The navigator (5 page)

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bending over it and realizing that there was no reflection. He felt a single bead of sweat run down his spine and his voice dropped to a whisper.

"N-no," he stammered. Before he had time to wonder why he had lied, the man in the red uniform stood up.

"I've had enough of this. Where is the Mortmain? Tell us that, boy. Return it to its rightful owners!"

"Enough, Samual!" the Sub-Commandant said. He didn't speak loudly, but his voice cut through the tension in the room like a whiplash. The man in red sat down again, grumbling.

"That subject should not have been mentioned," the Sub-Commandant went on. "Let the boy ask his questions now."

Owen looked around. A thousand questions swirled in his mind. "Where am I?" he said, and then, with his voice getting stronger, "Who are you? And what has happened to ... to everything?"

"I will try to answer," Chancellor said, getting to his feet. "There are three parts to your question. As to where you are, you are in the Workhouse, the center of the Re-sisters to the Harsh and the frost of eternal solitude that they wish to loose upon the earth. We are not the only Resisters. There are pockets elsewhere, perhaps even in other lands, but all hinges on us, on our strength and strategy." There was pride in his voice, even vanity, but sorrow as well.

"As to who we are," he went on, "we are the Wakeful. We sleep the centuries through until we are called. You

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could say we are the custodians of time. Like everything else, time has a fabric or structure. And sometimes that fabric is weakened or attacked and requires repair or defense. But we do not have much time to explain things, and others can tell you more of us. The most important of your questions is the last. What has happened?"

"I will answer that," the Sub-Commandant said, "since the boy and I both witnessed it, although he did not know it at the time."

"The floor is yours," Chancellor said stiffly.

Once more Owen could feel the people in the hall bend their attention to the slender figure, as if he was going to relate a terrible story that they had heard before but felt compelled to hear again.

"You may perhaps have learned that time is not a constant, that it is relative." Owen nodded, hoping that he looked clever. The words that the Sub-Commandant used were familiar from school, but to tell the truth he hadn't been listening when these things were talked about, and he hadn't understood what he had heard.

"What happened today is an extension of that. Do you remember when you saw that dark flash in the sky?" Owen nodded. "The process is complex and subtle, and many events took place both together and apart. But to put it in the simplest possible terms, a terrible thing has happened. A thing that our enemies have sought to achieve for many eras."

The Sub-Commandant paused. The whole hall seemed to hold its breath and Owen understood that although

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they knew in their hearts what had happened, it had yet to be confirmed to them. The Sub-Commandant's face was stern and gray and age showed in it, great age.

"They have started the Puissance," he said. "The Great Machine in the north turns again and time is flowing backward."

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A shuddering sigh flowed through the hall. Owen stared blankly at the Sub-Commandant. How could time flow backward? What sort of machine were they talking about? He didn't know how long he stood there until the Sub-Commandant stepped forward and gripped him by the shoulders.

"It's a lot for you to understand and I won't trouble you with any more tonight. You'll have questions and we'll answer them as best we can. But for now, I think it is best if you rest."

"Wait!" The man they called Samual rose to his feet. "I have a few more questions." He moved up close to Owen and walked round him, studying him, his eyes glittering

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with dislike. "What is your understanding of your father's death?" he barked.

Owen froze. It was something he tried not to think about. "There was a--an accident...," he stammered.

"Suicide," Samual said. "Wasn't that it?"

"No ...," said Owen.

"Is there a point to all of this?" Contessa asked, her voice cold. She obviously didn't approve of Samual's questioning, but he ignored her.

"Have you ever heard of Gobillard et Fils?" he demanded sharply, his face almost pressed against Owen's now, his eyes eager.

Gobillard et Fils, Owen thought. That's what was written on the trunk in his bedroom! How did this man know about that? He could feel Chancellor and the others watching him intently.

"N-no," he stammered, "no ... I've never heard that name before. ..." The lie was out before Owen knew what he was saying. Why had he not admitted that he'd heard the name before? The blood rushed to his face. Would someone notice?

He was saved by the Sub-Commandant. "The boy is not a prisoner to be interrogated, Samual. That is enough."

Samual looked for a moment as if he would defy the Sub-Commandant. Then he thought better of it and turned away.

"You may go, Owen," the Sub-Commandant said gently.

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Owen's mouth was dry and his head was spinning, but he knew that there was one question he must ask before he was made to leave the hall. He turned toward the Sub-Commandant and his voice was no more than a whisper.

"Please," he said, "what has happened to all the people?"

There was a long silence, then Contessa spoke.

"You are thinking about your mother, of course. I will explain it as we understand it. In turning back time, the Harsh intend to go back to a time before people. The minute they started the reversal, the people disappeared as if they had never been. So nothing has happened to them, but they have never been. Except for us, stranded on an island in time--as you now are."

"If we stop the Harsh, you'll get your mother back!" It was Cati's voice. She had somehow evaded the watchers on the door. "You'll get her back and it'll all be the same again!"

Contessa gave Cati a stern look, but Owen thought he could see the ghost of a smile hovering around her lips. "That is true. We have stopped them before."

"But this time is different," Chancellor said. "The Harsh are stronger than ever and we are weaker. I cannot see how we can overcome them."

"We are the Resisters," the Sub-Commandant said softly, "and it is our duty to resist, come what may."

Chancellor looked as if he was about to say something more, but in the end he only shook his head and sighed.

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"Cati," Contessa said, "you should not be here, but as you are, I would like you to take Owen out of the Convoke. We have many other issues to discuss."

