The Sunken (36 page)

A calculating man from the Metic Sect stood by, furiously scribbling sums on his paper. Within a few minutes he announced Stephenson’s average speed at 28mph. Aaron gulped.

Stephenson didn’t even acknowledge Isambard as he strolled alongside their carriage toward his place of honour on the bleachers. Isambard didn’t seem bothered by the snub — he turned to Aaron, grinning from ear to ear.

“Whatever happens,” he said, “you have my sincere and greatest thanks.”

“As long as I keep my head, you can keep your thanks.”

“Just remember, keep the distribution even.” he said, handing Aaron the shovel. “Don’t forget the corners of the firebox, and don’t give her everything ’till she’s warmed up a bit. We don’t want to drop the fire before we’ve even begun.”

Together, they stoked the boiler — watching the puffs of smoke trotting across the sky — and checked the pressure. Aaron knelt down and took his place in front of the firebox. Easing off the brake and taking hold of the regulator, Isambard tipped his hat to signal he was ready. Banks waved the flag; Isambard pulled the whistle and leaned on the regulator. The train juddered forward, launching itself down the track.

Immediately, they had a problem. Water squirted from one of the hoses, soaking the deck and causing the pressure to drop dramatically. Struggling to find purchase on the slippery deck, Aaron pushed shovel after shovel of coke into the firebox, spreading it out to keep the fire even. His field of vision narrowed, becoming only his shovel and the tiny door of the firebox, and his shoulders heaved with the effort. Sparks flew back at him as he tossed in another shovelful, checked the pressure gauge, and dug for more coke.

Soaked in water and smeared with soot, Isambard threw back his head and laughed gleefully as he let out the regulator even further, and the whole world fell away into a blur of wind and coke and steam. Aaron’s fear evaporated, replaced by exhilaration.

Come on, we can do it!

The locomotive thundered across the broader track. His knees wobbled in different directions as they clattered down the straight, accelerating as she dove into the corner. They poured on speed, the rivets and panels rattling with the building pressure. Suddenly, Isambard let off the regulator and slammed on the brakes. They shuddered to a stop, a mere foot before they ran out of track.

“Quick, more coke.” Isambard threw her in reverse, released the brake, and let out the regulator, pulling it further and further ’till the whole locomotive shook from the speed.

Now the pressure gauge shot up. Aaron added more water, watching her drop to normal, then quickly shoot up again. The deck shook so violently he had to hold on to the boiler mount with one hand to keep from being thrown. From the corner of his eye he saw the Engine Ward hurtle past, a blur of grey and black. “More!” Isambard yelled over the din. “Faster!”

His teeth chattering, Aaron crouched low, steadying himself against the boiler mount as he flung in another shovel of coke. The pressure gauge shot up again, then down. Two rivets popped from the boiler, sailing across the deck.

“Isambard,” Aaron screamed. “We’re going to drop the fire!”

In response, Isambard hauled on the regulator as hard as it would go, rocketing the locomotive through the final straight. More rivets popped off as they shot past the bleachers, the boiler belching black smoke from every outlet and the pressure gauge dangerously close to exploding.

Finally, Brunel pulled on the brakes. Aaron dived onto the deck and covered his head just as all three gauges exploded. The engine juddered to a stop, black steam choking the air. The air gushed through the firebox, sucking the fire out through the chimney and depositing it on the side of the track. Firefighters rushed in with buckets to fight the blaze.

Aaron could only just make out Isambard’s features through the steam and smoke. He was grinning from ear to ear. His eyes stinging, Aaron fumbled for his friend’s hand, grabbed it and squeezed tight.

“Whatever happens now,” Isambard said, “I can say I ran my engine through the Ward.”

“You won’t say nothing if you’re dead,” Aaron heaved, wiping sweat from his brow.

Suddenly, they were surrounded. Rough hands dragged them from the cab and hoisted them in the air. Stokers, a great crowd of them, singing and yelling and carrying them away on their shoulders. In the madness, Aaron lost sight of Isambard. All around him, people were yelling, and reporters fired a barrage of questions at him, their voices blending together in the din. “What happened?” he yelled between coughs, but no one answered him.

