by Jasmine Walt
He slit open the envelope with his bread knife, and read the contents aloud. "… on behalf of His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, we regret to inform you that—"
I froze, my heart galloping in my chest. I didn't hear the rest of the message. I must have looked horrified, as Nicholas reached across and took my hand.
"I am sorry, James. The current political climate is rather prohibitive to adventuring. Perhaps you will have better luck if you apply again in a few years."
My application had been declined. I would be stuck in Windsor for eternity, my dreams of travel and adventure remaining simply that – dreams.
The food I had so lovingly prepared tasted sour after that loathsome news. Aaron and Nicholas did what they could to keep the conversation light, but my mind returned again and again to my fate, to live out the rest of my days trapped in these infernal chambers with six crotchety old men, the only travel the gruelling hundred steps I must endure twice per day to reach the chapel.
The maid knocked on my door and announced the arrived of my final two guests: Mr. George Lyell, a biologist, and Dr. John Dalton, a chemist currently researching colour-blindness, and the friend whose medical evidence had once succeeded in earning my freedom. Nicholas stood up to introduce himself to the men, and they greeted him warmly, offering their own platters of food for the feast.
When each man had been seated and their glasses filled, Nicholas rapped his knuckles against the chair arm and cried. "I hereby call the first meeting of the Free-Thinking Men's Blasphemous Brandy and Supper Society to order."
"Hear, hear!" Buckland was already halfway through his second glass of brandy.
First, we discussed the problem of keeping minutes of the meetings.
"It's imperative we record our intellectual discussion," said Dalton. "We might well make important observations that need to be recalled. Often, it's when returning to the notes from such discussions that the true nature of a phenomenon becomes apparent."
"But if a written record of our meetings ever fell into the wrong hands …" Buckland's voice trailed off. We all knew what had happened to Babbage.
"The obvious solution," said Aaron, "is some kind of code."
"Aaron is right," said Nicholas. "However, we face the less-common problem that not all of us can read." He paused, and I could feel all eyes in the room fall on my Noctograph – the wooden and string frame I used to guide my hand while I printed – lying unused in my lap.
"Worry not about me, friends," I replied, my cheeks burning despite myself. "I'm used to storing intellectual notes in the recesses of my cranium."
"Nonsense," cried Buckland. "We should not leave any one of our members without access to written notes of our proceedings."
"What about a code printed in raised shapes on a sheet of metal?" said Aaron. "Like rivets on plated steel? That way, Holman could read with his fingers."
"Brilliant!" I beamed.
Nicholas set his glass down on the table. "Aaron, of all of us, you have the most ready access to a workshop of tools. And I have some skill with ciphers from my time in the Navy. Should we two work together to write our code?"
With that decided, Nicholas – who seemed to fall into the role of master of ceremonies – moved on to the main event of the evening. The first member responsible for presenting research was Buckland, who had spent the summer on a caving expedition in Wales where he’d discovered a human female skeleton, stained with red pigment, amongst the bones of the ancient Great Dragons.
Geologists have already established that many large animals from the Dinosauria family – similar to the neckers, iguanodon, compies, swamp dragons, and other creatures abundant in the British Isles today – had died out before the appearance of man. But never before had a human skeleton been found alongside them, and never one who, like Buckland’s, carried unusual rings and amulets made of the bones of the beasts. Buckland was trying to come to terms with the find before he published his paper.
"There is a Roman settlement nearby," said Buckland. "Perhaps she discovered the bones in a nearby cave and carved the jewellery from them."
Lyell shook his head. "The bones would have to be carved when they were still hard. You said the decomposition was the same? It seems your red lady was contemporary with the beast."
"The bestial skeleton is old, probably pre-flood – I mean, pre-catastrophe. I can’t suggest that humans lived then. That's counter to the whole Industrian dogma. You saw what happened to Babbage!"
