The Court of the Air. Stephen Hunt

for us, Silver Onestack?’ asked Slowcogs.

      Raising itself on a tripod of three pincer-like legs, the large spherical body of the creature rotated, a silver-domed head emerging from an iris on the globe. ‘I had hoped no greetings would be necessary, Slowcogs. Did the controller not receive my message?’

      ‘We did not wait for your reply,’ said Slowcogs. ‘The Geargi-ju wheels have been thrown.’

      ‘Then he has read badly, Slowcogs. Grimhope is not the place it once was. Whatever threat this softbody faces in Middlesteel, it is only a fraction of the disorder that now rules down here.’

      Slowcogs rolled back. ‘I do not understand.’

      ‘Then let me show you,’ said Silver Onestack, his three legs scissoring him out of the temple. They reached the top of the hill and stared down into the valley.

      Old Chimecan ziggurats lay dotted around the cavern floor overwhelmed by the towers of a human city, smoke rising from workshops and manufactories. It looked like the Jangles in Middlesteel viewed from the top of the hill at Rottonbow.

      ‘Where is the tree town?’ asked Slowcogs. ‘Where is the palisade and Lake Chalchiuhtlicue?’

      ‘Cut down. Built over. Drained,’ said Silver Onestack. ‘The Anarchy Council fell three years ago. What is left of its members rests behind you in those plots.’

      ‘You have not reported this,’ said Slowcogs, accusingly.

      ‘Rather, I have, but you have not received my messages. The new regime brought flying things with them, all teeth and claws. I lost my whole loft of bird bats within a week. You were lucky the controller’s communication got through to me at all. It is the first word from the people of the metal I have received for years.’

      ‘It is strange this has been kept from us,’ said Slowcogs. He was clearly not used to the knowledge of something on such a scale having escaped the attention of the steammen’s all-knowing network.

      ‘Stranger still that the new regime were instantly able to identify all of the political police’s informers down here,’ said Silver Onestack. ‘Those informers that still live now tell the Guardians on the surface whatever the new regime wish them to hear.’

      Molly stared down at Grimhope, deeply disappointed. She had expected freedom to look different, not like a miniature replica of Middlesteel. But however bad it was, her murderous family would not be able to track her down here.

      Silver Onestack passed Molly a green cloak with a large hood. ‘Wear this, Molly softbody. And if anyone speaks to you before we get to my lodgings, do not forget to address your reply with compatriot, not sir or damson.’

      ‘They are communityists?’ Molly asked.

      ‘Not any more,’ said Silver Onestack, looking back at the bone-white gravestones of the Anarchy Council. ‘No. Not any more.’

       Chapter Seven

      If Harry Stave was a typical criminal, then Oliver couldn’t understand how the constabulary had not captured him years ago. Since fleeing from the police station at Hundred Locks, all they had done was enter the woods to the south of the town, go into the middle of a clearing, and peg out a strange yellow flag with a black circle in the centre.

      ‘Now what?’ Oliver asked, watching the drizzle falling from the sky soak the odd-looking flag.

      ‘We wait,’ said Harry Stave.

      ‘For what?’

      ‘For three hours, old stick.’ said Harry.

      ‘That’s not what I meant.’

      ‘I know.’

      Oliver couldn’t goad any more out of him. So he shut up and waited. Someone must have discovered the bodies in the police station by now. The corpses at Seventy Star Hall on the other hand could take weeks to be found. Damson Griggs brought everything to the house; she would be noticed missing first by one of the nosy neighbours she was always complaining about. Or perhaps one of Uncle Titus’s businesses would send a runner to see what had happened to their reclusive owner.

      Shortly after three hours had passed, a figure appeared on the other side of the clearing, shrouded by the curtain of rain – heavier now.

      ‘Who’s that?’ Oliver whispered.

      ‘If we’re lucky, our ticket out of here,’ said Harry.

      ‘Harry!’ the figure called.

      Harry Stave stayed where he was, sheltered by the tree from the rain. ‘Monks! You’re not meant to be here. Where’s Landless?’

      ‘Reassigned,’ said Monks. ‘Who’s the boy?’

      ‘The whistler’s nephew. We need to extract, Monks. We’ve been rolled up here.’

      Oliver was about to ask why his uncle was called the whistler, but Harry signalled him back.

      ‘Did you get to meet the walk-in, Harry?’

      ‘The walk-in didn’t show. That’s why I put up a signal. A rival crew arrived and nearly did for us. We’ve been bleeding rolled up, we need to get out now.’

      ‘That’s why I’m here, Harry. Come on.’

      Stave shut his eyes, not moving. A shadow seemed to separate itself from the criminal, a spectral outline moving forward into the rain and across the clearing. To Oliver’s astonishment a similar figure misted out of his own skin, drifting after the Harry-ghost.

      <Quiet.> Harry cautioned the boy. <We’re masked now under the tree. He can’t see us here.>

      In the centre of the clearing two thunder cracks exploded, a lick of flame splashing through the apparitions and off into the trees on the left.

      ‘Damn,’ said Harry. ‘A marksman. I do hate to be proved right.’

      They were running back into the forest, the man Monks shouting something after them.

      ‘That was your friend?’ Oliver wheezed as they darted through the trees.

      ‘An associate,’ said Harry. ‘It was a bleeding set-up. My own people.’

      Another crack sounded beside them. Whoever it was, they were shooting into the trees blind.

      Oliver ducked under a fallen oak. ‘You don’t sound surprised.’

      ‘Let’s just say I had my suspicions.’

      Oliver pointed to the north. ‘The town’s that way I think.’

      ‘Too well covered by now,’ said Harry, pushing Oliver on. ‘And besides, I never like to go into a place without knowing where the back door is.’

      They followed the sodden forest trail to the west, doubling back and switching trails to throw off any pursuit. The breeze lent a cold edge to the run. Since he had found Damson Griggs on the floor of their kitchen, sprinting about Hundred Locks was all Oliver seemed to have done. The shots into the trees had stopped.

      ‘Not coming after us,’ panted Oliver.

      ‘Not their style, Oliver,’ Harry replied. ‘My associates like to keep to the shadows. The minimum of fuss. They were going after an easy kill, not a forced march through half the county’s forests.’

      They slowed their dash as they began to come across tracks, leaves and twigs scattered across the ground. A horse trail. Oliver tried to locate the sun beyond the trees’ canopy. By its position they were into the late afternoon now. Then, against the fast-moving white clouds, he saw it. A black globe rising into the sky.

      ‘Look, Harry. I’ve never seen an airship like that.’

      Harry stared upwards. ‘Bloody Monks.