by Darren Shan
A pattern swiftly presents itself. I need to open the lower left and right sides first, then the top side, then the upper right and bottom sides together, finishing off with the upper left side.
“This is too easy,” I snort, fingers dancing.
“How long will it take?” Inez asks.
“I’ll be done with this outer layer in a few minutes,” I tell her. “There are other layers – two, I think – but if they’re no tougher than this, we could be through in no time.”
“He’s a genuine locksmith,” Pol murmurs.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am,” he says. “I thought you were all talk.”
“Not me,” I grin. “I’m all action.”
I work in silence for the next few minutes. I keep waiting to hit a snag, but this is basic. It looks as if the reputation of the locks in Canadu has been vastly exaggerated.
I’m soon onto the upper left side. A few more twists and the second layer will be revealed. Part of me hopes that it’s more challenging. I’m pleased that I’m able to pick the lock so easily, but it’s an anticlimax, like turning up for a chess match with a grand master, only to find that your opponent is actually a big-mouthed amateur.
I flip the final lever and the lock churns. A smile spreads across my lips and I withdraw my fingers to flex them. But as I’m doing that, there’s a high-pitched screech. It’s very soft – Inez and Pol don’t notice it – but I instantly know that it’s the sound of a locksmith laughing.
“Oh no,” I moan as the six sides slide back out of sight, to be replaced by nine new sides, which ease forward with snakelike precision and click into place.
“What’s wrong?” Inez asks, staring at the now nonagon-shaped lock.
“Damn it,” I growl.
“That’s the second layer, isn’t it?” she says.
“Stupid,” I hiss, striking my head with my palm. “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!”
“Archie,” Inez snaps. “Stop ranting and tell us what you did wrong.”
Wincing, I turn to face her. “Its simplicity was a trap.”
“What do you mean?”
“The easy way to open the first layer wasn’t the correct way. Its maker set it up to punish a cocky locksmith. If I’d examined it, I’d have found a different way, one that would have led me to the second layer.”
Inez blinks. “Isn’t that what this is?”
“No,” I say bitterly. “This is an additional level. It won’t be complex but it will be time-consuming. It’s there to serve as an insult, the locksmith wagging his finger at me, telling me I’m not as smart as I thought I was.”
“Are you saying you’ve been defeated?” Pol growls.
“No. I’ve had my wrist slapped and will have to proceed more carefully.” I sigh. “I suppose I should be grateful its maker didn’t set a more lethal trap. It could have easily been primed to slice off my hands. Listen, you guys can take a break if you want. We’re going to be here a while.”
With that, I wipe an arm across my forehead, mutter a curse beneath my breath, then set to work for real.
26
I SAY NOTHING OVER the next few hours while working on the nine-sided lock. I explore slowly and surely, building up a detailed picture of its interior. Eventually I start flicking, sliding and teasing. Levers slide away into nothingness, others fall into place, I bat them aside, then bolts glide away from me, tumblers click and the lock opens like a flower in the sun.
There’s a low rumbling noise and a circular lock is revealed. I pull away and lie down, taking a rest. Inez and Pol stare at me as I rub my eyelids and breathe in through my nose.
“Well?” Inez asks.
“I’ve cleared the extra layer. This is the lock I would have got to if I hadn’t rushed the first.” I open my eyes. “How much time do we have left?”
“Maybe twelve hours,” she estimates.
I ask Pol if he has any more mushrooms. He fishes out a few and I chew on them distractedly, staring off into space, psyching myself up for what’s to come.
“Can you do this?” Inez asks.
I chuckle drily. “Easy-peasy.”
“Are you really hopeful?” she presses.
I shrug. “I won’t know until I get to grips with the next layer. The first was a trap, the second a chore. This will be where the lock’s creator shows me what they’re truly made of, the point where we’ll really wrestle.”
“I have faith in you,” she says.
“I don’t,” Pol laughs.
I laugh too, then finish off the last mushroom and shake my fingers. “Right,” I grunt, remembering all the locks I flew through when I was with Winston, using the memories to boost my confidence. “Time to get serious.”
The circular lock is deceptive. It feels at first as if it’s going to be easy, but then I find an interconnected series of hidden levers and get a sense that this involves a shutdown mechanism, that it’s been devised to seize up if I make a mistake.
As I’m carefully exploring with my fingertips, I find a raised bump and I smile. It’s the letter W. That could stand for anything, but I’m pretty sure it’s Winston’s initial, which means this is one of the kindly old locksmith’s creations.
That gives me hope. Winston told me I could help Inez. He must have known how she planned to get into Canadu, that I’d have to pick a lock in one of the vines. He can’t have been sure that I’d encounter one of his, but I guess he figured there was a good chance that I would.
Maybe that’s why he tested me with the locks in his workroom.
I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I assumed Winston simply wanted to see what I could do, but maybe he was preparing me for this, selecting locks that would provide me with the clues I’d need when I came to work on the real deal.
I proceed with the same caution as before, but with more optimism. Winston was confident that I could do this, and since he built the lock and saw me in action, he must have had reason to be upbeat.
