Escapement

by Jay Lake

  She wondered if there was some further shelter she should take.

  Star of Gambia cast off in the afternoon, about the time she lost sight of the city from her porthole. The air outside was whipping and screaming now, sand pouring along the walls and decks of the ship like a rough, hot rain. Paolina was fairly certain that going outside now would be risky if not fatal.

  At least the British wouldn’t be looking for her or anyone else in this mess.

  _______

  The ship’s progress seemed retarded by the storm. Paolina could feel how the vessel rode heavy and low in the water. The wind was out of one of the aft quarters. Perhaps the captain had them moving underspeed for safety. Even away from Djibouti and out in open water, the air was thick and violent with sand. Lightning crackled in the orange-brown sky amid a sourceless, featureless daylight that felt as if God had pulled a caul over the mouth of the world.

  Star of Gambia rocked, too, rolling in the water as she advanced eastward through the Gulf of Aden. Paolina decided there was no point in worrying. She lay on her bunk and tried to calculate how much sand could be carried on the wind, what weight of the world’s surface was even now borne aloft in this crippling grind.

  They steamed on.

  The storm finally died as the sun went down. Somewhere close to midnight Paolina ventured out of her cabin.

  The rails were scarred by gleaming silver streaks visible in the moonlight where the sand had abraded the white paint. Likewise the decks. A torn awning flapped the wind of their passage, though she could not see where. The engines muttered, the boilers gurgled, but otherwise the ship could have been carrying the dead.

  She headed to the passenger’s mess, hoping for something cold to have been left out—roast bird or bread and dates, at the least. They’d always had plain fare that varied in tempo with their travels. Apples and olives in the Mediterranean, now dates and figs and flatter breads, with less and less cheese as the ship had steamed south and east.

  Paolina was not disappointed. A tray had been bolted into a framework. It still held a few round, flat breads and a cracked jar of something that smelled like liver.

  She didn’t care. Paolina smeared two of the breads with the pasty spread and went back out on deck to eat and watch the night pass by.

  In the wake of the storm, everything seemed visible. Not even the moon was sufficient to drown out the brasslight. Paolina thought she could see the flicker in the distant lamps of the stars. Paolina turned her gaze southward and stared toward the Wall.

  Out in darkness, the stars didn’t quite touch the horizon. The storm was gone, and nothing rose in the air between her and a Muralha save a bit of Africa close by.

  She swallowed her liver paste, then raised a hand with the other bread still clutched to honor history. “I come,” Paolina told the Wall. “Returning, never to leave you again.”

  The purser failed to materialize this night.

  Their course took the ship around the Horn of Africa, past Cape Guardafui and into the Indian Ocean. The land remained arid as they steamed south. There was more plant life than she’d seen along the Red Sea. Paolina’s sense that she was going home quickened her pulse, lending her an excitement she hadn’t felt earlier. She found herself pacing the decks. She mostly spoke to the two Germans who were traveling to Mogadishu to take up work as doctors, but even exchanged a few words with the crew.

  She’d been aboard Star of Gambia for over three weeks. The ship was starting to feel like home. The rust and paint smells, the pulsing of the deck as the vessel rode the waters, the whistle blasts and ringing bells from the bridge. She could understand why a man might take to sea—see the world and carry his home with him, on such a ship.

  Still, the end was coming. Her own passage was finished at Mogadishu. From there she would travel down the coast to Kismaayo at the base of a Muralha. Each day the Wall grew larger, more distinct. Where others aboard the ship tended to look away—finding business belowdecks, within a cabin or on the starboard rail—Paolina was drawn more and more to it. Each detail that appeared only fed her hunger to be home.

  Every mile of open sea was a mile farther away from England, a mile closer to her goal. Like the seabirds that followed the ship crying, she was ready to fly home in full voice.

  When they steamed into Mogadishu, she was surprised at how small the city was. This was the main port of British East Africa. There wasn’t a harbor to speak of, just a shallow bay to provide anchorage. Cargo would have to be lightered ashore.

  She could judge the importance of this port by the dozen airship masts on bluffs east and north of the city. Three airships were moored, while the substantial cluster of buildings near the masts attested to a strong and active British presence.

  “Chinese,” said one of the Germans, stepping up next to her at the stern rail. He was Herr Minke, a medical resident studying under Dr. Albertus, his fellow traveler. “They fly the zeppelins along the Wall. The Crown must answer them.”

  “I have seen a Chinese airship,” she said sadly. Killed it, too.

  Paolina turned and looked south. They were close enough for terrain to be visible—scree and slopes and forests, and higher up fields of snow and ice, all punctuated by the horizontal weather that always possessed the Wall. The threads of roads, too, if you knew how to interpret what you saw. Even settled plateaus with towns and cities

  The flatwater world laid sideways would never be so beautiful, she thought.

  “It is a struggle.” Minke’s words tore her away from thoughts of home. “The Chinese are said to be terrible.”

  “They die the same as anyone else.”

  He looked at her strangely, then moved on.

  Paolina watched as Star of Gambia made anchorage at a buoy, following a signal gun and flags from the shore.

