by S. C. Green
“Including me?”
“Especially you. But he’ll come around.” I tried to suppress the tight fear gripping my chest.
“Where has he gone?”
“To confront Brunel. He needs to know, tonight, of his master’s part in this plot.”
She bolted upright. “If what you say about the Sunken is true, he’ll be killed. We must go after him, James. You must talk him out of such madness.”
“I have sworn to stay here and protect you, and protect you I shall. Besides, what chance would a blind man and a weak woman have that an armed man would not?”
“He took his barker?”
“I heard him slip it from its holster and stuff it into the pocket of his coat as he left. Evidently, even Nicholas Thorne, Brunel’s most ardent follower, believes I might be right, and his master is up to no good.”
***
“Isambard?”
Brunel looked up from his workbench, and he recoiled in surprise to see Nicholas leaning against the pylon, his features drawn into a worried frown. One of the Boilers had been moving crates from Brunel’s workshop to the upper floors, and Nicholas had snuck down on the elevator as it returned for another load.
“I understand you’re busy, but if I could have a moment of your time.”
Brunel nodded, gesturing for Nicholas to have a seat.
“I’d rather stand, if it’s all the same. I must ask you something, and I beg you not to take offence.”
“Speak freely, Nicholas, but make it quick. I have urgent business.”
“I have … friends, who have informed me about the situation at Windsor, of the King’s lead-soaked children. I trust you know of them?”
Brunel nodded.
“My friends, they say these creatures — dangerous creatures — are being moved into Buckingham Palace in secret. They say that you are responsible for this, that you built the Wall not to keep the dragons out, but the people in. They say … you have a deal with Banks, that you will be named Messiah if you deliver these creatures safely into London, and ensure no one escapes. Is that true?”
Brunel stared at him, unblinking.
Nicholas slammed his fist down on the workbench. “Is that true?”
Brunel held up his hands. “Yes, Nicholas, it is true, and yet also not true, for there is much you do not know.”
“I would really prefer to know now.”
“Yes, the lead children, the Sunken, they are real, and they are terrible. Ask Dr. Joseph Banks, and he will tell you how several years ago, back when he was a regular doctor and not the Royal Physician or the Prime Minister or the head of the Council or any of his other titles, he was called to treat the King for acute syphilis — you know of his indulgences down at the dockside. He prescribed a tincture of lead, twice a day, ’till the pain subsided. But the King had an unusual reaction to the lead, and became as the opium addict, feral and crazed, desperate for greater doses of the metal. And it came to pass that he no longer craved food, or wine, but only the acrid taste of lead. You saw his condition with your own eyes — the sunken skin, the boiling welts upon his flesh, the snarled teeth and the bulging, monstrous eyes. And this fetish led to another, even more unthinkable, abomination: the taste for human flesh.”
Nicholas recoiled, his mouth agape.
“The King took unfortunates into his chamber — at first, he sought street walkers and homeless men, cripples and condemned prisoners, starved and weak. But then, he began to take those of his own household — footmen, soldiers, maids. Some he tore limb from limb, their screams muffled in his darkest chambers, and the bodies buried by his guards. Others he took as his own, feeding them on lead and flesh and locking them away ’till they became as mad as he. The Sunken is an apt name for these unfortunates — the children of the Vampire King.”
Nicholas thought of Brigitte, all alone in that castle, her pretty features marked for that fate. Anger bubbled within him. “And how did you become embroiled in this madness?”
“Because of the Wall. I was so pleased to win the contract; I ignored the signs of his approaching madness until it was too late. And with Banks’ power to make or break my career, I admit I made several ill-advised decisions. By the time I had grasped the situation and had seen the King’s lead children with my own eyes, I had made a contract from which I could not extract myself.
“Yes, I constructed the underground railway for a nefarious purpose. Yes, today we have moved the Sunken into Buckingham Palace. But if you were in my position, you would have done exactly the same thing. By earning the King’s trust, I’ve been able to remain in favour, and thus, I have access to Buckingham Palace via my own underground passages. I have the means — should I wish it — to commit the ultimate treasonable act.”
