Predator's Gold (3 page)

“All right,” she said, and snatched the explorer’s purse, counting out five gold sovereigns before he had time to change his mind. Beside her, Tom was saying, “We can make up a bed for you in the forward hold, Professor, and you can use the medical bay as a study if you wish. I was planning to stay here tonight and pull out at dawn.”

“If it’s all the same to you, Tom,” said Pennyroyal, flashing that odd, nervous glance towards the docking ring again, “I’d rather be off straight away. Mustn’t keep my muse waiting…”

Hester shrugged, and up-ended the purse again. “We’ll leave as soon as the harbour master gives us clearance,” she said. “There’ll be a two sovereign surcharge.” The sun went down, a red ember sinking into the haze of the western Tannhäusers.

Balloons were still rising from the trading cluster below, airships and dirigibles still coming south across the basalt uplands from great Arkangel. One of them belonged to an amiable old gentleman called Widgery Blinkoe, an Old-Tech antiques dealer who made ends meet by renting out rooms above his shop in Arkangel’s harbour district, and by acting as an informant to anyone who would pay him.

Leaving his wives to moor the ship, Mr Blinkoe hurried straight to the harbour master’s office and demanded, “Have you seen this man?” The harbour master looked at the photograph which Mr Blinkoe pushed across his desk and said, “Why, that’s Prof Pennyroyal, the historical gentleman.”

“Gentleman my hat!” cried Blinkoe angrily. “He has lodged at my home these past six weeks, and he ran off as soon as Airhaven came in sight, without paying me a penny of what he owes! Where is he? Where can I find him, the creature?”

“Too late, mate,” grinned the harbour master, who took a certain pleasure in delivering bad news. “He came in on one of the first balloons from Arkangel, asking after south-bound ships. I put him in touch with those youngsters who fly the Jenny Haniver. She pulled out not ten minutes past, bound for the Middle Sea.” Blinkoe groaned, rubbing a hand wearily over his large, pale face. He could ill afford to lose the twenty sovereigns Pennyroyal had promised. Oh why, why, why had he not made the scoundrel pay in advance? He had been so flat ered when Pennyroyal presented him with a signed copy of America the Beautiful (“To my good friend Widgery, with Kindest Regards”) and so excited by the promise of a mention in the great man’s next work, that he hadn’t even smelled a rat when Pennyroyal started charging wine-merchants’ bills to his account. Hadn’t even objected when he began flirting so openly with the younger Mrs Blinkoes! Bother and blast all writers!

And then something that the harbour master had said cut through the fog of self-pity and the incipient headache which had been clouding Blinkoe’s thoughts. A name. A familiar name. A valuable name!

“Did you say the Jenny Haniver?”

“I did, sir.”

“But that’s impossible! She was lost when the gods destroyed London!” The harbour master shook his head. “Not so, sir; not a bit of it. Been in foreign skies these past two years; trading aboard them Nuevo-Mayan ziggurat cities, I heard.” Mr Blinkoe thanked him and ran out on to the quay. He was a portly man, and did not often run, but this seemed worth running for. He shoved aside some children who were taking turns to peer through a telescope mounted on the handrail and used it to scan the sky. A little west of south, late sunlight flashed on an airship’s stern windows; a small, red airship with a clinker-built gondola and twin Jeunet-Carot engine pods.

Mr Blinkoe hurried back to his own ship, the Temporary Blip, and his long-suffering wives. “Quick!” he shouted, as he burst into the gondola. “Switch on the radio set!”

“So Pennyroyal’s slipped through his fingers again,” said one wife.

“Surprise, surprise,” said another.

“This is exactly what happened at Arkangel,” said a third.

“Silence, wives!” Blinkoe shouted. “This is important!” His fourth wife made a sour face. “Pennyroyal’s hardly worth the bother.”

“Poor, dear Professor Pennyroyal,” the fifth said weepily.

“Forget Pennyroyal,” bawled her husband, pulling off his hat and slipping on the radio headphones, tuning the transmitter to a secret wavelength, gesturing impatiently for wife number five to stop snivelling and turn the starting-handle. “I know people who will pay me well for what I’ve just learned! The trader Pennyroyal just left on was Anna Fang’s old ship!”

