by Philip Reeve
There were more than a dozen of them there that night, including Dr Stayling, Gwen, and the priestess from the temple of St Kylie, whose name was Margaret Shamflower. They were all waiting to hear what Charley had to tell them, about what he’d learned among the Guild and in the Engine District.
Generally when he met the would-be rebels he told them what he thought they wanted to hear. That worked with most people, in his experience. It made them like you. But he didn’t want this lot just to like him; he wanted them to look up to him. So he had decided to try a new approach.
“It ain’t going to work,” he said. “That’s what I reckon. I been asking around, quiet like, trying to tell if any of the other Engineers might be on our side, or any of the skilled men working the high steel and that. And you know what? They’re all solid for Quercus. You can print as many leaflets as you like and paint your symbol on the walls till there’s no walls left to paint on, but you’re never going to turn people against the Lord Mayor and his plans. They don’t care about the London that’s gone, and when they think about the London that’s coming it’s Quercus’s London they see, not yours.”
Gwen could not have looked more shocked or indignant if he had pinched her, but Dr Stayling nodded amiably, and Mistress Shamflower said, “Thank you for your candour, Charley.”
“My what?”
“You have thought rationally about this,” said Dr Stayling. “And you have spoken the truth as you see it. But there is one factor that you do not know.”
“What’s that then?” asked Charley.
Gwen laughed. “Don’t look so clever now, does he?”
“As you know,” said Dr Stayling, “Quercus has only a small army here in London. Most of the Movement’s forces are in the north, under the command of Rufus Raven. And Rufus Raven feels as we do, Charley. A grand alliance is forming among the powers of the north. We do not need to be ready to start an uprising; we just need to be ready to help Raven when he comes south with his legions to free us from the madness of Quercus.”
That was a shock, all right. Charley thought about what it might mean. Civil war inside the Movement, most likely, and he didn’t like the sound of that. He would have to take care that he got himself on the right side.
He said, “So that was why you lot were so worried when I let on about Wavey going north?”
Dr Stayling nodded. “You did well, Charley. We sent word to Raven at once. His patrols will intercept her convoy.”
“And what will they do to her?” asked Charley. He felt, just for an instant, a little uneasy about what he’d set in motion. “Her and Fever. . . Will they be. . .?”
Dr Stayling looked at the floor. “They’ll be captured or. . . Well. . .”
Mistress Shamflower said, “May St Kylie have mercy on them both.”
“I didn’t think St Kylie cared for Dapplejacks,” said Charley.
“Please, Charley,” Dr Stayling warned. “This is a serious matter.”
“No, he’s right,” said Gwen, and Charley saw that she was looking at him and her face was kind of lit up, the same way that Milly Floater’s lit up when he said something that pleased her, only Gwen was so much prettier than Milly that it was quite a thing to have her look at him that way. “Charley’s right,” she said firmly. “That’s the attitude we need, if this is to be a revolution and not just a talking shop. We mustn’t care what happens to Wavey Godshawk and her like. They’re the ones what tore old London down, and designed this new monstrosity. We ought to be pleased if Raven takes her hostage, and pleased-er still if he cuts her speckled throat. I’m pleased. You know why? ’Cos it’s begun. And I pray that soon Raven will come south and kill Quercus and the rest of his shower and then London will belong to Londoners again. In fact, I don’t know why we don’t do for Quercus ourselves, so there isn’t even anyone to lead his army when Raven comes.”
Some people cheered her, others disagreed, and the evening wore itself out in long arguments about the best way to proceed and the rights and wrongs of murdering people, even people like Quercus. Charley didn’t join in, just sat half listening. He couldn’t stand all this talking and talking. But he liked the way Gwen Natsworthy’s rosy cheeks grew even rosier when she was arguing some point or other, and he liked the way her eyes shone, and how they sometimes seemed to seek him out, as if she wanted to make sure that he was watching. And later, when they were all leaving Grebe’s dig in ones and twos and heading homeward, she waited for him outside.
