One of the last stops en route was Newport, just shy of twenty minutes before arrival at Cardiff Central. Only one person from our carriage left. A mother clambered aboard with her young son, who, for whatever reason—I could only assume he had been allowed to dress himself this morning—wore a thick puffer jacket, looking like a little Michelin man. He caught sight of Bub almost immediately, and after an assessing gaze, smiled and waved.
Bub waved back.
The mother looked less than impressed. She gently tugged at her son’s hand, though he had not been moving anywhere, and gave Bub a wary look.
Once we were in motion and the sound of the train rolling down the tracks filled the air again, Carson leaned forward.
“So did we figure out what we’re going to do about this problem, or …?”
“Yes,” I said matter-of-factly. “We are going to ignore it. Maybe it’ll go away.”
“Stellar thinking,” said Heidi wearily beside me. She looked tired today, slight bags under her eyes.
“Maybe things have changed,” I suggested. “That journal was—how old exactly? And I certainly haven’t been to Biristall. Have you? Because all I’ve heard is the stories.”
“Yes, I’ve been. A long time ago.” She seemed to suppress a shudder. “I’m less than enthused about the fact I’m going back.”
“Don’t blame you,” said Clay. “No one wants to go there. It’s the worst nightmare for most of us.”
“See,” said Carson—and I could see Heidi tense, preparing herself—
He went on, “What I don’t understand is—”
“Would you please,” Heidi said, “just—stop—stop—”
She was about to snap; I could see it in her face—
“STOP—
Ah, there we go.
“—TRYING TO EXPLAIN EVERYTHING SCIENTIFICALLY. We jump between dimensions using gates cut with magical objects—in my case, this bracelet.” She waved it. “In hers, that talisman round her neck. In his—I don’t even know what Tall, White and Chiseled is packing—”
Clay reddened.
“—and in yours, a pilfered ring that malfunctions so badly we can’t let you have it. So if you’re going to make such a palaver of examining the absurd, why don’t you start there? You know, instead of asking us like we’re the bloody world-builders.”
In her moment’s pause, Heidi glared—and then slapped a hand to her mouth as she realized just how loud she’d been. The rant had been easily loud enough to hear through the carriage over the rumble of the train down the tracks. Now more than a handful of heads turned our way, people craning in their seats.
She hesitated, wide-eyed. “Um.”
Clay’s look was panicked.
I thought fast. “So, err, if you enjoyed that,” I half-cried, sounding perfectly cringe, “you should come see the rest of our show! It’s at the, uh, the Mercury Theatre in Colchester—” (It was called that, right? How much of my hometown had I already forgotten?) “—and it’s called The, um, The Magical Science-Fiction Adventures of, err, Blonz-boe the Orcish Raider, and His Pool of Human Slaves!”
God, but that was so awful. But then, drama students were like that, so maybe by attempting to fly under the radar by slamming headfirst into the obstacle, I kind of would fly us under the radar.
Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t. People turned back to their own conversations and windows, at least. The boy in the puffer jacket loosed his hand from his mother’s grip to clap.
Bub stood and took a bow. One of the barbs upon a pauldron tore a hole in the seat as he rose. Stuffing spilled out, and the young boy’s mother’s expression turned even warier.
We kept the talk quieter on the way into Cardiff.
Finally, we clambered off at Cardiff Central.
I bounced on my toes, practically itching. Sitting still for over two hours, not even including the tube ride to get to Paddington and train out (for £44 each, I should add, as horrified at rail fares as the papers seemed to be on slow news days), didn’t do wonders for a woman whose life was spent almost constantly on the move.
“Exciting, right?” Carson asked.
“Definitely,” I agreed. Though it wasn’t just pure excitement. I was antsy after sitting so long on my backside, and a troubled night of my own to contend with before setting out again. Knowing that Burnton had had some twenty hours’ lead on us after acquiring the first crypt key wasn’t doing my psyche any favors. The can of Monster I’d necked to bring myself up out of my sluggish stupor this morning probably hadn’t helped much either.
