The Sunken

by S. C. Green

  “The Wall is complete, and London is safe from the dragons,” he said, his voice amplified by the vacuum tubes sailing out into every corner of the church, so no one would miss his words. “When the King first set me this task, he gave me a timeframe believed to be impossible, but through Great Conductor’s wisdom and guidance, I was able to discern a solution and erect the largest man-made structure in England in a mere twenty-nine days. My means of completing this task — the Boiler unit — will be the subject of my sermon.”

  Nicholas sat numb, Isambard’s words falling from the ceiling without sense or meaning. His eyes burnt into the back of Jacques’ neck. He didn’t realise he was still gripping Buckland’s hand ’till the biologist cried out and wrenched it free, wincing as he flexed the fingers.

  “Jesus Chr— I mean, by the Gods, man, what is the matter?”

  “There’s a man, perhaps twenty feet away, standing with Messiah Stephenson. He’s—” Nicholas gulped. “He wants to kill me.”

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I cannot allow him to find me, or Brigitte. He’s right down near the front of the room, so he can’t leave without causing a scene, and he won’t want that. I need to leave the Chimney before the sermon ends. I can find a safe place—”

  The woman beside Buckland turned around and snarled at them. “Will you be quiet?”

  Buckland didn’t flinch, but he did lower his voice. “I can get you out of here,” he said. “And I even know somewhere you can hide. But he will see us leave,” he said, gesturing to Isambard, high in the pulpit above, “and with everything that has already gone on tonight, he will be furious.”

  Nicholas flinched, watching Isambard lean over the edge of the pulpit and remembering how he had dangled over that same edge only a week previously. “If you can bring him to me, in secret, so that he is not followed. I will explain everything. But we must—”

  Brigitte let out a yelp as Buckland tossed his glass — full nearly to the brim with dark brandy — at her. It bounced off her shoulder and splashed bright red stains down the front of her dress. Some of the liquid caught.

  “Deary me,” said Buckland loudly, “that was awfully clumsy of me. Come, let me help you wash up.” Grabbing a surprised Brigitte by the hand, he began pushing through the crowd toward one of the side chambers. Nicholas followed, mumbling “excuses me” and “my apologies” as he tried to avoid stepping on the hems of dresses or the heels of boots, while keeping an eye on the back of Jacques’ head. Maybe we can reach the door before he turns around, and he won’t notice our absence ’till the end of the sermon.

  Brigitte, still holding on to Buckland’s hand, tripped on her skirts and fell into another lady, who stepped back in surprise, knocking the fan from the hand of the lady behind her. The wooden handle clattered against the stone floor, and several heads whipped around to see what was going on.

  Although Isambard didn’t miss a word, his voice ringing clear and true through the Nave, Nicholas could feel the Presbyter’s eyes upon him, his disapproval burning Nicholas’ back. I’m sorry, Isambard. I’m sorry. My past has come back, and I must run again.

  Jacques turned, and his eyes flashed with anger as he saw Nicholas beside the door. He grabbed for his coat and bolted into the crowd. Women cried out in surprise as he pushed them roughly aside. Two of the Royal Guard who stood beside the King rushed forward, swords drawn, yelling for him to stop.

  Buckland wrenched a lantern from its socket on the wall and grabbed Nicholas’ shoulder, dragging him back into the chamber. “Come on, boy! You don’t have much time!”

  ***

  It was no use. By the time Jacques reached the door to the chamber, Nicholas had disappeared, escaping through one of three doors hidden at the back of the darkened room. Jacques tried each of them — locked, of course. He swore and bolted toward the main doors just as two giant hands clamped down on his shoulders and slammed him against the wall.

  “What’s this all about, then?” A thick English voice, the breath foul with beer, barked in his ear.

  “Mrs. Milbanke, is this the one?” another voice called. Jacques was pulled away from the wall and swung around to face a sour-looking woman who was trying to smooth her skirts.

  “That’s him,” she sniffed. “Running through the crowd, shoving people aside with no regard for propriety. He travelled in the same carriage from Liverpool as I. That’s how I recognised him. French, isn’t he? I might’ve known.”

