Storm Thief (19 page)

“Granpapa!” Ephemera squealed. “Come quick!”

“All right, all right, child,” Cretch muttered as he shuffled in from the other room. “What are you shouting about now?”

“It's Vago!” she said. “Look! Vago's on the panopticon!”

She turned the periscope-like viewer of the panopticon towards her grandfather, who put black-goggled eyes to the screen. He fiddled with the focus knob until it suited his failing vision, and there he saw an artist's rendition of his former assistant, a sepia-coloured sketch of the golem. Beneath it, words appeared and faded. They were too small for him to read easily.

“He's wanted by the Protectorate!” Ephemera announced gleefully. “They say he's very dangerous and we shouldn't approach him. And you're supposed to take your goggles off when you look at that thing.”

Cretch ignored her. The picture switched to something else, a news item about the Protectorate unearthing a band of terrorists in one of the nearby ghettoes. He sighed and sat down in his red armchair. He was tired and weary. He always was, these days.

“I knew he was bad!” Ephemera said. “I told you!”

“Yes, you told me,” he said.

“I told you, I told you!” she began singing, dancing round the room. “I told you, I—”

She pulled up short and the song died in her throat. Standing in the doorway, as if the panopticon sketch had come to life, was Vago. Silence fell.

“How did you get in without being seen?” Cretch asked after a time.

“Climbed the tower. Through the window.”

“I knew you'd come back in the end. There's no place for you in this city. You were always safer here.”

Vago turned his face from Cretch to Ephemera, who cringed from him. He looked around the room. It was warm in here, despite the chill of the night. The furniture was a little battered and dusty, but it was real furniture, not just bare wooden chairs and makeshift tables. Cretch and Ephemera looked plumper than before, their cheeks fuller; but Vago knew it was just a contrast to the people he had got used to, who were lean and hungry and spent their lives under the threat of starvation.

Suddenly, he saw quite clearly how savage the divide was between the wealthy and the ghetto folk. People like Cretch took decent water, food and warmth – the simple necessities – for granted. For the folk of Kilatas, for the men and women and children in the ghettoes, for Rail and Moa, it was a struggle just to raise themselves up to this most basic standard of living. And the Protectorate made absolutely sure, by branding the ghetto folk and keeping them penned in their special areas, that the poor stayed poor.

“It's safer here,” he growled. “But it's no better.”

Cretch levered himself up from his chair. Ephemera ran to him and hugged herself to his legs, wide-eyed with fright.

“Are you here to kill us?” Cretch asked. “I'm an old man. I'm not afraid. But I won't let you hurt her.” He put a thin, veined hand over his granddaughter's head.

“I'm not here to hurt you,” Vago said.

“Then you've come looking for your maker?”

“Yes.”

“Well then,” Cretch said. “Come with me.”

 

The chamber at the top of Cretch's tower was much as Vago remembered it. There was his little corner by the window, among the brass pipes and ticking cogs. There was the painting, leaning against the wall, which he used to talk to. The painting had a drape over it again, as it had when he first found it. Someone had covered it up.

“I'm sorry I beat you, you know,” Cretch went on. “I'm sorry I did that. It's just . . . you reminded me of her. That's why I took you in. A probability storm stole her away, and a probability storm gave me you. Like a sick joke. It took away my beautiful granddaughter and gave me another child in its place, a child of metal and dry flesh. I beat you sometimes because you . . . made me think of what I lost. Of her.”

“Your granddaughter? Ephemera?”

Cretch shook his head sadly. “Her name was Evanesca. But I've heard the rumours. Even an old man like me has heard the rumours.” He looked at Vago with his expressionless black eyes. “Now she's known as Lelek.”

Vago moved over to the painting, and reached for the drape.

“Please don't,” Cretch said. “I saw her, in that painting, days after it happened. She just . . .
vanished
. The Storm Thief took her. And then I saw her in that painting. It was horrible. Like a nightmare, like a ghost.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between his goggles, as if to stifle the pain of the memory. “I had to hide it from Ephemera. She was too young to understand then. It was just after her parents had died. She doesn't even remember she had a sister. . .” He swallowed; his throat was dry. “I threw out every picture in the tower, but I couldn't throw out that one. In case . . . in case there was a piece of my granddaughter in there. So I put it up here. I hid it.”

And Vago understood now why he had seen the girl more often than anybody else had, why she had followed him to Kilatas. This was her home. And during the lonely days and nights that he had talked to her, they had become friends, of a kind.

Vago pulled the drape clear. Cretch averted his eyes.

