by P. G. Bell
“What lot?” she said, gripping the receiver a little tighter.
“Some of our most loyal customers,” said Wilmot breezily. “They’re perfectly harmless.”
“Harmless,” she repeated, in a faraway sort of voice, but her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Stonker clearing his throat.
“Tell the Postmaster we won’t get far without a destination on the board,” he said, and gave the thing that looked like a calendar a tap. Now that she looked at it properly, Suzy saw it wasn’t a calendar at all—it was a miniature destination board. The words OBSIDIAN TOWER were still displayed in the destination box, with TIME DUE listed above and TIME OF ARRIVAL below.
“Don’t worry,” said Wilmot. “I heard. I’m sending it through now.”
As she watched, the destination board began to change, the letters and numbers flipping over one by one, faster and faster, until they clattered by in a cascade of nonsense. Then, in an instant, they stopped, and Stonker’s face brightened.
“See?” He grinned, tapping the TIME OF ARRIVAL box. “We’ve made up ten minutes already. How do you like that?”
But Suzy was more interested in their destination. “The Topaz Narrows?” she said, reading from the board.
“That’s right,” said Wilmot. “Just pop back to the H. E. C. when we get there, and I’ll give you all the details. And tell me, can you swim?”
“Yes,” she said cautiously. “Why?”
“Just checking,” he said, and hung up. She replaced the receiver and wondered once again what she had signed up for.
Stonker pulled on a short chain hanging from the ceiling, and the whistle let out its mournful howl. “I’m always happy to put this place behind me,” he said. “To sunnier climes!”
Suzy craned her neck and looked out the window again. The tower was now lost to sight completely, and even the army of statues was long behind them. There was just empty desert stretching in all directions, broken only by the winding tracks and the arch of another tunnel mouth up ahead.
Her hand strayed to her pocket. She needed time, and some privacy, to figure out what she was going to do about the unexpected guest she was carrying. Who was he, and why did the Lady Crepuscula want him so badly? Something told her that the old woman would do much worse than file a complaint if she ever caught up with them. The thought made her shiver.
Stonker pulled on the whistle again as the train plunged into the tunnel, and with a rush of air the desert was gone.
7
LATE ARRIVAL
Ice crystals ricocheted like bullets off the stones of the Obsidian Tower. They battered the statues, chipping away at the few sharp edges that remained and leaving shallow pockmarks in their once-smooth features. When they came to the Lady Crepuscula, however, they whirled and parted like shoals of fish, slipping around her before carrying on their way. For her part, the Lady Crepuscula didn’t even notice them. She might as well have been taking a stroll in a pleasant summer breeze, except for the fact that her expression was one better suited to foul weather.
Crepuscula’s forehead wrinkled, and she pursed her lips as she stood on the very edge of the battlements and watched the dwindling lights of the Impossible Postal Express racing away across the desert.
“Foolish girl,” she muttered. “You brought this upon yourself.” She raised her cane, aiming the silver tip like a rifle at the train.
“Aw, don’t tell me I’ve missed ’em!”
The Lady Crepuscula started, swinging the cane to point at whoever had spoken. The interloper leaped backward from a small pump-operated maintenance trolley that stood on the rails in the center of the courtyard and threw up his hands to shield himself.
“Don’t shoot!”
“Why not?” she said. “I don’t trust people who creep up behind me. Especially in my own home.”
“I’m not creepin’,” said the figure, slowly emerging from behind his hands. “I’m just naturally unobtrusive, is all.”
“I’ll decide if you’re obtrusive or not.” She looked back over the edge of the tower, just in time to see the train vanish over the horizon. She tutted and lowered her cane. “You’re a troll,” she said.
“That’s right,” said the figure. “Name’s Fletch.”
“I don’t care about your name,” she said. “I was expecting a visit from a postal troll, but they saw fit to send a human instead. I can’t say it was a satisfactory substitution.”
