The Whatnot (18 page)

“The London Door,” she said. “Take her.”

The Belusites fanned out behind Florence.

The faery butler shouted. His knife slid from his sleeve.

Now,
Hettie thought.
Go!
She hurtled toward the archway.

“Sathir!”
Someone screamed from behind her. “
Tir valentu! Tir hispestra!
”

Hettie looked back over her shoulder. The faery butler's knife slashed through the air, keeping the Belusites back. Florence was still grinning. Hettie looked forward again. And smacked straight into the green-embroidered waistcoat of the Sly King.

“I liked you better when you wore a mask,” he said, and shoved her. She fell backward and instantly a boar-faced Belusite was on her, dragging at her. She saw two others battling the faery butler. He ducked, whirled, kicked one in the leg and the other in the side of the head. They did not flinch. They grabbed his arms and he shrieked, his knife clattering to the street.

“Mi Sathir,”
he whimpered, going limp in their hands. “
Sathir,
do not harm me. I bring you a gift! A child who can step between worlds! Do not harm your humble servant!”

“Why, what's this?” the Sly King asked, drifting toward the faery butler. “Florence was just about to bring me such a child. One she had been investigating for many moons. Have I become so lucky that there are
two
of these children in my humble kingdom?” He laughed quietly. “Or is someone lying? Whomever shall I believe?”

He exchanged a glimmering look with Florence La Bellina.

The faery butler tried to stand. “
She
lost the girl,” he snarled, jerking his head in the direction of Florence. “If it were not for me, your doorway would have been trampled to death. I saved her!”

The Sly King ignored him. Hettie struggled. The Belusite holding her clacked its yellow teeth and hauled her back.

“What are your orders,
Sathir
?” said Florence. “What shall we do with them?”

The Sly King squinted at Hettie, then at the faery butler. “The child,” he said, “will go to the Tower of Blood. She will make a fine addition to my collection. Kill the faery.”

The faery butler's eye snapped wide.
“What?”
he gasped, but the Belusites were already at his back, forcing him to his knees. He struggled. They struck him. One of them leaned down and picked up the knife off the ground, the faery butler's knife.

“Run!” the faery butler shouted. “Run, Hettie, don't let them catch—”

Hettie saw the blow fall. It caught the faery butler in the shoulder, and Hettie flinched as if she had been struck herself. The knife drew back, slick and dark. The faery butler's eyes fixed on her. The green one sparked. Then he tipped forward into the street.

Hettie almost screamed. She felt a pain and a horrid sadness, and the tears welling up like a flood. But she knew that if she started crying now, she would never, ever stop. She clawed the boar-face's hand and spun on the Sly King like a wild little beast.

“You'd better let me go,” she spat. “My brother's coming. He is, and when he's here you'll be sorry. He'll smash you into little pieces.”

“Your brother?” The Belusites were already surrounding her again, hemming her in. The Sly King smiled. “Not Bartholomew Kettle, surely? And he wouldn't be in
London
, would he? I hope not. You see, I read your country's newspapers, and I saw once that he had been all but adopted by a certain Lord Jelliby. So he probably is. In London. How very sad. . . .”

The Sly King pushed between the Belusites and leaned down by her ear. “As we speak, twelve faery prisons three hundred feet high are thundering down out of the North, their lord commanders having been infested by leech-faeries, and let me assure you, they are quite intent on pounding that wretched city into the earth.” The Sly King laughed. “So you see, it is not
I
who will be smashed into little pieces.”

CHAPTER XIX

Pikey in the Land of Night

U
RGENT Correspondence to the Privy Council, and to the Parliament and the House of Lords:

Evacuate the city. Alert
all
military personnel remaining to you, all cannon and weaponry, coal-powered conveyances and dirigibles. The faery prisons have been overrun and speed toward London. Tar Hill is lost. Many of our bravest have been infested with leech-faeries, and some witchcraft turns them against us, makes them evil with treachery and bloodlust. They may already be among you, in your halls and drawing rooms. Be advised to set up a perimeter across the northern side of the city, trenches and troops, scouts with clockwork birds at least twenty miles outside, in position to issue warnings.

