The navigator (17 page)

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She was going out of the front door of the Workhouse when she met the Sub-Commandant.

"Come with me quickly," he said. "There's something I want you to see." He walked on without waiting to see if she was following. Shaking off her mood, Cati hurried after.

The Sub-Commandant threw open the doors of the Convoke and strode in. Pieta was sitting by the fire on her own. There were several bottles on top of the fireplace and her eyes were bleary when she looked up. The Sub-Commandant walked quickly over to her. He went down on one knee and started speaking urgently into her ear. Her head straightened. She looked at him with what seemed to Cati like distrust. Her father spoke again. Taking Pieta by the hand, he made her rise to her feet and led her gently across the hall. She stumbled several times, but the night air outside seemed to revive her.

They went round the side of the Workhouse to the little door of the Starry, where the Sub-Commandant stopped. Almost hesitantly, Pieta went in ahead. Cati stood in the doorway beside her father. Almost against her will she took his hand, something she had not done since she was a small child. As her eyes got used to the gloom of the Starry she saw a boy and a girl holding hands. They were smiling shyly. Pieta knelt in front of them, making small sounds of wonder. The two children dashed toward Pieta and flung their arms round her neck. The Sub-Commandant, smiling, drew Cati backward, closing the door gently behind him.

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"That's not for us to watch," he said gently. His hand held Cati's tightly. They walked in silence.

"Are they her children?" Cati asked.

"Yes. They fell asleep many, many years ago and did not wake, and the pain and the bitterness gnawed at Pieta."

"What will happen now?"

"I hope she will be healed. And if she is healed, she may not be the great fighter that she was. But no matter. Without the Mortmain we haven't much of a chance anyway."

"But we do have a chance?" Cati said anxiously.

"There's always a chance," said the Sub-Commandant, seeing her anxiety. "We have fought the Harsh many times and each time we've held the line. Now," he went on, "what about young Owen? How is he getting on?"

"Well ...," Cati began. The Sub-Commandant noticed her hesitation.

"What is it?" he said.

"We had a fight," she said, her voice low.

"Tell me about it." He didn't look at her, but Cati could tell that he wasn't pleased. She told him what had happened. How Owen had doubted his own father and how she had stuck up for the man. The Sub-Commandant sighed.

"You have to understand, Cati. So many things have let Owen down, including his sense of reality. Even time has let him down. Then people tell him that his father is a thief Worse than a thief. A traitor. He's angry and

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bewildered and he blames his father. He thought that his father had killed himself Dr. Diamond thinks that he did not and I agree. But either way, Owen feels abandoned."

"I think I understand," said Cati slowly, "and I should have kept my big mouth shut."

"Exactly," the Sub-Commandant said firmly. "Now, what we have to do is to go to the Den and see Owen, and make sure that he doesn't go to sleep miserable. Do you think that's a good idea?" Her father's tone was light, but Cati knew that she wasn't really being asked a question. She nodded without speaking, and they turned away from the Workhouse and onto the path to the Den.

Her father knew straightaway that something was wrong. He paused at the entrance to the Den and Cati saw his eyes narrow. With one hand on the weapon at his waist he crept forward, Cati following. He went through the little entryway and held up his weapon, his finger on the trigger so that it emitted a low, blue light, enough to illuminate the scene of devastation. Owen's sleeping bag and sofa had been torn apart and the contents strewn over the floor, which itself was full of holes as if someone had been digging in search of something. Loose stones had been ripped from the walls, and the car radio and lorry wing mirror had been smashed to pieces.

Cati found candles in the debris and lit them. The Sub-Commandant examined the scene with great care.

"Is there anything missing?" he asked.

"Not that I can think of," Cati replied. "It's hard to tell. Have they taken Owen?"

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"I don't think so. There's no sign of a struggle. Just a search."

"What were they looking for?"

"The same thing we are. The Mortmain. Which is good."

"How can this be good?" Cati said, looking at the mess around her.

