The Frost Child (27 page)

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closer. She remembered how Owen and Cati and Dr. Diamond had arrived in the City, and how they had helped her secure the ransom for her brother, Graham, who'd been imprisoned by the Specials.

She tried to push away the thought that her friends might in fact believe that she was a traitor. She went to the barred window in the door.

"Shem?" she whispered. Shem was a young guard, not much older than Rosie. Most of Samual's men were stern, but Shem was different. He would slip her extra morsels of food, even though he didn't have enough for himself. And sometimes he would talk to her through the bars, even though everyone said that she had betrayed the Resisters.

"You'll have long enough without talking," he said once, and then blushed, realizing that he shouldnt have reminded her of what was in front of her. Instead of telling him off, she reached through the bars and touched his shoulder.

"Shem!" she whispered again.

"What is it, Rosie?" he replied. He was a tall young man with black curly hair, quick and alert in a way that reminded Rosie of the young people of Hadima.

"How long is left?" she asked.

"About an hour," he said. He looked both sad and frightened.

"Don't worry," she said. "Something will turn up."

"Something has turned up." Rosie heard a harsh voice. Moorhead. At a signal from her, four of the troops with

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her stepped forward. One of them opened the lock-- which was on the outside and too far away for Rosie to have picked. The other three seized her. Shem stepped forward and grabbed her arm. Rosie was grateful. She knew he didn't want her to be alone.

"She has another hour," Shem protested.

"It's been brought forward--new orders," Moorhead said. Rosie was lifted from her feet and swiftly marched through the guardrooms of Samual's soldiers.

"Where is everyone?" Shem whispered to one of the soldiers.

"General alert," he growled. "Harsh is up to something."

Then they were in a corridor that Shem had never been in before. It led upward in a spiral. The walls dripped with condensation and the tramp of the soldiers' boots echoed on the stones. Rosie's mind worked feverishly. She had gotten out of many tough scrapes before, but this time she had no more ideas.

The soldiers stopped in front of an ancient wooden door. Moorhead opened it with a heavy key and it swung open with a groan. Inside was a small room with no windows. And in the middle of the room was a chair. There were metal bands on the chair and heavy cables ran from the bands to a large square iron box that took up almost one side of the room.

"What is it?" Rosie whispered to Shem.

"It's written on the side."

"I can't read, you twit," Rosie said.

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"'Magno Generator,'" Shem read. Rosie stared at him.

"That's not for putting people to sleep," she said. Then two of the soldiers grabbed her.

"Shem, they're going to fry me!" she cried. But one of the soldiers forced a gag into her mouth, and the other men began to attach her to the chair using the metal bands.

"Something isn't right," Shem said. "There should be people here--Pieta, Dr. Diamond, Contessa. The law doesn't allow this ... and that machine isn't for putting people to sleep. Rosie's right. You don't need magno for that."

"Shut up, boy," Moorhead snarled. One soldier looked uncertain, but the others put their hands to their magno guns. Shem stepped in front of Rosie.

"You'll have to go through me first."

"If necessary," Moorhead said. "Men!"

The soldiers started to advance on Shem. In desperation he grabbed one of the heavy lead-and-iron bands from the chair and snapped it around Moorhead's wrist. Then he ran to the machine and grasped the large brass lever protruding from the front.

"You think you can shoot me before I pull the lever and give Lieutenant Moorhead more magno than she can handle?" Rosie was struggling violently, but he ignored her.

"Put down the guns," he said as Rosie finally spat out her gag.

"You moron," she roared. "Shem! Look!" The other

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cable was firmly attached to Rosie's leg. If he pulled the lever, then Rosie would get the same blast of magno.

"When I get out of this ...," Moorhead hissed.

"When you get out of this you will have me to answer to," an angry voice spoke out from the doorway. Rosie looked up. Samual. Behind him were Cati, Dr. Diamond, and Wesley.

"She's a traitor!" Moorhead cried. "Shoot her!" But the soldiers looked nervously at each other and did not move.

"There is only one traitor here, and that is you," Samual spat.

Cati slipped unheeded into the room.