The prisons
must
be stopped. The defenses must stand. God help us if they do not.

In utter haste,

General William Haddock, Viscount of Earswick, November 27, 1857

 

The Birmingham Faery Prison was speeding southward with reckless abandon. It had already leveled two small forests, a flock of sheep, and innumerable stone walls. Villages and farms had been spared up until now, but it was a close thing. Pikey doubted whoever was steering the great globe would blink an eye at smashing a few townships into the ground.

The mutiny had been over in minutes. Pikey and Bartholomew had waited, wound tight as springs, as the prison began to roll and the sounds of fighting echoed out of its depths. Boots had rung against grating. The door at the end of the walkway had been struck so hard it dented. But then the commotion had died away. No one came for them. No one brought them any news. All they heard now was the prison, thundering over the countryside.

Bartholomew went to the little barred window and stretched his hand out, sticking his fingers into the wind and squinting at the stars. “South,” he said. “We're going south.”

Then he dropped down and began wrenching frantically at the bolt that fastened the chains around his ankles. Pikey watched him a second, then did the same. The bolts were iron, no more than a year out of the forge. They would not give easily.

But neither would Pikey and Bartholomew. They didn't need to be told what this new direction meant. Parliament would never order so many faeries back toward the war factories, the train stations, and themselves. Some other voice had spoken the command. And as Pikey and Bartholomew twisted their fingers raw on the bolts, they both knew: the faeries had the Birmingham Prison now.

 

They worked into the wee hours of the night. Things scratched at the door at the end of the walkway, thin, skittering sounds like twigs or sharp fingernails. The door had a wheel at its center, like the sort in a boat, and once the wheel turned partway around, as if someone was trying to get in. Finally Bartholomew gave a quiet whoop and held up his bolt.

“Got it,” he whispered, wriggling out of the chains. He helped Pikey with his bolt, which hadn't given even an inch yet, and then went straightaway to the gate. The lock wouldn't budge. Bartholomew tried whispering to it and smashing it with his boot. That only made an alarm go off—a metal pellet shot out of the keyhole and struck a peg on the other side of the walkway. The peg pulled a wire and the wire set a jumble of cogs in motion and soon brimstone bulbs were blazing all up the walkway and an alarm bell was shrilling. Pikey and Bartholomew dove to the floor, waiting, but no one came. Eventually the bell wound down.

“Well,” Bartholomew said, and stood up awkwardly. He began to pace, testing the joints in the walls next. Pikey stayed on the floor.

He tried not to think of his lie. He tried not to think of anything, because right then it seemed like every option was bad. He dreaded to think what sorts of faeries would come down the walkway first. A horde of goblins maybe, or a Sidhe. And if nothing came it would be even worse. They would starve. There was a little water dripping down the walls, enough to stay alive, but there was no food. They hadn't eaten since the day before the battle of Tar Hill, and Pikey's stomach seemed to have forgotten how to be silent.

“We're coming,” Bartholomew whispered in his sleep, when they finally lay down again, and Bartholomew had drifted off. “We're coming.”

Pikey put his arms over his head to block out the sound.

 

The prison rolled all through the night, and when the first gray of morning touched the edge of the window, Pikey climbed onto Bartholomew's shoulders and looked out. The globe whirled around them, iron and slag, and beyond that, foggy England. Hills and hedgerows were flattened. A river was sent spraying a hundred feet into the air. Then the fog broke for an instant and Pikey saw three more faery globes, rolling close by, looming like dark planets out of the gloom.

Pikey leaped down off Bartholomew's shoulders. “It's not just us,” he said. “It's all of them. All the prisons.”

The faeries were returning to London.

 

The first thing to come down the hanging walkway, as it turned out, was not a Sidhe or sharp-toothed gnome, but a severely disheveled General Braillmouth. He lurched onto the narrow walk, bouncing off the guardrails. He had lost his plumed hat, and his blue coat was spattered and filthy.

