He hung suspended over a long drop to certain death, and as he did so the scene below him presented itself with a sudden and startling clarity, and every tiny detail was indelibly imprinted on his brain. Discarded shovels and barrows lay strewn about the diggings, and the giant basket was packed with children, their pale faces staring up at him. It rocked slightly as the chain that held it drew taut, and above him he could hear fearsome grunts and cries.
“Nuur-ugh! Urr-urgh! Nnnn-ugh!”
Drusilla had arrived at the treadmill and was applying all her strength, but to no avail. The load was too heavy. Ruby was the biggest of the children, and nobly she stepped out of the basket. Thus lightened, it began, with painful slowness, to judder its way upward. She had sacrificed herself that others might be saved, but when Silo contemplated the dreadful fate that awaited her, he felt his terror drain from him and a powerful resolution took its place. The basket was gone, the ladder was gone, but there was still…Yes! There it was! The bucket used to haul up artifacts sat beneath its pulley at the foot of the platform. Silo’s eyes met Ruby’s and he pointed his boot at it. Ruby understood. She nodded back at him, and as she did so Elgarth uttered a cry of warning. He stood on the plinth beneath the statues and pointed an accusing finger.
“Silo Zyco’s up to something!”
Finally the inspector and Mrs. Morgan realized that all was not well.
“Superintendent Frisk!” cried Mrs. Morgan. “The children are up to mischief. Stop them immediately!”
Silo turned his eyes to the platform above him. He had a hand on it. Two hands. He wriggled and swung. The tip of a boot. Grunting with exertion, he forced himself up, desperately scrabbling for handholds on the rough wooden floor but finding only splinters. But then his bleeding fingers found a gap between the planks. He jammed his hand in and heaved, slowly hauling himself out of the dizzying void. He squirmed a knee onto the platform, then an elbow; then he was up and over the edge and finally—finally—he was safe. He had no time to reflect on his brush with death, for Ruby needed him. He ran to the pulley and hauled in the slack on the rope, then peered over the platform’s edge. Ruby was standing in the bucket, and she gave him a wan smile and a thumbs-up.
“Frisk! Frisk! Where are you? The brats are escaping!” cried Mrs. Morgan.
Silo had very little time. He set his shoulder to the rope and pulled with all his strength. But it was not enough. Ruby was too big and he was too small. He was not strong enough to save her. Desperately he glanced over at the treadmill, which was just now gaining a slow, ponderous momentum, and saw that he could call no help from there. Drusilla was performing heroic feats, but she and her companions were working at the very limits of their strength, groaning with exertion as they turned the great wheel, and it was obvious that not a single one of them could be spared. Far below him Silo could hear terrible, ominous noises coming from the northeast corner: strange rumblings and gurglings and then—horror of horrors—the dull thud of falling masonry. And then Frisk appeared in the entrance of the tower. Cursing, Silo ducked behind a crate of artifacts.
Frisk strode past him and stopped at the edge of the platform, glaring down at the overladen basket that was jerking its way up, inch by painful inch, to safety, and then at the children toiling on the treadmill.
“Lower that basket immediately! Back to work, the lot of you!”
A glorious and audacious plan sprang fully formed to Silo’s mind. With lightning speed he tiptoed up behind Frisk, slipped the rope of the pulley through the heavy ring of keys on his belt, and knotted it tight in a trice. The keys jangled beneath his trembling fingers and Elgarth was shouting a warning, but Superintendent Frisk heard nothing, for he was roaring at Drusilla and Orlando and Daisy and all the other children desperately working the treadmill:
“Stop that immediately, d’you hear? Or there’ll be beatings before bedtime, you villainous little vermin!”
