Cuckoo Song (44 page)

Trista leaped for the stepped boarding platform at the back of the rear trailer car. She judged the leap well, and knew that she would land safely. Her knees reflexively bent, ready to soften
the impact, and her arm stretched out to grab the pole. Before her feet could touch down, however, the whole trailer car changed before her eyes.

The engine thrum melted into a clatter of hoofs and the rattle of carriage wheels. Instead of landing feet first on a metal platform, Trista struck what felt like a slick wooden wall, jolting
her jaw and knocking the breath out of her. She scrabbled for purchase, her claws leaving lean gouges in the black-painted wood, then lost her grip and fell.

She hit the sloping house roof and rolled down it in a froth of snow, before tumbling off the edge.

Only a last-minute snatch at the guttering with one hand stopped her plummeting to the street below.

She hung there winded for a few seconds, her mouth dry. Below her she could see a few fragments of herself falling away, shocked loose by the impact and her exertion. Dead leaves, crumpled book
pages, strands of hair . . . she did not have time to collect them.

With her long toes she scrabbled at the brickwork and with difficulty hauled herself up on to the roof once more.

Where was the trailer car turned black carriage? Where was its hissing, soaring entourage? Gone, swallowed by the blizzard. But on the roofs around her were tracks which even now the snow was
trying to blot out. Fox-paws, child-like bare feet, long loping prints . . . and among them the grooves from wheels, and the crescent scoops of horses’ hoofs.

Trista brushed the snow from her eyelashes, and set off in pursuit once more.

She followed the tracks across the roofs of slum houses, then through the petite, well-groomed streets of the daintier shopping districts.

Now and then a tug in her flank that told her she had lost a twig, a trinket, a twist of paper.

There, ahead! Three black carriages raced over the roofs, amid a wider haze of flitting, leaping shapes.

Her legs shaking, Trista risked wider, wilder jumps as she fought to catch up. She sprang to the town-council roof, then to the tip of the war monument, and finally leaped for the back of the
rearmost carriage once more.

This time her toes sought out the rear footboard, and she sank her claws into the woodwork of the carriage. She hung on even as the ‘carriage’ changed shape again and again. One
moment she was clinging to the spare tyre on the back of a great black Daimler. The next she was hugging the tail of a huge black snake. At last her strange transport swelled back to trailer-car
dimensions once more. She landed with a clang on its rear platform, grabbing the pole to steady herself.

Gasping for breath, Trista risked a glance through the glass of the nearby door, into the lower saloon of the trailer car.

She was confronted with a suspiciously innocent scene. Electric light poured from small round lamps in the ceiling. Above them, pink and green posters advertised ‘Shrike’s Removal
Services’ and ‘Ellchester, Your Home from Home!’ Every seat was full, the passengers well-dressed and silent, most staring down into their laps, or across at each other with mute
serenity. All wore grey-brown coats, grey-brown shawls, grey-brown hats. Some were reading, but the lettering on their books and newspapers swarmed and seethed. Trista could make out the
drowned-looking Besider woman from the tea room discreetly powdering her nose with the aid of a compact.

At the far end of the carriage sat the Shrike, licking butter from his silver box.

She could not risk walking through the compartment. Perhaps the newly arrived refugees did not know who she was, but the Shrike would. The only way to get past without him seeing her was to
climb to the upper level.

Just as Trista ducked back out of sight, she had an impression that one of the other figures had moved, that a head had raised, that a pale face had turned to look at her.

Legs shaking, she scaled the spiral steps while snow blew into her eyes and her clothes whipped in the wind. At the top, the racing air grew fiercer still. The roofless ‘balcony’ was
covered in rows of hard wooden benches, slick with meltwater. Clinging to these were a handful of smokily indistinct figures, who were thrown to and fro as the car veered and bucked. Sometimes they
lost their grip and were flung clear, beating desperate wings in their attempts to catch up and recover their seat. None paid any attention to Trista.

Dropping to all fours to escape the worst of the snow-filled wind, Trista crawled forward past the benches, snow thickening in her hair and burning her ears. When she reached the front, she
quickly clambered on to the safety rail, gripping it tightly with her fingers and toes, and prepared to leap to the next trailer car.

