The navigator (21 page)

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then climbed onto the trunk and moved across the river slowly, pausing every few meters to examine it. When she got to the other side, she spent ten minutes examining the place where he had fallen. She stood up. For a moment Pieta stared back across the river, pain in her eyes. Then she turned back and plunged into the forest.

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The Q-car moved slowly but relentlessly through the driving snow all that day. As far as Owen could see, there were pine trees to either side of the vehicle, but it was moving on a clear space. The ride was incredibly smooth. After a while Johnston had retired to the back of the Q-car with Whitwashisberd. The two men pored over the ledger as if they were looking for something. Maria-callas was asleep in one of the chairs, his legs and arms sprawled out, his head thrown back and his mouth open. Owen moved slowly up to the front of the Q-car, hoping not to attract Johnston's attention.

"Come to see how her work?" asked Passionara. The man was squinting out of the window into the snow,

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making tiny adjustments to the wheel as he did so. Gauges and dials flickered in front of him and he referred to them constantly.

"Go damn fast, Q-car," Passionara went on. "Got to go slow for now. When we reach proper Harsh Road she go like crazy."

"What happens if you hit a rock or a snowdrift?" Owen asked.

"No problem for big wheel. Ride right over anything you like. Rock, big snow, tree even. Look at wheel." Owen looked out of the window and saw that the wheels were riding up and down, constantly bumping over obstacles, but the cabin stayed steady all the time.

"How come the cabin doesn't go up and down as well?"

"Big spring on wheel," Passionara said with a shrug. "Gyro in cabin."

Owen thought that Passionara looked relaxed driving the Q-car. He seemed happy to tell Owen anything he wanted to know about it and Owen was happy to keep him talking in case he learned something useful. In fact, Owen almost forgot who he was talking to, but there was a sickening reminder to come.

Through an eddy in the snow, Owen saw a deer standing in the middle of the road. Passionara saw it at the same time. With a whoop he pushed one of the brass levers forward and the Q-car leapt toward the deer. The deer froze momentarily, then started to run. Go on, a

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voice in Owen's head said. Go on! But the deer had no chance against the speed of the Q-car. Passionara swerved violently off the road, ignoring the curses of Johnston from the rear. The deer made one last desperate bound and then the Q-car was on it. With a sickening jolt, first the front wheel and then the back wheel crashed over the animal. Passionara was cheering wildly now as he swerved back toward the road.

His cheering woke Mariacallas, who joined in mindlessly, even though he hadn't seen what had happened. Owen looked out of the side window. He could see the body of the deer lying in the snow. Without looking at Passionara, he turned back toward his seat. But Johnston brushed him aside. Without breaking stride, one giant fist caught Passionara on the side of the head. Passionara toppled from his seat like a felled tree and lay motionless on the floor.

Johnston handed the controls to Mariacallas. "Do a better job than this," he said, indicating the semiconscious Passionara. Mariacallas watched Johnston walk off, then turned to Passionara and delivered a vicious kick to his ribs. He giggled and did a little dance to himself, then took the controls. The Q-car lumbered off into the snowy dusk.

As the Q-car disappeared from sight a shape detached itself from the forest on the other side of the river. Pieta, running swiftly and tirelessly, seemed to glide lightly

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across the top of the snow. She reached the place where the Q-car had killed the deer, and bent to examine the body. Then she started to run again and soon she too was lost in the gathering dusk.

The Q-car drove on through the night. Passionara woke up and made his way groggily to the back of the cabin and promptly fell asleep again. Johnston produced his record player from the pile of supplies and started to play classical music very loudly. Owen covered his ears as best he could. Whitwashisberd had fallen asleep and did not seem to be bothered by the music. Owen put up with it for almost two hours and then fell asleep himself. When he woke it was quiet. Quiet, that is, except for the snoring of Whitwashisberd and Johnston and Passionara, which was enough to wake the dead. Outside, the snow was still falling and Mariacallas peered into the night, the road almost invisible despite the help of several huge spotlights that had been turned on.

