The Skies Discrowned (12 page)

“Yeah, I’ll help.”

“Good. Get a sealskin jacket and boots; there are three branches of the Leethee spewing around down there looking for new channels. And take a good hunting knife out of that closet. There’ll be no room for swords, but there’s always room for a knife.”

Frank quickly slipped into a jacket and boots and put a knitted wool cap on his head. Then, after selecting a sturdy knife, he was ready to go. The eight of them left Orcrist’s place silently and strode away down the low, torch-lit corridors. Bands of furtive, hurrying men were no unusual sight in the understreet city, and Orcrist and his companions caused no comment. They made their way northwest, filing down narrow walkways, going up and down stairs and walking along the sidewalks of big streets. These were areas unfamiliar to Frank, and he made sure to follow the others closely.

After about twenty minutes of walking Orcrist pulled them all aside into a little yard filled with garbage cans. “We split up here,” he said. “Lambert, you come with me and we’ll circle north and come in from the other side. Poach, you take Frank and go west around the crater. Wister and Colin, try to come up from below. Bob, you and Daryl wait here ten minutes and then go straight in. Everybody got that?”

They all nodded and broke up into pairs. Frank’s partner, Poach, was a weather-beaten, middle-aged man with three fingers missing from his left hand. “Okay, kid,” he said hoarsely, “follow me and do what I do.” He had not looked directly at Frank yet, and did not now—he simply set off down the nearest east-west cross street. The older man had very long legs and a quick pace, and Frank had to trot to keep up with him. An uneven muted roar was becoming audible, and Frank knew it must be coming from the disrupted sections of the Leethee.

After a few blocks they took a right turn, which had them facing north, and Frank saw bright daylight at the end of the street; as his eyes grew accustomed to the glare he saw the jagged, tumbled wooden beams that were silhouetted against the brightness.

“This is it,” whispered Poach. “Move slow and don’t make no noise.” Frank saw that Poach had his knife out, so he took his out too. He looked around, and realized that the last couple of streets had been completely empty. It’s like sandcrabs, he thought. You dig a hole, let the sunlight in, and they all burrow deeper down, back into the darkness.

A harsh voice broke the quiet: “Tommy, get over here. They got more tunnels down here than an anthill.” There were sounds of splashing footsteps and another voice, presumably Tommys, spoke. “Captain, the whole floor is swaying on this level, and that damned river is thrashing around only one level below us. I haven’t seen one person yet, and I say we should clear
out
of this lousy maze.”

Poach made a “wait here” gesture to Frank and set off silently in the direction of the two voices. Frank stood absolutely still in the semi-darkness, clutching his knife and breathing through his mouth in order to hear better. Tommy has a point, he thought absently; the floor is swaying a little. A gray and white cat hurried by nervously, tail held high and eyes darting about. Frank tried to attract it by scratching his fingernails on a wooden gatepost, but the cat, not in a playful mood, didn’t stop.

A shrill, jabbering yell was abruptly wrenched out of someone’s lungs a block away. “He’s killing me, he’s killing me, help me for God’s sake!” Frank jumped, dropped his knife, picked it up again, and ran off in the direction of the desperate shouting. More yells echoed up ahead: “Look out, Wister, over your head!” “Not
mey
, idiot!”
“Get
him, will someone once and for all
get
him?”

Frank rounded a corner, running as fast as he could, and found himself in the midst of it. Two men in Transport uniforms were down and motionless on the street, and Orcrist was chasing a third, waving his knife like a madman. One of Orcrist’s companions sat against a wall, white-faced, pressing his stomach with blood-wet hands. Two more Transport cops burst out of an alley at Frank’s left, and one of them drove his knife at Frank’s chest. The blade ripped his coat, but missed hitting flesh, and before the man could recover Frank drove his own knife into the Transport’s side until he could feel the fabric of the man’s jacket with his knuckles. The other one clubbed Frank with a blackjack in the left ear, and Frank went to his knees, dropping his knife. The cop raised his own knife, but Poach kicked the man in the stomach and cut his throat as he buckled.