I nimbly manipulate levers and pins. Nothing here has surprised me so far, and while it’s too early to predict how long this will take, I’m starting to feel that it’s a matter of when I can open the lock, not if.
As my fingers work their magic, the rim of the lock retracts, revealing new niches for me to explore, more levers to flick. My hands move further apart, and I have to remind myself to be wary of the borehole.
I’m humming softly, making good progress, when the index finger on my left hand brushes over another bump. I smile again, thinking Winston must have been especially proud of this lock if he signed it twice. But then my smile fades.
It’s not a W.
It’s an S.
“No,” I wheeze as I swiftly consider the implications of the raised S. If the W was Winston’s signature, this must be the signature of another locksmith. Does this mean Winston worked with someone else on this lock? Or – and this thought sends warning bells ringing through my head – did another locksmith work on the lock after Winston had finished with it?
The reason that worries me so much is that I imagine it’s extremely difficult to tweak an existing lock. To meddle with the internal workings without disturbing the rest of the mechanisms... to pick the lock so it doesn’t open but allows you to add additional levers and pins...
A person who could do that would be the more advanced craftsman. Winston said he’s one of the finest locksmiths in the Merge, and he thought I was up to the task of picking the locks that he’d installed, but if there’s someone better than him, and that person reconfigured this lock...
My newfound confidence disintegrates. I almost step back to gather my thoughts, but I’m scared I might trip a trap if I retreat, so I stay where I am, hands immersed, taking deep, calming breaths.
It’s OK, I tell myself. Keep going. Don’t let fear defeat you.
It’s good advice, and moments later I’m back at work, trying to convince myself that nothing has changed, but I soon fall headlong into an abyss.
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The lock’s worked in a logical way up to this stage, but that all changes within the space of a few clicks. Suddenly I’m into a whole new world, where the tumblers spin in unpredictable directions, where the roles of pins and levers are reversed, where nothing that’s gone before has prepared me for what I now have to deal with. To an amateur, the difference would be negligible, but to me it’s like moving from light into darkness. I feel levers slip away from me with every gesture, tumblers roll out of alignment, chaos take the place of order.
Since admitting defeat won’t get us anywhere, I carry on picking at the tumblers long past the point where I know I’m lost, but eventually, my fingers shaking and bathed in sweat, I admit the horrible truth and extricate my hands. Wiping them dry on my trousers, I stare at the lock one last time – a petulant, hateful, envious look – then turn my back on it and face the expectant Inez and Pol.
“I can’t do it,” I croak. “There’s no way through.”
As their faces fall, I brush past them and slide down the bend that we climbed up earlier, to lie in the darkness out of sight of the borehole and suffer my defeat in humiliating isolation.
SIX — THE CLIFF
27
INEZ AND POL LEAVE me alone to brood for a while, before slipping round the bend to nestle in the gloom beside me.
“Is there really no hope?” Inez asks.
“Not a shred,” I sigh, then explain about the extra work that’s gone into the lock.
“Then we have to find another way,” Inez says stubbornly.
“You have a backup plan?” I ask.
“No, but this will be a good time to develop one.”
I chuckle and stretch, my limbs stiff. “Could we cut out of this vine?” I ask Pol. “I’m sick of the dark.”
“I’ve got more gleam,” he says.
“I want fresh air too. It’s stifling in here.”
Pol looks confused – he’s so accustomed to the vines that he thinks this is fresh air – but checks with Inez to see if she thinks it’s safe to carve a hole.
“Your call,” she says. “You’ve a better idea of where we are in the tree.”
I watch Pol map it out inside his head, then he says, “Let’s backtrack to a spot where we should be out of sight.”
We follow him back. When he’s happy with our position, he cuts a chunk out of the vine and sticks his head through. He checks that we’re safe, then cuts a larger hole and signals for us to advance.
I climb out onto the vine and take a deep breath. Inez sits beside me, knees drawn up to her chest. Pol is lying down, staring at the inner bark of the giant tree, which is almost within touching distance. He takes off his cap and pockets it, and I follow suit, not needing the gleam out here.
I look around. This is a particularly twisty part of the vine, several loops bunched close together, shielding us from the gaze of anyone who might glance our way from a distance.
I lean up close to a gap between two vines and study the interior of Canadu. I spy a couple of staircases and a lift shaft. There’s a platform not far overhead, which runs round the rim, one of the defensive rings that Kurtis pointed out to me. That means there are dozens of armed guards just a few metres above us.
“Are you sure we’re safe?” I whisper to Pol, nodding at the platform.
“Yeah,” he says. “We’ll be fine as long as we don’t start dancing and shouting.”
“A good place to take stock and reassess,” Inez grunts.
Pol sits up. “Will we try another vine?”
Inez looks at me questioningly.
“I’m not sure we’d fare any better,” I mumble. “Even if I don’t run into the work of a mystery locksmith, it will take several hours to pick my way through.”
“Time we don’t have,” Inez sighs.
“I’ll give it a go if you want, but if you can think of another way...”
Inez growls thoughtfully. “We could try climbing the outside of this vine.”
