The Sunken

by S. C. Green

  At twenty-two years of age — the same age as Nicholas and Isambard — Holman was the youngest of the Naval Knights by a good forty years. Although they were only allowed to absent their duties on medical grounds, he had managed — although how he had done so still remained a mystery — to secure an extended period of leave to attend medical school in Edinburgh, about which he had written his first book.

  “There didn’t seem much to say. The King stopped conducting the services at St. George’s, preferring instead to sit in his wheeled chair beneath the pulpit. I’ve heard the servants talking about sounds in the castle, screams, skitterings in the halls, and some maids and stable boys have disappeared, although I can’t imagine that’s out of the ordinary with such a large staff.”

  “Have you noticed anything else? Wild animal noises, maybe?”

  Holman shook his head.

  “What do you suppose this all means?”

  Holman shrugged. “Whatever secrets the King and this castle are hiding can’t remain secret for much longer. He has to give the presentation at the Royal Society meeting. Let us see how he fares then.”

  ***

  Jacques du Blanc shifted, pulling one cramped leg out from under him and stretching it across the pile of bibles on top of which he crouched. Not allowing himself to show discomfort in his face, he stretched out the other leg, kicking a stack of books over so they scattered across the humming deck of the dirigible gondola.

  He watched with interest as the leather-bound volumes slid toward the furnace, following the dip and sway of the flying machine. He didn’t bother to pick them up. Let the coal-boy deal with that.

  The pilot gestured to him, yelling something Jacques couldn’t hear over the roar of the furnace and the howl of the wind. Above his head, the envelope — a huge fabric bag inflated with hydrogen, providing the craft with the means to float high in the air — shaded the deck from the sun, the wind whipping over the edges of the gondola, and tugging at his clothes and hat. The pilot turned the rudder suspended below the envelope, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere on the horizon.

  Jacques followed the pilot’s gaze over the edge, and saw that they were no longer flying over water. They’d crossed the Channel and now floated over a patchwork of green fields, their bright hue visible through the smoke belching from the exhaust. England; he’d made it to England.

  Fields soon gave way to forests, dense with oaks. The dirigible rose over the canopy, heading north along the edge of the valley, ’till Jacques could see plumes of smoke rising between the clouds. As they dropped through the clouds, the spires of Meliora appeared. The city jutted precariously from the trunks of the ancient oaks, each trunk spliced and threaded with platforms and winches and punctured with mechanical devices.

  The Dirigires (The Steerers) — a radical sect who worshipped the goddess Mama Helios and their ballooning Messiah Jean Pierre Blanchard — had fled to England after Catholic France began persecuting worshippers of the Industrian gods. King George had welcomed them, for they brought their skill with clockwork and flying machines. He’d given them land on his private hunting estates so they could build their city, and Meliora had risen up into the clouds.

  Now, with England blockaded, the Dirigires were richer than ever. They had fused gondolas and steam engines to their balloons, creating for the first time lighter-than-air craft that could be manoeuvred. With the British navy otherwise engaged with attempting to dislodge the French ships, the Dirigires could now dominate an illicit trade route between England and the rest of Europe. If you wanted it, the Dirigires could get it — bibles and illegal Christian artefacts, French wine, German books, illegal passage between England and Europe — for any man who could afford the fee.

  Jacques du Blanc was a man who could afford the fee, and the Dirigires didn’t bat an eyelid at his fine clothes and the curved rapier strapped to his belt. They got all types on this crossing.

  Even above the splutter of the dirigible’s engines, Jacques could hear the seamless tick of the city. Before the purging, he’d fought alongside Dirigire priests at the Battle of the Pyrenees, and they had told him tales of their fantastical city, a shrine to their goddess of the skies. Now, it seemed, he would see her for himself.

