The Lightning Key (10 page)

The silhouette of Bluehart stood by the porthole.
“Not long now,” said the Sleep Angel, a surprising kindness in his voice. “You have to be present in yourself to die. It's a formality, but one that must be observed.” He gave a deep sigh. “That's bureaucracy for you.”

B
luehart the Sleep Angel, smoke-gray and bone-cold, stood in the choking cabin and waited for his moment. The boy was on his hands and knees on the floor now, spit running from his lips, as Bluehart patiently counted down his last gasping breaths. It was a short enough life, he thought—seven . . . six . . . five—but each one had their time—four . . . three—and this boy had already stretched his beyond its limit—two . . . one . . . .

The Sleep Angel stiffened suddenly. There was an unexpected sound from outside the cabin, the echo of a roar entwined with sweet music that had no place here. He stepped toward the boy, but the
music tightened around him.

Miles heard it too, slipping from consciousness, and he mistook it for a memory. The blood roared in his ears, and Little's voice cut through it with a song of wild urgency and indescribable beauty. In his confusion he thought he was back in the Palace of Laughter, held in the suffocating embrace of The Null, and he looked up through stinging eyes to see if he could catch a glimpse of the Song Angel.

There was a loud crash, and almost at once the smoke began to thin. The figure of Bluehart dissolved with a gasp of rage, and Miles felt himself lifted from the floor. He tried to tell his rescuers that Little was in the top bunk, but he could only cough.

“We've got you, Master Miles,” said Baltinglass of Araby.

“And your little sister too,” said another voice.

“Wait.” He coughed. He broke free of the airman who had hold of him and grabbed Tangerine from his bunk. He was picked up again and carried at a run along the tilting corridor, past flames that ran up the walls and bubbled across the ceiling. Floating sparks stung his skin, but he held on to the bear for all he was worth. Behind him he heard another crash as the door of the Great Cortado's cabin was
broken in, and an excitable shout from First Officer Barrett. “They've escaped through the porthole!”

A moment later there was a grinding impact as the wounded airship plowed into the ground. Miles and Little's rescuers were thrown off their feet, and they fetched up in a tangled heap by the hatch, which had been jarred open in the crash. It was a short drop to the ground, and they jumped from the hull, followed by Baltinglass of Araby. They scrambled out of the way as more passengers, soot-smeared and half-dressed, dropped from the burning vessel, counted out by two airmen who stood on either side of the hatch.

“Are you all right?” said Miles to Little.

She was pale under a dusting of ash, but she nodded. “I'm fine,” she said.

They helped Baltinglass to a stone bench at the arena's edge and sat him down. His hair stood out in blackened tufts from under his singed cap, and the duffel bag that he had somehow managed to locate in the burning cabin smoked quietly on the dust beside him. Miles watched as First Officer Barrett dashed to and fro like an ant, helping injured passengers to safety and shouting instructions at the rest of the crew. The fire was spreading rapidly now, devouring the balloon's gray hide and sending
a column of black smoke curling into the morning sky. The last two airmen leaped from the hatch as it became a rectangle of yellow flame, and still there was no sign of Captain Tripoli.

“The captain is still on board,” said Miles anxiously. “I don't think he got out.”

“He's there!” said Little suddenly. “Climbing out of the porthole.” She pointed at the burning hull, where the figure of Captain Tripoli was indeed emerging from a circular hole in the planking and sliding down a rope of knotted sheets.

“Why is the brass gone from the porthole?” said Little.

“That must be the one Cortado and Tau-Tau escaped from,” said Miles. “They would have had to remove the brass for Tau-Tau to fit through it.”

They watched the upright figure of the captain walk slowly away from his decimated ship. He stopped to speak to his first officer, who was waving his arms about like a lunatic, indicating the dazed passengers he had rounded up and the crew he had sent off for help. It looked like he could almost kiss the captain in his delight at finding him alive.

“How did you get away?” Miles asked Little in a low voice. “From the Council, I mean.”

“The Rascals got me out,” she said. “They were
impressed that you were brave enough to actually bring up the Tiger's Egg at a Council, and once they realized that Bluehart had tricked you they got really annoyed. They grabbed me and we followed you as fast as we could.” A smile broke out on her dirty face. “Those Rascals can really fly!”

“But how did you manage to stop Bluehart? You can't sing the One Song anymore.”

“The One Song has started to fade from me,” said Little, “but I have music of my own, music that I made for the Circus Bolsillo. That's what I sang. I wasn't sure if it would work, but it was all I had.”

“Bluehart didn't like it much.” Miles grinned.

Little laughed, and dissolved into a fit of coughing. “I don't think so,” she said. “It confused him long enough to lose concentration, and when a Sleep Angel loses his focus other things can get in his way.”

“Like Baltinglass?” said Miles.

“Baltinglass was there just in time,” said Little. “He could not have saved us if Bluehart hadn't been distracted, nor could I have held Bluehart for long if Baltinglass hadn't arrived when he did.”

Miles frowned. “So does the Realm control the world, or can the world stand up to the Realm?”

“Which is stronger, wind or waves?” said Little.
“There's no single answer. It depends on which way they are flowing and how they meet. This time we were lucky. The next time we might not be.”

Refusing Barrett's offer of a steadying arm, Captain Tripoli walked onward without looking back until he reached the place where Miles and his companions sat. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he carried a singed and battered roll of paper. “My passengers and crew have escaped with their lives,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I do not wish to witness the death of my ship, so I will take my leave now and go to the prefecture to make a report.”

