The Hush (12 page)

A metal girder clanked above him. It sliced the air with a violent hiss, missing his head by inches.

Perhaps ducking hadn't been so stupid after all.

‘Over here!'

Chester crawled towards the glass dome, beyond the reach of swinging metal, and clambered shakily to his feet.

‘It's safer here.' The boy's accent was rich and a little pompous. ‘There isn't any moving machinery near the dome – it's rather fragile, you see.'

It was a little less smoky over here, although the air still ran thick with steam. The discordant sound of the engine made Chester clap his hands over his ears – he had never heard Music so raw, so wild, so …
not like Music
. It didn't sound like a melody. It was noise. It was chaos.

‘You're a Songshaper?' The girl's voice was high and flittery. In a quiet room, it might have sounded sweet, like a bird or a lullaby. In here, though, it was barely audible, and Chester strained to decipher her words.

‘No … I mean, I've played Music by accident before, and I've got a flute …'

‘We've got to reset the proper melody for the ship!'

‘What's that?'

She handed him a rumpled folder. Chester thumbed through the first few pages, squinting in the darkness. It seemed to be a manual for operating the echoship. Then he hit a page titled ‘Engine Maintenance', with a run of staves, treble clefs and notes. Sheet music.

Chester read slowly, letting the notes drip through his head as though he was playing them. Automatically,
he imagined their sound on a fiddle – then readjusted his mind to hear them on a flute instead.

‘Got it?' the boy said. His glasses had steamed up and he wiped them clean with fumbling fingers. ‘I'm afraid I can't play proper Music so I'm just adding a few background notes to boost the tune. I went to medical school, not the Conservatorium; my father always said my talents lay closer to mindfulness than musicality, you see, and –'

‘Got it,' Chester said.

They all raised their instruments: flute, harmonica, piano accordion. Chester's arm burned and he felt the blood crawl across his skin, but it was more a dribble than a flow. The injection Sam had administered the day before must have had a substance to clot his blood, as well.

Ignoring the pain, Chester balanced the flute below his lips. With the others, he began to play, pressing his fingers on the keys. He could barely hear himself over the din. He pursed his lips into a breath and focused on the music.

Dah, de dum dee dee daaah, de dum dee dee
…

It was the tune of wheels clattering on a road. The tune of horses' hooves, or hailstones on a tin roof. The sound of movement, of power.

The sound of an engine.

Chester let the sound wash through him. It trickled from the flute into his fingers, into his wrists. It was the sort of tune that built on itself, that grew layer after layer. It was strong and stout and powerful.

The rest of the world seemed to fade away. The steam, the hissing, the clanking metal … it all faded, like smoke on a breeze. There was just the engine song. It flittered
from his flute. It strained and plinked from the piano accordion, and it wheezed – just a little off-time – from the boy's harmonica.

And then the tune
caught
. For one glorious moment, they all played in unison, their shared note lingering in the air, and it snagged like a fishhook on the dome. Chester felt it happen; he felt the Music wrap around its players and he stumbled, yanked by an invisible rope, towards the engine. His eyes flew open and he saw it, just for a moment: a wild stream of light around the dome.

A flash of brightness. A flash of sound. Suddenly the engine was playing their Music back to them. The cacophony of the broken tune vanished, and there was just the pure, powerful roll of the engine's rightful melody. It rolled around inside the glass, like flakes of glitter in a child's snow dome.

Around them, machinery shrieked. Lights flashed in speckles, and sorcery lamps flared around the room. A field of fireflies, waking into life and light. Chester could now see the others' faces clearly: nervous, sweaty, with foggy glasses and drooping hair.

The girl's eyes lit up. ‘We did it!'

The machinery bellowed and she gave a wild laugh. It wasn't a laugh of fear, exactly, but the cackle of some mad pixie in a fairytale. It bubbled up from her lungs, light and frothy. ‘Gosh,' she said. ‘It's so pretty, isn't it?'

Chester followed her gaze towards the dome. It was pretty in a way, he supposed. In the same way that a griffin could be pretty from a distance – but up close, it would happily claw your brains out of your skull.

