She followed the Scarra’s stare but saw nothing herself, only the shimmer of far off heat.
“We’ve still a way to go, Prescinda,” Falmeard said, startling her, his words so hard against such sweetly soaring silence. “We won’t get there, though, if I can’t squeeze past you.”
He glanced down at the reel of rope and she inched aside. He squeezed in, squatted by it and twisted a knob, hidden to one side. A hint of ammonia soiled the air and with it her breath as the hose twitched and jerked to the sound of hissing.
“What are you doing, Falmeard?” she asked.
“As we rise, the air about us gets thinner,” he said as he straightened, “and so it’s not as good at squeezing the balloon aloft.” He pulled what Prescinda took to be a pocket watch from his coat, inspected it and looked to the balloon.
“Is something wrong?”
Without turning from the view, and at last breaking free from his contemplation of the Southern Hills, Nephril explained that Falmeard held a consulting gauge. “One for to judge the density of air and hence an indication of our height.” Falmeard was, Nephril informed her, only awaiting their continued rise.
“You mean we’ve stopped going up?”
“Actually falling a little,” Falmeard said, tapping the gauge.
“Falling?”
Nephril laughed. “Worry thee not, Prescinda. All is well. Only Falmeard’s gauge can truly know if we rise or fall for we have nothing against which to compare by sight, all now being so far away.” He narrowed his eyes at Falmeard. “Something our diligent companion here should be checking a little more often perhaps.”
“How can something so small,” Prescinda began to ask, looking down at the reel of rope, “add enough to make much difference to such a large balloon?”
“The ammonia in there be squashed, mine dear, greatly so, and in consequence be exceedingly cold. The reason for the rope thou see.” She frowned. “The reason thou hast not frozen the skin from thy legs,” and he looked down at the same, now clearly a little chill beneath her frock. “I suggest thou put on thy coat. The air is already turning cool.”
“Also,” Falmeard said whilst Prescinda struggled into it, “as the ammonia turns back to gas, it lessens the ballast weight,” but then he held his tongue.
Nephril stared at him. “More of thine own world’s knowledge I take it, Falmeard?”
“Ah, we’re rising again,” Falmeard exclaimed, “and quite fast. Oh, shit.” This time without leave, he again squeezed himself between Prescinda’s leg and the reel of rope and worked furiously at the knob until the hissing eventually stopped.
Nephril’s eyes lofted as he shook his head. “Thank Leiyatel for the hawser’s anchor, eh, Falmeard?”
By Falmeard’s gauge they continued to rise, straining a little against the hawser, the wooden wheel creaking in complaint. Eventually, and with the air noticeably cooler, Prescinda looked to Mount Esnadac and saw its surmounting crown clearly dipping below. Before long, her coat now tightly wrapped about her, even the Star Tower dropped below the horizon.
Falmeard’s periodic tapping of the gauge had been their only accompaniment, the air remaining still about them. The slight breeze from the west had by now pushed them well over Cambray, the Great Wall not that far ahead.
As she’d become more used to their bird’s eye view, Prescinda had started picking out places she knew, engrossed in the new perspective. She’d just found where Falmeard, Geran and herself had been swept out of control down the steep hill the previous year when Falmeard tapped his gauge again.
“Should be anytime now,” he said to Nephril, who then leaned over and touched Prescinda’s arm.
She turned and saw Falmeard peering out to the west, towards the Star Tower, and wondered what he saw that way. Nephril, though, squeezed in beside her and pointed east.
“Watch thee out yon, there,” he said as he pressed in closer, so she could follow his finger. “Dost thou see where the Eyeswin curves to its furthest? There?”
She leant over his arm. “Yes, that last curve to the east before it turns for the bridge?”
“Aye. Look thee in a line from there out to the horizon, or what appears to be such. Can thou see that patch of dark lavender, almost the stain of a plum?”
“Oh, yes. Below where the sky seems oddly bright, like silver?”
“The very place, mine dear. Keep thine eyes upon that bright haze of sky and tell me what thou dost see.”
