The Sunken (48 page)

“You doubt my word?” Brigitte addressed Nicholas, her voice rising with every syllable. “You claim to love me and then call me weak?”

“Brigitte, I—”

“Don’t bother.” She stomped down the stairs. Another door slammed.

“Nicholas, perhaps you should sit down.”

“I’ve had just about enough of this!” Nicholas thundered. “Isambard is a brilliant man who’s brought this country naught but greatness. Why must you and Aaron be determined to drag his name into the sewers?”

“I’m not denying his contributions to engineering, Nicholas, merely reporting what I know. And what I
know
is that Brunel’s transporting the Sunken — dangerous, blood-starved creatures — into this city, a city now surrounded by a high iron wall. What I heard was Brunel making a deal with Banks, the very scoundrel responsible for popularising all this religious fervour and making himself filthy stinking rich into the bargain!”

“And I say Brunel is a good man, without malice or corruption. If he has done such a thing, it could only be without the full knowledge of its consequences, or because he had no other choice. But we could sit here all night and argue, or we could settle this once and for all.”

“How?”

“I’m going to speak to Isambard.” He rose from his chair and collected his things.

“What, right now?”

“No time like the present. Do you wish to join me?”

“Someone should remain here to watch over Brigitte. It’s a dangerous city out there tonight, and she’s rather distraught.”

Nicholas sighed in exasperation. “If you must.” And without a further word, he too was gone.

I went downstairs and knocked on each door ’till I found one that answered, “Go away!” in angry, strangled sobs.

“This is James. You can let me in. Nicholas has left.”

“Of course he has,” she sobbed, opening the door and collapsing into my arms. “He’s left me, because I am weak and vulnerable, and apparently, a liar.”

“I do not believe he truly thinks those things.”

She snorted. “He said them, didn’t he? And after all we’ve been through. Oh, James, this man came to kill him, and he had a sword and Isambard rescued us and Nicholas said … he
said
—”

“You must understand how difficult this is for Nicholas. Tonight he has heard proof that his oldest friend and most admired colleague, the man who gave him work, sheltered him from harm, who saved his life, is involved somehow in the most heinous of crimes. He wishes so badly not to believe it that he seeks any way possible to invalidate the evidence before him, even if it means hurting those he loves the most.”

“Including me?”

“
Especially
you. But he’ll come around.” I tried to suppress the tight fear gripping my chest.

“Where has he gone?”

“To confront Brunel. He needs to know, tonight, of his master’s part in this plot.”

She bolted upright. “If what you say about the Sunken is true, he’ll be killed. We must go after him, James. You must talk him out of such madness.”

“I have sworn to stay here and protect you, and protect you I shall. Besides, what chance would a blind man and a weak woman have that an armed man would not?”

“He took his barker?”

“I heard him slip it from its holster and stuff it into the pocket of his coat as he left. Evidently, even Nicholas Thorne, Brunel’s most ardent follower, believes I might be right, and his master is up to no good.”

“Isambard?”

Brunel looked up from his workbench, and he recoiled in surprise to see Nicholas leaning against the pylon, his features drawn into a worried frown. One of the Boilers had been moving crates from Brunel’s workshop to the upper floors, and Nicholas had snuck down on the elevator as it returned for another load.

“I understand you’re busy, but if I could have a moment of your time.”

Brunel nodded, gesturing for Nicholas to have a seat.

“I’d rather stand, if it’s all the same. I must ask you something, and I beg you not to take offence.”

“Speak freely, Nicholas, but make it quick. I have urgent business.”

“I have … friends, who have informed me about the situation at Windsor, of the King’s lead-soaked children. I trust you know of them?”

Brunel nodded.

“My friends, they say these creatures —
dangerous
creatures — are being moved into Buckingham Palace in secret. They say that you are responsible for this, that you built the Wall not to keep the dragons out, but the people in. They say … you have a deal with Banks, that you will be named Messiah if you deliver these creatures safely into London, and ensure no one escapes. Is that true?”

Brunel stared at him, unblinking.

Nicholas slammed his fist down on the workbench.
“Is that true?”

