Not for Use in Navigation

by Iona Datt Sharma

  “Kira!" Grace shouted over her shoulder. “Come on, we’re wanted! Thanet—"

  “I’m not registered," Thanet was saying, but Grace waved him quiet.

  The man from the Underground – his name badge announced “WHITWORTH, A." – led the way down Middle Temple Lane seemingly unsurprised by the extent of his entourage. As they scurried down the Embankment, Grace could see the strangeness on the bridge at Blackfriars – two trains held massively still, like dragons turned to stone – and then they were in the station itself, past the passengers being herded into the street. Whitworth called a lift and pushed the doors open with a shove, gesturing all of them inside, and it was only when the lift was descending silently to the lower levels that he spoke any further.

  “At about six o’clock this evening a train was signalled clear through the southbound platform to go on to Waterloo," he said, expressionless. Grace glanced at her watch; it was coming up on half past six. “There was already a train at the platform."

  Grace inhaled sharply. “Did—"

  “No," Whitworth said, severely. “The signalwoman on duty realised something was amiss and manually altered the signals. At 6:10pm, the same thing happened on the northbound side. The train driver jammed on the brakes in time."

  “That can’t happen," Ned said, sounding disbelieving. “That absolutely – that can’t happen."

  Whitworth continued, inexorable. “At 6:15pm, every train on this part of the network was halted at the nearest station. I was asked by the control room here at Blackfriars to track down a Mr Devlin, who had originally set up the Salt system of magic that prevents collisions between trains on the Underground. I believe, sir, that that’s yourself."

  “Yes," Ned said, “but you should know—"

  His voice was lost in the screech of the doors pulling back: the lift had reached the platform levels, and dusty tiles proclaimed “To The Trains". Whitworth strode forth and Grace brought up the rearguard, pausing for a moment to peer down the single flight of steps to the deserted platform below. Stray litter skittered across the edge, but otherwise the silence was absolute. Whitworth led them through a door gleaming with Salt magic at its edges, sealed against fire or flood, and into the dim control room beyond.

  “Got them," he announced.

  It took Grace’s eyes a second to adjust, to take in the two signalwomen sitting at the long benches, the large train operating charts spread out across the walls, and the rows and rows of silver bells, gleaming as though with some inner light. The hum of Salt magic underpinned everything, invisible but inescapable, like the Tube itself beneath London.

  “This is Devlin," said Whitworth, and then, confusedly: “And some others."

  “Grace May," Grace said. “That’s Thanet, and that’s my apprentice. Ned—"

  Ned wasn’t listening to her. With his cane, he had waved the two operators away from the panels. “You hit the killing bell," he said.

  One of the two signalwomen looked cowed at his tone; the other stood up straighter. “Yes," she said, clearly. “I didn’t trust the system, I shut everything down."

  Ned nodded. “Run it all past me," he said, and Grace startled at the imperious note in his voice. “Tell me exactly what happened, every detail."

  “We control most of the City from here," said the signal operator to Ned. “When things started going wrong, the bells rang." She reached out to a bell halfway along the second row, her finger stopping just sort of its surface. “This one, then" – another bell, just above it – “this one. That was the train northbound. And then…" – she pointed at the one below – “that’s the kill bell." She gestured at it, as Ned had done: it was the largest bell on the assembly, held at a seemingly unsupported angle.

  Ned nodded again, more to Thanet than the signal operator. “You remember the emergency signal," he said. “A red smoke rises in the window of the train cab, and every driver knows they’re to stop at once. Miss – what’s your name?"

  “Miss Lynley, sir."

  “Miss Lynley. What did you – what’s that noise?"

  The noise had been bothering Grace for a moment or two, and judging from the way she drew closer, Kira, too: a rumbling sound, like something very heavy beginning to move. “Can’t be a train," Ned said, unnecessarily. “Not if they’re all stopped. I suppose they have all stopped." He reached out and deliberately struck a bell. Miss Lynley and Whitworth flinched; Ned smiled a little dangerously and said, “It’s my system, Miss Lynley. Trust me."

