Fever Crumb (25 page)

"No," said Wavey. Avoiding the flailing blades she went close to the Stalker and laid her hand upon its chest. "Listen to me!" she shouted, over the ceaseless scream. "You are a Stalker of the Lazarus Brigade. You are not yet operational. You will be quiet, and lie still, while you are made ready. Obey."

The Stalker fell quiet. After a moment more the blades slid back into its hands, and it lowered its arms. Wavey Godshawk looked up at her assistants, and the one with the gun returned it to its locker.

"That happens sometimes," she told Fever. "A side effect of quickening. Some become violent and have to be destroyed with the magneto pistol. I'm glad that didn't happen to Master Solent."

But the thing on the bench was not Kit Solent any more. It was a Stalker of the Lazarus Brigade, and all it remembered, as it lay there waiting for the mechanics to finish work, was that it wanted to destroy the Movement's enemies. It didn't even know its own name yet, the stencilled name which was drying white upon its brow. It had been given a bird name, like all that year's recruits to the Lazarus Brigade. It was called Grike.

***

There was a plan to hold the Movement on the northern edge of the city. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the best that anyone had been able to come up with in the circumstances, and Ted Swiney had decided it would have to do. He got the old Clerks of Council to toll Big Brian, the ancient bell that summoned all able-bodied men to defend the city. He sent criers out into the streets to jangle their handbells and holler, "Get up the Barbican, you cloots!"

But no citizen army presented itself in the square below Ted's balcony. Those men of the Trained Bands who had escaped when the Moatway was breached had returned to London with no desire to face the Movement again; they had stopped just long enough to gather their families and a few possessions, then fled south. As for Ted's own supporters, they had been disappointed that the riots had ended so soon and were spoiling for another fight, but rumors soon spread among them of the Movement's armored land barges, their Stalkers, and their old-tech guns.

"Is this all?" demanded Ted, when he stalked out onto his balcony to review the troops. The only people in the square were those who'd had too much of his free booze to leave. He spat over the balcony rail and cursed, (spitting was banned now, of course, but what was the point of being Mayor at all if you had to live by your own rules?) Snatching up the telescope someone had nicked for him, he squinted through it at the tatty rooftops of the north boroughs and the land beyond. What looked like a wall of mist billowing across the moonlit heath was really smoke and dust flung up by the Movement's traction fortress as it rumbled toward London. He could see the lines of little lighted squares that were its open gun ports, and the lights of dozens of smaller vehicles spread out on either flank.

Cheesers! Who'd have thought the nomads would be so tooled up? Swiney had been brought up believing that Londoners were automatically superior to every other kind of people on the Earth, and that they'd proved it once and for all by dishing the Patchskins. He'd never dreamed this Movement riff-raff, this bunch of... of... of
foreigners
would have the nerve or nous to bust the Moatway down.

He went back inside and stomped through the Barbican's big rooms in a haze of rage, issuing orders that no one paid any attention to, sometimes kicking things to ease his temper (which didn't work). At last there was a pummelling of feet up the stair carpets and Mutt appeared with some of his lads, herding Dr. Crumb and the rest of the frightened Order of Engineers ahead of him.

"About time," snarled Swiney. "Who's in charge? Never mind, you can all come. Come on."

He led the way to the Chamber of Devices on the upper floor, where the clerks had told him London's most precious and destructive old-tech weaponry was stored, ready for use in just such times as these. Wormtimber had been in charge of it, of course, and he'd taken the key with him when Godshawk's statue butted him six feet down, but Swiney had found a spare, and had already had a look into the secret arsenal. The stuff in there hadn't made a speck of sense to him, which was why he'd sent Mutt to drag the Engineers out of the basement where they'd been penned.

He kicked the door open again and stood aside so that Dr. Stayling and his colleagues could file past him into the chamber. It was high, and lined with shelves, and some of the shelves had things on them: batteries and spools of wire and crated machinery from other eras.

"Well?" he demanded impatiently, as the Engineers looked about. "What do we use? What have we got that will stop that fortress thing?" He snatched up a promising looking artifact. "What's this? A ray gun?"