  She would debark here and find a boat to take her south to Kismaayo. Walking the last miles over this grim, rocky coast seemed pointless. She still held the funds Lachance had given her, and would make use of them until she was safely upon a Muralha. Once there, even if she were eaten by a scaled cat, at least she would be where she belonged.

  The Queen of England could burn in all of Satan’s Hells at once for whatever Paolina cared.

  Going ashore in a launch was simple enough. She gathered her few things in her small leather satchel, tucked the balance of her funds within the bodice of the traveling dress she’d bought in France, and clambered down a rope ladder that had been let over a break in the railing.

  The water was gray today, an odd color for the Indian Ocean. Though the swells were low, the boat pitched as they headed for shore. She sat with the Germans in the stern watching a whey-faced officer she’d never seen before call terse instructions to the six men rowing.

  Pulling up to the little dock will be rough, she thought.

  The sailors knew their business. The boat tucked in as the portside oars lifted. The officer heaved up a rope while idlers on the dock tossed down two more ropes. There was one long, slow crunching scrape; then they were tied up.

  “Welcome ashore, miss.” The officer offered to assist Paolina up the slime-crusted ladder.

  “No thank you.” She didn’t really want his pale, pudgy hands touching her. Instead she hooked the bag over one arm and scrambled up.

  A man reached down and helped her off the ladder. Paolina looked up to thank him and realized she was staring at a British officer. Pale eyes, straw-colored hair, skin burned red, in the blues of the Royal Navy.

  “Ah,” she said.

  “Welcome to Mogadishu, Miss Barthes,” he said.

  She swung the grip into his crotch and kicked him in the shin, then ran down the dock, toward the shoreline and the quiet city beyond even as the shouting rose behind her.

  Mogadishu wasn’t any bigger than Djibouti had been, but there was more to the city—trees, bushes, alleys. Places she could run to. The land was still dry, but not so sere as farther north. The Wall pushed enough rain toward the African coast to kee
p it green.

  There didn’t seem to be a hot pursuit—no whistles or pounding feet—but she knew better than to look back until she’d found the security of a warm, green shadow. A fitful wind was rising off the ocean, blowing hot and wet, making her hiding place beneath a thorn tree very uncomfortable indeed.

  No British behind her. No sailors. The few natives who’d stared at her as she ran had not followed to investigate.

  She could hardly blend in here. These people were dark-skinned, the color of carob beans. There couldn’t be a dozen pale-skinned women in this city. Though she hated Europe with a passion, Paolina still looked European and always would.

  Would the gleam have been able to turn me dark?

  It was a silly idea, and pointless besides. Still, she wondered how she was going to get to Kismaayo if everyone was looking for a European girl.

  Steal one of the native robes, for a start. They wore long, pale linen wraps, some with hoods and veils. If she were to wrap herself in one of those, she might pass.

  Paolina had planned to take a boat down the coast. She could have hired one of the little fishing vessels. Not now, though, or possibly ever.

  She considered walking. Miles of desolate African coast worried her. Perhaps she could hire a guide. That would be less obvious than walking the docks looking for a boat.

  With that thought, Paolina headed farther into the landward side of the town. She walked with her head tucked down, moving slowly. Only a blind man would fail to note her passing, but she could at least move among the poor. They tended to be busy at their own concerns. Also, the British were less likely to be waiting for her away from the waterfront. She’d strike around to the southwest end of the city and see what she could see. With luck she’d find a railroad line or roadway.

  If she encountered someone along the way who might be able to help her, so much the better. At least she could find a robe. Paolina hated the thought of stealing from people who had so very little. She didn’t see what else she could do. If she stopped to bargain, she would only be remembered all the more.

  If she must, she would walk the miles of thorn trees and stinking brush on her own. A Muralha was too close for her to fail now.

  AL - WAZIR

  The squad commander turned out to be a very worried man named Davile. Like most of his fellows he was of dark-colored skin, almost purple. Legs still freshly soaked in blood of his god-king, he led al-Wazir and Boaz along a swaying bridge, shouting unintelligibly over the roar of the great waterfall that surrounded his city. All three of them limped and stumbled, worn from the fight, though with no serious wounds that al-Wazir could see.

  They moved along quickly. Al-Wazir was glad enough of that. The orderly motions of the city had stopped with the death of its terrible king. Smoke rose now from some buildings, while people moved in muttering crowds accompanied by the flash of weapons.

  A spell had been lifted.

  He followed the soldier through a curtain of spray and into another cave tunnel.

  Davile turned and said something urgent, slashing his hands back and forward for emphasis.

  “East,” said al-Wazir, pointing in that direction. “We must go.”

  Boaz tried another language, which got Davile’s attention. The two of them spoke for several minutes.

  “He informs me that we will be escorted to the border and given assistance to be about our journey.”

  “While they have a riot here?”

  “I do not know.” As they walked, Boaz asked Davile several more questions eliciting short answers that obviously made the man uncomfortable.

  Al-Wazir let the two get a bit ahead of him. He turned and looked back toward the cave mouth.

  What remained of Davile’s squad followed them.

  So it wasn’t just an escort. They were being cast out. Regicides, to be sure, but something more was happening here. Something Davile didn’t want them to see.

