"That's impossible," said Fever, Engineerishly.
"Maybe, but that's what Katie told me. Her father used to say, 'When that girl grows up, she'll be the key that unlocks Godshawk's secrets.' He claimed that whatever Godshawk had done to your brain, its effects wouldn't be apparent until you were an adult.
"It was Katie who told me the story of the old tunnel which was supposed to link Nonesuch with the Barbican. We spent months looking for it. We didn't find it, but while we were trying, we fell in love. After that we were so happy, and so busy with each other and the children, that we let ourselves forget Godshawk and his secrets. Then, last year, I heard about that
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cave-in and guessed the tunnel's course. I thought Katie would have wanted me to explore it, and use whatever treasures I found in Godshawk's vault to provide for Fern and Ruan. When I came up against his lock I remembered that strange tale she'd told me about the child who'd gone to live with the Engineers. I knew you wouldn't be old enough yet for Godshawk's memories to have surfaced, but I thought that if I took you to Nonesuch House, and exposed you to the old man's favorite scents and tastes, it might jog something....
"I shouldn't have done it. I knew all along that it was unfair to use you like that. But lately, with this news from the north...I thought it was worth trying anything that would get me into that vault before the Movement arrived. I was wrong. I'm sorry."
"I don't believe it's possible," said Fever again, after they had walked on a few hundred yards in silence. "I don't believe Godshawk could have put thoughts into my brain. That's just voodoo science, the kind of foolish story that the newspapers like to print, to make people think that the Ancients were capable of miracles...."
But she was trying to convince herself as well as Kit. Because the Ancients had been capable of miracles, or at least of science so advanced that it seemed miraculous, even to an Engineer. And did Kit's story not offer an explanation, at last, for the memories that had been gathering in her head like fog ever since she first went to Nonesuch House?
"I'm sorry, Fever," said Kit again, after another half mile.
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"You should not have had to hear all this from me. I don't understand it and I can't explain it very well. You need to talk to Dr. Crumb."
"Why?"
"He must know something. It isn't usual for the Engineers to take in a baby girl. They must have known about you from the start."
"No!" said Fever. "Dr. Crumb found me. In a basket. And he thought it would be irrational to leave me. He told me so, and he wouldn't lie. He doesn't believe in telling lies
But as she spoke she was touching the back of her head, tracing the silvery scar that had been there since the day she was found. Could she really believe all Dr. Crumb had told her? Was that not a little too much like blind faith? And even if she trusted him, could she trust Dr. Stayling and all the other members of the Order? Katie Solent's father, who had worked for Godshawk, had been the same Master Unthank whom Dr. Crumb had gone to visit on the day he found Fever....
Had her discovery been carefully arranged? Perhaps Dr. Stayling and the other senior Engineers had taken her into the Head in the same spirit that they gave space to white rats and fruit flies and cultures of bacteria on petri dishes -- merely as an experiment to be observed.
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***
17 storm coming
It seemed a long, long way, that walk back through the tunnel. But they emerged at last into the antechamber behind the bookcase, and stood staring at each other for a moment, like conspirators, listening to the faint sound of the children's laughter from upstairs.
"That's strange," said Kit, looking relieved that he had something else to talk about besides the contents of Fever's brain. "They should be at school...."
The laughter grew louder as they emerged through the bookcase. They found Ruan in the hall, lumbering along on all fours, while Fern clung giggling to his back. "Ruan's a horse!" she shouted, when she saw them. "Fever, look, Ruan's a horse!"
"No, Ruan is a bipedal primate," said Fever helpfully, (she had still not got the hang of make-believe.)
"Children," said their father, stooping to hug the little girl as
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she tumbled laughing off her brother's back, "why aren't you at school?"
"School's shut!" said Ruan, looking very happy about it. "Miss Wernicke's run away for fear of the nomads attacking."
