The cannon stopped their whining and began booming out into the curtain and the air. Roilings shrieked and the ground shook, but whether the latter was from the cannonade or the Roil, David could not tell.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “Now.”
Soldiers crashed past them, their faces fixed as they ran towards the Southern Wall. They numbered in their thousands, all armed with ice guns. Behind them followed dozens of horse-drawn tanks, the letters lN stamped on their sides. Liquid Nitrogen. The air rang out to the sounds of ferocious industry, yet David saw no point in it.
Too little and too late.
The question was not whether this force could halt the Roil, but if they could slow it at all.
David wished them well. He felt as though he was deserting them, but he was not trained to fight. He had to get to Hardacre and he had no doubt that if he and Margaret lingered too long they would be left behind.
Then he saw Mr Tope, and Mr Tope saw him.
Chapter 46
The Festival of Float; four hundred years of tradition, celebrating the cessation of hostilities between the metropolises of the ground and the city of the sky, and the beginning of a period of growth that had extended until the reappearance of the Roil. Some say that this growth itself was the progenitor of the Roil. Certainly there was an increase in production of carbon and methane gasses, and records do suggest a steady upturn in mean temperature over this period. But the data is uncertain.
Why hold a festival in the dying days of a city?
Why not? Consider this question rephrased. Why hold a festival featuring enough aircraft and Aerokin to evacuate a city entire, just as it faces its direst threat?
CHAPMAN FIELD OF FLIGHT, ONE MILE FROM THE ROIL EDGE
The Festival was over before it had even begun. The musicians lowered their instruments, gazing at each other uncertainly. The air stank of smoke and powder, and in the distance something crashed and shook the earth.
Even as the multicoloured balloons rose, all sense of merriment was dead. Shadows streaked through the air, hissing and caterwauling, and pieces of balloon rained down upon the crowd, and much worse things: Hideous Garment Flutes.
Even that was not enough for the crowd that filled the Field of Flight. They looked to each other questioningly, doubtfully. As though it had never crossed their minds that such a thing could happen on such a day. But it had, and the truth fell upon them with claw and maw.
And then, all across the field, the captains called and their crews came out.
“Into the ships,” Cadell yelled as he ran through the field towards the Roslyn Dawn. “There’s time yet for flight. Into the ships, if you want to live.”
The Roil burned within him like a hot lance. Terrible pressures built in his temple and the ring on his finger tightened and cooled, his hand throbbing in time with it.
Finally, the people stirred. Musicians jumped from their stages and the Drift folk started herding those nearby into their ships. Once the crowd started to get the idea the herding stopped and the pushing and pulling began.
There’s not enough, Cadell thought. Not nearly enough ships and Aerokin, but more than enough people for a riot.
He reached the Dawn, where Kara waited gripping one of Margaret’s rifles. “Where have you been?” she asked.
“Wasting my time,” he said, then looked around. “Where are the others?”
Kara shrugged.
“I don’t know, was half asleep when they left. I’ve been working on the Roslyn Dawn’s wounds, the bio- engines weren’t running as well as I liked.”
Cadell cursed.
“Tell her to prep her engines then, and they had better be working now,” Cadell growled, his face twisting savagely with rage and fear. “Idiots, the pair of them, if they do not come soon they’re on their own. We’ve no time, absolutely no time.”
CHAPMAN ,ROIL EDGE
The shock of recognition in Mr Tope’s face was no doubt mirrored in his own. Tope flashed a grin at him, then shouted back along the wall.
David tugged at Margaret’s hand, she pulled away. “Stop doing that.”
“Verger,” he said. “Coming along the wall. He’s seen us.”
“Where?” Margaret said, then groaned. “Him again! Don’t we have enough trouble?”
David glared at her, his heart thumping loudly in his chest. A little Carnival now would do just the trick.
“In Tate we had no truck with Vergers, it was an antiquated and less than venerable tradition, and to hear what Stade did, mixing Cuttle and human blood. It’s monstrous.”
“I’ve no argument with you, but can we walk and talk? We can’t go the way we’ve come.”
The Verger drew closer, shoving soldiers out of his way. Men glared at him, affronted, until they realised what he was, then they pulled away, suddenly conscious of the knife in their midst.
Margaret signalled for David to stop and glanced around her.
“There,” she said, pointing at a nearby wire stretched taut from the wall down to the ground. She pulled the belt from her waist, and wrapped one end around her wrist.
“Hold on,” she said, and when David hesitated she grabbed him to her.
“What are you talking about?” David demanded. “What do you mean hold on?”
“My, you’re bloody skin and bones aren’t you,” she breathed into his ear. “Just shut up and don’t let go.”
David struggled in her warm grip. Her breath crashed over his face. She smelt of cloves and something else. Roses, David thought, she smells of roses. How odd to focus on that scent right now.
But that is what he did, which was, perhaps, a wise decision because Margaret stepped off the edge of the wall and into the air, taking David with her. They slid down the wire, the belt burning as it went, almost before David realised that was what Margaret had intended.
He was still trying to protest when they hit the ground, and the impact drove the wind out of him. Why did people insist on throwing him off things?
Margaret rolled to a crouch, standing slowly and buckling her belt back around her waist. She stretched her arms.
“Lucky you’re rather slim for a boy,” she said.
David reddened and was about to protest, when something gripped his ankle and squeezed.
David looked down, a scream choked in his mouth. It was a hand, sprung up from the ground, black bone showing through etiolated leathery flesh. He kicked out and the hand flew away, trailing what looked like ash but was, perhaps, dry old blood, or even clumps of Witmoths.
“Roiling,” he said, quietly, his voice pitched a little too high. He wiped at where the hand had grabbed him, then yelped and jumped when another one tried to do the same thing. “They’re coming up through the ground.”
Margaret nodded and tossed him a rifle, she unsheathed one of her swords, its edges gleamed and steamed.
“The charge is low,” she said. “Make every shot count. Oh, and suck on this.”
She threw a small slab of something cold at him. He slid it into his mouth.
“It’s called Chill, it will lower your temperature a little. Don’t know if it will make much difference, but…”
