stood, up to my nose in marsh mud, hiding in my own hat till sundown. And then I pushed on."
"Didn't you want to go back? Run away?"
"Course I did. I was half frozen and two-thirds drowned. But I had work to do, didn't I? So I pressed on till I reached Godshawk's garden, and I reckon the Scriven weren't expecting me, because they hadn't set much of a guard. I climbed out of the marsh looking like a part of the marsh, and I went creeping through them gardens and up to that house and I did what was needful. That's the good thing about a spring gun. There's no powder to get wet, so a soaking won't harm it much."
"You killed them?"
Bagman Creech nodded. "I was pretty sick of killing Scriven by then, mind. It didn't feel like a big victory. It weren't rock 'n' roll, the way the Riots was. It was just this nasty job I had to do. And when it was done I lit the place on fire, and the flames went way up high because it was full of smart furnishings and tapestries and stuff. And the light of all that burning was enough for me to find my way back home to London by."
"And was Godshawk there?" asked Charley. "Was he one of the ones you killed?"
"No, he was dead by then. Killed in the Barbican, third day of the riots. Gnasher Modbury's crew caught him. 'You can't kill me,' that's what he told them. Stood and laughed at them. He wasn't short of courage. But they killed him all right. Later there were stories that he'd tricked them somehow and escaped, but I saw his speckled hide with me own eyes. He's dead all right."
They moved on, and soon the need for the coracle became clear. The causeway they were following stopped short, as if it had been bitten off. A stretch of glassy water spread itself before them, filled with clumps of reeds and drifting litter and the reflection of a strange, stepped hill that rose up ahead, with overgrown gardens around its feet and a crown of old walls. Charley scrambled through the thick mud at the water's edge and set the coracle afloat. As he helped Bagman in, the vessel wobbled, and beads of water swelled along a badly sealed join, but it floated, and Charley scrambled in as well and unshipped the paddle that was lashed under the seat.
Ahead, the hill was silent. The ruins blanched and faded as the mist blew past them. It was hard to imagine that there was anyone there, let alone Kit Solent and his tame Scriven, or whatever she was. Charley wondered what would happen if they found nothing. He didn't know if he'd be disappointed or relieved.
***
And she knew the code. She stood there frozen, her fingers raised in front of the lock's keys, and just as surely as she knew that she was Fever Crumb, she knew that if she pressed the numbers 2519364085 in sequence, the door would slide up into the roof, and the door behind it would slide to the right, and the door behind that would slide to the left. The counterweights that moved the heavy doors would rattle, and the gears would make a noise like big dogs growling.
"Go on," said Kit, softly and kindly, but with something steely *hard beneath the kindness, an eagerness she had not heard before. "You know it, Fever, don't you? Open the door!"
Outlandish visions burst in Fever's brain. Battles and balls and ships at sea and Dr. Crumb kneeling before her on a tiled floor and a woman she knew but didn't know laughing in sunlight and the pools and lanterns and -- "Open it!" shouted Kit Solent.
Fever fled. She stumbled sideways, kicking the lantern over so that it went out, but she found her way easily through the darkness and her hand closed on the familiar ivory handle of the door that led outside. Outside, she thought. Fresh air. She could hear Kit behind her, calling out "Fever!" Up the stairs she went, and out through the door in the hillside, into mist.
"Fever!" Kit Solent was calling, down inside the hollow hill. "Fever, come back! It's all right! I didn't mean to shout!"
Fever still felt groggy, but she forced herself to move away from the door and
"Didn't you want to go back? Run away?"
"Course I did. I was half frozen and two-thirds drowned. But I had work to do, didn't I? So I pressed on till I reached Godshawk's garden, and I reckon the Scriven weren't expecting me, because they hadn't set much of a guard. I climbed out of the marsh looking like a part of the marsh, and I went creeping through them gardens and up to that house and I did what was needful. That's the good thing about a spring gun. There's no powder to get wet, so a soaking won't harm it much."
"You killed them?"
Bagman Creech nodded. "I was pretty sick of killing Scriven by then, mind. It didn't feel like a big victory. It weren't rock 'n' roll, the way the Riots was. It was just this nasty job I had to do. And when it was done I lit the place on fire, and the flames went way up high because it was full of smart furnishings and tapestries and stuff. And the light of all that burning was enough for me to find my way back home to London by."
"And was Godshawk there?" asked Charley. "Was he one of the ones you killed?"
"No, he was dead by then. Killed in the Barbican, third day of the riots. Gnasher Modbury's crew caught him. 'You can't kill me,' that's what he told them. Stood and laughed at them. He wasn't short of courage. But they killed him all right. Later there were stories that he'd tricked them somehow and escaped, but I saw his speckled hide with me own eyes. He's dead all right."
They moved on, and soon the need for the coracle became clear. The causeway they were following stopped short, as if it had been bitten off. A stretch of glassy water spread itself before them, filled with clumps of reeds and drifting litter and the reflection of a strange, stepped hill that rose up ahead, with overgrown gardens around its feet and a crown of old walls. Charley scrambled through the thick mud at the water's edge and set the coracle afloat. As he helped Bagman in, the vessel wobbled, and beads of water swelled along a badly sealed join, but it floated, and Charley scrambled in as well and unshipped the paddle that was lashed under the seat.
Ahead, the hill was silent. The ruins blanched and faded as the mist blew past them. It was hard to imagine that there was anyone there, let alone Kit Solent and his tame Scriven, or whatever she was. Charley wondered what would happen if they found nothing. He didn't know if he'd be disappointed or relieved.
***
And she knew the code. She stood there frozen, her fingers raised in front of the lock's keys, and just as surely as she knew that she was Fever Crumb, she knew that if she pressed the numbers 2519364085 in sequence, the door would slide up into the roof, and the door behind it would slide to the right, and the door behind that would slide to the left. The counterweights that moved the heavy doors would rattle, and the gears would make a noise like big dogs growling.
"Go on," said Kit, softly and kindly, but with something steely *hard beneath the kindness, an eagerness she had not heard before. "You know it, Fever, don't you? Open the door!"
Outlandish visions burst in Fever's brain. Battles and balls and ships at sea and Dr. Crumb kneeling before her on a tiled floor and a woman she knew but didn't know laughing in sunlight and the pools and lanterns and -- "Open it!" shouted Kit Solent.
Fever fled. She stumbled sideways, kicking the lantern over so that it went out, but she found her way easily through the darkness and her hand closed on the familiar ivory handle of the door that led outside. Outside, she thought. Fresh air. She could hear Kit behind her, calling out "Fever!" Up the stairs she went, and out through the door in the hillside, into mist.
"Fever!" Kit Solent was calling, down inside the hollow hill. "Fever, come back! It's all right! I didn't mean to shout!"
Fever still felt groggy, but she forced herself to move away from the door and
Similar Books
