by Philip Reeve
He pushed on through the crowds, heading for the address that the girl at the Aquarium had given him. He knew that Hester would be cross with him later for going without her, but he had been far too anxious to wait any longer for her at The Pink Café. Besides, he kept remembering what she had done to Gargle, and it made him feel uneasy about how she might react when she learned Wren’s fate. He wanted to talk calmly to this Shkin fellow. He might turn out to be a reasonable man, who would give Wren back to her parents when he learned the truth. If not, Tom would arrange to buy her back. Either way, there should be no need for violence.
When he saw the Pepperpot he felt even more optimistic. Most slavers’ dens were dingy places, tucked away on unmentionable tiers of savage salvage towns, not elegant white towers. Outside the glass front door a guard in smart black livery politely stopped him and ran a metal-detector over him before letting him into a reception area as calm and tasteful as a hotel lobby. There were soft chairs, and hard metallic-green pot-plants, and a plaque on the wall which read The Shkin Corporation and underneath, in smaller letters, An Investor in People. The only real clue to what sort of place it was were the angry, muffled shouts and clanging sounds which came up faintly through the sea-grass carpet.
“I’m sorry about the noise,” said a well-dressed woman sitting behind a black desk. “It is those filthy Lost Boys. They were very meek when we first brought them aboard, but they are growing more troublesome and contumelious by the day. Never mind. The autumn auctions begin tomorrow, so we shall soon be rid of them.”
“Then you have not sold them yet?” cried Tom. “I’m so glad. I’m looking for my daughter. Wren Natsworthy. She was with the Lost Boys, and I think you might have taken her by mistake…”
The woman had pencilled-on eyebrows as thin as wire, and she raised them both in surprise. “One moment, please,” she said, and leaned across her desk to whisper into a brass and bakelite intercom which Tom thought very futuristic. The intercom whispered back, and after a moment the woman looked up at Tom and smiled and said, “Mr Shkin will see you in person. You may go up.”
Tom moved towards the spiral staircase that led up through the ceiling, but the woman pressed a button on her desk, and a narrow door slid open in the wall. Tom realized that it was a lift. It looked nothing like the huge public elevators he remembered from his boyhood in London; just a posh cupboard, panelled in mother-of-pearl, but he tried not to look too surprised, and stepped inside. The door slid shut. He felt his stomach lurch. When the door opened again he was in a quiet, luxurious office where a man was rising to meet him from behind another black steel desk.
“Mr Shkin?” asked Tom, while behind him the door closed softly and the lift went purring down.
Nabisco Shkin bowed low and extended a grey-gloved hand. “My dear Mr Natsworthy,” he said softly. “Miss Weems tells me you are interested in one of our slaves. The girl named Wren.”
It made Tom angry to hear Wren called a slave so calmly, but he controlled himself and shook Shkin’s hand. He said, “Wren is my daughter. She was kidnapped by one of the Lost Boys. I’ve come to get her back.”
“Indeed?” Shkin nodded, watching Tom carefully. “Unfortunately I had no idea of the girl’s history. She has already been sold.”
“Sold?” cried Tom. “Where is she? Is she still aboard Brighton?”
“I shall have to check my files. We have processed so many slaves this month…”
The elevator door opened again, and the room began to fill with men; armed guards in black livery. Tom, taken by surprise, barely realized what was happening before one of the men slammed the handle of a truncheon into his side and two more caught him as he doubled over, breathless and choking.
Nabisco Shkin moved around the room, pulling down canvas blinds to hide the long windows. “A lot of pleasure craft in the sky today,” he said conversationally. “Wouldn’t want any happy holiday-makers peeking in on us, would we?” The room grew shadowy. He returned to his desk and spoke into the intercom. “Monica, send the boy here. Let’s find out if this wretch is really who he claims to be.”
Tom’s captors twisted his arms painfully behind him and held him tight, but they need not have bothered, for he was in no state to stand, let alone try to overpower four strong guards. He felt his heart flutter and thump, pain twisting through his side. Shkin came closer, pulled up Tom’s sleeve with a look of faint distaste and removed his wedding bracelet.
