by Garth Nix
There would be no easy escape through there.
The Overseer pushed Arthur again, shoving him to the right. Arthur saw that he was heading towards the back of a line of sad-looking Denizens that disappeared into the eddying smog. The line was halted, but there was a sudden brief lurch forward as Arthur joined it, and a momentary lightening of the smog gave him a brief glimpse of their destination: a long mahogany desk, little more than fifteen yards away, where a Denizen was being presented with a leather apron and a cape that looked even drabber than the one Arthur had.
‘Get in line and get yer stuff,’ said the Overseer with a final push. None of the Denizens looked around as Arthur joined the line. They simply shuffled along, their eyes downcast.
Arthur almost called out that he already had his stuff but he kept his mouth shut. The Overseer might not like his stupidity being publicly announced. Or perhaps there was other stuff being given out as well as the leather aprons and capes.
When the Overseer had disappeared back into the deeper smog, Arthur hesitantly tapped the Denizen in front of him on the shoulder. It was a woman, dressed in the sort of strange combination of nineteenth-century clothing that Arthur had seen in the Lower House. This woman had a long, torn dress as the basis of an eccentric outfit that appeared to include at least a dozen scarves wound around her arms and torso.
Arthur’s tap on the shoulder didn’t have the effect he expected. The Denizen shrank beneath his touch, losing six inches in height without bending her knees. She turned around fearfully, obviously expecting someone much scarier than Arthur.
‘Beg pardon, sir,’ she whispered, tugging at her fringe. ‘It wasn’t my fault, whatever it was.’
‘Uh, sorry,’ said Arthur. ‘I think you’ve got me confused with someone else. I’m not one of the Overseers or anything. I’m . . . ah . . . one of you.’
‘An indentured worker? You?’ whispered the Denizen in amazement. ‘Then how?’
She made a gesture with her hand pushing down on her head. She was much shorter than she had been before Arthur tapped her.
‘Oh, that wasn’t me,’ said Arthur hastily, almost babbling. ‘I don’t know how that happened. Don’t think it was anything to do with me. I hit my head and I can’t remember anything.Where are we?’
‘The Far Reaches,’ whispered the Denizen. She was still feeling the top of her head and looking puzzled. ‘Your contract must have been assigned to Grim Tuesday. You’re an indentured worker now.’
‘Sssshhhh!’ warned the next Denizen along. ‘Keep it down! The last person talking got steamed and so did everyone next to him. I don’t want to be steamed.’
‘Where are you from?’ whispered Arthur to the woman ahead of him.
‘The Upper House. I was a Capital Ornamenter Third Class. I don’t understand why I was sent here. I must have done something wrong. Are you one of the Piper’s children, or unnaturally shrunk? It does happen here. I didn’t think it would happen to me so soon –’
‘Quiet!’ hissed two Denizens farther up. ‘Overseer!’
An Overseer lurched out of the smog. He stopped to gaze at the line of Denizens, tapping on his steam-gun with thick, calloused fingers. Arthur saw a ripple of fear pass through the whole line, a kind of slow hunching down that all the Denizens did, while at the same time trying not to show any signs of movement.
The Overseer kept watching for a few seconds, then disappeared back into the smog. As it closed around him, Arthur caught a glimpse of another two or three lines of Denizens, all waiting to be given their basic outfit. There could be even more lines beyond.
No one spoke after the Overseer left. They kept shuffling forward as their turns came. Arthur didn’t tap the woman on the shoulder again, fearful of shrinking her even further, and she didn’t look around.
When he came to the front of the line, the Denizen behind the desk stopped in mid-action as he was about to hand Arthur a pile of clothing. He was short and shaped rather like a turnip, so stopping made him almost topple over. In order to keep his balance he dropped the clothes and grabbed the table, almost oversetting the name plaque that said SUPPLY CLERK in tarnished gold-leaf letters.
‘You’ve already got yours!’ the clerk gasped.