‘Shouldn't we move?' the boy said. ‘I don't like the air in here.'

‘Nonsense,' said the girl. ‘The air's toxicity won't reach a deadly level for at least,' she paused to consider, ‘twenty more seconds.'

There was a moment's silence.

The girl said, ‘Oh, right. I suppose we'd better move then, hadn't we?'

And then they were running for the door: three stumbling figures in a haze of steam and machinery and curses in the dark.

Chester burst back into the driver's cabin, puffing a little. The darkness of the river had risen. It crawled up over the window glass, like a stain of oil or seeping mud, as the
Cavatina
tilted down to meet it. A pair of lovers – ship and shadow – in the coil of breath before a kiss.

Susannah clutched a syringe, piercing her own flesh near the bullet wound. Its end led to a tube, which fed into a strange glass globe propped up in a medical kit open beside her. Whatever the globe was pumping into her, it was clearly working: Susannah breathed more steadily now, and her face looked more determined than pained.

‘Engine's fixed,' the blonde girl said.

‘We know that,' Sam said, yanking a lever sideways. ‘That's why I'm trying to fly this thing! Five minutes ago, it wouldn't even give a grunt of power.'

‘Don't let it touch you!' said the boy in spectacles.

‘What?' Chester followed his gaze, confused, until he spotted the threat. The darkness had reached the broken window and was seeping through the cracks. It drizzled
through chinks of shattered glass, which lay glinting on the floor.

‘The water!' the boy said, pointing. ‘Don't let it touch your skin.' He paused, looking Chester up and down. ‘Well, I suppose you could if you really
wanted
to, but it would be a shame to waste those charmingly rustic cufflinks.'

Chester jumped back: now the swirling water had come in, it was flowing even faster. ‘Can't we just reverse its tune or something? Like when I fought the Echo?'

‘Oh, are you volunteering to throw yourself in?' said the blonde girl.

‘What? No, I –'

‘You'd have to touch the water first, to hear its melody,' she said, apparently thinking aloud. ‘Then you could play it backwards on your flute. But of course, it would start dragging you down as soon as you touched it …' She brightened a little. ‘You know, I think it might work! It would be a horrible death, of course, but you
might
temporarily disrupt the river's Music while it consumed you.'

At this, Chester decided not to offer any more suggestions.

Sam stomped back and forth between wheels and levers, swearing occasionally under his breath in his attempt to gain some lift. There was a ravenous growl from the bowels of the echoship, more ursine than mechanical, and the cabin began to shake.

‘Sam, head west,' Susannah ordered. ‘Last we saw of the Songshaper, she was on the eastern shore. Her echoboat's tiny – she'll sink if she tries to follow us across the
river here and it'll take her at least a day to reach the next decent bridge.'

‘You know,' said the blonde girl, who was still considering the river, ‘another option might be throwing in a Musical creature, like an Echo. It wouldn't be a perfect tune reversal, but the combination of its dying life-force and its own inherent Music should theoretically –'

‘Dot?' Susannah said, through clenched teeth.

‘Yes, Captain?'

‘Have you got a pet Echo to throw into the river?'

‘No, Captain.'

‘Then shut up, would you? Sam needs to concentrate. And the rest of you, find something to hold onto.'

Chester grabbed the wall, barely suppressing a shout of pain as his wounded arm jolted.

‘Hold on tight!' Sam said. ‘This river ain't keen to let us go.'

The
Cavatina
creaked and moaned as they ascended, fighting against the water that clutched at them: desperate fingers, refusing to release. Sam steered sideways, struggling away from the river's line of reflection …

And suddenly, the shadows retracted.

The whole world jerked; the
Cavatina
righted itself against the tilt and they slid backwards in a clatter of limbs as the ship arced up onto the western shore. Chester glanced out the window just in time to see the river disappear behind them. Tendrils of black slowly drained from the cabin, seeping back down through the broken window.