“No way,” Pol snorts. “We’d be spotted by the guards, and there are more of them further up.”
“What about outside the tree?” I ask, staring at the inner bark. (It stirs a memory, but I can’t place it.) “Could we cut through and crawl up the trunk?”
“My knife couldn’t cut through that,” Pol says. “And, again, the guards would spot us.”
“Our best bet is to return to the ground,” Inez decides. “Pol can cut a hole in the vine and let us out in the lobby. We’ll try one of the other vines, in case that lock is easier to pick. If you decide it’s a no-go, we’ll target a staircase.”
“Just walk up there?” I ask sceptically.
Inez shrugs. “Maybe we can create a disturbance to distract the guards.” I arch an eyebrow and she grimaces. “I won’t lie. We’re on a hiding to nothing. But in the absence of any other plan, I’ve got to try. Are you with me, hopeless as it is?”
“Of course,” I reply.
“Not me,” Pol says. “I’m out of here.” Then, as I glare at him, he laughs softly. “You’re so easy to wind up. Nah, I’ll stick with you guys to the end, if only because Guido and Lena would beat me up if I quit on you before you call time.”
Inez flashes us a weak smile, then crawls into the vine, to head down for a final roll of the dice.
“Wait,” I stop her.
She pauses and looks back questioningly.
I’d been staring at the inner bark, trying to pin down the memory that had been bugging me since we crawled out onto the vine. I was on the verge of letting it go when one of Pol’s comments brought it into focus — Winston’s cryptic quip about a wise dog barking when it comes to the vine at the end of the line. Maybe that was nothing more than a joke, or maybe, just maybe, it was a subtle way of guiding me if I arrived at this juncture.
I study the bark again, and after a few seconds I spot something.
“There’s a lock,” I murmur.
“Where?” Inez frowns.
“In the bark.” I point. “A small green lock.”
Inez slides out of the vine and crouches beside me.
“I can’t see anything,” Pol says.
“That’s because you’re not a locksmith,” I tell him. “There are several others,” I add as I slowly look around, “all at points where vines pass close to the bark.”
“So what?” Pol asks.
“Why are they there?” I reply.
He can’t answer.
“What do you think they are?” Inez asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe boreholes to other zones, from the days when access in and out of Canadu was less restricted.”
“What good are they to us?” Pol asks.
“That depends on where they lead,” I say. “Maybe some of them hook up in a zone with a collection of Canadu-linked boreholes. If they do, one of those other boreholes might provide us with access to the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
“Is that likely?” Inez asks.
“I’ve no idea,” I answer honestly, “but it’s worth taking a few minutes to check.”
Inez considers it, then nods.
I shuffle forward, getting as close to the edge of the vine as I can. The lock is out of reach, but I dig the hooks on my feet into the vine, then lean forward. “Hold my trousers,” I tell Pol and Inez, and they grab on.
I use my left arm to steady myself against the bark, then slip a few fingers into the lock, which widens obligingly to accommodate my touch. I spend a couple of minutes on it before it clicks open to reveal a glowing green borehole. “Have you got a firm grip?” I ask.
“Yes,” they say.
I push my arms, head and shoulders through the panel of green light. A moment later I find myself not in another zone, but outside the giant tree, staring down at the ground far below. It’s dark – dawn hasn’t broken yet, which is a good thing for us – but I can see lots of people moving around, carrying torches or passing beneath street lanterns, the city far busier than it would normally be at this hour, due to the up
coming vote.
I rotate my neck, to see what’s above, and to my shock I catch sight of a guard in the defensive ring above us, looking straight at me.
I yelp and wait for the guard to roar and produce a weapon. I’m defenceless, frozen in place with fear, so it will be a simple matter for him to hurl a knife or spear at me. Horrified, I wait... and wait. Then the guard...
...yawns and looks away.
I blink stupidly. The rigor mortis fades but I don’t withdraw. Instead I crook my head and spot more guards. There’s one positioned every couple of metres, but even though some are staring directly at me, not a single one reacts.
Then I realise, they’re not staring at me.
They’re staring through me.
The guard who yawned stands and yawns again. “Right,” he says. “That’s me done. Time to hit the sack.”
A couple of the others murmur goodnight as he leaves, to be replaced by a woman who’s as steely-eyed as the rest. She settles into place, rests a bow and arrow beside her, and looks through me the way the others are doing.
Adjusting my feet on the vine, trusting Inez and Pol to keep their grip, I turn my body, splay my hands and bring them to rest on the bark. Which is when I realise it’s not bark.
It’s stone.
As well as being halfway up a massive tree, I’m also somehow halfway up a cliff. It’s the same height as the tree, but stretches off to my left and right. The two forms are overlapping.
“Wow,” I breathe, then snap my mouth shut, terrified that I’ll tip off the guards. But they didn’t hear me. They seem to be as deaf to me as they are blind.
I slip back inside the tree and Inez and Pol haul me in.
“Well?” Inez asks as I sit beside them and stare at the borehole.
“There’s an overlap,” I whisper.
“What do you mean?”
“Canadu overlaps with a cliff, the way the foot vine overlapped with the Empire State Building in New York.”