  The pilot let out the regulator, and the dirigible jerked downward, sending more bibles sailing across the deck. Jacques watched the scene on the landing pads. Workers swarmed around the dirigible, tying down the lead ropes and pulling down the deflating envelope so it didn’t catch on anything. If a single spark caught the flammable hydrogen gas inside, the explosion would probably be felt in Paris.

  As soon as the envelope was down and the gas pumped away, a crew of men stormed on board to unload the cargo. Bibles, casks of wine, and boxes of holy relics all left the ship to be sent out across the countryside to buyers.

  Jacques hugged his portmanteau to his chest and tried to squeeze his way through the workers. A high priest waited on the platform. As Jacques swung his legs over the edge of the gondola and descended the ramp, the priest reached up and steadied him. Jacques tipped his hat in reply, his legs wobbling as he accustomed himself to solid ground once again.

  “Don’t walk near the edge for a few hours,” the priest said. “Your mind and body need time to adjust to the height.”

  The effort of lifting his portmanteau left him breathless, and his temples throbbed. Jacques gasped, desperately trying to remain upright in the pounding wind, his lungs hungry for air. He’d been some months away from his home in the Pyrenees, and his body had already forgotten the rigors of high-altitude breathing.

  “Are there … rooms available … in the city?” he huffed.

  “We’ve prepared one already,” the priest replied, reaching for Jacques’ portmanteau. “Your name is known in the city. Many remember you from the Acadamie, before the purgings. We’re not often visited by such noteworthy men.”

  They were joined by the pilot, who thanked Jacques in grating English for flying with him and offered a cigar. The priest drew one from the box, and Jacques followed suit. “We should get out of the wind,” he said in French, his legs shaking more than ever.

  To Jacques’ relief the pilot led them to a tavern two levels below the landing pads. They descended on a staircase that moved of its own accord, a belt that circled around on a series of giant cogs, powered by steam from an engine room far below. Jacques closed his eyes and gripped the balustrade with white knuckles. He knew better than to look out over the expanse of Meliora.

  Inside the bar the pilot dropped a crate of champagne on the counter, pulled one bottle out, uncorked it, and poured them all a drink. He lit up the cigars, and leaned back in his chair, scuffed boots on the table, his gaze making Jacques nervous.

  “So you’re du Blanc,” he sneered in that horrid English accent, draining his wine and running his tongue around the rim of his glass. “I never bagged you for a toff, hiding out in the mountains for years while the rest of us risked our necks for liberty. They say you went wild and ate a girl—”

  “Show some respect,” the priest snapped. “This man’s crusade has preserved our rights to worship whom we choose.”

  The pilot looked unconcerned. “Did you get a lot of crusading done on the top of that mountain?” he asked.

  “Tell me,” Jacques said, not bothering to answer the pilot’s question. “A friend of mine made this journey, not two months ago now, and I’m desperate to find him. An Englishman, though his French would be impeccable. He wouldn’t have been carrying much — a portmanteau, maybe? He had sandy hair, probably hidden under a hat or cloak, and grey eyes—”

  The pilot shrugged. “Everyone looks the same to me. Ask around in the city — if he stayed a few days or bought passage with one of the traders, someone will remember him. But don’t expect to get answers for nothing, even in your fancy clothes. We do a fine trade in secrets here, Mr. du Blanc.”

  The pilot picked his boots off the table and sauntered toward the door. The priest wiped the ta
ble with the edge of his sleeve.

  “I apologise,” he said, reverting to his native French now the pilot had gone. “Some of the wealthy families insist on sending their boys off to English schools. They all return sounding just like him. I am François, the High Priest of Meliora, and I may be able to help you in your quest.”

  Jacques set two coins down on the counter. The priest eyed them with interest. “The man,” he said. “Did he come here?”

  “When a man passes through Meliora, he prefers our folk not knowing the reasons. We’d be a poorer people, sir, if we gave out every slip of information on our passengers. We’d soon find ourselves with none.”

  Jacques set another coin down on the counter. All three pieces disappeared into the priest’s sleeve in an instant, his eyes never leaving the Frenchman’s face.