“You mean—”
“If I wished it. We are, of course, speaking hypothetically.” He moved down his workbench, inserted a fresh plate into his press, and arranged the symbols of the code Nicholas and Aaron had invented. He pulled down the handle and handed the newly inscribed plate to Nicholas.
Nicholas stared at the message, his heart pounding. Brunel outlined his plan in the coded message. What they were about to do was treason, and Brunel wasn’t taking a chance that one of the King’s men might be listening to their conversation.
“When will this—”
“Tonight. It must be tonight. Go out to the streets and find us a cab. I’ll meet you outside the Chimney in a few minutes.”
Nicholas tucked the plate in his pocket, shook Brunel’s outstretched hand, and left the chamber.
As he walked back through the Engine Ward, he sensed a change in the air. Fires flared from the sewer grilles, and the crisp evening breeze carried the sound of women crying.
“Nicholas!”
He turned, recognising Aaron’s voice, who ran towards him, a stricken look on his face. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I came to talk to Brunel,” said Nicholas. “Where’s Chloe?”
“Safe with the other Stokers in the tunnels. I’ll be joining them after I wring Brunel’s neck with my own hands.”
The dark tone in Aaron’s voice frightened Nicholas. “You intend to kill him?”
“Five of my men died,” said Aaron, his voice choking. “Killed when a pressure valve burst in one of the Boiler rooms — a valve that was in perfect working order only the previous day. Someone has to stop him—”
“Look.” Nicholas handed Aaron the plate.
“Did Brunel write this? How does he know about the code—”
“Just read it.”
As Aaron’s fingers danced over the letters, his expression changed.
“You shouldn’t be so quick to think ill of your friend. He has been manipulated into this, and he admits he hasn’t navigated it in quite the best way. But he plans to fix it, tonight. And I shall go with him.”
“You’re going to the Palace? After what Brigitte said?”
“If nothing else, I must know the truth.”
“I should come with you.”
“No, Aaron. Think of how that would look. Go to your wife. Go to your people, and keep them safe. They need you.”
“You’re a foolish man, Nicholas. You’re walking into your doom.”
“Maybe so, but if returning to this city has taught me anything, it’s that you have a duty to do something with the knowledge you’ve obtained. If I can save London from the Sunken,” he shrugged, “perhaps I’ll finally be at peace with my crimes.”
***
James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished
“What do you mean, I can’t leave the city?”
“My apologies, Mr. Holman, sir.” The constable adjusted his nightstick from one hand to the other, his voice betraying just how sorry he felt. Behind him, a row of surly-looking guards protected the heavy iron gate, which had been drawn shut and barred. “Boss’ orders, sir. No one is to leave the city tonight. Best you go home and have a mug of cocoa, sir.”
We’d already
had our cocoa, and our brandy, and an entire plate of cream biscuits. Hours had passed and Nicholas had not yet returned, and we feared the worst, and Brigitte declared she could no longer remain inside the house. So we’d taken to the streets, securing the last ride at the coach house and proceeding at a snail’s pace toward the gate, where we’d met this cheery fellow.
“And just who exactly is your boss?”
“My, Joseph Banks, sir. Thousand apologies, sir.”
“And did he say why we are to endure this forced imprisonment?”
“No, sir. Said I had permission to shoot anyone who disobeyed. Present company excepting, of course, sir.”
I sighed. In the carriage behind mine, a man yelled obscenities at another constable, obviously anxious to escape the city. A crowd of foot traffic swarmed around us, shouting in indignant surprise. Our coachman grumbled and reined in the horses, which were becoming agitated with the thickening press of people. The air crackled with tension, and it wouldn’t be long before anger gave way to violence. I clasped my hand over Brigitte’s, in case the horses should bolt and surprise her.
