City of Dreams and Nightmare (3 page)

The thing was in perpetual motion, rattling and humming, never still for a second, and then, with a repeat of the great sighing sound he had heard from the passageway, it contracted; a slow implosion that produced a blast of heat and light and sound as it shrank to a fraction of its former size. Almost immediately the contraption expanded again, the membranes that held it together glowing as if from some internal fire.

Tom could only stare at this latest wonder of the City Above, overawed both by the nature and the size of the apparition. He was standing in some sort of viewing gallery, with the mouth of the passage behind him. The machine, if such it truly was, rested on a floor that was perhaps two Rows beneath him, with the chamber extending a similar distance above. When fully contracted, the thing sank until its crown was a little lower than Tom’s line of sight. As a result, he was able to glimpse the tangled mess of components that formed the apparition’s top, only to see that mass rise upward and the sides roll towards him as the thing expanded once more. A single huge pipe of grey metal extended from the very centre of the engine, which is what he assumed he was watching, before disappearing into the ceiling above. He couldn’t decide whether this pipe moved up and down as the thing expanded and contracted, or whether it remained fixed and the moving mass slid up and down the pipe.

Whatever the truth, something about what he was watching – this strange composite of machine and the organic – struck Tom as inherently wrong, almost obscene. He shivered, despite the heat.

The engine was so overwhelming, so impossible to ignore that at first Tom had eyes only for this remarkable object and was oblivious to all else. It took him a while to realise that the chamber housing the thing was not entirely deserted.

Looking up at him from the floor and to his left was the most bizarre creature Tom had ever seen. Naked to the waist, the figure was clearly humanoid and bulged with muscles, its skin glistening with perspiration. There were two things that made this figure so remarkable. Although dwarfed by the mechanism he was evidently tending, the creature was obviously huge; Tom reckoned him to be at least twice the height of a full-grown man.

Then there was the creature’s head: completely bald, with the face dominated by a single Cyclopean eye. The eye was opaque, a uniform milky white. The creature was evidently blind, yet its head had tilted upward and seemed to be staring directly at Tom.

Tom instinctively drew back and in doing so, remembered himself, remembered that he had just witnessed a murder and should be fleeing as swiftly as possible back to the streets he knew.

He had already dallied too long. Cursing his curiosity and hoping that the delay would not prove costly, he ran through the tunnel’s twists and out into the open air once more. The comparative cold of the exposed night came as welcome relief after the claustrophobic heat of the engine chamber. He breathed deeply, glad to be away from the unfathomable machine and its unsettling attendant.

After a quick glance around to confirm that the terrace was still empty, he set off again. Yet he remained preoccupied, part of his mind lingering in that vast chamber with its bizarre occupants – the like of which he hoped never to see again.

Tom was distracted by his own thoughts and failed to notice the shadow that passed over him from behind. He was taken completely by surprise when something struck him in the centre of the back. It hit with enough force to wind him and he instantly lost his footing and went sprawling to the ground. A little dazed, he sat up; tasting blood, knowing that he must have bitten his lip, and wincing at the sharp, burning pain between his shoulder blades. He looked around to see what had floored him.

The figure of a razzer, the same razzer, loomed large, puncheon in hand. That must have been what hit him – the puncheon. No wonder he had been bowled over. He glowered at the evil club, which looked so innocent now that it was safely retracted into its housing.

“What? How?” Tom began, staring at the guard whom he had seen tumbling towards what seemed inevitable death mere moments before.

“I’m a Kite Guard, kid,” the man said, almost growling the words. “You didn’t seriously think you were going to get rid of me that easily, did you?”

The guard reached down, grasped a handful of shirt and hauled Tom to his feet.

“Now, what’s a grubber like you doing up here in the Heights? No good, I’ll warrant.”

Tom almost blurted out that he was currently running for his life and that he had witnessed a murder only a short while ago but a lifetime of guarding his words stopped him. The chain of thought that came chasing after this instinctive reticence reaffirmed the decision. He suddenly saw the future had he spoken. His presence gave Magnus the perfect get-out. The man would be a fool not to pin the murder on Tom, who was in a place where no street-nick had a right to be and so obviously up to no good. It would be his word against that of a senior arkademic. Who was going to believe a lowly street-nick from the City Below in circumstances like that?

No one; that was who.

He had even run from a Kite Guard when challenged: proof positive of his guilt, if any more were needed.

The guard still held Tom by his shirt and he now lifted him off his feet, so that the two were staring eyeball to eyeball, with Tom’s toes dangling just above the floor. The man’s eyes simmered with rage and Tom wondered exactly who he was angry with – himself for losing control of his cape and falling so embarrassingly, or the lad who had caused him to fly in the first place.

“Well?”