  “He stayed here two nights,” the priest offered. “He had nothing with him save a tattered portmanteau. He travelled under the name ‘Nicholas Rose’, and I never saw him change clothes. He bought passage with one of the traders, heading for London, though whether he intended to travel the whole distance or not, I cannot say. This was a month ago, now.”

  “You’ve been most kind. Where might I find transport to London?”

  “No wagons are due for another three days, but if you take the railway, it’ll get you as far as Bristol, and that’s a traveller town.”

  The sweet smoke curled around Jacques’ head. He lifted his cigar to his lips and took another deep drag, a smile creeping across his thin lips.

  I’m coming for you, Nicholas. I’m coming for what’s mine.

  ***

  James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

  At precisely eleven minutes past nine on the fifteenth of July I strode across the lobby of Somerset House, Nicholas trailing at my heels. I bowed my observance to the Industrian gods — represented by ten alabaster statues set into two rows of niches flanking the long hall — and entered the vaulted chambers of the Royal Society. As I suspected, our late carriage had conveniently missed the opening prayers (which, with ten Gods, do go on for some time), and the pre-lecture drinks had started in earnest.

  When I had been invited to join the Royal Society after the publication of my first book, I had thought it nothing more than a weekly meeting of learned gentlemen interested in pursuing the “natural philosophies”. With numerous influential members and centuries of Royal patronage, the Society enjoyed much influence and stocked an impeccable cellar of the world’s finest brandy, which I admit somewhat swayed my decision to accept membership.

  But it seemed my opinion of the Society had been very much mistaken. Since His Majesty abolished the Church of England and disbanded Parliament, the Royal Society had become the foremost power in England, answerable only to King George himself. The eminent minds of our bright new age chose their gods, started their own congregations, and became as power-hungry and dogmatic as the priests of the church they had outlawed. Inventions became no longer the work of intelligent men, but the manifestations of the Gods of Industry on earth.

  The world had given up polytheism centuries ago, and we suddenly had a Parthenon of gods thrust upon us. Fifty years after the change, England still struggled to comprehend it. Learned men clung to the same values that has seen civilisation through thousands of years of history — ignorance, and fear, and intolerance.

  The Society continued its weekly meetings, but they had become nothing more than a church service — the forced attendance of hundreds of clever men, going through the motions of religiosity before they could get their hands on the brandy. Placing several gods in a room in the hope that they would jointly think up new and innovative ideas seemed sound in theory, but in practice it led only to competition, suspicion, and, ultimately, outright hostility. Faraday wouldn’t talk to Herschel, and Turner secretly had popular artists killed in their sleep. Charles Babbage raised a quantitative error in one of Sir Humphry Davy’s calculations and, combined with his scathing rebuke of the Society’s excesses, managed to displease every member of the Council at once. The man who had once been a shoo-in for Presbyter of the Metic Sect was tonight going to be sentenced for treason.

  I pushed the door ajar, tapped my stick on the oak-panelled floor, and listened. Voices rose into the vaulted ceiling, and I caught snippets of hundreds of conversations — half understood mathematical principles, fragments of engineering genius, the first inklings of original thought.

  “Marvellous,” Nicholas breathed, pushing past me to step into the room.

  “Terrifying,” I corrected him, thinking of the power wielded by the men present.

  To my right I heard the unmistakably fake cough of William Buckland: Oxford biology professor, fossil collector, and longtime friend. Renowned for his work with swamp-dragons, Buckland first discovered the connections between modern creatures and the skeletons of giant ancient reptiles he called “dinosaurs”. I moved along the wall toward him, hoping my late entry hadn’t caught the attention of any of the Council members.

  “You’re conveniently late,” Buckland whispered in my ear, placing a glass of brandy in my hand.

  “Pesky omnibuses. They’re so damn unreliable.” I sipped my drink. “Has my absence been noted?”