"It's true, sir," announced Mistress Gloomstove, who appeared just then from the kitchen, dusting her hands on her apron. "We found a notice on Miss Wernicke's door this morning saying as how she's gone to stay with her sister in Slugg's Pottage on account of the nomad horde, sir, and school's closed indefinitely. She apologized for the inconvenience, as if that made it any better. Why, I'd give her inconvenience if I had her here. Have you ever tried dusting and tidying this place, sir, with these two young savages rampaging around and getting underfoot? I'm glad to see you home to deal with them, sir, I do say...."
Kit Solent gave the housekeeper his most charming smile. "I'm deeply sorry, Mistress G; you know that I'd not have left them with you if I'd had the least inkling that school was off. But I'm afraid I can't relieve you of them just yet. I have to take Fever back to Godshawk's Head, you see. It will take only ten minutes...half an hour at most ..."
Mistress Gloomstove's face took on a cold, faraway look. "I don't know about that, sir. I'm employed to keep house, sir. If it's a nursemaid or a governess you're wanting ..."
"Naturally, I'll make it up to you," said Kit hastily, and hurried upstairs to his office.
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Fern, Ruan, and Mistress Gloomstove all stood and looked at Fever.
"You're all muddy," said Fern at last.
"Yes. Yes I am," admitted Fever, looking down at herself. Her neat white coat was splashed and scribbled with dark sprays of Brick Marsh mud and greenish stains of moss and grass. For all she knew there was blood there, too. "I fell over," she said, rather lamely. "In some mud."
She was glad of the clatter of Kit's boots coming back down the stairs. He had Fever's cardboard suitcase under his arm, and he was rummaging in a leather purse. "Here," he said, handing a shiny coin to Mistress Gloomstove. "I hope that will be some small token of my thanks; sorry it can't be more, but I must save some for the chair fare. I shall be back as soon as I can. Don't open the door to anyone while I am gone."
He kissed the children, and suddenly Fever found herself making her quick good-byes and stepping outside after him into the sullen stormy light, and it occurred to her that she would probably never see the house or the children again. There was rain in the air. They didn't go toward Cripplegate but turned downhill instead, walking quickly through quiet and half-deserted streets and empty courts until they reached the edges of Limehouse, where Kit hailed a passing chair. The chief bearer asked, "Where to, mate?" and Kit told him, "Godshawk's Head."
Fever climbed inside, and Kit got in with her and shut the door. As the chair set off she heard a sound, and she thought that
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it was thunder, but it went on and on, coming from the lower end of the city; a shifting, snarling sound, which made her think of some vast and dangerous animal stirring in its sleep. All down the street the shopkeepers were putting up their shutters, and knots of working men stood talking, turning to stare as the chair went past.
***
The day was dark by the time Charley Shallow got back to London -- still not noon, but the sky gone black as a winter's evening, as if the clouds themselves were putting on mourning for old Bagman Creech.
He hadn't dared to go skirting back round Nonesuch Hill to find the coracle, but had run blindly through the marshes till he stumbled on a plankway, a path built by scavengers or hunters, which he followed till it brought him to the southern edge of the city. He was mud-caked, and leech-nibbled; dirty water spewed from his boot tops at every step. A wind tram was passing and he leaped on board, ignoring the old-fashioned looks
that the other passengers gave him when they got a whiff of his marsh-steeped clothes. The tram was moving slowly, with the whole crew busy poling it along, and Charley thought that, with a bit of luck, he might get several stops nearer home before anyone bothered asking him to pay. When they did, he'd have to jump off quick, 'cos he was skint.
But when the conductor finally appeared in front of him, he
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changed his mind. He wasn't just the pot boy from the Mott and Hoople no more. He was Bagman Creech's 'prentice. And now Bagman was gone, that made Charley his heir, didn't it? You're the last of us, Bagman had said. The last of the Skinners. Charley pulled himself up stiff and straightened the old bowler hat on his head and said, "Sorry, mate, I've got no money. I'm on Skinners' business."
"Skinners?" said the conductor, checking his natural urge to throw this filthy, smelly urchin off his tram.
"Bagman Creech is dead," said Charley. "We was hunting a Scriven and she had a friend and he shot Bagman down. I've got to ... Here he hesitated, for he wasn't quite sure what he had to do. "I've got to sort it."