Owen thought that this was his chance to get a look at the ledger. He crawled under the tables until he was at Whitwashisberd's table. The man had enormous feet and it was with great difficulty that Owen got past without touching them. His snores were deafening from this near, and Owen could feel the table vibrating and rattling. Cautiously he put his hand up over the edge of the table and felt around. He touched something cold and flabby. It was Whitwashisberd's hand. He froze. The man

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grumbled in his sleep and Owen had to scramble out of the way as the enormous feet swung round under the table. But gradually he settled again and the snoring fell into a steady rhythm. Owen felt about again and this time his hand touched the ledger. Slowly and painstakingly, for it was very heavy, he pulled it toward the edge of the table. Then, using both hands, he eased it down.

The cover of the book was battered and stained. There was writing in a strange language on it, but the gilt of the lettering had long since worn off and it was impossible to decipher. Owen opened the book carefully. It even smelled old. There seemed to be tens of thousands of entries. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps. Owen started to wonder just how old Whitwashisberd actually was. He turned to the last entry. As far as he could see, names were recorded on the left-hand pages and events on the opposite pages. There were skulls in fresh ink drawn beside many of the names on the left-hand pages, and Owen guessed that these were men who had fallen in the battle at the Workhouse. He spotted one entry that read "Frizzell Gruntion, Planeman," and Owen remembered the Planeman who had attacked them at the Nab.

There had to be a system to the book, but Owen couldn't work out what it was. It couldn't be done by date because time was going backward, which made nonsense out of that system. It didn't seem to be done alphabetically. After a while he reckoned that the names must bear some relationship to the events recorded on the right-hand page. Most of the time the events were

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described by pictures rather than words. For instance, there was a clock that was cracked down the middle, which Owen thought must be the day that time had turned backward. He flicked back through the pages, wondering what event would relate to the time that his father had been with the Resisters. There were so many pages and his eyes began to grow tired, squinting at the small writing in the half-light under the table.

Owen was almost ready to give up when he found it. A small drawing of a car half in, half out of the water. And when you looked closely, you could see the crudely drawn figure of a man in the front seat and the unmistakable round features of a baby's face in the back. Owen felt his blood run cold. With a shaking finger he traced a line across to the left-hand page. He read his father's name. There was a skull beside it. A dull pain seemed to settle across his chest. He felt tears start in his eyes. He closed the book and squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to stop the tears. When he opened them again he saw Passionara's thin features peering at him under the table.

"Now, now," he said softly, "what is Pretty Rat doing under the table?"

Owen flew at him.

Passionara tried to defend himself, but his reflexes seemed to have been slowed by the thump he had received from Johnston. Surprised, he fell backward over one of the chairs and Owen was on top of him.

"Stop calling me Pretty Rat!" he yelled. "Stop it! Stop it!" His arms flailed at the man's face. Some of the blows

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were landing, but they weren't hard enough to do any damage. He could see that Passionara was grinning now, a thin, evil grin. He opened his lips and his tongue slid out. To his horror, Owen saw a small but deadly-looking razor on the man's tongue. Quick as a snake, Passionara snatched the blade from his tongue with one hand, grabbing Owen by the hair with the other and yanking his head back so that his throat was completely exposed. Owen could see the blade clearly, its rusty edges. He could almost feel it tearing at his throat. Passionara grinned but there was nothing funny about it. The blade arced through the air. Owen could hear his own heart beating, loud as a drum.

"What do you think you're doing, you flouncing popinjay?" Johnston roared, appearing as if from nowhere and snatching Owen up as the blade swooped through the space where he had been. Johnston straightened, Owen swinging from one fist as though the older man was about to use him as a club to beat Passionara.

