Predator's Gold (7 page)

“Here we are,” announced Smew suddenly. “The Winter Palace; home to the House of Rasmussen for eight hundred years.”

They were nearing the city’s stern, and the bug’s electric motor griped and whinnied as it carried them up a long ramp. At the top stood the palace which Tom had glimpsed from the air the night before; a twirl of white metal with spires and balconies rimed in ice. The upper storeys looked empty and abandoned, but lights showed in some of the windows on the lower floors, and gas-flames danced in bronze tripods outside the circular front door.

The bug scrunched to a halt on the frosty drive, and Smew held the canopy while his passengers climbed out, then hurried up the palace steps and slid the outer door open, letting them into a small chamber called a heat-lock. He slid the door shut, and after a few seconds, when the cold air that had entered with the visitors had been warmed by heaters in the roof and walls, an inner door opened. They followed Smew into a panelled hallway, the walls hung with tapestries. Giant double doors loomed ahead, clad in priceless Old-Tech alloys. Smew knocked on them, then muttered, “Wait here, please,” and scurried away down a side-passage. The building creaked slightly, swaying with the motion of the city. There was a smell of mildew.

“I don’t like this,” said Hester, looking up at the thick veils of cobweb which swathed the chandeliers and dangled from the heating ducts. “Why has she asked us here? It could be a trap.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Miss Shaw,” scoffed Pennyroyal, trying not to look too alarmed by her suggestion. “A trap? Why should the margravine set a trap for us? She’s a very superior sort of person, remember, a type of mayoress.” Hester shrugged. “I’ve only come across two mayors before, and neither of them were very superior. They were both stark, staring mad.” The doors suddenly jerked and slid sideways, grating slightly on their bearings.

Beyond them stood Smew, dressed now in a long blue robe and a six-cornered hat and clutching a staff of office twice his own height. He welcomed the guests solemnly, as if he had never seen them before, and then thumped the staff three times on the metal floor. “Professor Nimrod Pennyroyal and party,” he announced, and stepped aside to let them walk past him into the pillared space beyond.

A line of argon globes hung from the vaulted roof, each casting a circular glow on the floor beneath it, like stepping stones of light leading towards the far end of the enormous chamber. Someone sat waiting there, slouched in an ornate throne on a raised dais. Hester groped for Tom’s hand, and side by side they followed Pennyroyal through shadow and light, shadow and light, until they stood at the foot of the dais steps, looking up into the face of the margravine.

For some reason, they had both expected someone old. Everything in this silent, rusting house spoke of age and decay, of ancient customs preserved long after their purpose had been forgot en. Yet the girl gazing haughtily down at them was even younger than they were; certainly not a day over sixteen. A large, pretty girl, dressed in an elaborate ice-blue gown and a white overmantle with a fox-fur collar. Her features had something of the Inuit look of Aakiuq and his wife, but her skin was very fair and her hair was golden. The colour of autumn leaves, Hester thought, hiding her face. The margravine’s beauty made her feel small and worthless and unneeded. She started looking for faults. She’s far too fat. And her neck needs a good wash. And the moths have been at that pretty frock, and all the buttons are done up wrong…

Beside her, Tom was thinking, So young, and in charge of a whole city! No wonder she looks sad!

“Your Worship,” said Pennyroyal, bowing low. “May I say how very grateful I am for the kindness that you and your people have extended to myself and my young companions…”

“You must call me ‘Your Radiance’,” said the girl. “Or, ‘Light of the Ice Fields’.” There was an awkward silence. Little scraping and clicking noises came from the fat heating ducts which snaked across the ceiling, warming the palace with recycled heat from the engines. The girl peered at her guests. At last she said, “If you’re Nimrod Pennyroyal, how come you’re so much fatter and balder than your picture?”

She picked up a book from a small side-table and held it out to show the back cover.

It bore a painting of someone who might have been Pennyroyal’s hunkier younger brother.