“There’s nothing else for it,” I said. “We shall have to find another way.”
I jumped as a shot rang out in front of us, and the crowd screamed and swarmed back. I clenched Brigitte’s hand as the horses squirmed. The driver yanked back the reins, turned the horses around, and asked me what I wished to do next. I told him to try the next gate.
When we arrived at the Stamford Hill gatehouse, we found the story much the same. A great horde of people were trying to escape the city and had found the road blocked. Farmers from the neighbouring villages returning from the market with empty wagons growled in gruff voices about this imprisonment. Lords and ladies attempting to flee to their country residences huffed and spluttered their indignation. The unfortunates, used to the whims of the rich affecting every aspect of their lives, said nothing at all, sloping away again into the night.
Smoke billowed from the blow-off valves positioned at intervals along the Wall, and the London air — which had never been exactly aromatic — now stank with burning coal, stinging my eyes, nose, and throat.
We got caught in a traffic jam along Holloway Road and sat next to a carriage of country ladies who had been shopping in the city while their men attended a Council meeting. They seemed unperturbed by the delays, gossiping together about the latest court scandal. I spoke to them through the window and learned that the Oxford gate entrance had been closed, too. “I don’t understand what’s the trouble,” sniffed one of the ladies. “No one in the accursed city seems to know what’s going on.”
Someone knew all right, but I had a feeling he was tucked up in his Chimney, safe behind an impenetrable wall of iron.
We tried the next gate, and the next, each teaming with disgruntled commuters and backed-up coaches. The news passed from carriage to carriage. Every gate in the city had been shut on the King’s orders, and we were advised to return to our residences at once. When my spirits and my pockets could take no more, I bid the driver return to Nicholas’ residence, where he could collect his not insubstantial fee.
We had barely made it past Birdcage Walk in the crawling traffic when we noticed something else wasn’t right. Traffic ground to a halt as every passenger, driver, and coachman turned his or her eyes toward Buckingham Palace, which Brigitte informed me had been lit by thousands of glimmering lanterns. “It shimmers like a star,” she said. “And all the gardens have been strung with streamers and bright red flags. People stream from the palace doors. It looks as though the King is hosting a grand ball.”
The street was now dangerously crowded. Onlookers packed the narrow footpath, pressing against each other in a desperate attempt to see inside the palace grounds.
“It seems odd word of such an occasion hasn’t appeared in the papers,” I said. I couldn’t read the papers, of course, but the other Knights discussed them constantly.
Brigitte gripped my arm. “I’m certain there is an explanation for all this. We should find—”
She was interrupted by the ripple of panic that darted along the crowd, passed from soul to soul by some invisible force. It swept the people into a frenzy, and as one they bolted toward Westminster. Several horses reared up, and our driver expertly swung us into a side street as soon as a gap opened up. Brigitte caught a glimpse of the palace grounds as we hurtled along the fence, and cried out. “That’s no party! Something is terribly wrong!”
And then the screaming began.
***
Aaron watched Nicholas and Isambard climb into a cab together and speed off toward Stephenson’s church. Nicholas’ final words to him echoed in his mind. If I can save London from the Sunken, perhaps I’ll finally be at peace with my crimes. Peace. Aaron longed for peace, longed to be free of the anger that gripped his chest.
When he was certain the Ward was again deserted, he dashed across the empty Stoker workcamp to the lifts. Down he went, down past the Boilers toiling on levels C and D, down to the darkest places, where the Stokers waited for him.
He heard them as soon as the elevator clanged to a stop, drinking and talking in low, solemn voices. He stood awhile on the darkened gangway, listening, hoping to catch a smatter of conversation, to understand the sentiment of the men he would call upon tonight. Have I done right by them? Would they still follow me?
But he could hear nothing over the hum of the engines above. He stepped into the first magazine, unnoticed by the men huddled in groups on the floor, heads pressed together as they whispered to each other. Aaron touched one on the shoulder.
“Willy?”