"Relax, William," said Dalton. "Unlike the Royal Society, it matters not to us what you write in your papers to please the Church. We’ve all written similar plaintive."
Nicholas reached over and topped up Buckland’s brandy glass. "We’re interested in what you, as a scholar of biology and geology, think was going on in that cave."
Buckland sighed. I felt a surge of pity for the man. I too knew what it was like to struggle against the bonds of society.
"The artefacts indicate she lived either before or during the Roman occupation," he finally said. "And when this woman lived, Great Dragons still inhabited England. Not a word of this must leave this room, for it is blasphemy—"
"Great Dragons and humans … together?" Nicholas' voice shuddered. "It is a terrifying thought."
Sensing the panic in Buckland's voice, I changed the subject. "Tell us, Buckland, as the expert on animal behaviour, why do the dragons now come into the city in such force?"
"It's funny that you should ask, James." Buckland shuffled forward in his chair, his voice steadying as he regained control of his emotions. "I've spent the last two days discussing the exact same subject with the new Presbyter."
"Brunel?" Now it was Aaron's turn to lean forward. "What interest does he have in biology?" his voice took on a new urgency.
"I don't rightly know. He spoke little of his own thoughts, only wanting to listen to my theories. Not that I can give a conclusive answer, but I think I may offer the beginnings of an explanation."
"And that is?"
"After the catastrophe that killed off the big dinosaurs – the Great Dragons and the twelve-foot tricorns – the swamp-dragons became the largest and most fierce predators in England. Their skeletons appear uniquely adapted for the fens, explaining why we don't usually see them outside the great swamps. For perhaps fifty years they were hunted near to extinction by the Stokers, their skins and teeth used for expensive clothing and jewellery. My first inference is that since the Stokers moved to the city in 1765, the dragons have been able to rebuild their numbers."
"Makes sense," said Aaron.
"So if the swamps are free to them once more, what would turn them toward the city with such increasing frequency? There could be only two possible explanations. One is that the food in the swamps has become so scarce that they can no longer sustain themselves and so seek to pick off meals in our overpopulated city."
"This doesn't seem likely," said Aaron. "My grandfather used to tell me stories about the swamps. Even when the Stokers left there were plenty of animals and fish the dragons could eat."
"Both Brunel and I thought so, too. The second explanation – and the one that seemed to particularly interest him – is that some other factor – a change in environment, most likely the introduction of another, larger predator – has pushed the dragons from their usual habitat. It was the same in pre-catastrophe times, when tricorn numbers were at their height."
"Because the tricorns ate the trees and reeds, where so many of the dragons’ prey lived?" Dalton asked. Buckland nodded.
"The Great Dragons moved on to other areas. Many of the Great Dragon species found a new niche in the forests of the north, before they too died out."
"But what could be causing the dragons to flee the swamps now?"
Buckland shrugged. "No man of science has cared enough to investigate the swamps. These days, if you want real glory from science, you impress the King by manufacturing a steam-powered shoe-polishing machine, not by venturing knee-deep through
England’s bogs."
Aaron spoke up. "My grandfather was the greatest dragon-hunter this country had ever seen, so great, in fact, that it was believed he shot the last dragon in the swamps, and forced the Stokers to come to London to work on the engines. If anybody could figure out what makes the dragons flee the swamps, a Stoker could."
"Are you volunteering, Mr. Williams?" Buckland laughed.
"Maybe I am."
The discussion of catastrophe-theory, dinosaurs, and Buckland's mysterious red girl continued around him, but Nicholas listened with only half an ear. He watched Aaron, whose intent expression belied the enthusiasm with which he took part in the conversation.
Thinking back to his encounter with Oswald the previous evening made the blood boil in Nicholas' veins. Who is that man to dig up my past? How dare he try to keep me from the one man who understands what I am? After tossing and turning for several hours during the night, replaying the conversation over in his mind, Nicholas had decided to ignore Oswald. After all, the man had no real power. He would tell Isambard of Oswald's threats as soon as he emerged from his workshops, and Isambard would deal with Oswald as any religious leader might deal with a wayward priest.
