was an Old Man, too.
Margaret grabbed his arm. David wrenched free, and turned on her. “Don’t get between me and food,” he said, with a hiss — all teeth and spittle. “Don’t you dare!”
Before Margaret could see his embarrassment, and her hurt expression could turn to anger, he bolted to the pub, pushing the door right into a poor drinker. The man scowled and clenched his fists, until David smiled at him. “Please don't get between me and food,” he repeated.
The man backed away, hands out. “It's nothing. It's nothing,” he said.
David wondered just what he saw in his face.
David could feel Margaret's gaze on him. Could feel the question still unanswered.
He knew what he had to do. And it terrified him.
CHAPTER 2
That time in Hardacre was filled with such desperation and yet everything moved so slowly. My partner, Whig, and I have waded through the molasses of civic paperwork before. We’ve never let it stop us. I was cocky, but what mayor isn't? We've earned such pride. I got things done, and in my time, but this wasn't my metropolis. Every painful step, every stall and stymie was an illustration of that, as though Hardacre sought to remind me whenever it could that it wasn’t Chapman, that these weren’t my people, that my power base was gone, that my people were gone.
I know that Margaret Penn hated me for it, but, at the time, I didn't quite understand her urgency. David wasn't the only one being hunted. We all had things to grieve: the profound loss of loved ones and homes. Nothing was simple anymore.
There was a will against us, a great and terrible will.
Well, we had terrors of our own. Not least of them Master Milde.
THE CITY OF HARDACRE 973 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL
What little guilt Margaret Penn possessed about following David evaporated the moment the Vergers had attacked. David could be angry at her all he liked, but the truth was she had saved his life. With David dead, the Roil could never be stopped. The Roil had destroyed the metropolis of Tate, subsumed her mother into its mind, and taken away everything else that she cared about. She lived for its destruction, and David was so tightly bound in any possibility of defeating the Roil that his welfare had become far more important than her own.
He was the key that engaged the Engine of the World. She needed him alive, and she had to believe that David wanted to live as well. He went on and on about being hunted. But what did he really know about that?
Margaret, on the other hand, was well acquainted with pursuit. It filled her dreams as much as the destruction of her city. Her mother hunted her.
She knew it as surely as the twin moons that shone in the sky. Just as she knew her mother would be relentless in that hunt. Margaret had seen the things that her mother had at her disposal; she’d seen the great works of the Roil, and how quickly it had washed over first her city, and, not long after, the city of Chapman. When such industry was combined with such intellect it was unstoppable.
Almost, and it was that almost that tantalised and horrified her.
If David hadn’t destroyed the iron ships that had followed them after their escape from Chapman, she’d most probably be deep in the Roil now, part of the thought within its massed mind, as an ant was part of the thought of its nest.
It sickened her, just how close she had come. And just how dependent she was on David.
She’d followed him, partly to see that he was safe, partly to spy, and mostly because she was bored. They were stuck here in Hardacre. They should have gone weeks ago, left this chaotic little city for the north.
He was taking Carnival again; she had seen him purchase the drug two corners from Hardacre’s main square, not hours after he had sworn that he was not. She'd watched the curious dance of the transaction, the doffing of hats, the sleight of hand. The sort of thing you didn't notice, unless you were really looking. Margaret had been disappointed, but at least she knew now. Her hopes were pinned on a man in the thrall of his addiction.
She walked into the pub alone, felt gazes fall upon her. Her skin was too pale and she was too tall. She stood out, no matter how much she hunched over, or how tightly she drew her coat about her.
She couldn’t see David, he was probably already in the kitchen. The boy had grown an appetite over the last few weeks. One that was at least the match of their benefactor, Mr Buchan. She lifted her gaze, saw the former mayor of Chapman sitting at his usual table.
Buchan sat, belly creased around the table edge, at the rear of the pub where he could smoke, and eat and watch what was going on. The man saw everything, even when he was eating. And though he didn't own the pub he possessed such a proprietary air you would have thought he owned half the street as well. He gestured at her as she entered, a quick wave in his direction.
Margaret hoped she managed to hide the scowl she knew was building on her face, working its way through muscle that was most often shaped in a scowl anyway. She pushed her way through the pub towards the big man. Once the smell of ale would have annoyed her, now she hardly noticed it, which in turn annoyed her even more.
Buchan’s table was crammed with more food than Margaret could have eaten in a week, there was a map folded neatly on one corner of the table, next to a small bottle of map powder. She recognised the map, even folded, the one Buchan claimed to be the only accurate study of the north.
“Margaret, Margaret. What a delight!” Buchan cried, wiping sauce from his lips, map powder clinging to his nostrils. “Food, drink, can I tempt you?” Margaret sat down. Buchan lowered his voice. “David?”
Margaret shook her head. “I don't want to talk about him.”
“You two fought?”
“We had a disagreement.”
Buchan frowned. “My dear, I know that you feel put-upon. But really, you must nurture some subtlety. Everything about you gives away how you feel, and who you hate.”
“I don’t hate you,” Margaret said.
“And I didn’t say you did!” Buchan laughed. “But that is good to know.”
“When are we leaving?”
Buchan held her gaze. “Every day you ask me that. And every day I give you the same answer. As soon as we can.”
“And you can’t see just how unsatisfying that is?”
“Oh, I see it. I see it indeed.” He lifted his ale, drained what was left of it with a grimace, looked at the empty glass as though it had somehow betrayed him. “We are all of us frustrated, but just think how much harder it would be if we were in the tents outside the city? Here we are with food and shelter, and some influence.”
“You’re saying I should be grateful?”
“I’m saying it could be worse. We are doing the best we can, and that that is better than you could hope without us. Keep David on our side, keep him as the dear friend he is, and you will be doing your part, and keeping a roof over your head. It would be a dreadful shame if you weren't to join us on the journey north.”
“I’m not fond of threats.”
“And I’m not fond of making them… to friends.” His gaze flicked to her rifle. “And for goodness’ sake, if you’re going to walk around those weapons, please be more discreet.”
Margaret pushed herself up from the table. “I’ll be in my room,” she said.
“Margaret, we won’t be here forever,” he said, voice low. “I promise.”
Margaret pushed her chair under the table. “We don’t have forever. We may not be moving but the Roil is. You should have never let Kara Jade go.”
Now it was Buchan's turn to scowl.
