Storm Thief (21 page)

Moa shifted nervously, glancing around the gloomy interior of the Coder's workshop. Next to her, Rail was waiting, his eyes on the owner, who was counting out platinum chits on to a metal counter. Dim morning light shone through slatted windows behind them. It was cold, but Moa felt colder. She was utterly miserable.

Four days left. Four days before Kittiwake sailed, and the chance to reach her heart's desire was gone.

They had been ejected from Kilatas in disgrace. They were let up through the winding ways by stern-faced guards, passing the gates beneath the disapproving gazes of the sentries. Moa had spent most of the time sobbing, but nobody had any sympathy for her. Even Rail had been distant. That she could understand. He was going to help her break into the Null Spire. He was going to risk his life and his own dream of riches to get back Vago, whom he had never liked anyway, so that Moa could return to Kilatas and subsequently leave him. There was absolutely no reason for him to be doing what he was doing, except because Moa wanted it.

That made her feel worse. Her own selfishness crushed her. How could she ask that kind of sacrifice of him? And yet, how could she not? She needed his help, and she needed Vago. Maybe the golem was in trouble. Unlike Rail, she had some real affection for Vago, and she would not leave him to his fate if she could help it.

“Trnsctn s vr,” the Coder whirred.

Rail shook his head. “More.”

The Coder remained still. It was impossible to tell what his reaction was. His whole body was encased in an interlocking exoskeleton like chitin on a beetle, and his features were hidden by a full-face helmet of smooth black. Two bulbous, blank eyes glowed pale blue from within. There was a circular grille on his thin chest where his voice came from, flat and mechanical.

“Vry wll,” he said, and continued counting out chits.

Nobody knew how much of a Coder was machine and how much was human. They liked to give the impression that they were integrated flesh and metal, like Vago was, but the truth was that only the Protectorate had that kind of science. Coders surrounded themselves in a shell of technology, but inside they were human, and ashamed of it.

Coders wanted to be machines, like the machine-god they worshipped. They believed their god lived inside the Fulcrum, inside the Chaos Engine. The probability storms, the Revenants: these were the evidence that their god existed, and that it was angry with them and needed appeasing. Coders were mechanics, whose purpose was to understand the fingerprints of the deity in circuitry and the interlocking of a gear or a cog. They could always be relied on to buy technology like a glimmer visor. Rail was selling his now, to make extra money for their passage up-Artery towards the centre of Orokos.

Unbeknownst to them, Rail and Moa were following the same route that Bane and Vago had gone the night before.

“Stsfd?” the Coder asked. Coder language was tricky to follow as they didn't use vowels, but Rail had enough experience that the half-spoken words were clear enough.

He scooped up the chits into a bag. “That'll do fine.”

The transaction completed, Rail and Moa left the workshop and ambled out into the dull grey morning. Here on the canalside terraces, buildings rose to three or four storeys, and each one was a different shopfront. Weathered staircases and walkways creaked under the weight of booted feet as people slid by one another on the narrow throughways. The air was full of the smell of gutted fish and dirt.

The workshop was on the third floor, so they made their way down to ground level where the jetties were and headed for the boats. Barges and haulers were slowly departing up-Artery, heading for the Fulcrum or the smaller canal networks that ran all through the city. None were going the other way: only a short distance west was the edge of the city and the colossal wall, where huge intakes sucked in the water and spewed it out on the other side in a vast cascade.

They walked through cobblestone alleys down towards the canal. Houses of dark stone and metal rose up around them. Neither of them said anything. Rail, in fact, had been virtually silent ever since he had agreed to try and rescue Vago. It felt like he was punishing her. After some time, Moa couldn't bear it any longer.

“It'll all work out, Rail,” she said weakly. “You'll see. We'll get Vago back.”

“And then what?” he replied. “Then you'll get on a boat and get yourself killed. One in three, remember? Or had you forgotten the odds of getting off Orokos alive?” He glared ahead into the middle distance. “That's even assuming Kittiwake knows what she's talking about.”