  “You a Froggie, then?” The guard shook him. “You a Metic, snuck in here to hurl abuse at the Presbyter? Or are you an illegal? You know what we do to the likes of them?”

  Jacques said nothing.

  “I expect you’ll take him to gaol immediately,” said Mrs. Milbanke. “It would not be wise to have such an unsavoury figure roaming the Ward at night.”

  “Quite right, M’lady.” The officer tightened his grip. Jacques shut his eyes as he felt the rapier blade pressed against his neck. “He’s a tight-lipped one, in’t he? We might loosen him up—”

  “What seems to be the matter here?” a voice boomed. Jacques opened one eye and saw, to his relief, the broad figure of Robert Stephenson looming over the arresting party.

  “N-n-n-nothing that need concern you, Messiah,” the guard answered. “This man has been causing trouble, running through the crowd, knocking the ladies about. Poor Mrs. Milbanke here was practically knocked over—”

  “And as regrettable as that is, I hardly think it worthy of a night in gaol. After all, Mr. du Blanc has apologised, has he not?”

  “No,” the woman sniffed, “he has not.”

  “Then allow me to do so, on his behalf.” Stephenson reached into his wallet and withdrew a small bag. Handing it to the lady, he said softly, “This will go some way to replacing that fine dress, ma’am, with our sincerest apologies. Jacques truly means no disrespect, he is on a mission of the utmost importance.”

  Annabella Milbanke grabbed the purse and stormed away into the crowd, Ada following close behind. The guards let Jacques go, and Stephenson gave him his arm while he regained his balance.

  “He ran through one of these doors,” Jacques said. “I’ve no hope of catching him now.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Stephenson. “You have every hope of catching him. You are in the house of his new master, yes?”

  Jacques nodded, staring up at the wiry figure of Brunel, suspended in the pulpit high above a rapt congregation. On the altar, a live Boiler unit rotated slowly, steam hissing as it bent pipe after pipe to form the crest of His Majesty King George III. Something in Brunel’s expression unnerved Jacques—– the way he lifted his chin, the way he spoke of the machine as though it were a beloved son. The way he loomed over his audience, his eyes meeting every gaze as he continued with perfect clarity, perfect calm.

  “Maybe you need to speak to him, master to master, about your wayward slave.”

  ***

  When the sermon was finished and Isambard descended the metal steps from his pulpit, a wave of people surged forward to meet him. The question on everyone’s lips was “are the Boilers for sale?” Every one of the rich lords and ladies wanted one, or three, or ten, to run their factory or tidy their home or show up their neighbours. Jacques listened to the praise echoing around him, as Stephenson scowled into his drink.

  “I don’t like it,” Stephenson said, gesturing toward the Boiler with his elbow. “It isn’t natural.”

  Isambard made his rounds of the room, and stopped before Stephenson. He smiled, but his eyes were like coal. “Messiah,” he said, giving a shallow bow.

  “Presbyter.”

  “I hope my sermon was to your liking.”

  Stephenson pointed to the Boiler, which was now demonstrating how it could tie a lady’s corset. “That,” he said, “is debatable. But at least you’re no longer dabbling in locomotives.”

  Brunel’s face was impassive, but his eyes remained hard. “If you remember, sir, it is my engine that wil
l run the first commuter service in London—”

  “Yes, yes,” Stephenson interrupted. “If you’d be so kind, my friend Jacques has come a long way, and is most desirous to speak with you.”

  Brunel turned to him. “With all due respect, sir, many people in this room wish to speak to me, and I cannot possibly acquiesce to every reques—-”

  “It is about your architect, Mr. Nicholas Thorne.”

  That got a reaction out of him. He leaned in toward Jacques, so close their noses were practically touching. His eyes were unreadable, his face like stone. In a low voice he said. “He is not here. I saw him leave this building some hours ago, escorted by Mr. Buckland.”

  “It is you I wish to speak to, Presbyter. Might we have a few words alone? It is of a most delicate matter.”

