by S. C. Green
Sweat poured down Nicholas’ face. His stomach knotted in on itself. He caught his boot on the steps and stumbled, knocking a candle over and spilling a trail of hot wax down the narrow steps.
Brunel turned around and saw the upset candle. “Tsk,” he said. “You are upsetting the order of things tonight.”
Nicholas had never been to the pulpit before. They stood on a thin platform, twenty feet above the church, surrounded on four sides by a low shelf containing metalworking tools, worn leather journals and rolls of drawings, all jammed in together in lackadaisical fashion. Brunel paced the length of the pulpit three times. Silence fell, the only sound his footsteps on the grating, and the murmurs of far-off animals.
Finally Brunel spoke, gesturing with his hand to the church below. “Do you see all this?”
“Yes—”
“You’re not looking!” Brunel grabbed Nicholas behind the neck, whirled him around, and shoved his head far out of the side of the platform. His arms pinned beneath him, Nicholas had no way of pulling himself back. Brunel pushed him out even further, ’till his feet flailed in the air and he was completely at the mercy of the Presbyter. Two coded plates — notes from the last Supper Club meeting — fell from his pocket and clattered across the grate. His head spun as he watched the floor of the church — the pews, the altar filled with candles and offerings — dance around him. His heart pounded in his throat. Please, Isambard, don’t let go!
“I can fill this room to bursting with people, Nicholas. My people. They love me, worship me, and they will do whatever I ask of them. Many of them would gladly kill for the privileges I now show you, Nicholas.”
“I—I—”
“No. Don’t talk.” Brunel dug his nails into Nicholas’ arm. “I don’t know what you thought you were doing, going off with that gardener, but you were at the castle by my grace, and what you did makes me look untrustworthy. A lot of those Councillors don’t believe I should have been allowed a church at all, let alone become a Presbyter or be in charge of this Wall. When you strolled away, when they had to break up the meeting to search the castle grounds for you, they think, ‘Brunel can’t even control those in his employ. He’s not cut out to control a church.’ They could strip me of my power at any moment, and doom the Stokers to a life of toil. Do you see? Do you understand why you can’t do this?”
“Y—yes.” Nicholas’ ears pounded, as the blood rushed through his head, pounding against his skull. His vision swayed and blurred.
“Good.” Brunel pulled him back. Dizzy, Nicholas tripped over his own foot and fell to his knees on the grating. Brunel reached down a hand to help him up.
“We’ve worked so hard for all this,” he said. “Not just myself, but you, and Aaron, and all the Stokers. I couldn’t bear to see it stripped away now.”
“I understand, and I apologise. I don’t know what’s come over me.” He did know, of course, but he couldn’t tell Brunel about Brigitte. The engineer would not understand.
Brunel bent down and picked up the two plates, running his fingers over the cold metal. “What are these?”
“It’s … a code.” Nicholas thought it wise not to lie to Brunel. “Aaron and I worked on it together. We host these monthly dinner parties—”
“The Free-Thinking Men’s Blasphemous Brandy and Supper Society?”
“How do you know about that?”
Brunel squinted at the plates. “Buckland is not a man easily given to concealing secrets. It is no matter; I see no reason to report your club to the Royal Society. But why print the code on plates like this?”
“So James can read them with his fingers.”
“Genius.” Brunel stuffed both plates into his pocket. “You will teach me this code, Nicholas, but not now. You’ve been distracted this past week. You should rest for a few days. Maybe call a doctor. The Boilers will finish the Wall, but we have much work still to do, and I can’t have my favourite architect ill. Go home, and return to me when you feel clear again.”
He dismissed Nicholas, swinging open the heavy church door. A biting cold swooped inside, and as Nicholas stepped out, and tipped his hat to Brunel, he felt the hairs on his arms stand up.
Pulling his coat tightly around him, he stepped into the waiting carriage and told the driver to take him home. He pulled down his sleeve and fingered the welts on his arms. I was selfish, he realised. I should never have left the meeting. I would not forgive myself if I destroy everything Brunel and Aaron have worked for.
