Читать книгу The Malice - Peter Newman, Peter Newman - Страница 13

Off-colour rain patters on the tilting square. At its edges, things gather. In the centre of the square is a hole, known as the Pit of Whispers, and within the hole lives a lonely creature, all limbs and barely covered bones. The denizens of the Fallen Palace call it Slate. Little sense rattles within its hollow skull but even Slate knows when there is to be a display.

Too stupid to run, Slate presses its face against the dark wall of the pit and, momentarily, the world goes away.

At the top of the pit, the Man-shape waits, Samael by its side, while, in factions, the infernals cross the square to meet them.

First come the Felrunners, carried on an abundance of weeping legs. Their Lord stands foremost among them, proud. Raised to power by the Usurper and gifted with a crown of green muscle, it is as close to popular as any of the contenders.

Next comes Hangnail, alone, head studded with claws, its coat of skins flapping in the wind, ragged.

Then, a small girl riding a large Usurperkin comes: the Backwards Child, stretched neck coiled like a serpent, half-breed followers lumbering behind.

Lastly, comes Gutterface. Sometimes called the Unspeakable, even its peers do not care to look at it for long. Swarms of the lesser infernals infest its many pockets and crevices. An army of dysfunctional young, suckling at a hundred teats.

When all have arrived at the pit’s edge, the Man-shape reaches down, finding one of Slate’s many appendages and lifting it high. One by one, the others copy the gesture, until Slate is lifted slightly off the ground, murmuring and clicking to itself.

Whenever infernals converse there is danger. Even if both parties are peaceful, essences can mix, desires swapping or implanting themselves. No one challenger dares outright confrontation and yet, to end the stalemate, each needs to display its power to the others. A good enough display could convince the others to submit, giving the winner the infernal throne without conflict.

Slate’s essence is weak, allowing other infernals to make contact without risk. They use it as a conduit, a patchy curtain that divides like gauze, keeping them apart but allowing communication.

With careful timing the infernals bring the limb they hold deeper into their shells, until it connects with the essence inside them. Now, when any of them forms a thought, it travels into Slate, into the pit and the others can read the echoes.

Inevitably, there is posturing. Each trying to appear bigger than the other, probing for changes, hoping that time will have made new weaknesses. The Man-shape allows this to happen, keeps itself small, unreadable. It suspects that Lord Felrunner is ready to make its bid for power and that Gutterface has a secret it struggles to contain. The other two give little away.

All share a moment of pleasure that the other challengers have not dared come. Then the Man-shape presses itself onto Slate’s essence.

‘I was made to serve …’ the Man-shape begins.

‘Lesser.’

‘Taste.’

‘Evres.’

‘Us.’ Swirl the responses.

‘… And for much time, I served the master.’ It notes the ripple of unease the reminder of the Usurper still brings. ‘Where the Green Sun blazed, there is only void. Which of you will fill it?’

Four answers come, declarations of suitability.

‘So you say. But the master did not trifle with words, the master took and others trembled. Now a new master comes, one that will take, and change, and wipe us away.’

Questions come thick and fast and Slate’s essence stretches dangerously thin. The Man-shape casts a shadow between them, the image of their new enemy.

‘It is called the Yearning and it gathers itself upon the Breach. I pledge myself and the master’s throne to whoever can end it.’

There is a pause, quicker than the beat of a hummingbird’s wing, an eternity between essences. Then there is noise. Lord Felrunner accepts first, the others immediately after.

Slate is discarded roughly, falling back into the pit while infernals scuttle, stride and shuffle away. Already, plots are forming, plans of attack, dreams of victory and what follows.

On the inside, the Man-shape permits itself a smile and wonders if any will return.

*

Vesper stares at the two bodies, her gun shakily pointing at them. Neither stir. ‘What are we going to do?’ she asks repeatedly. The question is directed as much to herself as to Duet, who has not spoken for too long.

Eventually, the gun lowers and Vesper’s breathing calms. She goes to the bag of supplies, searching for inspiration, nudging the kid’s head out of the way as he rummages for food. Most of the objects are identifiable, if not familiar. She touches the block of Skyn, the flexicast and nine different tab containers, presumably medicines of some kind. She finds a mutigel pillow, some water, some powdered food and a set of tools. One reminds her of the Navpack her father used to let her play with. She still remembers his face when she broke it.

She picks up the new Navpack and asks it to activate.

The Navpack does not recognise her voice.

‘Activate!’ she repeats, desperation making the end of the word rise.

On her back, the sword begins to hum.

Vesper spins round, reaching for her gun, but the First remains where it fell, eyes still staring, glassy.

The sword’s hum rises sharply, pointedly, then stops.

With a happy ping, the Navpack activates.