William Stone whirled around, splashing his drink across his overalls. “Aaron? Is that you? I can hardly see in this gloom.”
Aaron stepped into the light of the lantern.
“Did you find him? Is everything going to be all right?” William asked.
Aaron paused. “I don’t know. William, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you lost your son. I’m sorry I didn’t figure this out sooner. I hated it from the start, but I didn’t have a—” He stopped. There’s always a choice. “I did the cowardly thing, and it cost us all dearly. I didn’t know what to do. That makes a man angry, do you see?”
William nodded.
“Do you still trust me?”
William nodded again.
“Something terrible will strike in London tonight, and I’m damned if I’m going to stand by and watch it destroy this city. I need you to round up every able-bodied man willing to return to the surface with me, and any weapon you can find, and meet me outside the South Gate in thirty minutes.”
“What are we—” But Aaron had already left him.
He found Chloe in the second battery, with the other women, fast asleep with her back leaning up against the wall and her hands clasped tightly around his battered barker. Aaron ran his hand over her soft hair and eased the weapon from her grip. “Sleep well, my wife,” he said. “I am sorry. For everything.”
He met William on the gangway, with forty men in tow, each man carrying weapons of varying levels of effectiveness. The sight of them made Aaron’s chest swell with pride.
“I know you’ve never been taught to equate the word ‘Stoker’ with bravery,” he said, “but in the last three days you’ve all proved your worth a thousand times over. When Isambard was accepted into the engineering elite, we all held him up as a model Stoker, the man we could all aspire to be. But Isambard isn’t one of us, not really, not anymore. And he makes mistakes, just like any of us — the trouble is, when a great man makes mistakes, the consequences are hundredfold, spreading out into the world and infecting those around him. When that happens, when the great men of this world fall into darkness, it’s up to ordinary men like us to bring them back to the light.
“If we don’t do something, this city will burn tonight, and vile creatures the likes of which you cannot even fathom will be set loose upon her streets. London has never been kind to us, and I, like many of you,
would rather hide down here and let them suffer, but these creatures … they will find us. And it will be your women and your children who will be defiled and devoured. The army will not stand against them … the Metropolitan Police are useless, but we Dirty Folk, we Stokers, we will be the ones to save this city.”
The men yelled their approval, and crowded into the stairwell and lift shafts in their haste to get to the surface. William looked at Aaron, tears in his eyes. Aaron smiled back.
If Nicholas wants to throw in his lot with Brunel, that’s his business, but we have a city to save.
***
Deep below Stephenson’s church, Nicholas followed Brunel down a long tunnel; his back bent double to prevent scraping himself on the roof. The barrel of his pistol jammed in his hip, and once again, he bent down to adjust the belt.
Brunel kept up a vigorous pace, despite the heavy rucksack of equipment on his back. He would not look back or wait for Nicholas, who at times had to sprint to catch up.
Suddenly, Brunel stopped. Nicholas stumbled over him, fumbling wildly to keep the lamp from smashing against the stone floor. “What did you—”
Brunel held up his hand, and Nicholas fell silent. “Can you hear that?”
He could. If he closed his eyes, he could hear faint sounds from the city above: carriage wheels bouncing over the cobbles, the clank and grind of London’s great machines. And over this, faint but unmistakable, he heard screaming. Women and men screaming, and heavy footfalls as hordes of Londoners rushed back and forth, shrieking all the while.
“We’re late,” whispered Brunel. “It’s already begun.”
Nicholas thought of Brigitte, and Holman, shut up at his home. Please, Great Conductor, let them be safe there.
“We’re nearly there,” Brunel said. “The station is right underneath the Palace.”
After a time, the tunnel narrowed, pressing against Nicholas’ shoulder, so he had to squeeze through sideways. He tried not to think of Aaron’s men, holed up in tunnels such as these, mourning the deaths of five of their number. He followed Brunel up a narrow staircase and found himself on the platform at an underground station.