by Simon Kewin
They made their way down an impossibly long road, more buildings lining each side: houses and shops and taverns and some whose function she couldn't even begin to guess. Everything was noise and bright lights and movement. Ran walked behind her, warily watching for signs of pursuit, while Johnny strode off in front, stopping repeatedly to let them catch up. He, at least, seemed to be enjoying himself. Fer had to struggle to contain her alarm.
The noise was constant: a stream of the metal vehicles sweeping past them, each like the onward rush of some terrible beast narrowly missing her. How was it they didn't crash into each other? Occasionally she caught a glimpse of the people sitting inside: bored, blank faces. Once a large red vehicle came roaring down the road, forcing its way through the crush, wailing in savage alarm. Her heart pounded as it approached. She was sure it was Angere, coming for them. But the machine sped past and no one else paid much attention.
The breath of the machines, the smoke, made her cough and wheeze. The smell of burning and dust smothered everything. She tried to keep her breathing as shallow as possible, to let in as little of the bad air as she had to. The sky grew darker and soon became invisible beyond the orange glow from the tall metal lanterns that lined the road. There were no stars. More and more lights shone from the buildings and cars, blinding her. She slowed more, dazzled by it all, wary of stepping the wrong way and being struck. There had been no more rain, but the hard ground was still slick with a film of water. The orange lights reflected back at her in a broken swirl, adding to her sense of confusion, making it hard to see what was solid.
“Where are they all going in such a hurry?” she asked. They stood at the edge of a crossing, cars roaring by in front of her in a blaze of bright lights. The road looked as uncrossable as the An. She had to raise her voice to be heard.
“Rush hour. They're all mad to get home,” said Johnny.
She felt so much anguish from the people in the cars. It hung over them like a fog. They weren't undain, that was clear, but they were still, somehow, diminished. She'd seen lovers, for sure, walking along in their bubble of private bliss. And children, too, irrepressible even here, brimming with delight as they played games of catch and chase. Games any child in Andar could have joined. But dissatisfaction consumed the adults. Where was their spirit? Their passion? Where was beauty or joy?
“They all seem so broken,” said Fer.
“Yeah,” said Johnny. “Working all day can do that.”
“Then, why do they do it?”
“Why else? So they can afford to eat. And buy stuff. You know, things they want, houses and cars and whatever. Just like people in Andar.”
“People labour there, of course, but not with this … desperation. I feel an emptiness within them. Not all of them, but most. It's as if something has been taken from them, something so huge they don't realise what it is.”
Fer stood as three of the large buses whooshed by on the road, a finger's width from her face. Was it all to do with Angere? The people seemed free; she could see no chains. Yet they were subtly enslaved, the bindings inside their minds. How was such a thing done? Some sort of necromancy?
Staring across at the buildings on the other side of the road, she suddenly saw how short-sighted she'd been. She'd raged against Hellen and her games, against the archaeon, against all of them, but her anger was childish. The undain were the enemy, the killers, the destroyers, not the witches of Andar, not even the mancers. Her differences with Islagray meant little; fighting the undain was all that mattered. She'd known that, of course, but seeing the people of this world she properly understood it. The conviction burned within her. She'd been right to come here, right to do everything she could in the struggle against Angere. Even if it meant complying with Hellen's schemes.
“Come on,” said Johnny, grabbing her by the arm. “We can cross now.”
Rusholme, at least, was more to her liking. It felt more like a market in some large Andar town. There were shops selling fruits and vegetables, stalls flowing onto the street to tempt the passer-by. Many were familiar: gleaming red fire-fingers, large lime-yellow waterheads, mountains of oranges. Also some unknown to her: boxes and boxes of succulent fruit stacked in small pyramids, red and purple and green. Other windows blazed with gold jewellery, sparkling in the bright lights. Or clothing in an array of brilliant colours: peacock, water-blue, rose-red, purple, each decorated with delicate gold stitching. From the eating-houses, delicious smells scented the air. She couldn't identify what the spices were. Something like bittersweet or fireseed, perhaps. They made her stomach rumble.
The normal rules that kept people off the road didn't apply here. Cars were parked everywhere, sometimes side-by-side, blocking the road. People crossed among them barely bothering to look, forcing the machines to stop. Everyone was less weighed down with resentment. Their minds rang with the lighter tang of anticipation, their troubles forgotten for a time. She saw several groups of people: families or gaggles of young men and women. It was wonderful to see smiles on their faces.
There didn't appear to be anything that could be called a palace, however. Behind the bright lights the buildings looked drab and scruffy, the square stones from which they were built crumbling and sagging. Some appeared to be held together by sheets of paper pasted across them, covered in colourful writing. Did Johnny really know where he was taking them? After the vast buildings of the centre she'd expected something dazzling.
Johnny stopped outside one of the eating houses. Inside, many people sat at tables, eating from silver dishes, while others hurried to-and-fro bringing them food. The door opened as two young women emerged, engulfing Fer in a warm, delicious blast of air.
Johnny turned to them in triumph. “See, it's still here! We made it. Behold, The Golden Palace, the finest restaurant in Rusholme!”