"I think that's part of what the Ancients called a 'Hoover,'" said Dr. Stayling, taking it from him and flipping the switch on its handle, which made all the other Engineers dive for cover. "It doesn't work."

Ted grunted. "What about those, those silver balls there?"

Dr. Stayling picked one up. "A ball bearing," he said. "Quite a large one, though. I suppose it could be fired from a slingshot or some type of catapult...."

"Will it explode?"

"Of course not."

"Then it's no bloggin' use to me, is it?" raged Ted. "What else we got?"

The Engineers peeped into boxes and opened the lids of crates. "I don't understand it," said Dr. Collihole, who had once been Master of Devices himself, before Wormtimber ousted him. "There used to be all
sorts
of things stored here. A kind of hand-held cannon with the most ingenious sights. A big rackety kind of a thing. A very curious energy gun from the Electric Empire Era ...

"The Trained Bands took that north, apparently," said Swiney. "It blew up."

"And there should be some paper boys, of course," said Dr. Whyre, opening the empty plan-chest drawer where they'd been stored.

Ted understood. "Wormtimber!" he muttered. "That greedy little goblin snitched the whole lot for himself! He's left us nothing!"

Dr. Crumb raised a hand. "Could we not simply go to Wormtimber's establishment? He may not yet have sold on everything he stole...."

"It's on fire, innit," said Ted, glancing poisonously at the Engineers as if he thought they were deliberately mocking him. "Some of the lads got carried away and half the bottom end of Cripplegate's gone up in flames." He turned his wide back on them and stalked out of the chamber, pausing just outside the doorway to look back and shout, "Well? Get thinking! When these cloots get here I want something I can throw at 'em! I'm not going to be kicked out of my own town by a mob of foreigners!"

"Ted!" shouted Brickie Chapstick, appearing at a run from the far end of the long corridor. "Ted, the nomads have stopped!"

"What? Where?"

"Just short of Finnsbry."

Ted hurried toward the nearest window. The Engineers went after him, joining other men -- liveried servants of the fallen council and Ted's scruffy hangers-on -- in a general rush.

North of the city the lights of the Movement's fortress rose above the roofs of Finnsbry like an unsightly new block of flats.

"Brickie's right," someone said. "It's stopped."

Ted grinned. "They've seen sense, ain't they? They must have heard that things have changed, and there's a real man running London now. They know we'll wipe the floor with them if they try it on." He slung the window wide and shouted, "Go on, hop it! Leave it! It ain't worth it!"

Everyone else watched the motionless fortress, waiting for its banks of guns to fire and send some colossal broadside slamming into the Barbican.
This
could be the last thing I
ever see,
thought Dr. Crumb
. I may
die here, without
ever seeing Fever
again, without
ever even knowing if she is alive or dead....

But the fortress did not open fire, and in a few moments more there was something else to look at. A terrible, thin, rising screech drew everyone's eyes toward Bishopsgate, that long road which led down the slope of Ludgate Hill toward the north boroughs. Sparks of reflected moonlight were being flung across the house fronts there; across the sails of a wind tram abandoned on Finnsbry viaduct. Swift shapes flicked across gaps between buildings. "Vehicles!" said one of the Engineers.

Seconds more, a dozen monos came bowling like bashed-off hubcaps into the littered square before the Barbican.

***

Charley Shallow was not there to see the northerners arrive. He had slunk off as night fell, making his lonely way by quiet streets back to Ketch Causeway and the Skinner's house. He hadn't a key for Bagman's place, but the Skinner had never needed to lock his door. Not only had the house not been burgled, there were little offerings of flowers and teddy bears all up the steps, and candles burning down in bottles, and little scrawly notes, which Charley couldn't read, tied to the railings. Food, too: pies and loaves and joints of meat, left as offerings to the Skinner's memory, or gifts for his boy.

Charley stepped over it all, too tired to eat, too tired to care. He went into the house and fell down in his nest on the floor of the front room and he was asleep before he even had time to think.

