Roil (14 page)

Buchan and Whig. Two men of one mind. Stade had banished them from Chapman early September, almost two months before the Festival of Float. Two men, one swift mind. Slaughter not exile would surely have been the result, had not the pair been so quick in their flight. Not a single sitting member of their party was assassinated.

Mirrlees
’
Confluent party would have done well to learn from them. But they did not, and blood stained the streets red.

Three columns of black smoke drifted on the edge of the eastern horizon, there was no wind and so they had grown much larger than they might otherwise have. The sight disturbed David, more than he would care to admit, there was something ominous about the smoke as though the Roil had detached itself and flowered where it did not yet belong.

He pointed them out to Cadell. The Old Man’s face greyed.

“Yes, I see them. In truth, I’ve been ignoring them. They are the mute ruin of peoples’ lives, rising up like a cruel ghost. I hope some people managed to escape.” He shook his head, as though he thought it unlikely, and turned his gaze once more in the direction they were headed and mumbled, half to himself. “The world just keeps getting worse. But then that has been the case for a long time now. The question is, did Chapman hold out?”

After seeing those silent columns of smoke, a taciturn gloom settled on them that nothing was able to break. David was almost happy when darkness descended obliterating the sight. Until a hot storm came with it and their clothes were again soaked to the bone.

However, as the rain came in and the night, Cadell’s mood changed. He became nervy, not exactly afraid, but close to it.

The thought of something that could rattle Cadell was enough to worry David. Quarg Hounds and Roilings had been dealt with almost without blinking and yet their approach to Uhlton was being met with such trepidation.

“We’re getting close,” Cadell said, his first words in hours, and fell into a kind of disturbed silence broken by interludes of nervy mumbling that kept David on edge.

Which was, perhaps, why David saw Uhlton first – well, the few specks of light that betrayed its existence in the rainy murk of evening. He thought of the sleepy village he had seen in maps (and with the powder), built above the river. A place far from politics and Vergers, somewhere he might manage to score some Carnival – if he could just slip away.

“I can see it,” he shouted, hoping to lift Cadell’s spirits, and because he was genuinely excited. “There, to the south west, the town of Uhlton.”

“Good,” Cadell said. “How very clever of you. We’ll be there soon”

“And where in Uhlton is
there
?” David asked.

“Never you mind,” Cadell mumbled. “Got to keep some mystery in your life.”

Uhlton was not as David imagined. Built on a ridge above the swollen lake, it was a cramped and crowded village, and anything but sleepy. Steamers docked and undocked at a long quay, men shouted and swung thick ropes around bollards as they guided their pilots with hand signals and curses, working busily even at this late hour. The river seemed almost as busy as Mirrlees itself.

The roads leading to the town were in poor repair. The River Weep sustained this township as it did Mirrlees and Chapman. Around Uhlton, besides a few tilled fields, the land was bare or forested, without the river the town would die.

As they approached, someone released a flare into the sky; blue flame illumined the sky like a third moon. Cadell slumped down on a large pale stone, marking the edge of the town. Dim double shadows stretched behind him. He let out a long, resigned breath and rested his chin on his hands.

“They’ve seen us now,” he said. “There’s little reason to go on. They will come and get us, and I am too weary. We will wait here.”

A second flare rocketed skywards. From the township rolled a horse-drawn carriage, its driver tall, lamps dangled from its corners.

Back the way they had come lightning scarred a black and starless sky and the northern horizon rumbled and boomed. Though they were scarcely more than a hundred miles from Mirrlees it was as though they stood in another land entirely.

The carriage came to a halt beside them and the driver cracked his whip in the air – the horses didn’t blink, he obviously did this a lot. “State your business in Uhlton,” he said curtly, swinging the whip in lazy circles around his head.

“I have an appointment with the Mayor and his second in command,” Cadell said.

The driver laughed, and there was threat implicit in that sound as much as any cracking whip. “Mayor? None go by that name here, kind sir.”

Cadell grinned, an equally threatening grin. “Don’t be so disingenuous; you know who I need to speak to. And you’d best hurry, I am hungry.” Cadell flashed his teeth. “I must talk to Buchan and Whig. Unless of course, they have passed away or been driven out.” Cadell sounded almost hopeful.

The driver’s eyes narrowed, and he peered at them through the gloom, one hand lifting a lamp to better aid his scrutiny. David’s eyes watered in all that light.

“They’re here,” the driver said, clearing his throat significantly. “But not for much longer.” Then he whistled, his eyes widening then narrowing, expressions so bordering on caricature David couldn’t tell if he was serious or taking the piss. “Oh, I know of you, you’re that Engineer, the one with the cruel sense of humour and the taste for Vergers. We’ve a portrait of you on our dartboard. Buchan would speak to you, yes indeed.”

Cadell looked up at the driver, irritation passing across the Old Man’s face like a storm, he stood taller and taller, and the driver seemed to shrink.

“We are tired,” Cadell said sounding at once tired yet energetic enough to possibly rip off a certain driver’s face. “Very tired. Take us to the village or strike us with that ridiculous whip, just do something! I’ve no patience for this.”

The driver nodded at the door to the carriage. “Get in,” he said quietly.

David and Cadell clambered inside. The cabin was musty, though the seats were clean. David could not understand what had just gone on, he looked to Cadell for explanation and Cadell stared back at him stonily. “Our greeting here may be less than civil, but then it is my fault.” His voice softened as though to reduce the blow of the words that followed. “People have invested rather a lot in me, and I have yet to deliver.”

David could understand that bitterness. He possessed a fair share of it towards Cadell, himself. However, perhaps he shouldn’t have nodded so readily in agreement.