"It's good because it means that the Mortmain is still lost. If the Harsh got their hands on it then the end would be near."

He took one of the candles and began to examine the walls of the Den.

"Where is it, then?" asked Cati.

"If it fell from the car at Johnston's, then the chances are that it is still there, among the scrap, unless ..." His voice trailed off.

"Unless what?" said Cati impatiently.

"Unless someone picked it up by mistake," the Sub-Commandant said slowly. "Unless they mistook it for something else." He bent to pick up an object.

Cati could not see what he was looking at. She ducked round the broken sofa until she was standing beside him. The Sub-Commandant was turning the object over and over in his hands, something with a dull gleam.

"That's only an old boat propeller!" Cati exclaimed. "Owen picked it up at Johnston's scrapyard. ..." Her voice trailed off as she realized what she was saying.

"Is it?" the Sub-Commandant said, almost under his

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breath, and his eyes gleamed in the candlelight. "Is it only an old propeller? Look!" He thrust the object under her nose. There were three blades just like a propeller, but the round hole in the middle, where the driveshaft would have gone, did not look like it belonged to an ordinary propeller. It had been etched and grooved in patterns that seemed at once completely random and very precise, and when you moved the object a line would seem to disappear and reappear somewhere else, some of the lines running to the edge of the round hole and seeming to pour out of it like liquid; others were like moving shadowlines that you could only see out of the corner of your eye but which disappeared when you looked straight at them.

"It is, isn't it?" whispered Cati.

"It is the Mortmain," her father said, his eyes bright with amazement. "Owen had it here all along and did not know it."

He turned it over in his hands again and Cati gazed on it, astonished at the way it transformed itself from a piece of tarnished metal into a marvelous object, gleaming with hidden fire and meaning, then mutating back into an old propeller.

"What do we do?"

"It's not for us to decide. There will have to be a Convoke."

"What do you think?"

"I think that in this case the Mortmain is a kind of a

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key. I think it is the key to the Great Machine in the north. Someone will have to take it there, is my guess, and use it to stop the Machine."

"Who will take it?"

The Sub-Commandant hesitated. A cold breeze blew through the Den and Cati shivered. "It should have been Owen," he said finally. "It should have been. History dictates it. But something warns me that it will not be. That Owen is already gone."

"Gone where?"

"I saw him earlier, going toward the river. I thought he was going to see Wesley at the harbor. I should have gone after him."

"Gone where?" Cati insisted.

"They say that the sins of a father should not be visited on the son, but I'm afraid sometimes they are. I think Owen has crossed the river to look for the Mortmain."

Owen found it hard going in the trees. It was dense, old-growth forest. The trees were gnarled and mossy, and half-rotten trunks lay across his path, hidden by undergrowth, so that he stumbled often. Ivy and creepers hung down, brushing his face like cold hands, making him jump. And there were noises as well. An owl hooting, a nightjar, and strange rustling noises. Once something large pushed through the undergrowth near him and he stood very still and held his breath until it had gone. He

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didn't know what it was, but he noted that it wasn't afraid to make noise.

It was about a mile to Johnston's house, and before time went backward it would have taken Owen fifteen minutes walking through open fields. But now he had been in the forest for over an hour. The branches of the trees were bare, but little starlight filtered through them. After three-quarters of an hour he had stumbled out onto a well-used path. He knew that he couldn't take it, that it was probably the route used by Johnston's men to get to the riverbank. It was too risky, so he backed into the woods again and tried to steer a course close to the path, but far enough away so that a passing patrol would not hear him crashing through the undergrowth.

As he pushed on, his face scratched by twigs and his muscles aching from the fall from the pine tree, Owen thought about Cati. He regretted quarreling with her. He had few enough friends in the Workhouse as it was. And if he hadn't quarreled with her, she would be with him now. Then perhaps it was a good thing they had fallen out, he thought grimly. His father had lost the Mortmain and it was up to Owen to get it back, not Cati. Still, he wished he had someone who would make a joke or talk. Anything to help lighten the gloom of the forest.

