Infernal Devices (14 page)

"I've never been to Anchorage," she said firmly.

Shkin's nostrils flared. "Very well then; the book, the Tin Book, stamped with the seal of Anchorage's rulers--how do you explain that?"

Wren had already worked out an answer to that. "I brought it with me from Grimsby," she said. "It is a present for Your Worship. The Lost Boys stole it years and years ago, like we've stolen all sorts of things from all sorts of cities. Anchorage is a wreck, sunk at the bottom of the sea. Nobody lives there."

"But she told me herself she was Hester Shaw's daughter!" said Shkin. "Why would she lie?"

"Because of your wonderful books, Your Worship," explained Wren, and gazed at the mayor as adoringly as she could. "I have read them all. Whenever my limpet attached itself to a new city, I would always burgle the bookshops first in the hope that there would be a new Nimrod Pennyroyal. I told Mr. Shkin I was from Anchorage just so that he would bring me to meet you."

Pennyroyal looked hopeful. He
so
wanted to believe her. "But your name," he said. "Natsworthy ..."

"Oh, it's not my
real
name," Wren said brightly. "I looked up Hester Shaw in Uncle's records, and it said she used to travel with someone called that."

"Oh, really?" Pennyroyal tried to hide his relief. "Never heard of him."

Wren smiled, pleased at how easy it was to lie and how good she was turning out to be at it. Her story didn't make a lot of sense, but when you tell someone something that they want to hear, they tend to believe you; WOPCART had taught her that.

She said, "I was planning to keep up the pretense, Professor, in the hope that you would take me into your household. Even if I were only the lowliest of your slaves, at

least I would be close to the author of
Predator's Gold
and ... and all those other books." She lowered her eyes demurely. "But as soon as I saw you, sir, I realized that you would never be taken in by my lies, and so I resolved to tell you the truth."

"Very commendable," said Pennyroyal. "Quite right, too. I saw through it in an instant, you know. Although oddly enough, you do bear a slight resemblance to poor Hester. That's why I was startled when you first appeared. That young woman was very, very dear to me, and it is the deepest regret of my life that I didn't manage to save her."

Ooh, you rotten liar!
thought Wren, but all she said was, "I expect I must go now, sir. I expect Mr. Shkin will wish to make what profit of me he can. But I go happily, for at least I have spoken with the finest author of the age."

"Absolutely not!" Pennyroyal heaved himself out of the pool and stood dripping, waving away the girls who came hurrying round him with towels, clothes, and a portable changing tent. "I will not hear of it, Shkin! This delightful, intelligent young person has shown pluck, initiative, and sound literary judgment. I forbid you to sell her off as a common slave."

"I have my overhead to consider, Your Worship." Shkin was angry now, white with it, and struggling to keep himself under control.

"I'll buy her myself, then," said Pennyroyal. He wasn't a sentimental man, but he didn't like to think of this discerning girl being punished for her love of his books--besides, house slaves were tax deductible. "My wife can always use a few extra handmaidens about the place," he explained, "especially now, with the preparations for the Moon Festival ball

to attend to. Tell you what--I'll give you twenty dolphins for her. That's more than fair."

"Twenty?" sneered Shkin, as if such a sum were too small to even contemplate.

"Sold!" said Pennyroyal quickly. "My people will pay you. And next time, my dear fellow, try not to be so gullible. Honestly, how could anyone believe that this girl came from America? Quite absurd!"

Shkin bowed slightly. "As you say, Your Worship. Absurd." He held out his hand. "The Tin Book, if you please."

Pennyroyal, who had been leafing through the Tin Book, snapped it shut and clutched it to his chest. "I think not, Shkin. The girl said this was a present for me."

"It is my property!"

"No, it's not. Your contract with the Council states that any Lost Boys you fished up were yours. This isn't a Lost Boy, not by any stretch of the imagination. It's some sort of Ancient code, possibly valuable. It is my duty as mayor of Brighton to hang on to it for, ah, further study."

Shkin stared for a long moment at the mayor, then at Wren. He manufactured a smile. "No doubt we shall all meet again," he said pleasantly, and turned, snapping his fingers for his men to follow him as he walked briskly away.

