by Ian Whates
Tom was only half-listening. His stomach still seemed to be falling and it was all he could do not to throw up.
"What's the likes of him doing up in the Heights?"
"Who cares? Toss him back!"
This last was greeted by a chorus of approval and Tom realised that fate was cruelly toying with him, that he had been saved only to be slung over the wall again. A host of hulking forms loomed over him.
"No, wait," he yelled desperately. "I know things!"
That earned him a barrage of laughter.
"'Course you do, lad. Street-nicks are famous for what they know."
"Arkademics and seers, the lot of them," another voice chipped in.
"Really, I do." He started to thrash in desperation, fighting the hands that continued to free him from the netting, unheeding of his resistance. One huge fist closed around his upper arm with a vice-like grip and started to haul him upwards. Somebody else took hold of his feet, before he even thought to kick out in earnest, and he was lifted physically into the air amid howls of laughter, to be dumped on the ground once more, beside the pile of netting.
His own thrashing probably decided matters. His stomach had been through enough. Tom hurriedly rolled to his knees and started to vomit.
The wall of onlookers drew back instinctively. "Thaissing good-for-nothing grubber!"
"I'm not clearing that up."
"He's no thaissing Kite Guard," another voice said impatiently. "Why are we wasting our time? There'll be no reward for returning the likes of him. Throw 'im back over!"
Tom wiped his mouth and swallowed, tasting sourness. He wondered if he could make a run for it, but there was no way through the seemingly solid mass of legs and bodies. He was trapped.
"Enough!" With that one word, the newcomer quieted the hubbub. "We're not murderers."
"We were only fooling around, Red," a rather subdued voice muttered defensively.
The encircling wall of shapes parted and a single figure stepped forward, the first to become readily distinguishable from the dark mass of shifting forms that surrounded Tom. Hands reached towards him. Instinctively, he shrank away but the hands grasped him with unhurried assurance and pulled him to his feet. Tom found himself staring into a be-whiskered face.
"Hoy!" A sudden shout drew his attention outward once more. He looked up in time to see a long-barrelled weapon discharged. The gun pointed towards what looked to be a pair of ethereal eyes hovering in the air; though Tom only caught a glimpse, so perhaps he was mistaken. Whatever it had been, it immediately distorted into something unrecognisable and was limned with dancing green fire which contracted before vanishing altogether, leaving the night empty and Tom blinking away emerald stars.
Somebody near Tom hawked and spat. "Snooping little sky breckers!"
"Come on." Tom felt a hand on his back, urging him within the city; the man who had helped him to his feet evidently keen to get away from the walls. Others were already making their way inside.
"What was that?" Tom wanted to know.
"Somebody from the Heights spying on us. They won't follow once we're off the walls."
Tom found himself wondering exactly who was being spied upon: these people or him.
"Who are you?"
"Individually, I'm Red; collectively we're the Swarbs."
"Swarbs?"
"The word originally stood for Sanitation Workers and Refuse Burners, work that some of us still do, though now it just stands for us," the figure replied proudly. Not that Tom was paying that much attention. Memories of the city's levels verse stirred in the back of his mind.
Through a parkland row where deer still roam,
To the solid streets that the Swarbs call home...
If unreliable recollection served him right, the Swarbs lived on a Row somewhere below the middle of the city, which meant that his stomach-churning fall had carried him more than halfway home.
"We harvest the sky. It's amazing what folk from the upper Rows just toss over the walls as junk. Might be useless to them, but some of it's breckin' good stuff. Occasionally, we even catch people, like you. Well, no, that's not true; we've never landed anyone quite like you in the nets before. So what is a street-nick doing up in the Heights, in any case?"
Tom said nothing.
The big man grunted. "Fair enough. A man's entitled to his secrets."
Tom liked that - being called a man; especially by someone who so obviously was. He remained under no illusion though: he might not be in chains but neither had the Swarbs let him go. What was he then, some sort of trophy? A pet? Whatever they saw in him, he knew that he would have to find a way of escaping from this Red and his cronies sooner rather than later.
Tylus watched the small figure of the boy fall, though it seemed to grow no nearer the polished wood of the tabletop. He saw the scavenging Swarbs and their array of nets which girdled this section of the walls like a skirt of webbing, saw the plummeting figure strike one of the nets and keep going. The brawny Swarbs strained with arms locked and muscles bulging, attempting to keep hold of the net and the prize within as the cane framework supporting that particular net shattered and gave way. Tylus realised that he was waiting for them to fail or for the netting to break. It seemed impossible their efforts could succeed, such was the force with which the boy hit. Yet somehow the net held. Before his eyes it began to rebound, until the boy was tossed up into the air again, just a little, to come back down for a far gentler landing.
"He's alive!" Tylus gasped.
"So it would seem."
The arkademic continued talking. "The nets are elasticated, clearly. They somehow managed to absorb all that momentum, breaking the fall gently, causing no discernable damage and only imparting enough energy back to the faller to make them bob a little in the net rather than shooting them up high again. Quite remarkable material. One day, I really must find the time to discover how the Swarbs developed it."