"Boy attack me!" Passionara wailed, with a sneaky look of dislike at Owen that didn't bode well for the future. He was circling Johnston, trying to cut at Owen with the razor blade. But Johnston kept him dangling just out of reach. At least he called me boy, not Pretty Rat, Owen thought. As Passionara made a lunge, his arm passed too close to Whitwashisberd. With a lazy kick, the white-bearded man knocked the blade out of Passionara's hand and it clattered onto the floor. Johnston swiftly

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picked it up and put it in his pocket. When he was satisfied that Passionara couldn't hurt Owen, he dropped him heavily on the floor. Dazed, Owen could hear Mariacallas giggling with excitement.

"Quiet yourself!" Johnston said. He turned to Passionara. "You hurt this, even one fingernail, I'll be giving you to the Harsh along with it, you got that?" Passionara nodded sullenly.

"Whitwashisberd," Johnston went on, "tie the creature up, bind him hand and foot, and keep him there beside you." Whitwashisberd nodded grimly.

Within minutes, Owen was trussed up like a turkey, barely able to move a muscle. Whitwashisberd showed a great expertise with knots, wetting each one before he pulled it tight so that it would shrink and become even tighter when it dried. Passionara prowled just out of reach, urging Whitwashisberd to pull the ropes even tighter, and when Whitwashisberd eventually put Owen on the ground, Passionara lay watching him, his eyes alert and full of malice. Owen groaned inwardly. Now there was no chance of escape.

The first few days on board Boat were strange. It took Cati some time to find her sea legs, even though the swell was light. Snow gathered in the rigging and on the decks and had to be swept off, and all sounds were strangely muffled. Cati knew that the great empty sea was all around them, for Wesley had said that he was putting

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far out to sea. Yet she had no sense of it, just of the small community on board. And that small community consisted of one more than had been intended. They had cleared the bar at the harbor and had been sailing for several hours when Wesley shaded his eyes and frowned and peered forward.

"How did the lassie get on board?" he said. The solemn little girl who had been woken by Owen was standing in the prow of the boat, facing out to sea.

"I don't know," the Sub-Commandant said. "I didn't see her come on board."

"Shall I ask her?" Cati said.

"No," the Sub-Commandant said thoughtfully, "leave her be."

"Nothing we can do about it anyhow," Wesley said. "I'm not putting about now to bring her back."

The little girl stayed in the prow of the boat until nightfall, despite the driving snow. When the Sub-Commandant saw that she was gone, he sent Cati to look for her with some bread and beans and cake. But Cati could not find her.

"There's a hundred places such a small lass could squeeze into and you'd never find her," Wesley said.

"Take the food and wrap it well and leave it in the bow," said the Sub-Commandant. Cati did as she was told.

Wesley and Dr. Diamond had built a small case to enclose the memory compass and were now engaged in a long and serious conversation on the nature of time. The

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motor beat soundlessly and slowly. "If we're going to run into something in this snow," Wesley said, "best we don't run into her too quick." Chancellor had agreed with him, then retired to his cabin.

At dusk they had dinner in the stateroom under the stern. The stateroom had big windows looking out at the wake of the boat. It was lit by candles. Dr. Diamond cooked and served the meal himself on big white plates, with starched linen napkins.

Cati thought it was romantic, eating under candlelight, with the ship swaying gently, snow gathering on the windowpanes. Dr. Diamond and Wesley resumed their conversation about time. The Sub-Commandant ate quietly by himself and Chancellor stayed in his cabin, saying he had a headache. At the end of the meal Dr. Diamond dramatically produced a replica of Boat made with spun sugar. As they were eating it, Cati felt her eyes beginning to close and she yawned.

" 'Twill be the sea air," Mervyn said. "Does make you tired when you're not used to it." So when she had finished her piece of spun-sugar boat, Cati said goodnight and, yawning, crossed the deck. She checked in the bow and saw that the food was gone before she went down to the little cabin. The blankets were old and much patched, as was the sheet, but it was clean and smelled of fresh air, and she slid under the blankets with a sigh of contentment. Looking out through the little windows, she could see the snow slanting down onto the deck. She thought about Owen, wondering where he was. Cati hoped he