Frank was trying to clear his head and stand up when the angle of the street pavement changed. He had fallen onto a level expanse, but by the time he struggled into a sitting position the street was slanted like a roof. Panicky yells echoed on all sides, so he knew he was not imagining it. The floor is collapsing, he told himself. That’s the only explanation.

With a thundering, snapping crash the ancient masonry of the floor gave way like a trap door; Frank tumbled through a board fence, rolled over a collapsing wall and then plummeted through thirty feet of dust-choked air into deep, cold rushing water. The impact knocked the breath out of him and he was pulled far under the surface by savagely pounding
whirlpools and undertows. Rocks and lumber spun all around him in the dark water, buffeting his ribs and back. Very dimly, he thought that he would not survive this. He convulsively gasped water, and then was racked by gagging coughs. Even if he could have mustered the strength to swim, he no longer knew which way was up.

He collided hard with a row of stationary metal bars. It must be some kind of grating or something, jammed across the stream, he thought. I could climb it and maybe get my head above water.
Why bother?
said another part of his mind. You’ve already gone through all the pain of dying—why not get it over with? You’ve earned your death: take it.

Working by instinct, his mind ordered his arms and legs to pull him upward against the wrenching of the cold water. In a few seconds his head was above the foaming surface and he was retching water, trying with desperate animal gasps to get air into his misused lungs.

He hung there for five full minutes, until the act of breathing did not require all of his concentration. Then he pulled himself along to the right, hoping that this gate, or whatever it was, was braced against the bank; there was absolutely no light, and he had to work by touch. A couple of times he felt the gate slide an inch or two, but it did not pull loose. Eventually he found his shoulder brushing against the wet bricks of a wall—that’s all it was, just a brick wall with the rushing flood splashing against it. There was no passageway, so Frank simply hunched there on his perch of metal bars, with one hand braced against the bricks, and wept into the stream.

After a while he gathered his strength and began inching his way across to the other side, clinging tightly to the bars and trying to keep his body out of the water to avoid the wood and debris that were constantly colliding with the gate. Groping blindly in the darkness, he eventually found a rectangular opening that might once have framed a door. He managed to scramble into it and crawl a few yards up the passageway beyond. Then, free from the danger of drowning, he collapsed on the stone floor and surrendered his consciousness.

Someone was tugging at his hair. “Lemme ’lone,” he muttered. To his intense annoyance it didn’t stop. He dozed, thinking, I’ll just wait till they give up and go away. Suddenly he realized that he was cold, colder than he had ever been. I can’t sleep, he realized. I’ve got to get blankets, fast.

He sat up, and heard a dozen tiny creatures scamper chittering away into the dark. Mice, by God! Eating my hair! “Hah!” he croaked, to scare them. He’d meant to yell, but a croak was all he could come up with. He crouched in the stone corridor, clasping his knees and shivering uncontrollably. I’m naked, he noticed. No, that isn’t quite right. I’ve still got my
boots on, and my brass ear is hanging around my throat like a necklace. If there was any light I’d be an odd spectacle.

He vaguely remembered his near-drowning and realized in a detached way that he probably needed first aid pretty badly. He stood up on knees that refused to work together, and staggered up the passageway, arms out before him to feel for obstacles. If I get through all this, he thought, I’ll stay home the next time Orcrist wants to go on an adventure.

John Bollinger was a religious man and took no part in the sinful society of Munson Understreet. He subsisted on fish and mushrooms and lived in a tiny one-room house that had belonged to his father. He had four books—a bible, a copy
of Paradise Lost
, the
Divina Commedia
, and Butler’s
Lives of the Saints
. He always said, even when no one was listening, that to have more books than that was vanity.

He had heard the explosion during the night, but figured it was just a judgment on someone, and lie forgot about it. He was looking at the Dore illustrations in his Milton when, the next afternoon, there came a knock at his door.

“Who knocks?” asked John.

There was no answer, aside from a confused muttering.

Rising fearlessly from his table, John strode to the door and flung it open. Confronting him was the strangest apparition he’d ever seen.

It was, as John was later to describe it to his pastor, “the likeness of a young man, naked and blue-colored. He wore curious shoes, and an indecipherable medallion about his neck on a string, and his hair was cut in a barbaric tonsure.”

“What seekest thou?” gasped John.