“You're her grandfather,” he said. “Look at her.”

And there she was, leaning against the railing of the canal, her white hair falling about her shoulders, waving out of the picture at them.

As if drawn against his will, Cretch slowly looked. His face tightened, then became soft again.

“She looks happy,” he said. “Don't you think . . . she looks happy?”

“Sometimes she's happy,” said Vago. “Sometimes she's sad. But she's still here.”

Cretch was unable to take his eyes from the picture of his granddaughter. “You seem older, Vago. Not as young as you once were,” he said absently.

“It's hard to feel like a child when you see what the world has become,” Vago replied.

“That's why we shelter our children as best we can,” Cretch replied. “The contentment of ignorance is all too brief.” He was still staring at the picture. His face scrunched up suddenly, and tears leaked from the edges of his goggles. “Oh, my Evanesca . . .” he muttered. “Forgive me.”

But the girl in the painting was still.

After a time, Vago flexed his wings awkwardly. “You said once that you had suspicions about my maker,” he prompted.

“Ah yes,” Cretch said. “Well, it's quite simple. When I first found you I was fascinated by the machinery that is integrated into your flesh. Much of it was Fade-Science. But some of it was made after the Fade, and if you look closely you can see the maker's mark on the components.”

“The maker's mark?”

“It's a tiny engraving to let you know who manufactured it. Like an artist signing their paintings.”

“Where did I come from, Cretch?” Vago asked.

“You came from the Null Spire,” said Lysander Bane, stepping into view from behind a row of pipes with a thumper gun trained on the golem. “The Protectorate built you.
We
built you.”

Vago tensed instinctively, dropping into a crouch. But there was nowhere to run here. It was too tight. The only way out was through the window, but he wouldn't make it. He might have tried anyway, but there was something about this man, something. . .

Vago
recognized
him. He felt like he knew Bane, but he couldn't remember why. The face he had seen peering into the tank in his earliest memories? No, not him. That was Tukor Kep. Then how did Vago know this man?

“It's time to stop running,” Bane said. “There are more of us on the stairs. You can't get away from the Secret Police. Come back with us. Come home.”

Vago glared at Cretch, who was backing away. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled. “I'm sorry.”

“What do you want with me?” Vago snarled. “I'm just trying to find my maker. I'm trying to find Tukor Kep.”

Bane looked surprised, and then he burst out laughing. “Oh, no, it seems you don't understand at all.” He sobered and grinned. “You
are
Tukor Kep.”

Kittiwake's summons wasn't so much a request as an order. Rail got the impression that she wasn't going to be in the greatest of moods. He was right.

The activity in the shipyard was at fever pitch. The people of Kilatas raced to finish the last ships in time for the great exodus. Every ship floating meant that the people of the town had more crafts to spread themselves across. That gave everyone a better chance of survival when they took on the Skimmers. The prospect of the approaching deadline had put new strength in tired bodies. They were finally going to do what they had come here to do.

Whether it would work or not was, as Kittiwake had said, a matter of belief.

Rail and Moa were shown into her shack amid a frenzy of clanging and hammering. It was dark outside, but torches burned everywhere. The great holes in the western wall had been covered over by blackout sheets so that no light could be seen from the sea. The shipwrights would work through the night. Rail despaired of getting any sleep with that din going on.

Kittiwake didn't even bother with greeting them as they came in. She had her back to them, looking at the painting on the wall.

“Do you know what you've done?” she said quietly. Moa cringed at the suppressed anger in her voice. “Do you know how many lives you put in danger by bringing that golem here?”

The shack was eerie by candlelight. Shifting shadows lurked in the hollows of their faces and in the corners of the room. They had searched every inch of Kilatas, but he was nowhere to be found. Somehow, he had got out.

“He's not an enemy!” Moa said. “He wouldn't do anything to—”

“How do you know that?” Kittiwake snapped, focusing her wrath. “What do you know about him? This
thing
that you brought into my town? Do you know how careful we are about who we allow to know about this place? Freck, if it wasn't for the fact that he brought you back to us then we wouldn't have let him in at all. And I'll have words with Whimbrel next time I see him. The fool, letting something like
that
in here!”

“Don't take this out on her!” Rail said. “
You
let him escape. And you were happy enough when we brought you the bird, weren't you? I notice you haven't been shy about using that to inspire your little followers out there. We couldn't have brought you that without bringing you the golem too. How were we to know what he'd do?”

That stung her. She had indeed made a speech the day before, telling Kilatas about how they had found another bird from a foreign land: a good omen for their departure.