The gap was not large, but it opened and closed unpredictably as the cars tilted and swerved, and she hesitated, trying to judge the jump. At that moment, the trailer cars sheared through a
thick column of chimney smoke, blinding her and making her splutter. For a short while she could only cling to the rail, eyes clenched, trying to stifle her coughs.

As she blinked the cobweb tears from her eyes, she heard a faint clatter of footfalls from the spiral steps behind her. She turned in panic, fearing that she might see the Shrike coming after
her.

Somebody was indeed edging towards her along the roof, one arm shielding his face, his stolen coat flapping, his hair ruffled by the unforgiving wind.

It was Mr Grace.

Chapter 41

No! There must be
fifty
Besiders here – why is he still chasing
me
?

With the energy of desperation Trista leaped, and landed safely on the balcony of the next trailer car. She crawled to the front, not daring to look around, then darted for the spiral stairway
back down to the lower level. She half slid, half jumped down, then leaped across the shifting gap to the rear platform of the leading tram itself.

She heard a rattle of steps, and then Mr Grace came into view, slithering down the stairs she had just descended, blinking as snow buffeted his face, his teeth bared in a wince.

‘Stop it!’ she entreated him, under her breath, as he clattered his way down the steps. ‘Stop it, Mr Grace! You’ll spoil everything!’

There was a small grim pucker of humour at the corner of the tailor’s mouth.

‘That is rather the plan,’ he said, and launched himself towards the platform where Trista was standing.

An idea streaked through Trista’s mind, even as he jumped. One well-timed kick, or swipe with her claws, and he would be knocked back and fall. He would drop to the street, and lie there
broken like Angelina. And nobody would know she had done it, just as they had never found out about Angelina.

But she did not let the thought lead her limbs. Instead she froze, and next moment Mr Grace was landing with a clang on the metal platform beside her. All too fast, and everything changed. He
was huge now, and she was the small, frail doll.

‘Don’t!’ she squeaked and ducked his attempt to grapple her.

Shunk
. The long black scissors were out and in his hands. He was the nightmare again now, the red-legged tailor from the nursery-book of horrors.

He lunged, and she dodged but too slowly. One point of his scissors pierced the cloth of her collar, pinning it to the wooden frame of the tram door. The other blade the tailor held poised,
ready to cut horizontally towards her neck.

‘Listen, please!’ Once again she was the miserable child-monster begging, cobweb tears clouding her eyes. ‘I’m on your side! I’m trying to save Triss too! If you
only listen, we can defeat the Architect together!’

Mr Grace looked at her carefully for a second, his eyebrows rising slightly. He was out of breath from the chase, his fingers blue with cold. His hair was thick with snow, and trickles of
meltwater ran down his face like tears.

‘You creatures really will say anything to save your own twisted lives, won’t you?’ he murmured softly. His eyes were as dark as a thousand years of rain.

The death of his wife and the loss of his child
. That was the crevasse of bottomless grief that stretched between them. With despair Trista realized that, for all her changeling
agility, this was one abyss that she could not jump.

‘Architect!’ shouted the tailor at the top of his lungs. ‘I have your—’

Your daughter? Your servant?

Trista did not wait to discover the end of the sentence. With a strength born of panic she yanked herself to one side, rending her collar and leaving only a rag of dress fabric pinned by the
scissors. Before the tailor could react she leaped upward on to the smooth, closed roof of the tram car and scrabbled away on all fours, out of sight and reach.

Behind her, she heard the tram door thrown open, perhaps by the tailor, perhaps by somebody inside. She had no idea what was happening below her. All she knew was that, for the moment, it was no
longer happening to her.

The air smelt damp. Looking over the side, Trista realized with a shock that the tram was skimming over the river, above its own blotchy and surprised-looking reflection. A flock of gulls split
giddily before the tram and veered away in panic, the wings of one grazing Trista’s cheek.

Buffeted by the rush of air, Trista slithered forwards along the roof, then clambered down the front of the tram, using the destination panel and trimmings for footholds. She landed softly next
to the empty driver’s cab, then peered in through the window of the door, into the tram-car’s lower saloon.

