But what is she to do? What is he going to do? He’s blocking her way, not moving. Then he does move. Mara’s heartbeat thuds in her ears as, with his eyes fixed on hers, Tony Rex raises his crystal knuckle phone to his mouth.
“Yeah, I remember—you’re a girl who likes a taste of real, extreme fear, aren’t you, Mara? Well, I think I’ve got just the thing for you.”
With his mouth over the knuckle phone on his left hand, his right hand moves quickly to a jacket pocket. His eyes, sharp now with that indeterminate something that disturbs her so much, never leave hers. Holding his eyes, aware of his every movement, Mara slips fleet fingers into her trouser pocket. Her thoughts fly faster than light. What’s in his pocket? A weapon? A gun? Who is he calling? If he’s a rook and he’s calling security, then it’s all over for her; but she can’t let that happen—not now when she’s so close to escape. She won’t let it happen.
In her pocket, her fingers make contact with the small, cold, sharpened stone blade of Wing’s dagger. Carefully she turns it around in her fingers to grip the ancient bone handle. Blood pounds hard in her head, all through her body, right to her fingertips. The dagger seems to pulsate.
Tony Rex pulls a clenched hand from his jacket and opens his mouth to speak into the knuckle phone. And Mara lunges for her future. She stabs Tony Rex in the heart with the bone-handled dagger.
Stone ruptures soft flesh. Bone crunches against bone; ancient animal bone on live human bone.
Mara lets go of the dagger. She reels back against the tunnel wall and watches a world end. Tony Rex crumples and, with a cry that fills the nexus, dies slowly and brutally at her feet.
The moment is enormous, empty, and ugly.
Mara stands helplessly beside the body. The awful gush of blood makes her want to pull out the dagger, plug the gaping wound, and somehow bring him back to life. But she can’t do anything. Her limbs are useless, and she can hardly breathe. He is dead.
Mara looks at his clenched fingers and sees the sleek, pencil-like cylinder that he reached for. She doesn’t know what it is but she’s sure it’s some kind of weapon.
Numb and trembling so violently that she can hardly stand, Mara follows the animal fear and instinct that tell her to get away, now, as fast as she can.
She has killed Tony Rex. And she must live with that.
The window of time has been smashed wide open and New Mungo is in seizure.
Everything that holds the city together, all the electronics, lumens, lights, and security—even the backup systems—are shuddering under the onslaught of Fox’s cyberflood. He has timed the wipeout to hit as darkness falls to give their escape the cover of night. But Mara cannot focus on the next part of the plan; all she can think of is what she has just done to Tony Rex. Yet she must calm down and fix her mind on getting to the Eastern Sea Bridge, where she hopes with all her might that she will find Gorbals and Wing.
She veers out of the nexus and zooms along a single main artery, a long arm of tunnel that dips into a steep slope that seems to stretch forever downward. When, finally, it breaks up into building rubble, she stops. Under the dim flicker of failing lights, Mara kicks off her zapeedos and the too-tight shoes, and pulls out the scrap of paper, folded up into the tiniest parcel, from a toecap. Her fingers are trembling so much she can hardly unfold Caledon’s sketch of the Eastern Sea Bridge extension. She smoothes the paper flat on the ground and rubs her sore feet as she studies the sketch in the glow of her cyberwizz halo.
Well, she’s definitely in the right zone. From where she is she can just see the dark circle that is the end of the tunnel. Beyond that should be the incomplete arm of the Eastern Sea Bridge that runs high above the ocean of Eurosea.
A distant clanking makes her press an ear to the tunnel wall. Now, the noises are amplified into industrial clangs and bangs that give her hope that she’s right. But even so, it’s all guesswork—will Gorbals be here? And Wing?
Once—if—she finds them, she will gather together as many people as she can and tell them the city is in breakdown, that they must follow her and take this chance to rush the guards and run for their lives to the fleet of ships harbored in the legs of the city’s support towers. She will issue the watertight packets containing navigation disks with their set of instructions, which say that everyone must grab food supplies from the stock halls in the great towers. Meanwhile, Mara will get the Treenesters onto a ship. Then, without delay, they will sail out of the city gates and due north to the mountains of the melted ice lands.