‘Gosh,' said the blonde girl, looking excited. ‘That was rather an adventure, wasn't it? You know, I've always wondered what a reflection trap might feel like. I have a theory that –'

‘Right,' Susannah interrupted. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, visibly fighting a surge of pain. ‘Time for chatting later, gang. Sam, I need you to get us the hell out of here.'

‘On it already, Captain.'

‘I want a decoy, too. Launch the Musical automation in one of the echoboats and send it north, with just enough sparkage to leave a trail.' She shook her head. ‘I don't like to waste an echoboat, but it's better than being chased by a bunch of Shapers.'

Sam wrenched down a fistful of levers then flicked a series of knobs and dials. A shudder ran down through the ship, as though something heavy had been dislodged from the upper deck.

‘Good,' said Susannah. ‘Dot, help me and the new boy into the medical room.'

The blonde girl glanced across at Chester, startled, as though she had forgotten his existence. Then she spotted the roughly bandaged wound on his arm and saluted. ‘Yes, Captain!'

Susannah turned to the boy in spectacles. ‘Travis, you've got a pair of invalids to deal with.'

Travis looked down at his clothing. He wore a pair of sleek plum trousers, a white cotton shirt and an expensive-looking waistcoat. A silk cravat adorned his neck,
gleaming crimson under the sorcery lamps, and a gold watch dangled from his pocket.

Despite all this splendour, the outfit was a little scuffed and smoke-stained. Travis gave a melodramatic sigh, running his hands and eyes across the fabric's injuries.

‘Travis!' Susannah said. ‘You have your orders. I need you to dress our wounds. I hired you on the basis of you being a doctor, didn't I?'

‘Yes, but –'

‘Are you afraid of getting blood on your clothes?'

Travis shook his head. ‘Oh no, certainly not. I just …' He waved a hand, clearly struggling for an excuse. He clicked his fingers. ‘Ah! It's unhygienic, you see.'

‘It's what?'

‘Oh,' Travis said, ‘it's a new concept in medical training. I really ought to change into a clean shirt first.' He paused. ‘Sam, may I borrow one of your shirts? Mine are all so unsanitary – all those decorative elements are simply
hives
of disease …'

‘Is this to protect your patients, or your clothes?' Susannah said.

Travis gave her his brightest smile. ‘I'll meet you in the medical room, shall I?'

He sauntered out of the room, boots clacking until they were silenced by the carpet of the corridor.

‘Oh, don't worry about Travis,' Dot said, turning to Chester. ‘He's just a vain little peacock. Spends half his time chasing pretty girls and the other half ironing his shirt sleeves.' She paused. ‘You know, I've always had a few quibbles with the use of the peacock as a symbol
for human vanity. If you ask me, a better analogy would be the –'

‘Yes, yes,' Susannah said. ‘Just get us to the medical room.'

Dot saluted again. ‘Yes, Captain!'

She helped Susannah to her feet. Chester couldn't help but be a little impressed as he watched the captain stand. She held the syringe in place herself, even as colour drained from her face. She swayed a little but Dot steadied her.

‘That's it, Captain. Just down the corridor …'

‘I know where the medical room is,' Susannah snapped.

‘Just trying to be reassuring, Captain.'

The medical room was small and cramped. Chester stepped aside to allow Susannah to take the bed and stood back in the corridor to await his own treatment.

Travis appeared in an oversized flannel shirt, which swam across his skinny torso like a bedsheet. He tied the loose folds of fabric into a knot and rolled up the sleeves to his elbows.

‘I see you've bravely sacrificed Sam's shirt to the cause instead of your own,' Susannah said.

‘What, this thing?' Travis looked down at the shirt distastefully. ‘Oh, it's chequered crimson already. The big lout will hardly notice a few little blood spatters.'

Travis pushed Susannah back to make her lie down on the bed, whipped open a cupboard of medical supplies,
and set to work. Chester watched through the doorway, a little queasy.

Queasy? That was odd. He'd never had a problem with the sight of blood, or even death. Once, he'd shared a cargo carriage with an old man who had died of fever in the middle of the night. When the train had stopped, Chester had carried the body down off the train and buried him in a copse of thistle trees near the railway track. Sickness and death were just a fact of life.