“Ah, well, artistic licence, you know,” blustered the explorer. “Fool of a painter – I told him to show me as I am, paunch and high forehead and all, but you know what these artistic types are; they do love to idealize, to show the inner man…” The margravine smiled. (She looked even prettier smiling. Hester decided that she disliked her quite a lot.) “I just wanted to be sure that it was really you, Professor Pennyroyal,” she said. “I quite understand about the portrait. I was always having to have mine done for plates and stamps and coins and things before the plague came, and they hardly ever got it right…”

She stopped talking suddenly, as if some internal nanny had reminded her that a margravine does not babble in front of her guests like an excited teenager. “You may be seated,” she announced, much more formally, and clapped her hands. A door behind the throne popped open and Smew came scuttling out, dragging a set of small chairs. He had taken on yet another guise: the pillbox hat and high-collared tunic of a footman. For a moment Tom wondered if there really were three identical little men in the margravine’s service, but when he looked more closely it was obvious that this was the same Smew; he was still out of breath from his quick changes, and the chamberlain’s wig poked from his pocket.

“Do hurry up,” said the margravine.

“Sorry, Your Radiance.” Smew set the three chairs down facing the throne, then vanished into the shadows again. A moment later he was back, wheeling a heated trolley on which stood a pot of tea and a tray of almond biscuits. With him came another man, tall, stern and elderly, dressed all in black. He nodded to the newcomers, then took up a position beside the throne as Smew poured tea into tiny Blast Glass cups and handed them to the guests.

“So I take it you know my work, O Light of the Ice Fields?” said Pennyroyal, simpering a little.

The margravine’s mask of courtly etiquette slipped again, the excitable teenager showing through. “Oh yes! I love history and adventures. I used to read about them all the time before… well, before I became margravine. I’ve read al the classics: Valentine, and Spofforth, and Tamarton Foliot. But yours were always my favourites, Professor Pennyroyal. That’s what gave me the idea to…”

“Careful, Margravine,” said the man at her side. His voice was a soft rumble, like a well-tuned engine.

“Well, anyway,” said the margravine, “that’s why it’s so wonderful that the Ice Gods sent you here! It’s a sign, you see. A sign that I made the right decision, and that we’ll find what we are looking for. With you to help us, how can we possibly fail?”

“Mad as a spoon,” whispered Hester to Tom, very quietly.

“I’m rather at a loss, Your Radiance,” admitted Pennyroyal. “I think perhaps my intellects are still a little fuddled after that knock on the head. I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“It’s quite simple,” said the margravine.

“Margravine,” warned the man at her side again.

“Oh, don’t be such an old gloom-bucket, Mr Scabious!” she retorted. “This is Professor Pennyroyal! We can trust him!”

“I don’t doubt it, Your Radiance,” said Scabious. “It is his young friends I am concerned about. If they get wind of our course there is a danger they may be off to sell us to Arkangel as soon as their ship is repaired. Direktor Masgard would dearly love to get his hands on my engines.”

“We’d never do anything like that!” cried Tom, and would have sprung forward to confront the old man if Hester had not held him back.

“I think I can vouch for my crew, Your Radiance,” said Pennyroyal. “Captain Natsworthy is a historian like myself, trained at the London Museum.” The margravine turned to study Tom for the first time, with a look of such admiration that he blushed and stared down at his feet. “Then welcome, Mr Natsworthy,” she said softly. “I hope that you will stay here and help us too.”

“Help you with what?” asked Hester bluntly.

“With our journey to America, of course,” the girl replied. She turned the book that she was holding to display the front cover. It showed a muscly, too-handsome Pennyroyal fighting a bear, egged on by a girl in a fur bikini. It was a first edition of America the Beautiful.

“This one was always my favourite,” the margravine explained. “I expect that’s why the Ice Gods put the idea of America into my head. We’re going to find our way across the ice to the new green wilderness that Professor Pennyroyal discovered.

There we’ll swap our skids for wheels, and chop down the trees for fuel, and trade with the savages, and introduce them to the benefits of Municipal Darwinism.”

“But, but, but…” Pennyroyal gripped the hand-rests of his chair as if he were riding a roller coaster. “But I mean to say, the Canadian Ice Sheet – West of Greenland – No city has ever attempted to –”

“I know, Professor,” the girl agreed. “It will be a long and dangerous journey for us, just as it was for you when you came on foot out of America, up on to the ice. But the gods are with us. They must be. Otherwise they would not have sent you to us. I am going to appoint you Honorary Chief Navigator, and with your help I know we will come safely into our new hunting ground.”