Brigitte and I must be more careful.
***
THE TIMES, LONDON, 17 August, 1830
LONDON WALL TO BE COMPLETED IN TIME FOR 1830 SEASON
Isambard Kingdom Brunel, the engineer charged with the task of ridding London of the dragon menace, should like to inform all interested parties that the London Wall will be completed on Tuesday 24 August, 1830, in seven days’ time, several months ahead of schedule.
Construction of the Wall began only three weeks ago, and has moved at an unprecedented pace. Brunel credits the speed of construction to his newest innovation. “The Boiler is a simple machine — a worker who does not eat, sleep or rest. Powered by a fire within the belly, the Boiler can be set upon some specific task, which it then pursues with relentless precision until it is told to cease or runs out of fuel. One hundred of these units have done in three weeks what five hundred men could not complete in a year.”
The Great Conductor Presbyter has been beset by requests to purchase Boilers. So far, he has turned away all engineers and manufactures offering money. “I have not yet perfected the Boiler unit,” he said. “But when the Wall is complete, I shall have time to improve their workings, and my machines shall be made available on the open market.”
Celebrations to mark the completion of the Dragon Wall will begin with a Sermon by Presbyter Brunel in Stephenson’s Cathedral, followed by a Grand Supper at the Royal Society and a street parade. Although the internal railroad loop and gatehouses are not yet complete, London residents can expect to be riding across the city in their own luxurious broad gauge carriages by the end of the season.
***
Brigitte crawled under the ornate oak table on hands and knees, pulling her bucket into the awkward space between the footrests. Water sloshed over the sides, soaking the front of her pinafore. She sighed, and went back to scrubbing at the muddy footprints that criss-crossed the marble floors. Even though there hadn’t been an official banquet in weeks, the room had evidently been in use recently. Brigitte stared at the neat path of brown splotches running from the door to the table to the corners of the tapestry and back, wondering how someone could have dined in this hall and forgotten to wash their shoes.
The King hadn’t left his chambers in several days, and not one of the servants had been allowed past the guarded doors of his private wing. After what he did to Maxwell, Brigitte constantly looked over her shoulder, expecting at any moment to see his wheeled chair looming down on her, his face inches from her own, teeth bared, ready to strike. And Nicholas … Nicholas …
The way he threw me behind that bush, shielded me with his own body so they couldn’t see me, lied to his friend Brunel to protect me and—
—that’s odd.
She stood up, dropping the sponge back into the bucket, barely noticing the water splashing against her legs. She’d cleaned away the muddy prints from under the table to where they stopped in the corner — just beneath the plinth holding one of the two six-foot high lead candelabras. Here the prints grew confused, as men — at least two — had crossed and circled each other. But that wasn’t what had caught Brigitte’s attention.
The candelabrum was gone.
A glance to the other corner of the room revealed the second candelabrum was also missing. Heart pounding, she raced down the stairs to the kitchens, anxious to report the disappearance as soon as possible, lest she be accused of stealing them herself.
“Miss Julie. Miss Julie?”
The portly woman looked up from k
neading bread with a sour look, and before she could reprimand her from returning from her duties so prematurely, Brigitte blurted out. “The lead candelabras in the south dining hall have disappeared.”
“Nonsense, those weigh a pretty ton. A grown man would struggle to carry one of those from the castle, and to do so without being noticed—”
“There are muddy footprints everywhere, and I swear the candlesticks are no longer there! You must look for yourself. This is awful big trouble, isn’t it?”
“Trouble indeed, child, if what you say is true. The last time a piece of silverware disappeared, we all had our wages docked for a month. Turns out Betty Oxtrot had put a dish back in with the terrines by accident.”
“We didn’t find it ’till the Christmas feast! Miss Julie was fuming,” giggled Cassandra. “She didn’t half give her an earful.”
“Belted that little strumpet right side of the head,” said Miss Julie sternly. “Not that it knocked any sense into her. One ought to be less concerned about the contents of the porter’s trousers and more concerned about one’s duties.”