“That’s my property!” Tom gasped. “Give it back!”
Shkin tossed the bracelet up in the air and caught it again. “You don’t have property any more,” he said. “You are property. Unless you have papers to prove that you are a free man; but if you are who you say you are, you won’t.” He held the bracelet up and squinted at it. “HS and TN,” he read. “How touching…”
The lift bell rang again and another of Shkin’s black-clad guards stepped out. This one was just a boy, dressed up like the rest in a black uniform and a peaked black cap with a silver Shkin logo on the front.
“Well, Fishcake?” Shkin asked him. “Do you recognize our guest?”
The boy stared at Tom. “That’s him all right, Mr Shkin,” he said. “I saw him on the screens when we was at Anchorage. That’s Wren’s dad.”
“How do you…” Tom started to ask, and then realized suddenly who this boy must be. Fishcake. That was the lad Uncle had talked about, the newbie who had kidnapped Wren! Tom knew he should feel angry with him, but he didn’t. He just felt more angry than ever with Shkin, because he could see the logo branded on the back of the boy’s thin hand. What sort of a man would do that to a child? What sort of a city would let a man like that grow rich and prosperous? He said, “Fishcake, please, is Wren all right? Was she hurt at all? Do you know who bought her?”
Fishcake was about to reply, but Shkin said, “Don’t answer him, boy.” One of the guards hit Tom again, knocking the air out of his lungs in a loud, wordless woof.
“Fishcake has learned obedience,” said Shkin. “He knows that if he disobeys me I shall put him back in the holding cells with his friends, and they will rip him to pieces for betraying Grimsby.” He tore open Tom’s waistcoat, pulled up his shirt and traced with one grey-gloved finger the scars which had been left by Windolene Pye’s amateur surgery. There was something like a smile on his face.
“The mayor of this city is a very irritating man, Mr Natsworthy,” he said. “I believe that you may be able to help me expose him as a fraud and a liar. But first, your daughter will help me to retrieve something he has stolen from me. Who knows, if you cooperate, I might let you both go free.” As he turned to his desk he tossed the bracelet up into the air and caught it again. Leaning down to the brass mouthpiece of the intercom he said, “Miss Weems, arrange a cell on the mid-levels for Mr Natsworthy, and have a bug ready to take me to Old Steine at seven-thirty. I think I shall be attending His Worship’s Ball after all.”
Hester had already looked in through the front door of the pretty little tower once, without seeing any sign of Tom. She had looked for him everywhere else that she could think of, hoping that he might have gone back to the Screw Worm before attempting to talk to the slavers, or circled back to The Pink Café. Now she was back outside the Pepperpot, feeling angry and faintly scared. She was sure Tom was in there, and that something bad had happened to him. The blinds had been drawn across the windows on one of the upper storeys, and there was a bunch of black-overalled guards in the reception area, chatting to the snooty-looking woman there. Hester wondered if she should barge in and confront them, but she did not want to walk into the same trap as Tom.
The man outside saw her peering in again, and stared, so she walked quickly past as if she were just a curious tourist and went into a coffee shop on the far side of the square, where she drank iced coffee through a straw and had a think. This Shkin character must have decided to take Tom prisoner for some reason. Perhaps he thought Tom was connected with the Lost Boys. Well, that was not so big a proble
m. She would go and rescue him, just as Tom had come to rescue her, when she had been a prisoner at Rogues’ Roost.
But how to get inside that tower? The guard at the door was already wary of her, and with all these carnival crowds about she could not just shoot her way in. Oh, poor Tom! Why had he come here alone? He should have known that he couldn’t cope on his own with people like this Nabisco Shkin.
She paid for her iced coffee, and asked the waiter, “Is that Shkin’s place? The tower? It looks too small to hold many slaves.”
“It’s got hidden depths,” the waiter replied, glancing happily at the tip she put down on the table. “The cells and stuff are down below. That’s where they’re keeping all those horrible pirates.”