Pennyroyal's girls clustered around him, enclosing him within his changing tent. For a short time Wren was left alone. She grinned, flushed with her own cleverness. She might still be a slave, but she was a posh slave, in the house of the mayor himself! She would get good food and fine clothes, and probably never have to carry anything much heavier than the odd tray of fairy cakes. And she would meet all kinds of interesting

people. Handsome aviators, for instance, who might be persuaded to fly her home to Vineland.

Her only regret was that she hadn't managed to bring Fishcake up here with her. She felt responsible for the boy, and hoped that the slave dealer wouldn't take out his anger on him. But it would be all right. One way or another, she would escape, and then maybe she'd find a way of helping Fishcake too.

Nabisco Shkin was not a man who let his emotions show, and by the time the cable car set him down again on Brighton's deck plates, he had mastered his temper. At the Pepperpot he greeted Miss Weems with no more than his customary coldness and told her, "Bring me the little Lost Boy."

Soon afterward he was sitting calmly in his office, watching Fishcake tuck into a second bowl of chocolate ice cream and listening again to his account of the
Autolycus's
voyage to Vineland. This boy was telling the truth, Shkin was sure of it. But there was no point in trying to use him to discredit the mayor. He was young, and easily influenced: If it came to a trial, Pennyroyal's lawyers would tear him to shreds. Shkin closed his eyes thoughtfully and pictured Vineland. "Are you quite certain you can find the place again, boy?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Shkin," said Fishcake with his mouth full.

Shkin smiled at him over the tips of his steepled fingers. "Good. Very good," he said. "You know, boy, every now and then I acquire a slave who proves too useful or too bright to part with; Miss Weems, for example. I hope that you will be another."

Fishcake nervously returned the smile. "You mean you

ain't going to sell me off to them Nuevo-Mayan devils, sir?"

"No, no, no, no," Shkin assured him, shaking his head. "I want you to serve me, Fishcake. We'll have you trained up as an apprentice. And next summer, when the weather improves, I shall outfit an expedition, and you will lead us to Anchorage-in-Vineland. I imagine those Vinelanders or Anchorites or whatever they call themselves will fetch a good price at the slave markets."

Fishcake listened wide-eyed, then grinned. "Yes, Mr. Shkin! Thank you, Mr. Shkin!"

Shkin leaned back in his chair, his temper quite restored. He would avenge himself on Pennyroyal by showing the whole world that Anchorage had survived. As for that treacherous little vixen Wren, let her see how clever she felt when the Shkin Corporation enslaved all her family and friends.

***

THE LIMPET
SCREW
Worm had been built long before the Lost Boys started to use wireless crab-cams. Even its radio set had stopped working long ago. It had no way of receiving the broadcasts from Brighton, and so Hester, Tom, and Freya never had to find out whether Caul's desire to meet his parents would have outweighed his loyalty to his friends. Deaf to WOPCART's invitations, the
Screw Worm
swam north into the deep, cold waters of the Greenland Trench. On the same late-summer afternoon that Wren came face-to-face with Pennyroyal, its passengers finally sighted Grimsby.

Tom had visited the underwater city once before, but Hester and Freya knew it only from his descriptions. They jostled for a view as Caul steered the limpet closer.

Grimsby had been a giant industrial raft once. Now it was a drowned wreck, resting on the slopes of an undersea

mountain. Weeds and barnacles and rust were all working hard to camouflage it, blurring the outlines of buildings and paddle wheels until it was difficult to tell where Grimsby ended and the mountain began.

"Where are the lights?" asked Tom. His strongest memory of the Lost Boys' lair was the surreal glow of lamplight in the windows of Grimsby's sunken Town Hall. Now the whole city lay in darkness.

"Something's wrong," said Caul.

Something bumped against the
Screw Worm's
hull. Shards of splintered wood and torn plastic revolved in the splay of light from the nose lantern. The limpet was swimming through a zone of drifting wreckage.

"The whole place is dead--" Hester said, and then stopped short, because if that was true, then Wren was probably dead as well.