Antsy, excited, about to wet myself as the caffeine made me need to pee for the fifth time … whatever I wanted to term it, we were here in Cardiff. The next leg of this journey was upon us—and I was another step down the line of the Chalice Gloria Phase B quest.
“This is so cool,” said Carson.
“It’s not just cool,” I said. “This is … it’s world-changing. For me, and you, and all of us.”
“No way,” said Carson. He looked at me in a kind of awe. “You really think so?”
“Yeah, of course. Our lives are going to change after this. Every Seeker’s.”
“Every Seeker’s?” Carson frowned. “Why would every Seeker’s life change because we got to see the locations where Sherlock was filmed?”
My mouth fell open. “That’s … what you’re excited about?”
“Yeah! The London street scenes are filmed here! I know, it’s pretty crazy that they wouldn’t just use London, but—it’s so awesome!” He looked around us as we made our way down the street behind Clay, leading via Google Maps on a slightly ancient-looking iPhone 4 (pretty sure I wasn’t even born when they made that thing). Then, eyes flicking to me, confusion renewed, he asked, “What did you think I meant?”
“Nothing,” I sighed. “Not a thing.”
“Right.” A beat. “So can we go look around?”
“No, geekboy,” said Heidi. She tugged Carson by his collar, because as of this moment in time he was staring skyward, as if Benedict Cucumberdizzle or whatever his name was would descend from the clouds like a god made flesh.
“Where next?” I asked Clay.
“Nowhere close,” he said. He turned around, showing me the phone. On it, the map very zoomed out, were two icons: a white one I took to be us, based on its proximity to the sign for a train station; and a red one that I figured marked our destination. Though there was no scale rule in a corner, it was pretty clear that these weren’t neighboring locations.
“Do we have to walk all that way?”
“Nah.” He smiled, a crooked one that made my heart quiver. “Bus.”
Our wait for public transport was conveniently short (or inconveniently short, for Carson, who continued to crane around for anything that might once have been caught in a single frame of Sherlock). The ride was longer, maybe twenty minutes, back-and-forthing around streets on a course that took us most of the way back out of Cardiff, it felt like.
“How do we know when to get off?” Carson asked nervously a few stops in. “There’s no announcement, like on the train.”
“I’m tracking us,” said Clay. He sat on one of the sideways seats near the front, for the pregnant or elderly or disabled. Phone in one hand, he was watching where the GPS pegged us on Google Maps. His tablet rested on a knee, the route and list of stops extending down the browser page.
“That’s not very straightforward,” said Carson.
It wasn’t, but then, when was anything in our lives?
We got off near housing. Clay resumed directing us—though as my antsiness grew and we only found ourselves farther from civilization, it was easy for the nagging suspicion to creep in that Clay didn’t really know where he was taking us.
I wasn’t the only one wondering. When Clay led us into a disused industrial park, vaulting a short, ineffective fence of wrought iron, Heidi had had enough.
“Okay, you remember that we’re supposed to be making our way toward a gateway for Bi
ristall, right?” Heidi said to Clay. She’d stopped on the other side of the fence, arms folded. “Searching for a crack den or used needles isn’t on our to-do list, just so you know.”
“The cut-through is around here.”
“Oh, so it’s just convenient that it’s in a crack den.”
“These are just disused warehouses,” said Clay.
“Doubtful,” said Heidi, but she clambered over the fence anyway, using Carson for support to get her leg over the top. “I don’t see why we couldn’t use the Spurn Wyle for this.”
“Hours of walking,” said Clay.
“More fun than hours of sitting on public transport, listening to the infirm hacking their guts up. I think I caught eight new kinds of flu on the way out here.”
“Heidi,” I said, caught somewhere between amusement and wishing she’d ease her complaints at Clay. I’d made the choice to avoid the Spurn Wyle, not him—mainly because I didn’t trust that the Order of Apdau had been extinguished and might still be haunting those shadowy moors.
