by Philip Reeve
Crome stepped towards the keyboard. “Give MEDUSA its target coordinates,” he ordered.
Splay’s fingers rattled over the keys, typing in the latitude and longitude of Batmunkh Gompa.
“Target acquired,” announced a mechanical voice, booming from fluted speakers above Splay’s station. “Range: 130 miles and closing. Input clearance code Omega.”
Dr Chubb produced a sheaf of thick plastic sheets, the laminated fragments of ancient documents. Faint lists of numerals showed through the plastic, like insects trapped in amber, as he flipped through the sheets until he found the one he wanted and held it up for Splay to read.
But before Splay could begin typing in the code-numbers there was a confused babble of voices down by the main entrance. Dr Twix was there, with some of her Stalkers close behind her. “Hello, everybody!” she chirped, hurrying up the aisle and beckoning for her creations to follow. “Just look what my clever babies have found for you, Lord Mayor! A real live Anti-Tractionist, just as you asked. Though I’m afraid she’s rather ugly…”
“Input clearance code Omega,” repeated MEDUSA. The mechanical voice had not really changed, but to Katherine it sounded slightly impatient.
“Shut up, Twix!” barked Magnus Crome, staring at his instruments, but the others all turned to look as one of the Stalkers lurched up on to the dais and dumped its burden at the Lord Mayor’s feet.
It was Hester Shaw, her hands tied in front of her, helpless and sullen and still wondering why the Stalkers had not killed her straight away. At the sight of her ruined face the men on the dais froze, as if her gaze had turned them all to stone.
Oh, great Clio! whispered Katherine, seeing for the first time what Father’s sword had done. And then she looked from Hester’s face to his, and what she saw there shocked her even more. The expression had drained from his features, leaving a grey mask, less human and more horrible than the girl’s. This was how he must have looked when he killed Pandora Shaw and turned round to find Hester watching him. She knew what would happen next, even before his sword came singing from its sheath.
“No!” she screamed, seeing what he meant to do, but her mouth was dry, her voice a whisper. Suddenly she understood why the goddess had brought her here, and knew what she must do to make amends for Father’s crime. She dropped the useless satchel and ran up the steps. Hester was stumbling backwards, lifting her bound hands to ward off Father’s blow, and Katherine flung herself between them so that suddenly it was she who was in his path, and his sword slid easily through her and she felt the hilt jar hard against her ribs.
The Engineers gasped. Dr Twix gave a frightened little squeak. Even Crome looked alarmed.
“Input clearance code Omega,” snapped MEDUSA, as if nothing at all had happened.
Valentine was saying “No!”, shaking his head as if he couldn’t understand how she came to be here with his sword through her. “Kate, no!” He stepped back, pulling the blade free.
Katherine watched it slither out of her. It looked ridiculous, like a practical joke. There was no pain at all, but bright blood was throbbing out of a hole in her tunic and splashing on the floor. She felt giddy. Hester Shaw clutched at her but Katherine shook her off. “Father, don’t hurt her,” she said, and took two faltering steps forward and fell against Dr Splay’s keyboard. Meaningless green letters spattered the little Goggle-screen as her head hit the keys, and as Father lifted her and laid her gently down she heard the voice of MEDUSA boom, “Incorrect code entered.”
New sequences of numbers spilled across the screens. Something exploded with a sharp crack among the looping webs of cable.
“What’s happening?” whimpered Dr Chubb. “What’s it doing?”
“It has rejected our target coordinates,” gasped Dr Chandra. “But the power is still building…”
Engineers rushed back to their posts, stumbling over Katherine where she lay on the floor, her head on Father’s lap. She ignored them, staring at Hester’s face. It was like looking at her own reflection in a shattered mirror, and she smiled, pleased that she had met her half-sister at last, and wondering if they were going to be friends. She started to hiccup, and with each hiccup blood came up her throat into her mouth. A numb chill was spreading through her body, and she could feel herself beginning to drift away, the sounds of the cathedral growing fainter and fainter. Am I going to die? she thought. I can’t, not yet, I’m not ready!