His ears ringing and his eyes full of smoke, Aaron searched the crowd for a familiar face. Someone reached up and tore him from the Stokers’ grasp, setting his wobbling legs down on solid ground. “Nine minutes twenty-three!” Quartz jabbed at his watch. “You pulled her through in nine minutes twenty-three seconds!”

“What?”

“We did it!” Brunel cried, throwing his arms around Aaron. “We beat Stephenson’s time by nearly half!”

More Stokers broke over the barrier, and they whipped Isambard away again, hoisting him up on their shoulders and carrying him into the steamy haze ’till Aaron lost sight of him. He heard the King speak, but the words were lost in the roar of the crowd. Quartz stood beside him, and William Stone, but even they were swept up in the madness, talking about the great church they would build for the first ever Stoker engineer.

Aaron slumped against the engine, his hands on his temples, trying to make sense of it. His childhood friend was now the head of a religion.

James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

The letter I received — from the one and same Nicholas Thorne, whom I’d last seen on board the
Cleopatra
as they pulled me to shore for treatment — contained no apologies for his lack of communication, or platitudes or inquiries after my health. Any other gentleman might think this rude, but Nicholas was too dear a friend for me to bother with formalities.

I had just returned to Travers College following my medical studies, and I was desperate for any distraction from my monotonous lifestyle. I longed still to travel, but my dreams seemed impossible, stifled by the constraints of the very institution that had saved me from poverty. The envelope — bearing no return address and what the maid described as “a most peculiar postmark” — did ignite in me such a terrific hope for adventure that I immediately leapt from my chair, the flaring pains in my legs completely forgotten, and paced the length of the room.

I could smell the road on the letter as soon as I slit open the envelope. That damp, sulphurous scent of rain and dirt and soot clung to the paper, telling me a story more evocative than words. Another smell — familiar, but indiscernible — reached my nostrils, and I knew this to be a letter from someone I knew — one of my friends in a far-flung place. I called in a maid to read to me. If I could not have adventures of my own, I would hear tales of someone else’s.

“It’s written on fine paper, and there’s a watermark along the right side — it looks like some sort of flying machine,” said the maid, pulling out the letter. She knew well how to describe every detail to me. “Shall I read it for you, Mr. Holman?”

“If you please, Rose, and I trust you to keep its contents entirely confidential.”

The letter I destroyed as soon as I had committed it to memory, for he was right to be cautious of such evidence against him, but as my journals are kept secure in the locked deposit box in my private rooms, I felt it safe enough to record a copy of it here.

Dear James

You may have some idea what has become of me since we parted in Portsmouth. If you had followed the papers you’d know the
Cleopatra
stayed for a year on patrol in English waters before setting out on duties in the Mediterranean. After being in an engagement, she put in at Gibraltar for repairs and her crew was decommissioned. You may have even read of a young lieutenant who killed his superior officer in a brawl and evaded the authorities by escaping into Spain.

I had intended to buy passage home to England and begin life anew as a student of architecture, but I had not counted on Napoleon making a particularly spectacular decision. Blockading England basically drew a line in the sand
—
with Industrian England on one side, and Christian Europe on the other. There was not one ship that could take me where I so dearly wanted to go, and French hostility toward Industrians forced me into hiding.

I’ve been in the mountains for nearly three years, studying architecture with some of the foremost European masters, but circumstances permitted that I return to England with haste, and I hope to find work there under a new name. I will not burden you with the details of my illicit journey, lest this letter fall into the wrong hands. Suffice to say that at the time of writing, I am in the North, and it does my heart well to once more walk on English soil.

I arrive in London on Tuesday, and would greatly desire to meet you for dinner, at 6pm at the Butchers Hall Beef House. You must come alone, and tell no one who you are seeing.

You cannot write to me in return, but I shall wait for you on the appointed day.

Yours

Nicholas Rose

1830

“You want to
what?”

“Find a coach to take me to London. Tonight, if that’s possible.”

