Spring (48 page)

‘It’s backing down now, so we’ve still got a wait of two or three minutes. Then hold fast again, especially you, Jack, because this time we’re going the right way through, so you’ll not want to come off or you’ll be dragged under the keel and get crushed on the rollers. Understood?’

‘Um . . . I do,’ said Jack, anxiously.

‘When we take off, we’ll take off fast, so listen out for the gargling – because that’s the . . . clue . . . Jackboy . . .
Jack! Doooown!
’

It was too late.

Deadly and powerful, the water’s currents, acting in silence, had brought the craft out of the gloom towards another sewer entrance. The others had seen it, but Jack was still curious about this place they were in, and therefore turned to face the sewer entrance so late that he instinctively raised his left arm to protect himself and it was caught on some sharp obstruction at the apex of the arch, while his left was still holding on to the lanyard as the boat slipped forward beneath him.

‘Lift ’im!’ commanded Arnold as Pike and then the others, one by one, tried dragging Jack back into the boat. ‘Lift him!’ he yelled again.

Only Brief understood but, powerful though he was for his age, he was unable to raise Jack high or quickly enough to get him off whatever had snagged him.

But Arnold himself knew what to do.

He thrust the hook end of his oar at Jack, and caught the fabric of his jacket in it, while setting the other end firmly against a rib in the stern. As the boat swept under the arch, its own momentum pushed against the oar, which lifted Jack right off the unseen obstruction, briefly up the wall, and then out over the water beyond the arch before, the boat continuing on underneath and the oar now falling flat behind the craft, he tumbled down along with it.

‘Grab this rope, Jackboy!’ yelled Arnold, and a length of rope came shooting out of the dark hole of the sewer mouth, straight into Jack’s outstretched hand.

He grabbed it, quickly, looped it tight around his hand, and clenched his fist firmly over it.

Then all was chill darkness and cold submersion as he was dragged along underwater, glad that instinct had made him gulp some air immediately before he was submerged.

His lungs bursting, he found enough purchase on the bottom of the sewer to push himself upward, only to find himself in a space full of water.

I’m going to die . . .

He felt as if his arm was being half wrenched off, his body repeatedly bashed into brick projections and sills, felt himself move faster, his chest suffering a ferment of pain, and suddenly he was up and out of the water and into spinning light, spluttering and choking as willing hands grabbed him and pulled him back into the luggerbill.

‘You can let go the lanyard, Jack, and get back to your station, there’s still work to do!’

Half-drowned, gasping, shoved roughly along the length of the boat and back to the prow, Jack was astonished to now see Pike holding the paddle.

‘Grabbed it,’ he rasped by way of explanation, ‘but
you’re
the expert!’

He thrust it back into Jack’s hands just as Arnold called, ‘We’re off again!’

‘Couldn’t someone else have a go?’ said Jack.

‘You’re doing just fine,’ growled Pike, to which Arnold added, ‘He’s a natural!’

Sopping wet and still grumbling, Jack took his position once more at the prow.

It was only then he noticed they were outside now, in a concrete canyon it seemed, and on a watercourse of some kind, and moving faster and faster yet again.

Above loomed the same dark sky of a stormy afternoon, while ahead lay the glow of a city lighting up for evening.

‘Gentlemen,’ called out Arnold Mallarkhi, with the confidence of one who knows the end is in sight, ‘bail out the bilges and hold on tight, for there’s rapids ahead!’

Of the rest of it, Jack afterwards could never remember very much. Except he felt good, his hands strong on the paddle as he heaved and pulled it, pushed and slid it through the water to either side of their craft, responding to one obstacle or change in direction after another, and to the occasional shouted instructions of his youthful captain.

The culvert they travelled in narrowed, the blank walls on either side changed to those of buildings, and occasional lights in human habitations appeared. As they went under one bridge, then another, the buildings alongside them changed again, this time to old warehouses and abandoned factories. At which point Arnold steered them at speed into a side channel, and the boat slid under a final arch to reach a wharf that rose some distance above their heads.

There were shouts, the scent of food, other craft coming and going nearby, derricks and all manner of equipment. And finally Arnold’s voice again: ‘Tie her up, Jackboy. Your job’s well done.’

They had arrived at some kind of harbour which, as they got out of the craft and climbed some slippery stone steps, Jack found was as busy a place as ever he had seen.

Lanterns lit the cobbled ways, signs hung above shop fronts, and candle-lit stalls sold roast chestnuts, crayfish steaks and jellied eel.

‘Welcome to Brum, welcome to Deritend,’ said Arnold. ‘But we need towels and a hot toddy, so follow me, lads!’

Shaken, wet, bruised and truly battered, Jack silently followed the others, feeling so tired that he could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

But he had survived, and he felt as alive as he had ever done, though there was no one at the moment he would rather have seen than Katherine.

But it seemed that before all else, there was important business to attend to.

Arnold turned to them and said, ‘That’ll be a groat and a half each, gentlemen!’

‘Or five for the whole group,’ replied Barklice firmly. ‘And Master Brief and myself get a special rate, seeing who we are, which makes it four. Agreed?’

Arnold put on a pained expression. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Mister Barklice, but a fair one, because I knows it be true that you always give a generous tip. Agreed?’

It seemed to be so.

The money was paid over without further ado, but for one thing.

‘Jack,’ said Arnold, ‘this is for you!’

He put a coin in Jack’s hand.

‘Prowman always gets a share and, by the Mirror itself, I swear I’ve never had a better one for a beginner! Now listen good, for we luggerbill-boys do things certain ways. If this is your first payment on any craft, you don’t spend it for a year, maybe many more. You keep it safe against the day when there’s true reason and need for that groat. It ain’t much but it was well and fairly earned, so when the time comes you spend it wise and good, agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ said Jack.