  Thanet stepped through the door and Grace realised he had gone down to the platforms to check. “They’ve stopped," he said, authoritatively. “Ned – all right, what the hell is that?"

  That was the noise, getting louder now, but losing none of its low resonances and layers, as though whatever it was was at the bottom of a well. Something deeper even than this, Grace thought, and shivered.

  “Damn it," Ned said, making an abortive motion with one hand, holding short of the bells. “Ring one bell, the matching train bell rings, instantaneous or close-as. The drivers aren’t colluding to play Greensleeves for the signal operators’ amusement, I suppose. This doesn’t make sense."

  “What happened to your hand?" Grace asked, suddenly distracted. Thanet had stepped out of the light so Miss Lynley’s left hand, cradled to her and roughly bandaged, was visible.

  “That was my fault," said a soft voice, and Grace looked at the other signal operator, peering shyly through her long brown hair. “I asked Alice to open my lemonade bottle for me."

  “Silly thing went right into my fingers," Miss Lynley said, pointing to a discarded bottle opener, together with the remains of some sandwiches.

  “Thanet will look after that for you," Grace said, a little amused at herself despite everything. Kira was hiding behind her skirts; Grace seemed to have taken on the role of mother hen and principal to the entire world. Thanet grinned and nodded.

  “Just give that here," he said, cheerfully, already raising some healing magic into the air, when Ned spoke.

  “Stop."

  “Ned?" Grace said, but he held up a hand.

  “Stop. All of you, stop. Don’t touch anything." Ned stepped forward. “I’ve been an idiot and a fool. Grace – when you were in the alley, with those dockers –"

  Grace hesitated, thrown by the non sequitur. “What about it?"

  “You had a bloodied handkerchief."

  “Yes," Grace said, surprised. “Yes, I told you that – Ned, what is it?"

  “And the inquest." Ned was pacing up and down, though everyone else had taken his advice to heart and stood quite still. “The woman on the train said that it stopped, then moved again. Is that right? It stopped, then moved."

  “Yes," Kira said, with unexpected clarity. “She said it moved again so quietly she almost didn’t notice it."

  “That’s my girl," Ned said, half-exultant.

  “Ned, blood magic is superstitious nonsense," Thanet said, comfortingly trenchant to Grace’s ears. “You know it."

  “Perhaps we’ve been wrong about that," Ned said, running his hands through his hair. “Magic is Salt, or Birds. Living things, or just things. But the world has changed so much." He waved his hands, a little helplessly, as though trying to indicate the city above them. “What passing-bells, for those who die as cattle? People becoming things, and things" – he gestured again, at the train operating panels, and the bells – “coming alive."

  “Ned," Thanet said conversationally, “get to the point before I insert that cane in your ear."

  Ned spread his palms. “Salt, Birds, and iron. Not blood. Iron."

  “A new form of magic?" Grace said. “Ned, that’s… I don’t know. Are you sure?"

  “Ferguson, on the bridge," Ned said. “He brings the train to a stop at a signal. He remarks to Roberts, perhaps laughing, that he wishes the train would move faster. With his pockets full of metal, and those passing bells in his recent memory, and all around him a locomotive made out of—"

  “Iron,"
said Grace, with reverence. “So the train moved, to take him home. Miss Lynley, what exactly were you saying to your friend, before the signal failure?"

  Miss Lynley looked miserable. “There’s a dance tonight, down in Clerkenwell," she murmured. “I was just saying to Cara – I wish everything would hurry up, the last hour of the shift always drags."

  “But what about the gift?" Thanet said. “Do you think Ferguson cut his hand on the controls?"

  “Ferguson had the money for his sister’s wedding on him," Ned said. “It wasn’t burnt away, it was given. Kira and I found the remains of it, the sovereigns, on the railway track."

  “Overpayment?" Thanet asked, and then nodded to himself. “He wouldn’t have been trained – he wouldn’t know how much—"

  “He wouldn’t have known he was doing magic at all," Grace said, a little excited. “Ned, the Indian man who helped me in the alley. He said he wasn’t like me, but he wasn’t like the others. Not Salt, not Birds, but –"

  She turned her head.