Pikey scrabbled away from the bars. Bartholomew stood his ground, watching the general keenly.

The general stumbled up to the cell. “Hello, my pretties,” he breathed, flopping against the gate.

Pikey's eyes widened.
Pretties?
Where had he heard that before? Where had he heard that voice?

“General Braillmouth,” Bartholomew said. “I am the ward of Lord Arthur Jelliby, Earl of Watership, and—” Suddenly he drew in his breath sharply and leaped back.

“Oh, good,” the general said, but his mouth did not move as he spoke. “I have been looking for you. I have been looking
everywhere
. In pots and pans and graves and suitcases. And now I've found you.” His eyes were half-closed. His lips were stiff and dry.

Pikey crept forward, peering around Bartholomew's shoulder.

“Who are you?” asked Bartholomew quietly. “Who are you, and why have you come?”

“Do you not remember?” the general said softly. “Lickspindle? The Kingspringer? Or Abraham Carlton Braillmouth, if you don't know any better. But of course
you
do.”

The general's eyes had slipped almost completely closed. His face was so white, his lashes like stitches, sewing up his lids. “I shall introduce myself again. Formally. I am Thimble Tom, head of
Uà Sathir
, the Sly King's Infestation Corps, at your service.” He performed an ungainly bow, and as he did his head tipped forward, and Pikey saw the other face, slithering on the back of the general's scalp, the wrinkly, drooping face, beaded with warts and bulbous eyes.

The faun.
The dead faun that had found them in the alley and thought them to be emissaries of the Sly King. The faun who had told them about Edith Hutcherson. This was its leech-faery.

“You . . . ?” Bartholomew gasped, and for a second he appeared at a loss. But only for a second. Then he stood ramrod-straight and said sharply, “Thank goodness you've found us. The English took us prisoner at Tar Hill. We never made it to the Old Country. You have to get us out.”

The general's face remained sleepy, and yet somehow his voice sounded like a smile. Like a
grin.
“You can't leave. I know who you are. I know who both of you are. You can't leave.”

“What?”

“You aren't emissaries. Little liars.” The general opened one dead, veined eye and winked at them. “The Sly King is so grateful. We are all in your debt. We can't let you run off again.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. It's His Majesty's orders. Get us
out of here
!”

“Liar-liar! No. You have done your work already. So well.”

The general swung about and began to shamble back up the walkway. Bartholomew screamed and kicked the gate in frustration. “Get us out! Please, we can't stay here, please—”

Pikey didn't move. He was staring at the faery on the back of the general's head, the hideous, wrinkled face like a melted candle. Its eyes glinted, and it watched Pikey as Pikey watched it, until it had sunk back into the shadows.

 

On the third day of their imprisonment, General Braillmouth returned, carrying a load of mushrooms and moss and a small dead bird. It appeared the faery wanted them to eat.

But Bartholomew and Pikey were not hungry anymore. They were waiting.

“No word from the Sly King,” the general whispered, dropping to his knees and shoving the strange items into their cell one by one. “But he will be here soon. He
promised
he would. Then all will be sorted. We must all be understanding for just a little while longer. He has so many other things to deal with.”

“Does he?” Slowly Bartholomew inched up to the bars. He was watching the general like a hawk. Pikey hovered behind him. “And what would that be?”

“Rebels.” The general's swollen fingers were trying to poke the bird under the gate, but it wouldn't fit and its wire-thin talons kept snagging on his sleeve. “The faeries who don't want to leave and who don't want to fight and who don't want to obey our King. Wicked things.” He forced the bird in with a vicious stab. “There are so many of them, hiding, scheming. But it will be over soon. I heard
Uà Sathir
had them all slau—”

Bartholomew threw himself at the bars. He looped a chain through, around the general's neck, and jerked him against the gate.

“
Fascinating,
but we're leaving now,” Bartholomew hissed. “Thank you for coming.”

