The Rise of the Iron Moon (44 page)

‘And a statue to Lord Rooksby here in Jackals,’ said Molly. ‘Although the House of Guardians is still arguing about who should go on top of the second plinth in Highhorn Square.’

Indeed, Molly had seen the cartoon in the newspaper the steamman had bought. A statueless towering column with a gaggle of parliamentarians trying to push each other off the top, their trousers half-pulled down, a speech bubble rising from a crew of u-boat sailors below trying to dodge the faeces falling out of the politicians’ overlarge buttocks, saying, ‘
Gads,
you jolly tars, now it is each other they attempt to give the
shaft
.’

‘If I had a vote in parliament I would cast it in favour of a statue of you,’ said Coppertracks.

‘Then let us both be glad that you’ve never stood for election as a guardian,’ smiled Molly.

Coppertracks’ transparent dome of a skull flared with energy. ‘I am quite sincere, Molly softbody. You risked your life on the iron moon to save my people from the Army of Shadows.’

‘I think I risked it to save your people from
my
people.’

‘The Army of Shadows were not you,’ insisted Coppertracks. ‘It is not the composition of our form that defines us, it is our actions on the great pattern. My heart pulses with steam, your heart beats with blood, yet when your people had to choose, you – even that rascal Lord Rooksby – chose to act with the humanity your race wears as its title.’

Molly nodded. Yes, let poor dead Lord Rooksby have his place up on the plinth, as a scientist and the official leader of the expedition, rather than the twisted avian monster he had been transformed into. He had earned it, in the end.

‘Then what are we, old steamer?’

Coppertracks changed his treads’ configuration to raise him up and stared out across the capital’s fast-flowing river. ‘Molly softbody, you are my friend.’ The steamman reached down into a satchel, bringing out the porcelain canister containing the ashes from the handful of Lord Rooksby’s feathers Molly had seized. ‘And speaking of friends, shall we wait for Jared before we scatter these in the river?’

Molly shook her head. Commodore Black wouldn’t be coming onto the bridge any time soon. ‘The hero of Highhorn is in one of those taverns down on the embankment drinking it up with the
Spartiate’s
crew. One of the officers mentioned he had a brother in the State Office of Shipwrights who might be able to put a decommissioned u-boat Jared’s way for the right price.’

‘By the beard of Zaka of the Cylinders,’ said the startled steamman. ‘Please tell me you are making a jest?’

‘Would that I were,’ said Molly.

‘He is too old to go jaunting about the world in a u-boat,’ said Coppertracks, passing the jar of ashes for Molly to scatter. ‘As am I for such foolishness.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Now that your tower’s been taken down, a gentle voyage of scientific discovery might be just the thing.’

‘The last time I followed Jared softbody on a seadrinker vessel, the only discovery I made was how much treasure and death lay hiding on the Isla Needless. I shall talk him out of this folly after we are finished here. My arguments coupled with the attractions of a warm house and a full pantry will win the day, I am sure, with winter coming.’

Molly shrugged. Good luck to that. Opening the jar, she tipped the ashes from Lord Rooksby’s feathers away, a shroud of dark dust falling into the wind and drifting above the surface of the river’s green waters.

Molly bowed her head and said a quiet meditation to the Circle for Rooksby’s soul to be cupped out of the one sea of consciousness and refilled into a happier life. ‘To all the friends we have lost.’

Below, Lord Rooksby’s ashes joined the water and were borne away by the frothing course of the Gambleflowers. The river took everything, in Middlesteel.

The Court of the Air
The Kingdom Beyond the Waves
The Rise of the Iron Moon

Harper
Voyager
HarperCollins
Publishers
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

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Published by Harper
Voyager
An imprint of HarperCollins
Publishers
2009
1

Copyright © Stephen Hunt 2009

Stephen Hunt asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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EPub Edition © JANUARY 2009 ISBN: 9780007301881

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