“Clothes, for God’s sake. Hot soup. Brandy.”

“Aye, come in. Sit down. Of what order are you?”

“What?”

“What order do you belong to?”

“I don’t belong to any order,” Frank said. Seeing the old man frown, he added, off the top of his head, “I’m an independent. Freelance.”

“An anchorite! I see. Here. You can use this blanket to cover your shame. Will you join me in some fish and mushrooms?”

“Will I ever!”

Half an hour later Frank was beginning to pull himself together. The food and strong tea that John had given him had revived him, and he felt capable now of finding his way back to Orcrist’s apartment. I wonder if he managed to survive that street-fall? he thought. The last time he had seen Orcrist, he was chasing that Transport
away
from the collapsing street. He must think I’ve had it, though. I’d better get back quick.

“Thank you for your hospitality to a naked stranger,” he said, standing up and wrapping the blanket around himself like a robe. “I will repay you.”

“Don’t repay me,” John said. “Just do the same some day for some other homeless wanderer.”

“You bet,” Frank said, shaking the old mans hand. “Can you tell me how to get to Sheol from here?”

“We all go to Sheol eventually,” said John with a somber frown, “and we’d better be prepared.”

“I guess that’s true.” Poor devil, he thought. Brain warped from a diet of fish. A lesson to us all. Frank crossed to the door and opened it. “So long,” he said, “and thanks again.”

It was chilly in the tunnels, and Frank was glad to have the blanket. He hurried southeast, numbed feet beating on the cobblestones, and finally did, as John had predicted, get to Sheol, where he turned left. He was wondering what he’d do if some understreet vagabonds were to attack him, because his strength and endurance were very nearly gone. As it happened, though, none did; he wasn’t the type of wanderer that would tempt a thief.

After he’d found Sheol the rest of the trip was easy, and within ten minutes he was turning the emergency hide-a-key in Orcrist’s front door lock. He swung the door open. The front room was empty, so he stumbled to the bathroom and began putting iodine and bandages on his various cuts and gouges.

Nothing seems to be broken, he thought, wincing as he probed a bruise over his ribs. Not obviously broken, anyway. His left ear was swollen and incredibly painful to touch, so he just left it alone. Finally he stood up and regarded his black and blue, bandage-striped body in the full-length mirror hanging behind the door.

Good God! he
thought. What’s become of my hair? He ran his fingers through the ragged, patchy clumps of hair on his scalp. This dismayed him more than anything else. Those damned mice
ate
it! I didn’t know mice did that. What am I going to do? How can I face Blanchard looking like this? Or
Kathrin?

He went to his room and dressed. He put on a wide-brimmed leather hat, tilting it at a rakish angle to keep it off his wounded ear. Finally he plodded wearily to the sitting room, poured a glass of brandy and collapsed into Orcrist’s easy chair.

Frank woke up to the sound of the front door squeaking open and someone scuffing mud off of boots. Frank tried to stand up, but a dozen sudden lancing pains made him decide to remain seated.

“Pons?” It was Orcrist’s voice. “Pons?”

“Mr. Orcrist!” Frank called.

Orcrist stepped into the sitting room and stared at Frank in amazement. The older man was still dressed as he had been that morning, and still had not shaved, nor, to judge by his eyes, slept.

“I’ll kill Poach,” he said. “He swore he saw you and about two hundred feet of Henderson Lane fall into the river.”

“Don’t kill him,” said Frank. “That’s what happened. I managed to climb out of the Leethee after about six blocks.”

“Are you all right?”

“No.” Frank took off his hat.

Orcrist raised his eyebrows. “Why don’t you tell it to me from the beginning,” he said, pulling up another chair. As economically as possible, Frank explained what had transpired after Orcrist ran off in pursuit of the fleeing Transport cop. “Did you get him, by the way?” Frank asked. Orcrist nodded. When the story was finished, Orcrist shook his head wonderingly.

“The Fates must have something planned for you, Frank.”

“I hope it’s something quiet. How did the rest of you do?”

“Well, let’s see. Wister and Lambert went into the river with you, and are presumed drowned. Bob has disappeared also. Poach is fine. I’m fine. You’ve lost your hair. None of the Transports seem to have survived.”