Horatio Lyle (32 page)

Answering white fire immediately exploded in the second coil of copper cable wrapped round the other side of the railing, crawling down the wire and dancing off everything it could touch, searing the wall as it bounced this way and that through metal and through the air, crawling down the cable in a snake of fire, until it slammed into the altar and wormed away. The dome was filled with burning bright whiteness, impossible to see through, and the smell of smoke.

Then the thunder rolled. It went on for a very, very long time, shook the windows, shook the stones, bounced off the walls and echoed through the floor, while the melted copper cable slowly dripped and pooled on to the ground far below.

Still the iron railing burnt, hissing, fat iron blobs falling away, and the Tseiqin held their hands to their ears and screamed, screamed with one breath, one force. Lyle’s fingers closed over the Plate. The shock that ran through his arm lifted him off his feet and threw him back against the wall of the Whispering Gallery, where his head knocked against the stone and he heard the echoes bounce round and round. Blearily, he saw the Plate half-rise off the ground, on one edge, and the cascade of red sparks began to change colour, turning from red to white as still the lightning danced through the iron railing.

In the centre of the dome, drawn by the brief magnetic field, bits of molten iron and copper started spiralling, trapped within the field created inside the ring of the iron balcony. Shards of shattered iron framework from the windows rose as well, joining in a whirlwind of screaming metal that sliced the air into thin parts, dragging with it the now-white sparks pouring from the Plate. Lyle saw the Plate wobble precariously, flashing white, and then came the counter-strike. The lightning leapt up from the bowl of the Plate, lanced through the dome and spread out through it, too bright and too white to look at, so hot he could feel it where he sat. He could feel his hair standing on end, and when he moved, his hand trailed white sparks. He pulled himself away from the wall with inexorable slowness, feeling the stone trying to stick with static to his clothes, feeling the floor trying to stick to him, each movement sending a thousand little shocks tickling down his nerves. He reached out one last time and finally caught the Plate and held on to it.

He swept it into his arms as the outpouring of white sparks began to fade, cradling it close, but still the whirlwind of metal went on. He dragged himself on his hands and knees towards the door, and each step was agony, each lurch as clumsy and weak as a child’s first. A hand fell on his collar and dragged him upwards. He saw the grinning face of Mr Dew, then he saw the ceiling, and felt Dew’s boot drawing back for a kick as he curled in on his side, trying to blank the pain, clinging to the Plate for all he was worth, while the storm raged.

 

Tess saw the lightning strike St Paul’s Cathedral, a white bolt that fell straight down with unerring aim. She saw it creep along the outside of the dome as if it was being drawn by cables, and a few seconds later she saw the counter-strike lance out of the inside of the dome itself, crawling through the roof and upwards, as though pressed out from a sponge. As the carriages swung to a halt below the steps of the cathedral, she jumped down, the compass almost leaping out of her hand, and said, ‘Come
on
!’

Soldiers were piling out of the carriages, Her Majesty’s personal guard. They were having problems, though. Swords were shaking in their sheaths, and riflemen were having difficulty aiming their muzzles anywhere but directly towards the door. Tate leapt up and bounded towards the iron doors, which were creaking on their hinges and trying to wrench themselves free. He howled at the doors, and as Tess watched, they gave way with a final roar and flew backwards, into the cathedral. Tate bounded inside and she rushed forward.

The inside of the cathedral was in chaos. Anything that contained even a trace of metal was spinning round the centre of the dome like tea leaves in a stormy cup. Sparks were flying from everything, including the swords of the soldiers and their guns. Several troops fired, the bullets streaming towards the altar to join the spinning tornado of metal. She saw people turning, green eyes fixing on the doors. A soldier took aim with great difficulty and fired. A Tseiqin fell. A shout went up, spread. She looked above to the balcony of the Whispering Gallery, and saw a familiar figure lying curled up in a ball, cradling something that burnt with impossible whiteness and sparked a river of light. She called out a warning, and pointed. A soldier fired. The man standing over the fallen figure ducked as the bullet whistled overhead, and turned with a look of intense malice, to stare straight at Tess.

