City of Time (16 page)

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breath, she eased the ring off the finger and held it up to the light. It looked very old and beautiful, chased around with an almost invisible filigree pattern. Knowing that she should not be doing it, she couldn't resist trying on the ring. Then, hesitating only a fraction of a second, she shoved the paw into her pocket.

Got to get back fast, before they miss me
, she thought, moving rapidly and lightly across the floor. She had just reached the door when she heard a noise, like something echoing against an object a long way away. Somehow it managed to sound both unearthly and terribly sad at the same time. She paused and then it came again. It was the sound of something in trouble.

With a quick glance at the door of Black's quarters, Rosie sped down the corridor. There were several doors along the passage. Some opened into darkened rooms full of packing cases. When she heard the noise again she realized that it came from the little door at the end of the corridor, a bare wooden door with a brass lock.

Rosie knew that the locked door meant that entry was forbidden and going in could get her into terrible trouble. But the sound came again, and this time it was sad beyond measure, a moan of infinite pain and loss. She whipped the hairpin out of her hair and went to work on the lock.

This one was trickier than the one on the case and beads of sweat were standing out on her forehead when finally it yielded. She opened the door and saw a

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staircase leading down into a dark cellar with a cold, rank odor. As Rosie put her foot on the first step, something rustled in the dark and whimpered. The sound was less eerie now--more like a wounded animal. That made up her mind and she walked briskly down the stairs.

There was a window high in the wall on the far side of the room. The glass was broken and a sleety wind blew through it. The window, though barred, let in enough light to see what lay beneath. It was a cage, with bars of tempered steel, barely big enough for a man to stand up in. On the floor inside it was a tin bowl full of foul scraps. And standing at the bars looking at her was a creature the size of a small polar bear, covered in white fur.

It was not as bulky as a bear and its legs and arms were longer. Its head was long and fine-featured, with high cheekbones that gave the blue eyes a slanted appearance. The creature was strange and beautiful, or would have been if its fur had not been matted and dirty and if it had been able to stand up properly in the squalid cage. The creature pushed its arms out through the bars and made a low, musical sound. It was then that Rosie saw that the right hand was missing.

"Yeati!" she whispered, truly astounded. The Yeati made another low sound and without thinking she walked over to the cage. Fast as lightning, the creature's good hand shot out and gripped her by the neck, jerking her off her feet and pulling her roughly against the

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bars. She hung there, shaking. She could feel the immense power in the slender hand that could crack open bare rock. She could feel its hot breath on her neck. Then slowly the grip relaxed and she was lowered to the ground.

Looking into the Yeati's eyes was the strangest experience. Rosie seemed to lose herself in its gaze, getting the impression of some vast and ancient snowfield. She could almost hear her feet creaking in the snow and hear the wind, and within the wind a voice ... There
was
a voice, she realized, trying to tell her something, but she couldn't understand it.

The Yeati seemed to know this. It stepped back in the cage and stooped to pick up a piece of glass fallen from the broken window. It bent over the glass and Rosie saw that it was scratching a message using its diamond-hard claw.

It handed the glass to her. It was too dark to see any more than faint marks on the surface, so she put it in her pocket to examine later. Before she could move away, the Yeati grabbed her right hand, stripping off the ring she'd stolen. Rosie gulped.

The creature peeled off her gloves. Wincing automatically, Rosie suddenly realized that her hands were no longer painful. Looking down, she saw that the terrible sores and open wounds had gone. Astonished, she looked into the Yeati's face and it seemed to smile at her. Then, gently, it slipped the ring back onto her finger, then, her gloves.

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"I can't take it," she started to say, but the Yeati shook its head, then paused and listened. It pushed her away from the bars, urging her to go. She didn't need to be told twice and ran for the stairs. But before she climbed them, she turned, her eyes shining. "Thank you!"

The Yeati made another sound, and this time it felt like the coldest and freshest of winter winds carried her toward the door. Swiftly she tiptoed toward Black's quarters and peered through the door, then slipped in beside the sleeping Owen just as Dr. Diamond stood up.

"I think it's about time we were going."

Rosie shook Owen awake. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead!"

"It's good to have a bit of intelligent company. You'll come back, won't you?" Black asked.

"Of course," Dr. Diamond said. "It's been an interesting trip so far. I've always meant to come to the City and learn more about the workings of time, but I've never had the chance before."

"Perhaps you'll come on your own the next time and stay the night."

"Yes, my young friends can be a little ... demanding," Dr. Diamond said.

Owen sat up and looked indignant, but Rosie choked back a giggle. For an eminent scientist, the doctor was a good liar. He had obviously not been honest about their reason for being in the City.

As they made their way to the exit, Owen noticed a

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large, interesting shape in one of the museum rooms that he hadn't looked at before. He went over to it as Dr. Diamond and Black exchanged pleasantries at the door. It was a boat, long and narrow, bigger than it first appeared, with a cabin at the stern end and a forecastle in its upturned bow. Owen reckoned that it could carry quite a few people, but its timbers were chipped and scarred, and the whole thing was covered in dust. What appeared to be a mast was laid down from bow to stern, with a shabby piece of cloth that might have been a sail attached to it.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Just an old boat the traders used on the river," Black said carelessly. "I thought about restoring it, but it's hardly worthwhile." He turned away, dismissing the run-down craft.

Owen rubbed at the bow with his sleeve. Some letters appeared: ...
arer
.

Then Rosie was tugging at his sleeve. "Come on!"