“Help me!” Valentine bellowed at the Engineers – but they were only interested in MEDUSA. It was the girl who came to his side and lifted Katherine while he ripped a strip from his robe and tried to staunch the bleeding. He looked up into her one grey eye and whispered, “Hester … thank you!”
Hester stared back at him. She had come all this way to kill him, through all these years, and now that he was at her mercy she felt nothing at all. His sword lay on the ground where he had dropped it. No one was watching her. Even with her wrists bound she could have snatched it up and stuck it through his heart. But it didn’t seem to matter now. Dazed, she watched his tears fall, plopping into the astounding lake of blood that was spreading out from his daughter’s body. Confused thoughts chased each other through her head. He loves her! She saved my life! I can’t let her die!
She reached out and touched him, and said, “She needs a doctor, Valentine.”
He looked at the Engineers, clustering around their machine in a frantic scrum. There would be no help from them. Outside the cathedral doors curtains of golden fire swung across Paternoster Square. He looked up, and saw something red catch the firelight beyond the high windows of the starboard transept.
“It’s the Jenny Haniver!” shouted Hester, scrambling to her feet. “Oh, it’s Tom! And there’s a medical bay aboard…” But she knew the Jenny couldn’t land amidst the flames of Top Tier. “Valentine, can we get on to the roof somehow?”
Valentine picked up his sword and cut the cords on her wrists. Then, flinging it aside, he lifted Katherine and started to carry her between the spitting coils to where the metal stairway zig-zagged up into the dome. Stalkers reached out for Hester as she scurried after him, but Valentine ordered them back. To a startled Beefeater he shouted, “Captain! That airship is not to be fired upon!”
Magnus Crome came running to clutch at his sleeve. “The machine has gone mad!” he wailed. “Quirke alone knows what commands your daughter fed it! We can’t fire it and we can’t stop the energy build-up! Do something, Valentine! You discovered the damned thing! Make it stop!”
Valentine shoved him aside and started up the steps, through the rising veils of light, the crackling static, through air that smelled like burning tin.
“I only wanted to help London!” the old man sobbed. “I only wanted to make London strong!”
36
THE SHADOW OF BONES
Hester took the lead, climbing up through the open top of the dome into smoky firelight and the shadow of the great weapon. Off to her right, the charred skeleton of the 13th Floor Elevator lay draped over the ruins of the Engineerium like a derelict rollercoaster. The fire had spread to the Guildhall, and the Planning Department and the Hall of Records were blazing, hurling out firefly-swarms of sparks and millions of pink and white official forms. St Paul’s was an island in a sea of fire, with the Jenny Haniver swinging above it like a low-budget moon, scorched and listing, veering drunkenly in the updraughts from the burning buildings.
She climbed higher, out on to the cobra-hood of MEDUSA. Valentine came after her; she could hear him whispering to Katherine, his eyes fixed on the struggling airship.
“What idiot is flying that thing?” he shouted, working his way across the cowl to join her.
“It’s Tom!” Hester called back, and stood up, waving both arms and shouting, “Tom! Tom!”
It was the shawl that Tom saw first, the one he had bought for her in Peripatetiapolis. Knotted round her neck now, streaming on the wind, it made a sudden flash of red, and he saw it from the corner of his eye and looked
down and saw her there, waving. Then a black wing of smoke came down over her and he wondered if he had only imagined that tiny figure inching out on to the cobra’s hood, because it seemed impossible that anyone could survive in this huge fire that he had caused. He made the Jenny Haniver swoop closer. The smoke lifted, and there she was, flapping her arms, with her long black coat and her long-legged stride and her ugly, wonderful face.
Katherine opened her eyes. The cold inside her was growing, spreading from the place where the sword had gone in. She was still hiccuping, and she thought how stupid it would be to die with hiccups, how undignified. She wished Dog was with her. “Tom! Tom!” somebody kept shouting. She turned her head and saw an airship coming down out of the smoke, closer and closer until the side of the gondola scraped against MEDUSA’s cowl and she felt the down-draught from its battered engine pods. Father was carrying her towards it, and she could see Tom peering out at her through the broken windscreen, Tom who had been there when it all began, whom she had thought was dead. But here he was, alive, looking shocked and soot-stained, with a V-shaped wound on his forehead like the mark of some unknown Guild.
