That was almost enough to call her back. Behind her a Quarg Hound snarled. Margaret turned smoothly, precisely, and shot it in the head, moving backwards as she fired.
She slammed into the door, her rifle aimed out at the darkness. Another Quarg Hound leapt towards her and she fired again. The beast dropped to the ground at her feet.
Margaret turned and entered in the code, she felt the Quarg Hound move behind her, and drove her rime blade, under her coat and into its skull. The wall opened, loud and sluggish. She yanked her blade free of the hound and spilled through into another long hall. The door shut behind her and she ran.
She reached the end of the hall, lifted the escutcheon by a metal door. The red and green buttons glowed dimly. She followed Winslow’s directions and a light in the wall beside her blinked on. The metal door opened.
She stumbled through the doorway and onto a narrow street, the door locked shut behind her. She ran from the door and the wall that it was inset in.
A few moments later, the ground shook, and the door shot past her head. She fell to her chest and rolled onto her back. Dust billowed towards her, the hallway was destroyed, and the wall itself dipping down. There was no help coming for Winslow and his soldiers.
There had never been any help.
Margaret could still hear weapons firing in the distance. The gunshots all too quickly gave way to silence. The Interface was gone, her wondrous Melody Amiss with it, and she was in Chapman alone with no money or friends and the Roil was on its way, and it wanted her, and it would not stop.
Sirens rang out in the distance. They had rung endlessly in the hours since Margaret had destroyed the secret tunnel. Dark military Aerokin, a sight that still held her in awe, rolled overhead, they filled the air with their oily exhalations, and shone searchlights gripped by sinuous flagella into the deserted suburbs. Ice Cannon fired. Soldiers came and crowded along the wall. Then Engineers arrived.
Margaret did not like the look of them, nor those they made obeisance to. Tall sombre-faced men, all of them, chewing and chewing, on what Margaret guessed must be Chill. Anderson’s warning returned to her. They had to be Vergers.
They’d driven that particular cult of violence out of Tate well before Margaret’s birth, but she was familiar with them. As a rather ghoulish child she had read twice, from cover to cover Simmon’s Torture and Torment or the Road Cruel Travelled: Confessions of a Man and his Knife.
There was no way that she would give herself up to a Verger.
Instead, tired at last of that ceaseless, useless industry and wary of staying too long and being caught, she followed Anderson’s directions to the house of Medicine Paul’s allies. But there was no happiness there. It was a smouldering ruin. Someone had painted a red V on the footpath before it.
She left the burnt old house and found another place nearby, deserted and smelling of dust and urine and things, like hope, gone rotten. There she lay down and, fighting it all the way, fell asleep.
Chapter 35
There’s a certain attraction to the end of the world. To see the curtain close, what a privilege. Who wouldn’t want to take that final bow?
Logit and Redmond – Last Days
“I hate queues,” the man in front of David said, brushing dust from the top of his hat.
Mr Whig’s warnings had proven true. There were guards at all the gates; big, frightened looking men gazing down at the crowds lined up to get in – order on the knife edge of chaos. All of the sentries were armed with odd-looking weapons. The man in front of him caught his gaze.
“Ice pistols of some sort,” he said then pointed to the walls. “And up there are ice cannon. Not that they’ll do them any good, shooting cold pellets into the storm, might as well throw a handful of ice cubes. You’d need to surround the city in ice. Moats and cannon twice the size of that, and even then it would only work for so long, there are many different ways to storm a fortress.”
Guards stared at them suspiciously, David tugged at the fellow’s arm.
“I don’t think it’s that wise to look too interested in the city’s defences,” he said.
“Oh,” the man said, sounding quite surprised by the thought. He laughed, and brought his gaze back to his hat. “I suppose you’re right.” He popped his hat back on his head.
“Rob,” he said and put out his hand. David shook it, not particularly enjoying the sensation of the man’s sweaty palm against his own.
“David,” he replied, and wiped his palm on his pants.
They stood at the back of the queue, moving slowly down towards the city’s gates.
“What’s happening?” David asked.
“What isn’t happening?” Rob said and started counting down with his fingers. “Quarg Hounds, of course, and Roilings now, you heard about the Dolorous Grey?” David nodded his head. “And all when the city is filled with strangers for the Festival of Float. They’ve started testing the visitors for, you know, infection. This will be the last Festival, I’ll wager.”
Rob pointed south, and David stared across the plain. The horizon was much thicker than it ought, as though it had smudged; only it was a smudge that moved. Even as David stared at it, it seemed to swell.
“The Roil is getting closer. Why, it crossed a cemetery last week and the dead rose up. Roilings, their minds filled with grubs and dust, started shambling towards the city, so I heard. Gets people’s nerves on edge. We all knew it was happening, just couldn’t believe it.” Rob’s lips split with a grin. “But credulity or not, let me tell you, boy, it’s going to be one hell of a party this year.”
The line moved slowly, and the man chatted away. Finally, David discovered why it was going at such a glacial pace. People that entered the city had to plunge their arms into a large bucket of ice. An armed guard stood by it, looking at once bored and paranoid. A winning combination, David thought.