It’s all crazy. Impossible. Mara tries to remind herself that the impossible can happen—but she knows she’ll need nothing short of a miracle for it all to succeed.
The lights give one last buzz and flicker, then the tunnel falls into darkness. Mara gets to her feet, chucks away the cramping shoes she has come to hate, and begins to run barefoot out of the tunnel mouth onto the Eastern Sea Bridge.
With the lights down, and the backup systems gone too, the city guards and their robo-dogs stumble about in confusion. Mara hears their bewildered shouts, knowing what they don’t—that all their communication systems have crashed. She runs until she’s out on the open bridge, high above the ocean. The cold night air feels brutal; realworld has no temperature control. Mara feels she is running through an empty universe, yelling for Gorbals and Wing as hard as she can, her cyberwizz halo held high, the only light in the blackness.
No one answers her cries. There’s no sign of anyone at all. At long last she stops, drenched in cold sweat, scared she might hurtle off the unfinished end of the bridge and crash down into the ocean far below. She delves into her backpack and finds the now-crumbly sprigs of herbs. Mara shreds the dry sprigs between her fingers and breathes their scent deeply. Clear head and courage, she tells herself over and over.
Now she moves more calmly, walking forward, holding her halo high. And with a shock she sees its glow alight upon a great huddle of dirty, exhausted faces among piles of tarpaulin and building materials. Her earlier noise and speed must have frightened them into hiding. Now, at every step, the halo glow reveals more and yet more huddles—masses upon masses of slaves.
“Gorbals! Wing!” she shouts, frantically searching every face, but there’s no answer. Then at last someone moves out of one of the huddles and grabs her arm. It’s a girl. She thrusts a hand toward Mara’s face. Mara flinches, but the girl only reaches up to trace with a finger the now-faded line of the scar on her cheek. Suddenly Mara is both laughing and crying at once, hugging the girl in relief, because it’s Scarwell—the wild girl who attacked her in the cathedral. She never thought she’d be so pleased to see her again.
“Scarwell, where’s Wing?” Mara cries. “Do you know where Wing is? Wing!”
The girl frowns in concentration, as if she is trying to decipher Mara’s words. Then her expression clears and she turns to another urchin and babbles something unintelligible. And something begins to happen. The urchins are passing some communication between them. Mara can feel it ripple through their flock, then hears some of the urchins scampering down the dark road of the sea bridge. Mara waits in the dark for what feels like an eternity. Then at last, out of the darkness, a small figure emerges. Mara holds her breath. She hardly dares hope … but yes—it’s Wing, her own little urchin. She runs and grabs him and holds him close, crying with delight, babbling as unintelligibly as any urchin.
But Wing doesn’t want to be hugged. He yanks himself free and runs back off into the dark before Mara can stop him.
“No, wait! Wing, I need you. Come here! You must help me find Gorbals!”
But Wing seems to be activating another ripple of communication; again Mara can feel the message spread. Now the urchins seem to be parting, making a clear pathway to pull a figure through—a tall, thin, gangly figure who is pushed toward her by the urchins. He’s only a shadow beyond the reach of her halo beam but when he trips clumsily over a bit of rubble, Mara knows who it is.
SPLINTER
“Mara,
Mara!”
Gorbals lurches into her arms. Mara hugs him tight and feels him flinch.
“Are you hurt?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he assures her, but he is suffering from some pain or injury, she can tell. And he is changed: shaven-headed, thin, and utterly exhausted looking. “I’m so glad to see you, Mara. But no,” he corrects himself. “No, I’m not! If you’re here then it means they’ve taken you as a slave too.”
“No, Gorbals. I’m free and soon you will be too. We’re going to get the other Treenesters and all these people and children and escape onto the ships. There’s no time to explain—we have to go now. Listen, everyone!” Mara raises her voice to make sure she’s heard above the mass of fearful, excited voices. “The city is in breakdown. We’re going to escape and make for high land in the far north of the world. We need to get to the ships in the legs of the great towers. Everyone—spread the word and follow me! Grab anything that can be used as a weapon—bricks, tools, anything—and be ready to fight for your lives. Now let’s go!”