Down below, she heard the hiss of swords being drawn. Thomas grabbed a simple wooden cross from the door, taking it in both hands, and shouted what could have been anything, but was probably meant as a battle cry. Tess felt in her pockets. Her hands closed over the test tubes Lyle had given her. She grinned.

As one, the Tseiqin charged, and Her Majesty’s Guard ran to meet them.

CHAPTER 24

As chaos exploded in the nave of the church, Moncorvo drew a slim bronze blade and turned to Lacebark. She was shouting orders, moving almost too fast to see. A bullet bounced into the stone above his head. He ducked, his hand accidentally brushing the iron railing. It burnt his skin. Overhead, the thunder rolled again. Water was seeping through the roof where the counter-strike of lightning had dug its way out, dripping down on to the altar below. Around him Tseiqin took aim with crossbows and let fire, to receive an answering hail of gunfire. He saw two more Tseiqin fall, and looking down saw the first rank of Tseiqin on the ground charge, furiously, into the swords of the waiting guardsmen, running down the aisles and climbing over the benches to try and get to the fray. In the centre of the dome, the whirlwind was gently falling, but still the smaller bits of metal spun, a shower of hot metal flying down towards the ground while the rest still screamed through the air.

At his side, Lacebark screeched over the din, ‘The Plate!’

Moncorvo looked round, just in time to see Lyle disappear up a staircase, clutching the Plate to himself. He growled and leapt after him, but was pushed aside.

Feng Darin rose up in front of him, his face a mask of vengeance, holding a bronze blade in either hand. Moncorvo hesitated, feeling the burning of the magnetic field still buzzing in his mind. He switched the knife to his other fist, and lunged at Feng.

Feng parried easily, lunging up with a slash for his belly that Moncorvo only just avoided. He staggered back clumsily, shocked. Lacebark pushed past him, her face set, blade gleaming in her hand. ‘Let me,’ she snarled. ‘You get down there!’

Moncorvo didn’t argue. He turned and ran for the staircase.

 

As the magnetic field faded inside the dome, Lyle ran, skidding and sliding on the stone staircase, pushing his way through dark stone corridors so narrow he had to turn sideways to move through them, scrambling for the upper level. He heard footsteps on the stone behind him and ran faster, as fast as every ache and every bone could allow, bumping and sliding against the walls. He reached a staircase and dragged himself up it, slipping and crawling on hands and feet, then mustering the strength to push himself on to his feet again and taking the steps two at a time, bounding up with the Plate burning under his fingers, the light it gave out now fading. He heard a shout behind him and felt the crossbow bolt whiz through the air, slamming into the wall an inch from his ear, then the chink of the bow itself being discarded, tossed to one side. Lyle saw a door ahead and crashed into it, sending it bursting open. He stepped out into a storm, the wind lashing at his face, stinging his eyes, the rain tearing through everything it could touch, the air heavy. He heaved his shoulder against the door, pushing it shut. The lock went
click
, and he turned and ran.

 

Tess found herself on one of the side aisles, pushed behind a line of guardsmen as steel flashed and sang. She looked around and saw a flight of steps spiralling upwards. She darted towards it, diving under the arms of the fighters, racing through a wall of steel and into the darkness of the staircase. Way up she heard the sound of footsteps and froze. Moncorvo appeared around the turn, eyes flashing in the dark. He saw her and scowled. Reaching out for her hair, he ran at her, and she ducked under, turning and running back down the way she’d come, clinging to the side of the wall, feet skipping on the narrowest part of the stair, just next to the centre of the spiral. As she ran, she fumbled with the test tubes, trying to work out which was which. She found one, and tossed it on to the stones ahead of her. It didn’t smoke, and it didn’t spark, but smelt of ammonia, a thick, retch-inducing taste in her mouth. She hopped over it, slipping on the edge of the spill and sliding down, banging hard against the bottom of the staircase. She half-turned to look up, fumbling with the other tube. Moncorvo appeared behind her, smelt the ammonia and hesitated. She grinned and raised the second test tube. As Moncorvo’s eyes widened, she hurled it at the pool of shattered glass and ammonia, and dived for cover.