The man did not really seem to expect a response and certainly didn’t wait for one, setting Tom down and frog-marching him along the terrace, keeping a firm grip on his collar from behind.

Tom wasn’t scared of the guard. The worst the guard could do was beat him and he had survived beatings from men a lot tougher than this. It was what would likely come after that concerned him. Once banged up he would be at the mercy of the system and those within it; senior arkademics, for example. Tom knew that if he wanted to survive beyond this night, escape was not simply an option, it was a necessity.

Despite his angry words the guard was surprisingly casual in the way he handled Tom, not even bothering to search him for weapons yet. None of the razzers Tom was used to would have made such a basic mistake when rousting a street-nick. The kids on this Row must all be soft, he concluded.

Tom knew that the guard’s relaxed attitude offered him a chance, perhaps his only chance. As the man urged him forward, he let his feet drag and then pretended to stumble.

“Hey, watch it!” The razzer’s grip slipped a little but didn’t let go, his determination not to do so causing him to stumble into a hurried series of shortened, pigeon-like steps as he almost tripped over his charge.

Tom used this apparent mishap to mask the movement of a hand which darted into his clothing and emerged with the dagger. Quickly then, he twisted around, slashing with the blade. Slight resistance as it ripped through the guard’s cape and a deal more as it cut into the man’s arm.

With a yelp of mingled surprise and pain the razzer let go. Tom was free and instantly running. Yet he had barely begun to gather speed before he heard the familiar snick that warned of a puncheon being fired. His would-be captor had reacted far more quickly than expected.

Tom tried to dodge, veering to the left, but too late.

The missile slammed into him, instantly knocking him off balance. He was falling. Only then did he realise that his attempt to dodge had carried him nearer the edge and it was towards the edge that he now fell. He tried to stop, to twist, to hold himself, but momentum carried him on. His leg struck the balustrade and, before he could do anything, he was over.

“Help me!” he screamed into the wind as the city’s wall gathered pace and started to speed past. He clung on to the hope that the Kite Guard would react instantly and swoop to his rescue.

Then he remembered the knife in his hand as it slashed through the razzer’s cloak before biting into his arm, and it suddenly dawned on him that with his cape torn the Kite Guard could no longer fly. Ice cold fear gripped his innards, as he realised that however hard he screamed, there was nobody left to save him.

TWO

As Tylus watched the street-nick disappear into the darkness, the small form tumbling as it fell, all the doubts that had plagued him throughout his brief career came flooding back. He felt sick and he felt angry. For several minutes, until long after the boy had vanished from sight, he simply stood and stared, replaying events in his mind’s eye and wondering whether there was anything he might have done differently.

The truth was, Tylus considered himself to be something of a fraud. He didn’t really think that he was cut out to be a Kite Guard – a fact he would never have admitted to anyone, least of all to his parents. Yet Sergeant Goss knew. Somehow, the duty sergeant saw right through him and recognised exactly how useless he was, even when everyone else appeared to be taken in.

Quiet rage continued to simmer, fuelled by the futility of it all; an inchoate anger, directed at anyone and everyone. He found himself resenting the boy for throwing away his young life so fruitlessly, while at the same time berating himself for not being quicker and preventing the lad’s fall; then there was the ever-hated Sergeant Goss, who had assigned him to night patrol yet again. He even spared a little anger for the gods, who had seen fit to put him in this particular spot at this particular time, and for the citizens of these Rows, whose need for protection required him to be here in the first place, while still more ire was flung impotently at the Swarbs – those dour denizens of a lower level who had witnessed his embarrassing loss of control over the kitecape and had even come close to catching him in their cursed nets. Being returned for a reward would have ensured the scorn of his colleagues in the department forever after, and the reaction of his parents did not bear thinking about. Their humiliation would naturally have been transferred to his own shoulders, becoming one more burden for him to carry on their behalf. Thank goodness he’d regained command of the cape at the last instant and avoided the Swarbs’ nets.

Then his anger turned full circle and came back to the boy once more, for slashing said cape, which would doubtless earn him a dressing-down from a superior who needed little excuse to do so.

His arm started to throb, where the lad’s knife had cut him; the pain making itself known as the rush of adrenaline deserted his veins. Tylus reached into his cape and pulled out a patch, slapping it onto the troubled arm. The flesh-coloured symbiote instantly spread, covering and sealing the wound.

He made a half-hearted effort to wipe away the blood that had run down his arm and hand, but knew it would have to wait until he returned to the station to be dealt with properly.

Already the anaesthetic qualities of the patch’s secretions were calming the wound and dulling the pain.

