Grist led the way down. Jez followed with the rest of them. It sounded as if there was a crowd at the bottom of the stairs, a howling, shrieking horde whose cries bypassed the ears and went directly into the mind. They were getting louder with every step. She looked around at the others, distressed, but nobody else seemed to hear it. Was there agony in those voices? Terror? Or a fierce exultation? Every fibre in her body thrummed with the noise. A cacophony of ghosts, screeching out of the past.
What happened here?
The chamber at the bottom was another cellar, larger than the first. It was damp, freezing and gloomy. The edges of the bricks had been nibbled away by time. Mould grew in black patches. Electric lights had been placed on the floor, against the walls, but they did little more than push back the shadows.
This place was a sanctum.
Evidence of daemonism was everywhere. The centre of the room was dominated by a huge cage, a dodecahedron of rusted bars that stood on an octagonal pedestal. Symbols, similar to those on the doors, had been carved into the pedestal. Metal rods stood at the points of the octagon, one of them bent at an angle. Cables led from the cage to antique machines, as big as cabinets. Sections of panelling had come away from the machines to reveal broken cogs, springs, tiny gears and switches. There were lecterns with rotted books lying open on them. Seats were placed in rows, some tipped over and missing legs. There was a table, a chest, and a shattered chalkboard smudged with the suggestion of words and symbols.
The damage hadn't all been caused by the hand of time. The chalkboard had been broken by force. So had several chairs, and the panelling on one of the machines. There had been conflict here.
It was a reconstruction, Jez realised. Grist had found this place in disarray, and put everything back as best he could. She knew now what he'd brought them to see. The cries surrounded her, battering at her mind. The wails of the daemonists and the savage triumph of the daemons.
'This was where it started,' she said.
Grist put a fresh cigar in his mouth. The flare of the match lit up his face, turning it craggy and sinister. He puffed, drew in the smoke, and blew it out, surveying the room as if it were some grand vista.
'Right you are, ma'am. This is where they came, that day, to perform their secret ritual. Didn't know what they were messin' with, I reckon. Full of 'emselves. Explorers of the unknown. I ain't sure what they thought they were lookin' for—'
'But what they got were the Manes,' said Frey.
Grist regarded him from beneath his bushy eyebrows. 'Well. Seems my little surprise ain't so much of a surprise after all.'
'We dropped in on Professor Kraylock at Bestwark,' said Frey. His tone was dead, void of emotion. 'He filled us in on what your father was up to. He sent you his research, didn't he? Before he was killed.'
Grist took out his cigar and waggled the nub in Frey's direction. 'You're a smart one, Cap'n,' he said, impressed.
Frey looked at Trinica. 'Not that smart.'
Grist stuck the cigar back into place between his teeth. 'Women,' he commisserated. 'Can't live with 'em, can't feed 'em into a meat grinder and feast on their remains.'
Trinica showed no reaction, just gazed at him with eyes black as a shark's. Grist grinned and turned back to Frey. 'Ah, she ain't got anything to say. She's been well paid.'
Jez was finding it hard to follow the conversation. Just being here was like standing in the torrent of a river, trying not to be swept away. The memory of the Manes was everywhere here. She felt herself sliding into a trance, and fought it.
'You found this place through your father's notes?' Trinica asked.
Her head was tipped back and she was studying the ceiling, most of which was lost to darkness.
'Aye,' said Grist. 'Used to be there was a manse here. Belonged to a businessman, name o' Slinth. He was a big name in daemonist circles, back in the old days. This was his sanctum. Used to be some way outside o' town, but Sakkan's grown since then, turned into a city. They knocked the old place down, built a cannin' factory over it. Never knew the cellar was here. My Dad figured it out, though. I bought up the factory, so I could get to what was underneath.'
'Well,' said Frey, looking around at the dank room. 'It was certainly worth it.'
Grist didn't rise to the sarcasm. 'Thought there'd be answers here, but there ain't answers. The books were past savin'. Couldn't read what was on the chalkboards. This place is just a museum.' He coughed his hacking cough. 'Still, I put the land to good use. The warehouses, the hangar. You come in at night when no one's around to spot you. No records, no docking fees. Nice little place to hole up. And I can move my product through here without anyone takin' an interest.'
