by Philip Reeve
She spent the rest of the morning making bundles of the spars and spare timber and tying them securely to the rope’s end so that he could haul them up, untie them, and carry them inside the tower. Then there were big bales of paper to be lifted up, and bags of tools, and the unfinished propeller, and the clanking portions of Edgar Saraband’s aëro-engine. Finally, there was a bag of provisions. When Fever looked inside it she saw that it held only a wheel of cheese, some ship’s biscuits, a bag of sugared almonds and a flask of Thelonan wine.
“No flour?” she asked, not quite believing that he expected them to live here on just that. “No butter? Fruit? Water?”
“There’s water on the island,” Arlo said. “I’ll fetch my fishing tackle from the Jenny to catch our meals. And I think there are berries on the western side; there used to be. Anyway, we’ll be not be staying here long. We’ll finish the machine, and when it’s ready I shall fly it back to Mayda. It will soar over the city, and land on the lawns behind the Quadrado Del Mar.”
“Orca Mo will not like that,” said Fever.
“Not many Maydans think like Orca Mo nowadays,” said Arlo. “My people cling to their superstitions, but they’re not stupid. Once they see that flight is possible, and understand what it will mean for trade and profit, they will soon take to the idea, just as they have taken to land-barges. I’ll ask for investors, and set up a company. Vishniak and Jago Belkin will not dare to try anything once I am in the public eye. I’ll build a whole fleet of flyers, bigger and better models, able to carry passengers and cargoes…”
He held out one arm and startled Fever by letting out a piercing cry. With a flap of wings an angel settled on his wrist. Weasel, guessed Fever, and wondered how long she would have to spend among these birds before she learned to tell them apart as Arlo did. She couldn’t even sort males from females yet.
Arlo was talking to the bird, in clucks and gestures and in words as well. “The house… Yes…”
“House,” said the bird, and took flight. Fever shaded her eyes with one hand to watch him as he soared away over the sea towards the far-off, misty cone of Mayda. The angels made flying look so easy. You could see why Arlo, growing up among them, might start to think that he could do it too.
“Weasel will be our eyes in Mayda,” said Arlo. “I’ve asked him to tell us what’s happening at the house. If Fat Jago has found those dead thugs of his yet. Whether he’s looking for us.”
Fever didn’t answer. She kept watching the angel until he was out of sight. She remembered Fat Jago in the rain last night saying, “I’ll find him.” She remembered Thirza telling her, “There is nothing that happens in Mayda that Jago doesn’t find out about.” And it was not just Belkin and the Oktopous Cartel they had to fear, but the faceless threat of Lothar Vishniak as well. Could they really expect one scruffy seabird to outwit both of them?
19
LITTLE BIRD
p went Weasel, high, high, spreading his wings so that the kind, warm air above the beaches lifted him. Pitying as he went the poor left-behinds below him, Arlo and Arlo’s new young female, with only their feather-naked arms, no wings to loft and carry them, poor nestlings!
Carried on the gyres of the air he reached Mayda-sky with barely a wingbeat. From his height the city looked like a nest, and the harbour a blue egg laid in it. He half folded his wings and let earth-tug take him down, spreading them again as all the chimney pots lunged upwards at him. He swooped through the city’s invisible awning of scents, and the smoke smells and snack smells and garbage smells reminded him that he was hungry; but he knew he mustn’t stop. He was wiser than the rest of his people; he was not to be distracted by snacks and smells. Arlo wanted to know things, and Arlo was his friend.
So he went to the house; to Arlo’s house, which sat in the morning sunlight empty and dead-looking at the bottom of its garden. A sharp scent of carrion drew his eyes down to the two dead men in the garden, crawling with flies in the morning heat. Others of his people were there, hopping about in the grass beside the rails. They were picking up things in their beaks and their fingers; things that flashed and glittered in the sun. Fights broke out now and then, with fierce squawkings and wide-spread wings, as a new angel arrived and tried to take one of the glittery things for himself, but there were plenty to go around. Little shiny brass tubes they were, open at one end, empty inside, with a smell of fires and smoke about them. Good for decorating a nest, thought Weasel, landing, turning one of the tubes in his wing-fingers. He had to remind himself again that he was not like these others whose small heads were full of nothing but snacks and nestings. He was not here for nestings; he was here to be Arlo’s eyes.