I
t was midnight and the level of the watercourses in and around Brum had continued to rise. So far there were no reports of flooding, and the Bilgesnipe still had things under control, but further heavy rain was forecast and the strong wind was shifting in a westerly direction, making it almost certain that the River Rea would soon back up.

The Council of Ten, the ruling body of the city, was therefore holding an emergency session. Such a meeting was never going to be welcome on the night before the High Ealdor’s birthday, when most of those now forced to attend would have preferred to get eight hours’ sleep ahead of readying themselves for his reception during the coming afternoon.

But needs must, and Councillor Hrap Dowty, whose remit was Transport and Thoroughfares, had introduced a complication. He was a pale, taciturn transport specialist with an obsession for detail and time schedules, and he had put on the table a once-in-a-decade proposal that New Brum should be sealed off from Old Brum. The reason offered was compelling.

Major road works undertaken in the centre of the city by the humans had resulted in a diversion of certain sewers, which made it much more likely in the present conditions, he said, that unpredictable flash flooding would occur in Deritend, and probably Digbeth too, which had the potential to spread north and east into the privileged areas of New Brum occupied by . . . most of the members of the Ten.

However, a sealing-off would cause much greater damage to Old Brum than would be the case if the rising waters were allowed to flow more naturally. It would almost certainly result in loss of life as well, for sealing off always meant that folk got trapped.

Dowty finished his report and sat down. Anyone closely observing him might have noticed how he cast a momentary and involuntary glance in the direction of the least important executive attending this meeting, namely Sub-Quentor Brunte.

Brunte himself noticed it, as he noticed all else.

Like some feral beast whose survival depends upon its ability to smell what its rivals are thinking, Brunte had a preternatural ability to work out others’ motives and thoughts.

He was sniffing now, and what he got was the usual conflicting odours of self-interest among the assembled members of the Ten.

All wanted to protect their grand residences and their businesses, and on those grounds they would vote for a Seal.

But each one knew that this move would be unpopular, because it would cause destruction and death to the most vulnerable and weakest members of Brum society. The city had ever been a restive, radical kind of place, where revolution seethed not far below the surface, and such a Seal therefore risked giving life to that grim spectre which had always been the Sinistrals’, and through them the Fyrd’s, greatest fear concerning Brum: revolt.

An empire, like a bank, depends for its survival upon a combination of credit and might. Each must seem to be invulnerable; though neither ever is.

So the Ten, with the Administrator, the elderly General Elon, in the chair, debated the issue, while their three Quentors, or executives, and Brunte as Sub-Quentor, none of whom had any right to speak unless invited to do so, sat listening impassively.

Brunte attended to this debate with all the fascination and self-interest of one who had spent his still-young life wholeheartedly studying survival and the gaining of further power. He heard – in fact he smelt, almost tasted – the thundering rain outside, and it was becoming increasingly sweet. It represented
opportunity
. It signalled a change long time in the making, ever since as a nineteen-year-old he had witnessed the abortive attempt to kill the giant-born.

But the debate was diffuse, the Ten uncertain, their tendency towards deferral. Brunte sensed that an intervention was necessary, but without a direct invitation he could not speak. If he tried, it would be a step too far; if he remained silent, the decision would go against the Seal and the moment would be lost.

Brunte did the only thing he could.

Waiting for a pause in the discussion, he leaned forward, beyond the subservient line of his superiors, the three Quentors; he exhaled deeply and audibly, and tapped his fingers on the table very lightly – not enough to appear in any way impatient, yet just sufficient to be noticed. Which it was likely he would be, for Brunte possessed that indefinable quality of all great conspirators, who are able to make others believe the impossible is possible, that dreams can come true, and that they are the ones to turn the weak into the strong and then lead them to the promised land. In short, a sense of potency and power, charisma and self-belief.

Having made his presence thus felt, he said nothing but waited calmly and reflected with secret pleasure on three things that were very relevant indeed to the way he must steer the Ten, but which he had no intention of revealing to them.

The first thing was that the report from Hrap Dowty which had provoked this debate was false. The sewers had certainly been diverted by the humans, but the Bilgesnipe had already forestalled any extra danger by making diversions of their own. Dowty must surely know that, just as Brunte did.

The second thing was that Festoon Avon, High Ealdor of Brum, was a fraud. The pose of innocence and weak irrelevance which he had fostered among the Fyrd, through every hour and every day for the fifteen years since his appointment, was bogus. He was in fact intelligent, calculating, manipulative and a true leader of his people, and Brunte knew that. The question was who else did. Not any of the Ten, that was for sure.

Thirdly Brunte knew that if the Ten voted for a Seal, then two of their number at least would be dead before four by the clock the following afternoon. Within an hour of that, the three Quentors seated at his side and seven more of the Ten would be also be dead, leaving just one alive to take over as Administrator.

By then, as well, he would have promoted himself from the lowly rank he now held to something impressive – he had not yet decided his title.

He relaxed. He could
smell
the chairman’s acquiescence to his unspoken desire to speak.

‘I think,’ began Elon, ‘it might be prudent on this particular occasion to ask the views of the Sub-Quentor with respect to the present state of law and order in our city, and thus any implications that it should have for the decision we are about to make.’

‘Agreed,’ murmured several of the Ten.

They turned to Brunte and, as if surprised by the invitation and sensible of the honour it accorded him, he smiled modestly and began speaking, with murder in his heart.