Moa was on the verge of tears, but Rail wasn't intimidated. He met Kittiwake's gaze steadily. “You can throw around blame all you want,” he said. “Doesn't change anything. What exactly did you bring us here for? So you can shout at us?”

Kittiwake cooled a little. She stalked to the other side of the room, unloosed her white hair from the ponytail and tied it up again, tighter than before.

“The painting. Look at the painting.”

So they did, turning their gaze to the painting, the street scene in which they had seen the mysterious girl Lelek several days before. She was there again, but now she was standing in the foreground, frantically pointing at something. There, behind the rows of houses and just on the edge of the picture, was a thin black tower. The Null Spire.

“What does it . . . what does it mean?” Moa asked.

“What do you think?” Kittiwake said, disgust in her voice. “She's telling us where Vago's going. Or where he's already gone.”

“He's not a spy!” Moa protested. “He's not!”

“You listen to me,” Kittiwake said, her voice threatening. “In less than five days we are going to sail. I have been planning for this moment most of my life. Those people out there are my responsibility. I will
not
have this destroyed. Not now. If the Protectorate come down on Kilatas as a result of what you've done, we're going to sail anyway, even if we have to go through a fleet of Dreadnoughts to do it. If we don't sail at exactly the right time, there will be more Skimmers than we planned for, and more boats will sink. Every death will be on your heads.”

She turned away, looking out of the grimy window to the shipyards. “I brought you here to tell you this: I want you to find that golem. I want you to make certain he tells nobody about Kilatas. If he
has
told anyone, I want you to let me know. It might be the only chance we have.” She closed her eyes regretfully. “You have to make up for your mistakes. That's the way things work in Kilatas. Maybe it's too late already, but you're going to try. You have until we sail.” She looked over her shoulder at Moa. “Or you don't come with us at all.”

“No!” Moa gasped. “No, you have to let us come with you!”

Rail said nothing, his head dipped in thought and his face hidden by his dreadlocks. The candlelight made an arc along the black edge of his respirator muzzle.

“I suspect that would suit you anyway, wouldn't it, Rail?” Kittiwake said.

Moa glared at him accusingly.

He raised his head. “You know what I think. Both of you do. I wouldn't sail with you if you paid me.” There was a silence, during which he felt the heat of Moa's sense of betrayal. He knew she still expected to persuade him, but he was adamant. He wasn't going.

“He's just angry!” Moa cried. “You treated him like a prisoner. Of course he wanted to escape! You'd have done the same.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You say you're all about freedom, but look at you! You excluded him the same way the Protectorate excluded us. It just keeps going. We always need someone to pick on, someone we can feel better than. But you're no better than anyone else!”

Kittiwake shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Just find that golem. If he betrays us, Moa, I'll leave you here to rot with the rest of them.” She gave a snort. “Now get out of my sight. The guards will show you back up to the surface.”

Moa had begun to sob. Between Kittiwake's harsh words and Rail letting her down, she was crushed. Even she had started to believe that she might have brought a Protectorate spy into their midst. “But how are we even supposed to catch him up now? How are we supposed to find him inside the Null Spire?”

She didn't ask how they were supposed to get
in
to the Null Spire. That would be the easy part. They had the artefact for that.

“It's your problem,” said Kittiwake. “I suggest you get on with solving it.”

Moa turned to Rail, and in her eyes was a question. He felt something twist painfully deep within him. She was pleading. She was begging him to help her, because she couldn't do it alone.

Rail wanted to leave Kilatas behind, to forget about Vago. He wanted Moa to be safe, and he wanted her to stay with him. Together they could use the artefact to make their fortunes.

But that wasn't what she wanted. She would risk anything to get to Vago, to win back the opportunity to sail with Kittiwake. Even though Rail thought it was suicide, even though the chances were slim to none, she would try, even if it meant breaking into the Null Spire itself.

There was a long silence. If Rail helped her, then she would end up sailing with Kittiwake. Even if she wasn't killed on the boats, she would still be gone for ever. If he didn't help her, then she would go to the Null Spire in any event.

If only there were some way, he thought. Some way to make her change her mind and stay. But she had gone past that point now. There was no turning back for her. She believed that she could really escape this place, and if she didn't sail then that dream would be turned to dust and she would be left shattered.

In the end, there was no choice for him. He couldn't bear her tears, and he couldn't ever say no to her. This was what she wanted. She wanted it enough to stand up to him about it, when everything else she let him decide. She wanted it that much.

“We're wasting time,” he said. “Let's go get him.”