He flew to the house. The door was open. More of his flock were inside, squabbling over scraps in the kitchen.
Suddenly, from the trees at the garden’s foot, a voice shouted, “Thursday? Fever?”
Angels exploded out of the house and rose from the garden like litter in a whirlwind. Their alarm calls jangled in Weasel’s narrow head. His instincts dragged him into the sky, but instead of fleeing with the rest he circled there and landed on the house roof, watching as the stranger climbed towards him up the steps.
“Fever?” shouted the man again, thinking that if she was hiding somewhere she might not have heard him over the screeching of those stupid birds. “It’s me! It’s Dr Teal!”
There was still no answer. Dr Teal snuffed the air suspiciously, catching the same sickly scent that Weasel had noticed a few moments earlier. He stooped and picked something up from the grass. A shell-casing from some sort of old-tech gun. Going to the rails, he looked down into the trench between them and saw what lay there. For a moment he was afraid that it might be what was left of Fever, but then the coverlet of blowflies lifted for a moment and he saw that the thing had been a man; bearded and brawny, with an octopus tattoo on his arm. Another just like him sprawled among the lavender bushes further down. The angels had already eaten their eyes.
“The Oktopous Cartel has been here, Dr Teal,” Dr Teal said aloud, covering his nose with his handkerchief and looking at those tattoos. “The Oktopous, and someone else who does not like them and is rather more heavily armed…” It was not strictly rational to talk to oneself, but it was a habit that he had. He reached inside his coat and took out the pistol he had been issued with before he left London, holding it ready as he moved on up the steps. The back door of Thursday’s house was open. Dr Teal went inside and moved cautiously through the empty rooms, stooping sometimes to examine a pattern of footprints in the dust and shavings on the floor.
“Och, Fever, Fever,” he said. He went outside again. Best to get away from this place before someone came looking for those Oktopous thugs. He put his pistol away and ran a hand over his head, three days’ worth of stubble rasping under his fingers. Just his luck. His message would have reached London by now. The Chief Engineer was sure to send envoys here to collect the Crumb girl, and Dr Teal would have to tell them that she was either missing or dead.
He went down the steps, looking back once at the sound of wingbeats as a lone angel took off from the roof of the empty house.
Weasel lifted himself easily over the trees and turned and rose, losing interest in the human, whom he did not know. He would tell Arlo later that the man had been here. For now he was hungry. The hunger was like a little voice inside him pleading for snacks. But he was not going to eat garbage-pail scraps and nasty dead men’s eyes like those less-clever ones; he knew where the best snacks were, better even than Arlo’s. Skimming over rooftops and the crags of the heights, he soared out of the city and slid down the kind sky to where a massive funicular sat among its gardens on the crater’s sunny southern slopes.
Weasel had another friend here. He called her name as he spiralled down towards the villa’s roofs. “Thirza-a-a-a! Thir-z-z-a-a-a!”
Everyone misunderstood Thirza Belkin. She knew what they said about her. That she had married for money. That she did not really love Fat Jago. That she wa
s a bird in a gilded cage. Even her best friends said it, behind their fans, at the lavish, wonderful parties that she gave. “She cannot love him.” But they had such simple ideas of what love was; little-girl ideas which they had cribbed from plays and stories.
Thirza was the first to admit that Jago wasn’t pleasing to look on. But what on earth did that matter? He was kind and gentle (at least he was to her), and he was clever, and he was very rich, and her father had been right; those things meant much more than physical attractions. She loved his wealth, and she loved helping him to make more of it, for it is one of the great pleasures of life to be surrounded by beautiful things and to know that you have earned them.