Brunel held up his hands. “Yes, Nicholas, it is true, and yet also not true, for there is much you do not know.”

“I would really prefer to know now.”

“Yes, the lead children, the Sunken, they are real, and they are terrible. Ask Dr. Joseph Banks, and he will tell you how several years ago, back when he was a regular doctor and not the Royal Physician or the Prime Minister or the head of the Council or any of his other titles, he was called to treat the King for acute syphilis — you know of his indulgences down at the dockside. He prescribed a tincture of lead, twice a day, ’till the pain subsided. But the King had an unusual reaction to the lead, and became as the opium addict, feral and crazed, desperate for greater doses of the metal. And it came to pass that he no longer craved food, or wine, but only the acrid taste of lead. You saw his condition with your own eyes — the sunken skin, the boiling welts upon his flesh, the snarled teeth and the bulging, monstrous eyes. And this fetish led to another, even more unthinkable, abomination: the taste for human flesh.”

Nicholas recoiled, his mouth agape.

“The King took unfortunates into his chamber — at first, he sought street walkers and homeless men, cripples and condemned prisoners, starved and weak. But then, he began to take those of his own household — footmen, soldiers, maids. Some he tore limb from limb, their screams muffled in his darkest chambers, and the bodies buried by his guards. Others he took as his own, feeding them on lead and flesh and locking them away ’till they became as mad as he. The Sunken is an apt name for these unfortunates — the children of the Vampire King.”

Nicholas thought of Brigitte, all alone in that castle, her pretty features marked for that fate. Anger bubbled within him. “And how did you become embroiled in this madness?”

“Because of the Wall. I was so pleased to win the contract; I ignored the signs of his approaching madness until it was too late. And with Banks’ power to make or break my career, I admit I made several ill-advised decisions. By the time I had grasped the situation and had seen the King’s lead children with my own eyes, I had made a contract from which I could not extract myself.

“Yes, I constructed the underground railway for a nefarious purpose. Yes, today we have moved the Sunken into Buckingham Palace. But if you were in my position, you would have done exactly the same thing. By earning the King’s trust, I’ve been able to remain in favour, and thus, I have access to Buckingham Palace via my own underground passages. I have the means —
should I wish it
— to commit the ultimate treasonable act.”

“You mean—”

“
If I wished it.
We are, of course, speaking hypothetically.” He moved down his workbench, inserted a fresh plate into his press, and arranged the symbols of the code Nicholas and Aaron had invented. He pulled down the handle and handed the newly inscribed plate to Nicholas.

Nicholas stared at the message, his heart pounding. Brunel outlined his plan in the coded message. What they were about to do was treason, and Brunel wasn’t taking a chance that one of the King’s men might be listening to their conversation.

“When will this—”

“Tonight. It must be tonight. Go out to the streets and find us a cab. I’ll meet you outside the Chimney in a few minutes.”

Nicholas tucked the plate in his pocket, shook Brunel’s outstretched hand, and left the chamber.

As he walked back through the Engine Ward, he sensed a change in the air. Fires flared from the sewer grilles, and the crisp evening breeze carried the sound of women crying.

“Nicholas!”

He turned, recognising Aaron’s voice, who ran towards him, a stricken look on his face. “What are
you
doing here?” he asked.

“I came to talk to Brunel,” said Nicholas. “Where’s Chloe?”

“Safe with the other Stokers in the tunnels. I’ll be joining them after I wring Brunel’s neck with my own hands.”

The dark tone in Aaron’s voice frightened Nicholas. “You intend to kill him?”

“Five of my men
died
,” said Aaron, his voice choking. “Killed when a pressure valve burst in one of the Boiler rooms — a valve that was in perfect working order only the previous day. Someone has to stop him—”

“Look.” Nicholas handed Aaron the plate.

“Did Brunel write this? How does he know about the code—”

“Just read it.”

As Aaron’s fingers danced over the letters, his expression changed.

“You shouldn’t be so quick to think ill of your friend. He has been manipulated into this, and he admits he hasn’t navigated it in quite the best way. But he plans to fix it, tonight. And I shall go with him.”

