City of Time (22 page)

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A murmur ran through the crowd. The people above Silkie and Wesley got to their feet and those standing in front of the stage surged forward. Silkie saw that there was another bank of seats beside the stage, filled with villainous-looking men with sideburns like Johnston's, and women with long hair and battered faces. They were all wearing T-shirts with a moon symbol on it. A chant began from somewhere and the whole crowd began to pick it up. "Show us! Show us! Show us!"

A shiver of fear ran through Silkie. She turned to Wesley, but he was looking up at the latticework of seating above their heads with a thoughtful expression. "It's no time for looking at the joinery," she whispered. "He's making them hate us."

"At least he hasn't mentioned the warehouses."

Johnston let the crowd chant for several minutes before holding up his hands for silence. "It gives me no joy to say this, but these rebels are not just misguided. They hate us. They hate the way they live. They hate us so much they have called the very moon out of the heavens to destroy us. But before they destroy us, we will destroy them!"

"Destroy them! Destroy them!" The crowd started to chant again and there was hatred in their voices.

The Harsh boy stared over their heads as though he was alone.

"Come on," Wesley said. He scuttled off under the seats so quickly that Silkie had trouble keeping up. They moved under the seats until they were beneath the bank

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beside the stage. Above their heads Johnston stilled the crowd once again.

"I would not send you into danger against such an enemy. I would not see you good people put into the way of any more harm. But with your permission my auxiliaries will root out this nest of rats for you."

The crowd was cheering wildly, on their feet and stamping.

"I'm scared, Wesley," Silkie said, but Wesley had disappeared up into the timberwork. His hand appeared suddenly, holding a large metal bolt.

"Grab that," he said. The bolt was followed by another, then a metal hinge, then some pieces of steel with screws in them. While the crowd continued to shout and stamp, Wesley swung himself to the ground. He grinned at Silkie. She'd seen that grin before, when he'd pulled a practical joke. "I think we'd better get ourselves out of here."

As he spoke, there was an alarming creak from the wooden structure overhead.

"Quick!" Wesley grabbed Silkie's hand. She followed unresisting as he pulled her toward the back of the seating. There were more creaks and groans above their heads. Wesley dived for the edge of the tent and Silkie rolled through. Wesley rolled after her. As they did so, there was a loud groaning noise from the stand beside the stage. The clapping and cheering stopped.

"I'd love to see their faces," Wesley just had time to say before there was a thunderous crash followed by

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shouts of pain and rage. The bank of seats where the brutish-looking auxiliaries were sitting had come crashing to the ground. The thugs themselves had turned to fighting with each other in the confusion. The rest of the crowd was fleeing toward the exits. Johnston tried to call them back, but the cord had been wrenched from his microphone.

"That'll put a stop to their plans for a bit," Wesley said with satisfaction.

Silkie didn't say anything. Her gaze was drawn to the Harsh child, who was sitting all alone in the middle of the chaos, still staring toward the back of the tent.

"Pieta's right," Wesley said. "Don't waste your pity on him." But Silkie could not take her eyes away. She was no stranger to loneliness and the Harsh child seemed completely alone. Then she lifted her eyes and recoiled. Johnston, who had stirred such passions in the audience, was now looking at the panic-stricken crowd as they fought to get out of the tent, and his look was full of contempt and spite.

"Let's go, Silkie," Wesley said. "If they find out that were us, we'll be for the high jump."

Back at the Workhouse, Pieta listened silently while Wesley told her what they had seen at the camp. A frosty smile crossed her face when he told her how he had sabotaged the seating.

"Dr. Diamond always felt that the Harsh were badly damaged when Owen defeated them," Pieta said.

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"Perhaps the Harsh child is the only one who was able to reach our time."

"What are they up to? That's the question," Martha asked.

"They are getting ready to attack the Workhouse, that much is clear," Pieta said. "Wesley's quick thinking will hold them for a while, but we had better prepare to defend ourselves."

When all the Resisters were awake, the Workhouse was easily made secure against attack, but with only four it was a lengthy task. For hours they labored, filling in windows with sandbags or with thorny branches dragged up from the river. Pieta uncovered the great holes in the ground that could be covered in foliage so that an attacker would fall in. She even rigged up a few mantraps in among the trees, but the work was hard and not enough. When they took a break, Martha slipped off while Pieta planned lines of retreat.

"In the end we have to make a stand at the Starry," she said. "We must fight to the end to defend them."

"Don't think much of this fighting-to-the-end business," Wesley muttered. "And what about the Raggies? Who will mind them?"

Wesley got to his feet and looked ready to make straight for the harbor.

"It is too late for that," Pieta said. "They will attack here first. The sea will defend the Raggies. We make our stand here. All falls or survives by the Workhouse."

Wesley looked ready to defy her, but then he nodded

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weary understanding and sat down again. Martha came back with a tray. When she removed the cloth that covered it there were bacon and mushrooms fried in butter, potato bread, and cured sausage and pickles. They fell on the food, none of them speaking until they were mopping up the last of the juices with the bread. Even Pieta seemed mellow then.

"Wesley can come with me," she said. "We need to put some defenses in at the Starry."

When they were gone, Silkie and Martha sat in silence. Dark water had started to flood up the river. The wind blew in the trees, and the grasses whispered.

"I wonder where he is now," Martha murmured. Silkie did not say that she had been thinking of Owen as well, but, as if she knew, Martha reached out and took Silkie's hand. Silkie gripped it tightly and felt warmth and strength flowing into her.

