Philip Reeve - Predator's gold

A crackle came from overhead, then a high warbling shriek of feedback. All faces turned upwards. Fluted speakers bolted to the docking cranes belched static, and a voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once. “Bring the Dry to my quarters, my boys,” it said. “I will speak with him right away.”

Grimsby was not quite what Tom would have expected of a master-criminal’s underwater lair. It was too chilly, and smelled too much of mould and boiled cabbage. The reclaimed building which had looked so magical from outside was poky and cluttered, packed like a junk shop with the spoils from years of burglary. Swags of stolen tapestry decked the corridors, the rich designs embroidered over with new patterns of mildew. On shelves, in cubbyholes, half-glimpsed through the open doors of the rooms and workshops that he passed, Tom saw heaps of clothes; mouldering moraines of books and documents, ornaments and jewellery, weapons and tools; snooty-looking mannequins from high-class shops; goggle-screens and fly-wheels; batteries and bulbs; big, greasy machine-parts torn from the bellies of towns.

And everywhere there were the crab-cameras. The ceilings crawled with the little machines; dark corners glittered with their stilting legs. With no need to hide, they crouched on stacks of crockery or crept down the fronts of bookcases, scuttled over the wall-hangings and swung from the heavy, dangerous-looking electrical cables which festooned the walls. Their cyclops eyes glinted and whirred, tracking Tom as Caul and Skewer led him up the long flights of stairs towards Uncle’s quarters. To live in Grimsby was to live forever in the gaze of Uncle.

And Uncle was expecting them, of course. He stood up from his chair as they entered his chamber, coming to meet them through the light of a thousand surveillance-screens. He was a little man; both short and thin, pallid from living so long out of the sun’s sight. Half-moon spectacles perched on his narrow nose. He wore fingerless mittens, a five-cornered hat, a braided tunic that might have belonged once to a general or an elevator attendant, a silk dressing gown whose hem drew patterns on the dusty floor, nankeen trousers and bunny-slippers. Strands of sparse white hair trailed over his shoulders. Books which his boys had snatched for him at random from the shelves of a dozen libraries poked from his pockets. Crumbs clung to the grey stubble on his chin.

“Caul, my dear boy!” he murmured. “Thank you for obeying your poor old Uncle so prompt, and bringing the Dry home so handy. He ain’t been damaged, I take it? No harm done?”

Caul, remembering how he had behaved in Anchorage, and the reports Skewer would have sent home about him, was too scared to answer. Skewer said gruffly, “Alive and well, Uncle, just like your orders.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Uncle purred. “And Skewer. Little Skewer. You’ve been busy too, I gather.”

Skewer nodded, but before he could speak, Uncle lashed out at him, striking so hard that Skewer stumbled backwards and fell over with a childish wail of pain and surprise. Uncle kicked him a few times for good measure. Beneath their cheerful bunny faces his slippers had steel toe-caps. “Who do you think you are,” he shouted, “setting up as captain without my say-so? You know what happens to boys who disobey me, don’t you? You remember what I did to young Sonar off the Remora when he pulled a trick like yours?”

“Yes, Uncle,” snivelled Skewer. “But it wasn’t my fault, Uncle. Caul talked to a Dry! I thought the rules-”

“So Caul bent the rules a little,” said Uncle kindly, and kicked Skewer again. “I’m a reasonable man. I don’t mind if my boys use their initiative. I mean, it wasn’t just any old Dry young Caul revealed himself to, was it now? It was our friend Tom.”

He had been circling closer to Tom all the while, and now he reached out a clammy hand and gripped Tom’s chin, twisting his face up into the light.

“I won’t help you,” said Tom. “If you’re planning to attack Anchorage or something, I won’t help you.”

Uncle’s laugh was a thin little sound. “Attack Anchorage? That’s no plan of mine, Tom. My boys are burglars, not warriors. Burglars and observers. They watch. Listen. Send me reports about what’s going on aboard the cities, what’s being said. Yes. That’s how I keep my boys in plunder and prey. That’s why I’ve never been found out. I get lots of reports and I put them together, compare and contrast, note things down, add two and two. I look out for names that crop up in odd places. Like Hester Shaw. Like Thomas Natsworthy.”

“Hester?” said Tom, starting forward, restrained by Caul. “What have you heard about Hester?”

In the shadows behind Uncle’s chair two guards, surprised at Tom’s sudden movement, drew their swords. Uncle waved them back. “Caul’s reports were right then?” he asked. “You’re Hester Shaw’s sweetheart? Her lover?” There was a nasty, wheedling edge to his voice now, and Tom felt himself blush as he nodded. Uncle watched him for a moment, then chuckled, “It was the airship that first made me sit up and take notice. Jenny Haniver. That’s a name I recognize, oh yes. That’s that witch Anna Fang’s ship, ain’t it?”

“Anna was a friend of ours,” said Tom.

“A friend, eh?”

“She died.”

“I know.”

“We sort of inherited the Jenny. ”

“Inherited her, did you?” Uncle let out a long, sniggering laugh. “Oh, I like that, Tom! Inherited! As you can see, I’ve got a lot of stuff down here that me and my boys have inherited. I wish we’d taken you ten years ago, Tom; we could have made a Lost Boy of you.” He laughed again, and went back to settle in his chair.

Tom looked at Caul, then at Skewer, who was on his feet again, his face still branded with the red imprint of Uncle’s hand. Why do they put up with him? Tom wondered. They’re all younger and stronger than he is; why do they do his bidding? But the answer flickered on the walls all round him, on looted goggle-screens of every shape and size, where blue images of life in Grimsby moved, and faint, overheard conversations drizzled from the speakers. Who could challenge Uncle’s power, when Uncle knew everything that they said and did?

“You mentioned something about Hester,” he reminded the old man, straining to be polite.

“Information, Tom,” said Uncle, ignoring him. Surveillance-pictures danced in the lenses of his spectacles. “Information. That’s the key to it all. The reports my burglars send back to me all fit together like the bits of a jigsaw. I probably know more than any man alive about what goes on in the north. And I pay attention to odd little details. To changes. Changes can be dangerous things.”

“And Hester?” asked Tom again. “You know about Hester?”

“For example,” Uncle said, “there’s an island, Rogues’ Roost, not far from here. Used to be lair to Red Loki and his sky-pirates. Not a bad sort, Red Loki. Never troubled us. Occupied different niches in the food-chain, him and me. But now he’s gone. Kicked out. Murdered. It’s home to a bunch of Anti-Tractionists now. The Green Storm, they call themselves. A hard-line faction. Terrorists. Troublemakers. Have you ever heard of the Green Storm, Tom Natsworthy?”

Tom, still thinking about Hester, scrabbled for an answer. He remembered Pennyroyal shouting something about the Green Storm during that chase above the Tannhausers, but so much had happened since that he could barely recall a word of it. “Not really,” he said.

“Well, they’ve heard of you,” said Uncle, leaning forward in his chair. “Why else would they have hired a spy to keep watch for your airship? And why else would your girlie be their house guest?”