'Your father's reseach,' said Trinica. 'You still have it?'
'Safe in my cabin, don't you worry.'
'You're aware of the repercussions if it was made public? If it could be proved that the Awakeners have been using the daemonic techniques pioneered here?'
'Aye, I've got a notion. Would that offend you, Cap'n Dracken? You've a soft spot for the Awakeners?'
'I don't have a soft spot for anyone,' Dracken replied. 'I wondered if you were intending to take revenge on them. Your father was most likely murdered by an Imperator. I assume you knew that?'
'I figured as much,' said Grist. 'The thought had crossed my mind, I'll admit. But I've more urgent business to deal with first.' He broke out into a tremendous coughing fit that left him wheezing and watery-eyed. His crewmen shifted uneasily, glancing at one another.
'You alright?' asked Frey. 'Wouldn't want you to keel over and die. Much.'
Grist wiped spittle from his beard and went over to the small chest that was sitting on a nearby table. He opened it up. 'I'm touched by your concern, Cap'n, but I ain't keeling over anytime soon.' He took out the metal sphere that Frey had first seen on the Mane dreadnought. 'Not now I got this.'
Jez's attention fixed on the sphere. Smooth black metal with silver lines curving all over its surface. There was no symmetry to it - at least, no symmetry that a human would recognise - but as Jez stared at it, the pattern seemed to almost make sense, straining on the edge of recognition. There was a chanting in her head, louder even than the voices of the ghosts here. A wordless summons, from far away. Far to the north, behind the Wrack. The Manes. Wanting her.
'What is it?' she heard herself say. 'What have we been chasing all this time?'
'This?' he held it up. 'It's an alarm.'
Frey blinked. 'A what?'
'An alarm.'
'Not a doomsday device, then?'
Grist peered at it. 'Not really.'
'Oh.'
'It's a distress beacon,' Grist said. 'All dreadnoughts carry them. You remember I told you about that Navy report, when they found a downed dreadnought? I neglected to mention a couple o' things. Like how there were still Manes alive on it, and the Navy fought 'em back. And how one of 'em locked itself behind one of those daemonically guarded doors that your man Crake had so much fun gettin' through. And how, right after, a half-dozen dreadnoughts appeared. Appeared, Frey. A hole got punched in the sky, and they came sailin' through.' He puffed on his cigar. 'That takes power of a kind you and I can't imagine. Dad reckoned that whatever provided it, it was behind that door. And he was right.'
'What about the dreadnought we found?' asked Frey. 'Why didn't they use the sphere?'
'Maybe they didn't want to go back,' said Jez. 'They'd rejected the Manes. It killed them in the end.'
She shivered with the memory of the terrible, endless loneliness. But that's how we all live, every day. Sealed up in our own little worlds. We only know of each other what we choose to show.
Frey frowned. 'Listen, Grist. I had a chat with an Awakener, back on the All Our Yesterdays. He told me that thousands of people would die if that fell into the wrong hands. Now you're telling me it's just an alarm?'
'Oh, right,' said Grist. 'See, he was probably thinkin' of what'll happen when the alarm goes off. What'll happen to all the pe
ople in this city when them Manes turn up, after I activate this thing.' He turned and stared at Jez, his face hardening. 'Or rather, when you do.'
Crake sat with his back against the wall of the store room, and whistled a tune to himself.
'Dunno how you can be so damn calm, while we're cooped up in this place and the Cap'n and Jez are in who knows what kind of trouble,' said Malvery, who was pacing the floor. He walked up to the metal door that sealed them in, and hammered on it with his fist. 'Hey! We're freezing in here! Give us some rum, for pity's sake!' When he got no response, he pulled his coat tighter around him and continued to stomp up and down. Silo, sitting in the corner, watched him blandly.
'May I have your pocket watch, Malvery?' he asked. 'Trinica's men took mine. Presumably they thought it was possessed.'
Malvery took out his watch and tossed it over. Crake pressed the catch and the case sprang open.
'You late for something?' Malvery asked irritably.
