Authors: Jay Lake
Mainspring (17 page)
“The rooms are darker and cooler along the cliff face,” the second mate said, stepping through a door with a
knee-high threshold beam that rose from the floor. “One of General Gordon's scouting parties would be more likely to bivouac back here. They would feel they had a more defensible position.”
knee-high threshold beam that rose from the floor. “One of General Gordon's scouting parties would be more likely to bivouac back here. They would feel they had a more defensible position.”
Sure enough, Hethor noticed crumpled in one corner a waxed sheet of paper, the sort that the marines unwrapped to get at their carbine bullets. Another high threshold beam, and they were in a much darker room. This one showed evidence of a fire on the floor. The ornate walls had been defaced, which made Hethor wince. More rubbish, as wellâbones from some dinner piled in a corner, scraps of paper, a loose button.
He picked the button up. It was brass, with the lion insignia of the British Army embossed on it. “This isn't from
Bassett,
sir,” he said to Wollers.
Bassett,
sir,” he said to Wollers.
Wollers took the button. “Good. So they
were
here. Well, if they left us a message back at the Sepulchrum Caii, they probably left one here as well. Let's work our way along the cliff face.”
were
here. Well, if they left us a message back at the Sepulchrum Caii, they probably left one here as well. Let's work our way along the cliff face.”
The wall leading east had been torn open, the beautiful wickerwork bayoneted to provide easy access to the next room. These buildings had stood here for a length of time Hethor couldn't even imagine. Now brief occupation by English troops had savaged their beauty.
Oh well
, he thought.
At least they didn't set fire to the city with their cooking.
Oh well
, he thought.
At least they didn't set fire to the city with their cooking.
Hethor followed Wollers through a line of rooms. Wollers kept looking left and occasionally called to make sure they weren't passing beyond the line of
Bassett
's marines outside along the railing. Though they disturbed very little dust, Hethor got a clear impression that no one but Gordon's soldiers had been inside here for quite some time. Perhaps decades, or more.
Bassett
's marines outside along the railing. Though they disturbed very little dust, Hethor got a clear impression that no one but Gordon's soldiers had been inside here for quite some time. Perhaps decades, or more.
It was like going into one of the old storerooms at New Haven Latin, where not even the janitor had been in yearsâthat same sense of desertion, yet with watchful emptiness.
They stepped into a larger room. This space took advantage of an apparently natural depression in the cliff wall to extend farther back. This had obviously been a sort of headquarters, for there were still a few sheets of paper tacked to the walls. A pair of campstools leaned forgotten at the back of the depression.
No good foot soldier would use a campstool. Even Hethor knew that.
Wollers cried out, a shout of discovery, and moved the folded stools aside. “A dispatch case,” he shouted, and pulled open the leather flaps. It still held papers within. Wollers glanced at Hethor. “Letters, not maps. I think we've found what we came for. I'll be taking these across.” He thought for a moment. “You should wait at the rope bridge, attending the captain's pleasure.”
“I want to go back through these rooms,” Hethor said, “retracing our steps. The panels interested me.”
Wollers stepped to the torn-open doorway where Hethor stood, peered over his shoulder for a moment to sight along their recent line of travel. “No harm, I suppose, since we've been there already. Don't go anywhere we haven't already passed through.”
Humming to himself, the second mate headed out the door, toward the gallery and a quick trot back to the railing and faster access to the rope bridge.
Hethor stepped away from the room and returned to the little chamber they'd last come through. All the trash and casual vandalism depressed him. It was akin to disturbing a church, or a grave. Had Gordon's soldiers no sense of the sacred nature of this place?
Or did that feeling only come from within him?
He closed his eyes and listened carefully, separating the sounds.
His own breathing, as always. Distant grumbling conversation from
Bassett
's marines. Footfalls echoing from the wooden floors of the vertical city. The gentle creaking of its timbers. One of
Bassett
's engines thumping in a
slow mechanical heartbeat. Wind whistling through the arches of the galleries and pillars outside. The clicking and clattering of the world's turning, though it seemed different up here on the Wall, both more distant and more immediate, the way a gunshot at the edge of hearing can grasp the attention.
Bassett
's marines. Footfalls echoing from the wooden floors of the vertical city. The gentle creaking of its timbers. One of
Bassett
's engines thumping in a
slow mechanical heartbeat. Wind whistling through the arches of the galleries and pillars outside. The clicking and clattering of the world's turning, though it seemed different up here on the Wall, both more distant and more immediate, the way a gunshot at the edge of hearing can grasp the attention.