A map shines onto the floor, showing Sonorous from above. The outer wall a thick dark line, curving like an inverted pair of horns, and, within it, a grid of roads, packed either side with little squares, countless. Vesper sees her location represented by a white dot that flashes excitedly. She taps it with a finger and the map zooms in, showing the house they stand in, the neighbouring ones and the criss-cross of alleys nearby.

Beneath them, purple, is another network. Passageways made for secret journeys, known only to the agents of the Winged Eye, entrances scattered about the island.

Vesper’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘This is it. Duet. Duet! I think I’ve found a way out.’

‘It doesn’t …’ she begins, but there is no-one to finish her sentence. She chokes back a sob.

Using the Navpack as a guide, Vesper moves across the room. The view zooms, scaling itself exactly to the space. A purple square of light overlays an incongruous corner. The girl runs to it, followed by the kid, who shares the excitement if not the understanding.

Fingers search for a gap or a handle, find none. Fumbling becomes frantic, a droplet of sweat falls from her hair, dampening dirt. Then, for no discernible reason, a square of plastic pops up, raising two inches proud of the floor. Vesper grabs it, heaves.

Cheeks turn from red to purple, muscles burn and the panel begins to lift.

With an excited bleat, the kid gets his head into the gap and pushes.

Girl and panel flip over, landing on their backs.

The kid tips forward, hooves scrabbling over empty air. For a moment he wobbles, precarious, then falls into the newly revealed hole.

There is the sound of an abrupt landing and disgruntlement.

Vesper scrambles to her feet. ‘Duet, look!’

She does, but nothing changes in her eyes. ‘It doesn’t …’ She twitches. ‘… Matter.’

Vesper’s hand finds Duet’s, squeezes. ‘Please come. I need you.’

Duet doesn’t squeeze back. Her head gives the smallest of shakes. But Vesper doesn’t let go and when Duet feels the pull, gentle, insistent, she is surprised to find herself moving.

Together, they descend.

From scattered places across Sonorous, black-visored figures stop, heads turning sharply. Leaving behind the soldiers at their backs, each one begins to run. Legs blur, making fan shapes beneath them as they race through the streets, faster than should be possible.

Witnesses can only stare and shiver.

Quickly, fourteen identically dressed figures converge on a house.

Inside are two bodies. One is of a man, aged by time outdoors, eyes staring towards infinity. They gather by the body. From two sword cuts and a hole made by angry light, essence escapes in little puffs of smoke.

Working as one, the figures capture the wisps, weaving them together. A coherent ball begins to appear, cupped in protective hands. At the same time, the group begin to excavate the essence in the body, clawing it out from the deep places, adding it to the ball. When they are finished, they close the man’s eyes.

Then the ball is taken to the second body, that of a woman, half of an abandoned Harmonised. They press it into the wound in her chest, then bind the cavity shut.

Any last spark of the woman flutters away in the flicker of eyelids.

The First opens its eyes and stands.

Restored, it lowers its head and the others do the same, until fifteen skulls tap together, sharing knowledge, making plans.

Less than a second later they break, ten of them sprint for the door, the other five move to an innocent looking corner of the room, reaching for the hidden doorway, glimpsed through dying eyes. But for the First, the panel refuses to open.

Gauntleted hands clench and the First leans over the rebellious plastic. Fists move like pistons, drumming, hammering, penetrating.

The passageway is narrow, forcing them on hands and knees. The kid bounds ahead, a perfect fit. From Duet’s visor a diamond flares into life, pushing back the gloom.

Vesper shoots her an envious look.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

They crawl on. Vesper lets out a sigh, murmurs: ‘I wish I had a torch.’

‘You’ve got …’ She pauses, taps the side of her head irritably. ‘… Two.’

‘I do?’

‘The Navpack … and the … gun.’

‘They’re torches?’

‘They’re torches.’

Distant drumming reaches them. Then a single crack, a dulled burst of thunder.

Duet accelerates, knocks into Vesper. ‘Go faster.’

‘What’s going on?’

She punches the girl in the back of the thigh. ‘Go faster!’

Vesper yelps, complies. Behind them comes a rasping sound, of lightweight plates sliding over stone, rapid and numerous.

In their haste, knees are bashed, knuckles caught on the tunnel’s sides, a catalogue of minor traumas to be pored over later. Several times the tunnel divides but Vesper doesn’t hesitate, following purple lines held tight in memory.

The sound of the hunters pauses.

Vesper slows, takes a breath to speak but Duet knocks into her, hissing in frustration.

When they come again, the sounds of pursuit are diminished.

‘They don’t know the tunnels,’ Vesper pants. ‘We’re dividing them.’

‘It doesn’t … matter. Even one … of them’s … enough.’

