The Glass Republic: The Skyscraper Throne: Book II

by Pollock, Tom

  The Eye spun faster still, galaxies of reflected faces whirled and rushed inside it. Pen felt her own eye stretch, striving hopelessly to see them all. Her eyeball dried out, started to itch, but she would not blink. She saw reflections caught in taps and windows and puddles and raindrops and hubcaps and corneas and spoons and the impossible churn of the Thames and—

  —it was infinitesimally brief: a flicker of recognition, felt rather than actually seen: an after-image of a girl in a green hijab was burned onto her eye.

  The hum of the machine died. Above her, the glass orb slowed to a halt.

  ‘Did we get it?’ Pen demanded. ‘Did it work?’

  Espel was hoarse. ‘We got it.’

  Pen scrambled from the bench. There were three screens set up above the control podium where Espel stood. Two of them showed scrolling white text against a black background, but the third held an image of a face. It was distorted, rippling as though cast onto water, only the left side had been captured – and that was grainy where it had been blown up to fit the screen.

  Even so, the face was unmistakable – and unmistakably alive. It even looked like Parva was smiling.

  ‘Hello, Sis,’ Pen whispered. Her throat was tight and full. It was only when she tasted salt on her rebuilt lip that she realised she was crying. ‘Where are you?’

  Espel answered her. ‘The Kennels.’ The steeplejill sounded rueful. ‘We were less than four streets from there a few hours ago.’

  ‘Can you find the place?’

  Espel nodded. Pen let out a slow breath and smudged away the tears with the heel of her hand. ‘Good.’ She slipped back between the glass panes and took hold of the cage where Goutierre’s Eye was still swinging. She slipped the catch and the glass sphere tumbled into her hand. She slid the replica marble in its place.

  When she turned, Espel’s gaze was quizzical.

  ‘I made a promise,’ she whispered with a smile. ‘A member of the Faceless did find my sister for me, after all.’

  She looked at the precious, unique thing nestling in her palm, then slipped it into her pocket. ‘Come on. What are we waiting for?’

  Espel paused. She looked frightened and Pen wondered what could possibly scare this lean, hungry girl who built towers from falling masonry and went suicidally undercover in the palaces of her enemies. Then she remembered the way Espel had talked about the Masonry Men; that shudder when she’d called them those things. Tears shivered in her eyes, waiting to fall.

  ‘Listen,’ Pen said, ‘you don’t have to come. I know what happened last night was—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Espel whispered. She laid her fingers gently against Pen’s mouth. ‘Shut up with that right now, Milady. Of course I’m fragging coming. You won’t even get out of the building without me. We’ll go and hand-deliver our arses to a bunch of concrete-skinned kidnappers who can walk through walls and snap our necks like stale biscuits and that’s … fine. That’s not what’s bothering me …

  ‘It’s just, before we do—’ She stepped forward. Pen felt a jolt of anticipation below her breastbone. Espel was close enough for Pen to breathe in her exhalation. ‘I need to know if you really meant …’ She faltered.

  Pen took a chance.

  She put her hand on top of Espel’s and slid it from her lips down onto her neck. The fingers fluttered as her pulse hammered under them. Pen put her hand over Espel’s temple and wound her fingers into her hair. She hesitated for a fraction of a second and kissed her.

  Espel inhaled sharply. There was a terrifying, paralysed moment, when Pen was certain that Espel was going to push herself away, and then that breath came out again and the steeplejill’s lips gave way under hers. They held the kiss for long moments, Pen’s heart loud in her ears, and then Espel stepped into her.

  Her body was close and warm. Her fingers stroked along Pen’s collarbone, then rose and gently traced her scars, leaving sparks in their wake. Pen came up on the balls of her feet, pushing herself deeper into the kiss, tasting the salt on Espel’s lips, smelling the soap on her skin and the dye in her hair, seizing onto every detail.

  She had no idea how long they stood like that. Pen pulled back only when she started to feel lightheaded. It was an unutterable relief to see Espel’s grin mirrored in her own.

  ‘If I turn around now,’ Espel whispered, ‘and there’s a bunch of Chevs watching us, I’m going to be sorely disappointed, Countess.’

