At the end of the corridor, there was a flash of blue and a sound of scrabbling.
He hefted the ice-axe.
After a minute’s thought, he decided to investigate.
The end of the corridor opened out into a honeycomb of passages. The shadows were thick. In the dust at his feet, someone appeared to have written the letter A.
A cryptic message. A might mean Arthur or Atwood or God knows what. Who could have left it? Vaz might once have enjoyed playing that sort of game, but his sense of humour had been notably diminished by his time on Mars. And so far as Arthur knew, no other human being had ever walked those corridors.
Hadn’t Atwood said there were ghosts here? And hadn’t he said that there were difficulties of translation, that their way of thinking was strange?
He waited and listened for further messages.
There was another flash of blue at an arched window overhead. He jumped up and clambered over a steep-angled stone beam to find that someone had drawn an arrow in the dust on the window-sill. It pointed across a small yard.
Clearly the sensible course of action would be to report back to the others; and yet his distrust of Atwood was now too deep. It seemed to him that Atwood knew far too much already. If this message was meant for Atwood, he did not want him to have it.
He ran out across the yard. Shadows gathered and whispered; they seemed to stick to him like threads as he passed. He ducked in through an archway on the other side.
At the end of a corridor he came to a tower. It was narrow, and conical; a little light came in through the upper windows.
There was rustling. Dust fell on him. He looked up to see blue light descending through the gloom: faint sunlight through wide, bright stained-glass wings, wings that filled the tower as the creature descended. It must have come in through one of the upper windows. Lean body, silver eyes. Angelic and dreadful. He lifted the axe over his head, but the creature was already on top of him. A sharp-edged wing flashed out and cut the axe in half, leaving a wooden stump in his fist. He stabbed out with the spiked handle, but the creature dodged. He swore. The creature was making a sound that he couldn’t understand. Something like a wind lifted him and threw him against the wall. He slid in the dust and fell on his back.
Muscles moved on the creature’s back and the panes of a bright glass-like wing creaked and shifted and complexly folded back until they were almost invisible. The creature stood over him. He closed his eyes and waited for the death-blow.
Nothing happened. He opened his eyes again.
The creature was long-legged, stiff, and regal in its bearing. A loose blue shift hung around its narrow waist, attached by a chain of blood-red beads and rather battered-looking flowers. Its face was a mask of obscure intensity.
He thought it might be a female.
It reached out a long-fingered hand and touched his face. Its touch was cool, tingling, almost tender. She was producing a noisy high-pitched thrumming, of increasing volume.
He scrabbled in the dust, picked up the stump of the axe again. He held it out in front of him like a dagger.
She crouched down, reached out a finger, and drew his name in the dust.
He lowered his weapon.
“You know my name, then. What do you want? Do you want to make peace?”
The look she gave him was sad.
She drew a J in the dust, and then an O. Then she pointed at herself. But even before she’d begun drawing the letters he’d known what she was about to say. He knew without question who she was.
Not dead then; alive. But transfigured.
He slid down against the wall to fall in the dust, and she moved to catch him. He observed that her wings appeared to make their own faint light.
He said, “How?”
Perhaps this was simply what happened when one died on Mars. Perhaps this was what happened when anyone died anywhere. Reborn as a Martian; no stranger than Heaven, really. He felt like laughing.
She remained silent. Well, of course! What sort of angel would speak in the tongues of Man, or to such an unsuitable prophet as Arthur Archibald Shaw?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was too late. I came too late.”
Ridiculous. As if he were blaming a late train.
“And it was all my fault in the first place. Better if I’d never walked into Borel’s shop—better if the storm had blown me away. Oh, God, Josephine, but I tried.”