The gondola was much bigger inside than she expected. In fact, it was a lot like Clio House, and Dog and Bevis were both waiting for her there, and her hiccups had stopped, and her wound wasn’t as bad as everyone had thought, it was just a scratch. Sunlight streamed in through the windows as Tom flew them all up and up into a sky of the most perfect crystal blue, and she relaxed gratefully into her father’s arms.
Hester reached the airship first, hauling herself aboard through its shattered flank. But when she looked back, holding out her hand to Valentine, she saw that he had fallen to his knees, and realized Katherine was dead.
She stayed there, still with her hand outstretched, not quite knowing why. There was an electric shimmer in the air above the white metal hood. She shouted, “Valentine! Be quick!”
He lifted his eyes from his daughter’s face just long enough to say, “Hester! Tom! Fly! Save yourselves!”
Behind her Tom was cupping his hands to his ears and shouting, “What did he say? Is that Katherine? What’s happened?”
“Just go!” she yelled, and, clambering past him, started switching all the engines that still worked to full power. When she looked down again Valentine was dwindling away below, a dark shape cradled in his arms, a pale hand trailing. She felt like Katherine’s ghost, rising into the sky. There was a terrible pain inside her and her breath came in sobs and something wet and hot was spilling down her cheek. She wondered if she could have been wounded without noticing it, but when she put her hands to her face her fingers came away wet, and she understood that she was crying, crying for her mum and dad, and Shrike, and Katherine, and even for Valentine as the crackling light around the cathedral grew brighter and Tom steered the Jenny Haniver away into the dark.
Down in the Gut, London’s enormous motors suddenly cut out, without warning and all at once, doused by the strange radiations that were starting to sleet through the city’s fabric. For the first time since it crossed the land-bridge the great Traction City started to slow.
In a hastily barricaded gallery in the London Museum, Chudleigh Pomeroy peered cautiously over the replica of the Blue Whale and saw that the squads of Stalkers advancing on his last redoubt had all stopped in their tracks, pale clouds of sparks coiling about their metal skulls like barbed wire. “Great Quirke!” he said, turning to his surviving handful of Historians. “We’ve won!”
Valentine watches the red airship fly away, lit by the flames of Top Tier and by the spitting forks of light that are beginning to flare around St Paul’s. He can hear hopeless fire-bells jangling somewhere below, and the panic-stricken shouts of fleeing Engineers. A halo of St Elmo’s fire flares around Katherine’s face and her hair sparks and cracks as he strokes it. He gently moves a stray strand which has blown into her mouth, and holds her close, and waits – and the storm-light breaks over them and they are a knot of fire, a rush of blazing gas, and gone: the shadows of their bones scattering into the brilliant sky.
37
THE BIRD ROADS
London wore a wreath of lightning. It was as if the ray that should have reached out across a hundred miles to sear the stones of Batmunkh Gompa had tangled around the upper tiers instead, sending cataracts of molten metal splashing down the city’s flanks. Explosions surged through the Gut, heaving vast fragments of wreckage end-over-end into the sky like dead leaves in a gale. A few airships rose with them, seeking to escape, but their envelopes ignited and they shrivelled and fell, small bright flakes of fire amid the greater burning.
Only the Jenny Haniver survived, riding on the fringes of the storm, spinning and pitching as the shock waves battered her, streamers of rainbow light spilling from her rigging and rotor-blades. Her engines had all failed together in that first great pulse of energy, and nothing that Tom knew how to do would make them start again. He slumped down in what was left of the pilot’s seat, weeping, watching helplessly as the night wind carried him further and further from his dying city.