"Rosie, do you remember the rose you were wearing when you first arrived at the Workhouse?" Dr. Diamond asked.

Rosie nodded. "Moorhead took it off me."

"Look," Dr. Diamond said. He produced the red rose from one of his pockets. He did something to the stem, then shook it. The rose began to unfurl, the petals opening out as if it were blooming into a flower of extraordinary size. But it wasn't a flower--it was a square of very fine red steel mesh with the stem running through the center.

"A transmitter," Samual said grimly. "Johnston used the Hadima girl to smuggle it in to Moorhead."

"And I bet if we look in Moorhead's room we'll find a receiver," Cati said.

Moorhead's plump face turned into a snarling mask.

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She sprang at Rosie, her fingers like talons. Cati yanked the cable from Rosie's ankle and they leapt aside. Instead of Rosie's neck, Moorhead's grasping fingers found the lever of the magno generator. The others stood dumbfounded as Moorhead's despairing screech filled the room. There was a crackle and a gout of blue flame. Rosie turned her face away as Cati choked back a sob. Wesley looked pale. The soldiers were frozen but Samual's habitual grim expression did not change. The doctor was the only one to move, taking off his lab coat and spreading it over the prostrate Moorhead.

"A traitor," Samual said, "and she dies a traitor's death. But why?"

"I imagine," Dr. Diamond said mildly, "she was promised your job. After your death, of course."

Samual eyed the doctor. "And what about this Hadima street rat?" he growled. "What was she promised to betray us? She did steal the ring and plant it, and open the door to the Albions, did she not?"

"She did."

"Rosie!" Cati looked at her in dismay. Before anyone else had a chance to move, Dr. Diamond grabbed a sword from one of the guards with his good arm, and, spinning across the room, swung the sword at Rosie. Rosie leapt backward and reached into her hair for a hairpin. For a moment the Hadima girl and the scientist faced each other, poised for combat. Then Dr. Diamond put the sword up.

"Why did you reach for that hairpin, Rosie?" he said

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gently. "This one is closer." He leaned over her and touched the tip of the pin at the front of her head.

"I ... I don't know," she said.

"Take it out now."

Rosie took hold of the pin. But no matter how much she pulled, it would not budge.

"That's why you won't find any receiver in Moorhead's room," the doctor said. "Rosie
is the
receiver."

He took a small, odd-looking hammer from his pocket and put the twisted claw end around the pin. "Stay still, my dear. This won't hurt." He levered it against Rosie's forehead and pulled carefully. There was a creaking sound and the pin slowly slid out. Rosie looked at him in amazement.

"The music ... in my head. It's gone!"

"What is it?" Wesley said, staring at the pin.

"A fugueometer," Dr. Diamond said. "Johnston could control your thoughts, or at least block some of them." Without warning, Dr. Diamond plunged the hairpin in the back of his neck. Cati gasped. But the doctor merely looked thoughtful. Then he started to hum a melody.

"Is that the music?" Wesley drew close.

"Yes!"

"Bach," the scientist said. "In very good taste, I have to say. Yes, I can feel Johnston's thoughts ... he's reaching out to you ... Ouch! Did that pain come with it as well?"

"Every time," Rosie said.

"Then you're braver than me." The doctor reached

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for the hammer and swiftly levered the pin out of his neck, apparently without ill effects.

"Johnston captured me when I first arrived," Rosie said slowly. "I remember now!"

"He knew you were coming, probably from the Albions. He must have knocked you out long enough to insert the device--pretty easy to do, as you see. When Johnston wanted her to do something, he transmitted a signal. Equally, when he wanted to get an instruction to Moorhead, he sent it to Rosie."

"It was old Moorhead she was talking to through the ventilation shaft," Wesley said.

"Yes. And Johnston couldn't risk his signals not penetrating the Workhouse walls, so he needed the rose transmitter on the roof."

Rosie looked at the pin in wonder.

"Do you remember him talking to you?" Wesley said, staring at the pin in mingled wonder and disgust.

"No ... no ... just ... just foul dreams. I don't want to talk about them."