She reached out again and put a hand on his head. She blinked her silver eyes and he saw a parade of visions behind them: spinning moons of fire and rose, cities of ivory, Mr Borel’s stationery shop, a vault of sleeping blue bodies, the scarlet rivers of Mars when it was in full vibrant flower …
* * *
She left the way she’d come. He sat against the wall, his mind and his heart racing, his skin still tingling from her touch. He could still hear the thrum of her wings echoing in the empty tower—a faint eerie music. He knew that it would be a long time before he could make sense of what she’d shown him, if he ever did. There’d been too much to communicate, and it was all too strange. He understood only a handful of things, but they were enough.
He understood that dead Mars was an aberration, a flaw in the universal scheme. Elsewhere the universe was alive and beautiful.
Elsewhere, somehow, she was alive.
He stood. He didn’t know how much time had passed. It was still dark out. It felt as if their embrace had lasted for a year; he remembered a long season on the moon. It felt as if it had lasted for no more than an instant.
He took out his ice-axe and carved into the wall:
A A SHAW
MAN OF EARTH
1895
After a little thought he added:
HERE I FOUND JOSEPHINE BRADMAN
That felt inadequate, but it would have to do. There was no time. That was the other thing he’d understood.
She knew something about Atwood. She’d told him. He didn’t quite comprehend it. He had an image of an eye, and a circle, and a black sphere, and princes with the wings of angels and the faces of devils.
He knew where the Engine had come from, and Atwood’s magic, and the secrets of the Liber Ad Astra.
Ghosts lingered in this ruin. She’d tried to tell him what they were—that image of an eye again. He didn’t understand. It didn’t matter.
They meant ill. Whatever they planned to use Atwood for—or whatever Atwood planned to use them for—it had gone far enough.
I understand, he’d told her, before she went back to her people. He thought it unlikely that he would see her again.
* * *
He went back through the chambers and corridors until he was close enough to the gallery to hear faint echoes of Atwood’s voice. He sat down on the ground against a wall and moved a heavy fallen stone to lean against his leg. Then he called out, “Vaz! Mr Vaz! I’ve bloody well fallen—Mr Vaz, come here, give me a hand!”
Chapter Forty-two
The flapping of his ruined boot came first, then Vaz’s face, candle-lit, appeared from the shadows.
He looked sideways at Arthur’s leg.
“Bloody clumsy of you, Mr Shaw.”
“I’m glad you came, Mr Vaz.”
Vaz crouched on the far side of the chamber, rather pointedly outside of Arthur’s reach.
“I hope you don’t plan to hit me over the head with that stone, Mr Shaw.”
“Not at all.”
“Or with the axe, for that matter, if you have that hidden somewhere about you.”
“As a matter of fact, I lost it.”
“Then if you do not mean to ambush me—and yet you’re lying in wait, as if you distrust me—then it must be that you want to talk. You want to know if I will help you turn against Lord Atwood.”
“Thank God, Mr Vaz. Thank God. That certainly saves time. Yes. Two against two is better than three against one.”
“I did not say yes. The two of them have rifles, and we have nothing—not even an axe. Do you have a
plan?”
“I don’t suppose I do. Element of surprise; that’s all.”
“And then? Without Atwood, how will we get home?”
“We won’t, Mr Vaz. We won’t.”
“I see.” Vaz picked up his candle again, and held it up, studying the recesses of the room. Shadows moved from window to window.
“After a while,” he said, “one ceases to hear the wind. Lord Atwood promised me a ship of my own, you know.”
Arthur patted his pockets. “I can’t even offer you a cigarette, I’m afraid.”
“Let’s think. There are four of us at present. Nine when we started; four now. Bad luck all round, old chap. I have counted six of the—the natives. That is half again as many as four, and it would be twice three if Payne joins us, and three times two if he does not.”
“They mean us no harm. It’s Atwood they want to stop. But he’s dug in—they can’t get to him. They need our help. I think perhaps they’ll help us, if it comes to it.”
“There is also the small matter of right and wrong, Mr Shaw. What you are proposing is murder.”
“He means to do something dreadful. We—all of us—we are only … Mr Vaz, I saw Josephine.”
Vaz raised an eyebrow.