“Walk me home, then, Charley Shallow?” she said, with a look that seemed to be daring him to say no. And her hand was small and hot as it slipped into his.
12
ACROSS THE DRY SEA
he Knuckle Sandwich and the Heart of Glass had continued their northing, from Three Dry Ships to Wamethyst, from Wamethyst to Ravensburn. There the road divided. The main spur ran on northward, but Wavey and Borglum turned north-west along a lesser road, following the line of the old coast which lay off to their left with mist growing on its lonely hills like mould on old loaves. Each time they stopped, the fighters sparred, and even if they were far from settlements or oil wells people still appeared out of the wet countryside to watch, and sling coppers into the hat that Lucy carried round. But Fever stayed in her cabin, reading Wintervale and trying to ignore the noises from outside. She did not want to see Borglum’s paper boy again.
Then one morning, in the grey borderlands between sleep and wakefulness, she dreamed of Skrevanastuut. A squat, flat-topped pyramid, it crouched on a plain of windswept heather and bare stones, striped with drifts of snow. She thought that she could see the ruins of other buildings around it, but they were so low and eroded that they might have been nothing but reefs of bedrock. So might the tower itself, wind-worn and weathered as it was, except that its geometry seemed too precise. Beyond it in the near distance lay mountains of snow and cold black rock. Above it, the stars were out, but the sky was not dark: it flickered with banners of feathered light, green and gold and rose, the colours reflecting faintly from the tower’s walls.
Fever woke. She had slept late, and the landship was already moving. She lay a moment thinking back over her dream, wondering, What is that thing made of? Slate? Obsidian? No: she could remember the feel of those walls under her fingers and they had been none of those things. . .
With a soggy sense of dread she started to realize that the dream had been too vivid to be simply a dream.
Wavey Godshawk, dressed in her fur-trimmed nightgown, was just sitting down to breakfast when Fever stormed into her cabin. “Oh, Fever,” she said, looking up from her kippers and kedgeree. “I do hope you’ll try some of this. . .”
But Fever had not come for breakfast. “I saw it,” she said. “I touched the tower, and it felt like . . . like pottery, like china, but it was so hard it wouldn’t break, and it had no door, so the journey had all been for nothing. I dreamed it all! Except it wasn’t a dream, was it? I’ve had dreams like that before, about the laboratory under Nonesuch Hill. They aren’t dreams at all. They’re memories; his memories.”
She slumped down on a bench, feeling shivery and sorry for herself, wondering if it were all about to start again, that rising fog of Godshawk’s memories which had once threatened to blot out her own personality entirely. Her hand went to the back of her head, feeling under her hair for the scar where he had inserted his machine. “That’s why I’ve come with you on this stupid journey,” she said sullenly. “I thought I was here because I wanted to be, but it’s that machine of his, still at work inside me, making me want to go to places where he went.”
“Oh, Fever,” said her mother, hurt, “I thought that we were having fun. . .” She stood up and came around the table to take her daughter’s hands in hers. “And the fact that Godshawk’s memories are still in there. . .” She looked deep into Fever’s eyes, as if trying to catch a glimpse of the Stalker device which had spread its spiderwebs through her daughter’s brain. “Fever, I think it’s wonderful. Don’t you realize
how lucky you are? Most of us, the closest we can get to your grandfather’s genius is by reading his books, and most of those are lost. Even I have only memories of the things he told me, and they are such old and fading memories now that I cannot really trust them. But you, oh, you have his own thoughts in you, like books you can take down whenever you wish from the library of your mind. . .”
Fever broke away from her and ran out of the cabin, along the wobbling passageways of the barge to a place where iron rungs went up the wall like the stitches on a cartoon scar. She climbed out through a roof-hatch on to the open upper deck behind the main gun turret. Wavey didn’t understand a thing. Godshawk’s memories weren’t like a book that she could take down when she needed to. They were like an illness; a frightening seizure that came on her unawares while she was sleepy or distracted and made her doubt whether any of her thoughts were really hers. And what if they started to come at other times? What if the machine in her head had recovered from the blast of Charley Shallow’s magnetic gun?