He trudged up the flight of steps that led back to his patrol area, debating whether or not to cut this duty short and head for the station immediately to report the incident, but he decided against the idea, remembering the last time he had done so without an actual prisoner to take in. He had been bawled out by Sergeant Goss and told that in future, anything short of an actual invasion or the city burning down could wait until the end of shift before being reported.

It seemed only a handful of minutes later that he heard footsteps hurrying towards him.

“Tylus, wait,” called a breathless voice.

Turning, he saw another uniformed figure striding purposefully his way and recognised Paulos, a colleague and almost-friend. It was clear that the man had been running, and Paulos would never have contemplated such undignified haste unless something important was up.

“Goss wants to see you, right away.”

“What is it,” Tylus wondered, “invasion or fire?”

“What?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

At some point during the brisk walk that followed, the patch must have withered and dropped off, its work done, because by the time they reached the station, Tylus’s arm was marred only by a ridge of pink and puckered skin, a seam of newly-healed flesh that itched insufferably. He rubbed at it in distracted fashion while sitting outside the sergeant’s office waiting to be summoned. He glanced across at the solemn, dark framed portrait that dominated the opposite wall: Commander Raymond, inventor of the kitecape and founder of the Kite Guard. Tylus considered how much simpler his life could have been had the man never been born.

Paulos had given little away during the walk back, either unwilling or unable to explain why Goss wanted to see him so urgently.

Not that Tylus had to wait long to find out.

“What happened to your cape, officer?” the eagle-eyed Goss asked the instant the young Kite Guard stepped into the room.

Tylus took a deep breath in preparation for a lengthy explanation.

“Well?” Goss snapped before he had a chance to speak.

Flustered, he blurted out quickly instead, “A knife, sir; while apprehending a suspect. I’ll hand it in for repair and get a replacement soonest, sir.”

“That you will. But the replacement will be a
plain
cape.” Goss must have seen the dismay on Tylus’s face. In effect, this meant the young Kite Guard was grounded. “Kitecapes don’t grow on trees, you know. You can claim yours back once it has been repaired and fully renewed.” A process that would take weeks. “Until then: a plain cloak. Perhaps this will teach you to take better care of your equipment in future. Though I doubt it.”

“Sir!” The prospect of patrolling without his cape filled Tylus with dread. A Kite Guard without his cape was a walking statement that the officer had fallen short in some regard and was out of favour with his commander. Like some wounded predator, a hawk with a broken wing, such a figure was robbed of all mystique and authority; those who had formerly respected him and perhaps even feared him a little no longer had cause to do so. He could already picture the smirks and knowing looks that would accompany his next patrol. The children would be the worst. Their disrespect would be more open – pointing fingers and laughter. ‘Kitties’; that was what they called a grounded Kite Guard.

This struck him as an ignominious and heavy-handed punishment for a cape that had, after all, been torn in the line of duty, but Goss was within his rights and there was nothing Tylus could do about it.

“Now, this suspect,” the sergeant continued, “where is he, then?”

“Fell from the wall, sir. In the struggle.”

The sergeant sat back, jaw locked and eyes burning. “So, to summarise, your night’s exertions have resulted in no suspect, and a torn kitecape. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir!” Tylus could feel his cheeks colouring from a combination of embarrassment and suppressed anger.

For long seconds Goss simply shook his head, as if in disbelief, while Tylus did his best to remain still and not to squirm. Then the sergeant sat forward again.

“I don’t know what to do with you, Tylus, really I don’t. Fortunately, it seems that such responsibility may soon be taken out of my hands. You’re to report to Senior Arkademic Magnus in his chambers; immediately.”

Tylus was astonished and for a second wondered if he’d misheard. He knew of Magnus of course, everyone did, but he never expected to actually meet the man. Why would such an elevated individual want to see him?

“Me, sir?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Do you see anyone else here I could be addressing?

“No, sir.”

“Apparently your infamy is spreading, even to the rarefied levels of the higher arkademics. Even there they have noted your unique qualities, the way you stand out in such singular fashion.”

The sergeant’s sarcasm and insincere tone washed over the young Kite Guard. Behind his own blank expression he was trying to make sense of this latest development and completely failing to do so.

“I am informed there was a murder earlier tonight,” Goss continued. “Up in the Residences. Fortunately, the act was witnessed – by Senior Arkademic Magnus himself as it happens. Do you have any idea who the perpetrator was?”

“No, sir,” Tylus replied, although he was beginning to have a horrible suspicion.

“A street-nick; a piece of scum risen from the City Below. Can you imagine that – a kid from the sewers daring to venture as far as these Rows? But of course you can; how silly of me. After all, you caught just such a lad earlier tonight, didn’t you,
and then you let him go!
”

Goss shot to his feet, slamming palms onto the desktop and bellowing these last words. He leaned forward, straining towards Tylus as if it were all he could do not to leap over the furniture and assault the younger officer.