  Whitworth cleared his throat again; he was standing was at the door to the control room, the magical light from its seal soft on his face.

  “Excuse me," he said. “Miss May, Mr Devlin, if I could have your attention, just for a moment." He pointed out into the tunnel.

  Grace and Ned exchanged glances and followed him out, leaving Thanet to look after Miss Lynley’s hand.

  “Once," Whitworth said, without turning, “long ago, they were going to terminate the line here, and not cross the river. Bit of a crush for the trains, though." He waved casually down at the platforms as he spoke, and the rumble rose again, making Grace shiver again, involuntary and deep in her bones. “Bit of a palaver. So they built a turning loop, under the river. Quite a miracle of engineering, in its day. Then of course Parliament came through for them. Straight line extension across the Thames. So they built that" – he pointed down into the tunnel, the Salt lights within flickering eerily – “and they sealed the old loop off."

  They were climbing a small staircase, dusty and slick with oil; Ned’s cane slipped and Grace reached out to steady him.

  “Can’t bury a thing time out of mind," Whitworth said. “It’ll rust to nothing some day, but in the meantime we keep an eye. Here’s the door."

  Grace looked up. The door was small, human-sized, and sealed with enough Salt magic to hold down an inferno. “Behind that door," she ventured tentatively. “Underneath the river –"

  Mr Whitworth took the keys from his pockets and opened the door. Grace felt the small piece of magic raised, as the door opened onto a wall of black earth.

  “It’s not a tunnel," Grace said, surprised. “It’s not there!"

  “It was yesterday," Whitworth said, calmly. “It was this morning."

  Though the words were delivered with utmost calm, something seemed to enter beneath Grace’s skin and begin to crawl.

  “The tunnel should be there, miss," Whitworth said. If it’s not" – and then the rumbling came again, almost too loud to bear, reverberating in Grace’s very being – “it’s shifted of its own accord."

  Ned tapped on the wall beside the door, so Grace could hear the hollow resonance.

  “The seals," Grace said, aware of her voice trembling. “The magic’s been disturbed – the sealing, against the river—"

  Whitworth touched the bare earth beyond the door, then pulled back. His hand was wet.

  “Oh, God," Grace said, and spun around on the spot. In her mind she was somewhere else – somewhere else dark, perhaps the Salt Guildhall on the day the first bomb fell – but the moment passed and she was here again. Terror fizzed through her veins and a determination she did not feel rose into her voice. “All right, Mr Whitworth, I think it’s time we acknowledge the truth. The tunnels will need to be evacuated. Can you and your signal operators start dealing with that? And switch off the power?"

  “Yes," Whitworth said, “but there are two trains, stopped just outside the platforms."

  “I know," Grace said. “Thanet will do any magic you need to help you get the passengers out and through the tunnels. We can’t predict what will happen now," she added, glancing at Ned, who nodded. “There are iron rings in every tunnel, isn’t that right? We don’t know who might do magic without realising it, or what they might do. Ned, I need you to get Kira out of here, it’s not safe. Go as quickly as you can."

  “What?" Ned looked up, his eyes very bright in the darkness. “Don’t be ridiculous. I should stay. I can help."

  “Ned," Grace said, breathing in, hating herself. “You’re a liability."

  Ned flinched. “Grace…"

  “If you stay, you’ll be one more thing for me to worry about." And then, softer, “You’ve done your bit. Let me do mine."

  Ned held her gaze for a minute, then dropped his head. “Understood."

  Grace reached out and entwined their fingers, not caring about Whitworth’s presence. Then she stuffed both her hands in her pockets and took a deep breath.

  “Good luck," Ned said, and went back down the passageway along to the steps.

  “Miss May?" That was Whitworth, looking at her with confusion, and worry. “What will you do?"

  Grace took another breath, and reached for whatever was left in her that wasn’t fear. She waited another moment as the great rumbling started up again. This time it had a sinister punctuation: the rush and movement of water. As they stood, a first gush emerged from behind the door, filtering through cracks in the packed earth and pouring onto Grace’s boots.

  She thought again of the darkness beneath the bombs, took another breath, and she was ready. “I’m going to seal this off."