Brigitte thought of Nicholas, and the beautiful china duck hiding beneath her pillow, and felt her ears flush red.
“Fetch Maxwell.” Miss Julie turned back to the kneading. “And we’ll investigate.”
Brigitte found the gnarled gardener tidying the hedges around the pleasure gardens. He worked slowly, his left arm tied in a sling. His recovery from the bite had been swift, thanks to Miss Julie’s intervention, but since the incident he’d seemed different — distant, lifeless, a shade of the Maxwell she’d loved.
She tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned. The skin on his face pulled around his eyes, stretched and thin. Strange blisters marked his cheeks. She recoiled in surprise. Such a change over only a week.
“How are you feeling?”
“Never better, Miss Brigitte.” He gave a forced smile, leaning the shovel against his leg and wiping sweat from his forehead with his free hand. When his fingers passed over his skin, they left red welts behind.
“You seem … out of sorts. Maybe we should—”
“No!” She jumped at the anger in his voice. “I mean, it’s nothing to worry about. I’m just feeling a little lifeless. Misbalanced humours from all the blood loss. I’ll be right within the week. Now, what did you come running out here to tell me?”
“Miss Julie needs you in the castle,” she said. “Someone’s stolen the lead candlesticks, and we need your help to investigate.”
“No help needed,” he bent over his shovel. “I know who did it.”
“Who?”
“The King. Or, more precisely, the King’s men, on orders of the King. I saw five of them struggling down the hall with one last night.”
“Whatever for?”
He shrugged. “Who am I to understand the mind of a king?” His gaze fell on the sling on his arm, and he sighed.
As he turned back to the garden, his eyes met hers, and she saw a deep fear there. Even though it was a warm day, and she was wearing her cloak, Brigitte shivered.
***
At precisely eleven minutes past midnight, the bell rang in the servants’ quarters. Brigitte rubbed sleep from her eyes, and went to Miss Julie’s room, to find her still snoring. She shook Miss Julie awake.
“It’s the King again, Miss. Do you think he’s found out about the candelabras?”
“If you must find out, you can answer him yourself, and let me return to my dreams of saucy French soldiers.” Miss Julie folded the pillow over her head.
As Brigitte tiptoed from the room, she could make out Miss Julie mumbling “Oh, Roberto ….”
She tiptoed through the maze of corridors, toward the King’s chamber in the western wing. Her footsteps echoed through the high arches and cavern-like spaces. The walls seemed to lean inward, closing around her as if they were going to swallow her up. The castle frightened her at night. The beautiful objects cast eerie shadows and every footstep groaned and creaked ominously.
Tonight, the darkness was positively terrifying. Over the shudders of the old castle was the faint, muffled sound of a woman screaming. Brigitte’s pulse pounded in her ears.
As she neared the corridor, she passed through the outer doors, guarded by three guards, one snoring loudly, the other two playing whist. They looked up, their faces guilty, as she approached.
“He rang for housekeeping,” she declared.
“I’m might sure he did,” the younger of the two whist players winced. “Been ringing for all sorts during the dead of night, has His Majesty.”
Voices echoed from the hall behind her. A woman screamed, loudly and frightfully close, the piercing sound quickly muffled. Brigitte felt a lump rise in her throat.
“If you want my advice,” the younger guard said, “don’t enter his chamber, and don’t look at anything, lest you wish your eyes be struck from your head.”
They waved her through, and she tiptoed down the hall, wishing she could muffle the clap-clap of her shoes against the polished Italian marble. She heard another sound, more like a howl than a scream, so high and piercing. It shook the chandeliers suspended from the ceiling. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and tried to calm her racing heart as she pushed the door to the King’s chamber open a crack.
“Excuse me, Your Majesty, you rang for—”
“Lead!” the King screamed. “Bring me lead, now!” She heard scuffling, and the sound of a woman’s cries muffled. She dared to peek through the crack, and saw a pair of naked, feminine legs twitching against the red silks of the royal bed. Hands reached and scratched at the flesh, raising thick cuts and gashes which sprayed blood onto the carpet. Brigitte gasped and turned away.
