Escapement (46 page)

Reluctantly, al-Wazir set his hand upon the door and tugged it open.

The space beyond was larger even than the funicular landing. They must have passed within the living rock. Anything was possible in the immensity of the Wall.

It was darker, too, lacking the electricks of the outer chamber, though a few rushlights guttered. A great, rank smell forced al-Wazir to open his mouth to breathe, lest his nose be overwhelmed.

“Be glad you are Brass,” he whispered to Boaz.

Something splashed with the sound of a pond’s worth of water slopping. It was big, it was in the center of the room, and it was
above
al-Wazir.

He advanced slowly. There was a vague sheen, though he could not at first discern what it was. Al-Wazir got an impression of mass, the reverse of the sense of emptiness that he might have expected in a vast unlit space.

Another splash, then a voice that boomed so low, it was almost impossible to hear, echoed in a tongue he did not ken. Al-Wazir’s bones vibrated with the sound.

“Begging your pardon,” al-Wazir said, “but I am not understanding you.”

There was a silence that seemed ready to burst, then: “A seal has been brought before me.”

For a single, manic moment al-Wazir was distracted by the sailor’s meaning of the word, before he realized what this creature was speaking of. “He is damaged and does not function well.”

Another long pause. “The seal is too powerful to be broken.”

“Nae,” al-Wazir said. “ ’Tis his body. He has need of a righteous good armorer.”

His eyes were adjusting to the darkness. Al-Wazir saw a giant tank of water, glass-walled above him. Something substantial shifted back and forth within it.

“He could be torn down and his seal taken for other use.”

“I do not think this will be the case,” al-Wazir said calmly.

There was a long, slow burbling noise, which he finally interpreted as laughter. “You will not allow it?”

“No. I will not allow it.”

In the silence that followed, he realized that a pale patch in the darkness before and above him was an eye the size of his chest. He was being studied.

Al-Wazir stared back, seeing almost nothing, but pretending to be unafraid.

“That spear is empty,” the voice said. “Something my servants did not understand.”

“You don’t know that,” al-Wazir told him. “You only believe.” This was like talking to some big brute of a recruit, freshly taken into service, who thought he didn’t have to take orders from any man he could thrash bare-knuckled. The point wasn’t to thrash them back, because no one could beat all comers. The point was to think past their thrashing. Then, if needed, take two or three friends, find the cocky bastard in a quiet corner, and stomp him shiteless, of course. “If you have an armorer with the training and tools to help him, please send us there. Otherwise we shall head onward and eastward.”

Another slow, glass-bending chuckle. “Into the house of the sun?”

“Into the house of our desires. Following no one’s hearts but our own.”

“You are not of the Wall. Why do you traverse it like an insect on a mirror?”

“Why do you hang here in a vat of water suspended amid a fall which should carry you down off these slopes and eventually home to the sea?”

Another splash, followed by a long groan. “Take him out. Tell the peltast he is to see the smiths on Gullie Isle.”

“And then we will be free to go.” He stated it rather than asking it, pretending to confidence he did not feel.

“And then you will see me once more.”

Al-Wazir bowed. He then tugged at Boaz so that the Brass man would follow him out.

Gullie Isle was two funicular rides and another series of bridges away from the cathedral. The peltast, who never did say a word, left them there with
a nod. Three sleepy men in linen gowns emerged from a beehive-shaped hut covered with slime and mold. One carried a torch, which gusted in the thundering wind of the waterfall.

“Are you the smiths?” al-Wazir asked.

The torch-holder stared incuriously at him while the other two approached Boaz. They circled, fingers sliding over the dented decorative work upon his chest, brushing his fingertips, flickering over his face.

Al-Wazir couldn’t think what to say. He was here for these men to help Boaz. He could hardly object to their examining him, even if the methods were strange.

Instead he settled for studying the smiths. They were cut from much the same mold as the peltast and his troops. Not twins, but they could all have been brothers. Short, bandy-legged, with silver eyes and pale hair. Also like the peltast, not much given to words, though the peltast had certainly seemed to understand what it was al-Wazir had told him back at the cathedral.

Their silence was strange, as was their lack of protest at being called out in middle of the night. He’d never met an expert who wanted to leave a warm bed to help anyone in need. Yet here they were, their nightshirts soaking in the spray, working in the light of their fellow’s torch.

Eventually he wandered into the hut and stretched out on a pallet. There was little enough point trying to oversee a process he didn’t understand, and he was long past the point of trust.

Morning brought a flood of rainbows, sunrise filtered through the mists hanging in the air outside. The colors danced on al-Wazir’s face as he awoke. He stepped out onto the ledge into a flood of light and hue.

There was a beauty by day completely different from the lambent glow of the previous night. The ragged array of buildings, all the more visible and stranger in the sunlight, was wrapped in colored mist. Everything about him gleamed.

There was no sign of Boaz or the smiths.

Turning his back on beauty, al-Wazir went inside to find something to eat. There was not much—a sack of dried beans, a bowl of lichen, which he wasn’t sure had been intended for food, and a string of dried, salted fish. He ate several fish whole. They tasted terrible, but then, most food did at sea. This city was little more than a giant ship tied to the face of the Wall.

Al-Wazir was unwilling to casually set out across the byways of this place. There was too much he didn’t understand about the paths, and he feared becoming irreparably lost. So he idled awhile, figuring that the
smiths would return to their hive-home eventually, with or without Boaz. The rainbows faded with the rising sun. He was treated to a magnificent view northward when the wind shifted and moved the mists away.