She climbed the rope ladder which led to a crow’s nest halfway up the landship’s flag-mast. There she sat down in the lee of a swivel-mounted carronade and rested, her chin on her knees. The vibrations of the barge engines and the shudder of its wheels over the rough ground came up through her body and rattled her teeth. What was she doing here? Why hadn’t she listened to her father? It was ridiculous to come travelling in the north-country. She felt as if she had kidnapped herself.
A snarl of sound drifted across the flatlands, and she glanced ahead and saw a squadron of the Movement’s monowheels emerge from the morning mist, bowling down the road like dropped tin plates, engines moaning, fumes spurting from their exhaust flutes. The Heart of Glass and Borglum’s barge started to pull aside to let them past, for the road was narrow here, much of it running on causeways across damp saltings.
Instead of speeding by the ’wheels slowed and stopped, some blocking the way ahead, some rolling past the convoy to take up positions across the road behind. Men jumped down from their cabins, and Fever saw the flash of sunlight on gun barrels. Wondering what the matter could be, she climbed quickly back down through the barge to the main hatch, where her mother and the Heart of Glass’s commander were already climbing out to welcome the newcomers.
A tall young officer strode over from the idling monos and saluted. “Chief Engineer, I have been sent to escort to you to Marshal Raven at Hill 60.”
Wavey smiled indulgently. She was annoyed at having her journey interrupted for no good reason, but she was always prepared to indulge handsome young men. She said, “That is kind of dear Marshal Raven, I’m sure, but I do not have time to visit Hill 60! I am bound for Caledon, on a private matter. Move your vehicles out of the way.”
“My orders are that you are to be brought to Hill 60, you and your daughter. It is for your own good. This area is unsafe for travellers.”
“Unsafe?” Wavey sounded astonished. “I thought the Marshal had established peace and sent all enemies of the Movement packing?”
Borglum joined them, jumping down from the forward hatch of the Knuckle Sandwich and waddling angrily up to where the captain stood. “What’s this, then?” he demanded. “Rufus Raven owns this road now, does he? Honest travellers can’t go about their business in peace? She’s travelling with us, this lady and her girl, and she hasn’t time for detours, and hobnobbing with Rufus Raven.”
Instead of answering, the young officer struck him hard across the face, the sound echoing flatly off the flanks of the barges. Borglum stumbled backwards and sat down, one hand going to his bloody nose, the other reaching for something in his boot. The soldiers from the monowheels raised their guns.
“I must insist that you come with us,” said the officer.
“Captain, are you arresting us?’ asked Wavey.
The captain bowed. “Marshal Raven wishes to speak with you,” was all that he would say.
13
THE RAVEN’S NEST
o the Heart of Glass went on its way without Borglum’s carnival, the monowheels rolling ahead and behind. Wavey, angry at the treatment of her friends, sulked in her cabin, playing something red and spicy on her scent-lantern. But Fever felt too uneasy to remain below. She braved the cold and stood watching on the upper deck, which was now manned by silent, serious men from the monowheels.
They joined a broad troop road again, striking north-east between the bogs and lakes which filled the centre of that empty seabed. They passed the gaunt, ghostly stumps of Ancient oil rigs, and stranded hulks converted into houses, whose owners stopped digging in the salt pans and stood watching as the landship and its escorts thundered past. The further north and east they went, the more the land was dotted with the Movement’s vehicle parks and fuel-dumps. They stopped the night at one: Wavey silent and furious at supper, a ring of sentries around the landship. Before dawn they were moving again, and late in the afternoon of that day they came in sight of the wide, wedge-shaped hill where Rufus Raven had held out for so long against the Arkhangelsk. Dozens of Movement landships and a few small mobile forts slumbered among the gorse bushes on its lower slopes. Further up there were big brown tents, thickets of standards, and a surprising number of tethered mammoths. On the summit, red and sullen-looking, squatted Raven’s famous traction castle, Jotungard.
