The Glass Republic: The Skyscraper Throne: Book II by Tom Pollock Page B
Authors: Tom Pollock
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feeling her throat constrict.
Cuttner’s Close
,
EC1
, the enamel sign read. The name wasn’t familiar and neither was the street itself.
It should have been.
In her own London, Pen had wandered up and down these pavements a million times on her way to and from her dad’s practice; they were an extension of her rat-runs, her neighbourhood. A chill spread through her, and she turned fromside to side, peering urgently out of the car windows. More and more unfamiliar details struck her, more and more that was wrong: a missing shop, or a building razed to the ground where its equivalent in London still stood; a row of frontages continued unbroken where Godliman Street ought to have been. This reflection of London wasn’t just distorted; it had been rebuilt in places, its topography altered.
It doesn’t match
, she realised, her stomach sinking. She’d assumed that the London she knew would be a map for London-Under-Glass, but it wasn’t. But without a map, Pen had no idea how to find Frostfield High – or if the school even existed here.
A city of eight million people, covering more than six hundred square miles, and the room with the bloody handprint on the floor could be anywhere.
Twenty-one days and nights.
Johnny Naphtha’s silk-and-oil voice whispered through her mind.
Twenty-one.
Her driver kept shooting illicit looks back at her and then snatching his gaze away again. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then he bottled it. He scratched the back of his head and sighed loudly, then he tilted the rear-view mirror until it caught her. It never showed her him.
‘Look, are you all right?’ Pen asked.
‘Oh, frag me!’ he started. ‘I was staring, wasn’t I? Oh, Mirror of God, excuse me – I’m sorry, ma’am, I was just—’ He groped for the words, and then sagged slightly in his seat.
‘Forgive me?’ he asked sheepishly.
Pen blinked. ‘What for?’
‘Well, my language, Lady Khan, for one thing – I shouldn’t be talking to a Mirror Countess like that, I know that – it’s just …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I’m just so relieved, ma’am.’ His grin was furtive, as though smiling at her was a liberty he could scarcely afford to take. ‘Everyone is, of course, but especially the wife and me. Thank Mago those Faceless scum didn’t do … well, what everyone said they’d done.’
‘Um … thanks?’ Pen said.
‘Oh, no problem, ma’am. We’re such big fans. Not that I know anyone who isn’t a fan of yours, of course.’
‘Well, I’m sure there must be
someone
.’ Pen’s laugh was perplexed.
‘’Course not,’ said the driver, beaming, ‘Face like that? – If you don’t mind me saying, ma’am, who wouldn’t love you? It’s not just the looks – though obviously they’re important, and so refreshing, if you don’t mind me saying. With all the stitch-cheeks and suturing that’s been in vogue recently, it’s grand to have someone looking a bit classier, but—’ He hesitated.
‘But—?’
‘Well, we all feel like we know you.’
‘You do, do you?’ Pen had a sinking feeling that the driver
did
know the girl he thought she was, better than she did.
‘Oh yes, ma’am,’ he said. ‘The Face of the Looking-Glass Lottery? Especially now, on the run up to Draw Night, withthe amount you’re on TV and such, I reckon I see more of you than I do my own kids! Not that we don’t all love it, of course,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I mean, look at them.’
He jerked his thumb at the window and Pen looked out. Teenagers stood in a ragged queue that must have stretched a hundred yards back from a nondescript doorway. Neon tubes looped above the lintel spelled out the words. An A4 printed photo of a smiling Lady Parva Khan was taped to the bricks beside the door.
‘Been queuing overnight, some of ’em, to get the new look,’ the driver said amiably. ‘I saw ’em on the way out. And that’s only a cheap place too, doesn’t do
Cuttner’s Close
,
EC1
, the enamel sign read. The name wasn’t familiar and neither was the street itself.
It should have been.
In her own London, Pen had wandered up and down these pavements a million times on her way to and from her dad’s practice; they were an extension of her rat-runs, her neighbourhood. A chill spread through her, and she turned fromside to side, peering urgently out of the car windows. More and more unfamiliar details struck her, more and more that was wrong: a missing shop, or a building razed to the ground where its equivalent in London still stood; a row of frontages continued unbroken where Godliman Street ought to have been. This reflection of London wasn’t just distorted; it had been rebuilt in places, its topography altered.
It doesn’t match
, she realised, her stomach sinking. She’d assumed that the London she knew would be a map for London-Under-Glass, but it wasn’t. But without a map, Pen had no idea how to find Frostfield High – or if the school even existed here.
A city of eight million people, covering more than six hundred square miles, and the room with the bloody handprint on the floor could be anywhere.
Twenty-one days and nights.
Johnny Naphtha’s silk-and-oil voice whispered through her mind.
Twenty-one.
Her driver kept shooting illicit looks back at her and then snatching his gaze away again. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then he bottled it. He scratched the back of his head and sighed loudly, then he tilted the rear-view mirror until it caught her. It never showed her him.
‘Look, are you all right?’ Pen asked.
‘Oh, frag me!’ he started. ‘I was staring, wasn’t I? Oh, Mirror of God, excuse me – I’m sorry, ma’am, I was just—’ He groped for the words, and then sagged slightly in his seat.
‘Forgive me?’ he asked sheepishly.
Pen blinked. ‘What for?’
‘Well, my language, Lady Khan, for one thing – I shouldn’t be talking to a Mirror Countess like that, I know that – it’s just …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I’m just so relieved, ma’am.’ His grin was furtive, as though smiling at her was a liberty he could scarcely afford to take. ‘Everyone is, of course, but especially the wife and me. Thank Mago those Faceless scum didn’t do … well, what everyone said they’d done.’
‘Um … thanks?’ Pen said.
‘Oh, no problem, ma’am. We’re such big fans. Not that I know anyone who isn’t a fan of yours, of course.’
‘Well, I’m sure there must be
someone
.’ Pen’s laugh was perplexed.
‘’Course not,’ said the driver, beaming, ‘Face like that? – If you don’t mind me saying, ma’am, who wouldn’t love you? It’s not just the looks – though obviously they’re important, and so refreshing, if you don’t mind me saying. With all the stitch-cheeks and suturing that’s been in vogue recently, it’s grand to have someone looking a bit classier, but—’ He hesitated.
‘But—?’
‘Well, we all feel like we know you.’
‘You do, do you?’ Pen had a sinking feeling that the driver
did
know the girl he thought she was, better than she did.
‘Oh yes, ma’am,’ he said. ‘The Face of the Looking-Glass Lottery? Especially now, on the run up to Draw Night, withthe amount you’re on TV and such, I reckon I see more of you than I do my own kids! Not that we don’t all love it, of course,’ he added hurriedly. ‘I mean, look at them.’
He jerked his thumb at the window and Pen looked out. Teenagers stood in a ragged queue that must have stretched a hundred yards back from a nondescript doorway. Neon tubes looped above the lintel spelled out the words. An A4 printed photo of a smiling Lady Parva Khan was taped to the bricks beside the door.
‘Been queuing overnight, some of ’em, to get the new look,’ the driver said amiably. ‘I saw ’em on the way out. And that’s only a cheap place too, doesn’t do
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