19. The Golden Palace
“You're telling me this is the Golden Palace?” asked Fer.
“Only one you're gonna find in this city,” said Johnny. “Come on, let's eat.”
“But … won't they expect payment for giving us food?”
“Sure.” He pulled a small, colourful card from a pocket. “But money, at least is not a problem. See? Still six months on the expiry.”
“That means?”
“That means we can eat. Come on.”
It was warm and bright inside the eating-house. By the door, a cooking area filled a corner of the room, giving off a powerful heat. Servings of colourful, spicy food sizzled in large, shallow dishes atop some sort of oven. Next to them stood a pair of deep, urn-shaped ovens. A man worked behind them, expertly twirling circles of dough in one hand, stretching them into huge discs before slapping them inside the ovens. Miraculously, he remained unburned. Tattoos covered his arms. He glanced at them as he worked.
Another man, dressed in white, bustled up to them. She couldn't understand his words, of course, but he seemed welcoming. Johnny replied, and they were shown to a table at the back of the restaurant. Above them, a fan circled sluggishly, although she couldn't see what made it work.
Johnny studied a square of stiff paper that presumably listed dishes the eating-house offered. The man brought them a jug of water then stood waiting, holding a pen and pad of paper.
“I'll order for us all, shall I?” said Johnny.
She nodded. He was clearly enjoying himself. Ran said nothing, but looked uncomfortable. It was like having some big cat next to you. A cat that knew it was cornered.
Johnny gave the order, a long list of things over which he took enormous care, repeatedly asking questions as he went along. Finally, they were left alone to sip water.
“I see no Lizard King,” she said.
Johnny shrugged. “Worth coming anyway, I reckon.”
The tattooed man weaved his way over to them, carrying a large, silver plate piled with some of the round breads.
“You wanted me,” he said, placing the plate in the middle of the table.
“Fresh nan,” said Johnny, his fac
e all delight. “There's nothing like it. Trust me.” He was right, the bread did smell delicious. Fer felt immediately ravenous.
Then, as the man rearranged glasses and plates on the table, she saw the tattoos on the backs of his hands more clearly. One of them moved. A purple and green chameleon, its eyes shut, wound its long tail around the man's thumb. Its iridescent skin sparkled. It was only then she realised she'd understood the man's words.
She studied him. He was old enough for brush-strokes of grey to be shading his black hair. His skin glistened with sweat. The lizard tattoos extended up to his neck, the horned snout of some large red iguana peeping out from the collar of his white shirt. Its eye swivelled as it studied Fer and the others.
He was a witch. A wise man. A warlock. They were rare enough in Andar; she hadn't expected to find any in this world. Here was the Lizard King.
“Yes,” she replied. “A witch-mark told us to find you.”
“Hares?”
“Hares. You know the witch?”
“I do.”
The warlock's eyes were deep brown, intense, focusing on things Fer couldn't see. He paused as they conversed, as if the spirits of other witches spoke to him.
“We came to take the book back to Andar,” she prompted.
“I saw what happened in the Library,” he said. “The one they killed and the one badly injured. And also the girl, Cait, who took the book and ran.”
“What happened?”
“She tried to burn it but it wouldn't burn. She tried twice, but Genera have it now.”
“Genera?”
“Angere.”
“What happened to her?”
For a moment, the man's eyes softened, looked directly into Fer's.
“They took her, too,” he said. “I could only look on, powerless.”
Fer nodded. Was there any hope, then? Her hunger vanished. The book was in the hands of the enemy. What chance did they have of retrieving it? What chance did they have of helping this Cait? They were lost. She felt, more than anything, suddenly tired.
“Were there no others to help?” she asked. “Other witches?”
“One or two,” he replied, almost whispering. “Here and there. Not enough.”
“Where?” said Ran. “Where did they take the book?”
Ran, at least, had not given up. The dragonriders did not know how to give up. Driven by their endless guilt, it didn't occur to them to stop fighting. She found it unsettling, inhuman. But, just now, welcome. By comparison she felt so powerless, so helpless. Her burning rage at Angere seemed futile.
“They took the girl and the book to a refinery,” said the Lizard King. “A place called the Leviathan Refinery. I didn't recognize it. Not in Manchester.”
“And tell me, do you see … what will come to pass?” She was afraid to ask but couldn't help herself.
“No. Only what is happening right now.”
“Can you still see her? Is she alive?”
“I think so. It's very faint, as if she's far away. Or she may be asleep. I'm sorry. I wish I could help more.”
With that the man turned and left. Soon another waiter arrived with their plates and an array of silver dishes containing bubbling sauces and mountains of yellow rice. The waiter placed them upon little stands within which candles burned to keep the dishes hot.
“Might as well eat,” said Johnny. “Enjoy it while we can, eh?”
He tore off a handful of the bread and used it to scoop up one of the sizzling sauces. Fer thought about the Tanglewood. Perhaps they shouldn't have left. They were safe there, as Johnny had pointed out.
She ate. Slowly at first, picking, but then with more gusto as her body took over. It was good food, spicy and warming, bringing comfort as well as satisfying her hunger. Ran ate methodically, trying a small amount of each dish as if testing them for poison. For a time they were too busy to talk.
