A Web of Air (20 page)

“Och, Fever, Fever,” he said. He went outside again. Best to get away from this place before someone came looking for those Oktopous thugs. He put his pistol away and ran a hand over his head, three days’ worth of stubble rasping under his fingers. Just his luck. His message would have reached London by now. The Chief Engineer was sure to send envoys here to collect the Crumb girl, and Dr Teal would have to tell them that she was either missing or dead.

He went down the steps, looking back once at the sound of wingbeats as a lone angel took off from the roof of the empty house.

Weasel lifted himself easily over the trees and turned and rose, losing interest in the human, whom he did not know. He would tell Arlo later that the man had been here. For now he was hungry. The hunger was like a little voice inside him pleading for snacks. But he was not going to eat garbage-pail scraps and nasty dead men’s eyes like those less-clever ones; he knew where the best snacks were, better even than Arlo’s. Skimming over rooftops and the crags of the heights, he soared out of the city and slid down the kind sky to where a massive funicular sat among its gardens on the crater’s sunny southern slopes.

Weasel had another friend here. He called her name as he spiralled down towards the villa’s roofs. “Thirza-a-a-a! Thir-z-z-a-a-a!”

Everyone misunderstood Thirza Belkin. She knew what they said about her. That she had married for money. That she did not really love Fat Jago. That she was a bird in a gilded cage. Even her best friends said it, behind their fans, at the lavish, wonderful parties that she gave. “She cannot love him.” But they had such
simple
ideas of what love was; little-girl ideas which they had cribbed from plays and stories.

Thirza was the first to admit that Jago wasn’t pleasing to look on. But what on earth did that matter? He was kind and gentle (at least he was to her), and he was clever, and he was
very
rich, and her father had been right; those things meant much more than physical attractions. She loved his wealth, and she loved helping him to make more of it, for it is one of the great pleasures of life to be surrounded by beautiful things and to know that you have earned them.

If she ever thought of Arlo Thursday, as she lay in her bed, which was as soft as summer clouds, or strolled down her gardens to her private beach, she was far too fine a lady now to let it show. But she was still amused by the angels, and she still talked to them sometimes in the language he had taught her, and gave them things to eat when they visited her in her garden. She was always pleased to see Weasel. When she heard him calling her name that morning she looked up, and waved to let him see where she was, and said to her maidservant, “Bisa, fetch some tidbits for our visitor.”

The maidservant, a little African girl whose parents had come to Mayda as refugees from the Zagwan Empire, set down the khora she had been playing and ran off into the house, while Thirza lazily stretched out her arm for Weasel to land on. He settled on the edge of an ornamental urn instead, and cocked one blue eye at her.

“Weasel!” she said. “Where have you been? It’s been days and days!”

Weasel made a movement that meant “fishing”, another that meant “flying”, a third that might have been his birdy version of a shrug. Days meant little to him. One of the first things that Arlo had taught her about the angels was that they had almost no concept of time.

The girl Bisa came running back, barefoot like all the Belkins’ servants so that her footsteps wouldn’t spoil the pleasant noises of the garden, the whispering ornamental grasses and the wind-harps. She was carrying a tray of lovely snacks; little fishy pieces, and creamy things in soft pastry cases. Most people couldn’t afford such dainties for their children, let alone as gifts for passing angels. Weasel hopped on to the tray’s edge and counted the snacks eagerly. One, two, lots! He was very glad that Thirza was his friend.

“And how is Arlo?” she asked, while he ate the snacks one by one.

She sometimes asked him about Arlo, and he saw no reason not to tell her, because Arlo was her friend too, even though she roosted with the large one who Arlo didn’t like. He bobbed and shuffled to make her understand that Arlo himself was roosting with a new female. “Fevacrum!” he said.

“Fever Crumb?” Thirza seemed pleased. Weasel thought she must be happy for her friend Arlo. He thought that she was hoping his roost would be safe and Fevacrum would give him lots of nestlings.

“Where are they?” Thirza asked him. “Where are they roosting, Arlo and Fever Crumb?”

Weasel told her. He raised his tail and slinked his head forward. That meant
Thursday Island.

“Dear Weasel,” she said, resting her fingertips on the crest of his head as he ate. “Will you come back? Come often, and tell me all that Arlo is doing on his island?”

“Snacks?” said the angel hopefully.

“Oh, lots of snacks. But don’t tell Arlo, will you? Don’t tell him that you talk to me? He would not understand. You promise?”

“Promise,” said Weasel. He didn’t understand either; the ways of Arlo’s kind were often strange to him. But he knew they were clever; cleverer than him, and if Thirza didn’t want him to tell, he wouldn’t tell. Thirza was his friend, and her snacks were even nicer than Arlo’s.

Fat Jago came home late that evening. Thirza did not need to ask him how he was, or how his day had been. She could tell from the sound of his footsteps as he crossed the atrium that he was weary and frustrated. She sent Bisa running for cold drinks, and dispatched another servant to the kitchens to tell the cooks to start preparing supper. She rang a bell to alert still more servants, and the house shivered gently and began its long descent towards the foot of the garden, so that the Belkins would have a view over their beach and the sunset sea while they dined. Then she went and settled herself beside her husband and rested her head upon his comfily upholstered shoulder.

“Bad?” she asked.

Fat Jago stroked her hair. “Bad. The girl’s vanished. I blame myself. I should just have had Murtinho and Splint cut her throat for her last night, but I wanted to do something a bit showy with her: let people know not to anger the Oktopous. Now she’s gone, and the lads are both dead, shot to pieces somehow. I’ve never seen the like. And Murtinho’s got a wife and three kids. He
had
a wife and three kids, I mean.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Thirza. “We’ll look after Senhora Murtinho and her little ones, won’t we?”