“Lead? Sir, I don’t understand—”
“You’ll be next!” King George roared. “Soon, you’ll all taste the lead! Now, bring me a metallic treat, woman!”
Frightened, Brigitte turned away, slammed the door and dashed back down the hall, her eyes scanning every surface for a lead object. It was then she noticed something strange: every lead object in the opulent hall had been removed — the wall sconces, the candlesticks, even the lion’s heads inlaid into the sideboard had been gouged from their settings.
She spied the doorway to the King’s dressing room and remembered he kept a lead hat stand in the corner. Trembling, she reached for the door handle, only to discover that, too had been removed.
“You shouldn’t go in there, Miss.”
Brigitte jumped. “Maxwell! You didn’t half give me a fright. What are you doing here?”
The hunched gardener grabbed her by the shoulders. “Did he bite you?”
“What? Maxwell, get your hands off me—”
“Did he bite you? Miss, it’s very important.” The moonlight in the windows above lit his features, gaunt and twisted, his cheeks and lips now pocketed with blisters and his teeth stained black.
“The King? He didn’t lay a hand on me, but he was acting frightfully odd. He had a woman with him, and I saw—” she shuddered. “He has sent me to fetch him something made of lead. I remembered the old hat stand.”
“He ate that a month ago, Miss Brigitte. Come with me.” He hobbled off down the hall.
“He ate it? You’re not making any sense. Maxwell, what’s going on?” He tugged on her sleeve. “Maxwell, I can’t. I have to get back—” He turned again, raised his finger to his lips, and gestured for her to follow.
They crept past the door to the King’s chamber, still alive with scufflings and snarlings, and rounded another corner. Maxwell threw open the doors to the private reception hall and hobbled across the pristine marble floor, leaving a trail of grubby boot prints in his wake. Brigitte hurried after him, her eyes scanning every surface for a small scrap of lead.
They passed through a series of ornate receiving rooms, and at last Maxwell pulled back a velvet curtain to reveal a long, narrow corridor. Horrible sounds issued from within — unsavoury creatures demanding to be free
.
Before she could protest, he grabbed her arm and yanked her inside. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw the corridor was boarded on both sides with rows of thick, barred doors. From behind each door, something howled and pounded and screeched.
“What are they?” she breathed.
“Look for yourself.”
Handing her his lantern, he cupped his hands and she stood on them, and he lifted her up ’till she was eye level with the thin slit at the top of the door. She stared down into a cell, resting the lantern on the ledge and directing the light downward. She gasped at the full magnitude of what presented itself.
It was a man. At least, it had once been a man. Now it circled and snarled and hissed like a monster, crawling on all fours in an ocean of its own foulness. Filth and blood caked the walls, and as she watched, paralysed in terror, it reared up toward her, screaming as it clawed at the door in its desperation to reach her. Blood flowed from its cracked fingernails, and it snapped and gashed its burnt, blackened teeth.
It was naked, save the blisters and burns that caked every inch of its body, and the strange metal protrusions which glowed through its cracked skin.
It lunged for her again, clawing at the door just below the slit. She screamed in terror and jerked back, losing her balance and toppling to the ground. Maxwell bent down to pick her up, steadying her with his good hand as she tried to stop shaking.
“What are they?”
“I call them the Sunken, but they were like us once. Gardeners, servants, women of the night. That one down here—”, he pointed at the door, “was the ambassador of China. Now they are monsters.”
“But — how?”
“The King, Miss Brigitte. They enter his private chambers as humans, and they emerge … as these — these aberrations! They crave anything made of blood or lead. He feeds them lumps of heated metal that scorch their skin and burn their insides, but they do not care. The more they consume the stronger and less human they become. The King calls them his lead children. And his lust grows stronger. Night after night he calls for more, more blood, more lead.” He hung his head. “I have found women in the village for him … I have done horrible things ….”