If she ever thought of Arlo Thursday, as she lay in her bed, which was as soft as summer clouds, or strolled down her gardens to her private beach, she was far too fine a lady now to let it show. But she was still amused by the angels, and she still talked to them sometimes in the language he had taught her, and gave them things to eat when they visited her in her garden. She was always pleased to see Weasel. When she heard him calling her name that morning she looked up, and waved to let him see where she was, and said to her maidservant, “Bisa, fetch some tidbits for our visitor.”
The maidservant, a little African girl whose parents had come to Mayda as refugees from the Zagwan Empire, set down the khora she had been playing and ran off into the house, while Thirza lazily stretched out her arm for Weasel to land on. He settled on the edge of an ornamental urn instead, and cocked one blue eye at her.
“Weasel!” she said. “Where have you been? It’s been days and days!”
Weasel made a movement that meant “fishing”, another that meant “flying”, a third that might have been his birdy version of a shrug. Days meant little to him. One of the first things that Arlo had taught her about the angels was that they had almost no concept of time.
The girl Bisa came running back, barefoot like all the Belkins’ servants so that her footsteps wouldn’t spoil the pleasant noises of the garden, the whispering ornamental grasses and the wind-harps. She was carrying a tray of lovely snacks; little fishy pieces, and creamy things in soft pastry cases. Most people couldn’t afford such dainties for their children, let alone as gifts for passing angels. Weasel hopped on to the tray’s edge and counted the snacks eagerly. One, two, lots! He was very glad that Thirza was his friend.
“And how is Arlo?” she asked, while he ate the snacks one by one.
She sometimes asked him about Arlo, and he saw no reason not to tell her, because Arlo was her friend too, even though she roosted with the large one who Arlo didn’t like. He bobbed and shuffled to make her understand that Arlo himself was roosting with a new female. “Fevacrum!” he said.
“Fever Crumb?” Thirza seemed pleased. Weasel thought she must be happy for her friend Arlo. He thought that she was hoping his roost would be safe and Fevacrum would give him lots of nestlings.
“Where are they?” Thirza asked him. “Where are they roosting, Arlo and Fever Crumb?”
Weasel told her. He raised his tail and slinked his head forward. That meant Thursday Island.
“Dear Weasel,” she said, resting her fingertips on the crest of his head as he ate. “Will you come back? Come often, and tell me all that Arlo is doing on his island?”
“Snacks?” said the angel hopefully.
“Oh, lots of snacks. But don’t tell Arlo, will you? Don’t tell him that you talk to me? He would not understand. You promise?”
“Promise,” said Weasel. He didn’t understand either; the ways of Arlo’s kind were often strange to him. But he knew they were clever; cleverer than him, and if Thirza didn’t want him to tell, he wouldn’t tell. Thirza was his friend, and her snacks were even nicer than Arlo’s.
Fat Jago came home late that evening. Thirza did not need to ask him how he was, or how his day had been. She could tell from the sound of his footsteps as he crossed the atrium that he was weary and frustrated. She sent Bisa running for cold drinks, and dispatched another servant to the kitchens to tell the cooks to start preparing supper. She rang a bell to alert still more servants, and the house shivered gently and began its long descent towards the foot of the garden, so that the Belkins would have a view over their beach and the sunset sea while they dined. Then she went and settled herself beside her husband and rested her head upon his comfily upholstered shoulder.
“Bad?” she asked.
Fat Jago stroked her hair. “Bad. The girl’s vanished. I blame myself. I should just have had Murtinho and Splint cut her throat for her last night, but I wanted to do something a bit showy with her: let people know not to anger the Oktopous. Now she’s gone, and the lads are both dead, shot to pieces somehow. I’ve never seen the like. And Murtinho’s got a wife and three kids. He had a wife and three kids, I mean.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Thirza. “We’ll look after Senhora Murtinho and her little ones, won’t we?”
