The navigator (18 page)

179

had looked when the Mortmain had fallen from the car. The driveway from the house still led through the scrap and the sharp corner where the door had swung open was still there, perhaps a hundred meters away. If he went on his hands and knees, he thought, or crawled on his belly, he could reach it. He moved to the edge of the trees. And as he moved he felt as if a great shadow was falling over him, and then a crushing weight, so that he was pinned to the ground. He struggled and then lay still. Rough hands turned him over. He found himself looking into the dark, fathomless eyes of the man he had seen earlier, the rose still behind his ear. Owen could smell an oily perfume, and the man's voice when he spoke was low and strangely accented.

"Now, Pretty," he said, "still yourself. Where is Pretty going? What is Pretty looking for? I think we must talk with Johnston. Johnston will know."

180

The Convoke was crowded, but there was little noise. Shadows from the fire danced round the ancient walls. The Mortmain was on a low table in front of the fire, gleaming softly. The Resister leaders stood round it. All, that is, except Pieta. She sat in her usual chair by the fire. But this time she wasn't slumped with a bottle. This time her back was straight and her eyes were bright and each hand rested on the shoulder of a child, a tall yellow-haired girl and a solemn yellow-haired boy, each with a look in their eyes that said that they had lived in their dreams for many, many years.

"The first thing we must say," Chancellor began, "even before we start our discussion on what must be

181

done, is how glad we are that Pieta's children have awoken from their long sleep."

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd. Pieta did not smile, but her eyes flashed and the children seemed to stand even more ramrod straight, proud and haughty like their mother.

"I agree," the Sub-Commandant said, "but time is short. We must decide what to do with the Mortmain."

"There is only one decision," Pieta said, "and well you know it, Sub-Commandant. The Mortmain must be taken to the Puissance, the Great Machine in the north, and a way must be found to reverse it so that time flows the way it should."

"I agree," the Sub-Commandant said.

"I agree also," said Contessa. Rutgar nodded sharply, and Dr. Diamond too. Wesley looked amused at the prospect. Even Samual did not disagree.

"Well, then," Chancellor said, "we have agreed that much. The next question is, who will go?"

"Owen must go," Contessa said. "It is his duty and his right." Chancellor looked uncomfortable.

"What is it, Chancellor?" asked the Sub-Commandant.

"I fear I have bad news about Owen."

"He is gone," the Sub-Commandant said. "I knew that."

"That is not all," Chancellor said, his tone grave. "Not only has he left, but he has gone over to Johnston's side."

182

There was a gasp from the hall. Cati cried out, "No!" Samual looked pleased. The only person who did not react was Wesley. He kept the same sardonic smile on his face.

"How do you know this, Chancellor?" said Contessa.

"I am not at liberty to say who gave me this information," Chancellor said, his voice dense with sorrow, "but Owen was seen on the other side of the river--with Johnston. And Johnston had his arm around his shoulders. Owen was smiling."

"A spy all along," Samual said with satisfaction.

"No!" Cati shouted, jumping to her feet. "Owen was never a spy!" She burst into tears. People stared at her, but no one moved to comfort her. It was Wesley who walked over and put his arm round her, gently putting her back into her seat.

"This is grave news," Contessa said. "I find it hard to believe."

"I had difficulty believing it myself," agreed Chancellor.

"Like father, like son," Samual said. Cati leapt to her feet again, her face red, but Wesley hauled her back down in her seat and put his finger to his lips. She stared furiously at Samual but didn't speak.

Wesley leaned over to her. "Had to of been that Samual that made up thon story about Owen and fed it to Chancellor. He's the only one crosses the river for to spy." Cati intensified her glare at Samual.

183

Wesley noticed that Dr. Diamond was now sitting beside Pieta, talking urgently into her ear.

"I think we should not judge until we have had a chance to speak to the young man," the Sub-Commandant said firmly. "The point is that Owen should have been the one to take the Mortmain to the Puissance. Now he cannot, so who is to take it?"

There was a long silence. The Sub-Commandant waited patiently. When an answer came, it was from an unexpected source.