“You’re going to the Palace? After what Brigitte said?”

“If nothing else, I
must
know the truth.”

“I should come with you.”

“No, Aaron. Think of how that would look. Go to your wife. Go to your people, and keep them safe. They need you.”

“You’re a foolish man, Nicholas. You’re walking into your doom.”

“Maybe so, but if returning to this city has taught me anything, it’s that you have a duty to
do
something with the knowledge you’ve obtained. If I can save London from the Sunken,” he shrugged, “perhaps I’ll finally be at peace with my crimes.”

James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

“What do you mean, I can’t leave the city?”

“My apologies, Mr. Holman, sir.” The constable adjusted his nightstick from one hand to the other, his voice betraying just how sorry he felt. Behind him, a row of surly-looking guards protected the heavy iron gate, which had been drawn shut and barred. “Boss’ orders, sir. No one is to leave the city tonight. Best you go home and have a mug of cocoa, sir.”

We’d already had our cocoa, and our brandy, and an entire plate of cream biscuits. Hours had passed and Nicholas had not yet returned, and we feared the worst, and Brigitte declared she could no longer remain inside the house. So we’d taken to the streets, securing the last ride at the coach house and proceeding at a snail’s pace toward the gate, where we’d met this cheery fellow.

“And just who exactly is your boss?”

“My, Joseph Banks, sir. Thousand apologies, sir.”

“And did he say why we are to endure this forced imprisonment?”

“No, sir. Said I had permission to shoot anyone who disobeyed. Present company excepting, of course, sir.”

I sighed. In the carriage behind mine, a man yelled obscenities at another constable, obviously anxious to escape the city. A crowd of foot traffic swarmed around us, shouting in indignant surprise. Our coachman grumbled and reined in the horses, which were becoming agitated with the thickening press of people. The air crackled with tension, and it wouldn’t be long before anger gave way to violence. I clasped my hand over Brigitte’s, in case the horses should bolt and surprise her.

“There’s nothing else for it,” I said. “We shall have to find another way.”

I jumped as a shot rang out in front of us, and the crowd screamed and swarmed back. I clenched Brigitte’s hand as the horses squirmed. The driver yanked back the reins, turned the horses around, and asked me what I wished to do next. I told him to try the next gate.

When we arrived at the Stamford Hill gatehouse, we found the story much the same. A great horde of people were trying to escape the city and had found the road blocked. Farmers from the neighbouring villages returning from the market with empty wagons growled in gruff voices about this imprisonment. Lords and ladies attempting to flee to their country residences huffed and spluttered their indignation. The unfortunates, used to the whims of the rich affecting every aspect of their lives, said nothing at all, sloping away again into the night.

Smoke billowed from the blow-off valves positioned at intervals along the Wall, and the London air — which had never been exactly aromatic — now stank with burning coal, stinging my eyes, nose, and throat.

We got caught in a traffic jam along Holloway Road and sat next to a carriage of country ladies who had been shopping in the city while their men attended a Council meeting. They seemed unperturbed by the delays, gossiping together about the latest court scandal. I spoke to them through the window and learned that the Oxford gate entrance had been closed, too. “I don’t understand what’s the trouble,” sniffed one of the ladies. “No one in the accursed city seems to know what’s going on.”

Someone knew all right, but I had a feeling he was tucked up in his Chimney, safe behind an impenetrable wall of iron.

We tried the next gate, and the next, each teaming with disgruntled commuters and backed-up coaches. The news passed from carriage to carriage. Every gate in the city had been shut on the King’s orders, and we were advised to return to our residences at once. When my spirits and my pockets could take no more, I bid the driver return to Nicholas’ residence, where he could collect his not insubstantial fee.

We had barely made it past Birdcage Walk in the crawling traffic when we noticed something else wasn’t right. Traffic ground to a halt as every passenger, driver, and coachman turned his or her eyes toward Buckingham Palace, which Brigitte informed me had been lit by thousands of glimmering lanterns. “It shimmers like a star,” she said. “And all the gardens have been strung with streamers and bright red flags. People stream from the palace doors. It looks as though the King is hosting a grand ball.”