The Sunken (40 page)

One thing I could be sure of: they were moving the Sunken into London in two days’ time. I had to do something.
I must find Aaron. He will believe me. He will know what to do.

I hurried through the gardens, vaulting over the low stone wall that marked the edge of the hundred steps, and found myself once again under the porch of Travers College. I stood outside, waiting for my heart to cease pounding and my ragged breath to return to normal before entering the residence. My mind whirred through the possible actions open to me. The castle gates were locked and every exit guarded day and night. I had only one course of action open to me. If I hoped to escape the castle in time to warn the others, I would have to take the same passage Brigitte took — down in the cellars, with the Sunken.

“Isambard. Open up!”

Aaron hammered on the internal door. It’d taken him all day to find his way back through the crowds to the Engine Ward from Nicholas’ boarding house, and when he’d finally entered the Stoker camp, William Stone informed him the last rivets had been driven in on the Wall, and the Boilers had finished laying the London/Windsor track and building the platforms. All that was left was to test the train in the tunnel and the railway would be operational.

He was running out of time; he
had
to know the truth.

He knocked again, yelling at Brunel to grant him entry. Finally, he heard the bolts sliding free and the heavy door scraping against the floor. Aaron slipped through before Isambard could change his mind, but the Presbyter seemed to have already forgotten him, turning back to his bench and muttering under his breath.

“Is this important, Aaron? The King kept me late at Windsor and I’m behind with these Boiler repairs—”

Aaron stared at his friend’s back and yelled his accusation.

“Have I been building a secret railway to transport the King’s lead-soaked, vampiric children into London?”

Brunel whirled around. “How do you know all this? You haven’t seen—”

“Never mind how I know. Is it true?
Is it true?”

“Aaron, it’s not what you think—”

Red spots flashed in front of Aaron’s eyes. He grabbed Brunel by the collar, dragging him up, forcing Isambard to look him in the eye. “How could you do this? How
could you?
Our whole lives I’ve supported you, helped you bring your dreams to life. How could you let me work on that railway, knowing what it would bring into London?”

“I didn’t have a choice—”

“You said so yourself, Isambard. There is always a choice. You must stop that train. If the Sunken are allowed to enter London—”

“Is that what you call them? An apt name — the Sunken. I think I shall adopt it.”

“—if you shut the gates on the Wall, and no one can get out, and no one can get in—”

“Do you think I don’t know this? Do you think I’m so blinded by the favour the mad King has shown me that I would endanger the whole city? Do you think I’ve not put measures in place to prevent such a tragedy?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“No, clearly you do not. What’s happened to you, Aaron? Have all these years of friendship meant nothing to you?”

“What’s happened to
me?
You
are the one who has changed, Isambard, and not for the better. This power has corrupted you, however much you think otherwise. You’ve never kept secrets from me before. The Isambard I knew would have given up his church and his power before he agreed to build such a reprehensible device.”

“And then done
what,
exactly? King George would have found another engineer willing enough to build him his trap. It is only because of this power I stand any chance of stopping him!”

“Oh, and what a fine job you’re doing! Cutting it a little close, aren’t we,
Presbyter?
”

Anger flared in Isambard’s eyes. “I know what this is about. You’re jealous of me.”

“What?”

“You heard me. All these years you’ve been second to me. Aaron the labourer. Aaron the dogsbody. You hated that I got the credit for the broad gauge locomotive
you
helped build. You hate that I am the one who is held up and revered by our people. And most of all, you hate that I am Presbyter and not you.”

“Don’t be so quick to presume my thoughts. I’ve never wanted to be you, Isambard. I’ve never wanted to be an arrogant, self-righteous quack who thinks he is above the gods—”

“You can’t stand that I can innovate and you cannot! You hated the Boilers from the moment you saw them.”

“You’re right about that. I hate the Boilers. They terrify me. Just because you
can
create something, doesn’t mean you
should
. You’ve gone too far, Isambard. You’re creating machines to do the tasks that should be left to men. If you have your way, we will soon have no men at all!”

Brunel balled his hands into fists. “Get out,” he hissed.

“Excuse me?”