  Pen shook her head. ‘Just us,’ she said, and it sounded like a promise.

  ‘So, does this mean you’re into girls?’ Espel asked.

  Pen felt a flash of panic then – an almost irresistible urge to deny it, to take it back – but then she realised she didn’t know if it was panic or elation; she couldn’t tell the difference. She felt like a sprinter who’d been crouched on the starting line for so long she’d ceased to believe that she’d ever get to run, but she was running now, really flying and she didn’t want to stop.

  She started to laugh, she couldn’t help it. Espel looked mortified until Pen laid a gentle hand on her neck and kissed her again.

  ‘It means I’m into you,’ she said softly as they parted. They were forehead to forehead, the cool metal of Espel’s seam resting against Pen’s scars. ‘If I decide it means anything else, I’ll let you know.’ Her lips were still tingling, even the rebuilt one. She had no idea how that worked, but she knew she liked it. The tingle turned into a tremble which spread through her limbs until every muscle felt like a strummed guitar string.

  This, she thought, is how it’s supposed to be. The part of her that wanted to deny, to run away, to lock this moment up and forget about it – that was still there, still pushing at her, but she pushed back fiercely.

  We’re about to go and hand-deliver our arses to a bunch of concrete-skinned kidnappers who can walk through walls and snap our necks like stale biscuits, she thought, so I ought to at least have this.

  Another laugh burst up from her chest and she bit her lip to trap it. ‘Come on,’ she said. She jerked her head at the door. ‘Before they think we’ve started making out on the Device.’

  Pen felt a flush of pleasure at the wistful look Espel threw the padded leather bench.

  ‘Later,’ she smiled, a little startled by how naturally the promise came to her; at how easy it was to make. ‘Definitely later.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘You sure these’ll fit?’ Pen asked as she caught the holdall Espel had thrown to her.

  ‘Yours fit me well enough, don’t they?’ Espel gestured to the black shirt Pen had loaned her. Beside her bare feet was a small heap of leather and tin she’d already dug out of the holdall. She went to turn away, but then a mischievous smile crinkled her tattooed cheeks. She straightened, looked Pen in the eye and began very deliberately to unbutton her clothing.

  ‘Hang on— What are you—?’ Pen’s protestations faded as Espel wriggled out of her trousers. The waistband of her knickers had slipped very slightly, showing a smooth, pale hip. Pen bit her lip, but she didn’t turn away. Espel’s gaze was direct, an eloquent invitation to look; she knew exactly how hard Pen’s pulse was stampeding right now and she was enjoying it.

  The sight of Espel’s pale skin made her want to touch it, to feel its texture against her own. She felt like maybe she should have been surprised by that, but she wasn’t. It was as though a muscle in her chest that she’d held tensed for so long she’d forgotten it was there had suddenly relaxed, and now she could breathe like she’d always been meant to breathe.

  What am I going to tell Mum and Dad? The thought made her falter. She fingered the glass Eye in her pocket. Let’s cross that bridge when we’ve managed to rebuild it from its charred remains, hey, Pen?

  ‘You gonna try yours on then?’ Espel’s gaze was challenging.

  ‘You’ve seen it all anyway.’ Her voice didn’t even tremble, but when she pulled her T-shirt up over her face, she held it there until she felt her flush subside.

  She shivered as she felt the
eyes of the first girl she’d ever kissed linger on her scarred skin.

  ‘Not like it’s ever gonna get old.’ Espel sighed. ‘I only wish we had time to do something about it.’ She look she gave Pen was like she was storing her up. ‘Okay,’ she said, with a wistful smile, ‘take temptation away.’

  ‘For now,’ Pen said. Espel’s wistful smile became a grin.

  As it happened, the spare steeplejill armour didn’t fit Pen particularly well. Despite being roughly the same height and build as her, Espel was noticeably narrower in the limb and the leather sleeves were tight around Pen’s elbows, almost trapping them in an awkward half-hug, like she was doing the Robot. At least her brown fabric messenger bag didn’t look too out of place, strapped tight over her shoulder. Inside it were Goutierre’s Eye and the precious second phial of the doorway drug, her passage home.