"Your mind fought it," the doctor said. "You pulled at your hair a lot--you knew there was something wrong with your head, you just didn't know what. When you unlocked the door for the Albions, you must have been pulling at it so hard, you dropped another pin on the ground. Unconsciously, you gave yourself away."

"We only just got here in time," Cati said. "Dr. Diamond thought Moorhead might be listening through the shafts, so he pretended he knew who the traitor was to flush her out."

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"So that's why she tried to get rid of the Hadima girl," Samual said.

"Without Rosie, there was no evidence," the doctor said.

"I don't have time for more of this." Samual glared at Rosie. "Count yourself lucky in your friends, girl!"

"I do," Rosie said quietly. "I do feel lucky in my friends."

Before anyone could reply there was a roar of engines outside. Dr. Diamond went to the window.

"More trouble," he said. Samual joined him, cursed, then ran for the door, followed by his men. The others followed. Only Cati paused to look down at the crumpled form of Moorhead under the lab coat. She had been a Resister too, fighting the enemies of time until corrupted by Johnston. Cati knelt and placed her hand for a moment on the woman's shoulder under the coat, then rose and followed the others.

The friends gathered on the battlements. The enemy encampment stood between them and the sea, but this time there was more than tents.

"What are they?" Cati said, in fear and awe.

"Q-cars," a hard, sad voice said from behind them. Cati turned to see Pieta, flanked by Aldra and Beck, her arm in a sling across her breast.

"I don't like the look of 'em," Wesley murmured. The Q-cars were pods, almost like aircraft fuselages, slung under four huge, thin bicycle-like wheels. Owen had

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been abducted by Johnston in one, and Pieta had rescued him. But these were different. Johnston's Q-car had not been armed. These bristled with gun barrels and weapons of every description, and there were dozens of them. They were manned by villainous-looking Specials.

And on the ground there was worse. The Harsh had equipped the Albions with bulbous dark glasses to protect their eyes from the light, and they were wearing dark suits to shield their skin. They looked like vicious insects milling around under the wheels of the Q-cars. In the distance near the harbor rose a cloud of white ice. There was to be no waiting for the Workhouse to be starved into submission. The Harsh were on the march.

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Chapter 27

All night they had battled against storms and squalls. The
Wayfarer
shouldered aside the seas of time gallantly. Owen sat at the stern without speaking, lost in thought. Silkie made food, tended to the
Wayfarer's
rigging, and slept fitfully. When she awoke and came out on deck, Owen was sitting in the same position.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"I'm trying to remember a story," he said. He wouldn't say any more. She started to work around him, tightening sheets, tidying the decks, straightening out kinks in the ropes, doing all the little things that the craft needed to keep it sailing well. Gradually Owen became aware of her, first a sweet perfume with a hint of wood smoke that he had never noticed before, then her hair brushing against his cheek. She knelt to the deck to fasten a cleat and when she rose he found himself looking deep into her clear green eyes, which were flecked

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with gold in their depths. She smiled but said nothing, and kept on working around him. When she had finished she went and sat in the bow, and Owen realized that he would miss being on board the
Wayfarer
with her.

At last, as dawn broke in green and amber sheets of light, Owen stood up. He examined the Mortmain and adjusted their course.

"Nearly home. Get ready to drop the sail," he said. Silkie stood by, ready to act.

"Now!" he said. The shimmering sail dropped and they were in the clouds, the bitter cold burning their lungs. Through the cloud rushing past he caught glimpses of the scene below: The fleet of Q-cars poised to attack. The host of the Harsh moving inland from the ships, and the lone standard of the Workhouse raised against them. War and ice and ruin everywhere.

"And they look to me to end it," he said to himself, as if Silkie wasn't there. Silkie gazed at him. Her blood had run cold when she saw the forces arrayed against the Resisters.

Owen stayed in the cloud until they were well inland from the Workhouse, then dropped swiftly to treetop height. He turned back, speeding toward the gathering battle, using the shelter of trees and dips in the land to hide their progress wherever possible, handling the
Wayfarer
expertly.