"Big snows coming," Wesley said lazily. "Looks like you lot will need Boat. So that'll be me going for a start."

"I'm going too," said Cati defiantly.

"The child can't go," Samual said. "She'll get all of you into trouble if she runs into any of the Harsh."

"I'm not a child!" Cati said.

"Where I go, Cati goes," the Sub-Commandant said.

"I think I'll go along too," said Dr. Diamond. Rutgar started to speak, but Contessa stopped him.

"Someone will need to stay here and defend the Workhouse, Rutgar. I think that is our job." Rutgar nodded heavily.

"I will go also," Chancellor said. "I have a responsibility in this matter."

"You done pretty well making up them minds of yours," said Wesley, getting to his feet. "I'd say we should be fit to go first thing in the morning, if youse lot can get yourselves ready by then."

184

"He's right," the Sub-Commandant said. "The sooner the better. The weather is closing in."

"I'll get a stock of food together," Contessa said. "You'll need plenty to get you there and back."

"There, anyhow," Wesley muttered. "There mightn't be no back."

"Does anybody know how far it is?" asked Cati quietly.

"No," answered the Sub-Commandant, "nor has anyone here ever seen the Puissance."

"Owen would have been able to find it," Contessa said.

"That is open to question," the Sub-Commandant said. "Nothing has been proved."

"Owen is not here," Chancellor said, his voice harsh, "and I do not wish to hear his name spoken again. He has betrayed us. So our only option is to sail north and hope that luck leads us to it, or we find other Resisters who know where it is."

Wesley jumped to his feet. "Youse lot might have time for chatter, but us lot got Boat to get ready. I'll see youse at dawn at the harbor." He turned and slipped rapidly through the crowd, but not before he gave Cati a warm look.

Cati didn't know why Wesley had stood up for her. Or why he had stopped her speaking. She had the impression there were things going on that she didn't understand. The Convoke was breaking up and Cati allowed herself to be carried along by the crowd as they swept out of the room, talking excitedly about the voyage to

185

come and about how the young man had been a spy all along, falling silent when they realized that Cati could hear. She thought of unleashing a stream of bad language at them, words she had picked up from Rutgar and his soldiers, but her heart wasn't in it. As the crowd passed the doorway that led to the kitchen, she stepped inside.

The kitchen was her favorite place at night, when everyone had finished. Cati liked the dim light, the gleaming pots lined up behind the stoves, the heat still retained in the giant ovens. Sometimes she would take a leftover piece of pie from the cold room and squeeze in behind the biggest of the ovens, where it was warm. When she was small she had called it her house. She was too old for that now, but it was still a safe place to go when she had something on her mind. Also, since her encounter with the Harsh, she seemed to be a little cold all the time, and this was the warmest and coziest place in the entire Workhouse. And she definitely had something on her mind.

Cati squeezed into the tiny space and leaned her cheek against the warm stone. Why had Owen been with Johnston? If he was such great friends with Johnston, then who had ransacked the Den? And if he was not with Johnston, then where was he? Her father had thought that Owen had gone searching for the Mortmain. Was Owen playing some game, pretending to be friendly with Johnston?

The heat of the oven was making Cati drowsy. She felt

186

her eyes start to close and had to shake herself awake. She didn't want to fall asleep behind the ovens. As she started to wriggle out of the space, she heard footsteps. Contessa, she thought, coming to prepare food for the journey the next day. Then she realized there were two sets of feet. The footsteps stopped close to the oven. The first voice she heard was Contessa's.

"You are sure about this course of action? It will be hard on the children."

"I have explained to them," replied the low, harsh voice of Pieta. "They understand that I have to repay my debt."

"What if Owen has gone over to the other side?"

"Do you think so? He can wake the Sleepers. It points to him being the Navigator. And if he is, he can find the Puissance. That is our only chance."

"Other people have come along who could wake the Sleeping."

"I have to try. He woke my children when no one else could. I have to find him or at least find out what happened. You will be the guardian of the children, if you will do it."