‘Got what?’ asked Arthur. Pretending to be stupid seemed the best defence.
‘Your apron, leather, one of; cape, rain, stabilised mud with hood, one of; and clogs, wood veneer, one pair,’ replied the Denizen. ‘So what do I do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Arthur. ‘Just let me go on?’
Wherever ‘on’ was. Arthur had been watching carefully, but hadn’t been able to work out what happened to the Denizens in front of him after they got their aprons and capes. They marched around the left side of the table and disappeared into still thicker smog. Arthur also couldn’t work out where the aprons and capes and clogs came from. The Denizen handing them out appeared to pull them from the solid mahogany tabletop.
‘But I don’t know if that’s allowed,’ muttered the supply clerk.
‘You could ask,’ piped up the Denizen who was waiting behind Arthur.
‘Ask?’ hissed the clerk. He looked around nervously. ‘You never ask anything round here. That only leads to trouble.’
‘Well, how about you pretend you never saw me and I just go?’ suggested Arthur.
‘Next!’ said the supply clerk, craning his neck to look to the next person in line. Arthur hesitated for a moment, unsure of where to go. The supply clerk scratched his nose and cupped his hand around his mouth so he could whisper, ‘Around to the left, down the steps.’
Arthur walked around the desk to the left and almost fell down the steps, since he didn’t see them until he was almost on them. They were broken in parts, deeply coated with soot and dangerously greasy. As Arthur cautiously made his way down, he tried to dig up some thoughts out of his brain on how to escape. But no bright ideas flared. All he could think of were the Lieutenant Keeper’s words: Take appropriate risks.
But what risks were appropriate?
Arthur was still wondering about that when he reached the bottomof the steps. It looked no different fromthe area above – dark and smoggy, save for a diffused light ahead that could be ten or fifty yards away. Arthur set out for it, his clogs clacking on the stone floor, occasionally waving his arms to dissipate a thick band of nasty-smelling smog. Fortunately, the spell the Lieutenant Keeper had taught himwas working andArthur was very relieved he’d done it, even though he’d felt stupid sticking his fingers in his nose.
The light came from two lanterns on either end of another wide mahogany desk. This desk was also bare, save for an identical gold-lettered sign that also said SUPPLY CLERK. The particular clerk behind the desk was even shorter and squatter than the one before. He was so shrunken he only came up to Arthur’s waist and was barely visible behind the desk.
As Arthur stopped in front of him, he pulled a smoke-grimed lantern with a badly mended handle out of the desktop, his fingers appearing to actually dip into the wood.
‘Strom lantern, self-oiling, one.’
‘Storm lantern, you mean,’ said Arthur.
‘Says strom lantern in my book,’ replied the clerk. ‘Hurry along and join your gang. Just follow the railway tracks behind me. Unless you hear a whistle, in which case, get off the tracks for a while.’
‘This storm – sorry, strom - lantern is broken,’ Arthur pointed out.
‘They’re all broken,’ sighed the clerk, indicating the lanterns at each end of his desk, which were identical. ‘That’s the pattern. I suppose our lord and master has better things to do than fix up the pattern. No use complaining. I complained once and look what happened.’
Arthur stared at the clerk in puzzlement.
‘Got downsized, didn’t I? I was a foot taller and a Maker Fourth Class before I was stupid enough to complain about badly made strom lanterns. At least I didn’t get sent down the Pit. Now off you go before I get into more trouble.’
‘What’s yo
ur name?’ asked Arthur. This clerk might be a useful contact. At least he talked about Grim Tuesday and the Pit.
‘Name! Supply Clerk Twelve Fifty-Two. Now get going before an Overseer shows up! Around the desk and follow the rails.’
Arthur turned to go, holding his smoking lantern high. But before he disappeared into the smog, the supply clerk coughed. Arthur turned back.
‘Mathias. That was my name,’ muttered the clerk. ‘I don’t know who you are, but something makes me want to tell you. Good luck in the Pit. You’ll need it.’