All at once, light hits the end of the tunnel. A solid wall, decorated by damp, and, in front of it, another hole. Vesper pulls out the Navpack and shines it down. The beam dances on water and bends around the long cylinder of an escape vessel, bobbing leisurely on the surface. Where the light hits the side of the hole, bars glint. Each one is as wide as a giant’s hand, inviting them to climb. Vesper does so.

Before she reaches the bottom, the cylinder cracks open, welcoming. Vesper drops from the last bar, her impact absorbed by the cylinder’s thick inner lining. Girl and tube wobble in the water but neither tips over.

Vesper rocks the cylinder gently, testing buoyancy. Then she shines the Navpack around the chamber, mapping a shape not much bigger than the boat she sits on. She points the Navpack down, switches it from torch to navigator. Lines of light quickly describe a way out. Vesper frowns. ‘The exit is below us, we need to go down.’ She pats the side of the cylinder. ‘In this. It’s safe, I think.’

Above her, in the tunnel, Duet crawls backwards. Slowly trying to rotate in the cramped space. ‘No.’

‘What?’

‘You go.’

‘What about you?’

She completes her turn, then tries to work her sword free. ‘I’m staying.’

‘But why?’

‘To protect …’ Her elbow cracks against the side, painful. ‘… you. Give you time.’ Her sword is nearly free but within the confines of the tunnel she cannot fully straighten her arm. The tip remains caught in its scabbard.

‘Don’t leave me. I need you.’

‘It’s better … this way.’

Vesper lowers her head, hesitates, mouth moving quietly, planning the words before she says them. ‘It’s not up to you. The sword wants you to come.’ Duet edges back, feet dangling over the edge. With effort, she twists her head, craning until she can look down at the girl, suspicious. ‘Gamma’s sword spoke to me, remember? It needs me to carry it and it needs you to keep me safe.’

Duet just stares, face unreadable behind the visor.

‘Don’t be stupid! You can’t even swing a sword up there. They’ll kill you in seconds and you’ll have died for nothing. If you want to protect me then you need to come down, now!’

Her voice echoes in the tunnels, repeating and fading, fading and repeating, travelling, retreading their steps. When it has gone, silence follows.

The sounds of pursuit have stopped.

Girl, Harmonised and goat freeze, wondering who else listens in the darkness.

Then, sudden and decisive comes the sound of armoured limbs, battering the tunnel, supernaturally fast, gaining.

With a muttered curse, Duet lets her sword fall back into its sheath and lowers herself into the hole. The descent is controlled and quick, her landing soft. Fractionally, the cylinder dips, high sides untroubled by lapping water.

The kid appears at the top of the ladder, afraid to jump, afraid to stay.

‘Come on,’ encourages Vesper.

‘Leave it.’

‘No!’ She reaches up, smiles encouragingly. ‘Come on, you can do it. Jump. I’ll catch you.’

The kid bleats, extends a hoof into space, then retracts it hurriedly.

‘Don’t be scared.’

Duet speaks quickly, forcing words where she would naturally pause. ‘There’s no time, we have to go, forget the animal or we’ll all die.’

Vesper stands her ground. ‘You can do it. Jump.’ The sword begins to tremble against her back. ‘Come on,’ she calls, voice fake and positive. ‘Jump!’

The kid closes his eyes and with a final bleat, throws himself into space.

Hooves flail.

Duet swears.

Vesper’s smile falls away.

There is a collision. Cries of alarm and pain mingle together. Water sloshes.

Vesper finds the kid in her arms, finds herself pitching backwards. Then Duet’s hand finds her collar, pulls her upright.

‘Thank you.’

The cylinder is built for comfort, for one. Vesper and Duet wriggle together, making what space they can. Fortunately, one is not full grown and the other’s armour is streamlined, built for speed. Even so, the sword is hard on Vesper’s back and the bag is crushed between them and contents press outward, sharp edges digging into hips and stomachs.

The kid turns round three times, then sits in the space beneath Vesper’s feet.

Without being asked, the cylinder begins to close. Hands and heads are tucked inside, hasty. With a sigh, the split sides of the cylinder meet, sealing instantly.

Tiny holes appear on the outer layer of the metal, greedily sucking in water, taking on weight and, with a sudden lurch, the cylinder drops beneath the surface.

The First reaches the end of the tunnel, stopping by the hole. It peers down, not needing a torch to penetrate the darkness.

There is nothing but water slapping the sides of the chamber below.

Others come from behind, hurrying through the network, their growing proximity comforting.

The First does not wait for them. It plunges into the water, head first, a black shape welcomed into inky depths.

Down it goes, down and down, a silent missile that finds new tunnels branching away. It reads the eddies and currents, quickly narrowing options until only one remains.