Prescinda peered the harder but saw nothing more, described only the haze of silver, as though a short stretch of cloud lay as a smudge along the pale-green horizon. Before it, likely much nearer, a wash of ochre wavered lazily across most of the view.
“We’re still rising, Nephril,” Falmeard called without turning, his voice partly lost to his own western view.
“Tell me if thou see any change,” Nephril quietly asked her, “but if thou dost then not what thou hast seen. Keep it to thyself.”
She briefly turned to him, brows knitted, but nodded and turned back to stare. She felt Falmeard fumbling around behind her, down by the reel of rope, and was about to tell him to be careful when a glint caught her eye.
Steadying her gaze, she tried to find where it had come from but then saw two, and then three. Before long, what she’d taken to be a cloud exploded into a mass of glittering diamonds. She drew in a sharp breath and was about to speak when Nephril’s hand firmed on hers.
He then spoke softly, so near her ear that she felt his breath, “Whisper, so I alone can hear, and tell me what thou doth see.”
He lowered his head so his ear came near her mouth and she whispered like the wind over the distant Strawbac Hills, brushing through heather and gorse and long reedy grasses.
11 A Hearth of Hope
“We’re nearly out of ammonia,” Falmeard had warned when he’d once again straightened from the reel of rope. “We haven’t much time left.”
Nephril patted Prescinda’s hand in quiet thanks. “We have finished, Falmeard,” he answered, drawing his ear away from Prescinda’s mouth, his face revealing nothing. “If thou wouldst now tell me what thou doth see?”
He eased out of Falmeard’s way, letting him in beside Prescinda, where he squinted out at what had been but a silver cloud before. She was close enough to hear Falmeard’s quiet gasp, to see the slight drop of his jaw, and feel him stiffen his arm against her own.
He glanced at Nephril, who raised a brow and inclined his head. Staring back at the view, Falmeard began, “I see a city, and see,” then quietly counted, “eight towers, skyscrapers by the look of them, although it’s hard to tell exactly.”
To Prescinda, so close beside, he soon seemed caught up in his own memories, mouthing half formed words, head swaying a little from side to side as though denying what he saw. She could hear the edge of the wicker basket creak and crack at his grip, and then she looked back at what he saw.
“Eight,” Falmeard continued, “that I can make out. All clad in glass I’d say, or mostly. Two to the left, the furthest the lowest, then a very tall pointed one, a bit of a gap and...”
“Remember thy pencil and paper, Falmeard,” Nephril reminded him.
“Oh, yeah. Now, where did I put them?” He patted his pockets but soon withdrew a small pad and a stub of pencil. Quickly, although with great care, he drew what he saw, repeatedly looking from the mirage to the paper and back again.
Prescinda followed his gaze, watched a faithful line of glittering herrings rise as unwaveringly on the page as they did against the distant sky. Like she’d seen on many a day, hung in a line in the sun at Grayden’s smokery.
“Be quick, Falmeard,” Nephril said, drawing Prescinda’s eyes to a small jar he held, “and check thy gauge again if thou would.”
Falmeard’s pencil had halted when she looked back, poised at the base of the eighth fish. He glanced between it and the view one last time, flipped the pad shut and returned it and the pencil to his pocket. The gauge appeared in his hand, wh
ich he furiously tapped before quickly nodding at Nephril.
In an instant, with the jar’s lid removed, a great cloud of bright red pigment fanned out into the air, the dense dust reaching out from the basket like a giant crimson hand, its fingers slowly arching towards the earth. The hawser slapped against the basket and Prescinda realised they were falling.
When she darted a startled look at Falmeard, it seemed to snap him back, a smile spreading across his face. “We’re out of ammonia,” he said, “so we need winching back in.”
The hawser yanked at the balloon, making the basket sway and her heart leap. “But if we’re falling...”
“Into denser air, Prescinda, so we’ll eventually slow down, but we need bringing back over the Royal College, and quickly, otherwise we’ll end up in Cambray with the hawser snagging everything in between.”
With her heart no longer racing, Prescinda turned to the east but now saw only a cloud where the herrings had hung. “What are skyscrapers, Falmeard?”
