The Sunken (14 page)

Thinking back to his encounter with Oswald the previous evening made the blood boil in Nicholas’ veins.
Who is that man to dig up my past? How dare he try to keep me from the one man who understands what I am?
After tossing and turning for several hours during the night, replaying the conversation over in his mind, Nicholas had decided to ignore Oswald. After all, the man had no real power. He would tell Isambard of Oswald’s threats as soon as he emerged from his workshops, and Isambard would deal with Oswald as any religious leader might deal with a wayward priest.

Inside Nicholas’ head, the stray thoughts of animals flicked in and out, as they did every minute of every day. The compies in the basement, the birds sitting on the eaves outside, the sheep grazing on the slope behind the college — these mundane manifestations blurred together in a constant layer of noise that filled his head, pushing aside all other thoughts save the one he chose to concentrate on. He stared across the room at Aaron, knowing he must hear the noises also, knowing he must, at that moment, be exerting great energy to push them down.

Why then could he possibly want to go to the swamps?

Aaron had insisted they share a carriage on the way to Windsor Castle. Nicholas, not seeing Oswald anywhere in the vicinity, did not refuse. He had so many questions, about Aaron, about his grandfather, about his life growing up with Brunel. Oswald’s words echoed in his head as he bombarded Aaron with questions, not knowing if he’d ever get another chance.

“My father resented my grandfather,” said Aaron. “He was a hunter too, but he didn’t have the
sense.
He felt it was my grandfather’s fault we had to leave the swamps. Not one of his children has even seen the swamps — not even Oswald. To a proud Stoker like my father, that’s abhorrent. But Grandfather knew he was only doing what was best for the Stokers, for our survival.”

“What happened to your grandfather?”

“He died when I was five. The pox got to him. Many Stokers died of it then — it seemed to rise from the swamp mists. Now we die in machinery accidents, of dust in the lungs, but nothing much else has changed. He was the only one who knew—”

“What happened then?”

“My father followed soon after, and my brothers attempted to look after me while Mother drank herself to death. No one much cared for me — Henry was always the favourite. Even though we’re twins, we were nothing alike. He was strong, built for hard labour in the furnace rooms, and I was smaller and had a way with animals — a useless skill in Engine Ward. After Henry died, Oswald and Peter turned nasty, especially when they discovered I’d become friends with Isambard. After Mother died, I went to live with Quartz, and good riddance to them.”

“They care about you, though, in their own way.”
If blackmail could ever be construed as caring.

Aaron shook his head. “They care about keeping their priesthood, even if it means working for a man they abhor. They care about our family name, for what it’s worth in Stoker society. They don’t want me to mess everything up. It would be much better for all concerned if I just went away. But I can’t leave Isambard.”

He’d changed the subject then, and said no more of it. And now, to hear him talk about the swamps with such reverence, Nicholas began to see the cause of the silent fury that bubbled beneath Aaron’s skin. He could discern it, but he didn’t
understand
it.

Nicholas was in London because he was running away … he’d never really stopped running since he’d left his father’s estate twelve years ago. But Aaron had lived in London his whole life. He’d known the peace that came from surrounding himself in high walls, but still he yearned for the swamps — a spiritual homeland he’d never even seen. Nicholas could not fathom why Aaron would want to abandon all he had here for the wild, a place which must be torturous to minds like theirs.

We have everything we could ever want, right here in London. Here we can dull the unceasing onslaught of voices. And more than that, you have family. You have work. You have Brunel. What would make you wish to leave all this?

The carriage dropped Aaron back outside Engine Ward just as the evening’s celebrations inside began in earnest. As he picked his way through the darkness of the tunnels, he could hear the talking and laughing filtering down from the streets. The Stokers — joined by some of the other sympathetic factions within Engine Ward — had been celebrating Brunel’s victory for three days straight. They dragged wood and rubbish — anything that would burn — into the cooking pits and lit a towering bonfire.

As Aaron emerged from the subterranean world behind the Chimney, a wave of heat washed over his body. He shielded his eyes from the bright inferno that leapt unencumbered from the central courtyard of Engine Ward. The press of people immediately consumed him, bearing him against his will into the joyous crowd.