When they'd finished, the waiter removed their plates and dishes, piling them up precariously onto one arm as if performing a balancing act.
Johnny stood. “There's more to come. Be back in a minute.”
He walked out of the eating house. He crossed the road and entered one of the shops, its window filled with a baffling array of small machines and lights.
By the time he returned, the waiter had brought more dishes, sweets and something cold, like ice but tasting of fruit. Johnny was engrossed in the small metal object he held. He was clearly delighted with it. He looked like any child with a present. The people of this world, she thought, were treated like kings when they had money to spend but like slaves when they had to earn that money. It made no sense.
“This is cool, look,” said Johnny. “They've improved loads while I've been away. Wireless, net access, everything.”
“What is it?” asked Fer.
“It's a phone. It lets you talk to people who are far away. It could be useful. We can look up that place the lizard guy mentioned.”
“How so?”
A part of the little machine had tiny symbols upon it. Johnny pressed them, making writing and pictures appear.
“The whole world is on here,” he said. “You can find out anything.”
She watched as his fingers moved rapidly.
“You mean like … a library?”
“Kinda. It can talk to millions of other computers the world over. Neat, huh?”
A glimmer of hope returned to her. Whether it was the food, or Ran's determination, or Johnny's light-heartedness, she couldn't say. But they had to act. They had no choice but to act. She damn well refused to be beaten.
“Can you find out where we have to go?” asked Fer.
Johnny pressed more buttons. “Here we are. Leviathan. Large refinery in Runcorn, Cheshire. Not far.” On the machine's piece of glass, she could see a small picture, presumably of this refinery.
“Amazing,” she said. “But I don't see how it works. There's clearly no magic to it.”
“For someone so down on materialism you've sure taken to technolust pretty quickly.”
As so often, she didn't really understand his words, but she thought she knew what he meant. “Nothing in life is black and white. There are only shades of grey.”
“Sounds like you're starting to understand how this world works after all.”
She looked up sharply into his grinning face. But he wasn't mocking her. He meant it.
“Maybe so,” she said.
A plan occurred to her. It was a small thing, perhaps, and wouldn't do anything to save them from Angere. But it would mean a promise kept, the right thing done. And that would make her feel a little better about herself. Perhaps, somehow, it would balance out what she'd done in the Tanglewood.
She closed her eyes and sought the archaeon. There was resistance to her, a wall of lurking resentment, but it didn't shut itself off completely. She soon found it sulking in its great cave, eyes shut once more.
“I have found your great library, bookwyrm,” she said.
The creature opened one eye, slowly, as if barely bothering to wake. “You have travelled to another of their libraries?”
“No. But there is a machine. I do not understand, but it is linked to many, many other machines. Somehow, all their knowledge is available to it. It isn't a book, but perhaps … perhaps you only need learn a new language to use it? Just as you are able to inhabit the thoughts inside my mind?”
The creature stirred, lifted its head, both eyes wide open. “Interesting.”
“The machine is yours to explore, archaeon.”
The creature snorted a puff of smoke, tinged with flame. “Very well, then. Let us see this great library.” It was full of anticipation, impatient to explore the new worlds.
“I will let you move across.”
“I thank you for this, little witch. And what of you? Where will you go?”
“The Leviathan Refinery. Runcorn.”
“The portal?”
“You know of it?”
“It is described i
n Hellen's book. The largest and most stable portal on this world.”
Fer floated up the tunnel, the archaeon and its caves fading away. “Does the book say where this portal leads?” She was almost shouting, afraid the bookwyrm would be gone before it could reply. But its words came echoing from the cave, even as she found herself in the eating-house.
“To Angere. To the very heart of the White City. The portal leads straight to the halls of the Witch King.”
Johnny was looking at her with a puzzled expression as if he'd been trying to speak to her.
“What is it?” he said. “You look ill. What's happened?”
“It is nothing,” she said, trying to stop her voice wavering. The thought of a portal to the heart of Angere filled her with dread. “May I borrow your machine for a moment?”
“Sure.”
She took the book from her backpack and placed it alongside, just as she'd seen Hellen do in the cave beneath Islagray. Her hand shook as she leafed through it. She found the archaeon, twined around the large, first letter of the beginning of a chapter. Its body was purple and vermilion, vivid as if freshly painted. The gilded outline of its body moved as it breathed.
She touched it as lightly as she could. The creature stirred. It untangled itself from the letter and began to walk, winding its way between paragraphs to the edge of the page. It sniffed at the machine with its snout. Perhaps her idea was impossible. But then, tentatively, as if stepping into cold waters, the bookwyrm worked its way across. In a moment she could see its image there on the machine's glass, the words and pictures flowing around it.
The bookwyrm turned around several times, as if trying to find its way, or get comfortable. Finally it began to shrink, receding into the page, into the whatever it was that allowed the machine to talk to the rest of the world. In a moment it disappeared.
“Cool,” said Johnny. “Now that's what I call a worm. It uploaded itself to the internet?”
“I gave it a choice and it accepted,” said Fer. She put the book into her backpack. “So. Now we need to get to this Runcorn. How do we do that?”