Hester thought again of Rogues’ Roost, and of how she had led Tom to safety through the confusion of a Lost Boy raid. Then she left the café, walking quickly, glancing down once to make sure that the gun in her belt didn’t spoil the cut of her new coat.
26
WAITING FOR THE MOON
As the sun sank red and fat into the haze above Africa, the breeze stiffened. Brighton began to rock gently on the long, white-capped, shoreward-rolling combers. Undaunted by the heaving pavements, parades of children trooped round Ocean Boulevard with bright banners and huge moon-shaped paper lanterns, and a thousand self-styled artists held private views in one another’s houses.
“Keeps ’em busy, I suppose,” said Nimrod Pennyroyal, gazing down philosophically at it all from one of Cloud 9’s many observation platforms. “There are so many tenth-rate painters and performers on this city, we need a good festival every week or two to make them feel their silly lives are worthwhile.” Drifts of bubbles swirled past him, vomited into the evening sky by an art installation in Queen’s Park. The breeze brought carnival noises gusting up, too; guitars and cacophoniums jangling in the streets of the historic Muesli Belt, premature fireworks banging and shrieking on the sea-fronts.
On the blue-green evening lawns of the Pavilion Gardens, between the shadows of the cypress groves, the guests were starting to gather. All the men wore formal robes, and the women looked wonderful in ballgowns of moonlight-silver and midnight blue. Paper lanterns had been strung along all the walks, and between the pillars of the bandstand where some musicians were tuning up. The Flying Ferrets had arrived, looking terribly dashing in their fleece-lined flying suits and white silk scarves, talking loudly about “archie” and “bandits” and “crates” being “ditched in the briny”. Orla Twombley, her hair lacquered into back-swept wings, hung on Pennyroyal’s arm.
Drinks and snacks were being served before the dancing began, and Wren was one of the people doing the serving. She felt pretty and conspicuous in her MoonFest costume – baggy trousers and a long tunic made from some floaty, silvery fabric that she could not name – but the guests seemed not to notice her at all; they were only interested in the tray she carried. As she wove her way through the gathering crowds, hands reached out without a thank you or a by-your-leave to snatch at her cargo of drinks and canapés.
Wren didn’t mind. She was still tired and uneasy after the events of the night before. All day there had been an odd atmosphere in the Pavilion, with militia men coming and going and security being tightened up. The other slave girls kept coming to ask Wren if she had really seen the body and had there been ever so much blood? To make matters worse, Mrs Pennyroyal smiled knowingly at Wren every time she saw her, and kept finding excuses to send her into rooms where Theo Ngoni was, or Theo into rooms where Wren was, as if she hoped someone would write an opera about them one day, and that there would be a part for a soprano of a certain age as Boo-Boo Pennyroyal, the thoughtful mistress who made their love possible.
Strangely, all this kindness made Wren like Boo-Boo less; it was one thing to keep slaves, but quite another to try and arrange their love affairs. She felt that the mayoress was pairing her and Theo off like a couple of prize poodles.
So she was glad to be invisible for a while, to look and listen. And everywhere she looked, she saw someone she recognized from the society pages of the Palimpsest. There were Brighton’s leading painters, Robertson Gloom and Ariane Arai. There was the gorgeous Davina Twisty, fresh from her triumph in Hearts Akimbo at the Marlborough Theatre. That man in the hat must be the sculptor Gormless, whose ridiculous artworks clogged the city’s public spaces like barbed-wire entanglements. And wasn’t that the great P. P. Bellman, author of atheistic pop-up books for the trendy toddler? Wren wondered how they would all feel if they knew that a man had been murdered, right here on Cloud 9, less than twenty-four hours ago.
She met Cynthia, and asked her softly, “Is there any news?”
“News?” echoed Cynthia, as bright and brainless as sunshine.
“About poor Mr Plovery? Have they found out who did it yet?”
“Oh!” Cynthia’s golden ringlets jiggled as she shook her head. “No. And Mrs Pennyroyal says we ain’t to talk about it. But what’s all this I hear about you and Theo?”