Tom had not realized until now how much he missed the company of other historians. Hester was always happy to hear the odd facts and stories that he recalled from his Apprentice days, but she could offer little in return. She had lived by her wits since she was just a child, and although she knew how to jump aboard a speeding town, how to catch and skin a cat and how to kick a would-be robber exactly where it hurt most, she had never bothered learning much about the history of her world.

Now, here was Professor Pennyroyal, his amiable personality filling the Jenny’s flight deck. He had a theory or an anecdote about everything, and listening to him made Tom feel almost nostalgic for the old days in the London Museum when he had lived surrounded by books and facts and relics and scholarly debate.

“Now take these mountains,” Pennyroyal was saying, gesturing out of the starboard window. They were following a long spur of the Tannhäusers southward, and the glow of lava in an active caldera flickered over the explorer’s face. “These are to be the subject of my new book. Where did they come from? They weren’t here in Ancient times, we know that from the maps which have survived. So how did they spring up so quickly? What caused them? It’s just the same in far Shan Guo. Zhan Shan is the highest mountain on earth, and yet it’s not mentioned at all in the Ancient records. Are these new mountains just the result of natural vulcanism, as we’ve always been told? Or are we looking at the results of Ancient technology gone atrociously wrong? An experimental power-source, perhaps, or a terrible weapon!

A volcano-maker! Think what a find that would be, Tom!”

“We’re not interested in finding Old-Tech,” said Hester automatically. She was at the chart table, trying to plot a course, and Pennyroyal was annoying her more and more.

“Of course not, dear girl!” cried Pennyroyal, looking at the bulkhead beside her (he didn’t trust himself yet to look at her awful face without wincing). “Of course not! A very noble and sensible prejudice. And yet—”

“It’s not a prejudice,” snapped Hester, pointing a pair of dividers at him in a way that made him fear she might do him serious mischief. “My mum was an archaeologist. An explorer and adventurer and historian, just like you. She went to the dead lands of America and dug something up and brought it home. Something called MEDUSA. The rulers of London got to hear about it and sent their man Valentine to kill her for it. He did this to my face while he was about it. He took it to London and the Engineers there got it working and Bang! It backfired, and that was the end of that.”

“Ah, yes,” said Pennyroyal, rather chastened. “Everybody knows of the MEDUSA event. Why, I can remember exactly what I was doing at the time. I was aboard Cittàmotore, in the company of a delightful young woman named Minty Bapsnack.

We saw the flash light up the eastern sky from half a world away…”

“Well, we were right next to it. We flew through the blast-wave, and we saw what was left of London next morning. A whole city, Tom’s city, burned to clinker by something my mum dug up. That’s why we steer well clear of Old-Tech.”

“Ah,” said Pennyroyal, thoroughly uncomfortable now.

“I’m going to bed,” said Hester. “I’ve got a headache.” It was true; a few hours of Pennyroyal’s lecturing had set a fierce, throbbing pain behind her blind eye. She went to the pilot’s seat, meaning to kiss Tom goodnight, but she didn’t like to with Pennyroyal looking on, so she quickly touched his ear, said, “Call me when you need a break,” and headed aft to the stern cabin.

“Whoops!” said Pennyroyal, when she had gone.

“She’s got a bit of a temper,” admitted Tom, embarrassed by Hester’s outburst. “But she’s lovely really. She’s just shy. Once you get to know her…”

“Of course, of course,” said Pennyroyal. “One can see at a glance that beneath that somewhat unconventional exterior she’s absolutely, um…” But he couldn’t think of anything good to say about the girl, so he let his voice trail away and stood looking through a window at the moonlit mountains, the lights of a small town moving on the plains below.

“She’s wrong about London, you know,” he said at last. “I mean, wrong about it being burned to clinker. I’ve spoken to people who’ve been there. There’s a lot of wreckage left. Whole sections of the Gut lie ruined in the Out-Country west of Batmunkh Gompa. Why, an archaeologist of my acquaintance, a charming young woman by the name of Cruwys Morchard, claims to have actually been inside one of the larger fragments. Sounds extraordinary; charred skeletons scattered everywhere, and great chunks of half-melted buildings and machinery. The lingering radiations from MEDUSA cause coloured lights to bob among the debris like will-o’-the-wisps… or should that be wills-o’-the-wisp?” It was Tom’s turn to grow uncomfortable. The destruction of his city was still a raw wound inside him. Two-and-a-half years on, the afterglow of that great explosion still lit his dreams. He didn’t want to talk about London’s wreck, and so he steered the conversation back towards Professor Pennyroyal’s favourite subject: Professor Pennyroyal.

