“Yes,” said Freya. And then, feeling that there was no point in lying any more, “No. Mr Scabious, it was all a lie. Pennyroyal had never been to America. He invented the whole thing. That’s why he shot Tom, and took the Jenny Haniver. ”
“Oh, aye?” said Scabious, turning to look down at her.
Freya waited for something more, but it didn’t come. “Well, is that it?” she asked. “Just ‘oh, aye’? Aren’t you going to tell me what a little fool I’ve been, for believing in Pennyroyal?”
Scabious smiled. “To tell you the truth, Freya, I had my doubts about that fellow from the first. Didn’t ring true somehow.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?”
“Because it’s better to travel hopefully than to arrive,” said the engine master. “I liked your idea of crossing the High Ice. What was this city before we started west? A moving ruin; the only people who hadn’t left were the ones too full up with sorrow to think of anywhere to go. We were more like ghosts than human beings. And now look at us. Look at yourself. The journey’s shaken us up and turned us about and we’re alive again.”
“Probably not for very long.”
Scabious shrugged. “Even so. And you never know; perhaps we’ll find a way. If we can only stay out of the jaws of that great monster.”
They stood in silence, side by side, and studied the pursuing city. It seemed to grow darker and closer as they watched.
“I must confess,” said Scabious, “I’d never imagined Pennyroyal would go as far as shooting people. How is poor young Tom?”
He lay on the bed like a marble statue, the fading scars and bruises of his fight with the Stalker-birds standing out starkly on his white face. His hand when Hester held it was cold, and only the faint fluttering pulse told her he was still alive.
“I’m sorry, Hester.” Windolene Pye spoke in a whisper, as if anything louder might attract the attention of the Goddess of Death to this makeshift sickroom in the Winter Palace. All night and all day the lady navigator had been tending to the wounded, and especially to Tom, who was most badly hurt. She looked old and weary and defeated. “I’ve done all I can, but the bullet is lodged against his heart. I daren’t try to extract it, not with the city lurching about like this.”
Hester nodded, staring at Tom’s shoulder. She could not bring herself to look at his face, and Miss Pye had pulled a coverlet over the rest of him for modesty’s sake, but the arm and the shoulder nearest to Hester were bare. It was a pale, angular shoulder, slightly freckled, and it seemed to her to be the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. She touched it, and stroked his arm, watching the soft down of hair spring back as her fingers passed, feeling the muscles and tendons strong under the skin, the faint tick of a pulse at his blue wrist.
Tom stirred at her touch, half opening his eyes. “Hester?” he murmured. “He took the Jenny. Sorry.”
“It’s all right, Tom, it’s all right, I don’t care about the ship, only you,” said Hester, pulling his hand against her face.
When they came to find her after the battle and told her that Tom was shot and dying she had thought there must be some mistake. Now she understood that it was not so. This was her punishment for delivering Freya’s city into the jaws of Arkangel. She must sit in this room and watch Tom die. It was far, far worse than her own death could have been.
“Tom,” she whispered.
“He’s unconscious again, poor dear,” said one of the women who had been helping Miss Pye. She reached across to brush Tom’s brow with cool water, and someone brought a chair for Hester. “Maybe he’s better off out of it,” she heard another of the nurses whisper.
Outside the long windows it was already growing dark. The lights of Arkangel sprawled on the horizon.
The predator city was closer still by the time the sun rose again. When it wasn’t snowing you could make out individual buildings; factories and dismantling-mills mainly, the endless prisons of the city’s slaves, and a great spike-turreted temple to the wolf-god squatting on the topmost tier. As the predator’s shadow groped across the ice towards Anchorage a spotter-ship came buzzing down to see what had befallen Masgard and his Huntsmen, but after hovering for a moment above the burnt wreck of the Clear Air Turbulence it turned tail and sped back to its eyrie. No more came near Anchorage that day. The Direktor of Arkangel was in mourning for his son, and his council saw no sense in wasting yet more ships to secure a prize that would be theirs by sundown anyway. The city flexed its jaws, giving the watchers on Anchorage’s stern an unforgettable glimpse of the vast furnaces and dismantling- engines that awaited them.