"Of course I will, Pieta," Contessa said.

"Take care of them, Contessa." There was a pleading note in Pieta's voice that Cati did not associate with the stern warrior. "They have slept for so long and are still half in the shadows."

"I will treat them as if they were my own," said Contessa.

187

The two women moved away, still talking, but Cati could not hear them anymore. She slipped out from behind the oven and went past the sinks so that they wouldn't see her. Supplies for tomorrow, she thought as she ran silently up the steps. She had almost forgotten about the long journey to the north. She shivered, half from excitement, half from fear. And then there was the word that Pieta had used about Owen. She said it over and over in her head. Navigator ... Navigator ... What did it mean? And if he was the Navigator, did it mean that he had not crossed over to the enemy? And what was Pieta planning, in order to pay back her debt to Owen?

Several miles away, Owen was shivering too, but not with excitement. The man with the rose behind his ear had grabbed him by the sleeves and started walking toward Johnston's manor. He walked at an unbelievable speed and, Owen found, was incredibly strong, for when Owen tripped and fell, the man kept up the same rapid pace, dragging the boy behind him effortlessly. The man marched Owen straight to the front door of the manor, which opened as he approached it. Owen half staggered, half tumbled up the steps, cracking his shins on the stone.

The door swung open onto a long corridor. There were more of Johnston's men in the corridor, lounging around on battered chairs and looking bored. Weapons were stacked everywhere: magno guns, knives, hatchets, bicycle chains, bottles containing what looked suspiciously

188

like acid. The men watched with interest as Owen was hauled down the corridor at tremendous speed, making comments as he passed.

"Passionara caught himself a rat, so he did."

"Fine big rat."

"What you say, rat?"

"Catch yourself on, Mariacallas. Rat don't talk."

"Rat do big squeak."

"Go on, rat, do squeak." This last was accompanied by a hard kick that made Owen gasp.

"Weren't no squeak, that."

"Sounds like a boy to me."

It would have been a relief when Passionara stopped in front of a large ornate door if Owen hadn't felt twice as scared of what lay behind it. It was something important, he knew, because there was a fat, grizzled man with a white beard sitting at a battered card table. He was wearing a bandanna and a sweat-stained cummerbund. There was a ledger on the table and he opened it as Passionara and Owen came to a halt.

"Name?" he said in a harsh voice.

"You know my name, Whitwashisberd," Passionara said.

"Not your name, you damned wearer of flowers," Whitwashisberd growled. "Name of fancy rat you dangle from your honeyed fist."

"Name of fancy rat is ... Pretty!" Passionara said. But the corridor had other ideas.

"Rat!" they roared. "Rat! Rat! Rat!"

"Name of boy is... Pretty Rat!" Passionara exclaimed,

189

to a chorus of cheers from the corridor. Whitwashisberd grunted, but bent to the ledger and laboriously wrote "Pretty Rat" in the first free space. Craning his neck, Owen could see that the ledger was crowded with names, most of them, worryingly, crossed out, with a small skull drawn in beside them. Then, with a bored expression, Whitwashisberd waved Owen and Passionara through.

Passionara opened the door, and Owen realized that this was the room that the music had been coming from. A battered old record player was playing opera music, an old scratchy recording of a man singing. The ceiling was covered with ornate plasterwork of angels and cherubs and great plaster bunches of grapes dangling in the corners. A massive cut-glass chandelier lit with magno hung from the center of the ceiling. A log fire blazed in the fireplace. The only furniture in the room was a huge black leather reclining armchair. Johnston was sitting in the armchair, sideways on to the door.

Owen had not noticed quite how big Johnston was before, but now it seemed that he filled the room. Everything about him was big: the head, the sideburns, the boots, the great tufts of hair sprouting from his ears and nostrils. His eyes were closed and one massive hand moved gently as if conducting the movement. Passionara stuck his boot in Owen's backside and propelled him into the middle of the room, where he landed on his hands and knees. Behind him, Owen could hear the door closing gently. Johnston held up a hand. Owen understood. He wasn't to interrupt the music.