by Philip Reeve
Bells rang, sirens wailed. The people of Fastitocalon hurried along its tubular streets to their positions as it rose from the water for the second time that day. This time it came up faster; this time its prey did not escape. As the sea spilled off the catching deck the captured ship tipped over on its side like a toy boat in an emptying bathtub. The trapdoors opened, dropping it into the demolition hold, then closed again so that Fastitocalon could submerge.
There was no need for machinery to tackle a prize as small as this. Eager salvagemen poured through the bulkhead doors and ran to where the ship lay, swords and cudgels ready to deal with its crew.
But to their surprise, there was no crew. There were no valuables either. All that the old trawler contained was a crate full of big cylindrical bombs the size of beer kegs, and six small rockets from the Jenny Haniver’s missile racks. They were all lashed together and tangled up in a nest of wires, and right in the middle of the tangle was a timer, ticking down. But by the time the salvagemen found that, it was already too late.
Anna was standing beside O’Brien among the smokestacks at Dalkey’s stern. They watched the sea in the deep-water channel heave upwards and turn for a moment into a white tower which, collapsing, sent salt spray blowing into their faces.
After a while a few bodies and pieces of debris bobbed to the surface.
“Is it gone?” asked O’Brien.
“We hurt it, for sure,” said Anna. “I don’t know if the blast was big enough to destroy it.”
“Sure it was! It’ll be blown to tatters!”
“Maybe. Or maybe they’re still alive down there, making repairs. You’d better leave quickly, while they’re busy.”
O’Brien looked hopefully at her. “Will you stay with us awhile? We can give you a lift to the next island.”
“I don’t need a lift – I can fly.”
“Ah, but an airship needs a base to call home, doesn’t she? You can stay aboard Dalkey as long as you like, come and go as you please.”
Anna was tempted for a moment, she really was. But only for a moment. Before she went to start the Jenny’s engines she kissed his stubbly, sunburned cheek and said, “You get on your way, Mr O’Brien. I have to get back to Pinang City. I have a Sultana to strangle.”
Anna set the Jenny Haniver down on the largest town in the trading cluster, a place called Stayns. It was late by then, but the aviator’s café near the docking pans was still open. A canvas awning sullenly flapped its gaudy stripes in the light of some hurricane lamps. An old man snored in a chair. Two merchants were discussing the next day’s slave auction, but they went quiet when Anna arrived, and left soon afterwards. Perhaps they knew who she was. Perhaps they had heard how she felt about slave traders. She went to the bar, sat down on a wooden stool there, bought a drink. The barman combed his drooping moustache with his fingers while she asked him if he had any news of London, but he could tell her no more than she already knew.
She was getting ready to go in search of someone else to ask when the children arrived. Not really children – they wouldn’t think of themselves as children – but they looked like children to Anna. They were about the age that she had been when she escaped Arkangel. The girl was half feral, an out-country scarecrow with filthy red hair, her face ruined by a deep ragged old scar that had healed so badly it hurt to look at. She was trying to act as if she belonged in this place and knew where she was going, but she had a wound on one leg and she couldn’t hide her fear or weariness. The boy wasn’t even trying. He caught Anna watching him as he went to the bar, and looked nervously away.
It’s no business of yours, Anna, she told herself. Whatever their story is, whoever they’re running from, you don’t need to get involved. But she was already checking the pistol hidden in her boot top, the Nuevo-Mayan battle-frisbee folded in its secret pocket on her sleeve.
“I’m looking for a ship,” the boy said. “Me and my friend have to get back to London, and we have to leave tonight.” That settled it: he was from London, and, judging by his accent, from the upper tiers. She could help him and his friend and perhaps learn something about the city’s plans into the bargain.
The boy did not hear her as she slid from her stool and padded silently up behind him, but the girl, sharper, turned her ruined face and stared.
Anna said, “Perhaps I may be of help…?”
She’d had enough of old stories. Here was the beginning of a new one.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks to Sam Smith and Peter Matthews for editing these stories, to the writer and actor Na’a Murad for letting me borrow his name, to Jamie Gregory for the design and layout, and, of course, to Ian McQue for all the wonderful pictures.
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First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2018
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2018
Text copyright © Philip Reeve, 2018
Cover and interior artwork copyright © Ian McQue, 2018
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eISBN 978 1407 18675 7
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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