He pushed on, more and more slowly, bumping into tree trunks, briars wrapping themselves round his legs so he had to stop and unwind them. It was almost as if the forest was alive and full of malice. An image of Dr. Diamond

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came into Owen's head and he almost laughed out loud. He wondered how Dr. Diamond would react if you asked him for the right time. The answer wouldn't be simple. A cold wind rattled the branches above and Owen wished that he was back in Dr. Diamond's Skyward. Then he thought that Dr. Diamond would be angry with him for breaking into the Skyward and using the machine.

The full loneliness of his position became clear. Rut-gar would be mad at him for getting through his defenses and crossing the river. The Sub-Commandant would side with Cati. Samual hated him anyway. Chancellor seemed to think of him as a mere boy and his father's son at that. Contessa, he thought. Perhaps Contessa would speak up for him. And Wesley, even if it was only for the sake of annoying the others. It wouldn't be enough, Owen knew. Even if he had the Mortmain, it wouldn't be enough. And if he returned without it, they would surely brand him a spy. He sighed.

After another half an hour he started to slow. The undergrowth was getting thinner and Owen took that as a sign he was reaching the edge of the forest. He didn't want to stumble into one of Johnston's patrols. After a few minutes he could see lights through the trees and then he was at the edge of the forest. He could see that the trees in front of him had been slashed and burned to create a clearing. Owen crept forward to the very edge of the trees and knew that the light he had seen was Johnston's house, far bigger than he had remembered, although it had been hidden behind trees. But there were

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no trees this time and the huge manor dominated the ground around it. All the windows blazed with magno light. To the left of the massive front doors were French windows, larger even than the doors. These lay open and music drifted out. The house resembled an ocean liner sailing through the night.

To his right, he could see a large encampment of tents, laid out like a small town with streets between blocks of tents, and open spaces. For cooking, he thought, for large fires blazed here and there. The streets were strewn with rubbish, and Owen wrinkled his nose at the smell drifting toward him. To his left, he could see the place where the scrapyard had been, but little of the scrap remained. All that was left were bits of brass, old fenders, copper water tanks. That was where he had to go.

Before Owen had a chance to move, he heard voices. He ducked back into the trees as two men walked past. They were both tough-looking, with the long sideburns that Johnston's men wore. One of them had a rose behind his ear, although where he had got a rose in winter Owen could not tell. He waited until the two men had gone, then started to edge through the trees toward the scrap. He knew he would have to cross the open ground, but he meant to get as close as possible before he did so. The wind, which he had barely felt in the forest, was stronger now, and the treetops shuddered and shook. He felt small icy particles stinging his face. Owen moved quickly, the noise of the trees masking his passage, and within a minute he was level with the scrap. He could see

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a copse of small scrubby trees growing in the middle of it. Once he got there, he thought, he could get his bearings and see if he could work out where the Mortmain might have fallen when it was thrown from his father's car.

He crouched at the edge of the trees, looking up and down. He couldn't see anyone coming. The icy wind carried a burst of harsh laughter down from the tent town, and somewhere, faintly, he could still hear the music coming from the open French windows. He tried to gauge the distance, perhaps two hundred meters, exposed to anyone who might come out of the tent village, and overlooked by Johnston's manor. A great gust of wind brought a fine cloud of icy particles and for a moment the house and village were obscured. Owen thought it had to be now. He exploded from the trees, arms and legs pumping.

It was farther than he thought. Much farther. And the icy blast that had helped hide him died down before he was halfway across. He felt terribly exposed and the trees seemed to get no nearer. Owen waited for the shout of a guard, heavy feet running behind him. He felt the blood pounding in his ears and his breath was coming in great shuddering gasps. Stumbling, almost weeping, he fell into the shelter of the trees. He lay still, fighting for breath, his sides aching. He couldn't remember ever having run so fast. His heart thumped madly, but gradually he was able to get his breath and sit up cautiously.