When he didn’t reply, she turned to find tears at the corners of his eyes, his head bent, his gaze upon an unseen basket floor. She swung an arm about him and hugged him close.
“A city, eh, Falmeard?” Nephril quietly asked over their shoulders, and she felt Falmeard shudder. He wiped his eyes and looked more closely into her own.
“Not one I know, but yes, to me they look like many I’ve seen, like New York or London, Marseille or Montreal.” He breathed in sharply, almost a snuffle. “But far bigger than any I’ve ever known.”
He seemed to brighten, firmer in Prescinda’s arm, and lifted his head once more to the east. “What must it be? Fifty, maybe sixty miles? They’ve got to be huge, far bigger than anything from my own time.”
Nephril placed his hand on Falmeard’s back, gently rubbing circles with his fingers until the hawser yanked at the balloon, briefly jerking the basket. It creaked where Nephril quickly grasped its edge to steady himself.
“Is it a city, Nephril?” Prescinda asked, at which he smiled, but only thinly.
“We have each seen something different, each drawn from our own experience,” he paused, “each from our own hidden hopes.”
“What did you see yourself, though, Nephril?”
Although he looked her in the eye, he clearly saw something other than her own questioning face. Once again, Falmeard’s words came back to her, how the very ancient can often seem so far removed.
“I saw ... I saw a drawing,” Nephril quietly said, “an ancient drawing.” She realised he now saw her face once more and clearly noticed her furrowed brow.
“An extract from an ancient text, mine dear,” he finally said. “One I never thought could show the truth, for if it did it would likely fan air onto smouldering embers. Embers that have long kept warm a hidden hearth of hope.”
12 Caught Napping
Chiffenger Awlshanks had clearly done his job well for the balloon came in over the Royal College in good enough time to settle comfortably back on its nest. Evening had drawn in by now, darkening the shadows of the tangled mess about them. Dark enough for Steward Melkin’s presence to be overlooked. Only when the three began to leave the balloon to the care of its engers did he step out before them and speak.
“Nephril? Falmeard? My dear Mistress Prescinda? How glad I am to see you all so safe and sound.” They none of them spoke, too startled in the main. “Success I hope?”
“I thought we had an agreement, Steward,” Nephril levelled back. “I thought thou were to await mine considered report, in the fullness of time.”
“Oh, I just happened to need a few things from my office here and thought I might pop down and make sure all was well, seeing as I was here.”
“We be tired, Steward, and somewhat dishevelled. This is perhaps not the best of times.”
“Of course, my good man, of course. I couldn’t resist taking a peep at your faces, though. You know, just to get a hint at least.” He left the implication hanging which Nephril ignored.
“I think we need a wash and some food, Melkin, so if thou would not mind.” He pushed past the steward, Prescinda and Falmeard in his wake.
The Halcyon was where they’d left it, and they were soon squeezed in for the short ride to the college entrance. Prescinda finally slipped out of her coat as they strode up the steps, carrying it on her arm into the entrance hall.
From here they climbed two flights of its ornate staircase, as far as the first floor. At the very end of its landing, Nephril showed them through a discrete doorway and into a small but almost darkened room.
Between its empty shelf-lined walls it gave barely enough room for a short desk - across its single, narrow window - two small sofas, and a low but long cabinet against which the door clattered when only half opened. Prescinda’s nose twitched at the musty air, its chill making her wish she’d kept her coat on.
Regardless, she carefully laid it on top of the cabinet as Nephril reached behind her to close the door. She heard a click and the room began to light, but only dimly and from somewhere she couldn’t place.
“Make thyselves at home,” Nephril breezed, “and if thou need the lavatory, it be through there.” He pointed at one of two small doors, each facing the other across the room. “Tea?” he asked as he began to open the other, at which they both nodded.
Nephril left the room and Falmeard leant on the desk and stared through the small, rather grimy windowpanes. Prescinda wondered what there was to see with nighttime pressing in.
She realised, though, how tired she’d become and so threw herself down on one of the sofas.