She was about to reply, but he cut her off: “And another thing, what if she's right about Vago? What if he
is
an enemy? What do we know about him? Nothing! If he's at the Null Spire – and again, we've only got the word of some girl in a painting for that – then he's probably already blabbing about Kilatas and our artefact.”

Moa fell silent again. She didn't have an argument. He was right. And she knew now that she would never, never manage to persuade him to come with her. Even the prospect of losing her for ever wasn't enough to make him subscribe to Kittiwake's plan. If only she could make him see what she saw, the spectacular lands that might be just out of reach over the horizon. If he could see that, then he'd know they were worth risking anything for. But there were no words that would make him understand.

Now that she felt herself and Rail splitting apart, she realized how tightly they had been entwined. Always together, always valuing the other more than anything else. But now this, now Vago and Kittiwake and the fact that they just didn't want the same things any more.

She wished they had never found the Fade-Science artefact that was stashed in the inner pocket of her dungarees. She wished she had never gained the power to open doors. Some doors should stay shut, because once opened they could never be closed again.

As Rail haggled with a boatman for their passage upriver, she found herself thinking of the Null Spire, of what they would face when they got there. Maybe they could get in, with the artefact she had. Maybe it was suicide. But she had to try. She knew that Rail didn't understand that, but she had to try.

“It'll be a little while till we set off,” he murmured to Moa. She shrugged. It would still take the whole day and night to get to the centre of Orokos on a barge. Another day gone. Time was slipping from her.

Rail glanced about as he waited for the boatman to count the money he handed over. He hadn't forgotten about Finch, but he was fairly sure that Anya-Jacana's thief-boy would have given up and moved on by now. Finch couldn't be everywhere.

But right at that moment, a boy was watching them from behind a pile of crates, a boy who had heard a rumour. A rumour that someone was paying good money for information about a dreadlocked, dark-skinned boy with a respirator and a pale girl wearing dungarees. He watched them get on to the barge, noted its name, and then ran away.

Finch couldn't be everywhere, it was true. But it was amazing what the promise of a little money could do.

Darkness claimed Orokos once again, and the barge moved slowly onward, its engines labouring against the current. It was a large passenger craft with a dozen cabins, heavy and ugly, hung with chains and cables that clanked softly as it rocked in the sway of the West Artery. Tonight the moon was clouded and a fine rain fell, making the night unfriendly and impenetrable. Houses and buildings on the canal bank were invisible. The barge ploughed through the water, towards the heart of the city. The crew steered half-awake, watching for the lights of other craft on the massive canal.

None of them noticed the slender figure that attached itself to a trailing cable, nor did they hear when he scampered up it like a rat and slipped over the gunwale. Finch scanned the deck for crewmen and then slid into the shadow of the cabins, the rain erasing the drips he left in his wake. Stealthily, he tried the door next to him, and it opened without a sound. Within, metal stairs led down into the noisy core of the barge. He took them.

The boy who sold him this information had better have been telling the truth, Finch thought. If not, he'd find himself with his throat cut before long.

The whole day had been a race to overtake the barge. He had hired a swift craft to take him upstream, and only as night drew in had he passed the boat he was looking for. He got out several stops upstream and waited, and when he saw its lights approaching in the rain he swam out to meet it. He had expended a lot of money and effort to get here, and he had used up most of the chits gained from selling Moa's abandoned glimmer visor already. But if it worked, it would be worth it. He wanted that artefact. And he wanted to kill Rail and Moa, just for the trouble they'd put him to.

But he couldn't kill them. Not yet. Bane wanted them alive, and while he was wearing the Persuader he was still Bane's man.

He found himself now in a short corridor of riveted iron. Hanging lanterns cast a green-tinted light, swinging with the movement of the barge. Several oval doors with portholes set into them were on either side. All were dark. It was late, and the passengers had settled in for the night.