“Aaron!”

Someone grabbed his arm. It was Quartz, his face flushed with booze. Laughing, Aaron slapped the old man’s back and clung to him, allowing Quartz to lead him closer to the blaze, where the women crowded around, balancing cooking pots filled with meats and stews, which they placed in the embers ’till the smells rose over the whole camp. Aaron waved to his wife, Chloe, who waved back as she leaned her pregnant belly against the pot, lifting the lid on her creation and dishing stew into several outstretched bowls. Generations of working in the swamps or with the machines had rendered most Stokers without smell or taste, yet even the most ancient, hardened worker smelt this particular meal.

Men dragged out musical instruments that had gathered dust for years, and the children skipped and sang the old folk tunes, including at least three renditions of “The Stoker and the Navvy’s Wife”. Even Quartz had got into the spirit of things, although Quartz could be guaranteed to get into the spirit of any occasion provided there was a free flow of alcohol.

“It’s amazing,” said Aaron, helping himself to a mug full of stew and clambering behind Quartz up onto the leaning roof of a nearby shack. “When we first showed the engine, most of the Council wanted to see him hanged for daring to call himself an engineer, and now, he’s the most celebrated engineer of all.”

“Mmmmph,” Quartz didn’t look so impressed. He slugged back the dregs of his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Never you mind all this, boy. After the party dies down, then we’ll see what Isambard will make of all this attention. And where is old Iron-Bags tonight, eh? I thought he would have shown up for his own party.”

“I don’t rightly know. He’s been locked up in the workshop ever since the announcement. Have you any clue what he’s doing?”

“I wouldn’t know. Us mere mortals aren’t allowed within those hallowed walls.” Quartz scowled at the Chimney.

“Isambard’s work is
good
for the Stokers, Quartz.”

“Bollocks. Isambard’s work is good for Isambard. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be. This city embraces him not because he is a Stoker, but because he has overcome
us
to become one of
them.
We’re not even allowed to work on this new Wall of his, since it stretches outside Engine Ward.”

“If you knew him—”

“You’ve always been in his shadow, Aaron. I never liked that boy — too much thinking. Too many secrets locked up in his scheming head. Three days a Presbyter and he’s already as slippery as the rest of the priests,” Quartz growled. “No good will come of this, mark my words, lad. He’s sending me away, you know.”

“What?” Aaron hadn’t heard anything about that.

“Back to the swamps. He’s building some fan-dangled railway from London to Plymouth, through the worst of the dragon country. It runs on air-pressure or some such nonsense. Bloody stupid idea, if you ask me—”

“The Atmospheric Railway?” It had been one of Isambard’s more ambitious schemes, an idea that he’d submitted to the Council for funding on three separate occasions without success. Instead of steam, the trains were propelled by vacuum pressure through tubes running along the centre of the track. The train was controlled by opening and closing flaps within the vacuum tube.

“It’s a farce, Aaron. He needs an engineering project to appease the Council, to hide what he’s really doing. He wants to find out what’s scaring the dragons out of the swamp. He sent for me yesterday evening. Right into his lordly manor I had to go so he could inform me I am to be one of the foremen in charge of overseeing this little venture.”

Aaron remembered what Buckland had said earlier that evening about Brunel’s sudden interest in his biological theories. He wondered why Isambard hadn’t told him about the Atmospheric Railway.

Quartz read his expression. “See, he’s not one of us anymore. Stokers belong in swamps, Aaron. Engineers belong in the city. He’s getting rid of us to become one of
them
.”

“I’m certain he doesn’t mean that. Besides, I thought you wanted to return to the swamps?”

“Not for what he’s paying me,” Quartz spat. “There are no lodgings for us, nothing left of our old camps. We’re expected to build our own from the measly stipend he’s granted us. There’s no roads to carry in equipment, nor boatmaster that will dare venture that far into dragon-infested waters. And don’t you forget, if Buckland is right about the reason the dragons are leaving the swamps, there’s something in those swamps so fearsome not even the dragons want to face it. I don’t know what I’m going to find out there. At least in the city, I know
exactly
the nature of the boy who dares to lord it over me like he’s the Duke of bloody Gloucester. Out there, your brothers will be in charge.”