“Of course. But Arlo Thursday’s still missing, too. Is the Londoner responsible? Teal? Some of our people saw him nosing around the Thursday place this morning. But he doesn’t look hard enough to have taken out Splint and Murtinho. He’s a scholar, not a shooter. I suppose I’ll have to bring him in for questioning…”

“No,” said Thirza firmly. “Teal is London’s man and you mustn’t risk offending London. What about all those contracts Quercus has signed with our friends in Matapan, for slaves, steel, copper? If you upset London the Oktopous will
not
be pleased with us.”

This was something else that people didn’t understand when they saw Thirza with her husband. She was so young and beautiful that they assumed she must have no more brains than one of the charms that dangled from his watch chain. They certainly never imagined that she knew anything of the murkier depths of his business affairs. But Thirza had a sharp mind, and Fat Jago had recognized it right at the beginning of their marriage, and shared everything with her. He had not regretted it. It had been Thirza who had first suggested that he make contact with the Oktopous Cartel and put himself forward as their agent here at the World’s End.

“Anyway,” she said, snuggling against him, pleased to be able give him good news here at the end of his hard day. “I don’t believe this horrible Dr Teal has any idea where Arlo and the girl are. But
I
do.”

“You do?”

“A little bird told me. Arlo has gone back to his island. Fever Crumb is with him. He is going to build his machine there in peace and quiet, alone…”

“Except for the London girl…”

“Maybe he wants her as his assistant; or maybe they are an item. They are certainly strange enough for one another.”

“I’ll send a ship to Thursday Island first thing tomorrow,” said Fat Jago, all his weariness falling from him as the news sank in. “We’ll kill the girl and bring Thursday back to Mayda…”

“No!” said Thirza again. “There is no need. Why shake the tree before the fruit has ripened? We are the only ones who know they are out there. Let them stay. Let them build their machine. My little bird will tell us when it is ready, and then you can go there and collect it.”

Fat Jago looked admiringly at her. She was always surprising him.

A tiny frown crumpled her perfect forehead for a moment. “You are certain that it was Fever Crumb who shot Flynn?”

Fat Jago snorted. “She told me it was this fellow Vishniak, but I’ve had our people ask all over Mayda, and nobody’s heard of any Vishniak arriving here. It
must
have been the Crumb girl.”

Thirza shook her head and laughed. “And she seemed such a prim and proper little thing!”

“Well so did you, my dove, when I first asked old Blaizey for your hand in marriage,” said her husband fondly.

Their house bumped gently against its buffers, down at the garden’s foot. Outside their windows flights of angels blew across the sunset, and small waves crumpled neatly into lace and silver on the sands of their beach, while their servants entered barefoot, silent, bringing them their supper.

t felt strange, next morning, waking in that tower. Such a big space, especially to someone used to living in a land-barge cabin no larger than a wardrobe. Fever thought for a moment of her room in the hotel on Rua Penhasco, feeling sad that she had never actually got to sleep in it. It was a pity she had paid in advance…

But it was hard to feel sad for long, with such a soft, golden, watery light shining through those slices of window and the empty doorway. She could hear the sea breathing softly. Nothing else. When she lifted her head and looked across the room, Arlo’s bunk was empty. She stood up, pulled on her shoes, checked that her hair was still tied back tidily. When she stepped outside, the air was all light and wings; a blizzard of angels tumbling past the tower and blowing along the beaches, their shadows racing over the ivied ruins by the quay.

Walking westward, Fever climbed over a spur of the cliffs and came down on to a flat expanse of grass divided by low mounds and hummocks, looking out across a beach. The sun made a mirror of the wet sand, and Arlo was standing there, naked on his own reflection. He had been swimming, or about to swim, but he had stopped halfway between Fever and the sea to talk to the angels.

The birds whirled all around him, a white vortex of wings with Arlo as the still point at their centre. He stood with his arms outstretched and the angels landed on them. Fever watched him bob his head and sway his neck in answer to their swayings and their bobs. She heard the angels softly squawking and chattering, and she guessed that if she went closer she would be able to hear Arlo making the same sounds. Then one of them saw her, and the whole flock rose in alarm, whirling away over the sea like a bashful tornado.

Arlo turned, waved, remembered that he had no clothes on and hurried awkwardly to where they lay heaped on some nearby rocks. He ran doubled-over and trying to hide various portions of himself, but Fever could not see what the fuss was about. Did he imagine that she had never studied human anatomy?

He hopped about pulling his trousers on, shrugged on his shirt and came running up the beach to her, waving two silvery shining things like trophies. “Breakfast! You wondered what we were to eat? I caught these in the old pens…” He stood there holding the fishes out for her to see, grinning foolishly, a little flushed. “Welcome to Casa Thursday, my old family home.”

“There is no house here,” said Fever, and then looked down and saw that the mounds around her, overgrown with wild flowers and grass, marked out the roots of walls, the floor plan of a vanished building.

“This is the villa my grandfather built,” said Arlo, as if he were still proud of it. “Look, here was the atrium, with the entrance-hall leading out that way towards the shipyards. That was the dining room, with the bedrooms beyond. This place where we are standing was Grandfather’s study.”

“It was extensive,” said Fever. “He must have been a very wealthy man.”

“The best shipwright in Mayda. Best in the world, probably.”

“Thanks to his friend Senhor Açora.”

“Yes…” Arlo bounded off across the old walls like a proud householder giving his guest a guided tour. “Grandfather kept his pictures here. He was a great one for paintings. They’re some of the things I remember best from when I was little…”

“I saw one in your house in Mayda,” said Fever. “Of your grandfather and Açora and the
Black Poppy.”