Finch peered in through the portholes. The faint moonlight coming through the small, square windows on the opposite wall was enough to outline the sleeping forms within, cradled in net hammocks. He passed along the corridor, looking through each door, until finally he set eyes on Moa.

She was curled up in her hammock, wrapped tight in a blanket like a caterpillar in a cocoon. But the hammock above her was empty. Rail wasn't there.

Finch glanced either way up the corridor, concern crossing his features. Then where
was
he? Out on the deck?

No matter, he thought, as he slid his dagger from its leather sheath. If he came back, Finch would deal with him. Time to get this done.

He turned the handle, pushed open the door, and stepped into the cabin, closing the door behind him. The rattle and drone of the barge's engine covered what slight noises he made. Moa didn't wake.

Finch crept towards her, his sodden clothes sticking to him. The rain pattered against the window outside. She murmured and stirred, some dream-sense warning her of danger; but it wasn't enough to make her open her eyes. Not until she felt the cold edge of Finch's blade against her throat.

“Hello, pretty,” Finch crooned, grinning his terrifying grin. “You have something I want.”

Moa froze. Instinctively she looked about for Rail, but he wasn't there. There was only Finch.

“I hear you have a trinket,” he murmured, leaning over her so close that drips from his hood fell on to her cheek. “Something very precious. Why don't you tell me exactly what it does, Moa? I'm
very
curious.”

“It doesn't do anyth—” she began, but stopped as he pressed the dagger harder against her neck, hard enough to hurt.

He made a soft tutting sound. “Let's not lie to each other, hmm?”

She wanted to swallow, for her mouth had gone dry, but she didn't dare. Where was Rail? Why had he abandoned her like this? Frightened out of her wits, she had little choice but to answer.

“It opens doors,” she murmured. “It makes things . . . so you can pass through them.”

“That's what I thought,” Finch replied. “Otherwise you'd never have got away from me the first time.” He shifted the blade so that the point of it was under Moa's chin. She whimpered softly, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“Give it to me.”

She reached inside her blanket. She had slept fully clothed, for the cabin was cold. After a moment, she drew out the Fade-Science device. Finch snatched it from her. He examined it from every angle.

“How does it work?”

“You put it on . . . you put it on your hand,” Moa managed. A tear of pure fear was sliding down her sallow cheek now, but Finch didn't notice. He looked at her, eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Don't move,” he said. “And don't make a sound. Or I'll cut you
really
bad.”

He retreated a little and lowered the dagger, freeing up both his hands so that he could try and put the artefact on. Moa entertained wild plans of making a dash for the door, but she knew she wouldn't get that far. She wished desperately that Rail were here; but then, part of her hoped that he would stay away. She wouldn't want him to get hurt.

Take it
, she thought.
Take it and go
.

“It doesn't fit,” Finch muttered. He looked up again at her and said again, angrily: “It doesn't
fit
!”

He tossed it at her and she caught it automatically. “Put it on,” he hissed. “I want to see.”

Moa did as she was told. She moved so that she was sitting at the edge of her hammock, and slipped it on to her hand. It went on easily, the amber disc nestling in her palm, a perfect fit. And then the colours came: the strange, swirling veils of colour, like the drifting hems of a probability storm. They danced slowly around her forearm, lighting the cabin with a soft radiance. Finch stared, amazed. Suddenly, he tore open his wet shirt and shucked it off one arm. His body was scrawny, white and scarred. Around his upper arm was the dull grey band of the Persuader.

“You told me it makes things so you can pass through them,” he said. “What about this?”

Moa looked bewildered. She had no idea what it was, nor why he simply couldn't get it off himself. “I don't know, I. . .”

“Try!” he hissed. He still held the dagger in one hand.

She was about to warn him that she had no idea what harm it might do if she touched it to him, but she stopped herself. She didn't care if he got hurt.

