to control her emotions usually, but the paper boy was so unexpected, and it reminded her with such awful clarity of the time when she and Dr Crumb and poor Dr Isbister had battled things like that in the library at Godshawk’s Head; really battled them, not just in play. For a moment she was afraid that she would faint.
“It is all right,” said a voice beside her, and there was Borglum, looking up at her all kindly and concerned. “You’re wondering how we make him move, the mannikin? ’Tis all done with technomancy, my dear. There is a machine aboard the Sandwich which talks somehow to a little wafer of a brain that’s slipped inside the paper of him. Your mother’s operating it now; what he sees, she sees, and she tells him where to move. It’s a marvellous engine.”
“I did not think there were any such things left,” said Fever, who had burned the last of London’s paper boys herself.
“We picked it up from an antiquarian in Hamsterdam who didn’t know how to make it work, and in truth we didn’t know neither, but your mother came aboard today, opened it up, tinkered a while inside with wires and such, and our little papery friend sprang straight to life.”
The paper boy tensed, then started to shuffle forward, mincing along on the edges of his cut-out feet. He moved so silently that Lady Midnight seemed not to have heard him.
“Behind you!” shouted someone in the crowd, forgetting that they were not supposed to speak.
Lady Midnight swung round with her sword ready. The paper boy raised one paper hand, and from his fingertips five tiny claws emerged.
“Poisoned needles!” Borglum shouted importantly. “Envenomed with the ichor of the deadly Zagwan centipede, a vicious reptile from Lady Midnight’s mother country!” He nudged Fever and muttered, “There ain’t no such creature really, so don’t worry; it won’t give our Agnes no more than a scratch. . .”
Lady Midnight had sensed the thing’s approach, perhaps by the small scritching sounds its feet made in the grass. She swept her sword at it, and it bent backwards with inhuman suppleness so that the blade swished through empty air. Lady Midnight hesitated, looking confused. No doubt she knew what she was facing; no doubt she and Wavey and Borglum had planned out every step. But Fever did not feel that she could watch any more. She turned and walked away from the fire, away from Three Dry Ships, into the quiet and the dusk. She climbed the hill behind the town and stood on its summit looking east across the marshes at dozens of distant points of fire which burned like red stars, far away behind the mist. The Ancients had dug oil wells out there, and the Movement had reopened some of them, and found others in places which must have been too difficult or too expensive for even the Ancients to reach when they lay deep under water.
Deep under water . . . How strange it was to think that the sea had once covered all this land. At Fever’s feet, in bald patches between the grass, scatterings of tiny white seashells glowed in the twilight. She sat down and picked up a handful and let them trickle through her fingers, and thought about the seas of the south, and Arlo. If only she had gone with him. If only she had stayed with the Lyceum . Ever since Wavey reclaimed her she had felt like a doll or a pet. She had thought this journey to the north would change things, but she was as listless as ever. She wished something would happen to her.
It was a wish that she would come to regret.
11
THE REVOLUTIONISTS
r Crumb was a punctual man. If you wanted to bump into him it was not difficult. You just had to station yourself between Bishopsgate and the Engineerium when the six a.m. bells were ringing to summon the day shift to the factories and there he would be, hastening along with his case full of plans and papers on his way to start his morning’s work.
So that was where Charley Shallow stood, in the grey of a drizzling Monday
“It is all right,” said a voice beside her, and there was Borglum, looking up at her all kindly and concerned. “You’re wondering how we make him move, the mannikin? ’Tis all done with technomancy, my dear. There is a machine aboard the Sandwich which talks somehow to a little wafer of a brain that’s slipped inside the paper of him. Your mother’s operating it now; what he sees, she sees, and she tells him where to move. It’s a marvellous engine.”
“I did not think there were any such things left,” said Fever, who had burned the last of London’s paper boys herself.
“We picked it up from an antiquarian in Hamsterdam who didn’t know how to make it work, and in truth we didn’t know neither, but your mother came aboard today, opened it up, tinkered a while inside with wires and such, and our little papery friend sprang straight to life.”
The paper boy tensed, then started to shuffle forward, mincing along on the edges of his cut-out feet. He moved so silently that Lady Midnight seemed not to have heard him.
“Behind you!” shouted someone in the crowd, forgetting that they were not supposed to speak.
Lady Midnight swung round with her sword ready. The paper boy raised one paper hand, and from his fingertips five tiny claws emerged.
“Poisoned needles!” Borglum shouted importantly. “Envenomed with the ichor of the deadly Zagwan centipede, a vicious reptile from Lady Midnight’s mother country!” He nudged Fever and muttered, “There ain’t no such creature really, so don’t worry; it won’t give our Agnes no more than a scratch. . .”
Lady Midnight had sensed the thing’s approach, perhaps by the small scritching sounds its feet made in the grass. She swept her sword at it, and it bent backwards with inhuman suppleness so that the blade swished through empty air. Lady Midnight hesitated, looking confused. No doubt she knew what she was facing; no doubt she and Wavey and Borglum had planned out every step. But Fever did not feel that she could watch any more. She turned and walked away from the fire, away from Three Dry Ships, into the quiet and the dusk. She climbed the hill behind the town and stood on its summit looking east across the marshes at dozens of distant points of fire which burned like red stars, far away behind the mist. The Ancients had dug oil wells out there, and the Movement had reopened some of them, and found others in places which must have been too difficult or too expensive for even the Ancients to reach when they lay deep under water.
Deep under water . . . How strange it was to think that the sea had once covered all this land. At Fever’s feet, in bald patches between the grass, scatterings of tiny white seashells glowed in the twilight. She sat down and picked up a handful and let them trickle through her fingers, and thought about the seas of the south, and Arlo. If only she had gone with him. If only she had stayed with the Lyceum . Ever since Wavey reclaimed her she had felt like a doll or a pet. She had thought this journey to the north would change things, but she was as listless as ever. She wished something would happen to her.
It was a wish that she would come to regret.
11
THE REVOLUTIONISTS
r Crumb was a punctual man. If you wanted to bump into him it was not difficult. You just had to station yourself between Bishopsgate and the Engineerium when the six a.m. bells were ringing to summon the day shift to the factories and there he would be, hastening along with his case full of plans and papers on his way to start his morning’s work.
So that was where Charley Shallow stood, in the grey of a drizzling Monday
Similar Books