  In contrast, Espel wore her armour like a tiger wears its stripes. It made her more powerful, more graceful, more forcefully herself. Pen enjoyed seeing her like that, not faking it as a servant or conflicted as a terrorist, but in her element, equipped for the art she’d spent more than half her life perfecting.

  ‘We’re a little tight on exits,’ she remarked wryly to Pen as she started pulling coil after coil of blue nylon rope from the kitbags she’d lugged up to the apartment, then connecting each length to the next with metal clasps.

  The main lobby was out of the question – they wouldn’t be allowed to leave without a full Chevalier escort, which would start getting awkward right around the time that Pen was reunited with the girl she’d spent the last three days pretending to be. Their previous rat-run through the kitchen was ruled out on account of the dozen pastry and sous-chefs who would by now be sweating over eggs and croissants for the hundred or so resident members of the mirrorstocracy who were expecting their Draw Night morning breakfasts.

  ‘Happily, for a jill, this place hasn’t got two doors, it’s got twenty thousand.’ Espel flipped the latch and shoved the window open. The air was crisp and cool after the previous night’s storm. Dawn painted London-Under-Glass’ towers in colours of molten magma. A few figures moved across the roofscape, dressed as they were. Distance and perspective made the jacks and jills slow as they swept and sorted through the fallen brick.

  ‘Now, remember what I told you.’ Espel put a hand on Pen’s shoulder. ‘We need to move fast.’

  Pen felt her stomach plunge, apparently trying to get a head start on her. She eyed the drop. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘We need to spare Lady Leytonstone the sight of my face over her morning coffee—’

  ‘Deprive,’ Espel said. ‘We need to deprive her of the sight of you, at least to the extent that she won’t be able to recognise it.’ She snorted. ‘If someone does spot us, mind, we can only hope it is Lady L. If she’s awake this early it’ll be because she’s not run out of ouzo yet. She’d see at least three of each of us and put it down to a trick of the weather. Hey! I’ve not connected your rope yet—’

  Pen was leaning out of the window. The glare coming off the glass roof of the station hit her like a wall of light. She hung there, weight poised on her hands against the windowsill, just on the tipping point of her balance, her boots barely scraping the floor, daring herself to breathe. Her nostrils were full of the scent of concrete dust, her ears the clang of machines.

  Espel’s protestations had long since faded away by the time she dropped herself back inside.

  She met the steeplejill’s gaze with steady eyes.

  ‘Mago, girl,’ Espel murmured. ‘Where’d you get your head for heights?’

  Pen’s lips thinned. ‘Somewhere there wasn’t any rope, only wire.’

  Espel clipped Pen’s harness into place and fed the vital umbilical of rope through the loops. She hefted the soft rubber counterweight in her palm for a second, clipped herself to the line and then threw it out of the window. As the line slithered over the sill Espel stood by the window and spread her arms.

  Pen didn’t let herself hesitate. She stepped in close to Espel and breathed in the scent of sweat and leather and soap. It smelled right, human. She made herself surrender as Espel’s arms folded around her.

  ‘I’ve got you, Countess,’ Espel whispered to her. ‘Let me know you’re ready. Just say when.’

  She gave a fractional nod, barely more than she could have managed with a steel cage around her. ‘Call me Pen,’ she said.

  Espel didn’t comment; she just tipped backwards and bore them out into the light.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The two girls followed an illicit path through the streets of London-Under-Glass. It wasn’t long after dawn, but the pavements were already filling up with commuters, their heads down and chins tucked against their chests as they breathed little webs of frost into the air.

  The meandering route was frustrating, but if any of the pedestrians saw Pen, there would be what Espel called a ruckus. A ruckus apparently was three full stages up on a fuss and only one step below a riot. At best, they’d have to wade through adoring crowds as thick and clinging as heavy mud; at worst, word would get back to the Chevs …

  Fortunately, Pen knew how to hide them. She had learned under the Wire Mistress’s brutal tutelage how secret spaces could open up in the heart of the city. Alleyways and courtyards and low, accessible rooftops could all be navigated to avoid busy streets. The reversed city’s rained-down masonry helped them: the deeper they delved into the architectural thicket of the Kennels, the more they were able to sneak behind opaque globs of precipitated brick and stone.