The conductor still looked uncertain, till one of Charley's fellow passengers, a woman, said, "That boy's all right. I saw him with old Bagman up in town yesterday."
"Bagman's dead!" said someone else, passing on what Charley had said to their neighbor. The news was spreading down the tram. Even the crew were looking at Charley now.
The conductor took an oyster shell from his satchel and looped its string over Charley's head. "Good luck, boy. Anything you need, you just ask."
Charley looked at him, and at the faces of the other passengers. He wasn't used to this. To power. He wondered what Bagman would have told them. He said, "Just keep a look out,
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that's all. She was in the marshes, but she could be back in town by now. She looks like a girl and she dresses like one of them Engineers what live in that old head. She's got a human gent protecting her, an archaeologist name of Solent."
The track swung east toward the distant Terminus, and the sails flapped and then tautened, filling with a sudden breeze. The sky astern, over the marshes, was smeared with rain. Charley sat down again, and no one complained now about the smell of marsh that rose from him or the stain he'd leave upon the seat slats. He'd not been sure where he was going, but he knew now. Back to Bagman's house to clean himself up and find himself a new weapon. And then he'd finish the job. Find that Patchskin, and kill her.
Charley hadn't reckoned on the power of rumors, though. The story he'd told had a life of its own, and it moved faster than he could. At every stop the tram made, passengers got off and told the news of Bagman Creech's death in pubs and street markets. Diggers told it to their wives, and their children overheard it and went shouting it through the shabby streets. Along 'Bankmentside and up Cripplegate and through all the rookeries of St Kylie the story spread and grew. Drinkers carried it from pub to pub. In the Crate of Codlings and the Rose Reviv'd, wild rumors got hammered into hard fact. There was a Patchskin loose. Maybe more than one. They were in league with the Movement, and hoping to seize power and have all London for their
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own again. Bagman Creech had found this out, and one of the 'Skins had killed him for it. And worst of all, the murderess had human help....
A ripple of anger moved through the cheap parts of town. By the time Charley hopped off the tram at Celebrity Square people were yelling about it in the streets and smashing the windows of any old-tech shop that had ever done business with the traitor Solent.
Charley went past them, wondering what the fuss was all about. He was halfway down Stragglemarket on his way to Bagman's house when a big hand grabbed him from behind and heaved him hard against a wall. He hung there, pinned, kicking at empty air and staring up once more into the large, red face of Tedward Swiney.
"Crice, you stink of the bog," exclaimed the pub keeper. "I been looking for you all over. Is it true what they're saying? Bagman's croaked?"
Charley couldn't answer. It was all he could do to breathe, with Ted's big fist clumping his coat collar in a tight knot against his windpipe. Ted was wearing his old oilcloth outdoor coat, which stank like a wet dog. The wind flapped it open and in an inside pocket Charley glimpsed the handle of the blunderbuss which usually lived under the counter at the Mott and Hoople in case anyone tried to rob the place or complained about the quality of Ted's beer.
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"What about this Patchskin girl?" Ted growled. "Still live an' large, is she? Well?"
Charley managed a nod, and Ted gave another growl and let him drop. He knelt on the cobbles, hacking and gasping.
"You sound worse than the old man did," said Ted. "Where is she then? 'Ow do we find her? Pity to waste all this community spirit you've roused up. I ain't seen the commons look this lively for years. So how do we get hold of her? Out in the marshes, you say?"
"Kit Solent," choked Charley.
"An' who the blog is Kit Solent?"
"He's an archaeologist. He's helping her. He murdered Bagman. Maybe he's a Scriven, too. I didn't see no speckles on him, but then the girl ain't got none neither. This Solent lives up on the hill. I can't remember the street. I can take you there."
Ted Swiney cursed viciously under his breath, which helped him to think. Then he reached down and grabbed Charley by both shoulders, lifting him to his feet. He patted the dust off him with both big hands, trying to look friendly, even fatherly, for the benefit of the gang of onlookers who had gathered to watch. He could sense the anger of the mob building. They needed a leader, but with Bagman gone who could they turn to? Ted meant to make sure that it was him.