Tom, thrilled by the boldness of the margravine’s vision, turned to Pennyroyal.

“What wonderful luck, Professor!” he said happily. “You’ll be able to return to America after all!”

Pennyroyal made a gurgling sound and his eyes bulged. “I… Chief navigator, eh?

You are too kind, Light of the Ice Fields, too kind…” His Blast Glass cup dropped from his fingers as he fainted, shattering on the iron floor. Smew tutted, because the set was an old heirloom of the House of Rasmussen, but Freya did not care.

“Professor Pennyroyal is still weak from his adventures,” she said. “Put him to bed!

Air rooms in the guest quarters for himself and his friends. We must nurse him back to health as soon as possible. And do stop fretting about that silly little cup, Smew. Once the professor has led us to America we shall be able to dig up all the Blast Glass we could possibly desire!”

9

WELCOME TO THE FACILITY

Far to the south, beyond the margins of the ice, an island rose from a cold sea. Black it was, and jagged, streaked with the droppings of gulls and skuas which made their homes upon its ledges. The noise of the birds could be heard from miles away as they clanged and shrieked and squabbled, diving into the surf for fish or wheeling in great flocks about the high summit, sometimes perching on the roofs of the squat buildings which clung there, or on the rusting handrails of the precarious metal walkways which jutted from the sheer cliffs like bracket fungus on a dead tree-stump. For although the place looked uninhabitable, people lived there; airship hangars had been blasted out of the rock, and clusters of spherical fuel-tanks huddled like spiders’ eggs in narrow crevices. This was Rogues’ Roost, where Red Loki and his legendary band of air-pirates had built their eyrie.

Loki was gone now, and there were still the scars of rocket explosions on some of the buildings to show that he had not gone willingly. A Green Storm assault unit had come down upon this place one calm night, butchered the pirates and taken control of the Roost, establishing a base that no hungry city could come at.

The sun was setting, the red and purple and smoky orange smeared across the eastern sky making the island look even more sinister than usual as the Temporary Blip came chugging in from windward. Gun emplacements swivelled like armoured heads, tracking the plump old airship. As she edged in towards the main hangar her escort of Fox Spirits flew circles around her, like farm dogs chivvying a reluctant ewe into a fold.

“What a dump!” complained one of Widgery Blinkoe’s wives, peering out through the gondola windows.

“You told us reporting that old airship would bring us luck and money,” agreed another. “You said we’d be sunning ourselves on a raft resort, not trailing out here off the edge of the world.”

“You promised new dresses, and slaves!”

“Silence, wives!” shouted Blinkoe, trying to concentrate on his steering-levers while ground-crew guided him into the hangar with coloured flags. “Show some respect!

This is a Green Storm base! It is an honour to be asked here: a sign that they value my services!” But in truth he was as dismayed as them at being summoned to Rogues’ Roost. After he radioed his sighting of the Jenny Haniver to the Storm’s base in the Tannhäusers he’d expected a thank you and perhaps a nice payment. He had certainly not expected to be jumped by a flight of Fox Spirits as soon as he left Airhaven and dragged all the way out here.

“Well, really!” grumbled his wives, nudging each other.

“It’s a pity the Green Storm don’t respect him as much as he respects them!”

“Value his services, indeed!”

“Think of the business we’re losing, trailing out here!”

“My mother warned me not to marry him.”

“So did mine!”

“Mine, too!”

“He knows this is a fool’s errand! See how worried he looks!” Mr Blinkoe was still looking worried as he stepped out of the Temporary Blip in the chaotic, echoey hangar, but his expression changed to an indulgent smile when a pretty subaltern came hurrying up to salute him. Widgery Blinkoe had a weakness for pretty young women, which was how he had ended up marrying five of them, and although those five had all turned out to be rather shrill and headstrong and tended to gang up on him, he could not help toying with the thought of asking the subaltern to become number six.