“Oswald and Peter?”

“Aye, and a horde of their priestly vermin in the bargain. I’d rather take my chances with the dragons here than fall under the command of that lot.”

“Be careful around them, Quartz. They may be priests, but they’re clever, especially Oswald. Don’t get on their bad side.”

Quartz spat in reply. They sipped their soup in silence. Finally Aaron said “When do you leave?”

“Apparently we’re waiting for a factory at Swindon to deliver the sleepers so we can start laying the track for this bloody railway through the middle of a dragon-infested swamp. No Navvies are building out that way, His Lordship said. Of course they aren’t; they’re far too sensible.”

“I’ll miss you, Quartz.”

“Yes, you will.” Quartz poured himself another drink.

His head swimming with too much drink, Aaron clambered down from the roof and pushed his way up the crowded steps to the Chimney. The stern face of his brother Oswald glared at him through the door.

“Stokers are forbidden to enter.”

“Open the door, Oswald. I’m in no mood for this.”

“I’m under specific orders not to disturb him.”

“Then don’t disturb him. I’ll be the one rapping on his door, not you. If you don’t let me pass I’ll just go down through the tunnels, and I can’t be responsible for who, or what, follows me.”

The door swung open, and Aaron brushed past his brother, swinging the grating open on the elevator.

“Aaron,” Oswald began. “You can’t continue to behave in this manner—”

“In
what
manner?” Aaron whirled around to face his brother. “In what
exact
manner are you referring?”

“This
exact
manner, brother. I’m not your enemy, you know. I’m the head of this family, and it’s my duty to keep an eye on you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen you with that Nicholas Thorne, or Rose, as he’s calling himself these days. He’s dangerous, Aaron.”

“Henry’s death was an accident. He didn’t have that cursed dragon of his under control. You can’t blame Nicholas—”

“If he’s so innocent, why is he using a fake name on his drawings? Who is this Nicholas Rose? Did he tell you about
his
brother — the one that died on his father’s estate in a most curious manner mere weeks before Nicholas showed up in London without a penny to his name? Did he tell you about his dishonourable discharge from the Navy? Did he tell you about his dealings with French fanatics or his illegal crossing into England—”

“I don’t have time for this.” Aaron jumped in the elevator, slammed the grating closed and stomped on the lever without another word.

As he wound his way down into the earth, he felt the voices slipping away — the compies and insects and rodents that hid in the corners of the church. His mind calming, becoming clear, made Oswald’s protests and Isambard’s behaviour seem all the more unusual.

The elevator came to a shuddering stop. Squinting in the darkness, Aaron fumbled for the entrance, and found that — as it had been for three days — the heavy iron door had been pulled shut, locked with three heavy padlocks, and swathed in lengths of chain bolted by yet more padlocks. Aaron picked up one of the chains and slammed it against the metal door, the sound echoing up the elevator shaft.

“Isambard, open up. I need to talk to you!”

Silence. Aaron slammed down the chain again, giving the door a kick for good measure. He was just about to call out again, when a muffled voice called to him from the other side of the door.

“I’m pushing the key under the door,” Isambard said. A second later, Aaron heard a small metal object scrape across the floor. He bent down and retrieved a ring of keys. Responding to Isambard’s shouted instructions, Aaron fumbled with each lock in turn, finally dropping all three loops of chain to the floor.

Leaning all his weight on his shoulder, and with Brunel pulling from the other side, he finally inched the door open wide enough for him to squeeze through. He found himself in total darkness, save a short flickering of light from the far end of the workbench.

“Nicholas is arriving shortly. There’s a lantern on the shelf to your left. You’ll need it.” Brunel pushed the door almost shut, plunging the workshop even deeper into darkness. A thin sliver of light from the lamps in the shaft outside lit up the shelves near the door.

Aaron fumbled for the argand lamp, lit it, and directed it across the floor of the workshop. He saw nothing out of the ordinary — the long benches covered in various metal shapes and protrusions lined each wall. At the far end, Brunel’s furnace — usually lit, giving a glowing light and warmth to the room — stood cold, the wingback chair Brunel had pulled in front of it empty of the usual piles of books and drawings.