Distracted, Tylus paid the words only cursory attention. The revelation of the boy's survival lifted his spirits immeasurably and proved far more of a relief than he would ever have expected.
All he could think was the boy is alive.
His attention returned to the scene being played out in the air before him, too fascinated to question any longer how he was seeing this.
A heated debate appeared to be going on among the Swarbs, and Tylus regretted the lack of sound. He could make a reasonable guess at what was being said, though: "Throw him back; it's only a worthless street-nick."
And maybe, "We can't do that, he's just a boy. Besides, think of all the effort we put into catching him."
Eventually those arguing for compassion must have won out, because the net was hauled in rather than being turned out while still beyond the walls.
After being dumped unceremoniously on the ground, the boy, freed of the netting, was promptly sick, much to the evident disgust of many there. The Swarbs started to collect the discarded net. One of them, to the very right of the scene, looked up and seemed to stare straight at Tylus, as if suddenly aware that their actions were being observed. He tugged urgently at the sleeve of the man beside him, a figure only half visible - an arm and part of a torso that appeared to be unattached to anything else due to the limited field of view.
A face and neck then came into view, as the half-seen individual followed the first man's pointed finger, before just as quickly vanishing.
An instant later, a sharp green light swelled into view, blanketing the scene and causing Tylus to wince at the dazzling brightness.
Even that started to fade and the image disappeared altogether. Once more he could see clear across the tabletop to where Magnus sat calmly watching him.
Tylus was desperate to know what had happened to the street-nick, but he was also acutely aware of the status of the man sitting opposite him, so bit his tongue and waited to be addressed.
"You've been told of the heinous crime committed earlier tonight?"
"Yes, sir."
/> "Good. As you see, the murderer has succeeded in escaping both yourself and justice in general. That is not a situation that can be allowed to continue."
"No, sir."
The arkademic sighed and shook his head. "The victim was a great man and a dear friend of mine; someone who will be sadly missed by the city and its people. The individual responsible has to be caught and brought to justice. I'm charging you, Kite Officer Tylus, with seeing that this happens. You are relieved of your normal duties with immediate effect and will hunt this murderer down wherever the path may take you."
Tylus was stunned yet knew this was a task he couldn't refuse and, besides, it was his fault the lad had escaped. Almost without realising, he was on his feet and standing to attention again, inflamed by a righteous need to see justice done.
"Certainly, sir; you can count on me. I'll begin by talking to the Swarbs..."
The arkademic was shaking his head. "A noble sentiment, officer, but we both know how well the Swarbs react to representatives of the law, especially Kite Guards. Besides, the lad won't be there anymore. He's of no value to them and, although a capricious and contrary lot by nature, the Swarbs are not known to be heartless. They will almost certainly have let him go. I expect by now the lad is safely back in the City Below.
"Here." He leant forward and held out a folded sheet of paper. "This is my warrant, requiring that any official should place all and any resources you reasonably require at your disposal. I'll send word ahead to the relevant authorities but, should you encounter any reluctance, show this warrant and none will gainsay you anything you need."
Tylus took the document, barely able to believe that an instrument of such power should rest in his hand. "Thank you, sir."
"Now, I believe that concludes our business. Doubtless you've had a long and busy night. Rest for what remains of it and in the morning set about your task. Don't let me down."
Tylus recognised a dismissal when he heard one. "I won't, sir!" He saluted, turned smartly around and proceeded to march out.
"Oh, one more thing, Kite Guard Tylus..."
He paused, in the process of opening the door, and looked back. "Sir?"
"That cape; see it's replaced before you set out. We can't have you going to the City Below with a torn uniform - sets a bad example."
"Yes, sir, of course, sir." Tylus turned and left, hiding a smirk and grateful to have worn the cape after all. It was more than worth a little discomfort. Let Sergeant Goss try and deny him a new kitecape now.
Magnus waited, staring at the play of resurgent flame as the fire found a fresh piece of wood to devour. He listened to the front door close, which would signal Dewar showing the Kite Guard out. Seconds later, the door to the study opened and Dewar stepped inside. So much more than a servant, this was Magnus's factotum, his man-for-all-tasks. Before Magnus employed him, Dewar had been a simple and very effective assassin, albeit one with a penchant for the sadistic.
The arkademic continued to stare at the fire. "You heard all that?"
"Of course," the other responded. "That idiot stands as much chance of finding your street-nick as I do of gaining admittance to the Chapel of the Sacred Virgins."
"Less, I would think, given your various talents."
"He won't last five minutes in the City Below."
"Oh, I think he might; after all, you're going to be there to ensure that he does."
"Am I?"
"Quietly, of course."
"And why would I want to do that?"
Magnus turned to face his companion for the first time. He resisted the answer that sprang instantly to mind - because I told you to - and instead responded, "Because while that buffoon is blundering around drawing everyone's attention, no one will notice the real hunter skulking in the shadows."
Now the other smiled, an act that saw his bland features take on a darkly sinister animation.
"Ahh, that would be me, I take it."
"Precisely. Find me that boy. Bring him to me."
"I don't get it. Why is this runt so important to you? So what if he saw you knife Thomas? You're up here and he's down there. What harm can he possibly do?"