But still, Chester felt sick. Clammy. And it grew worse by the minute. His breaths felt shallow and he clenched his fingers to steady himself.

‘What's your name?'

He blinked, startled by the sudden voice. ‘Chester Hays.'

The blonde girl nodded. ‘I'm Dorothy Pickett, but everyone calls me Dot. In there, that's the captain, Susannah Kemp, and Travis Dalton.' She eyed him, clearly curious. ‘You all right? You look a little …'

‘I'm fine.' Chester took a deep breath, and then fought the urge to vomit it back up again. ‘It's just … I think I might be coming down with something.'

‘Ah.' Dot's expression cleared. She tapped him on the chest with a smile. ‘It's withdrawal, isn't it? From the recital?'

Chester started. In the chaos of the morning so far, he had almost forgotten about skipping the recital last night. No wonder he felt sick.

‘Not to worry,' Dot said. ‘We all went through it. So long as you can get through tonight, you'll be right.' She
laughed. ‘I bet Sam was a right grump about it though, wasn't he? He gets like that sometimes, when …'

‘When what?'

Dot hesitated. ‘Not my place to say.'

There was an awkward silence. Then, from inside the room, Susannah – who must have been listening – said, ‘Let's just say that Sam's emotions are … unpredictable. If you're going to join our gang, I suppose you've got a right to know what you're signing up for.'

As she spoke, Travis poured a vial of greenish liquid onto her wound. It sizzled and Susannah flinched, hissing the last few words through clenched teeth.

‘I know what I'm signing up for,' Chester said. ‘You're a thieving gang.'

‘No, we're not.'

‘Then what are you?'

‘Well …' Dot waved a hand. ‘We're what you might call
specialists
. We've got a reputation, you see. In the industry.'

‘The thieving industry?'

‘We prefer to see it as a wealth redistribution program.'

Chester snorted. He'd heard that one a lot recently. Stealing from the rich, giving to the poor. Ever since the Nightfall Gang had become famous, it seemed that every thief in Meloral had used that line to justify their actions. Unlike the infamous Nightfall Gang, however, most criminals didn't genuinely give their earnings to the poor – unless by ‘the poor', they meant themselves.

‘We give half our loot to those who need it,' Dot said, ‘and we only steal from people who deserve it.'

‘Such as …?'

‘Aristocrats in Weser City. Songshapers in little towns who lord it over the common folk and take half their earnings to line their own pockets.'

‘Of course,' Chester said sarcastically. ‘I'm sure you're a bunch of real heroes – just like the Nightfall Gang.'

‘Oh good,' Dot said, ‘you've heard of us.'

‘What?'

‘I said, “you've heard of us”,' Dot said brightly. ‘The Nightfall Gang. I was the one who came up with the name – you know, since we boycott the Sundown Recital and all. It's got a nice flair, don't you think?'

Chester stared at them. Were they joking? The Nightfall Gang was the most notorious crew in Meloral. They had broken into Songshapers' mansions. They had scattered sacks of gold to the needy in Jubaldon and given new boots to the beggars in Linus. Some people were convinced that the Nightfall Gang used griffins to pull their getaway coaches, others that they were ghosts who only appeared by night to wage war on behalf of the downtrodden.

They were heroes. They were legends.

They weren't a bunch of bickering teenagers who crashed their echoships into rivers.

‘No,' Chester said, ‘you can't be the Nightfall Gang. I've heard stories about the gang; you're just a bunch of kids
pretending
to be –'

Susannah sighed. ‘The stories are exaggerated, Chester. That's what happens with stories – they get retold and they shift a little. Change their clothes, you might say. Haven't you ever heard a rumour spread through a town?'

‘There is no way in hell,' Chester said, ‘that you broke into a rancher's stable and released his fleet of forty pegasi. I don't believe it.'

‘Only four pegasi, actually,' Susannah said, ‘and we only stole them on principle. The rancher was using them to spy on his workers. If he caught anyone resting, even for a moment, he'd whip them bloody.'