Grabbing both Gorbals and Wing by the hand, Mara races back along the sea bridge, into the great arm of tunnel that leads to the nexus, followed by a seething mass of slaves. They have to fight through a posse of guards. Gunfire ricochets off the walls, and Mara hears people scream and fall around her as they are hit, but the mass of slaves—brutal with desperation, makeshift weapons at the ready, their eyes used to the darkness of the open sea bridge—have the advantage over the shocked and confused guards.
They climb the steeply rising tunnel that connects the bridge to the city and head for the maze of the nexus. Mara must find the nearest air vents, as quickly as possible. She tried to memorize their positions on the way in, but there was light then. Now, apart from the glow of her halo, it’s pitch dark.
At long last, her halo alights on a vent. With the help of Gorbals and some of the others, she kicks the metal grille until it hangs loose and can be yanked from the tunnel wall. Then, at top speed, she hands out the watertight packages that contain the navigation disks and their penciled instructions.
“We must escape down the spiregyres!” Mara yells. “The sea bridge is too high to jump from and too far from the ships, and the city’s electrics have crashed so the lifts won’t work. Look for more air vents and jump in! Once you’re down, swim for the ships in the tower legs!”
People begin to race along the tunnels in search of escape routes. Mara begins launching people down the spire-gyre.
Gorbals stares into the coiling air chute in horror.
“No, Mara, no! I can’t.”
“You must, Gorbals! It’s the only way. You’ll never see Broomielaw or any of the others again if you don’t. Once you hit the water, swim to the Hill of Doves and I’ll meet you there. Quick—go! You’re almost free!”
Mara gives him a fierce hug then pushes him brutally into the chute of the spiregyre. She waits a moment, then, with another fierce hug, launches Wing. Then herself. Feet first, she begins the immense helter-skelter on a cushioning blast of waste air down the great spiregyre that coils the entire length of New Mungo’s vast towers.
The hurtling spin downward is so petrifyingly violent she is sure it will kill her. Mara screams as she crashes off the sides of the chute, falling through echoes of her own terror, as her voice rebounds through the coils of the spiregyre. She is being spun and battered out of her body, out of her own self.
When at last she shoots out into thin air it’s worse, a timeless moment of nothingness, of helplessly falling forever, it seems—until it ends in a colossal black crash of such force she is sure she is dead, now. This vast, cold, drowning weight of darkness she has plunged into must be death. All around her are ghostly, glimmering things. Necrotty. The word filters into her stunned head, just as she realizes that it’s not death but sea. The darkness parts and now, free and light of its dragging weight, she bursts back into the world, up into the miracle of air. She gulps huge greedy breaths of it until at last her body reclaims her self and she is Mara once more, half-drowned, drenched, and reeling—but alive.
The first thing she thinks of is Fox. Has he survived this? All around her people are crashing into the water from the spiregyres, choking and struggling, thrashing and shouting. Wing will be all right, she’s sure. He is as much at home in the water as on land. But Gorbals?
“Mara!” A voice splutters above the noise.
“Gorbals! Over here!”
They struggle through the mass of thrashing bodies, toward the sound of each other’s shouts.
“We’re alive!” he gasps. “I thought I would die!”
“Swim hard!” cries Mara. She doesn’t want to think about that terrifying spin down the spiregyre ever again. “Swim to your island. Oh, but which way is it, which way?”
“Look, there’s the arm of the broken bridge,” Gorbals splutters, as a wave hits him in the face. “I know where we are—this way!”
The world is erupting all around them. Alarm bells are clanging, shrill and harsh, and gunfire hammers the air as tens, hundreds, thousands of crying, yelling, screaming men, women, and children, the captive army of New Mungo’s slaves, crack the city open and rush upon the waters of the netherworld in a mass breakout, a human explosion of trapped rage.
“What have I done?” Mara cries in panic. “Oh, what on earth have I done?”