The barkeeper shook his head. “Ain’t no coaches travelling that road for three more days. I will give ye another drink, though.”

She took it, the strong taste burning her throat. She swallowed, struggling to hold back tears. “It’s of the utmost urgency that I get to London as soon as possible.”

“Listen, girlie,” the barkeeper said, leaning over the counter, “my job is to serve up the poison, not to organise transport for every pretty stranger who wanders through those doors. I’ll tell you what — every week a blind gentleman comes down from the castle, Thursdays at 4pm, has a drink right over there” he said, pointing to a stool at the end of the bar, “and takes a private taxicab into the city. Tomorrow is your lucky day. If you wait around ’till then, you may be able to persuade him to give you a lift.”

Mr. Holman? Brigitte knew the blind man, for she sometimes cleaned the Naval Knights’ residence at Travers College. She’d noticed him immediately, as he was younger than the other Naval Knights by some years and moved about with such an affable ease it was difficult at first to discern his blindness. She’d never spoken to him, and hoped he’d be kindly disposed to her.

For all his gruff talk, the barkeeper took pity on her, and offered her a room for half price. She took it, not knowing what else to do, but she could not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she saw visions of the Sunken, snarling and snapping, or the woman in the King’s chamber, blood running from the gashes in her legs, or Maxwell’s sagging, weary face as he showed her his wound.

She awoke to find sunlight streaming in through a tiny window. Not wanting to show her face in the village lest her disappearance had been discovered, she stayed in her room, pacing back and forth and trying to figure out what she should do next. The barkeeper brought her a tray of fresh bread and soup, and, at one o’clock, told her to come and wait downstairs with him.

He put her to work behind the bar, filling glasses and helping in the kitchen. The hours passed quickly, and no one seemed to recognise her. At one point, the barkeeper nudged her with his elbow.

“Your escort has arrived, Missy.”

Holman sat on the stool at the end of the bar and ordered a glass of brandy. Brigitte brought it to him and watched while he sipped it, his youthful features serene and untroubled. Finally, she worked up the courage to speak.

“Mr. Holman, sir?”

He turned his head toward her. “You’re from the castle, aren’t you Miss? One of the maids?”

She nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see her. “I am — or rather, I
was.
How did you guess?”

“Tis no guess, Miss. I recognise your voice. When one cannot tell their friends apart by their faces, one must look to other clues. Do you have a name, or shall I simply call you ‘she of the gentle tone’?”

She blushed. “I am Brigitte Black. I need to travel to London for an urgent matter, but I’m told no carriage save yours leaves for several days. I wondered if you would do me the honour of allowing me to share your taxi?”

“Anything for the lady who delivers my brandy,” he said, flashing her a charming smile. Finishing his drink, he climbed down from his stool and offered her his arm. She took it, marvelling at how he navigated across the crowded bar, out the door, down the steps, and along the road to where his taxi waited. He did not steady himself against her, and he did not sweep the road with his stick the way she’d seen other blind men do. Instead, he moved with a casual grace, occasionally tapping his short walking stick against the cobbles. He explained, when she asked, that he used the echoes produced by the tap to discern obstacles, and by careful listening he built a picture of the world in his mind, and could therefore find his way.

As he helped her up into the carriage, Brigitte looked over her shoulder; certain she’d see the castle guard coming to arrest her. But there was no one, only the dark outline of the imposing castle looming over the town. She stared up at the ramparts, and shivered, tears welling in her eyes again as she thought of Maxwell and Miss Julie and Cassandra and everyone trapped inside.

Only once they had settled into their seats, and the carriage had pulled away and begun the long and clattering journey to London, did Brigitte let out the breath she was holding. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

“Is something the matter, Miss Brigitte?”

Her head snapped up. “What makes you think that?”

“You fidget with your dress, and you are crying. I can smell the saltiness of your tears. Forgive me for embarrassing you so, I had hoped a journey with me would not have left you so distraught.”

“No, no,” she laughed, taking the handkerchief he offered and blowing her nose. “It has been … a traumatic night. Forgive me, you’ve been too kind, and I’ve been a horrid travelling companion.”