“Of course. But Arlo Thursday’s still missing, too. Is the Londoner responsible? Teal? Some of our people saw him nosing around the Thursday place this morning. But he doesn’t look hard enough to have taken out Splint and Murtinho. He’s a scholar, not a shooter. I suppose I’ll have to bring him in for questioning…”
“No,” said Thirza firmly. “Teal is London’s man and you mustn’t risk offending London. What about all those contracts Quercus has signed with our friends in Matapan, for slaves, steel, copper? If you upset London the Oktopous will not be pleased with us.”
This was something else that people didn’t understand when they saw Thirza with her husband. She was so young and beautiful that they assumed she must have no more brains than one of the charms that dangled from his watch chain. They certainly never imagined that she knew anything of the murkier depths of his business affairs. But Thirza had a sharp mind, and Fat Jago had recognized it right at the beginning of their marriage, and shared everything with her. He had not regretted it. It had been Thirza who had first suggested that he make contact with the Oktopous Cartel and put himself forward as their agent here at the World’s End.
“Anyway,” she said, snuggling against him, pleased to be able give him good news here at the end of his hard day. “I don’t believe this horrible Dr Teal has any idea where Arlo and the girl are. But I do.”
“You do?”
“A little bird told me. Arlo has gone back to his island. Fever Crumb is with him. He is going to build his machine there in peace and quiet, alone…”
“Except for the London girl…”
“Maybe he wants her as his assistant; or maybe they are an item. They are certainly strange enough for one another.”
“I’ll send a ship to Thursday Island first thing tomorrow,” said Fat Jago, all his weariness falling from him as the news sank in. “We’ll kill the girl and bring Thursday back to Mayda…”
“No!” said Thirza again. “There is no need. Why shake the tree before the fruit has ripened? We are the only ones who know they are out there. Let them stay. Let them build their machine. My little bird will tell us when it is ready, and then you can go there and collect it.”
Fat Jago looked admiringly at her. She was always surprising him.
A tiny frown crumpled her perfect forehead for a moment. “You are certain that it was Fever Crumb who shot Flynn?”
Fat Jago snorted. “She told me it was this fellow Vishniak, but I’ve had our people ask all over Mayda, and nobody’s heard of any Vishniak arriving here. It must have been the Crumb girl.”
Thirza shook her head and laughed. “And she seemed such a prim and proper little thing!”
“Well so did you, my dove, when I first asked old Blaizey for your hand in marriage,” said her husband fondly.
Their house bumped gently against its buffers, down at the garden’s foot. Outside their windows flights of angels blew across the sunset, and small waves crumpled neatly into lace and silver on the sands of their beach, while their servants entered barefoot, silent, bringing
them their supper.
20
WINGS OF THE FUTURE
t felt strange, next morning, waking in that tower. Such a big space, especially to someone used to living in a land-barge cabin no larger than a wardrobe. Fever thought for a moment of her room in the hotel on Rua Penhasco, feeling sad that she had never actually got to sleep in it. It was a pity she had paid in advance…
But it was hard to feel sad for long, with such a soft, golden, watery light shining through those slices of window and the empty doorway. She could hear the sea breathing softly. Nothing else. When she lifted her head and looked across the room, Arlo’s bunk was empty. She stood up, pulled on her shoes, checked that her hair was still tied back tidily. When she stepped outside, the air was all light and wings; a blizzard of angels tumbling past the tower and blowing along the beaches, their shadows racing over the ivied ruins by the quay.
Walking westward, Fever climbed over a spur of the cliffs and came down on to a flat expanse of grass divided by low mounds and hummocks, looking out across a beach. The sun made a mirror of the wet sand, and Arlo was standing there, naked on his own reflection. He had been swimming, or about to swim, but he had stopped halfway between Fever and the sea to talk to the angels.
The birds whirled all around him, a white vortex of wings with Arlo as the still point at their centre. He stood with his arms outstretched and the angels landed on them. Fever watched him bob his head and sway his neck in answer to their swayings and their bobs. She heard the angels softly squawking and chattering, and she guessed that if she went closer she would be able to hear Arlo making the same sounds. Then one of them saw her, and the whole flock rose in alarm, whirling away over the sea like a bashful tornado.