Cadell glared at him, but it lacked even the pretence of self-righteousness. “David, there are some things over which I have little control. Certain liberties wrested from me in ages past. Makes me grumpy. Makes me dangerous. I am not one whom most people would be comfortable knowing, and I don’t blame them. I gather hatred like a coat gathers dust.”

The carriage bounced into the town, David always watching with an addict’s hunger, seeking out places he might score Carnival. The pub, a back street. He cast his gaze about the people at work, dismantling the town in most cases it seemed, looking for the tell-tale signatures of Carnival addicts. The slightly jerky walk, the dull smile.

In catching its suggestion (here, a man wandering aimlessly down Main Street. There a fellow pausing languidly between swings of an axe) he felt at once excited and disgusted with himself. He knew that Cadell had been deliberately lowering the amount given. A week or two at that rate, and he might not need any of the drug at all. The thought terrified him.

The carriage stopped at the front door of what David took to be the town hall. He’d seen his fair share, dragged to this outlying township or that with his father.

Cadell got out, doffed his hat at the driver and walked over to the door. David followed.

Cadell raised a fist to knock but before he struck wood, the door swung open. Framed in the doorway was a man seven feet tall at least. He reached down and shook Cadell’s hand, enclosing it completely in his grip as he did so.

“Cadell!” He cried. “It is so good to see you. It has been far too long.”

Cadell nodded. “Far too long indeed,” he said absently. “Is he in?”

“We were wondering if you might come a calling after what happened with the
Dolorous Grey
. Trouble does follow you, sir.” He turned to David and shook his hand warmly. “And you must be Mr Penn, it’s an honour, sir. I’ve heard so much about you, your father was so proud. Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I am Mr Eregin Whig.”

“
The
Mr Whig?”

Mr Whig blushed, a truly remarkable glow because his face was so pale. “If by that you mean, once deputy Mayor of Chapman, yes. Now I am just an exile.”

Cadell coughed. “Enough of this, how about we get out of the rain.”

Mr Whig nodded and let David in. “You’re quite lucky to have caught us. We are leaving Uhlton, to areas even more remote. The day after tomorrow we’re heading to Hardacre. The call has been put out, and we are going. Yes, Mr Buchan will be most anxious to see you.”

David wasn’t surprised to hear that name. It was only logical that the exiled Mayor of Chapman would have been here too.

Cadell seemed almost nervous, he rubbed his fingers together before bringing them up to his face as though he was trying to hide behind their span.

“No doubt he is,” Cadell said and followed, looking more anxious than David had ever seen him.

What did an Old Man have to fear?

Even before the Dissolution, Stade had begun to reveal the extent of his power. Until the Grand Defeat none of the allied metropolises had exerted much influence over the others, but then Mcmahon was gone, its population scattered. Within eight years Stade had not only managed to stack Chapman
’
s council with his own men, but also exile perhaps the most successful mayoral team in history.

Once again though, so singular was Stade
’
s purpose that he did not finish the job, creating only another strong alliance with the city of Hardacre. Stade did not seem to care as long as his Project went ahead. When it was completed there would be no opponents, his rule and his people would be unassailable.

That was the plan at any rate.

The light came on a couple of hours after she had reached the other side of the gorge and started the ascent into the low dark mountains, a red light in the centre of the console, and fear touched her for the first time since the bridge. Fear and an awful resignation. The journey had taken its toll on the carriage, the
Melody Amiss
was running too hot. These vehicles were not meant to be driven over such a long distance. Its engines, designed both to drive the carriage and cool it, were susceptible to overheating.

If she did not shut the carriage down soon and for a decent interval of time, the heat from the engines could set the coolants aflame, turning the carriage from vehicle to bomb.

She double-checked her vehicle’s readings and realized that the
Melody
’
s
starter motor was running on a very low charge. If she stopped now she might never start again.

Margaret slowed the carriage down, hoping that would prove enough, but the light stayed red and the
Melody
’
s
engine lost its smooth rhythm, bonnets juddered within their casings.

Beyond these low mountains was a long plain at the end of which should be Chapman. She had maybe a hundred miles to go. A few hours driving, if the carriage could make it. There was no chance of that happening if the engine overheated. Margaret could no more imagine walking that distance than she could hitching a ride with an Endym. If the
Melody
failed she would die out here in the dark.

She brought the car to a halt, and carefully ran the engine down.

The light stayed on. Margaret switched off the cooling units and charged up her suit, just in case.

Something flew overhead, and Margaret trained her guns on it. An Endym, it saw the carriage and circled above her three times, before turning back the way it had come.

That message played through her mind again.

They
’
ll be coming for you. She
’
ll be wanting you. Trust no one.

Staying here was a bad idea, but she had no other choice. Margaret could hardly get out and walk to Chapman.

She considered trying to sleep, but her mind kept returning to that pale face, the fingers scratching against the glass. And her body ached.

Margaret was beginning to develop sores from the constant pressure of the suit against her flesh. These things were not designed for more than a few hours use. No one expected someone to survive that long within the Roil.

She’d kept the charge fed from the
Melody
and kept her body cold. She’d thought herself impervious to the chill and found she was anything but.

A few more days and the wounds would grow gangrenous. She would sicken and die. Killed by the thing designed to save her.

She couldn’t think on it. Nor could she bring herself to look at the sores.

So she picked up her father’s journal and opened it. His familiar, almost too neat, handwriting comforted and stung her at the same time. Here was her father, frozen in the past, describing thoughts and moments drifting further away from her with every heartbeat.

It was all history now. No living city, just dead words, but it was all she had.

The bulk of the notebook was filled with his usual musings. Statistical data concerning the city, and heat to ice ratios, but towards the back, starting a few days before they had driven off to test the I-Bomb, it took on more of the form of a diary.