"No loose ends!" Magnus snapped; then, as if relenting, added, "My elevation to the ranks of the Masters is so close, Dewar, I can almost taste it. The culmination of everything I've been working towards - I won't let anything threaten that." All of which was true, though it was only part of the answer. "He resisted me, Dewar," Magnus added quietly. "Can you imagine that? First he hid within metres of me and I never knew he was there - which is something very few people could manage - and then he broke my command to halt. Even fewer are capable of that. And yet this kid, this grubber, this nobody from the City Below, managed it; he defied my will. I need to see this boy, to talk to him, to find out how that's possible."
The man called Dewar inclined his head, accepting the information. "Very well. I still think you should have let me take care of Thomas in the first place."
Magnus shook his head. "I had to be sure. Thomas was far too valuable as a potential ally to simply be killed out of hand. Besides, he was no fool, and I knew that he would let his guard down with me, would allow me to get close enough. It would all have gone perfectly if not for that wretched street-nick, but no matter. This one I will leave in your capable hands." The arkademic gazed back to the embers of the fire. After a handful of silent seconds, he signalled the conversation was over with a dismissive wave.
Dewar started to turn away, but paused and asked, as if it were an afterthought, "What about the Kite Guard?"
"Once he has served his purpose, do with him as you will. The City Below is, after all, such a dangerous place to be."
If the earlier smile had caused the man's face to seem sinister, this one made it look positively evil.
"Oh, and Dewar, just so there is no misunderstanding; if you should fetch the boy back alive, I would be delighted. Dead would be acceptable. Returning without him would not."
The factotum raised his eyebrows in apparent surprise. "I took that much for granted."
THREE
Before starting the final descent, Tom paused for a moment to gaze upon the City Below. At first he did this with simple and heart-felt relief, but then more practical considerations came to the fore, as he took stock of exactly where he was and searched for familiar reference points.
His grazed arm had been throbbing for some while and the sole of his left shoe had worn through completely, but Tom didn't care. This was home.
His fears regarding the Swarbs and their intentions towards him had proven to be unfounded. Red took him through a bewildering sequence of dimly-lit corridors, chatting garrulously along the way. Tom walked beside him in sullen silence, making few attempts to respond. It was a reticence he subsequently regretted.
He was so preoccupied with his own misfortune that he remembered little of that march other than the lingering impression that this was a dour and unwelcoming part of the city. Finally, after travelling for some while and going through more twists and turns than the street-nick could follow, the big man stopped. Tom had no idea how far they had come, but guessed that it was a considerable distance into the metropolis and away from the wall.
"Here you are, lad," Red exclaimed, standing to one side and gesturing.
They had arrived at a gallery, an open shaft which descended through the heart of the city; though it was impossible to judge how far it went in the gloom. Directly in front of them was the most peculiar looking set of steps Tom had ever seen - they were of dark wood and appeared to be grooved and simply looked wrong. However, they were still stairs and they still led downward. Was the Swarb letting him go? He looked at the big man uncertainly. Encouraged by a broad smile and a further impatient gesture, he stepped forward towards the stairs. As he did so, there came a soft whirring sound and the stairs started to move.
Tom jumped back in alarm, at which Red roared with laughter. Recovering from his initial shock, Tom peered forward at this late
st revelation. The steps seemed to emerge flat from the ground in endless procession, steadily evolving a uniform, step-like configuration as they marched relentlessly towards the drop, before vanishing downwards between matching solid rails whose black cushioned tops were moving in apparent unison with the stairs. There was something bizarre and fascinating about the military precision with which the stairway emerged, evolved and descended. Tom could have watched this process for hours.
"It's called an escalator," Red explained. "Much nearer than any of the clockwork lifts and far more trustworthy, if you ask me. Doesn't go all the way down to the City Below, mind, but it'll take you a fair way - through some fifteen Rows. Don't be tempted to jump off as you pass the different platforms, not unless you fancy a bit of an explore, but be warned if you do: the escalator won't stop for you to get back on, only stops at all when it's unused for a while. Then it goes dormant, like it was just now. Stepping back on from one of the side platforms takes some practice. You're liable to come a cropper first time out and end up travelling the rest of the way down on your arse.
"Well, good luck, lad. Reckon this is the best I can do for you."
Tom gulped, stared at the escalator and wondered whether he could find the courage to trust the thing.
"Go on, it won't hurt you."
He gave Red a weak smile and thanked him, then stepped boldly onto the moving stairway.
After a slight wobble, he clutched one of the handrails and managed to keep upright. This was easier than he'd expected.
From behind, he could hear Red's laughter. "Well done! That's the hardest part over with. Now just be ready to step off natural-like at the bottom."
The wonders and surprises that awaited him as he descended through the city's heart were many and varied, far more than he was able to fully take in, but few equalled the thrill of drifting serenely downward on the escalator.
Aware that the night was growing ever shorter, Tom was anxious to return to the City Below as swiftly as possible. In assisting him, Red had brought him deep within the city and the boy made no effort to reorientate himself, but instead simply sought the swiftest way down in the same arbitrary fashion that had taken him so far up the city's walls.