“It’s my fault,” was all he could think to say. “It’s all my fault…”
Hester was watching too, staring back at the place where St Paul’s had been as if she could still see the after-images of Katherine and her father lost in the brightness there. “Oh, Tom, no,” she said. “It was an accident. Something went wrong with their machine. It was Valentine’s fault, and Crome’s. It was the Engineers’ fault for getting the thing to work and my mum’s fault for digging it up in the first place. It was the Ancients’ fault for inventing it. It was Pewsey’s and Gench’s fault for trying to kill you, and Katherine’s for saving my life…”
She sat down beside him, wanting to comfort him but afraid to touch him, while her reflections sneered at her from fractured dials and blades of window-glass, more monstrous than ever in the fluttering glare of MEDUSA. Then she thought, Silly, he came back, didn’t he? He came back for you. Trembling, she put her arms around him and pulled him close, nuzzling the top of his head, shyly kissing away the blood from the fresh wound between his eyebrows, hugging him tight until the dying weapon had spent itself and the first grey daylight crept across the plain.
“It’s all right, Tom,” she kept telling him. “It’s all right…”
London was far away, motionless under banners of smoke. Tom found Miss Fang’s old field glasses and focused them on the city. “Someone must have survived,” he said, hoping that saying it would make it true. “I bet Mr Pomeroy and Clytie Potts are down there, organizing rescue parties and handing out cups of tea…” But through the smoke, the steam, the pall of hanging ash he could see nothing, nothing, nothing, and although he swung the binoculars to and fro, growing increasingly desperate, all they showed him were the bony shapes of blackened girders, and the scorched earth littered with torn-off wheels and blazing lakes of fuel and broken tracks lying tangled on themselves like the cast-off skins of enormous snakes.
“Tom?” Hester had been trying the controls, and had found to her surprise that the rudder-levers still worked. The Jenny Haniver responded to her touch, turning this way and that on the wind. She said gently, “Tom, we could try and reach Batmunkh Gompa. We’ll be welcome there. They’ll probably think you’re a hero.”
But Tom shook his head: behind his eyes the 13th Floor Elevator was still spiralling towards Top Tier and Pewsey and Gench were riding their black, silent screams into the fire. He didn’t know what he was, but he knew he was no hero.
“All right,” said Hester, understanding. It took time to get over things sometimes, she knew that. She would be patient with him. She said, “We’ll head for the Black Island. We can repair the Jenny at the air-caravanserai. And then we’ll take the Bird Roads and go somewhere far away. The Hundred Islands, or the Tannhäuser Mountains, or the Southern Ice Waste. I don’t mind where. As long as I can come too.”
She knelt beside him, resting her arms on his knees and her head on her
arms, and Tom found that he was smiling in spite of himself at her crooked smile. “You aren’t a hero, and I’m not beautiful, and we probably won’t live happily ever after,” she said. “But we’re alive, and together, and we’re going to be all right.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am gratefully indebted to Leon Robinson and Brian Mitchell, who provided me with inspiration, encouragement and good ideas, to Mike Grant, who published my early efforts in his late lamented small-press magazine The Heliograph, and to Liz Cross, Kirsten Skidmore and Holly Skeet, without whose patience, enthusiasm and sound advice this book would have ended its days in my fireplace as a lot of very neatly typed kindling.
Philip Reeve
For Sarah and Sam
PART ONE
1
FROZEN NORTH
Freya woke early and lay for a while in the dark, feeling her city shiver and sway beneath her as its powerful engines sent it skimming across the ice. Sleepily, she waited for her servants to come and help her out of bed. It took her a few moments to remember that they were all dead.
She threw off the covers, lit the argon lamps and waded through dusty mounds of cast-off clothes to her bathroom. For several weeks now she had been working up the courage to have a shower, but once again this morning the complicated controls in the shower-stall defeated her: she couldn’t make the water come hot. In the end she just filled the hand-basin as usual and splashed her face and neck. There was a sliver of soap left, and she rubbed some into her hair and plunged her head under the water. Her bath-servants would have used shampoo, lotions, salves, conditioners, all sorts of pleasant-smelling balms; but they were all dead, and the rack upon rack of bottles in the walk-in bathroom cabinet intimidated Freya. Faced with so much choice, she chose to use nothing.