“We should get on the radio and remind them what became of their Huntsmen!” vowed Smew, sitting in on an impromptu meeting of the Steering Committee that afternoon. “We’ll tell them that the same thing will happen to them if they don’t back off.”
Freya didn’t answer. She was trying to pay attention to the discussion, but her mind kept drifting away to the sickroom. She wondered if Tom was still alive. She would have liked to go and sit with him, but Miss Pye had told her that Hester was always there, and Freya was still afraid of the scarred girl — even more so, after what she had done to the Huntsmen. Why could it not have been Hester who was shot? Why had it happened to Tom?
“I think that might just make things worse, Smew,” Scabious said, after waiting a decent time for the margravine to give her opinion. “We don’t want to make them any angrier.”
A deep boom, like cannon-fire, rattled the glass in the windows. Everyone looked up. “They’re shooting at us!” cried Miss Pye, reaching for Scabious’s hand.
“They wouldn’t do that!” cried Freya. “Not even Arkangel…”
The windows were blurred with frost. Freya pulled on her furs and hurried out on to the balcony, the others close behind. From there they could see how near the predator was. The hiss of its runners as it raced across the ice seemed to fill the sky, making Freya wonder if this was the first time cities had come to break the silence of this unmapped plain. Then came that great boom again, and she knew that it was not gunfire but the sound everyone who lived aboard an ice city dreaded; the crack of sea-ice breaking.
“Oh, gods!” muttered Smew.
“I should be in the Wheelhouse,” said Miss Pye.
“I should be with my engines,” murmured Scabious. But there was no time, and neither of them moved; there was nothing now that anyone could do but stand and watch.
“Oh no!” Freya heard herself saying. “Oh no, no, no!”
Another boom, sharper this time, like thunder. She stared up at the cliff-face of Arkangel, trying to see if the predator city had heard the noises too and applied its ice-brakes. If anything it was still gaining, gambling everything on a last, mad dash. She held tight to the balcony railings and prayed to the Ice Gods. She wasn’t sure that she really believed in them any more, but who else could help her now? “Make us swift, Lord and Lady,” she begged, “but don’t let us go through the ice!”
The next boom was louder, and this time Freya saw the crack open, a dark grin widening a quarter-mile to starboard. Anchorage lurched and veered away. Freya imagined the helmsman trying desperately to steer a course across a jigsaw of breaking ice. Another lurch, and glassware fell and smashed somewhere inside the palace. The booms and cracks came very close together now, and from all sides.
Arkangel, sensing that it could not stay on this course much further, put on one final burst of speed. Its jaws swung wide, wide, and the sun glittered on banks of revolving steel teeth. Freya saw workers scurrying down stairways towards the predator’s gut, and fur-clad onlookers gathering on high balconies much like her own to watch the catch. And then, before the jaws could close on Anchorage’s tail, the whole edifice seemed to shiver and slow. A sheet of white spray lifted into the air, like a curtain of glass beads being drawn between the two cities.
The spray crashed across Anchorage as freezing rain. Arkangel was trying frantically to reverse, but the ice beneath it was fragmenting and its drive-wheels could not gain a purchase. Slowly, like a mountain falling, it tipped forward, and its jaws and the forward parts of its lowest tier bowed down into a widening zigzag of black water. Geysers of steam burst up as the cold sea sluiced through its furnaces, and it let out a great bellow, like some huge, wounded creature cheated of its prey.
But Anchorage was in trouble too, and no one aboard had time to celebrate the predator’s defeat. The city was tilting steeply to larboard, tracks screaming as they struggled to keep a hold on the ice, gouts of spray thrown up on all sides. Freya had never felt movements like this, and did not know what they meant, but she could guess.