  Brunel threw a furious glance at Stephenson, who pretended he hadn’t seen it. “Very well then,” the Presbyter said through gritted teeth. He placed his arm on Jacques’ shoulder and pushed him toward another side-chamber. He lifted a lantern from the wall, slipped into a room, and gestured for Jacques to sit. The Frenchman settled himself into a chair, staring suspiciously at the long table stretching across the centre of the room – three deep grooves cut into its metal surface – and the strange symbols engraved upon the walls. Isambard closed the heavy door and slid the bolt across.

  “This is the baptismal,” Brunel said. “Worshippers of Great Conductor are brought here to be consecrated in coal and steam. Your Stephenson has a much grander chamber in his cathedral, but I suspect after this evening, it will be emptier than ever. Now,” he said, pulling out his own chair, and leaning in closely, “what is it you know about Nicholas? You are the first man in many months to speak his real name.”

  “He was in my employ, back in France. He owed a debt to me, but he did not finish paying it. I am an important man, Presbyter Brunel, and I have friends in many influential positions. I do not look kindly upon men who cheat me. I have come to take back what is mine.”

  “Thorne is mine. He’ll not work for another — he is valuable to me. I shall pay you what you’re owed, and that will settle the matter.”

  “I do not want money. I want Thorne.”

  “And I say you will not have him.” The lamplight flickered across Brunel’s cold eyes.

  “He ran from your sermon tonight,” said Jacques. “He is a coward — always running from his duty, from his punishment. Death follows him wherever he goes. He murdered my wife, did he tell you that? The French authorities look unkindly upon men who brutalise women and then escape across the border to England. Even your English courts will not spare such a man. And think what such a scandal would do to your newfound reputation—”

  “Why are you here?” Brunel’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re as important and influential as you say, why not simply send French soldiers, or your own private ships, to exact the justice you seek?”

  Jacques laughed. “I am a philosopher, not a mad-man. My sect is unpopular in France. If I were to send a ship to Industrian England, I would be assumed a traitor and dealt with in the usual way. But I am one man, Presbyter Brunel, and one man can go where an army cannot. I must again command you to deliver to me Nicholas Thorne.”

  “And I again state that you will not have him. We are done here.” Brunel pushed his chair back, but Jacques reached over and clasped his wrist.

  “You still protect him, after he has left you in your greatest hour? He has not even told you the nature of his crime, for if he had, you would not hesitate to hand him over.”

  “I trust him,” said Brunel. “If Nicholas committed any crime, he would have reason, and I would not betray him, even if I knew where to find him, which I do not.”

  “Then you are unwise, Presbyter. Nicholas Thorne is not to be trusted.”

  “You dare to come in here, a follower of Stephenson, and make demands of me?”

  “I follow no man,” Jacques said. “And certainly not an Englishman. I am here, at great personal peril, to look after my own interests, and to avenge the death of my wife, whom Nicholas Thorne stabbed right through the heart as she stood before me. I have not yet gone to the authorities on this matter, Mr. Brunel, but I could. And when I do, the brutal nature of Mr. Thorne’s crime will be made public. The press — not to mention your fellow priests and Councillors — will use the story to crucify you.” He gazed up at the low ceiling of the chamber, sweeping his arm in a circle to encapsulate the whole of the Chimney. “You have to ask yourself if you’re willing to risk everything you’ve created here for the sake of a man who has walked from your church without apology, for a man who has kept secrets from you and fed you lies and falsehoods, for a cold-blooded murderer?”

  He watched Brunel’s face for a sign, the twitch of a muscle, the flicker of emotion that might tell him if he’d achieved his goal. The Presbyter stared into the flames of the lamp, and his face never changed. He remained silent so long Jacques became uneasy, wondering if he’d drifted into some sort of trance.

  Finally, in a low voice, so quiet Jacques had to lean forward to hear him, Brunel said, “What do you want me to do?”

  ***

  Buckland ran ahead, the faint light of his lamp bobbing down the winding staircase. Brigitte followed, her arm sore from where he pinched it between his enormous hands, her slippered feet sliding across the slick stone as she tried desperately to keep her balance.

  “Nicholas! What on earth is the matter? Why are we running? Is it Isambard? Is it—”

  “Ah hah,” cried Buckland in delight. “Here it is! I was worried I wouldn’t find it — I’ve never come this way before.”