“Seriously, are there only ill people living in Wales?” As if to answer her own question: “There must be. It’s Wales.”
“What’s wrong with Wales?” Carson asked.
“Did you hear the accent?”
“Nothing is wrong with Wales,” I told him, before Heidi could go on any longer. “Heidi’s just doing some gentle ribbing. That’s what we do here.”
“Oh.” After a pause, and a sideways glance at Heidi, Carson went on: “Is it not, like … borderline racism though?”
Heidi shrugged. “Against the Welsh? Pfft. Some things are acceptable.” At Carson’s bewildered look, she punched him in the shoulder. “It’s just japes, man! Lighten up. Honestly. Anyway, they deserve it.”
“But … why?”
She started laughing. “Cos they’re Welsh.”
I shook my head. Clay shot me a backward look, the hint of a smile on his lips. He rolled his eyes, then went back to alternately eyeing the adjacent warehouses, and his phone and tablet.
There were several interconnected lots around a road going partway to rubble. Most of the industrial estate needed resurfacing, really: the concrete was cracked and weeds grew through all over the place. It looked like some low-key fantasy battle had gone on here some eons ago, splitting the ground just a little bit, so nature could start its reclamation. Maybe it had. Not completely out of the question; we’d engaged in battle in London a few times. But, realistically, all that had probably happened here was gradual evacuation as a tough economy and cheaper labor costs overseas forced businesses’ hands.
Past a string of smaller warehouses without signs, we plunged deeper into the industrial park. Near the back end was a much larger one, and nicer than the rest, on the outside. Replete with empty loading bays, the entrance was marked by a faded sign that said BUSINESS POST.
Clay headed toward it.
“You got mail to pick up?” Heidi asked. “Bad news: you’re coming on for a decade late to get it.”
“How are you even leading us here?” Carson asked, frowning. “Those journals were hundreds of years old.”
“Olden-day coordinate system translated into present-day equivalents,” said Clay. “Then it’s just a case of cross-referencing with Google Maps.”
“Right.”
“I know,” said Clay. “Makes you wonder how anyone ever missed the Chalice Gloria before when it’s as obvious as this, doesn’t it?”
“Considering all the temples were right under London,” Carson said, “it’s been on the top of my list of questions for a little while, yes.”
“Know what the answer is?” Heidi said.
“What?”
“‘Don’t think about it.’”
Carson groaned. “But that’s so unsatisfying.”
“Not to me. I have zero issues with the way the world works.”
Carson harrumphed. “Well, I do.”
The entrance doors to the old depot were closed, and presumably locked. Someone had maybe tried to force their way in, by the look of footprints that marred the graffiti. Their kicks had been unsuccessful, and no crack dens had been established.
I checked the compass. “Finally.”
One momentary glance around, to make sure we weren’t followed—and then I clutched my talisman on the chain around my neck, and swiped down to cut open a gate on the graffiti-covered door.
The cut-through split open and widened, dazzling colors dancing in the murk within. The edge shimmered, inviting …
But I couldn’t bring myself to head through first. After all … this was Biristall.
“Sooo,” I said, looking to Clay & Co.
“Don’t look at me,” he said. “I don’t want to be first through.”
“None of us wants to be first through,” said Heidi.
Quiet. No movement.
“Err … Bub?” I said hopefully.
He shook his head. “Not first. I have heard tell of Biristall too.”
“And you don’t want to visit?” I said with false brightness.
“No.”
“Carson?”
But Carson had paled, and he shook his head with just as much fervor as Burbondrer.
I looked to Clay, helpless.
“You can do it,” he said.
My mouth worked, up and down, producing no sound. I was fairly certain I could not do it. Nor did I want to … yet at the same time, I did. Not just because it meant saving face and looking heroic in front of Clay, but also because there was the pressing issue of Burnton preparing to steal all my thunder—again. And that would not do.