Inside Nicholas' head, the stray thoughts of animals flicked in and out, as they did every minute of every day. The compies in the basement, the birds sitting on the eaves outside, the sheep grazing on the slope behind the college – these mundane manifestations blurred together in a constant layer of noise that filled his head, pushing aside all other thoughts save the one he chose to concentrate on. He stared across the room at Aaron, knowing he must hear the noises also, knowing he must, at that moment, be exerting great energy to push them down.
Why then could he possibly want to go to the swamps?
Aaron had insisted they share a carriage on the way to Windsor Castle. Nicholas, not seeing Oswald anywhere in the vicinity, did not refuse. He had so many questions, about Aaron, about his grandfather, about his life growing up with Brunel. Oswald's words echoed in his head as he bombarded Aaron with questions, not knowing if he'd ever get another chance.
"My father resented my grandfather," said Aaron. "He was a hunter too, but he didn't have the sense. He felt it was my grandfather's fault we had to leave the swamps. Not one of his children has even seen the swamps – not even Oswald. To a proud Stoker like my father, that's abhorrent. But Grandfather knew he was only doing what was best for the Stokers, for our survival."
"What happened to your grandfather?"
"He died when I was five. The pox got to him. Many Stokers died of it then – it seemed to rise from the swamp mists. Now we die in machinery accidents, of dust in the lungs, but nothing much else has changed. He was the only one who knew—"
"What happened then?"
"My father followed soon after, and my brothers attempted to look after me while Mother drank herself to death. No one much cared for me – Henry was always the favourite. Even though we're twins, we were nothing alike. He was strong, built for hard labour in the furnace rooms, and I was smaller and had a way with animals – a useless skill in Engine Ward. After Henry died, Oswald and Peter turned nasty, especially when they discovered I'd become friends with Isambard. After Mother died, I went to live with Quartz, and good riddance to them."
"They care about you, though, in their own way." If blackmail could ever be construed as caring.
Aaron shook his head. "They care about keeping their priesthood, even if it means working for a man they abhor. They care about our family name, for what it's worth in Stoker society. They don't want me to mess everything up. It would be much better for all concerned if I just went away. But I can't leave Isambard."
He'd changed the subject then, and said no more of it. And now, to hear him talk about the swamps with such reverence, Nicholas began to see the cause of the silent fury that bubbled beneath Aaron's skin. He could discern it, but he didn't understand it.
Nicholas was in London because he was running away … he'd never really stopped running since he'd left his father's estate twelve years ago. But Aaron had lived in London his whole life. He'd known the peace that came from surrounding himself in high walls, but still he yearned for the swamps – a spiritual homeland he'd never even seen. Nicholas could not fathom why Aaron would want to abandon all he had here for the wild, a place which must be torturous to minds like theirs.
We have everything we could ever want, right here in London. Here we can dull the unceasing onslaught of voices. And more than that, you have family. You have work. You have Brunel. What would make you wish to leave all this?
The carriage dropped Aaron back outside Engine Ward just as the evening's celebrations inside began in earnest. As he picked his way through the darkness of the tunnels, he could hear the talking and laughing filtering down from the streets. The Stokers – joined by some of the other sympathetic factions within Engine Ward – had been celebrating Brunel's victory for three days straight. They dragged wood and rubbish – anything that would burn – into the cooking pits and lit a towering bonfire.
As Aaron emerged from the subterranean world behind the Chimney, a wave of heat washed over his body. He shielded his eyes from the bright inferno that leapt unencumbered from the central courtyard of Engine Ward. The press of people immediately consumed him, bearing him against his will into the joyous crowd.
"Aaron!"