When it was Rob’s turn, he hesitated. “Looks cold,” he said.
The guard tapped the side of the bucket with his gun. “That’s the point. Now, if you don’t mind–”
Rob shoved his hands into the ice and screamed.
Moths fell from his eyes, rushed down his face. The entire crowd stumbled as one – a clumsy terrified creature –but they need not have. The moths were weak and fragmented senselessly before they even hit the ground. Rob growled and pulled his hands from the ice, the skin blackened and smoking. “Getting stronger,” he said. “Getting so much stronger. I–”
The guard fired his gun, rolling with the recoil, and a spear of ice drove into the Rob’s chest. Rob, looked down at it, brought a hand to the icy shaft, then fell to the ground, body quivering, ice sheathing his chest. Another guard, face twisted with disgust, walked over to the corpse and dumped a bucket of ice on its head.
When the Roiling had stilled, a couple of guards, covered from head to toe in protective clothing, dragged the body away.
David rubbed his hand furiously on his pants leg.
“Next,” the guard said, lifting another bucket of ice on to the table.
David smiled weakly and shoved his hands into the bucket.
The guard nodded absently and clicked a stopwatch. David shivered, the ice stung, and the chill ran up into his arms.
“How long?” David asked.
“Twenty seconds,” the guard said, watching him closely. “Most Roilings reveal themselves upon contact with the ice, but we have to be sure. You did seem to be having rather a nice chat with that fellow.”
It was the longest twenty seconds of David’s life. He was intensely aware of the deep level of scrutiny that he was now under, not to mention the ice pistols aimed at his chest. They may launch ice but David was certain they could pierce his heart just as well.
There was also that nagging doubt. Was it possible to be infected and not know it? Of course not, he knew who he was and what it felt to be him.
The crowd held its breath, including David.
Then the guard nodded – pulling the ice bucket away
and resetting his stopwatch.
David considered taking a bow.
Ladies and gentlemen! I am still a human being, you need not be alarmed.
But he did not. Just stood there, unsure of what to do next.
“Have a pleasant stay,” the guard said at last. He coughed, when David still hadn’t moved. “You can go in now.”
“Thank you,” David said, in a voice that was anything but thankful, but the guard was already focussing on the next visitor.
David shrugged. His arms, dripping water, shook. He had passed the first stage at least. He took a couple of steps into the city.
Another guard stood there, just past the gates his mask dark with sweat. David did not envy him the humid cage of the mask, its rough material tight against his face.
“Where’d you take the Roiling?” David asked and because the Guard was nervous and bored – obviously anxious for a little distraction – he told him.
“We’ve a cool-room. All the Roilings are delivered there and frozen solid to make sure they’re really dead, and then we burn them. There haven’t been too many of the bastards, just enough to keep us on our toes.” He watched, with professional interest, as the next person plunged their hands in the ice, David noticed his grip change on his gun. “The protocols were only laid down a few days ago, the problem’s but a week old and it’s already becoming difficult to police. You heard about the train?”
David nodded, though he said nothing about his involvement in that incident. He had heard about it all right, he was never likely to forget it. “Who hasn’t? From all accounts it was terrible.”
“And it could have been much worse. By the time the Dolorous Grey reached the city they’d set the whole train alight, from engine to caboose. Nearly took Chapman with it. Not the best beginning to the Festival. But what can you expect with that so close.” The guard nodded towards the Obsidian Curtain. “And that was before we had the cemetery dead of the deserted suburbs come stumbling against the southern walls. Our cannon cut them to pieces, but I was in clean up duty. Sweaty, awful job, even with the cold suits, and not all of them were dead.” He made a disgusted face. “After the festival I’m out of here, I’ve a ticket on an Aerokin transport, one of the Blake and Steel line. Going to family in Hardacre. If the world’s falling to hell then I’m flying as far from the crumbling edge as possible.”
“What’s so wonderful about the festival that you’d want to stay?” David asked.
“You’ll know soon enough,” the guard said, sounding regretful that he was stuck out here. “It’s almost worth risking the Witmoths. Of course, the danger money they are paying us is extraordinary. Once I’m done here I should be able to live out my few remaining years very comfortably in Hardacre, free state and all, I hear it still snows up there.”
“Don’t you think we should try and fight it? Shouldn’t we do all we can to stop the Roil?”
The guard shrugged, and he spat upon the ground as though he had heard this argument one too many times. No doubt he had, surely some of Chapman’s troops thought it worthwhile to fight.
“Might as well try and stop a thunderstorm, all the people in Shale couldn’t do that. It’s a force of nature, not an army. Surely the Grand Defeat taught us that. Some people say it was our Industry that started it, warmed up the world enough for it to get a foothold; now it’s an engine that won’t be stopped. Greater cities than ours have fallen, what chance do we have? If the Council of Engineers can find some way of halting it then I’ll be happy, but I don’t think it’s likely, so we may as well live out the rest of our years as best we can. Who knows it may never cross the mountains. And if it does and a Quarg Hound bays outside my door, I’ll shoot it and the next and the next until my time is done.” The guard’s eyes were grim and hard, but they lightened for a moment. “Good luck, idealist. Enjoy the Festival.”
