She engaged every braking mechanism at once, swung back the gears and still the Melody almost toppled over the edge, stopping at the lip of the fall. Margaret sat behind the wheel panting. She had to get out and check the stability of the road. Her back ached as she got out of the vehicle and walked to the ragged edges of the hole.
Down she stared, rime blades clutched in either hand. Far below beasts flew around the metal limbs of the bridge, Endyms by the look of them and Floataotons in spiralling drifts thousands strong. Huge supports hundreds of yards long plunged into the bottom of the chasm and built around these, on road level, beneath bands of cable – a single strand of which was thicker than Margaret’s arm – were shops and living quarters.
She’d thought that none lived there until she caught sight of furtive movement at the windows, dark figures peering out or ducking down and hiding.
She gave them little notice; it did not pay to. Spend too long worrying about every ghostly apparition or possible threat and she would go mad. Instead she made herself focus on the bridge, it looked safe enough, and turning back wasn’t an option anyway. She got back in her vehicle, and drove it gingerly around the collapse, trusting to old ingenuity.
The structure had taken more than three decades to build. Just forty years later the Roil had washed over it, mocking such industry with its implacable shadow.
If the creators of an architectural wonder as imposing as this could fall, what chance did she have?
And what of the builders of the Engines of the World? How had they fallen? All of this, every city, every construction, even the marvellous city of Drift, was nothing compared to their metropolises.
Nearly a century ago, Tearwin Meet, the Dead Metropolis in the North had been discovered, or more correctly rediscovered, though that which guarded it had driven back any attempts at uncovering its secrets. After over a dozen fatalities, and numerous failed expeditions, people had stopped trying.
All who had been there had failed, but Tearwin Meet alone held what she needed. If the Engine of the World existed it would be there at Tearwin Meet’s heart.
Getting there was going to be the hard enough. She could deal with the rest when she reached its ice-caked boundary.
Her carriage only had enough fuel to reach Chapman, maybe a little further north. Once she ran out, she would have to find her own way with no money or friends – not that she had ever had either, and both of which, if she were truly honest, she only had an abstract understanding of.
A frightening thought played at the back of her mind, it seeped and grew into her thoughts like the darkness itself. What if the Roil had already overtaken Chapman? In truth she had no way of knowing if there was anything beyond the borders of the Roil. The whole world could have been swallowed by now.
In time, she thought. It will come to me in time. Either that or I will be dead.
She rubbed her head where she had bumped it, what felt like an age ago, and in some ways was even longer, in Tate. The spot throbbed. Margaret’s whole body ached, she was unaccustomed to so much driving. Her parents may have taken convoys out for days, but she had never driven more than a couple of hours from the city, and, most often, that had been as a passenger.
She had now been on the road for a day and a half. Every time she blinked it was an effort to open her eyes again.
Margaret found herself veering towards the edge of the bridge, found her head dipping towards her chin. She snapped awake, and slammed on the brakes, and still it was a near thing. The Melody struck the rail that ran alongside the road, merely a glancing blow, but the rail had tumbled away into the abyss.
She had to stop, rest, even if it were just a few minutes. Death by Roil or death by driving the Melody Amiss off the bridge was still death.
She needed sleep. She brought the Melody to a halt, as far from the bridge edge as possible, locked down the engines and took a few sips from one of the water jars in the car.
Margaret picked up her father’s book, opened a page and tried to read it. Her mind could not focus on the words, all she could see was the bridge rail falling.
She took a few deep breaths, put the book down and closed her eyes.
I will just rest. How can I sleep? I’ll just rest.
Another jolting image of the bridge rail sliding away, only this time she and the Melody followed it. Her eyes snapped open and she grabbed her rifle, setting it down in her lap. There was no way she could sleep, not now, but there was no way she could go on either.
Exhaustion decided it for her.
Chapter 25
All Roads lead to Ruin.
There is a saying, “All roads lead to ruin.” There is also a saying, “All side streets lead to Main”.
Starting a little further west than Matheson’s Famous Book Shop and Powder Emporium, and ending on the Southern Palestral Quarter of the city by the machine works and the busy docks – for even swollen, the River Weep continued to be the lifeblood of the city – Main followed the river, ran with it through Mirrlees-on-Weep touching almost every part of the city. About halfway along the street, at the heart of the city, rose the Ruele Tower.
At the top of the spire in a sparsely yet expensively furnished room, Mr Stade sat alone and stared down at the city.
The Mayor had been telling people what they wanted to hear about the Roil for over a decade. He gazed a while longer at that rain drenched city, then back at certain classified charts showing the projected growth of the Roil, and shook his head. Sometimes he even believed what he said. At least while he was saying it.
But looking at even the most optimistic of the charts, he could not believe a word of nearly a decade of his oratory. Whatever the rhetoric about the Roil halting, about the city being safe, the truth was marked upon this map, and it mocked and terrified him. The Roil continued to grow and, every day, that growth seemed faster.
That he had managed to spin such a convincing web of lies was in part that the truth was just too horrifying to bear. In some truth, there was indeed only terror. Should his plans fail, everything was lost. That was reality as Stade saw it. The Project could not fail. He was quite prepared to kill to ensure its success.
The Dissolution had been necessary. The denizen of Tearwin Meet was too dangerous, even as a last resort. Mechanical Winter, how he dreaded it, and the others would have too, if desperation hadn’t blinded them.
Soon his last true opponent would be gone from the city. Medicine’s aid had given his leadership a legitimacy that he was willing to admit may have been somewhat lacking after the bloodletting of a few days before
And legitimacy was what he needed, or everything would come undone.
Mirrlees had six months, if that, left to her. Then last bows would be made and the Obsidian Curtain would close.
He rubbed at his temples, his whole body knotted with tension. It was all too much responsibility and he was not the man to bear that burden, but there was no one else left. He had gotten rid of any effective councillors in his party years ago. Slack jaws and toadies were all that remained now. They were loyal to the core, yes, but if there was an original thought between the lot of them he would have been exceedingly surprised.
He flicked open a folder – its edges dark with age. Photos of men in frockcoats and hats, thirty years out of date, looking at the Arganon Slick. The first hint of the Roil, the slick had darkened a hundred mile wide patch of land, changing the landscape, warping first the flora and then the fauna so that they became something else. The Slick had been worrying, evidence of some sort of pollution, but there was no such hint of concern in their faces. No one could have suspected what would happen just days after this photo was taken.
Stade shook his head. All these men had died, long ago, most had never made it back from that expedition. Little had changed, the Roil still possessed that tendency. Just when everyone thought they had a handle on it, it went and did something totally unexpected.