Fletch’s eyes widened. “She’s been ’ere?”
“Evidently. You know the girl?”
“Sort of. Short and fluffy? Light brown skin? Terrible taste in pajamas?”
“One and the same. And in the brief time that she was here, she took something very important to me.”
“Yeah, she does that. I’m trying to chase ’er down.”
Crepuscula tapped her cane against the flagstones and thought. “We clearly have a common problem.”
“Right,” said Fletch. He was suddenly aware that he might have said too much, and it made him nervous. “Well, if I’ve missed ’em ’ere, I’ll carry on my merry way. Maybe I could give you a call or somethin’, once I’ve found ’er.”
“Oh no you won’t,” said Crepuscula. “I can’t afford to let that girl wander free across the Union. The item she stole is very valuable and very dangerous, and I went to a great deal of effort to acquire it. As you interrupted my attempt to prevent her escape, I think it’s only fair that you help me retrieve her now.”
“Whoa, wait a minute,” said Fletch, backing away. “I’m just passing through. I’m not lookin’ for any trouble.”
The Lady Crepuscula raised an eyebrow, and Fletch felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind.
“My poor little creature,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ve already found it.”
With a flick of her wrist, she leveled her cane at him, and he felt his body go rigid. He tried to turn, to run, but couldn’t. He was as immobile as the statues.
“I don’t know what good you think I’m gonna do you,” he gasped. “My job was to build a shortcut from the last delivery in the Western Fenlands to ’ere. They’re back on the main rail network now. I’ve no idea where they’re headed.”
“Oh, I know perfectly well where they’ll end up eventually,” she said. “At the only place in the Union with power to match my own.”
Fletch gaped at her. “You don’t mean … the other tower?”
“Precisely,” said Crepuscula. “We both know the price of entry, and it’s not the sort of thing that’s easy to come by. So tell me, where would your friends go to find it?”
Fletch fought for breath. “No idea.”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe you.”
Very gently, Fletch began to rise into the air. Then he drifted out sideways, beyond the battlements, to hang above the desert. Ice crystals pinged and zipped against his frozen form. He locked eyes with Crepuscula—anything to avoid looking down.
“Let’s try again,” she said, as though to a reluctant child. “They need a unique piece of knowledge, known only to one person in all the Union. Where would they get it?”
Fletch pressed his lips together and shook his head. Crepuscula sighed. She gave a flick of her cane, and Fletch tilted over until he was facing straight down. Ice crystals battered the back of his head, stinging the delicate skin of his enormous ears before plunging down to the desert below. They took a long time to fall.
“If you’re really going to be of no help to me, perhaps we should just part company,” she said. “At least the trip down will be easier than the trip up.”
Fletch felt the magical bonds holding him start to loosen. He slipped a few inches and cried out in shock. “All right!” he wailed. “I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you!”
He screwed his eyes shut against the void beneath him, waiting for the thread of magic that held him up to break. Instead, he felt a tug, a short rush of air, and then the impact of cold stone beneath him. He opened his eyes to find
himself back in the courtyard, on the spot where he had been standing just a moment earlier.
He breathed a sigh of relief, despite the sight of the Lady Crepuscula standing over him. She was smiling.
“Then why are we wasting time here?” She clapped her hands together. “Come along, boys. We’re going on an outing.”
Fletch was about to protest being referred to as a boy when he heard a low grinding sound behind him. It sounded like a heavy door swinging open after centuries of disuse. Then he saw that Crepuscula was no longer looking at him, but at something behind him. He turned to look and immediately wished he hadn’t.
With slow, awkward movements, every statue in the courtyard was beginning to move.
8
THE HALL OF SPYGLASSES
Captain Neoma was angry. Actually, she was nervous, but she couldn’t afford to let anybody know that, especially not here in the Observatory. It was the most secure room in the Union, its existence known only to an elite few, and as Captain of the Guard it was her job to keep it that way, which is exactly what she had done until two days ago, when something went Very Badly Wrong. She still didn’t know why it had gone wrong, which was why she was nervous, and also why she was hiding those nerves behind a thunderously bad mood.