There was a sudden, close flutter of wings, along with a gust of rank scent. Hethor threw himself to the floor. He cried out as he opened his eyes to see whatever was flying at him with murder in its heart.
Nothing.
Nothing but feathers spinning in the air, three long pinions as great as Gabriel's.
Or those of the winged savages.
And in the middle of the floor, something new. A little brass plate, like the nameplate that had been screwed to the lintel of Master Bodean's shop door.
It had not been there before, when Hethor and Wollers had walked through the room. It had not been there just now, when he had stepped back to close his eyes and listen.
Whatever had flown through like an owl unseen beneath a new moon had left that plate behind, though he'd heard no noise but the wings.
Hethor cautiously edged into the room to approach the plate. It was rectangular, perhaps ten inches by fourteen. No screw holes in the corner. And instead of raised letters, or the usual Roman style of engraving, it looked to have been scribbled upon by someone in a hurry with a pen or stylus capable of cutting brass.
Not brass, he realized as his fingers touched it.
Gold
.
.
He picked up the plate. A tablet, really. It
was
gold, more wealth than he'd ever held, or even seen, in his life. Not beaten thin, either, but of some thickness. Perhaps a quarter inch. Even if it were leaf, over silver perhaps, it was still quite valuable. Immensely valuable, if it were solid gold. Though it didn't weigh nearly enough for that mass of pure metal.
was
gold, more wealth than he'd ever held, or even seen, in his life. Not beaten thin, either, but of some thickness. Perhaps a quarter inch. Even if it were leaf, over silver perhaps, it was still quite valuable. Immensely valuable, if it were solid gold. Though it didn't weigh nearly enough for that mass of pure metal.
Gold leaf, then. Or plating. Over something light, such as aluminium, perhaps.
No matter, he thought. Hethor instead stared at the scribbling. He thought he might recognize some of the characters, but he would have to copy them out, decompose the original maker's scribblings into rational letters. He refused to think on it further. Hethor knew he should run for Wollers or Smallwood right nowâto do anything else was a form of betrayal, almost a mutiny.
But this was what Gabriel had sent him for. His allegiance to the archangel trumped even the claims Her Imperial Majesty's navy had upon him. He needed to understand, before they took it away from him. As they surely would.
Feeling distinctly unworthy, Hethor slipped the tablet under his shirt, let it slide down behind his rope belt. The thing was cold, but not too big to carry in that manner albeit heavy enough to press uncomfortably against him.
It was not stealing, Hethor reasoned. He would take the tablet to Malgus' cabin. There he would stow it in the map chest, and work to translate the text. Once he knew what it said, what it
meant
, found here surrounded by feathers in an inner room, he would tell Wollers and Captain Smallwood.
meant
, found here surrounded by feathers in an inner room, he would tell Wollers and Captain Smallwood.
Then he would tell them immediately, he promised himself.
Hethor found his way back to the rope bridge. He was nervous, though those around him seemed to think he was merely struggling to find his own head for heights. He was grateful for their gentle contempt. It kept them from looking too closely at the way he crouched slightly, hands folded across his waist, protecting the golden tablet.
STRUGGLING ACROSS
the rope bridge on his way back to
Bassett
with his parachute pack weighing on his back, Hethor found himself torn between fear of the abyss yawning for thousands of feet below him and concern for
the tablet cutting into his groin. Somehow, he was again crossing with the loblolly boy. This time the lad was in front of him instead of following with complaints about his slow progress.
the rope bridge on his way back to
Bassett
with his parachute pack weighing on his back, Hethor found himself torn between fear of the abyss yawning for thousands of feet below him and concern for
the tablet cutting into his groin. Somehow, he was again crossing with the loblolly boy. This time the lad was in front of him instead of following with complaints about his slow progress.
One foot, other foot
, Hethor thought.
Don't stop, don't think, don't look. One foot, other foot.
, Hethor thought.
Don't stop, don't think, don't look. One foot, other foot.
The ropes jumped. The line in his left hand dropped away slack. Hethor shrieked, grabbing the right-side line with both hands, which threw him off balance. He realized that not all of the shrieking was coming from him.
He looked down. The loblolly boy fell into the towering pit of wooden city and cold stone, hands slapping at his chest. Was he trying to fly?
