’s child etiquette.
‘Tea’s in the pot,’ said Alyse, pointing to the huge teapot that was simmering on a trivet above a glass spirit burner in the corner. She then pointed to a large and decrepit-looking cuckoo clock that had half-fallen off the wall and was slumped just above the floor at an odd angle. Its hands still moved and Arthur could hear the quiet thock-thock-thock of its inner workings. It said the time was seventeen minutes to twelve.
‘Help yourself. Shift starts at twelve, so get a cup down you while you can. Don’t forget to check your gear before noon.’
Alyse yawned and began to lie back down on the tabletop, but one of the other grease monkeys called out, ‘Alyse! Which pegs do they get?’
Alyse scowled and sat back up again.
‘Never a moment’s rest,’ she sighed, though Arthur was sure she had been sound asleep when he arrived. She opened one of the pockets on her coverall and drew out a thick and well-thumbed notebook. ‘Let’s see. Yonik was the last one to fall, so his peg’s free – that’s number thirty-three. Before that was Dotty—’
‘But Dotty didn’t fall; she just got her leg crushed,’ said one of the grease monkeys. ‘She’ll be back.’
‘Not for three months or more,’ said Alyse. ‘So her peg and her belt are free. Them’s the rules.
‘Number twenty,’ she added to Suzy, pointing halfway along the line of coat hooks. ‘You’re lucky – Dotty kept her gear very nice. Better than Yonik, which goes to show. He wouldn’t have fallen if he’d kept his wings clean.’
‘And his nose,’ added someone, to general laughter.
‘Was he badly hurt?’ asked Arthur.
‘Hurt?’ Alyse laughed. ‘When you’re working on the tower, as we was, if you fall off and your wings don’t work, you don’t get hurt. You get dead. Even a Denizen can’t survive that fall. Twelve thousand feet, straight down. We were lucky to find his belt and tools, and his wrench had to be replaced. Bent like a crescent, it was.’