It was late when he woke. Cold bluish moonlight was creeping round the edges of the blinds. No coughing from Bagman's room, not this night nor ever more again. He wondered why that made him so sad. He'd only known the old man for about a day and a half. But it had been the only day and a half in Charley's life when he'd felt as if somebody cared for him, and thought he might amount to something.

He lit a candle and went and found the eggs and stuff he'd brought for breakfast that morning. While they were cooking he looked for clean clothes. His own were so stiff with mud and sweat that he doubted they could ever get clean. He went into the old man's room and found a cupboard, and clothes inside it. There were good black britches and a black long-tunic that Bagman must have kept for wearing to the funerals of his fellow Skinners. The britches fitted Charley all right round the waist as long as he belted them tight, and if he left them unbuckled they hung so far down his skinny legs that it didn't matter when he couldn't find any stockings. He found a shirt, a bit yellowish round the neck but clean enough. In a wooden box on the floor of the cupboard he found a spare spring gun and a half dozen bolts wrapped up in an oily rag. He cleaned the gun carefully, stuck it through his belt, and filled his pockets with the bolts. But when he went to put the tunic on he saw that there was a little enamel badge on the lapel; the crossed knives of the Skinners' Guilds.

Who
am
I
kidding
? thought Charley. He took off the tunic and sat on the edge of Bagman's bed. He wasn't a Skinner. He wasn't fit to inherit the old man's gear, let alone his title. He'd let Bagman down. "
Finish it
," Bagman had told him. But he'd bottled it when he had the chance to shoot the Crumb girl. And now she'd escaped him, blown away in that flying thing.

He shut his eyes and Bagman Creech appeared as a cheap blue ghost, whispering, "
She's
Scriven, boy. It ain't like killing a human being. You do what's needful. It's all up to you now
."

He sat there for a long time feeling guilty and sorry for himself, until he heard a rising babble of voices outside. For a moment he was afraid that it was the people of the neighborhood coming to ask him why he'd failed in his duty. But when he went and looked out the window he saw the crowd in the street wasn't interested in the Skinner's house at all. They were hurrying past without even looking at it.

He opened the window a crack, his own worries forgotten in his eagerness to hear what they were shouting.

'The nomads are here!" he heard a man yell. 'They're at the Barbican!"

***

London had always loved a show. A bit of spectacle; something a little different; preferably the chance of violence...The arrival of the Movement was almost better than a riot. Once they realized the city was not to be pulverized, people came out to line the pavements and peer down from balconies at the screeching monos as they went racketing toward the Barbican. Gangs of children ran behind, but not too close, because along beside the wheels came detachments of the Lazarus Brigade: big, battle-battered Stalkers, moving at a clanking jog-trot with their finger blades bared.

Fever rode with her mother in the third mono from the front, the vehicle behind the Land Admiral's. Looking out through the glass of the cabin windows as it bowled up Bishopsgate she saw the watching faces of the Londoners lit up by its lights and shivered, wondering if some of them were the same people who had encircled Godshawk's Head the day before, chanting for her blood. But they looked cowed now, even the roughest of them punch-drunk by the speed of the Movement's arrival. And there was little chance that they would recognize her, in her red silk coat with its collar turned up and a fur hat pulled down to her eyebrows.

In Barbican Square the monos halted. They lowered their parking props, which also served as ladders, and let out more Stalkers, along with mortal warriors carrying big multi-barreled muskets or holding up the banner of the wheeled tower on skull-topped poles. The mono pilots left all their lights burning, and the warriors lit flaming torches and held them high, so that the square and the broad frontage of the Barbican were lit up brightly. They stared about them, curious and ill at ease among these immobile buildings. Usually when the Movement took a static settlement, it was looted and then destroyed and its population sent to man the slave-mills, but Quercus had different plans for this place; they'd been told to tread lightly. Two-man arquebus teams rested their guns on stands and swept them across the balconies and upper windows of the houses on the square, across the viaducts and rooftops. The Stalkers stood poised, blades a-twitch, ready to rush in and slaughter any lurking Londoners who offered resistance. But no shots were fired.