  Pen dragged Espel by the hand. They were a needle, their path a thread that stitched London-Under-Glass’ hidden places together.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ Espel said at last. ‘It’s the next street over. Countess— Pen, are you okay?’

  Pen wasn’t sure. She had been looking around herself for the last few minutes, trying to work out what was familiar about the swollen buildings that currently surrounded her. It felt a bit like something she’d once glimpsed from the corner of her eye.

  She let go of Espel’s hand, and dropped back a few paces, trailing her fingertips over the wall of the alley. Weeds grew from cracks in the brick dunes under her feet. Pen marvelled at the way neglect made neighbourhoods anonymous. Despite the weird architecture, she felt like she could have been sneaking with Beth around the back of a Hackney terrace, looking for a good place to leave a tag or a scribbled verse.

  Longing for home, for her best friend, winded her. There was a ragged wound where she’d torn herself away from that life. Right now, the other edge of that tear felt so close it was almost unbearable.

  She sucked in a breath and let the winter air chill the water in her eyes until it no longer felt like tears.

  When she was steady again, she walked over to join Espel. The steeplejill leaned against the wall, peeking out of the end of the alleyway. Sounds filtered in from the street, young voices raised in shouts and raucous laughter.

  ‘That’s the place,’ Espel whispered triumphantly. ‘Looks like it’s a school.’

  Pen froze as she came up behind Espel. The sense of familiarity made sudden sense. Glimpsed from the corner of an eye, she thought; reflected in window-glass.

  The helpful reverse-lettered sign was irrelevant; even swaddled in rained-down masonry, Pen would have known Frostfield High anywhere. A tide of stitched-faced, blue-uniformed students was pouring through its gates for the new day.

  ‘You’re sure that image was current?’ Pen whispered, her throat dry.

  ‘Last twenty-four hours for definite,’ Espel confirmed. ‘Why?’

  This doesn’t make any sense, Pen thought. Why would they take her, only to bring her back?

  ‘You got any brilliant ideas for getting us across that street?’ Espel’s identical brows raised either side of her seam. ‘Because at least six of those kids have Khannible rucksacks.’

  Pen didn’t; she was about to suggest they just flat-out run for it when a familiar laugh stopped her v
oice in her throat.

  It was light, utterly carefree. She hadn’t heard that sound in so long she barely recognised it.

  She spun around and pressed herself against the wall, looking up the street in the direction the laugh had come from.

  Trudging over the uneven pavement towards them, scars immaculately made-up and underlined in dark makeup, was Parva Khan. She had her arm slung around the shoulder of a redheaded girl and her head was bent to whisper in her ear. Whatever she was saying, they were both finding it hilarious.

  Pen stared in incomprehension. Parva Khan, the Face of the Looking-Glass Lottery – on the busy street, she should have been like a magnet in a bowl of iron filings, but the people she passed barely gave her a second look.

  It was only when Parva gave her a companion a playful shove and turned her face fully towards Pen that she understood.

  A silver seam ran from the edge of the girl’s green hijab to her chin.

  Disappointment curdled in the pit of Pen’s stomach like rotten meat. This wasn’t her mirror-twin – this wasn’t the girl she’d spoken to through the glass. This was a half-faced stranger. All right, she looked enough like Pen that perhaps she had begun in one of her reflections – but that could have been at any point in her life. Or maybe she just had a really good plastic surgeon. The scars the girl so proudly displayed were mostly likely an affectation, the work of some knife-parlour pop-up. Maybe even the headscarf the girl wore was—

  Pen froze. The headscarf. She stared at it until her eyes ached. It was the scarf her parents had given her when she’d come out of hospital, the one that had been burned and stamped into the snow in the playground of Frostfield High.

  It was the scarf Pen had been wearing in the derelict bathroom the day Parva was born.

  ‘Es,’ she said quickly, ‘there—’

  ‘I see her,’ Espel sounded as confused as she felt. ‘But isn’t she—?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have to talk to her. Create a diversion.’