“You must have travelled to some very interesting places, I suppose?”

“Interesting! Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Tom! The things I’ve seen! When we touch down at Brighton air-harbour I’ll go straight to a bookseller’s and buy you my complete works. I’m amazed you’ve not come across them before, a bright young fellow like you.”

Tom shrugged. “I’m afraid they didn’t keep them in the London Museum Library…”

“Of course not! The Guild of so-called Historians! Pah! Dusty old farts… Do you know, I applied to join them once. Their Head Historian, Thaddeus Valentine, turned me down flat! Just because he didn’t like the findings of my trip to America!” Tom was intrigued. He didn’t like hearing his former Guild dismissed as dusty farts, but Valentine was different. Valentine had tried to kill him, and had murdered Hester’s parents. Anybody Valentine had disapproved of was all right by Tom.

“What did you find in America, Professor?”

“Ah, well, Tom, thereby hangs a tale! Should you like to hear it?” Tom nodded. He couldn’t leave the flight deck tonight, with this wind blowing up from the south, and he would be glad of a good story to keep him alert. Anyway, Pennyroyal’s talk had awakened something in him, a memory of simpler times, when he had huddled under his bedclothes in the Third Class Apprentices’ dorm and read by torchlight the stories of the great explorer-historians, Monkton Wylde and Chung-Mai Spofforth, Valentine and Fishacre and Compton Cark.

“Yes please, Professor,” he said.

4

HOME OF THE BRAVE

“North America,” said Pennyroyal, “is a Dead Continent. Everyone knows that.

Discovered in the year 1924 by Christopher Columbo, the great explorer and detective, it became the homeland of an empire which once ruled the world, but which was utterly destroyed in the Sixty Minute War. It is a land of haunted red deserts, poison swamps, atomic-bomb craters, rust and lifeless rock. Only a few daring explorers venture there; archaeologists like Valentine and your young ladyfriend’s poor mother, out to salvage scraps of Old-Tech from the ancient bunker-complexes.

“And yet one hears rumours. Stories. Tales told by drunken old sky-dogs in run-down air-caravanserais. Yarns about airships that have been blown off course and found themselves flying over a very different sort of America: a green landscape of forests and grasslands and vast blue lakes. About fifty years ago a flyer named Snøri Ulvaeusson was supposed to have actually landed in a green enclave he called Vineland, and made a map of it for the Lord Mayor of Reykjavik, but of course when modern researchers went looking for the map they found no trace of it in the Reykjavik library. As for the other accounts, the punchline is always the same: the airman spends years trying to find the place again, but never can. Or else he sets down his ship only to find that the greenery which looked so inviting from above is really only toxic algae blooming on a crater-lake.

“But true historians like ourselves, Tom, know that within such legends there often lurks a seed of truth. I gathered together all the stories I’d heard, and decided that there was something there worth following up. Is America really dead, as wise men like Valentine have always told us? Or could there be a place, far to the north of the dead cities which the Old-Tech hunters visit, where rivers of meltwater spilling from the edge of the Ice Wastes have washed away the poisons and made the Dead Continent begin to flower again?

“I, Pennyroyal, resolved to discover the truth! Back in the spring of the year ’89 I set out to see what I could find. Myself and four companions, aboard my airship the Allan Quatermain. We crossed the North Atlantic, and soon touched down upon the shores of America, near a place that the ancient charts call New York. It was as dead as we’d been promised; a series of vast craters, their sides fused by the intense heat of that millennia-old conflict into the substance known as Blast Glass.

“We took off again and flew west, into the very heart of the Dead Continent, and that was when disaster struck. Storms of an almost supernatural ferocity wrecked my poor Allan Quatermain in the midst of an immense, polluted wilderness. Three of my companions perished in the smash, the fourth died a few days later, poisoned by some water from a pool which looked clear, but which must have been tainted with some ghastly Old-Tech chemical – he turned blue, and gave off a scent of old socks.