SIX
THERE WERE RAILWAY TRACKS behind the desk, only ten yards away but unseen until Arthur tripped over the first rail. Inspecting them with the lantern, Arthur saw they were made of some dull metal that looked like bronze, and they were set very wide apart, at least eight feet, which he thought was a wider gauge than any railway back in his world. The rails ran on stone sleepers rather than wood or concrete, and the rubble under and between the sleepers was of some strange material that was the shape and colour of woodchips but was very heavy and hard – perhaps another kind of light stone.
The rubble was called ballast, Arthur remembered. Bob’s ninety-four-year-old uncle Jarrett – Arthur’s great-uncle – had worked on the railways all his life and liked his great-nephews and great-nieces to know the proper terminology for everything from the tracks to the trains. He even had recordings of different types of steam engines they’d had to listen to.
But Great-uncle Jarrett wasn’t there to tell Arthur anything about this particular railway, and the boy didn’t know which way to go. The tracks ran to the left and right, disappearing into thick smog in both directions. To try to get a better idea of where he was, Arthur crossed the tracks and walked away at a right angle. Having learned that visibility was effectively nil in the smog and general weirdness of the place, he trod carefully, alert for another stairway or a sudden drop.
Crouching down and raising his lantern, Arthur saw the stone floor simply ended as if it had been sheared off clean by an enormous knife. Swirls of smog blew along the edge of the precipice, cloaking how far down the drop might be. Arthur couldn’t see the other side at all.
He guessed that he had found the edge of the Pit. Slowly he backed away, not feeling safe until he had returned to the other side of the railway.
Now that he knew he was on the edge of the Pit, Arthur realised that the railway slanted down in one direction. That would be the way he was supposed to go. But if he followed the rails, he would be drawn deeper and deeper into the horrible life of an indentured worker in Grim Tuesday’s realm. On the other hand, if he followed the rails up, he’d probably get steamed . . . and unlike a Denizen, would not survive the experience.
I’m in trouble.
It was really sinking in now that he was trapped in a very unpleasant part of the House. He didn’t have the Key, so apart from some faint lingering power in his hands, he had no magic to help him and no weapon. He had no way to get out and no way to communicate with his friends. No one knew he was here except the Lieutenant Keeper – who couldn’t tell anyone unless they asked first.
He’d rushed in to try to stop his family from suffering any more financial assaults, but all he’d managed to achieve was to get himself into very serious trouble.
Arthur sat down on the rail, put his head in his hands, and massaged his temples. He felt slow and stupid and utterly defeated. He had to figure out a way to escape. There was no way he could survive going farther down the Pit.
He started rocking back and forth. Somehow that slight motion made him feel better, as if any movement might help him come up with an idea. As he rocked, he felt a slight pain in his chest. Not the internal ache of a stiffening lung, but something poking into him from his pocket.
The Atlas.
Suddenly full of hope, he got the green cloth-covered book out and rested it in his lap. Then he laid both hands flat on the cover and thought out his question.
How can I get out of the Pit?
The Atlas opened with less than its usual alacrity, and instead of growing to its usual dimensions, only expanded to twice its pocket-sized form. It also kept partially closed, so Arthur had to peer in. Clearly the Atlas didn’t like the air in the Pit either.
A single letter was slowly sketched out in ink, then the unseen hand grew faster and wrote a word, then another. As in the first time Arthur had used the Atlas, the words were not in English, and the letters were not any that he knew. But as he looked at them, they changed into a more recognisable form.
There are numerous ways to leave the fearsome Pit of Grim Tuesday. There are the official ways, requiring suitable passes and permits. They include:
a. by walking up the service road;
b. as a passenger upon Grim Tuesday’s train; and
c. as one of the Grim’s messengers, with a wheel recalibrated for ascent.
There are the unofficial ways, which are dangerous or self-defeating. These include:
a. by flying, with its attendant risks, some specific to the Pit; and
b. by destruction at the hands of a Nithling or an eruption of Nothing.
‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘I mean specifically how can I get out of the Pit now?’
Nothing happened. The page of the Atlas remained still and frozen. No unseen hand wrote, no ink shimmered.
Arthur slowly closed the Atlas and put it in his pocket. For a moment he had thought it would give him some easy way out, some secret way to exit the Pit. It had helped him back in his world, but it either couldn’t or wouldn’t help him here.
I suppose I could go to an Overseer and ask to see Grim Tuesday, Arthur thought despondently. And just sign the stupid paper that would give him the First Key and the Lower House . . .
‘Excuse me! I think you’re meant to go ahead of me,’ said a polite voice out of the smog. Arthur looked around and saw the Denizen who’d been behind him in the line.
‘They seem quite keen on staying in line here. Name’s Japeth, by the way. Former name, I suppose.’
‘I’m Arthur,’ said Arthur. He extended his hand. Japeth took it, but before he could close his hand, blue sparks erupted from Arthur’s palm and lashed around Japeth’s wrist. The Denizen let go with a yelp and withdrew, sucking his fingers.
‘You’re not an indentured worker!’ he exclaimed.
Arthur tensed for the Denizen to call out to the Overseers, who would surely be somewhere near in the smog. Japeth might get a reward, or early release, or something. So he mustn’t be allowed the opportunity . . .
‘Don’t worry!’ Japeth added quickly as Arthur bent down and picked up a piece of the weird stone ballast from the train track. ‘I’m not a snitch, tattletale, dobber, blabberer, squealer, fink, or indeed, easy-mouth. Whoever you are, I shan’t say a word, phrase, utterance, syntag –’
‘You’d better not,’ warned Arthur. He tried to sound severe but was very relieved as he dropped the stone. ‘I’m here . . . on a mission to help all the indentured workers.’
Japeth also seemed relieved. He bowed and doffed an imaginary hat. His courtly manners were rather at odds with the extremely ragged velvet pants he wore under his leather apron. His shirt was no longer white, but yellow, and the cuffs were done up with string rather than buttons. Like most Denizens, he was handsome, but his face looked a little squashed, as did his body. As if he’d been pushed down and broadened, an imperfect clay model that had once come from a handsome mould.
‘I would be honoured to assist,’ he said. ‘That is to say, aid, support, succour, abet, reinforce, or give a leg up.’
‘Thank you,’ said Arthur. ‘Um, do you always talk like that?’
‘You refer to my constant, even habitual, use of a multiplicity of words and terms?’
‘Yes.’
‘Only when I’m nervous,’ replied Japeth. ‘I am . . . I used to be a Thesaurus Minimus Grade Two. It is an occupational hazard, danger, or threat that we sometimes become prolix, verbose, long-winded, longil
oquent . . . I fight against it, I assure you. Shall we move on before someone comes looking for us?’
‘I suppose we should,’ agreed Arthur, after a moment’s hesitation. He needed more time to think, and they couldn’t stay where they were.
‘After you,’ said Japeth, bowing and once again waving his imaginary hat.
‘No, after you,’ replied Arthur, bowing a little himself. He didn’t want the Denizen walking close behind him, not with all the ballast stone about. He sounded sincere, but Arthur didn’t want to risk being hit on the head and handed over unconscious to the Overseers.
Japeth inclined his head and strode off down the tracks, his clogs echoing hollowly on the stone sleepers. Arthur followed, still thinking furiously and occasionally tripping over his own clogs. If only he could get a message out to the Lower House. Every idea he came up with had a flaw. He got all excited for a second when he remembered that Monday’s Noon had been able to summon a telephone apparently out of nowhere in the House and the Secondary Realms. But even if Arthur could do that, the Lower House’s telephone service had either been cut off or required cash payment up front, and he had no money.
But perhaps I could get some, he thought. Then I could call theWill, or Suzy, or Monday’s Noon . . .
‘What currency do they use in the Pit?’ asked Arthur as they continued down the tracks without running into anyone or anything.