Silo dashed back twenty feet and appraised the mighty bulk of the overseer as he stood raging on the brink of the platform. He prayed that he had strength enough for this at least, and then he began his run-up. He sprinted up behind Frisk and, with a great howl of rage and desperation, sprang high into the air, launching himself feetfirst into the small of Frisk’s back. His boots struck home with a dull thud, and Frisk gave a grunt of astonishment and teetered on the platform edge, his arms windmilling. And as he did so there was a great rending, rumbling roar from below and then the most appalling smell: a noxious, rotten-eggy, eye-watering, vomit-inducing stench, as though every stinking thing that festered upon the face of the Earth had united for one brief moment to glory in their own loathsomeness. Frisk overbalanced and plunged into the void, and as the rope on his belt drew tight Silo heard the rumble of the pulley wheel: his weight was drawing Ruby and her bucket soaring up from the depths.
And in the nick of time. Frisk would land softly, for even as he fell a stinking tide burst forth. The sewage was unleashed. Ruby leaped out of the bucket and ran to help at the treadmill, yelling to Silo as she passed, “Sort the guards! Get them away from the gate!”
Silo dashed to the entrance. The guards were holding their noses and staring at the Unicorn Tower with bemused expressions on their faces.
“Help!” cried Silo. “Help! The sewer’s exploded! Save them! Superintendent Frisk will drown!”
He could but dream. And his words did the trick, for the guards abandoned their post and ran to the rescue. Silo followed hard on their heels. The basket had just arrived at the platform and the children were leaping out. A green-faced Maximillian was the last of them, and Silo grabbed his hand and hauled him, retching violently, to safety.
“It smells so awful, Silo! It makes me sick.”
He wasn’t the only one. The stench was enough to fell an elephant.
“Get to the main gate, all of you!” Silo hissed.
Children were pouring off the treadmill now and, with Ruby in the lead, the whole crew made a desperate dash for freedom. Silo was the last of them, but he could not resist turning back for one last, lingering look.
The diggings in which he had worked for so many weary weeks was changed beyond recognition. The pits and piles among which he had toiled had vanished, buried deep beneath something brown and terrible that swirled about in a great steaming whirlpool, bubbling and burbling as it went. Stifled cries came from the depths, and the guards were hurling ropes from the platform.
“We’re coming, Superintendent!” they cried. “Hold on there, Feeton! Help’s at hand!”
Amid the brown tide two titanic figures rose up, submerged to the waist but still smiling their improbably bright smiles. The Unicom couple had survived the deluge, and they had company. Driven by desperation, Elgarth, Mrs. Morgan, and the inspector had managed to scale their heights. The inspector was crouching on the man’s shoulder like a dark and dismal crow, reaching down for Mrs. Morgan as she clung for dear life to the knot of the giant’s tie. Elgarth was not so lucky. He had gained a purchase on the ledge formed by the breast pocket of the giantess, but it was a temporary perch at best, for still the terrible tide was rising, slowly but inexorably. He had a hand clamped over his nose and his eyes were wide with horror. They met Silo’s for a brief moment, and Silo responded with a smile and a cheerful wave. And then, reluctantly, he tore his eyes away and raced to join the others outside. His life was set on a strange, uncharted course and he knew that there would be dark days ahead, but at least he could now boast one brief moment of transcendental joy: the sight of Elgarth surrounded by a shuddering, stinking sea of…something nasty.
“Get rid of your numbers!” cried Ruby. “We’ll head for the north gate.”
“This way,” said Orlando.
Within an instant the courtyard was empty. In the open gateway lay a heap of sacks numbered 1 to 31, but already their contents were racing through the teeming streets of the Capital, cheering and whooping as they went. They stopped briefly at the north gate, for two watchmen barred their way.
> “Not so fast! Where do you think you’re going?”
Orlando stepped forward. “There seems to be a misunderstanding,” he said, smiling his sunniest smile. “This will explain everything.”
He delved into his pocket and produced a letter. It was a familiar letter to Silo, a little crumpled now, but the very same one he had read long ago in the Fort-Before-the-Forest. He watched as the watchmen unfolded it and read:
To Whom It May Concern:
The bearer of this letter, one Maximillian Crow, is traveling to enter into the service of the Government. Said Government commands that he be given all possible assistance on his journey, financial or otherwise, from whatever person or persons he requests it of. Any person or persons failing to comply with the above order will incur the wrath of said Government, and a fine of ten silver crowns.