“She’s alive. I swear to you. She spoke to me. She knows his plans, and she spoke to me.”
“And what did she tell you, Mr Shaw?”
* * *
When they returned to the Gallery, Atwood and Payne were waiting by the windows. Payne marched briskly up to them.
“About bloody time. Where’ve you layabouts been hiding? It’s now or bloody never, so pull yourselves together.”
Payne shoved a rifle into Arthur’s hands and seized Vaz roughly by his elbow, as if he were an errant schoolboy. Vaz slapped his arm away and Payne scowled and cuffed Vaz’s ear. Arthur hit Payne under his chin with the butt of the rifle. He toppled backwards and his head struck the window-sill with an awful crack.
Atwood was already gone. At the first sign of violence he’d turned and fled, throwing himself on his belly down the tunnel that led to his cell.
* * *
Arthur crouched by the side of the chute, peering down to see lamplight at the bottom of it.
Atwood’s voice called up from below.
“My last trial, then. In the form of you, Mr Shaw, and you, Mr Vaz.”
“Stop talking like that, you bloody lunatic.”
“Remember that I have a pistol down here, Shaw. If I see your head coming down that chimney, I will shoot it off.”
Arthur crept over to the window, where Vaz was inspecting Payne’s body.
“I think he is probably dead,” Vaz whispered.
Arthur couldn’t bring himself to care either way. He doubted anyone back on Earth had ever loved Payne very much.
“Atwood’s right,” he whispered. “He’s dug in there, the bastard.”
“I can hear you both quite clearly,” Atwood said.
Arthur swore, picked up a chunk of stone, and threw it down the tunnel.
Atwood laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Shaw. You’re not thinking clearly, either of you. But listen. Listen.”
Atwood’s voice became friendly, ingratiating. “You’re afraid, I know. You’re tired. Good Lord, don’t you think I’m tired? The human body, the mind, they’re not made for this place. For the things we’ve seen. I know that you hear the voices of despair, the voices of madness. No wonder. But don’t falter now. Shaw—don’t falter now! Josephine depends on you. Josephine—”
“She’s alive, Atwood. I spoke to her.”
Arthur heard Atwood shifting about in his cell. He crept over to the side of the tunnel. Over by the window, Vaz readied Payne’s rifle.
“He’s mad, you know, Vaz,” Atwood said. “Shaw has gone mad.”
There was another long silence, except for footsteps and the scraping of stone below.
“I didn’t know,” Atwood said. “I didn’t know that she was alive. I’m very pleased. I never intended what happened to her.”
“Come out. Come out and we can talk this out.”
“That was a nasty-looking blow you struck Payne, Shaw. I didn’t know you had it in you. Is he dead?”
Arthur didn’t answer.
“Yes,” Vaz said.
“Come out, Atwood. Come out and talk. Tell us what you’re planning to do. I think—I think perhaps you’ve become confused, Atwood.”
There was a noise of scraping stone.
“One of us is mad,” Atwood called up. “Not me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought you here, Shaw. I thought you were strong enough. Now I see I made a mistake.”
Arthur glanced at Vaz. His face was set, apparently unmoved by Atwood’s words.
“Come out, Atwood.”
“And if I do?”
“Then we’ll let bygones be bygones. We can work together to get home.”
“Home!” Atwood’s laughter echoed up from the cell. “Home? We three, gentlemen—we have conquered Mars. We are the greatest magicians ever to have lived. And you want to go home.”
“Conquered? Not without help, I think, Atwood. What did they promise you to bring you here?”
Atwood stopped laughing.
“Answers, Shaw. I was promised answers. If I closed the circle. And I nearly have, Shaw; I have nearly unlocked the puzzle. A little more time. That’s all.”
“Answers? And what did you promise them?”
There was another long silence.
“One world for another,” Vaz said. “Is that right, Lord Atwood?”
Atwood called, “Is Josephine really alive, Shaw?”
“Come out, Atwood, and I’ll take you to her.”
There was no answer.