“Falmeard?”
“Hmm, yes?”
“What is a skyscraper?”
Although he stiffened, he did slowly turn to face her. “They were ... well, perhaps still are very tall buildings, so tall they looked as though they could scrape the sky.”
“Oh, I see. Make’s sense I suppose. What were they used for?”
“Used for?”
“Hmm, you know, what went on inside them?”
Falmeard smiled as he considered. “Well, all sorts of things. Everything really, everything that used to be done when we were more spread out, when...” he now looked saddened, clearly taken off into a world of his own.
The door opened and Nephril bustled in with a tray which he carefully set down on the desk. “Liontooth acceptable?” he asked as he lifted the lid of the pot and stirred, the lowest windowpanes soon misting. “I am sorry, but I seem to have run out of nettle.”
“Yes, that’s fine, Nephril,” Prescinda yawned, and leant her head against the sofa’s cold but very soft leather.
It had been a long day and Prescinda felt it catch up with her. As the leather warmed beneath her, and the Liontooth’s soothing scent drifted to her nose, she stared up, absently.
The soft light, she now saw, came from above the bookcases, hardly seeping out across the cracked and tobacco-stained ceiling. Although intrigued, she found her eyelids strangely heavy and so let them close for a while but soon felt the world very slowly slipping away.
The tide raced in across her vision, grey, menacing and sliding so fast beneath her gaze, but silently, as though the waves were but clouds. Clouds in which brief gaps appeared now and then, and through which the castle’s many roofs fleetingly beckoned from more than a thousand feet below. Holding her from the fearful fall, her hands felt cold against the crystal dome.
Geran drew near, offering tea, the steaming cup tempting Prescinda’s cold hands and parched-dry throat, but she couldn’t take it. She tried to speak but her lips seemed sealed.
“I need to hang out the washing,” her sister was saying, “but we’ve no yard to put it in, not all the way up here.”
Poor Geran’s eyes were red, her voice thin and cracked, a worn-down look on her face. “And the cows are sick for the grass they’re missing. Think of the milk we’ll lose.”
When Prescinda turned, she found that the room behind milled with cows, all pressed tight between the
kitchen furniture, now toppling over. “Father’s chest!” she tried to cry as it splintered and scattered across the floor, soon trampled beneath the hooves.
“But it’s their hope of greener grass,” Geran began to argue, “it’s only natural after all, what with their being cooped up in here for thousands of years.”
She scowled and raised a pointing finger. “Mark my words,” she measured, “however much time hath passed, it will never alter their true natures, not deep down it won’t. Thou must see that, Falmeard, surely?”
“But it looks exactly like a city to me,” Falmeard stressed, “exactly as I remember a city to be. Maybe bigger, but...”
“But, Falmeard, but,” Nephril countered. “Thou too hath thine own deep-rooted hopes, as do the Bazarran. Thou art both of the same expansive world remember, both from blood that craves the crowds. However well-chosen for Dica the Bazarran may have been, their blood has had ample time to come true.”
Silence gathered about Prescinda’s ears, urging her to open her eyes until the scrape of a chair made her wait. A sigh followed, then the squeak of a finger against glass.
“Pitch black out there now, Nephril,” Falmeard quietly offered. “It’s a darkness I’m still not used to.”
The chair creaked as Falmeard settled and sighed. “Maybe you are right. After all, I’m not that long from it myself, so yes, granted, I might want to see such a city again, but you saw it too.”
“I saw a likeness...”
“Phah! A likeness? You said it was the exact same view. The very words if memory serves me right.” Again, a pause. “So, Nephril, what desires of your own make you see the self-same image?”
The two men fell silent, although this time, to Prescinda, the air felt uneasy, almost as though a gaze lay upon her face.
“Mine is no hope,” Nephril whispered, emphatically if quietly, no doubt leaning in nearer to Falmeard. “Mine be a very real fear, a fear for the purpose of Dica.” The back of his chair creaked. “Thy hope is that thou art right, whereas mine own be that I am wrong.”
An Artist's Eye (Dica Series Book 5) Page 5