Cati took Owen gently by the arm and the crowd parted again for them as they walked toward the door. Owen wanted to ask more questions. What was the Starry? And what had the Mortmain--whatever it was-- to do with him? And why were the Resisters so interested in him, anyway?

Owen glanced toward the armchair beside the fire. To his surprise, the owner of that harsh voice was much younger than she sounded. Pieta was slim with blond hair and a girlish face. She was asleep, snoring gently, and wearing a faded uniform similar to his own, but attached to her belt was an object unlike anything he had ever seen before. It looked like a long, coiled whip, but this whip was made of light--a blue light shot through with pulses of energy, so it seemed a living thing. Beside the woman was an empty bottle and a glass. As Owen stared, she opened one eye and looked directly at him. Her eye was bloodshot and bleary, but Owen felt instantly that she knew everything there was to know about him.

Pieta's lips curved in a brief smile, weary and sarcastic, then her eyes closed again and Owen felt Cati haul him toward the door, which opened for them as they reached it and closed gently but firmly behind them.

Owen felt numb. He had never thought about time before or the fact that it might be possible for it to go

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backward. "What did Contessa mean by an island in time?"

"That's where the Workhouse is--on an island in time," Cati said. "Time is like a river flowing around us, but the Workhouse never really changes. And we don't change either."

"You mean you don't get older or anything?"

"Course we get older," Cati said with a heavy sigh, as though she was explaining to an idiot. "It's just that we grow old at the same rate as normal people, no matter what time does. You look like you need air."

"I need ...," Owen began. But what did he need? A way to understand all of this? Sleep to still his racing mind? A place to hide until it all went away and things returned to as they were before? He was tired, his eyes felt grainy and his limbs fatigued, but an idea was beginning to take shape.

Outside, a mild, damp wind was blowing drizzle in from the direction of the town. He could smell the sea on it.

"Do you want to talk?" Cati sounded anxious.

"No," he said. "No thanks, I'm really tired. I need to sleep, I think."

"You can sleep here. Contessa will find you a bed."

"No!" said Owen, more sharply that he intended. "I want to go back to the Den."

"I understand," she said. "I'll walk there with you."

"I want to be on my own," he said stiffly.

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Cati watched as Owen turned abruptly away and walked toward the path to the Den. He felt bad. He didn't want to offend her, but there was something he had to do. As soon as he had rounded the first corner in the path he dived off it into the trees.

Owen climbed steadily for ten minutes. He knew the landscape well, but it was dark and the rain made it murky, and there seemed to be trees where no tree had grown before. By the time he reached the swing tree, his hands were scratched from brambles and there was a welt on his cheek where a branch had whipped across it. He got down on his belly and crawled to the edge of the drop. He looked across the river, but it was shrouded in gloom. Down below he could just make out what seemed to be trenches and defensive positions that had been dug the whole length of the river.

As Owen looked closer he saw that they were hastily dug in parts and in other places there were none. He studied the defensive line and saw that it was at its weakest under the shadow of the trees, in the very place where he had crossed that morning. Silently, Owen slipped over the edge and began to slither down the slope, any noise that he made smothered by the insistent drizzle.

At the bottom of the slope he made his way quietly through the trees. Almost too late Owen saw that there was now a path running along the edge of the river. He shot out of the trees into the middle of the path and as

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he did so he heard a man clearing his throat. Quickly he dived into the grass at the verge and held his breath. Two men rounded the corner. Both were bearded and carrying the same strange weapon as the Sub-Commandant. They looked alert, nervous even, and their eyes kept straying to the river side of the path--which was just as well, as Owen was barely hidden by the sparse grass at the edge of the trees. They walked past him as he held his breath and pressed his face into the wet foliage. Within seconds, they had rounded the next corner and were gone.

Owen stood up, shaking. He took a deep breath. He had avoided the patrol through luck and knew that it might not be long before another one came along. He darted to the other side of the path and plunged through the undergrowth toward the river.

It was dark on the riverbank; only the sound of the water told him where it was. He felt his way along the bank until he found the old tree trunk that he had climbed across that morning. Suddenly, he felt sick and dizzy at the thought of crossing the black water. He grabbed the tree trunk firmly. If he didn't start across now, his courage would fail him completely.

Breathing hard, Owen swung himself onto the log. It was wet and slick to the touch. Inching forward, he glanced down and saw the water glinting beneath. He shut his eyes and moved again. The sound of the water grew louder and louder. He opened his eyes. With a start, he realized that he was halfway across.

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Owen fixed his eyes on the far bank. He had started on his hands and knees, but now he found himself on his belly, slithering along the wet trunk. It was when he was three-quarters of the way across that he felt it--a slight flexing of the tree trunk, barely noticeable, as if there was now some extra weight bowing the wood. He risked a glance back over his shoulder. There was something on the trunk behind him, something small and fast-moving. Panting, Owen tried to move faster, scrambling for grip. He looked behind again. It was halfway across now and gaining fast. He gulped for air and it sounded like a sob. Then he got to his feet and tried to jump the last couple of meters. Just as he jumped, Owen was hit hard and fast from behind. He felt himself gripped and turned in the air, and as he hit the muddy bank with an impact that drove the air from his lungs, a small, powerful hand grabbed him first by the hair, then covered his mouth and his nose so that he couldn't draw the shuddering breath that his aching lungs needed.

"Stupid boy!" Cati hissed furiously. "Where do you think you're going?"

It was several minutes before Owen could get enough air to enable him to talk. Cati crouched beside him, staring intently into the dark.

"We have to get away from here," she whispered urgently.

"I'm not going back," he said. "I'm going home."

"It's not there anymore! You'll be caught or killed looking for something that's gone. Listen to me."