He looked directly at Miles. “Mr. Wednesday,” he said, “Baltinglass informs me that you are the leader of this expedition. I wish you good speed and success in your aims, all the more so if you intend to bring those two villains to justice. I have no doubt that they set this murderous fire, and it is perhaps better if you find them before I do, as I will show them no mercy.” He handed Miles the roll of battered paper. “Fortunately I saved your map, which Baltinglass had brought to the stateroom to show me. I took the liberty of updating a few details before . . .” He did not complete the sentence, but shook hands with Miles and Little, and placed a firm hand on Baltinglass's shoulder before walking
slowly away toward the town.

The arena was bustling with life now. People were spilling from nearby buildings, bringing bandages and makeshift stretchers. A man in immaculate white robes hurried toward the arena wheeling a cart loaded with water bottles. He stopped his cart and handed them a carafe of water, waving his hands to show that he did not want payment, then hurried on toward the burning airship.

Baltinglass of Araby took a long drink from the water bottle, and wiped his wet lips with the back of his sleeve. “The captain is right,” he said. “We've got some villains to catch.”

“How will we find which way they've gone?” asked Little.

“They plan to cross the desert,” said Baltinglass.

“Which means they'll need camels?” said Miles.

“Correct,” said Baltinglass. “Now, put yourself in Cortado's position, Master Miles. What would you ask for as soon as you escaped the airship?”

“I'd ask who has camels for hire that would be ready to leave at once,” said Miles.

“Preferably the fastest ones,” added Little.

“Exactly,” said Baltinglass approvingly. “And how would you prevent yourself from being pursued through the desert for burning an airship?”

Miles thought for a moment. “I'd try to pin the blame on someone else.”

“And who would that be?” said Baltinglass.

“Us, I suppose,” said Little.

“I hear the sound of boots among the sandals,” said Baltinglass. “Would I be right in saying that the gendarmes are heading our way at this moment?”

Miles looked up. Smuts from the burned airship had begun to swirl downward like black snow, and he could see half a dozen men in dark green uniforms marching purposefully through the falling cinders, carefully scrutinizing the crowds from under the peaks of their caps.

“We need a plan, Master Miles,” said Baltinglass of Araby.

Miles frowned in concentration. He tried to put himself in the gendarmes' boots, as he had just done with the Great Cortado.

“They'll be looking for two children and a blind man,” he said.

“You're right,” said Baltinglass. “I'd better take off my dark glasses.”

“You don't wear dark glasses,” said Miles.

“Then I'd better put some on,” said the old man. “That way they'll never recognize me.”

“Why don't you just give me your cane?” said Miles.
He looked around him and spotted two elderly ladies who had been aboard the
Sunfish
. They looked lost and disheveled, and one of them was limping badly. “Here,” said Miles urgently to Little. “Go and lend this cane to that lady, and tell them you'll find them somewhere to stay. I'll meet you by that tree over there, the tall one, in half an hour.” He pointed to a palm tree that stood among the buildings, hundreds of years old and rising above the highest minarets.

Little nodded. “Be careful, Miles,” she said, and she took the cane and slipped away.

“Now,” said Miles to Baltinglass, “you'll need to walk without your stick. Pull your cap low over your eyes and I'll give you directions.”

Baltinglass hauled himself upright with a grunt. “None needed, Master Miles. I have the ears of a bat, though I don't bother with the squeaking part so much.”

He hoisted the duffel bag over his shoulder and set off boldly toward the sound of the gendarmes' boots. To Miles's dismay he stopped one of the gendarmes and, with his woolly hat almost covering his eyes, asked him where he could hire some camels.

“None of your hunchbacked donkeys, mind,” said Baltinglass in a loud voice. “A blind chap I just met said there was a man around here who breeds good
long-range beasts. Ahmed? Wahid? Can't recall the name.”

“You spoke to a blind man?” said one of the gendarmes.

“Blind as an alley,” said Baltinglass. “Seemed in a hurry. Had two kids with him. They headed off that way.” He pointed randomly over his shoulder.

The gendarme frowned. “They went into the sea?” he said.

“The sea?” said Baltinglass. “Yes, the sea. Good swimmers, the blind, so I'm told. Probably wanted to wash off the smell of kerosene.”

The gendarme tipped his hat, and hurried his men off in the direction of the beach.

“What did you say the camel dealer's name was?” shouted Baltinglass after them.

“Wahid, like you said,” answered the gendarme. “On the Rue Fatima, behind the souk.”

“Lucky guess,” said Baltinglass to Miles. “Let's head for that tree you mentioned, so we can pick Little up and get ourselves some transport.”

“Aren't you tired?” asked Miles.

“I can sleep on a camel. Those two reprobates won't be hanging about in Al Bab to sip tea, and we need to be hot on their heels.”

“We know where they're going, though, don't we?”
said Miles as they hurried into the warren of dusty streets.

“Indeed we do,” said Baltinglass. “They're going to pay a visit to your aunt, and we need to get there first without them realizing they've been overtaken. We do have a couple of advantages that might help.”

“Such as?”

“We've got a map, for a start.”

“But they have a map too,” said Miles.

“They do,” said Baltinglass, “and it's one of my finest. It would be very useful to them if they were in the Gobi Desert.”

“But the Gobi Desert is in China, isn't it?”

“Right again, Master Miles. Evidently they missed a few geography lessons, if they were schooled at all.”

Miles laughed. “And the other advantage?”

“Me, Master Miles. I'm tough as a walnut and mad as a radish, and they don't call me Baltinglass of Araby for nothing. Now, where did I leave my stick?”