“Get out of my church, Aaron. You’re no longer welcome here. You’re no longer part of my crew. You have until tomorrow to pack your things and leave Engine Ward.”

A priest tried to intercept him as he fled the Chimney, but Aaron pushed the man roughly aside. As he flung open the door a torrent of water assailed him — the rain came in sheets, tearing at his clothes and matting his hair across his eyes. He flew down the stairs, forcing back the urge to scream as he came upon a great swell of people waiting to meet the revered Presbyter. His rage bubbling up inside him, he practically knocked the first man down as he pushed his way past. A woman scolded him, and he barked something so offensive at her that she fainted and had to be carried back to her carriage.

Unheeding, Aaron ducked through the gate at the side of the Chimney, picked up a curved iron bar from the pile of tools outside the locomotive shed, and moved toward the Stoker camp. The rain came so thickly everything seemed hazy, coated in a shroud of water. People moved about him, carrying boxes of supplies, moving equipment indoors, out of the weather. He wiped his hair from his eyes and searched for a familiar face.

“Aaron!” It was William Stone. He grabbed Aaron’s arm. “Is something the matter?”

“Quartz was right,” said Aaron through gritted teeth. “Isambard Brunel is not to be trusted. The Stokers are doomed, William. The whole city is doomed, and we’re the ones responsible.”

“You’re not talking any sense.” William grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him roughly. Men walking between the locomotive shed and the camp gathered around them, shouting over the rain that something was amiss.

“That railway we’ve been building — it’s secret because the King is bringing something horrible into London — an army of monsters that lust for human flesh.” The men murmured to each other. William looked stricken. “It’s the honest truth — Isambard himself confirmed it. It’ll take me too long to explain how I know this, but we can’t let that locomotive run.” He held up the iron bar. “If I can disable the locomotive, then we can buy some time and—”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

Aaron heard the ominous click of the hammer of a pistol being pulled back. He whirled around and saw his brother, his robes heavy with water and his face impassive behind the barrel of his barker.

“Oswald.”

“Little brother.” He didn’t move the gun away.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the swamps?”

“Brunel called me back. He needs me to hold service for the Grand Opening of the Wall. And I see discipline has grown lax in my absence. Drop the crowbar, Aaron. I’d hate to be forced to shoot my own brother.”

Aaron twisted, slowly, to face Oswald, the bar falling from his hands and landing in a puddle. He stared into his brother’s eyes, hatred burning inside him.
You’ve been greedy, Oswald, greedy for power, greedy for the easiest job
—
I hope the Sunken devour you.

“Don’t be a fool, Oswald,” said William. “Put your barker down. We can’t have Stokers killin’ Stokers, now.”

“I don’t want any trouble—” Oswald began.

“Well, you’re the only one here waving your irons around,” Aaron snapped.

“You were given an order. I’m here to ensure it’s carried out.”

Aaron spat on the ground. “Look at you, a ridiculous man in your sodden robes. Isambard gives you a sup of power and suddenly you forget how much you once bullied him. He’s still the same little boy, still tinkering with machines, only now he’s put all our lives in danger. And
you
— you don’t even bother to ask questions, Oswald. You follow him blindly. You don’t even
try
to understand. I’m ashamed to call you my brother.”

“And you!” Oswald snarled in return, the arm holding the barker twitching. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Aaron bloody Williams — you think you’re so bloody clever because you have some kind of magical, special friendship with our Presbyter. Did you ever think that maybe he’s been
using
your loyalty all along? You’re his lackey, Aaron. Nothing more—”

Oswald’s words died as a scream pierced the evening. It came from the maze of Stoker shacks, stacked one atop the other in the blocks behind the Chimney. It startled Oswald, who fumbled with the barker. Aaron saw his chance and broke away, running toward the Stoker camp.

A shot rang out behind him, but he kept on running, William Stone and a growing crowd of Stokers close at his heels. Oswald was a lousy aim, anyway.

He found the source of the screaming soon enough. William’s wife, Mary Stone, knelt in the mud in a small courtyard, a pot of stew upset beside her and a body stretched at an impossible angle on the ground before her. A river of reddened water spilled along the narrow alley, sloshing over Aaron’s boots as he ran to investigate. She wailed, her screams cutting through the roar of the torrents of water that cascaded from the pitched roofs above.