For his part, Tylus stared straight ahead, wishing he were somewhere else, determined not to focus on the contorted face that was so close to his own. He could feel the man’s breath against his cheek and smell the unmistakeable tang of strong liquor that accompanied it. One more revelation in what was turning out to be an eventful night: he had no idea that Goss drank, especially not while on duty.

After long seconds the face withdrew and Goss sat down again, composing himself with exaggerated care.

“Should I arrange an escort, perhaps?” There was a swagger to the man’s voice and in the way his head bobbed from side to side. “Or can you find your own way to the appropriate address?”

“I can find my way, sir!”

“Then what are you still standing there for?!”

Tylus retreated from the office as rapidly as he could, his thoughts in turmoil. A few of his fellow officers were already at their desks in preparation for the day shift. None of them would meet his eye; all suddenly found urgent things to do, such as paperwork which clearly required their undivided attention.

With a sigh, Tylus set out to find the dwelling of Senior Arkademic Magnus. Every step seemed a weighty one, as if it carried him a little closer to his doom.

Though it suffered from the low ceilings that were all but inevitable in Thaiburley, irrespective of status, there was no denying the impressive nature of the high arkademic’s home.

False half-columns emerged from the stonework either side of a recessed wooden door, as if the city’s walls were somehow birthing them, thrusting the columns out into the world, but the process had frozen part-way. The door itself was embellished with ornate brass fittings and studwork – testament of the occupier’s wealth if not his taste. Tylus tugged twice on the ostentatious bell pull and stepped back. The servant who answered had about him an unassuming air yet still made the Kite Guard feel uneasy, though he couldn’t explain precisely why. The man was certainly polite enough. Something in the eyes, possibly: too sharp, too knowing; as if their owner saw things and knew things that passed his betters by.

The servant led Tylus through a broad and dimly-lit corridor. Illumination came courtesy of a brace of electric wall-lights, dimmed to modest output – an economy the Kite Guard noted and approved of. Providing power to such a vast metropolis was a constant headache, electricity a privilege enjoyed by comparatively few. He was glad to find one of those few not being profligate with such a precious resource.

The corridor led to another wooden door – polished this time and lacking any superfluous brass adornments. The servant held the door open and ushered the visitor within, closing it once Tylus had entered without himself following.

Instantly, Tylus was aware of a sharp rise in temperature. He stood just within the threshold and gazed upon a room dominated by books. He had never seen so many books. The far wall was entirely hidden behind row upon row of cloth and leather spines, arranged upon uniform dark wooden shelving that stretched across its full length. More such were evident to his right. Yet the young officer’s attention was drawn reluctantly from the wall of books by the fire that burned contentedly in the hearth to his left.

A real fire, which doubtless explained the heat. He could already feel the tickle of sweat forming on his scalp and wished the servant had thought to take his cape before showing him into the room. Homes built close to the city walls were often blessed with fires and chimneys and were much coveted as a result, but this dwelling was some way from the walls and Tylus wondered where the apparent chimney led to. Did it stretch straight up through the Rows above this to the upper Heights? Did some convoluted system of pipes and brickwork carry the smoke to the walls and the open sky beyond? Or were the fire’s fumes disposed of in some arcane fashion known only to higher arkademics?

“Kite Guard Tylus, I presume.”

The moderately spoken words made Tylus jump. So absorbed had he been by the books and the fire that he failed to notice the figure reclining in the upholstered armchair. True, the man was sitting sideways to him and so only partially visible behind the wings of the chair (unless sitting forward, as he now chose to do), but Tylus was a Kite Guard, trained to be observant. He should have seen him.

“Sir!” He came to attention, the click of his heels clearly audible over the popping of the fire. “Reporting as instructed.”

So this was Senior Arkademic Magnus; not entirely what he’d expected. Younger than the man’s reputation and notoriety had led him to picture, although such things were difficult to judge in the fire’s deceptive light. A trickle of sweat chose that moment to run down behind Tylus’s left ear and he wondered if it would be impolite to take off his cape.

“Relax, officer. You’re not on parade now. Have a seat.”

Magnus gestured towards a second chair, the twin of his own, which was angled towards the first seat with just a low table of polished wood separating them.

Tylus hesitated, surprised by the invite and uncertain how to respond.

“It won’t bite, officer, and I have no intention of craning my neck in order to talk to you.”

Taking a deep breath, Tylus complied, feeling uncomfortable despite the seat’s deep upholstery, and not only because of the heat. He wondered fleetingly if this gesture was meant kindly, an attempt to put him at his ease, or whether it was deliberately calculated to discomfort him. He was so flummoxed by the arkademic’s informal manner and the invitation to be seated that he hadn’t even thought to remove his cape before sitting down.