  “I informed Prime Minister Banks you were outside getting some air, but I think he’s becoming suspicious,” Buckland observed. “Perhaps we both ought to show up on time next week.”

  “Or come up with a different excuse.”

  Buckland and I had been amusing ourselves by turning up later and later to the regular Royal Society meetings. We’d even established a rotating roster. Every second meeting one of us would be late, and the other would cover for him. We devised a giddy, schoolboyish joy from cheating the Messiahs of our attention.

  “I see you’ve brought another unfortunate along to witness this farce.”

  “Buckland, this is Nicholas Rose. He and I were in the Navy together. Nicholas is an industrial engineer just arrived in London from his studies in France.”

  I felt Nicholas’ body tense up with my casual mention of his illegal crossing, but Buckland just laughed. “France, eh? How’d you get back across the border?”

  “I had help,” Nicholas replied evasively. The men shook hands, and I noted that Nicholas quickly shifted the subject to Buckland’s work. Buckland, who loved to talk about himself, acquiesced with pleasure, but I wondered — not for the first time — how Nicholas had indeed managed to return to England at all. Our borders have been tightly patrolled ever since Christian Europe united in opposition to our new pantheon of industrial gods, and one cannot simply row across the Channel. If Nicholas had come to England from France, he had come illegally — probably by way of an illicit air crossing. I listened to my friend talk, wondering what had happened to him since I’d left him at Portsmouth.

  Nicholas had come to the Society meeting as my guest. He’d been nervous about coming under the public eye, if it was indeed true the prize was being awarded to Isambard (giving further credence to my worries that he’d been involved in ill dealings back in France). Isambard, too, thought it better that Nicholas didn’t declare their friendship in public, but for a different reason. “We don’t know how the engineers will react to the chosen winner,” he’d said. “As much as you think you’re a danger to me, Nicholas, it is your association with me, and not what transpired in France, that might lead to your death. Better to have engineering circles know you as an associate of Holman’s than as an accomplice to my blasphemous works.”

  Buckland, flattered by Nicholas’ attentions, began asking him for his opinion on the outcome of the engineering competition.

  “I heard Shelley’s had a team of poets working non-stop on his creation,” said Nicholas, who’d been keeping up with the design proposals in the papers. “And Sir Humphry Davy has apparently concocted a most efficient poison. Then, of course, I’ve heard rumours about the brilliance of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, that young Stoker engineer—”

  Nic
holas sucked in his breath as he realised what he’d said. I leaned forward, listening to the conversations around us, hoping nobody had heard.

  Buckland lowered his voice. “You shouldn’t speak that name so freely, Mr. Rose, especially not in present company. But I’m glad to hear you’re a Brunel man, also.” Buckland patted Nicholas on the shoulder. “Isambard’s a good chap. He won’t win, of course — the Council won’t accept that — but he’s got a head full of clever ideas and the tenacity to forget what he ought not to say. I don’t take with all this anti-Stoker nonsense. An engineer’s an engineer’s an engineer, I say. But my dear fellow, I’ve been talking you ear off and your hands are still empty. Allow me to remedy my oversight!”

  Buckland went to fetch Nicholas a drink, and Nicholas and I bent our heads together so he could describe the room to me.

  The Society hall — which had always resembled a church with its podium and rows of carved wooden and velvet pews — had been divided into two by the addition of a long wooden stage, covered with exquisite carpets and festooned with bright garlands of flowers and idols of the Gods of Industry. Our pantheon of gods-on-earth — the Messiahs, Presbyters, and other men of rank — strutted around the room, flanked by their high priests wearing various church regalia.

  The room was more crowded than usual, and the pews had been pushed aside to make room for all of us. On a raised dais at the edge of the stage sat His Majesty. Banks and the other officers of the Council were seated beside him. A gaggle of contest entrants — would-be engineers, scientists, and architects — clamoured for the King’s attention.