The tram car was more lavish than the trailer cars, the seats covered in what looked like green velvet, the windows set in frames of golden-brown wood, the lights hooded with little green
shades. It was empty, but for three figures.

At the far end of the carriage was Mr Grace the tailor, with the open door behind him. He still wore his dripping feather-coat, though it was fluttering madly as if trying to tear itself away
from him. His hair was plastered to his face, which bore a look of ice-cold determination. In his hands he held the great black pair of iron scissors.

Mere yards from the dripping tailor, standing as if to confront him, was a taller figure. Even from behind, Trista recognized the smooth, honey-blond hair, the debonairly cut coat, the Oxford
bags and the blinding, sunbeam aura of nonchalant panache. It was the Architect.

Far closer, seated with her back to the window, was a small girl of about eleven with light brown hair. She wore a white hat and coat, and sat with her shoulders nervously hunched, hands twisted
in her lap.

With an effort of will, Trista retracted her thorn-claws and reached down her free hand to tap at the glass of the door. The girl started, turned to look around the compartment, then glanced
across at the door and saw Trista’s visage.

Trista stared in at her own face, pale and miserable amid its glossy, careful curls. As she watched, the small pink mouth drooped and wavered in shock and fear, with an expression that Trista
had felt on her own lips so many times.

Triss. Triss, quailing to see her own face staring in from the night.

Trista beckoned, and mouthed a desperate instruction.

Come closer!

Triss hesitated, casting a fearful glance towards the Architect.

Please!
mouthed Trista.
Quickly!

Triss began furtively sliding along the seat in Trista’s direction, watching the Architect all the while. Meanwhile, Trista gently eased her door open. As she did so, the conversation
inside the tram became audible to her.

‘Do you know, sir,’ said the Architect, in his smooth, musical, slightly excited voice, ‘I have the funniest feeling that you do
not
have a ticket for this
ride.’

‘I hoped
these
would satisfy any inspectors.’ The tailor raised the scissors, his tone steely rather than playful. ‘Do you wish to raise the matter with the Ministry
of Transport?’

The Architect’s laugh was like a saw-blade drenched in honey, and halted just a little too suddenly.

‘Oh, hardly. Well, I suppose I should be flattered that you are so determined to take your place in my carriage.’ His voice was dangerously pleasant. ‘Perhaps you would like to
join us and relax – take a little refreshment?’

‘I think it only polite to tell you,’ the tailor said through his teeth, ‘that your arts are wasted on me. I see you as you are, Architect.’

‘
Do
you?’ Again there was an uncomfortable sense of something only just under control, a teacup cracking as it tried to contain a storm. ‘Do you,
scissor-man?’

Both Mr Grace and the Architect seemed too engrossed in their confrontation to glance down the carriage. Trista decided to risk a whisper.

‘Triss – I’ve come to rescue you! Take off your hat, shoes and coat! Quick! While they’re distracted!’

Triss looked perplexed, but hastened to obey, fingers fumbling with her buttons.

‘So,’ continued the Architect, ‘you think you see the world clearly?’

‘Compared to most of my fellows,’ the tailor answered drily, ‘I see it clear as crystal.’ He had moved his feet into something like a fencer’s stance, but Trista
could not tell if he was planning a sudden lunge or a hasty retreat.

‘And that, I fear, is your problem,’ sighed the Architect. ‘For the world, my friend, is
not
clear. It is cloudy as a blood pudding. So if you see it crystal clear,
there is something wrong with your eyes. Or perhaps you do not
use
your eyes. Perhaps you see with your scissors instead.

‘Vile things, scissors. They are only made for one purpose. To divide, cleanly and falsely. Snip, snip. Everything on one side or the other. Nothing in the middle.’

When the Architect said the word ‘scissors’, the melodiousness of his voice broke, like a needle skipping over a scratch on a record.

‘Better than hiding in a grey fog of lies,’ declared Mr Grace sharply.

‘But you are
wearing
our grey!’ laughed the Architect. ‘You have made yourself a bird of
our
feather! And,’ his voice took on a discordant edge, like a
shift to a minor key, ‘
I think it suits you.
’