“Okay,” Clay said, taking a deep, steadying breath. “I guess that means I’ll go first, then.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” I promised. I sounded unconvincing.
Whether he believed me or not, Clay stepped through.
That left four of us, all glued to the spot.
“Bub?” Heidi said.
He shook his head.
“Through,” Heidi ordered.
Bub shook harder.
“Come on,” Heidi said. “Or I’ll unleash fire.”
Bub grimaced. But Heidi’s tyranny was like no other, so although he could have very easily picked her up and planted her through the warehouse walls, he set his face and followed in behind.
“I’ll be through next,” Carson told him faintly, patting Bub on the arm before the portal warped to swallow his ungainly frame.
Three of us left—the classic set, as we might be called in a trading card game the likes of which Carson had tried to goad us into playing in our rare moments of downtime.
“Get going then,” Heidi told Carson. “You promised.”
He groaned, but followed.
Just the two of us … and a long, long silence.
I broke it. “I don’t really want to go in.”
“Me neither.”
It stretched again. Then I broke it once more. “But I really, really want that treasure.”
“Mm,” Heidi agreed with a sage nod.
Was it bad of me to hope that the rest of our crew could manage successfully without us? That they could charge in, and Heidi and I could contribute by just … staying put?
Yes, I thought with an internal sigh. It was a pretty bad thought.
So, attempting to steel myself with a lung-bursting breath, and finding I didn’t feel particularly steely at all, I set my face—and surged through the gap.
“You better follow!” I called back—but I was already through, and the words were lost to limbo.
Then the fireworks dancing about my spinning body were gone, replaced by—black sky streaked with purples and blues and so many stars—
I gasped—
Heidi smacked me in the back, and I fell forward, landing hard on sharp rock that bit into my palms.
“You’re supposed to move out of the way when you’re through,” Heidi grumbled as she wrestled herself up. “Pretty sky isn’t a good enough reason for
face-planting the scarp.” She helped me up, looking put out.
Clay and Carson and Bub had shuffled aside, not totally forgetting the way we did things to ensure easy passage through the portal. Whether that was because they’d all kept their wits about them or not, I couldn’t be certain, because Carson was staring at the skyscape like his eyes would pop out of his head any second.
I didn’t blame him. Biristall hadn’t looked this pretty on the compass—nor had it looked such a chaotic mess.
The sky was like a picture from the Hubble Space Telescope: dark, alive with stars, and streaked with the blue-purple gas of nebulae and galactic arms.
It was also alive with the rock of a shattered planet. A full asteroid field, like something out of the Star Wars movies, lay spread in all directions. Tethers held the debris together, and metal bridges like threads hung between them. Scattered in all directions, it hung above and below us, bridges creeping into the air in straight lines.
“What—” Carson began, and fell short. “Huh … how?”
“That sound, ladies and gentlemen, is Carson Yates’s head finally exploding.” Heidi sighed.
“But this is … it’s debris! An asteroid belt! Only … like in science-fiction books, not like real life! But there’s atmosphere! And … and gravity!”
“Everything has gravity,” said Heidi.
“Yeah, but this is—this is Earth gravity. These bodies are too small.” To demonstrate, Carson jumped: a perfectly Earth-like up-and-down bounce, not at all reminiscent of moon landing footage.
Heidi hooked an arm around his. “Come on. There’s worse ahead. Might as well meet it head on.” To Clay: “This way?” He nodded.
“But the journals didn’t mention this about Biristall,” Carson griped, obediently following along in Heidi’s wake. He scoured the skies and the rock fragments overhead, even more excited by this than by the Sherlock locations earlier. “I mean, just look at that sky. And it’s—it’s asteroids! Connected together! How did this place get like this?”
“Planetoid impact,” said … Bub. Which I was totally not expecting. Normally someone else—anyone, really—was on exposition duty.
Carson’s eyes went wide. “Really?”
The King of the Skies Page 9