Word of her temper must have spread, as hardly any of the observers dared glance up from their desks as she stalked past on her patrol, and even the other guards seemed reluctant to make eye contact. That suited her just fine. She was still in charge here, and she wanted everyone to know it.
The Observatory was large, ornate, and circular, with paneled walls of dark wood, and a high-domed ceiling of midnight blue decorated with antiquated star charts. Most of the floor space was taken up with the desks, which stood in three concentric rings, facing outward. Each was occupied by an observer, hunched over their work in silent concentration—five hundred in all, of various species, and most of them children. Kids always saw things adults missed.
That’s all her job really was, Captain Neoma reflected. Babysitting. And to think she used to fight monsters for a living …
She ground her teeth and walked on. A few observers were daring enough to sneak a look at her as she passed, but she fixed them with a warning glare and they quickly put their eyes back to their spyglasses.
Even in her good moods, Captain Neoma wasn’t a fan of the spyglasses. Frankly, they gave her the creeps. Maybe it was the way they looked so much like normal telescopes—harmless brass tubes mounted on little tripods, one on each desk—but their jet-black lenses always seemed to stare into nothing. The Observatory had no windows, after all. Nevertheless, Captain Neoma could feel them watching, their magically charged glass peeling back the layers of reality between the Observatory and the farthest reaches of the Union.
Each spyglass was trained on a different location—Nethertown, Troll Territory, Big Sky Range, and so on—and the observers made careful notes of everything they saw. It was the biggest research project in history. From weather patterns to train timetables, volcanic eruptions to shopping habits, life in the Impossible Places was being painstakingly cataloged, and the air beneath the dome was full of the whispering scratch of pens on paper.
At least the observers didn’t take much looking after. The Observatory rules were simple—no talking, no passing notes—and these were smart kids. Very smart, in fact, the best and the brightest from throughout the Union. If they performed well, there was a free university place in it for them at the end of it all. None of them were willing to risk that. At least, almost none of them …
She spared a resentful glance for the Observatory’s only empty desk as she approached it. Its untended spyglass felt like an accusation—a black mark on her otherwise spotless record. These kids weren’t allowed to sneeze without her permission, let alone disappear. How had this happened? And more to the point, why? Why had this observer chosen to throw away his whole future? Goodness knew, he didn’t have much of a past to go back to.
She was still turning the problem over in her mind when she became aware of a whisper running through the room. Heads were turning. A few people pointed. Narrowing her eyes, Captain Neoma followed the commotion to its source, and almost gasped. An observer was away from her post, hurrying between the desks. The other guards saw her, too, but Captain Neoma stayed them with a look. She would be the one to deal with this.
“You there!” she barked, her words amplified by the dome above. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The observer—a young girl with blond hair and thick-rimmed glasses—froze in shock.
“I … I’m, um…,” she stammered as Captain Neoma bore down on her. The girl wore the same dull gray uniform as the other observers, and the name tag pinned to her chest read,
Hi! My name’s: MAYA
I’m studying: THE CREPUSCULAN WASTES
“You know the data protection rules,” Captain Neoma hissed. “No one’s allowed away from their desks without my express permission.” She spotted something in the girl’s hand. It was a page torn out of a report book, filled with handwriting and folded over. “What’s this?” said Neoma.
The girl tried to hide it behind her back. “Please, Captain, I’m not breaking any rules. I’m just following orders. Honest!”
“I didn’t give you any orders.”
“I know.” The girl looked across the room to the door marked CURATOR’S OFFICE. “Lord Meridian did.”
Captain Neoma glared intently into the girl’s eyes, searching for any hint of a lie. She couldn’t find one.