David considered the long line behind him and shook his head. When the Roil comes, it won’t wait in queue, he thought.
More guards armed with ice-weaponry stood at the gates, nodding as he passed through the thick outer walls and into the warren of streets that made up the city proper.
One of the oldest metropolises of Shale, Chapman’s stonewalls were sturdy and imposing, designed to keep out Cuttlefolk, they also kept out the light. Shadowy cobbled streets made their dank and musty circuit around the city. And everywhere was a heavy smell, fecund and earthy rather than Mirrlees’ metallic and hard odours.
However, for all its scent and shadows, Chapman was dressed up for the festival. Every available space on the street was covered with posters, advertising such wonders as “General Brown and his amazing balloon suit” or “Thrille to the throw of the Twins of Twig” or better yet “Mr Marcus the amazing Calculating Pig, let him calculate your future with the mystical power of Arithmetic. The smartest of our four-legged futurist friends”.
David wondered what kind of future anyone could hope for with the Roil just down the road, and what truly smart creature would ever find its way here?
For all its proximity to the Roil, the city lacked that ever-present sense of threat, of Government officials scrutinising every single thing. At every corner, soloists or bands played tin whistles and mandolins and sang about balloons or Roil beasts or working in the docks.
He waited for Cadell at the appointed place for an hour, then another hour, and the Old Man did not show up.
At last, as evening was coming on he gave up and began to look for the safe house.
Chapter 36
No journey is without consequence. No pilgrimage without cost. Walk and you will find the road to be hard. Buy good shoes.
Anon – Fortune Cookie
THE NORTHERN SUBURBS OF MIRRLEES 214 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL
The night passed without incident for which Medicine was truly grateful. Well, without too much incident; there were, what Medicine was soon to discover, the usual complaints: minor injuries, brawls and affairs. And each slowed the groups’ leaving. They did not get moving until almost ten o’clock. It took that long to get things packed back into the wagons.
Once on the horse, Medicine decided he needed to walk. Every step was agony, but nothing compared to getting back in the saddle.
“Was anything devised to torture a man more than a horse?” he asked Agatha, the head of the Council Guard.
“Bad poetry comes to mind first,” she said, her smile softening a hard face.
“My mother was poet. Not a bad one,” Medicine said. “She moved to Hardacre after my father passed away. A meddler, and I doubt she’s changed, there’s something of her style in that metropolis’ declaration of independence.”
Agatha laughed. “I’d have thought you’d come from good working stock.”
“Hardly,” Medicine said. “My father was a painter and an industrialist. But I had no interest in those things. I was a bit of a disappointment to him. And in families like mine disappointment soon becomes anger. I think I started my studies as a surgeon to annoy him, and then when I opened my surgery in the docks...”
He had never struggled harder than those first years. Respect was not easily earned. First he revelled in the terrible conditions, as a pure act of defiance. Then he made it his life’s work to improve them. He saw too much death, too many people’s lives ruined by the way their employers treated them, and the way the laws of the Council let them. It had been a natural progression into the Confluent Party. More study, gaining his engineering ticket and his Orbis. When he lost his fingers he’d thought he was finally making a difference. The violence had galvanised him to greater action, within and without the halls of government.
Now he worked for the Council. He had hated Stade almost from the moment he met him. Now he hated himself for working with the bastard.
We are damned. The pair of us.
But that did not matter anymore. The Roil’s reach extended every day and once the Obsidian Curtain closed, life as he understood would be gone.
What choice did
he have?
He did not expect to live forever, nor hope to assume that even Shale had all that much time left to it. Everything ends, and every engine runs down or is superseded by another make; a different thing. But that did not mean he was prepared to lie down and let it happen. If it could be stopped then he needed to be part of that. He wanted to live as long as he could and he wanted to help as many others as he could. Though if a certain Councillor should choke on his own tongue...
As the highway passed through the Regress Swamps, creatures stared up at them out of the water. Huge eyed and, Medicine did not doubt, huge jawed. People peered over the edge of the highway to get a better look at the beasts.
Medicine pointed them out to Agatha.
“They’re called Factories. Don’t ask me why. That truth’s been lost a long time. Names have a habit of carrying on, long past the sense of them. Little’s known about them, no one’s done much in the way of study. But they’re big, bodies extend down a long way. How they move, how they mate, how they excrete, no one knows.”
“Not something that they write about in the travel guides. Are they dangerous?”
Agatha chuckled. “They look dangerous don’t they?”
Medicine nodded. Looks can be deceiving though, he thought. Just how dangerous are you?
He turned his attention to the Margin. All morning the forest had grown – devouring the horizon – from patch of darkness to worryingly tall and moss-drowned trees. In Medicine’s reckoning – and with this many people it was damn hard to tell – they would enter the Margin within the hour.
Agatha followed his gaze, then spat on the ground in the way superstitious soldiers have for centuries to ward off evil.
“Now that place is where the real dangers lie. Tough old bit of forest. Many times over the years has the Council pushed its way into that forest and every time the Margin’s pushed back.”
Roil Page 17