"Look at the Burglarium!" Caul whispered, shocked. A big building slid by on the starboard side, a building where he had spent much of his childhood, now lightless and open to the sea, litter swirling around huge, jagged rents in its walls. A boy's body turned slow somersaults as the
Worm's
wake reached it. Others tumbled in the flooded glastic tunnel that had once linked the Burglarium to the Town Hall. "Power plant's gone too," he added as they passed over a domed building that had been smashed like an eggshell. His voice sounded tight and strained. "The Town Hall looks all right. Nobody about, though. I'll see if we can get inside."

It was sixteen years since Caul had fled this place, but he had made the approach to the limpet pens a thousand times in his dreams since then. He swung the
Screw Worm
toward

I40 the water-door at the base of the Town Hall. The door stood open. Silvery fish were darting in and out.

"Still no one," he said. "It should be closed. There should be sentry subs to check us out."

"Maybe they're trying to raise us on the radio and we can't hear them," Tom suggested hopefully.

"What do we do?" asked Freya.

"We go in, of course," said Hester. She checked the gun in her belt, the knife in her boot. If there were any Lost Boys left alive in there, she meant to show them what Valentine's daughter was made of.

The
Screw Worm
slid into the tunnels. Automatic doors opened ahead and closed behind. "The emergency power must be on," said Caul. "That's something...."

"It could be a trap," said Hester. "They might be waiting for us."

But no one was waiting for the
Screw Worm.
It surfaced in one of the moon-pools in the floor of the limpet pen, and its passengers scrambled out into cold, stale air. The darkness was broken only by a few dim red emergency lights. Air pumps wheezed asthmatically. The big space, which Tom remembered as being filled with Lost Boys and limpets, was deserted. Docking cranes stood mournfully above the empty moon-pools like the skeletons of dinosaurs in an abandoned museum. A fat cargo submarine wallowed in a dock on the far side of the pens, her hatches open. A half-dismantled limpet lay in a repair yard, but there was no sign of the mechanics who should have been working on her.

Tom fetched an electric lantern from the
Screw Worm's
hold and went ahead, still trying to hope that he would find

Wren here somewhere, alive and safe and running to hug him. He shone the lantern into the inky shadows under the cranes. Once or twice he thought he glimpsed a crab-cam scuttling away from the light. Nothing else moved.

"Where is everybody?" he whispered.

"Well, here's one of them," said Hester.

The big door at the back of the pens stood half open, and on the threshold lay a boy of Wren's age, curled up, staring, dead. Hester pushed past Tom and stepped over the body. In the corridor outside the pens lay a half dozen more, some killed by sword thrusts, others by metal spears from harpoon guns.

"Looks like the Lost Boys have been fighting among themselves," she said. "Nice of them to save us the trouble."

Tom stepped gingerly over the dead boy and looked up. Cold drops of water pattered on his upturned face. "This place is leaking like a rusty tin can," he murmured.

"Uncle will know how to fix it," said Caul. The others turned to look at him, surprised by the confidence in his voice. He felt surprised by it himself. "Uncle built Grimsby," he reminded them. "He made the first few rooms airtight and built the first limpet all on his own, without anyone to help him." He nodded, fingering his neck. The old rope burns were still there, hard under his fingertips, reminders of how much he had feared and hated Uncle at the end. But before that, for a long time, he had loved him. Now that he was here again, and the Burglarium was a ruin and the Lost Boys gone, he found that the fear and the hate had gone as well and that only love was left. He remembered how safe he used to feel, curled up in his bunk while Uncle's voice whispered from

the ceiling speakers through the long night shift. The world had been simple then, and he had been happy.

"Uncle Knows Best," he murmured.

A sudden movement in the shadows farther down the corridor made Hester swing her gun up. Freya grabbed her arm before she could shoot, and Tom yelled "Het, no!" The echoes of his voice went booming away, up staircases and down side passages, and the face that had been pinned for an instant in his lantern beam vanished as its owner darted backward into the shadows.

"It's all right," said Freya, moving past Hester, her hands held out in front of her. "We won't hurt you."

The darkness was suddenly full of soft footfalls, rustlings. Eyes glinted in the lantern light. Out from their hiding places the children of Grimsby came creeping, smudged white faces pale as petals. They were newbies, too young to take their places yet among the Lost Boys. A few were as old as nine or ten; most were much younger. They stared at their visitors with wide, scared eyes. One girl, older and bolder than the rest, came close to Freya and said, "Are you our mummies and daddies?"