Uncomfortably aware of the attention they were drawing, she took Maya by the hand and led her into the center of the room. There were no desks there, just an open circular space where they couldn’t be so easily watched—the other observers all sat with their backs to them. Captain Neoma lowered herself onto one knee and placed a reassuring hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Tell me, Maya,” she whispered. “What did His Lordship want you to do?”
“He … he told me to keep watch on the Obsidian Tower and to tell him straightaway if I saw anything strange happen. And I did. See something strange, I mean.” Maya was breathing hard and, with a trembling hand, brandished the bit of paper. “I wrote it all down, just like he asked.”
Captain Neoma made a concerted effort not to tighten her grip on Maya’s shoulder. She had no idea why His Lordship would want information on the Obsidian Tower, but she had a feeling it spelled trouble. Anything involving the Lady Crepuscula always did.
“You’ve done an excellent job, Maya,” she said, giving the girl’s shoulder a pat. “But I’ll take it from here.” She held out a hand for the paper.
Maya drew back. “He said nobody else was to read it, Captain. Look.” She pointed to the word Confidential, which she had handwritten on the outside of the folded paper.
“I promise not to open it,” Captain Neoma said. “On my honor.” She held Maya’s gaze, unblinking, until Maya finally handed the paper over.
“Thank you,” said Neoma, standing. “Now get back to your post. There’s still work to be done.”
Maya grinned with relief. “For knowledge is our treasure!” she said.
“Yes, yes,” said Captain Neoma. “And we are its keepers. Now get on back to work.”
Maya nodded and hurried away. Captain Neoma watched her until she was back at her desk, then crossed the room to the curator’s office, already wishing she hadn’t promised not to read the note—what could His Lordship be looking for, and more importantly, why hadn’t He told her about this? Perhaps the missing observer had shaken his trust in her. The idea stung more than a little.
She approached the office, sparing a nod for Sergeant Mona standing guard outside it, but was surprised to see the blind was drawn over the window, the words STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE stenciled on it. She hesitated.
“He’s with a client, Captain,” Sergeant Mona explained, seeing her confusion. “They’ve been in there all morning.”
Once again, Neoma was forced
to hide her surprise. No one was supposed to enter the Observatory without her knowing it, and they certainly weren’t supposed to take meetings with His Lordship. “He doesn’t have any appointments today,” she said. “Are you sure?”
Sergeant Mona, painfully aware of her captain’s short temper, wet her lips. “His Lordship brought them in himself, Captain. I thought you knew.”
No, I didn’t, Neoma thought. I can add it to the ever-growing list of things I apparently don’t know.
She was raising her hand to knock on the door when it was yanked open from inside and someone swept out, almost knocking her down. “Hey!” she barked, springing clear.
The figure paused and fixed Neoma with a look of simmering fury. It was a woman: tall, raven haired, and richly dressed in a red gown, with a whole wolf skin clasped around her shoulders like a cloak. The creature’s head lolled over the woman’s shoulder at a drunken angle. A heavy gold livery collar hung around her neck, and more gold winked at her wrists and fingers as she gathered the wolf skin around her, as though afraid that any contact with Neoma might sully it.
“Excuse me,” the woman growled, and swept on in the direction of the exit on the opposite side of the room. The observers all shot her furtive glances, and even Neoma stared after her, mystified, until the armored door of the exit swung closed behind her.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice from inside the office.
“Come in, Captain,” it said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
* * *
The office was cozy, warm, and simple—just a row of bookcases along the back wall, an old wooden desk to one side of the room, and a pair of wingback leather armchairs to the other, where a small figure sat half-hidden in shadow.
“My lord,” Neoma said, approaching the chair and snapping to attention. “That woman…”
“Was the chancellor of Wolfhaven.” The figure sat forward. He was old and very pale, dressed in a gray suit that matched his thick silver hair. One hand rested on the head of a black silver-tipped walking cane, and he peered at Neoma through half-moon glasses. “She was here on business.”