  He caught up to Boaz. “They are at war with one another, yon angry little men.”

  “I am aware of their distress,” Boaz said quietly. “I think our interests are best served by an immediate departure.”

  “Aye.” Al-Wazir felt frustrated, but this was not his city. These were not his people. That their king’s blood was still drying on his arms bore consideration as well. Someone with a serious objection to the royal succession might raise questions.

  They came to another cave that glowed with electricks. A number of large machines bulked around it, reminiscent of railroad locomotives or even Ottweill’s steam borer. The place had the air of purposeful activity abandoned, with tools discarded on the floor and papers scattered. The engineers here had either fled or marched to their version of civil war.

  Davile stopped in front of a half globe mounted on an axle between two enormous wheels at least twelve feet in diameter. The bowl of the hull was propped against a laddered framework. A shaft rose from the floor to penetrate the metal housing at its bottom. The soldier waved them upward, speaking urgently.

  Boaz nodded, tested the first rung, then climbed to the scaffold and into the bowl. Al-Wazir followed.

  It was padded within, as a coach might be, featuring a circular bench that could seat three or four, depending on their size. The Brass man already had his hand on a tiller bar, which had a grip switch at each end. There were several more controls mounted on the thick column of the bar.

  “Oinos, dwo, treyes!” shouted their guide. He then did something that caused the frame to fall away. The half globe ticked like a great clock before lurching into motion. Al-Wazir watched nervously as Boaz tried the tiller bar. When the Brass man twisted it first one way then the other, the ticking changed.

  Steering was by varying the speed of one wheel or the other, then. What al-Wazir couldn’t understand was how their globe stayed arse-side down.

  Not that it mattered now. They picked up speed, bursting out of a draped doorway he hadn’t realized was there and nearly striking a retaining wall just beyond—that would have sent them hurtling right over the edge and down the waterfall. Boaz fought the tiller to the right, experimenting with the grip switches, and got the conveyance aimed down a road heading east.

  It was the old Ophir road, the section kept in repair by Davile’s people.

  They clicked along, picking up a bit more speed before passing through an open gate that was slammed shut behind them by another group of brass-armored soldiers. The road took a wide sweep to the south past another outcrop. The waterfall city was behind them.

  Al-Wazir examined the vehicle they were bowling along in. “Did those people build this?”

  “No more than they constructed their architecture, I should think.” Boaz watched the road ahead carefully. They were moving at a breakneck pace of at least twenty-five miles per hour.

  “Like England, where everything is taken from someone else.”

  Boaz gave him a quick glance. “All is taken from God. In the end all is returned to Him.”

  “Heh. Strange thing for John Brass to say.”

  “I, who have a seal of Solomon burning inside my head, am no stranger to the powers of God. Nor is any thinking creature that walks beneath the brasslight of a moonless night.”

  They fell into silence, al-Wazir still clutching the still-bloody Ophir spear, Boaz driving their cart. The ticking noise that emanated from the heart of the rounded body of the conveyance showed no signs of abating. Al-Wazir wasn’t sure how they would stop this thing, nor how it might be restarted again, but he was pleased to accept that they were advancing more than a day’s travel in each hour. This racing machine sliced away at the block of time it would take them to cross Africa from west to east.

  All they had to fear was the road turning too rough for the high wheels rumbling to each side of them.

  Eventually even the exhilaration of the cart’s speed waned. A hard rainfall did nothing to improve al-Wazir’s mood, especially when they discovered there was no apparent provision to drain the footwell of the ri
ding cab and so were forced to endure a layer of grimy water slopping about as they continued to be propelled along their way. The water did nothing to stem the ticking heart of the car, though. That was a blessing.

  They were moving sufficiently fast that the African terrain to their north changed visibly with their progress, much as it would seem to from an airship. The land to their left had risen into high hills as if the continent had sought to claw up the Wall before being rebuked by God. Jungles steamed, filled with the bright specks of birds and the threads of watercourses.

  Al-Wazir saw no cities or towns, just the center of a vast fecundity that moved by with the precision of all Creation.

  They drove into the night. Boaz did not tire, al-Wazir knew that, but still he felt guilty about lifting his feet to the curved bench and dozing as they traveled. It was no restful sleep—the great wheels transmitted every bump and crack in the road. There was no way to get comfortable in any case. If he’d been a small man, he might have curled like a dog, but the cart was no larger than a banquette.

  Still, he had dreams of fish that swam among the lamps of the stars and spoke to him in the voices of the dead. Al-Wazir strained to hear their counsel, only to find it was nothing but bitter grudges and prophecies of things past.

  Life is backwards, he thought, and woke with those words echoing in his head.

  The road held out through the next day as well. Al-Wazir found this surprising.

  “We have not passed another town or city,” he said to Boaz. “Are Davile’s people able to keep the right of way up this far west? There have been hundreds of miles of road by now, surely.”

  “There were cities,” Boaz said shortly. “Above and below us. Though many avail themselves of the Ophir road, few dare build directly upon the right of way for fear that the armies might someday return.”

  After a little while, al-Wazir asked, “Will they?”