Trent Jamieson - Roil

She could not stay here. It was too exposed. A Quarg Hound yowled in the distance and far above some great winged beast churned through the Roil. She sensed things drawing in, closing around her.

She had no time to dig into the wreckage. She snatched up the notebook and ran back to the Melody Amiss. The engine clicked into gear smoothly and Margaret drove away, picking up as much speed as she dared.

She’ll be wanting you. Trust no one. There is no one left to trust.

She had hoped for answers and found only more questions.

A little down George Street a horse had fallen at harness, stone dead before the carriage, tipping the whole thing forward. The driver roared, then moaned. He jumped from his seat and beat at the beast’s scrawny rain-soaked hide with the handle of his whip.

The sight struck pity into David’s heart. He turned away.

“Horses are dying,” Cadell said. “Every day feed grows scarcer, what remains is often bad, rotten before it leaves the fields. And the best of that’s already earmarked for the Council. Not long for this city, lad.”

A long low whistle echoed down the street.

Cadell didn’t need to point, there was a curfew, post Dissolution, the streets were empty. David saw the Vergers at once.

Cadell spat on the ground.

“We are going to have to run,” he said, pulling his bag close around his shoulder. The muscles in his forearm’s flexing.

And we were so close to the bridge, he thought. “Do you think they know where we are headed?”

The Old Man flashed his teeth. “I hope not.”

Perhaps the Vergers didn’t to start off with, but there wasn’t enough time for them to try and lose their pursuit. The Dolorous Grey would be crossing the bridge and soon. As they reached the nearest abutment of the Downing Bridge, and began to climb its superstructure, Vergers were coming from all directions. David followed Cadell, throwing himself up ladders, fingers burning as they gripped the rusty rungs. David could hear both the train in the distance and the Verger just behind them, his feet clanging loudly on the metal.

Cadell looked down at him, and grunted. “That one’s Tope. High up as they go, he’s been after me a while now.”

David recognised him as the one who had slashed his father’s throat. A cold anger filled him, and a fear. Both spurred him on, as they made their way higher up the bridge.

They reached the top of the Downing and a small walkway that ran over the tracks.

David glanced down, a truly vertiginous experience, not because the bridge was so high, but because the water was so close, dark, angry, and on the verge of swallowing the city whole. The city had turned every contrivance, every levee bank and pump to taming the untameable. The river roared and engines bellowed ceaselessly, wounded by their industry; like the rain, they did not stop, whatever the hour.

Above it all, the Dolorous Grey’s whistles blew shrill as some blood-hungry Roil beast.

“Nowhere to run,” Tope said, from behind them, which was exactly what David had been thinking. If they missed the train they were done for. He could see its lights in the distance, crashing nearer. One man Cadell could probably handle, but other Vergers were converging on the spot.

Cadell laughed. “Is that what you think I’ve been doing, chimera?”

Tope hurled his knife. David didn’t even see the throw; just the blade in the Verger’s hand, and its absence, like a masterful piece of sleight of hand. Cadell was faster. Somehow he snatched it out of the air, and the knife buried itself to the hilt in Tope’s arm. The Verger snarled, wrenched the knife free, then stopped still, blood shot from the wound.

“Major artery there,” Cadell said. “I wouldn’t do much if I were you. Wouldn’t want to bleed out.”

The knife clattered on the walkway. The Verger clutched his arm to staunch the flow of blood, and slowly sat down.

The Dolorous Grey whistled beneath them, smoke washed over them.

“Time to go, David.” Cadell’s eyes burned with such fierce and rapacious delight that David wondered just who he was travelling with.

“No time for doubts.” Cadell nodded to the train racing beneath them.

“No time,” David repeated.

But there would be time later. His blood raced, he wasn’t scared of the leap, not now. He glared at Tope, the Verger watching him, eyes shining in the bridge light. Not so much fun when you’re doing the bleeding, is it? I hope you die.

They leapt from the bridge, and onto the Dolorous Grey.

All David could hear and smell was the train, it enveloped him in choking smoke and clattering heat. His heart pounded in his chest. He looked back and could just see the silhouette of Tope, one arm thrown out to bear his weight.

David wondered how anyone could remain conscious after losing that much blood. Other Vergers closed on the scene. A knife thunked onto the roof before his boots, then clattered away.

Cadell yanked David down. An iron beam crashed overhead.

“Watch it, lad. Or you’ll dash your brains out.” He jerked his head to the left. “This way.”

They reached the edge of the carriage, where a ladder dipped over the rear, and clambered down it and through a door.

“Won’t they throw us off the train?”

“No stopping this train until Chapman. Old tech, not even radios, Stade has been investing the city’s considerable sums in the Project, and the Project alone.” Cadell laughed, he patted his top pocket, and put his ear against the nearest cabin door. “I’ve got our tickets. I don’t think it matters how we board. As long as we present these.” He nodded his head. “Now, this cabin sounds empty. In we go.”

Stade stood before the broken door.

Halloween, what better time to be surrounded by these dead and whispering things, he thought. Well, not so dead. The Old Men were simply that… old. Very, very old. And hungry.

Stade examined the door, as he had from time to time over the past two years. It was cracked through the middle, the locks shattered.

He regarded the door next to it, its bolt was intact, the eight seals unbroken, the same for the other six doors but that first one. He put his hand against the heavy wood. It was cold. He put his ear against it and heard the endless muttering. Stay down here long enough and you heard it everywhere. After a while you could hear it throughout the tower. Though it was only here he had a chance of gleaning words from the noise. The Old Men never slept in their cages, or if they slept it was a restless chattering sleep.

He’d had one of the doors opened once, the key that opened the lock was said to be protection enough from the room’s denizen. Though he’d held a revolver too. He’d seen the withered thing within the room, its eyes boiling with rage, lips moving, muttering. “Shut the door.” It spat. “Shut the door, or I’ll suck out your bones.” And Stade had, forgetting the protection of the gun and holding the key in his hands. He was swift, but not swift enough, for he had seen it. A little humility had infected him then, but not much.

Stade ran a hand down the broken door. The metal was cold, even now, even after these past two years.

The Mildes and Paul had done this. Two years ago, after they had freed the Old Man, Stade knew Dissolution was the only adequate response. And while he should have enjoyed it, even he quailed at such bloodshed. These were good capable men. Debate he could handle, but this had amounted to an utter betrayal of the Project. Warwick had sacrificed his own brother to this.