  They crowded onto a landing, facing the stone wall. Buckland held his light up and examined the stones. Nicholas squeezed Brigitte’s hand. She opened her mouth to ask again what was going on, but Buckland gave a cry of triumph and leaned his weight against a particular stone. With a groan, he pressed his whole body into the wall, and to Brigitte’s great surprise a whole section of it slid inward, revealing a low, dark passage.

  “After you.” Buckland gestured to Nicholas.

  “Thank you, friend.” Nicholas clasped the man’s shoulders. “Please take Brigitte and find her a room in the city. He won’t come after her — it’s me he wants, but she should not go back to my lodgings—”

  “Excuse me,” she cut in, her patience finally run dry. “But I have been dragged from a sermon I was quite enjoying, sent running after you two all night, stained my dress and ruined these slippers, and now you’re sending me from your presence with not a word of explanation. I demand to know what’s going on, “

  “Brigitte, please—”

  She folded her arms and leaned back against the stone wall. “I’ll not move from this spot ’till you tell me why we’ve left the Chimney to crawl around in dark tunnels in the middle of the night—”

  “Someone’s trying to kill me,” Nicholas said, his face slick with sweat. “And I’ll be damned to the Great Conductor’s fiery furnace before I let him get you, too.”

  “Nicholas—” she reached out, wanting to comfort him.

  “Keep away from me!” He slunk back, hiding in the shadows. “You must go with Buckland. Please, Brigitte.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. She shot out her elbow and knocked Buckland’s arm aside, ducking into the dark passage next to him. “I’m not leaving you,” she said.

  “Don’t be absurd, Brigitte. You are safer if you return to the city, pretend you don’t know me—”

  She shook her head. “I’ll pretend nothing of the sort. I gave up my livelihood for you. Don’t think for one moment I’m leaving.”

  “You don’t understand. If he catches you with me—”

  “Then we had better make sure this man, whoever he is, doesn’t catch you,” she said firmly, taking another step into the dark passage. “I’ve decided, Nicholas, and I’ll not hear another word to the contrary. We don’t have time to argue about it anyway, by all accounts. Now, where does this tunnel le
ad?”

  “Into the Wall,” Buckland answered, stepping in beside them and pulling the stone door back into place. “The structure isn’t solid inside, but contains many rooms and chambers for Brunel’s use. I’ve been working here on a project for Brunel, and I’ve had a chance to explore some of the tunnels and rooms around my workshop. I know a place you can hide.”

  “What project?” asked Nicholas. Brigitte detected a note of suspicion in his voice.

  “I cannot say. Ah, here we are. Watch your head, Miss Brigitte.” She had to get on her hands and knees to crawl under the banks of lead piping that criss-crossed over their heads. The air here felt warmer, and everything around her hummed and vibrated beneath her hands as though it were alive. Warm air moved under the pipes, caressing her bare arms, and in the distance she could hear a strange, regular whoosh.

  Buckland stood, and helped her to her feet. She dusted off her dress and saw by the dim light of a lantern they were at one end of a long metal walkway, suspended over a floor of beam engines, all turning in unison, the rise and fall of their arms creating the whooshing sound.

  Buckland stepped out on the gangway, and Brigitte followed, her eyes falling to the machines below, each one rising and dipping with the grace of a dancer. She saw the faint glow of fires moving between the machines — Boilers, keeping the engines running. But what do all these engines power?

  On the other side of the gangway, Buckland pulled down a steel ladder and motioned for Brigitte for ascend. “When you reach the top, lean down and I’ll hand you the light,” he said. “When Nicholas is up there with you, I will push up the ladder and close the gate on the other side. Only Brunel and I have the key, so it should be impossible for anyone to find you.”

  Brigitte gathered her skirts in one hand and clambered up the ladder, pulling herself onto a cold metal floor. She reached down, and Buckland placed the heavy old lamp in her hands. She hauled it up and set it in the centre of what was a low, square room, barely ten foot from end to end. It was devoid of furniture and decoration, save the square grating of a ventilation shaft in the corner.