It had a dramatic effect.
“I’m sorry, Master Crow!” cried the first watchman. “Step right in. Excuse my rough manner just then—if only I’d known who I was talking to! I trust you’ll take no offense.”
“None whatsoever,” said Orlando. “You were merely doing your job. But I and my colleagues here from the State Archaeological Division”—he waved an airy hand at the ragged children behind him—“are on a mission of some urgency.”
The second watchman looked puzzled. “You do know, Master Crow, that the Division is searching all over for you?”
“Of course! That’s my mission—to report to them immediately. But evil forces are at work: even as we speak I’m being pursued by enemies who seek to prevent me. It may be that they’ll come here and ask questions. They may even claim to work for the Division itself. But you know better than to help them.” He smiled trustingly at the watchmen.
“We do now that you’ve warned us, Master Crow! Mum’s the word!”
“Thank you!” said Orlando. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we must be on our way.”
The watchmen stepped back, and the children poured onto the docks.
Silo sprinted off at their head, scanning the mass of rafts tied along the quay for a suitable craft. His long residence on the Island had given him an eye for such things. And there it was, the perfect vessel—a great raft laden with cargo, and written along its side in bold letters: GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Silo beckoned to the advancing children, and in an instant they were streaming aboard.
“Ruby!” cried Silo. “Cast off the stern line. Orlando—you take the bow line. Drusilla—we need you on the steering paddle. You need to turn it hard left as soon as we’re under way. And the rest of you—go to the middle of the raft and sit down.”
He took up a boat hook and shoved the raft away from the quay. The watchmen at the gate were waving them farewell, but already they were growing distant, separated by a glittering sheet of water that grew wider by the second as the raft drifted out into the broad breast of the Rampage. Silo ran to help Drusilla on the steering paddle (for she seemed to have some trouble in distinguishing her left from her right), and in a moment he heard the chuckle of white water under their bows. The raft had caught the current and was moving out into the stream, picking up speed as it did so. Silo had his work cut out for him at first, weaving among the small craft that dotted the river’s margin, but finally he brought the raft safe into the main channel. The current there was ferocious, and within moments they were fairly sweeping along. For the first time Silo dared to look back, and he saw the walls of the Capital receding rapidly into the distance. He saw the clustered rooftops rising up above them, and the Lion Tower looming over all, but already they seemed very far away, and with every second that passed they were borne farther from Mrs. Morgan, the inspector, and all their evil minions. They had done it, he realized. They had effected a daring and audacious escape under the very noses of their enemies. He imagined the looks of baffled rage on their faces when they realized that they were gone, and let out a great howl of joy. He was Silo Zyco, last of the Zycos, Unleasher of Sewage, Enemy of the State, Master of Escape, Raft-Rider of the Rampage, Genius.
Ruby, as ever, had more practical things on her mind.
“I hereby commandeer this cargo! All of you—open the crates and report on their contents.”
The children untied the tarpaulin that covered the cargo and rummaged among the boxes and barrels and sacks beneath, and in a moment joyful voices were ringing out all over the raft.
“Cheese!”
“Jam!”
“Apples!”
“Spuds!”
“Bread!”
“Sausages!”
“Plum cake!”
“Booze!”
Ruby was disappointed, but she was the only one.
“I was hoping it might be weapons,” she said, “but never mind. I suppose we may as well have a picnic.”