Charley stood there uneasily while Ted set his hat straight. Rain was falling heavily now. A chair passed, its bearers tramping along like dray horses with their heads down and the rain
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slicking their hair. Charley watched it going by so that he didn't have to look at Ted Swiney's attempt at a cheery smile. He saw a girl's white face framed in the window space; the familiar curve of a shaved head. "Ted! Look! It's her! "
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***
18 Chair vs Chair
The chair slowed a little as the rain came on, the bearers growing mistrustful of the greasy cobbles. Rain rattled on the roof and speckled the window glass as Fever peered out to see where they were. She saw the sign outside a tram stop, celebrity square . She saw more groups of men, sheltering under shop awnings as the downpour increased. She saw a barrel-shaped man lurch forward out of one of the groups. He had his finger pointed straight at Fever, and he was shouting something.
"Damn that bald pate of yours," said Kit Solent. "You stand out like a beacon." He thrust Fever back against her seat, out of the sight of anyone outside, but the damage had been done, and Fever could hear the roar of angry voices spreading. Her breath came in little shallow gasps, and she was afraid that she was going to be sick. Kit Solent leaned past her. He had his pistol in his hand, and he used the handle to pound on the woodwork behind her head, shouting to the lead bearer, " Faster! Faster! "
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The chair started to lurch as the bearers broke into a heavy trot. Fever craned her neck, looking out through the small glass pane in the back wall. She saw the barrel-shaped man flagging down a passing taxi-chair. She saw his mouth move, and knew that he was shouting, "Follow that chair!"
"They're coming after us!" she said.
"They won't catch us...." Kit Solent twisted round to look, and for a moment his head and shoulders obscured Fever's view. "Damn! That's Swiney!"
"Who's he?"
"Landlord of the Mott on Ditch Street. A real troublemaker. A big man in the bad parts of town ... He turned back to hammer on the wall behind Fever's head again, shouting, "Faster, man! Faster! I'll make it worth your while!"
A moment later the chair was racing up Cransbeigh Notch and crossing Cripplegate. The bearers were fit and fresh and too heavily dosed with lifting drugs to question Kit's order. People
who saw them coming just had to dive aside to let the chair go past.
But the chair Ted Swiney had commandeered was fast, too. Fever could see it twenty feet behind, a lean red chair with go-faster stripes and three bearers, one at the front and two behind. The publican's angry face could be seen shouting from a side window. After a few hundred yards he wriggled one hand out, too, clutching something silvery that he pointed toward Fever's chair. Fever couldn't make out what it was until his hand jerked and a flare of orange sparks and white smoke hid him.
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Something struck the corner of the chair above her with a startling crack.
"He's shooting at us!" she said stupidly.
"Two can play at that," said Kit Solent, tugging a window open. He leaned his whole body out into the rain, and Fever heard his gun go off and saw the pale puff of smoke whipped sideways on the wind. He must have missed, though, for a moment later Ted Swiney's gun fired again and a hole the size of a two-quid coin appeared in the woodwork of the chair's back.
Kit Solent twisted himself round' and threw his empty pistol into Fever's lap, followed by the ammunition pouch and powder horn. "Reload that!" he shouted, drawing out a second, identical gun. He had been half expecting this sort of trouble, she realized; he had armed himself for a battle while he had been upstairs fetching her things and Mistress Gloomstove's money. She felt hopelessly, helplessly grateful to him for daring to come with her, and she hurried to do as he said, gripping the pistol with trembling fingers, terrified she'd drop it. "A charge of powder, wadding, then the ball, ram it all home with the rod," Kit told her, shouting to make himself heard over the roar of the rain on the roof. Coarse-grained powder, black as pepper, sprinkled down her coat. Kit fired his second pistol as she pushed the ball home, and she was still busy with the ramrod when he reached back in, dropping his empty gun on her and groping for the other.