“It’s nothing. Just Boo-Boo’s imagination.”
“You’re blushing, Wren! I knew you fancied him! I saw you talking to him that day at the pool, remember?”
Wren left her giggling and pressed on through the crowd, asking, “Would you care for a drink, Sir? A canapé, Madame?” and gathering up empty glasses and fragments of still emptier conversations.
“Just look what La Twisty is wearing!”
“You simply must meet Gloom, he’s so amusing!”
“Have you read Bellman’s latest? Quite brilliant! Some of the finest literature of our age is being written for the under-fives…”
Dusk deepened. Davina Twisty was persuading some friends and admirers to venture with her into Cloud 9’s insanely complicated box-hedge maze. The band played “Golden Echoes” and “The Lunar Lullaby”. Soon the moon would rise, and everyone would watch the fireworks before retiring to the pavilion for dancing and more food. Wren, already exhausted, paused in a quiet part of the gardens near the deckplate’s edge. It felt nice to be alone at last. She looked across the sea at the armoured cities, and thought how melancholy they looked, crouching there upon the dunes like the temples of a vanished race.
A hand crept on to her shoulder like a grey silk spider. Turning, she looked into the expressionless face of Nabisco Shkin.
“Enjoying the view, my dear?” he asked. “I hope none of His Worship’s other guests has noticed you loafing here. The Shkin Corporation has a reputation as a purveyor of only the most hard-working slaves.”
Wren pulled away from him and tried to return to the light and laughter of the party, but Shkin barred her way. What did he want with her? He must have been stalking her through the busy gardens, waiting for a moment when he could catch her alone. She felt cold and frightened. Raising her empty tray, she held it in front of her like a shield, but Shkin only laughed. She didn’t like his laugh. She’d preferred it when he was silent and icy.
“Why would I harm you, child?” he asked. “I just want you to do a job for me; the simplest and smallest of jobs. Do you know where your new master keeps his private safe?”
Wren nodded.
“Good girl.” Shkin held up a neat square of paper with a number written on it. “This is the combination. I’d like you to fetch me the Tin Book. I sent a friend for it yesterday, but I hear he met with an accident.”
Wren lowered her tray, thinking of poor Mr Plovery.
“Don’t look so glum!” Shkin told her. “You’ve stolen it before. Young Fishcake told me all about it.”
“I won’t do it!” Wren said. “You can’t make me!”
“Your poor father,” said Shkin. He twirled the square of paper back into an inner pocket of his graphite-coloured evening robe and shrugged faintly. “What a pity, after he came all this way to rescue you!”
Wren couldn’t imagine what he meant. Not until he reached into another pocket and brought out a bracelet, which he laid on the tray between them. By the light of l
anterns in the nearby trees Wren recognized Dad’s wedding bracelet. She had known it all her life; that loop of red gold with the letters HS and TN entwined. But what was it doing on Cloud 9?
“It’s a trick!” she said. “Fishcake must have described this to you, and you had a replica made…”
“Don’t you think it’s more likely that your dear daddy has come to Brighton to fetch you home?” asked Shkin. “He is a guest of the Shkin Corporation. If you fail in the task I have set you, he’ll die. Rather slowly. So be a good girl, and run up to Pennyroyal’s office.”
The gardens were falling quiet. Some of the guests were organizing a search-party to look for Davina Twisty, who was lost in the maze. The others shushed them. Moonrise was only a few moments away. The thought of Dad so near made Wren start to cry. How had he come here? How had Shkin found him? And where was Mum? She reached for the bracelet, but Shkin’s conjuror’s hands whisked it away and set the square of paper in its place.
“Do this little thing for me,” he soothed, “and you will be reunited. I’ll send you both home to Vineland in one of my own ships.”
Wren didn’t believe that, but she believed the rest. Dad was in Shkin’s power. If she didn’t do as Shkin asked, he’d be killed. And the worst of it was, it was all her fault: if she hadn’t taken that book in the first place, he would still be safe in Anchorage. So if stealing the book again was the only way to keep him safe a little longer, that was what she would have to do.