Owen allowed himself to be pulled to the front door, where Black shook his hand and expressed his delight at meeting him. But Owen could not help glancing back at the boat in the shadows.

Rosie felt the weight of the piece of glass in her pocket. Turning her back to the others, she slipped it out. The scratches formed writing in a strange and fancy script that she didn't understand, but it wasn't the words that made her gasp. In the dead center the Yeati had drawn a face. A boyish face, somber and watchful.

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And although it was a simple scratched image and an impossible idea, it was obviously meant to be a picture of Owen.

Cati started awake. It was the middle of the night, but she'd never felt more alert. She had no idea where she was, but she knew that below her there was a cooker, and at the cooker a woman was at that very moment adding bay leaf to stew. She knew that a truck had leaked oil in the street outside. She knew that a man had recently walked past the building and that he had been drinking wine. Then she realized with a start that she knew all these things because she had
smelled
them.

She remembered dreaming. Strange snuffling, running dreams. The sense of a pack around her. Of sleeping in a huddle, curled up side by side for warmth. Of hunting and being hunted. Of nights under the stars.

She jumped out of bed, the blood coursing through her veins. Cocking her head, she could hear a mouse gnawing at a beam in the attic. She could hear a beetle scuttling by under the floorboards. And in the distance she heard howling, voices raised to the moon.

Cati ran to the window and opened it, her feet padding lightly over the floor. The howling was louder now. She could feel her ears prick up.
Like a dog's
, she thought, and at that moment her head filled with dog thoughts.

In one bound she leapt through the window. She

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slithered down the sloping roof outside to land in the elm tree, then bounded from branch to branch until she reached the ground. She looked around, raised her face to sniff the air, then loped toward the archway, passed through it, and was gone.

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Chapter 19

Wesley got up early and went downriver. He had been feeling anxious and guilty about the Raggies, although he knew that if anything had happened to them, he would have felt it in his bones. Something was moving along the seaweed. It was a hedgehog, snuffling frantically through the salty fronds.

That's funny
, he thought.
What is a hedgehog doing out in the daytime?
The earth rumbled; Wesley steadied himself against a tree and looked up warily for falling debris. These small quakes had become a part of daily life.

All around was damage caused by the huge tides, dead fish swept upriver and banks of seaweed washed up into the freshwater areas. When Wesley reached the

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harbor and saw what had happened, he broke into a run. He skidded to a halt at the edge of the fractured ground, staring at the warehouses on their island. How could he have left the Raggies undefended? Without hesitation, Wesley dived from the edge into the choppy ocean.

He swam strongly across the gap and clambered up the other side, his hands and feet grazed and bleeding from the rough surfaces of the broken concrete.

"Halt! Or I shoot!" came a muffled voice.

Wesley hesitated, then kept walking.

"You're supposed to halt when I shout that, Wesley," the voice complained, clearer now.

"Silkie!" he exclaimed in relief. "What's happened here?"

"Johnston," Silkie said. "He attacked us and I had to fight him off with my own bare hands. Well, with a pot of fishy oil. And then when he came back, the ground broke. Now we're stuck over here."

"Is everybody all right?" Wesley asked anxiously.

"I think so, but I'm the only one awake," Silkie told him. "They're not sleeping too soundly, though. What's going on, Wesley?"

Together they went to the Starry and Wesley told her about time running out, and Owen and Cati's journey to the City.

Things in the warehouse Starry were not any better. Many of the children were making sounds of real

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distress. Silkie took Wesley's hand. She knew how he felt about all of them, and how much it must hurt him to see them in pain and be unable to help them.

"Ain't there nothing we can do?" Silkie asked.

"No," Wesley said grimly. "How come you're awake, Silkie?"

Silkie blushed. She knew somehow that Owen had brushed against her, and that a part of her had reacted to the touch, but she couldn't tell Wesley that, or how handsome she thought Owen looked when he smiled at her.

"I ... I don't know," she stammered. "I just woke up."

They lingered in the Starry until Silkie could feel her eyes getting heavy. "We should go," she said gently, tugging Wesley's arm.

They went outside and stared moodily out to sea. "It all comes back to the old sea, Silkie," he said. "At least, for the Raggies it does. The Raggies love the sea."

"You go back to the Workhouse," Silkie said. "I can watch here."

"I can't leave you," he said. "I can't quit this place while the Raggies lie sleeping and hurting."

"You have to," Silkie said. "If the Workhouse falls, then this place will fall too. They'll be safe with me, Wesley."

He flashed her a weary grin. "I do believe they will, Silkie."

Silkie cooked them some fish and chips, then they

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sat by the driftwood fire eating contentedly, and afterward lay on the warmed stone of the hearth. Neither felt the need to say anything. Raggies had their own rough ways and often were not comfortable in the company of the more urbane Workhouse people, who wore boots and ate with forks instead of with fingers.

Martha had gone back to her own house and was sitting on Owen's bed. She was glad to get home. Besides, she felt Owen's presence in his room. Running a hand over his bedspread, she wondered where he was. Hadima was a distant memory; she knew that it was a place where they'd been pursued, but so much was still a blur.

The old chest, for instance, under the window in Owen's room. It was important, but why? The lock ... the Mortmain, it was called. The odd tingle she felt when she touched it. She wondered whether she should move the chest to the Workhouse, then decided it was safer where it was. After all, no one knew its location.

Even as Martha was wondering, Johnston was sitting on the roof of his truck, binoculars to his eyes, looking through the bedroom window. The woman was paying too much attention to the trunk, he thought. And the Harsh were pressing him. It would soon be time to act.