'Oh, no,' said Crake. 'Right on time.'
He smiled wryly. It seemed like a long time since he'd smiled. As if a tombstone had been laying on his chest, heavy and cold, which was now gradually lifting away.
The grief he felt at the death of his niece was both old and new. He'd always known in his heart that he could never get her back, but he could never make himself believe it. Not until he'd tried. Now that he had, now that he'd seen the sheer impossibility of it, the weight of the task he'd placed upon himself was lessening day by day. It had taken Jez's harsh words to make him face up to himself.
It was strange. Bess, his niece, was dead. It was his responsibility, his hand that had wielded the blade. He would never shed the guilt of that. And yet he felt better now than he had for two years. He'd finally accepted what he'd done, instead of trying to change it.
It hurt. Of course, it hurt, like a bright blade in his guts. But it was a clean hurt. The pain of healing. Not the slow, grim death that he'd been trying to blot out with alcohol. For the first time since his niece had died, he saw light. Sharp and hard, but light. And he wouldn't look away, no matter how it brought the tears to his eyes.
Malvery was suspicious of Crake's smile. He narrowed his eyes. 'You've got something up your sleeve, haven't you?' He hunkered down next to Crake and poked him in the ribs with a meaty finger. 'What you up to, eh?' he asked.
'You remember the first time Dracken captured us?' he said. 'Just outside Retribution Falls?'
'Ain't likely to forget it. We all nearly got hanged on account of her.'
'We put down in the Blackendraft,' said Crake. 'An endless, trackless waste of ash, far as the eye could see. I put Bess to sleep so she wouldn't attack anyone and get us all killed. Trinica left her there when we flew off.'
'Right,' said Malvery. 'You were all in a gloom, thought you'd never see her again. But Jez found her. S'pose because of those Mane abilities she's got.' He paused. 'Never thought of that till now.'
'Yes. But if we hadn't got out of being hanged, or if Jez hadn't found Bess, then she'd have stayed asleep for ever. Like a metal statue in the middle of the wastes.'
'Where you heading with this, Crake?'
'Back in Marlen's Hook, you asked me if I'd done anything useful lately. Any new daemonic artefacts, any new techniques, that sort of thing.'
Malvery waved it off, embarrassed. 'Aw, mate. I was just giving you a kick in the arse, you know. Trying to get you to lay off the booze before you ended up like me.'
'I know,' said Crake. 'And I want to thank you for that. You and Jez, you both helped me a lot.'
Malvery shrugged. 'That's what friends do, right? They give it to you straight. Speaking of which, get back on the subject.'
'Look, the point was, what you said got me thinking. About that time with Bess. How it could happen again, and I might not be so lucky next time. If I put her to sleep, and I lost that damn whistle . . . then what? I might never be able to wake her up.'
'S'pose not. So what?'
'So, I taught her a few more whistles. A few more frequencies, you see. You can't hear them, and it takes a daemonist to make them work, but to Bess they're loud and clear. They make her do different things, rather than just put her to sleep indefinitely.'
'Like what?'
He looked at Malvery's pocket watch again. 'Like putting her to sleep for . . . oh, about half an hour.'
Malvery grinned. Crake grinned with him. Malvery took back his pocket watch and snapped the case shut.
'It's bloody good to have you back, mate,' said the doctor.
In the distance, the gunshots and screams began.
Something was amiss on the Ketty Jay.
Slag opened his eyes slowly and licked his chops. The fur around his face still carried the taste of rat blood. But it wasn't rats that had brought him out of his doze.
He got up and loped through the ventilation ducts, towards the cargo hold. Slag was the master of these hidden byways. It was his mission in life to keep them clear of invaders. The world outside was full of those curious beings that occasionally - unwisely - tried to touch him or pick him up. But they were too big to get into the vents. Here, it was Slag versus the rats. And while there had been some epic struggles in his time, fought against large and vicious opponents, Slag had always dominated. He'd never come across an enemy he couldn't beat. He didn't know the meaning of defeat.