Vaz crept closer. The silence deepened. Lamplight reflected steadily on the tunnel’s walls.
“Are you there? Atwood, damn you, are you there?”
* * *
“It is a disgusting thing to do,” Vaz said, “but these are desperate times.”
He picked up Payne’s body by the shoulders. For an awful moment Arthur thought he was suggesting cannibalism, as if they were shipwrecked sailors. Then he indicated by pointing that Arthur should take Payne’s feet, and pointed a pistol at Payne’s head, from which Arthur understood that he was proposing to throw Payne down the tunnel, in the hope that Atwood, if he was still there, would reveal himself by shooting the corpse.
They threw Payne head first. Nothing happened.
The experiment was inconclusive.
Arthur swore and threw himself down. He landed on Payne’s body and scrabbled to his feet, expecting a bullet at any moment.
The cell was empty. The lantern, abandoned in the middle of the floor, illuminated a spiral of tablets etched with deeply shadowed carvings.
The rifle came clattering down. Vaz followed it.
At the far corner of the cell there was another tunnel, just large enough for a man to crawl into. They hadn’t known it was there. Last time Arthur was in the cell, Atwood had leaned the tablets against the wall to hide it.
They got down on their hands and knees and gave chase.
* * *
A little way along its length the tunnel began to slope upwards, and soon it turned into a smooth vertical chimney. Faint light beckoned at the top of it. It was narrow enough to climb. It would be a death-trap if Atwood began shooting down into it. But they were committed now.
They had to leave the rifle. They shouldered their way up.
* * *
After what felt like hours they emerged onto a rooftop. The courtyard was to their left. They looked out across a square expanse of stone, made chaotic by dust-dunes and by collapse—a steeplechase of fallen obelisks and weirder ornamentation. In the distance, the rooftop swelled up into the cracked stone egg of the castle’s dome. Beyond that the mountain, and tremendous black clouds. There was moonlight—the pale moon was rising behind the mountain.
Arthur saw Atwood in the distance, dodging fallen maso
nry. He had his pistol in one hand and held his papers precariously under his arm. Overhead, bright blue wings struggled through the storm towards him. There were two of them—no, three or more. Perhaps one of them was Josephine—Arthur couldn’t tell. Atwood fired his pistol. The sound was a dull crack over the howl of the storm. One of the Martians jerked, wings spasming, and fell from the sky.
Arthur charged, sliding in the dust, leaping over great holes that opened up into utter darkness below, roaring nonsense.
Atwood turned and pointed the pistol at him. Arthur kept running. The pistol wavered in Atwood’s hand, between Arthur and the Martians overhead. Atwood looked more frustrated than frightened, as if he were thoroughly annoyed with himself for the tactical blunder of fleeing the safety of the cell and exposing himself to the Martians. He fired at Arthur once and then turned and ran. He darted erratically across the uneven rooftop, clambering over obstacles and jumping over chasms. Wings swooped towards him; he ducked behind a pillar. Then he was off and running again. Arthur kept chasing him. Blue wings harried him back and forth. He saw Vaz running too, though they’d been separated by the wind and by various obstacles. Now Vaz was attempting to flank Atwood, as if they were playing a rough sort of sport. Atwood seemed to be searching for a window or bolt-hole by which he could return to the safety of the castle’s interior.
Atwood came to the edge of the roof. The dome rose on the other side of a narrow chasm. Atwood stopped as if considering jumping. It was clearly impossible without dropping his papers. Instead he turned, pointing his pistol at Arthur across an empty and shelterless expanse of rooftop.
* * *
Josephine circled behind Atwood and swooped, meaning to kill. He stepped lightly aside, dancing along the edge of the rooftop, as if some sixth sense had warned him of her approach, or as if her shadow had betrayed her. She scrabbled in the dust and turned—faster than he was expecting—and struck the gun from his hand.
His eyes widened—not in alarm, but as if in recognition. He rubbed his bruised hand and smiled.
The Revolutions Page 41