They made good progress that afternoon. The first few hours were tense ones for Silo, for the Rampage ran fast and dangerous, and it took all his concentration to keep the raft on course, but as they traveled farther downstream the river gradually grew tamer. It was wider in these lower reaches, running swiftly between woods and pasture, and studded with shingle banks and wooded islands. For Silo and all the other escapees from the Unicorn Tower it was a joy to be out in the sunlight again, and a gleeful, carnival atmosphere reigned aboard the raft. Silo was in such a good mood that even Daisy, leading the little ones in a chorus of the “Cuddles the Puppy” song, could not puncture his mood. It was a perfect summer day: the riverbanks were bright with wild flowers, and willows trailed their delicate branches into the water. Swallows and dragonflies skimmed over its shimmering surface and cows stood knee-deep in its shallows and watched the raft sweep past with mild, curious eyes. The Rampage had become an altogether gentler river now, and finally Silo was able to relax. He stretched himself out luxuriously on a heap of sacks beside the helm, occasionally nudging the steering paddle. Ruby brought him a massive jam sandwich.
“Lucky there’s all this food on board,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Ruby, “but I think you should know where it was headed for.”
She lugged over a crate labeled TOP SECRET—ONLY TO BE OPENED BY AN OFFICIAL EMPLOYEE OF THE STATE ARCHAEOLOGICAL DIVISION, and ripped off the lid. It was full of papers, and she handed Silo the topmost document. It was a list of the cargo on board, but it was the heading that caught Silo’s eye: Provisions for the Eastern Swamps Expedition, for Delivery to the Government Fleet at Parris Port.
“They must be almost ready to sail,” Ruby said.
“We’ve not much time, then,” said Silo, “but at least we’re headed in the right direction.” He cast his mind back to his school days on the Island, and to the muddy maps Ryker had drawn on the classroom wall. “The Rampage runs out to the sea at the Great Gutfleet Flats. There’s a town called Mudville to the south, but we have to pass Parris Port to get there—could be a problem on a stolen raft.”
“Could we slip past at night?” asked Ruby. “Is it safe to navigate this thing in the dark?”
Silo shrugged. It would have to be. He began to ferret about in the crate. “Anything else in here that could help us?”
“I don’t think so,” said Ruby. “Looks like Ancient manuscripts to me.”
And so it was. Silo was curious despite himself. He had heard a great deal about the Ancients but had never, until now, had a chance to read any of their writings. Such things were exceedingly rare, and he examined the crumbling papers gently. Most were odd pages and fragments, but there were a number of complete books, and he marveled at their strange titles: IT for the Home PC, How to Raise and Train a Rottweiler, Making the Most of Your Microwave. Who knew what rare and precious knowledge they contained? When Maximillian brought him a slice of plum cake ten minutes later, he was examining a worm-eaten page titled “Football Frenzy” and pondering over the extraordinary picture it bore.
Silo thought it must be a painting of some kind, but it was like no painting he had ever seen before, for it was incre
dibly, perfectly detailed, as though the artist had somehow captured a little rectangle of reality and frozen it forever in time. It showed a group of young men in red shirts and white shorts lined up neatly for their portrait, the back row standing and the front row squatting. The background showed smooth green turf and banks of seats—surely an Ancient goatball team. There was a picture on the other side too, and this one had a caption: Golden goal for Arsenal. The goatkeeper lay sprawled on the ground and a man in a red shirt was kicking a ball into an upright net with mighty force. He was surrounded by hapless defenders but they carried no clubs and, stranger still, there was not a goat to be seen.
Silo had a sudden and terrible thought. “Maximillian—when you see the past, do you ever see goatball games?”
“Only once, but it looked quite boring. They just ran around kicking a ball. Maybe the goats had escaped. But the Ancients seemed to enjoy it very much.”
Aghast, Silo remembered what Mrs. Morgan had said about the rules of goatball being discovered by seers at the Academy twenty years ago. They had, he realized with a blinding flash of revelation, quite simply made it up. Not goats: goals. Goatball, like his own name, was down to a spelling error. But what a wonderful and ingenious invention it was! He tried to imagine it played with a ball, but it simply didn’t work for him without the skill, speed, and exciting random element that goats brought to the game. He made a momentous decision. Part of him hated to destroy so rare and miraculous a thing, but much was at stake. Regretfully he dropped the tattered page into the Rampage and watched as it sank into the depths.
Silo and the Rebel Raiders Page 13