A Darkling Plain

from that first night aboard Stayns…”

The Stalker stopped talking and looked behind her, where a light had begun to flash among the thickets of cabling in the next room; red, red, red.

“No rest for the wicked,” she whispered.

Outside, Fishcake blundered sobbing along the lakeshore. His Stalker had hit him. She could have killed him. She had cast him out. She didn’t care about little Fishcake anymore. She had never cared, not really. He sniveled and whimpered, stumbling over rocks and shingle until he missed his footing and splashed into the shallows. The cold water startled him into silence.

Away across the water the furnace that had been the Jenny Haniver was dying down into a comforting red bonfire. Fishcake tramped along the curve of the shoreline to the wreck site. There was nothing left of the airship now but struts and ribs and one buckled, glowing engine pod, but the explosion had showered the contents of her holds across the reed beds, and amid the debris Fishcake found a few food cans. Their labels were burned off, of course, but they made encouraging sloshing noises when he shook them, and one of them (Tricky Dicky be praised!) was a square tin of fish— sardines, or pilchards—with a key fixed to the lid. Fishcake twisted it open and ate greedily, scooping the fish and the delicious, salty juice into his mouth.

He felt better with some food inside him and started to nose around among the reeds for other scraps. It wasn’t long before he heard the plaintive noises coming from among the rocks uphill. “Mmmmm! Mmmmm!”

Fishcake crept closer, thinking that Tom and Hester must have had a companion aboard their ship who’d been wounded in the crash and whom they’d abandoned (how like them!). But when he reached the place, he found it was a poor old man, trussed up and gagged; another of Tom and Hester’s victims.

“Great Poskitt!” the man gasped when Fishcake pulled the gag off, and “Brave boy! Thank you!” as Fishcake used the sharp edge of the sardine tin to saw through his ropes.

“They’re inside,” said Fishcake.

“Who?”

“Hester and her man. The Stalker took ’em inside. Says they’re her friends. How could anybody think Hester was her friend? That face—enough to put you off your breakfast. If you’d had any breakfast. I haven’t had none for weeks. Help me open this tin, Mister.”

He was asking the right man, said Pennyroyal, and as soon as the ropes parted, he reached inside his coat and fetched out an explorer’s pocketknife, a miraculous object that unfolded to reveal a can opener, a corkscrew, a small pair of scissors, and a device for getting stones out of airship docking clamps, as well as an array of blades that made brisk work of the ropes on his feet. It occurred to Fishcake to wonder why he had not mentioned the existence of the knife before Fishcake went to the trouble of cutting his hands free with a sardine tin, but he wanted to like his new friend, so he decided he was probably concussed. There were some gashes on his head, and blood had run down his face like jam. (Fishcake was still much preoccupied with thoughts of food.)

They opened three tins. There was algae stew in one, rice pudding in another, and condensed milk in the third. It was the best meal Fishcake had ever tasted.

“I say,” ventured Pennyroyal, watching him eat. “You seem a bright lad. Would you know a way out of here, at all?”

“Popjoy’s sky yacht,” muttered Fishcake, wiping milk from his chin. “Over there near the house. I don’t know how to fly it.”

“I do! Could we snaffle it, do you think?”

Fishcake licked the lid of the rice pudding tin and shook his head. “Need keys. Can’t start the engines without keys, and you’d need engines among all these mountains, wouldn’t you?”

Pennyroyal nodded. “Where are the keys? Just out of interest?”

“She’s got them. Around her neck. On a string. But I’m not going up there again. Not after what she did! After all I went through for her!”

The boy started to cry. Pennyroyal was unused to children. He patted his shoulder and said, “There, there,” and “That’s women for you!” He thought about keys and air yachts and glanced nervously at the house on the crag. Some sort of antenna thing on the roof was turning, glinting blood-red in the rays of the sinking sun.

Ten miles away, in frozen silt on the bed of a mountain lake, Grike stirred. His eyes switched on, lighting up constellations of drifting matter. He remembered falling. He had fallen past crags and cliffs, and punched through the crust of ice on this lake, leaving an amusing hole the shape of a spread-eagled man. He could not see the hole above him, so he guessed the lake was deep, and that night was falling in the world above.

He pried himself out of the silt and started walking. The water grew shallower as he neared the shore. Thick ice formed a rippled ceiling twenty feet overhead, then ten. Soon he was able to reach up with his fists and punch his way through it. He dragged himself free, an ugly hatchling breaking out of a cold egg.

The moon was rising. Shards of the Jenny Haniver’s fallen engine pod shone on the scree high above him. He climbed toward it, sniffing for Hester’s scent.

Chapter 51 The Chase

The Londoners had always imagined themselves leaving the debris fields in a leisurely way, perhaps moving at no more than walking speed until they grew used to New London’s controls. Instead, here they were, barreling north through the wreck of old London as fast as the new city could go, slaloming around tumbles of old tier supports and giant, corroded heaps of tracks and wheels. Down in the engine rooms the Engineers heaved desperately on the levers that angled the Magnetic Repellers, while up in the steering chamber at the top of the town hall Mr. Garamond and his navigators peered out through unglazed, unfinished viewing windows and shouted to the helmsmen, “Left a bit! Right a bit! Right a bit! Oh, I mean, left, left, LEFT!”

Harrowbarrow raced after them, only half a mile behind, steam fuming from its blunt snout as it readied its mouth parts for the kill. It did not have to swerve and wriggle as New London did; tall heaps of wreckage that the new city had to avoid Harrowbarrow simply butted its way through. The constant crunch and shudder of these collisions kept threatening to jolt Wren and Theo off the precarious handholds they were clinging to, high on the harvester’s spine. But Wolf Kobold, who was well used to his suburb’s movements, never lost his footing, and barely paused as he came toward them, except to glance sometimes at the view ahead, and grin when he saw the gap narrowing between Harrowbarrow and its prey.

“You see?” he shouted. “It was all for nothing, Wren! Another ten minutes and that precious place of yours will be in the ’Barrow’s gut. And you; you and your black boyfriend—I’m going to string your bowels off the yard roof like paper chains, and nail up your carcasses in the slave hold so your London friends can see what comes to those who try to make a fool of me!”

He was close enough by then to swipe at them with his sword. They scrambled backward, away from him. The swiveling gun emplacement behind them let out another stuttering roar as a white airship soared past astern, but Kobold only laughed. “Don’t think the Mossies can save you! They won’t dare come in range of that gun.”

He lunged forward, and the point of his sword struck sparks from the suburb’s armor inches from Theo’s foot. Theo looked at Wren. Near her, where one of the chunky rivets that held Harrowbarrow’s armor in place stood slightly proud of the plating, a shard of wreckage had snagged. Theo threw himself down and pulled it free. It was an old length of half-inch pipe, rusty and sharp at the ends. It was too long and heavy to use for a sword, but Theo had nothing better, so he turned with a cry, swinging it at Kobold. Kobold jumped back, raising his blade to deflect the blow. He looked surprised; even pleased. “That’s the spirit!” he shouted.

Aboard the Fury, Naga said, “We have to silence that swivel gun. There is no other way we can get within range…”

“Sir!” one of his aviators interrupted. “On the suburb’s back—”

Naga swung his telescope along the wood-louse curve of Harrowbarrow’s spine. Twenty yards behind the gun emplacement two figures seemed to be dancing—no, fighting; he saw the flash of sparks as their swords met. “One of our men?”

“Can’t tell, sir. But if we fire on the gun, we may kill whoever it is…”

“That can’t be helped, Commander. Let their gods look after them; we have work to do.”