Pikey darted forward. He felt over the general's coat, his hand slipping in one pocket, then another.
Buttons. Tinderbox. Where are your keys?

The general's body thrashed, eyes bulging. “Stop!” the leech-faery shrieked. “
Stop
, it is the King's orders! His
orders
!”

Pikey's hand touched cold metal. A long, old key lay in his palm, the teeth shaped like a leaf. It was so complicated. He had seen keys like this before. Keys that fit into every lock, likely every lock in the prison.

He whirled away and jammed the key into its hole. He twisted, once, twice. The bolt clanked back. Then Bartholomew hurled himself at the gate and it swung all the way around, slamming the general into the outer wall of the cell.

The general crumpled to the ground, and the leech-faery clinging to his head closed its eyes and let out a high, anguished wail. “Why are you so
cruel
, my pretties? Why are you so wicked? Do you want to end up like the others? All dead in Yearn-by-the-Woods. All killed. That is what happens to those who fight him. That is what happens to all who defy him.”

Bartholomew dropped down next to the corpse. “Who is Edith Hutcherson?” he whispered. “You said she knew the way into the Old Country, so where is she? Where do we find her?”

The leech-faery looked up at them, its many eyes bright black like a spider's. “She was his favorite,” it said. “Long ago. She knew the ways in and she knew the ways out, but she was not careful. They caught her. They put her in an iron carriage, locked her in a cell in London. Lunatic, they call her now.
Madwoman
.”

Pikey gripped Bartholomew's arm. “It's her,” he said. “It's her! It's the batty lady! The old batty lady in the lockup in Newgate!”

“What?” Bartholomew stared at him. Then at the leech-faery. “No. No, she was right there! Right there for us to speak to!”

“You were going the wrong way,” said the leech-faery, with a bitter, gurgling laughing. “All this time going the wrong way. And you still are.”

Bartholomew stood. “Let's go,” he said, but Pikey didn't know what to think. London was the last place he wanted to be. He didn't want to see Spitalfields again. He didn't want to be in those muddy, snowy streets again, and he didn't want to see the madwoman either, even if her name
was
Edith Hutcherson.
Faery-fed,
the prison keeper had said. Pikey hadn't believed him then. He did now.

All at once, the globe gave a skull-shivering jerk, and Pikey and Bartholomew were thrown against the guardrail. The general went rolling and sliding over the walkway, limp as a puppet. The cell gate swung wildly on its hinges.

“Out!” Bartholomew shouted, pulling himself to his feet. “Run, Pikey!”

“No!” the general screeched. “The Sly King does not want you to go! Do not disobey him!”

Pikey and Bartholomew leaped over the general's body and pelted down the walkway. At its end was the metal door, battered and dented. Bartholomew gripped its wheel and wrenched it about. Pikey joined in, pushing with all his strength. And then there was a distant, echoing clang, like something huge and solid, snapping . . . And everything began to tip. The walkway tilted down like a slow trapdoor. The general slid under the guardrail and plummeted into the dark. Pikey and Bartholomew held on to the wheel for dear life.

“It's stopped!” Bartholomew yelled. “The prison's stopped!”

Pikey's foot found the guardrail under him and he stood. Gritting his teeth, he gave the wheel one last turn. The door slammed open, and Pikey and Bartholomew clambered onto it, into a stairwell. The globe lurched again. Pikey tumbled into the wall and fell. Everything was on its side now. The walls were the floor and ceiling, and the steps went up sideways.

“We need to get to the ground!” Bartholomew shouted as a huge iron cog came bouncing and crashing past them. “Get on the railing and climb. Move!”

They found a hatch in the floor and climbed down, down into the depths of the prison. They passed pipes and machinery and dim flickering brimstone bulbs. And then they were in the pushing pits and the faeries were swarming around them. Piskies buzzed. Goblins shrieked, clacking their teeth. They had been worked into a frenzy. They were sliding everywhere, trying to escape. They carried weapons. Extendable pikes and blunderbusses. English weapons. None of them paid any heed to the two cloaked figures hurrying among them.