There was a hiss, and a roar that she could feel in her stomach. Dust and smoke exploded out of the doorway behind her, spitting across the floor. She leapt to her feet, high on adrenaline, and practically danced on the spot. Then a hand closed on the back of her head.

 

Thomas saw the Tseiqin grab Tess, and didn’t think twice. He ran towards the man, wildly swinging the wooden cross. But Tate got there first, leaping up to snap at the creature, death in his generally lethargic eyes, ears flapping. The Tseiqin howled as Tate’s teeth closed, and Tess wormed out from under his grip. Thomas swung the cross once, swung it again, saw the man stagger back, surprise in his eyes, and then Tess grabbed hold of Thomas and pulled him down, as a sword sailed through the place where, a second before, his head had been. She dragged him towards a dark stairway leading downwards and hissed, ‘Come
on
!’

They barrelled down the stairs into the gloom and relative quietness of the crypt, dully lit by candles. Tess collapsed behind a giant tomb and stared silently at nothing.

Thomas slumped down next to her, cross falling from his hand. In the silence, they could hear the sounds of fighting and the screams of the injured above. Finally Thomas said, ‘Tess?’

‘Yes?’

‘Your hands are shaking.’

‘So are yours.’

‘I’ve never been
. . .
I mean, I’ve never
. . .
’

‘Me neither.’ Tess frowned. ‘Mister Lyle.’

‘What?’

She stood up slowly, unevenly, leaning against the side of the stone. She looked at the one test tube in her hand. ‘We ought to see if Mister Lyle’s all right.’

Thomas swallowed, but nodded quickly. ‘Right. Let’s
. . .
’ He hesitated.

‘Give ’em hell?’ hazarded Tess.

He thought about it. ‘Yes. Yes! That sounds about right!’

She tightened her grip on the test tube. He seized the wooden cross again. They took deep breaths, and charged back up the stairs.

 

And Lyle reached the foot of the scaffolding, slipping the Plate into his jacket pocket, and looked up towards the towering shape of the dome. He thought,
Well, this is it. I wish I
wasn’t
scared of heights.

He reached out for the nearest ladder. A hand closed on his hair and dragged him back. He stared into the grinning face of Mr Dew, who hissed, ‘Horatio Lyle.’

Instinct took over. He kicked backwards, hitting Dew in the shin, while grabbing the wrist behind his head and turning, dragging Dew towards him as he went. Dew staggered a little, his grip slackening, and Lyle darted away, swinging himself on to the ladder and hauling himself up. Dew grabbed at his ankle, but he kicked free and swung up on to the first level of scaffolding. Dew was already on the ladder. Lyle aimed a kick at it, sending it spinning backwards, but it caught the frame of the scaffolding and didn’t fall. Dew climbed it, though it leant out backwards above a drop, swinging himself over one of the poles of the scaffolding, and up.

Lyle was already running for the next ladder, the planks thundering underfoot. He grabbed the second ladder, and was halfway up as Dew pulled at it from beneath. The ladder lurched, nearly throwing him off. He swung round precariously, until he was hanging by a hand and a foot off the wrong side of the ladder, and saw Dew just below. His grip weakened and he fell. Out near the Palace of Westminster, lightning tore through the heavens and struck; thunder shook the planks so that they hummed.

Lyle’s fall took him straight past the planks below, and he caught by sheer chance one of the supporting poles, dangling with his feet a few inches above the first layer. Dew appeared overhead and, as he knelt to reach for the Plate slipping out of Lyle’s pocket, Lyle let go of the scaffolding and dropped the last few feet back down to the first level. He landed heavily, picked himself up and turned to flee. He could hear Dew running above him, could see the planks shake. He reached a ladder and looked up into Dew’s grinning face, dragged at the ladder, making it lash back towards Dew, who sprang away from it almost too fast to see. Lyle turned and ran the other way, saw a bundle of sandbags lying attached to a rope pulley, heavy with water as well as sand. He hesitated, then ducked as one of the planks shattered above him, Dew’s foot sticking through it, sending slivers and shards crashing down. Dew’s face appeared again in the hole, grimacing at him. ‘Where are you going, Mister Lyle?’