As the Heart of Glass drew near to the encampments a group of mammoths passed, and one of them shied a little at the noise from the monowheels. The girl who rode it pressed her heels hard against its neck to steady it and looked at Fever as the barge went by, making a wry shape with her eyebrows. Fever supposed she was commenting on the accidents of birth which had brought them both to this place, one riding on a mammoth and the other on a motorized gun-emplacement. An attractive girl, but savage-looking, with masses of rust-coloured hair, and a rusty clutter of ancient circuitry and clockworks hanging round her neck. She was not a girl of the Movement, Fever thought, watching her with a strange feeling she could not quite name, and feeling sorry when she passed out of sight. She had looked more like the drawings of the Arkhangelsk in Wintervale’s book. Perhaps her presence here in Raven’s camp had something to do with the new peace. But somehow the mood of the place did not feel like peace; more like the calm before a dreadful storm.
Fever tried to remember what she knew about Raven. She had seen him once, on one of his brief visits to London, but only from a distance; she had not spoken with him. A big man, strong but kindly; that was the idea she had of him. He liked the old ways, so the Movement had been surprised when he threw in his lot with the great modernizer Quercus, but he had been a staunch ally to him down the years; loyal as a hound. Not the sort of man who would arrest the Chief Engineer and her daughter. Wavey was right; this was all a mistake. . .
The Heart of Glass was herded into an open area between a pair of small traction forts. Soon a soldier came to tell Fever that she and her mother were to wait upon the Marshal. She went below, and found Wavey in her cabin, busy changing into a gorgeous new fur-trimmed robe of white silicon-silk embroidered with swallows and dragons.
“Fever,” she said, “you can help me with the ruff. It fastens at the back, do you see?” She held her white hair aside while Fever fumbled with the catch, securing the ruff of stiff red lace around her mother’s throat. Wavey’s mood had not improved. “It is an outrage,” she said. “First to drag us here like captives, and then to demand that we go aboard his stinking castle, when he should be coming here to beg our forgiveness and welcome us as honoured guests. Oh, Quercus shall hear of this! By the time I’m finished with him, Rufus Raven will be lucky if he can get a job sweeping up the dung of his drabble-tailed mammoths. . .”
“Wavey,” said Fever, “it will be all right, won’t it?” What an irrational thing to ask, she thought. How could Wavey know? But she was growing scared, and needed reassurance.
Wavey smiled and stroked her cheek. “You are not used to these north-country barbarians and their ways. They win a little power, and
it goes straight to their silly heads and they start ordering everyone around and making a nuisance of themselves. We shall soon sort Rufus Raven out, and be on our way again.”
It was late, and the long northern day was fast fading, the sky above the hill purpling like a bruise as Fever and her mother climbed out of the barge to join the escort of troopers waiting in the mud beside it. The young officer from the monowheel squadron had been replaced by another, just as polite, just as firm. They followed him along boarded walkways between landship-parks and mammoth-lines, through the drifting smoke from cooking fires, until they reached the rocky, battle-scarred hilltop and stood at last beside the clawed wheels of Jotungard.
Now that she was close to it Fever could see that it was smaller than the traction castle which had brought Quercus to London, but its armour was heavier, and it had even more guns mounted on its upperworks and poking out from ports on its sloping sides. Stalkers stood guard outside its huge main hatchway, clanking mechanically to attention as Wavey and Fever approached. They had been painted red to match the castle and each carried a massive, broad-bladed sword, cut from the armour of some defeated enemy fort. Stalkers had blades of their own, of course, so it was pointless to give them swords, but the sentries of Jotungard had carried such weapons since long before the Movement had any Stalkers, and Raven had kept up the tradition. That was the sort of man he was.