I could sit here like this forever
, she thought.

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Chapter 27

Headley pushed Owen in front of him along a seemingly endless corridor, its stone walls dripping with cold moisture. "The bosses have taken a special interest in you, though I don't know what they see in a dirty little street rat."

If Owen hesitated for a second, a fist or a heavy boot struck out. They reached a narrow staircase where the steps were winding and uneven. Owen stumbled so often his knees and elbows were bruised and cut. Breakfast that morning at Mrs. Newell's seemed a long time ago. He wondered what had happened to his friends.

As they climbed, Owen noticed that it was growing even colder. The stone walls of the tower glistened with frost and in places he could see icicles forming. The tiny

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barred windows were covered with frost. He remembered that when he was small, his mother used to tell him about Jack Frost visiting during the night. His mother ... A feeling of despair washed over him. He was locked in a cold, dark tower, and his mother and home were far away across space and time.

Although he tried to push the thought out of his head, he knew what the increasing cold meant and who was waiting for him at the end of this climb. Only the Harsh could produce this mind-numbing chill and the terrible hopelessness that froze his heart. He would never leave this place. The Harsh would take him and shrivel his mind with cold and despair.

Something rustled underneath his jacket. What was it?
The maps, you fool
, a voice in his head seemed to say.
You have the maps!

A sudden blow sent him reeling to the floor. Owen looked up. They had arrived at the very top of the tower and in front of them was a wooden doorway bound with black iron bands. Bulbs of ice had formed on the door and there was a sound of wind, although the air was still.

Headley looked down at him with a grim smile. "I can tell you've met the Harsh before. You know what's waiting for you. ..."

Owen remembered what the frozen Harsh breath had done to Cati. He remembered how the enemy had first presented themselves to him as squabbling teenagers, then revealed their true selves with their longing

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for emptiness and cold. That was what scared him most, that desire for nothingness. As he looked, the ice frozen into the great lock started to splinter and crack. With a terrible creaking the door began to open. Even Headley backed away a little. But Owen found himself getting to his feet and being drawn toward the opening.

He entered what had once been a room but was now an ice chamber. Everything was frozen: the great embroidered hangings on the wall, the furniture encased in ice. Even the flowers in a vase on a shelf were cold and beautiful and dead. And in the middle, on a chair of black ice, sat one of the Harsh.

At first all Owen could see was white, almost a frozen cloud, but then he made out the face of an ancient king. His expression was lordly and proud, ruined by hatred of the living and greed for emptiness. Owen quailed before the cold eyes, but what really brought despair was what he saw on the floor in front of the Harsh king: Gobillard's chest!

The Harsh king spoke. His lips did not move, but a cold, quavering voice echoed in Owen's head.
You are welcome, Navigator
. There was a kind of amusement in his tone, as though he was mocking Owen.

"You ... you won't beat the Resisters," Owen said. "You won't win."

Look!
the king commanded.

The Mortmain flashed brightly and began to turn, slowly at first, then faster and faster, becoming a blur. The room filled with a strange golden light that made

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the ice sparkle and dance. When Owen was almost blinded by the intensity, the lid began to open. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest. What would emerge? Would the great black whirlwind, the Puissance that had sucked the time from the world, spring forth in the ice room? The lid swung back and the king leaned forward, reaching into the dark interior. When his hand emerged, on his open palm was a small whirlwind, the size of a child's spinning top.

Look!
the king ordered again. In the whirling cone, a face began to form, then another. Cati. Pieta. Dr. Diamond. On each face was written pain and terrible sorrow. They were followed by others. Wesley. Silkie ...

"Stop!" Owen cried. "Why are you doing this?"

To show you what will happen to them
, the king said.
Once the world falls, they will be lost in time. Unless you save them
.

For the first time Owen started to fully understand the Harsh. He could feel the craving from the icy king. They didn't care about the hurt they were causing; they just wanted to amass time for themselves, to hoard it like misers.

But he also sensed that the Harsh king wanted something from him. "How?" Owen said, unable to tear his eyes from the pained faces in the Puissance.

The maps! Where are your grandfather's maps?

"Even if I had them," Owen said in a voice that he barely recognized as his own, "they're no good without me."

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He moved and could feel the maps rustling underneath his jacket. If the Harsh king guessed they were there ...

Then join us, Navigator! We will spare your earth and together we will journey to worlds of time that have never been seen! You would be an explorer and a master of time. Everything you ever wanted would be yours forever!

Visions of far-off universes danced in Owen's head. He was being offered the chance to explore time as it had never been explored before, all its mysteries laid bare for him. He would return home to a spared and healed earth, the acclaim of nations ringing in his ears.

Yes, now you understand!

Owen reached toward his jacket. He would share the maps with the king. They would help him to understand the maps, and then he would break free from the Harsh, overthrow them with his new power and understanding. He could see Cati's eyes shining with gratitude. He imagined his mother's proud smile. ...

A movement in the Puissance caught his eye. It flickered and the faces of his friends disappeared. In their place was a single face, haggard and drawn, but still familiar ... the Sub-Commandant, Cati's father, who had been drawn into the Puissance and lost. Owen was held in his stern gaze.

"You fool!" the Sub-Commandant said. "Can you not see what the Harsh king is doing? He will take your maps and suck you dry, then cast you adrift in time forever."