Then the parachute blossomed, a square of silk tied at the corners and sewn to a harness of lightweight lines. That upward tug was a feeling Hethor well remembered from his jump at Bermuda. The loblolly boy disappeared beneath that puffed blanket of silk, though he did not stop screaming.
Hethor stood with both fists wrapped around the remaining hand rope, shivering in the wind, during the minute it took the loblolly boy's voice to fade and the longer minutes that it took for his parachute to vanish from sight in the distant, misty shadows far below.
He finally realized people were shouting at him, both from the ship and from the shore. Hethor tore his gaze from the abyss beneath his feet to see Wollers at the rail. The second mate waved his hands as if he could reel Hethor in by main force.
I cannot do it
, Hethor thought.
No more steps. Unless I grow wings, I'm never moving again.
, Hethor thought.
No more steps. Unless I grow wings, I'm never moving again.
“Bring it in, sailor,” Wollers called. His face showed profound relief that he'd managed to catch Hethor's attention.
Both hands still clutched tight on the remaining rope. Hethor shook his head. The motion caused his body to twitch. The golden tablet dug into his groin.
Wings rushed in Hethor's memory, the smell of savages
overlaying the image of angels. He had to get the tablet to Malgus' cabin.
overlaying the image of angels. He had to get the tablet to Malgus' cabin.
“Left foot,” Hethor whispered, sliding that foot along.
“Right.” It moved a few inches.
“Left hand.” If he didn't open his fist, he could keep his grip.
Wollers shouted more encouragement.
When they finally pried Hethor off the rope to get him onto the ship, al-Wazir handed him a flask of brandy while Lombardo pounded him on the back. “Good work, son,” the decks chief whispered.
“What about the boy?” Hethor asked, imagining himself plunging into cold shadow, twisting beneath the silk of the parachute.
Al-Wazir shook his head sadly. “Naught Cap'n'll do for 'im. We're serving 'neath the Articles of War out here. Cain't spare the time to drive her down and look.”
“Besides,” Lombardo added, “he's most likely dead already.”
Hethor felt sick. Falling, only to be abandoned. He sat down and shivered.
A few minutes later the second mate sought him out. “I need to go to Malgus' cabin,” Hethor told Wollers. “I want to look at the maps. I ⦠I need to concentrate.”
Which certainly wasn't a lie.
“Very well,” said Wollers after a long, careful look. “Proceed.”
Hethor limped off, cramped from panic, muscle strain, and the attentions of the golden tablet. He still couldn't remember the loblolly boy's name. He figured he would hear it at services.
STILL SHIVERING,
Hethor studied the lettering on the tablet. He would have taken a rubbing but did not possess any charcoal. He would have to beg some from Cook later. So he was reduced to handling the gold itself. The metal was velvety, almost warm.
Hethor studied the lettering on the tablet. He would have taken a rubbing but did not possess any charcoal. He would have to beg some from Cook later. So he was reduced to handling the gold itself. The metal was velvety, almost warm.
The lettering resembled handscript, but not of the Roman or Greek alphabets. It was more like someone hastily had written Chinese or some other language where the words were little houses folded over their ideas instead of built from honest letters and sounds.
Or not.
This tablet was a gift, to him. God had spared Hethor's life in crossing the abyss, taking the loblolly boy in his place. An angel had come to him in that little room in the vertical city. It must have been Gabriel or one of his angelic servants, Hethor reasoned, because any of the winged savages would have killed him where he stood. Those great feathers were too large to have found their way into that chamber by any other agency.
Hethor traced his fingers over the script on the tablet. There were six lines, with some repetition of the symbols between them. Like a bit of verse.
But this was a
gift.
gift.
A message from God.
Could it be God's name on the tablet? The Tetragrammaton was both the name of God and the name of God's name. The word simply meant “four letters,” after all. “YHWH,” the four letters of the Hebrew word for He whom the Jews would not name.
Hebrew. What if it were not Chinese, but Hebrew? Hethor knew a little bit about Chinese script, but he had also seen written Hebrew at New Haven Latin, in biblical studies and discussions of the Roman occupation of Judea.
The Hebrew word for the Tetragrammaton began with a letter that looked like an apostrophe followed by one that looked a little like the Greek letter “Ï.” Or maybe a lowercase English “n.” Hethor scanned the tablet's strange, looping, sloppily crafted script. It did not follow the forms of the Hebrew alphabet, not as he understood them.
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