She reached towards him. “No tricks, now,” he warned. He had the dagger ready in his free hand.

“No tricks,” she murmured. And she clasped her hand to the Persuader.

The colours flowed from her arm, gliding around the metal band. The Persuader and the surrounding arm faded until it was ghostly. Finch gave a yelp at the sight and pulled his arm back; and as he did so, it slid through the transparent ring of metal, which fell to the floor with a thump.

He gave a breathless laugh. He was massaging his arm, which had become solid again. The Persuader was on the floor next to where Moa sat in her hammock.

“Throw it to me,” he said. She picked it up and tossed it across the cabin. He caught it and slipped it into his pocket, then got his shirt back on. “Now then,” he grinned. “I suppose I should thank you for helping me out of that little bind, but all you've done is remove the only reason why I shouldn't kill you.” He smiled nastily as he took a step towards her, his blade sheening in the dim light from outside. “Without that Persuader, Bane's got no hold on me any more. I can take that Fade-Science trinket and disappear. I wonder if it would still work if I just cut your hand off?”

But Moa had no intention of letting him near her. She slapped her palm down on the floor of the cabin, and the colours flowed. Finch had time for an instant of surprise before the ground beneath his feet became transparent, and then with a cry he fell through the floor and into the cargo hold of the barge. Moa, suspended in her hammock, pulled her hand away and the floor became solid once again.

For a short time, she just gazed at the empty room. She was unable to believe it had actually worked. But here she was, alone, in the cabin. Finch was gone.

Then she was moving. She tugged the artefact off and stuffed it back in the pocket of her dungarees. All she wanted to do now was to be away from this place, off this barge. Finch was down, but he wasn't out. She got out of the hammock, wrenched open the door . . .

. . .and came face-to-face with Rail.

The sight of him brought all the terror of the last few minutes boiling to the surface. “What were you
doing
?” she shrieked. “Where the freck were you when I needed you?”

Rail grabbed her arms, shushing her; and there was something in his glare that withered her anger. He was frightened too.

“The Secret Police are here,” he said.

“What? What are they—”

“We have to go!” he hissed.

She didn't argue any further. The two of them hurried down the corridor, and Rail sped up the metal stairs to the door which led onto the deck.

“I was up top,” he muttered as they went. “Thinking. Didn't care about the rain. I saw their boat pull up. They're searching for something. I think they're searching for us.”

He grasped the handle of the door and looked back at her, his dreadlocks dripping and his respirator wet. “Are you ready?”

“Rail,” she said. “Finch is here. He nearly got me.”

Rail's eyes tightened. “We have to go,” he said again, and he opened the door a crack.

Outside, he could see trenchcoated shadows moving along the sides of the barge. They moved quietly and with purpose, and they had thumper guns in their hands.

“We make a break for the water,” he said. “If we can get to the side of the barge, we might be able to—”

“You go,” Moa interrupted him.

“This isn't a time for—” he began to protest, but she cut him off again.

“I can't swim,” she said.

“What?”

“I can't swim.”

“You grew up next to a lake, your father was a fisherman and you can't
swim
?”

“I was stung by something . . . when I was very young. They could never get me back in the water after that. . .” She trailed away, realizing how pathetic it sounded now. “Freck, Rail, we live in the middle of a city. I never thought it was important.”

Rail's heart sank. “We're caught,” he said.

“No! You can run. You can swim.”

He turned away from the door, shook his head. “I'm not going. Not without you,” he said.

There was a long silence as they looked at each other.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured, fresh tears spilling from her. “I'm sorry for all of this.”

He walked down to the bottom of the stairs where she stood. “Come on, Moa. We got into this together.” And he embraced her gently. “I'd rather be here with you than anywhere.”

She slipped her arms round him in response, feeling the hard metal of the respirator pack beneath his jacket. She was still holding him when the door at the top of the stairs opened and the Secret Police came for them.