“Mara, you haven’t done this.” Gorbals swims closer to her, bewildered at the cascade of bodies around them. “This is immense, it’s—it’s …”
Mara is numb with the shock of what she has unleashed.
“Keep going, Mara, keep swimming. Look! Here’s a raft.” Gorbals hauls and pushes her onto a metallic junk vessel and swims behind, holding on for support.
Mara wants to flop, trembling, into the junk raft but she sees how Gorbals is struggling and realizes how weak he must be from the shock of release and from his harsh term of slave labor. And he was in pain too. So she begins to use her arms as oars and now they move more steadily across the dark waters toward the Treenesters’ island. Mara can still hardly believe that she has found Gorbals and Wing, that she actually rescued them, as she set out to do. Gorbals looks so unlike himself with his head shaven and his strawlike locks all gone. But he’s alive.
“Can you see Wing?” she cries. It’s almost impossible to see anything in the thick dark of the netherworld.
Gorbals peers through the water, his owlish night vision stronger than hers.
“Over there! It’s the ratkins! Look at them go!” Gorbals exclaims.
A mass of urchins surge past, moving across the dark water in an arrow-flock, like birds or fish, as if they know exactly where they are going.
Mara can’t tell if Wing is among them; she can only hope he is.
The raft hits land and they stagger onto the Hill of Doves, up to the clearing where the Treenesters have hidden themselves among the branches. A mass of huge eyes stare down in shock at the chaos that’s been unleashed in their world. There’s a cry and Broomielaw jumps down from a tree. She seizes Gorbals in a fierce, frightened embrace, then Mara. Her amazed eyes say what she is too overcome to put into words.
“Mara, what’s happening?” cries Molendinar, landing on the grass beside her with a thump.
One by one the Treenesters drop down from the trees.
“There’s no time to explain but you must all hurry and follow me to the ships in the city towers,” Mara declares.
“Ships?” gasps Broomielaw. “You mean you’ve made it happen? We are going to be free? Then this really is the stone-telling?”
“And you really are the Face in the Stone!” declares Gorbals. “I knew it.”
“All I know,” says Mara, trying to keep a cool head, “is that we need to move very fast, if we want to escape. Now hurry, everyone!”
“Candleriggs! Quick! Come down! Mara has saved us!” Broomielaw yells up to the greatnest. Then she reaches into a tree nook and pulls out a twig lantern cage.
“See!
I looked after him for the ratkin. Did you rescue him too?”
Mara looks inside the twig cage and instead of moon-moths there is the sparrow—Wing’s bird friend.
“Yes, and I just hope he’s still safe. Look after his bird, Broomielaw, and we’ll try to find him. Now, quick! Everyone to the rafts.”
“They come! They come in glorious march!” Gorbals is chanting in wild delight. “As they dash through skill’s triumphal arch, or plunge mid the dancing spray. That long-ago poet saw all this too, Mara.”
But Mara is in a panic, piling everyone on the rafts and helping Ibrox to push them off onto the waters. What’s keeping Candleriggs and Broomielaw? Baby Clayslaps is clinging around Pollock’s neck, whimpering for his mother.
“Stubborn old woman!” Distraught, Broomielaw runs down the Hill of Doves. “Mara—please go and talk to Candleriggs—she says she won’t come. All these years she’s waited for the stone-telling and now it’s happening, she won’t be part of it!”
Mara rushes back uphill to the greatnest.
“Candleriggs!” she cries in panic. “You must come now! This is our only chance.”
“The stone-telling was never for me, Mara,” the old woman’s voice calls down from the branches of the oak. “It’s for you and the others. That’s your future. My place is here. Go now.”
Mara remembers Tain’s refusal to leave his island home and wonders what she can do if the old woman really has made up her mind to stay.
“Listen to me!” Candleriggs shouts down, straining to be heard above the clangor of New Mungo’s alarm bells. “I am the last woman of a generation of Earth people who no longer exist. I have lived a life no one else will ever live. Soon I’ll fall from the world like a leaf from a tree. I will be as I am until the very end of myself. But Mara,” the old woman’s voice drops so that Mara can only just hear, “just tell me one thing. Is he still alive?”
Pathfinder Page 26