  ___

  “Come on, little one," Ned said, his coat sweeping the floor as he turned. “Quickly! Thanet – good luck."

  Thanet saluted him ironically. Ned smiled and held out a hand to Kira, who scurried after him with alacrity.

  “We’re going back up to Temple," Ned said, in answer to Kira’s unspoken question, just as the lift doors screeched shut. With a jerk, they began to move upwards. “I think that our next step is to see if we can find the address for the man Grace met at the docks. I wonder if anyone at Temple speaks any Indian languages? Though I suppose there are quite a few – oh, my goodness."

  The lift had jerked to an ungainly stop, causing Ned to reach out with his cane for balance. Kira grabbed uselessly against the walls. They both teetered, balanced, and hung motionless for a moment, waiting for the lift to start moving again, but it did not.

  “Mr Devlin," Kira said, with a distinct quaver in her voice. “Do you think—"

  The lights went out.

  Ned swore, listening to the rapid pitch of Kira’s breathing in the darkness. He took a step forwards, thinking to reach for her hand – but the lift jerked again at his movement, and this time downwards.

  “Oh, that’s torn it," Ned said, and his voice was lost in another great screeching as metal grated on metal, and they dropped further.

  It triggered something: some back-up mechanism powered by Salt, so the base of the lift was lit up in long threads of strange light. It cast a greenish tint on Kira’s face and made the advertisements on the walls, for patent medicines and magically-propelled invalid chairs, into horrible grotesques. Kira whimpered again.

  In the end, Ned thought, it was inevitable that it must come to this.

  “Little one," he said. “We have about five minutes before the lift falls to the bottom of the shaft. If what I suspect is true, it’s the lift shaft itself, deforming around us. So I need you to stay very calm, do you understand? Stay calm, and do exactly as I tell you. What I’m about to explain to you is the sort of thing you wouldn’t do for quite a few years yet, in your apprenticeship, and I don’t think I’ll have time to repeat myself, so listen very carefully. Are you with me so far?"

  Kira nodded, her little eyes wide.

  “First, you need to raise a light, in the way Miss May has taught you. Name, calling, asking. Use some of your
own energy as the gift. That’s right."

  The light flared into life, a little ragged about the edges, but a comforting yellow.

  Ned said, “Now hold it with only one of your hands, and with only one part of your mind. Don’t think about it too much. Just let it burn, that’s right. Now close your eyes. Think about Salt, what it feels like when you use the power you have, what it’s like when you can sense it in the world around you. There’s some in the light, it’s a Salt light. Ignore that. There’s some in the air, we’re below the river estuary here. Ignore that, too. What’s left should be very bright and intense, but dimmed in the centre. Can you see that? Eyes shut!"

  Slowly, Kira nodded, and from somewhere beneath them they heard the great rumbling sound again, the roar taking on the crackle of metal buckling as well as the slosh of water.

  “Right. That is my magic – or, what’s left of it, that I can’t use for myself. Now I need you to reach in and take it. It’s magic in itself, the taking, so you need a gift. Use some of the light. I’m going to sit down so you don’t knock me over."

  It was Ned’s habit these days to get from sitting to standing and vice versa with some lack of grace, but he made it a gentle movement, ignoring the pain; his cane would be dangerously percussive on the base of the lift. The green light flickered, and vibration built in the metal beneath their feet, but Kira hadn’t moved, eyes squeezed shut.

  “Take it, Kira!" Ned said, desperately. “You don’t need my permission. Take it."

  Kira didn’t move. Ned closed his own eyes, listening to the rumbling grow louder, than softer. He fancied he felt movement, although it could be a fevered imagination. “Kira," he said, quietly, “now."

  The light in Kira’s left hand dimmed. Ned dropped his head onto his knees. He thought, vaguely, that he should have retained some of his own heart, to guide her: so she wouldn’t have to guess what to do next with her arms laden with flame and the lift filling with a smokeless inferno. At last there was movement, a great tearing noise and the cracking open of an internal sky, and everything grew dark and strange, and not a little violent, and it went on for a long, long time.