He slipped out of the duct into the cargo hold. Cold air was blowing in from the outside, stirring his whiskers and chilling his nose. The cargo ramp was open. Sounds came to him from beyond: people shouting to one another, the clank of machinery, the roar of thrusters as an aircraft accelerated overhead. The sharp tang of aerium gas, vented from a freighter that was touching down. The busy industry of landing pads was terrifying in contrast to the safety of his enclosed world. It was an assault on the senses that confused and intimidated him.
The cargo ramp being open was not unusual. Slag padded out into the centre of the room and sniffed.
That was it. That was what had woken him.
The cowardly one had dared to come aboard.
He made a sinister crooning noise from low in his throat. The thought of that pathetic specimen on his territory made him angry. He listened, and heard scurrying footsteps in the corridor overhead, the main passageway that ran down the spine of the aircraft.
This wasn't the first time, either. He knew his prey had sneaked aboard several times recently. Sometimes Slag detected him and chased him away. Other times, he'd been busy in the depths of the aircraft, and all that was left when he emerged was the sour smell of fear and sweat.
Slag's instinct was to chase him off again. But he was an old cat, a veteran of many secret wars, and he'd learned a thing or two. He knew how the rats would keep coming back, no matter how many times he killed them. There were always more. Unless he hunted them down to their lair. Kill them there, kill the mothers, and the rats didn't come back.
He could chase off the intruder, but the intruder would return. It was time to take an altogether more crafty approach. He'd take the fight to his enemy.
Slag padded down the cargo ramp. He could see the enemy's lair, a few dozen yards away. The place where he slept and hid. The cowardly one was smugly content there, behind the transparent shell that sheltered him. Secure in the knowledge that Slag wouldn't cross the gap between the aircraft.
The sight of the Firecrow infuriated him. The shell was open, too. It was a taunt beyond endurance. His enemy thought Slag was too weak to come and get him. He thought that Slag was too afraid to brave the sky.
But Slag refused to be afraid of anything.
He went down to the end of the ramp. Beyond it, dozens of people worked around a huge metal craft. Tractors chugged past, hauling jangling trailers of metal pipes. The air stank of petrol. There were so many threats out there. Too many to keep track of.
Above him, beyond the jutting stern of the Ketty Jay, there was no ceiling. Only a rucked blanket of feathery whiteness, impossibly high. The sheer size
of the outside crushed him. He crouched down unconsciously, flattening his ears, making himself small. Was the cowardly one really worth this? Wouldn't it be enough to simply chase him away again?
No. This had gone on too long. And Slag didn't know how to lose.
He put one paw out on to the cold surface of the landing pad, then looked around quickly, in case any of the roaring machines had noticed his transgression. He put his other paw down next to it.
Nothing happened. He glanced up at the sky. The hazy white blanket seemed to be staying up there.
He fixed his gaze on the enemy's lair. The open cockpit. The ladder rungs, built into the flank of the craft, that would take him there.
He moved hi- back legs : r: ard. until all four paws were on the tarmac. His tail still lay flat on the lip of the cargo ramp. His last connection with the Ketty Jay.
The big people were occupied. The machines paid him no attention.
He steeled himself. Then he scampered forward.
For the first time in his long and violent life, Slag departed the Ketty Jay.
'Let me get this straight,' said Frey. 'You just said that activating that sphere would bring a horde of Manes down on us. So . . . er . . . exactly why would you want to do that? If you want to commit suicide, there's a gun in your hand. Do us all a favour.'
'Suicide?' Grist burst out laughing and ended with a wheeze. 'Oh, no, Cap'n. I ain't committing suicide. Just the opposite, actually.' He sucked on his cigar and let it seep out through his lips. 'See, I'm dying anyway. You may have noticed this delicate little cough of mine? Well, I got the Black Lung. The rot's eatin' me up from the inside. Docs said it were only a matter of time, and there weren't much o' that.' He held up his cigar and contemplated the glowing tip. 'Like I said, tobacco's a harsh mistress.' He stuck it back in his mouth and showed yellow teeth. 'But I don't wanna die, Cap'n Frey. I'm havin' too much fun livin'. And as far as I know, there's only one way to live for ever.'
Jez felt a jolt of horror as it clicked into place. 'You want to become a Mane,' she said.