Someone grabbed his arm. It was Quartz, his face flushed with booze. Laughing, Aaron slapped the old man's back and clung to him, allowing Quartz to lead him closer to the blaze, where the women crowded around, balancing cooking pots filled with meats and stews, which they placed in the embers ‘till the smells rose over the whole camp. Aaron waved to his wife, Chloe, who waved back as she leaned her pregnant belly against the pot, lifting the lid on her creation and dishing stew into several outstretched bowls. Generations of working in the swamps or with the machines had rendered most Stokers without smell or taste, yet even the most ancient, hardened worker smelt this particular meal.
Men dragged out musical instruments that had gathered dust for years, and the children skipped and sang the old folk tunes, including at least three renditions of "The Stoker and the Navvy’s Wife". Even Quartz had got into the spirit of things, although Quartz could be guaranteed to get into the spirit of any occasion provided there was a free flow of alcohol.
"It's amazing," said Aaron, helping himself to a mug full of stew and clambering behind Quartz up onto the leaning roof of a nearby shack. "When we first showed the engine, most of the Council wanted to see him hanged for daring to call himself an engineer, and now, he's the most celebrated engineer of all."
"Mmmmph," Quartz didn't look so impressed. He slugged back the dregs of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Never you mind all this, boy. After the party dies down, then we'll see what Isambard will make of all this attention. And where is old Iron-Bags tonight, eh? I thought he would have shown up for his own party."
"I don't rightly know. He's been locked up in the workshop ever since the announcement. Have you any clue what he's doing?"
"I wouldn't know. Us mere mortals aren't allowed within those hallowed walls." Quartz scowled at the Chimney.
"Isambard's work is good for the Stokers, Quartz."
"Bollocks. Isambard's work is good for Isambard. The sooner you understand that, the better off you'll be. This city embraces him not because he is a Stoker, but because he has overcome us to become one of them. We're not even allowed to work on this new Wall of his, since it stretches outside Engine Ward."
"If you knew him—"
"You've always been in his shadow, Aaron. I never liked that boy – too much thinking. Too many secrets locked up in his scheming head. Three days a Presbyter and he's already as slippery as the rest of the priests," Quartz growled. "No good will come of this, mark my words, lad. He's sending me away, you know."
"What?" Aaron hadn't heard anything about that.
"Back to the swamps. He's bu
ilding some fan-dangled railway from London to Plymouth, through the worst of the dragon country. It runs on air-pressure or some such nonsense. Bloody stupid idea, if you ask me—"
"The Atmospheric Railway?" It had been one of Isambard's more ambitious schemes, an idea that he'd submitted to the Council for funding on three separate occasions without success. Instead of steam, the trains were propelled by vacuum pressure through tubes running along the centre of the track. The train was controlled by opening and closing flaps within the vacuum tube.
"It's a farce, Aaron. He needs an engineering project to appease the Council, to hide what he's really doing. He wants to find out what's scaring the dragons out of the swamp. He sent for me yesterday evening. Right into his lordly manor I had to go so he could inform me I am to be one of the foremen in charge of overseeing this little venture."
Aaron remembered what Buckland had said earlier that evening about Brunel's sudden interest in his biological theories. He wondered why Isambard hadn't told him about the Atmospheric Railway.
Quartz read his expression. "See, he's not one of us anymore. Stokers belong in swamps, Aaron. Engineers belong in the city. He's getting rid of us to become one of them."
"I'm certain he doesn't mean that. Besides, I thought you wanted to return to the swamps?"
"Not for what he's paying me," Quartz spat. "There are no lodgings for us, nothing left of our old camps. We're expected to build our own from the measly stipend he's granted us. There's no roads to carry in equipment, nor boatmaster that will dare venture that far into dragon-infested waters. And don't you forget, if Buckland is right about the reason the dragons are leaving the swamps, there's something in those swamps so fearsome not even the dragons want to face it. I don't know what I'm going to find out there. At least in the city, I know exactly the nature of the boy who dares to lord it over me like he's the Duke of bloody Gloucester. Out there, your brothers will be in charge."