No one came. He remained alone, looking down on hawks and cranes in the air far below, wondering what had become of Boaz.

They made a brief landing in the Qun Dao islands. These were an unremarkable assortment of low, scrubby sandbars and coral reefs in the middle of the South China Sea. There was a small base there, and even an airship mast, though only a pair of aging sailing craft seemed to be on hand, along with a bored and weathered detachment of sailors.

For the first time in her life, Childress could see the Wall. It was little more than a dark line on the horizon, but it was definitely
there,
a ridge cutting off the southward edge of the circle of sea around the islands. The Wall was everything, in a sense—brace to hold the world’s ring gear, and the most direct evidence of the planned nature of divine Creation. The Wall marked the edge of the world and beginning of Heaven. She stared at it awhile, willing detail to come into focus. It was a thousand miles or more south of their position, and resolutely remained nothing more than a stroke on the horizon—a glowering storm of stone destined never to break into rain.

Childress turned away from the pull of the Wall to watch from the submarine’s tower as Leung went ashore accompanied only by Feng. The captain forced the political officer to row. On the short, rough beach, Leung conferred with a slouching sailor, then walked to a small collection of buildings. Feng was led off in another direction, presumably to a briefing.

The two sailors on watch with her chatted softly. She followed a little of their talk. They seemed to think this was an awful place to be posted, the junk heap of the Beiyang Navy. An English sailor might have said armpit, or named a more objectionable body part. They joked about the food and the lack of women, until one of them, a boy named Pao, realized she was listening.

After that they stood in embarrassed silence, which lasted until Leung emerged from one of the buildings and trudged back to his boat. The captain rowed himself back to his ship.

She climbed down the tower and met him at the hatch. No one seemed to mind, not anymore. “What did you learn?” Childress asked, ignoring Feng’s absence.

“That there is nothing here fit for a man.”

“Not about the islands,” she said. “When you spoke to Admiral Shang.”

He looked surprised.

“Why else would you stop here, save to make a communication? That airship mast would make an excellent tower for wireless, if the Beiyang Navy in fact has wireless. If not, I imagine there might be a telegraph cable here. There are certainly telegraph cables between Boston and London.”
Communication for both him and Feng,
she thought, but did not say.

Leung shook his head. “Your cleverness will trip you someday.”

“It already has, Captain. Time and again.”

“Indeed.” He stood looking thoughtful. “I am told that shortly after we sailed, William of Ghent booked passage on a merchant vessel bound for Manchu-Nihon, Hawa’ii, and Mei Guo.”

“He was awaiting my departure. Did he in fact board that vessel?”

Leung gave her another surprised look. “The admiral could not be certain.”

“How can one be uncertain about a man the color of death?”

“I do not know,” he said distantly. He shouted up at the sailors to come below. “We sail now, madam.”

“Without Feng?”

“It would be unheard of for me to hold back a vessel for the sake of an errant sailor.”

Star of Gambia
steamed through the night. Paolina slept little, often checking their heading by the stars and the orbital tracks visible in the night sky. The ship continued on a southerly heading.

She considered rousting one of the crew, but couldn’t see them answering any question she might ask. Even if she still had the gleam, Paolina couldn’t see how it would help. They were sailing to the edge of the maps Lachance had given her.

How helpless everyone was, who placed trust in people around them. A passenger relied on the ship’s captain knowing his way. The captain relied on his officers and crew. One bad seed, one British agent, could send everyone aboard to their deaths.

Life was simpler back at
a Muralha.
There she only had to worry about the
fidalgos,
and someday being forced to marry. No one tried to kill her.

At least not until they had locked her into their storeroom and left her to starve. Even then, the bastards must have known that the women of Praia Nova would help her.

Around four in the morning, Paolina gave up her efforts at rest. Instead she dressed as warmly as she could and found her way to the deck.

The purser leaned against the rail, smoking a cigarette.

“I was a wondering when you will appear.” She had come to recognize his accent as Italian.

“I saw no point in coming to ask questions.”

“Often there is no point in a questions.” His hand slid into a bird shape. Then he flickered his fingers and the sign vanished. “Still, sometimes a thing she changes.”

“Like how?”

“We get a word from a passing ship, yes? Royal Navy task force in Tyre harbor. Already captain make difficult decision. Now we head for Alexandria.”

Paolina couldn’t decide whether to panic or feel relieved. “What does this have to do with me?”

“Me, I don’t a know. I don’t a want to know. Captain, he get messages. He listen, he think. White birds come and go.” The steward took a long draft. “You see many white birds?
Avebianci?
”

“Only gulls,” she said slowly. She knew that wasn’t what he meant. Lachance had mentioned white birds, back in Strasbourg. Money and power. Mysterious societies. Just like those who had tried to take her in Strasbourg.

They were all servants of the Queen. She did not want to admit knowing anything of them to this man. Especially with the power of the gleam evident in the smoking ruins of Strasbourg.

Still, the steward was helping her. At no small risk to himself, given the example of Lachance. An eddy stirred Paolina’s conscience.

“Ah, well. At Alexandria we change some cargoes. Owners lose money, bad for captain. But some better than British to search. Then . . . Suez. You go south.”

“You know where I am heading. I bought my ticket from you.”

“Of course you buy a ticket from me. I am purser.” He grinned, his teeth faintly orange in the glow of his cigarette. “We take you into Indian Ocean, maybe you find your way from there, hey? But when we get to Alexandria, smart girl maybe a hide in her cabin, no go ashore, no answer a door until ship sail again.”