William gathered Mary into his arms, stroking her hair in an attempt to calm her sobs. Aaron bent down and turned over the body. It was Benjamin Stone, his face bloody and bruised. The bone in his arm stuck out from a jagged cut in his elbow. Aaron felt for a pulse, watched for signs of life, but could find none.

“I— I— I was just takin’ this soup over to the fires, when all o’ a sudden he comes hurtlin’ down like a sack o’ potatoes an’ lands right there.” Mary covered her eyes with her hands.

“He came from where?” Aaron followed Mary’s gaze upward, to the precarious pitched roofs that abutted each other along the edges of the courtyard. Water poured from the one of the corners and splashed across his face.

“In this weather? What was he doing up there?”

William shook his head, his face frozen in shock. One of the men piped up. “Maybe he was fixing a leak, an’ fell.”

“Benjamin wouldn’t have fallen,” said William, looking over the boy’s mangled face. “Even in this weather he was as spry as a compie.”

Aaron glanced up at the roof again, but this time he saw a silhouette against the misty London sky — the flash of a dark cloak flapping in the wind. Someone else was up there! He squinted, shielding his eyes from the rain with one hand. The figure — if there even
was
a figure — was gone.

A crowd of Stokers had gathered, blocking all entry points to the square. Many of the women were crying as they recognised the body of Benjamin, and Aaron could hear Oswald toward the back, yelling for reinforcements, trying to get everyone to return to their homes.

“You’re all in danger!” Aaron yelled, as heads turned toward him.

“Listen to me! Benjamin Stone didn’t fall from this roof. He was pushed, and by one of Brunel’s own priests.” A ripple of disbelief coursed through the crowd, while Oswald, hemmed in by the press of people, roared his defiance. “It’s true — and more Stokers will die if we allow that locomotive to run!”

William grabbed his wrist. “Aaron, you’re scaring them.”

“They
should
be scared. William, you have to listen to me. We’re in danger —all the Stokers who worked on the railway, the locomotives, and probably the Boiler teams, too. Oswald will return with reinforcements — maybe constables, maybe Redcoats — and if they catch you, you’ll end up like Benjamin. We need to gather the men and their families and hide them outside the Ward, or in the deepest, darkest tunnels. Warn everyone they’re not to trust the priests, or any of the authorities. Gather what weapons you can.”

“What about you? Where are you going?”

“Isambard threw me out of the Ward, and he’ll not allow me to live much longer if I remain, but I have friends outside who can help us. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and I need you to be ready.”

“What will you do?”

Aaron’s face was dark. “I need to find out how deep this goes.”

“Aaron, I don’t understand what this is about. Why have we left Engine Ward? What happened to poor Benjamin Stone? And why in Great Conductor’s name are we disturbing this man in the middle of his supper?
Aaron,
answer me!”

Ignoring Chloe’s protests, Aaron dragged his wife up the steps to Nicholas’ house and hammered his fists against the door. His blood pounded behind his eyes.

Chloe tugged at his coat. “He’s probably already left for the sermon, and besides, he won’t hear us over the rain. We could return tomorrow—”

“What is the meaning of this?” Nicholas flung open the door. One sleeve of his pressed white shirt dangled, armless, from the neck of his half-buttoned frock coat. With his free hand he thrust out a candle, his mouth turned up in surprise. “Aaron? What are you doing here? The sermon starts in an hour—”

“That’s exactly what I said,” Chloe muttered, forgetting her manners. Aaron shot her a filthy look.

“We’ve been thrown out of Engine Ward.”

“We
have?”

“Quiet, woman! Nicholas, I need to speak with you about Isambard.”

Nicholas gestured to his dangling sleeve. “I’ll speak to you later. I’m already running late.”

“This cannot wait. One of my men has been murdered.”

His face grave, Nicholas ushered them inside, took their coats, and hurried them upstairs. Brigitte passed them in the hall, her hands tangled in her hair as she forced it into place with pins. She cried out as Aaron barrelled past, pressing herself up against the wall so he wouldn’t upset her dress. Her eyes met Nicholas’, and he shrugged.