Philip Reeve - Infernal Devices

“But what brought them back to Anchorage after all these years?”

Everyone turned to look at Caul. He shrugged. “Don’t know. Didn’t ask. Thought the less I knew, the better.”

“Oh, gods and goddesses!” said Freya suddenly, and went running from the room. When she returned, she was carrying the empty casket that had once held the Tin Book of Anchorage. “Wren came asking about it,” she said. “This was what the Lost Boys came here for.”

“Why?” asked Tom. “It’s not worth anything, is it?”

Freya shrugged. “I didn’t think so. But here it is, gone. They must have asked Wren to get it for them and…”

“The stupid little—” Hester started to say.

“Be quiet, Het!” snapped Tom. He was thinking of Wren as a child, and of how, when she was frightened by thunder or a bad dream, he would hold her tight till she was calm again. He could not bear the thought of her trapped aboard that limpet, alone and afraid, with nobody to make it better. “I’m going after her,” he said again.

“Then I’m coming too,” Hester agreed, taking his hand. They had been parted once before, when Hester was a prisoner at Rogues’ Roost, and they had vowed then that they would never be apart again. She said, “We’ll go together.”

“But how?” asked Freya.

“I’ll help.”

Caul had risen to his feet. He circled the room with his back to the wall, lamplight gleaming in his eyes. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I thought maybe if I didn’t help them, they’d leave us alone. I didn’t think they’d turn to Wren. I’d forgotten how clever Gargle can… could be.” He put a hand to his throat, to the shiny red scars that the ropes had left where Uncle had tried to hang him. He said, “I remember Wren being born. I played with her when she was little. I’ll help. The Screw Worm ’ll take you all the way to Grimsby if need be.”

“That old limpet of yours?” Hester sounded angry, as if she thought Caul was mocking them.

“I thought the Screw Worm broke down years ago,” said Tom. “That summer that you and Mr. Scabious dug out the harbor-mouth…”

“I’ve repaired her,” said Caul. “What do you think I’ve been doing with my time, down in the district? Picking fluff out of my belly button? I’ve been repairing the Worm. All right, repairing the Worm and picking fluff out of my belly button. She’s not perfect, but she’s seaworthy. No fuel, of course…”

“I reckon there might be a drop left in the old air harbor tanks,” said Mr. Aakiuq. “And we can recharge her accumulators from the hydro plant.”

“Then she could be ready in a few days,” Caul said. “Maybe a week.”

“Wren will be miles away by then!” Hester said.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Tom firmly. Usually it was Hester who was the firm one and Tom who did as she said, but he was utterly certain about this. He had to get Wren back. If Wren were lost, what would be the point of going on living? He took Hester’s hand, sure that she felt the same. “We’ll find her,” he promised. “We’ve faced worse things than Lost Boys in our time. Even if we have to go all the way to Grimsby, we’ll find her.”

Winding river systems of the Dead Continent. Fishcake knew his way back to the sea, for he had helped Gargle map these channels on the journey from Grimsby. It was simple enough to retrace the route that had brought the Autolycus through the Dead Hills to Vineland, except that all the way, Fishcake kept thinking, The last time we passed through this lake, Gargle was here, or, Last time we crossed this sandbar, Mora made that joke…

He had to do something. But what could he do? He had loved Gar, and he loved Gar still, but Gar was gone, and crying would not bring him back. What could he do? He had to do something…

Always before, there had been someone to tell him what to do. He had never acted on his own or made his own plans, except for that one panic-driven moment back in Vineland when he’d grabbed that gun and pointed it at Wren to stop her mum from shooting him, and even that had not worked out as he had meant it to, for he had ended up with Wren as a captive, and he didn’t know what he should do with her either.

On the third night after the fight at Vineland, he cut the limpet’s engines and climbed out onto the roof. The Dead Hills of America rose stark against the shining sky. Certain that Lady Death and all the gods of war and vengeance watched over this land, Fishcake raised his voice so that they would all hear him. “I’ll avenge you, Gargle! I’ll avenge you, Mora! I’ll find Hester Natsworthy again one day, and when I do, I promise you I’ll kill her.”

The next day the limpet reached the coast, crept across a stretch of dismal saltings, and slid gratefully into the gray sea. Safe in the deep, Fishcake set a course for home, then went aft to see his prisoner. Wren was curled up on the floor of the toilet cubicle. Staring at her fragile, sleeping face, Fishcake wished he had not had to capture her, for she was pretty, and none of this had been her fault. But it was too late now to let her go.

He prodded her with his foot. “We’re at sea now,” he told her as she woke. “You don’t have to stay in there anymore. There’s fifty fathoms of cold water above us, so don’t even think about trying to escape.”

“At sea?” Wren knew that the open sea was a long way from Anchorage-in-Vineland. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying.

“I’m going to take you to Grimsby,” said Fishcake. “Uncle or one of the older boys will know what to do with you. You can clean yourself up if you want. You can take some of Remora’s old clothes from her locker.”

“Thank you,” whispered Wren.

“I’m not doing it for your sake,” Fishcake said sharply, to show her he wasn’t soft. “It’s the stink, see? I can’t be breathing your reek all the way to Grimsby.”

Wren went aft. For four days she had seen nothing but the inside of the toilet cubicle, and after that, even the narrow passageways of the Autolycus seemed roomy. Remora’s locker was decorated with pictures snipped out of stolen magazines: hairstyles and clothes. There were photographs of Remora and Gargle laughing, their arms around each other. There was a bag of makeup, and a teddy bear, and a book on interpreting your dreams. Wren took some clothes and changed, then went and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink, which wasn’t really a mirror but just a sheet of polished metal bolted to the wall. Already she looked older and thinner, swamped by Remora’s shapeless dark clothes. Wren the Lost Girl. When she had stuffed her own filthy clothes into one of the bags the limpet crews used for loot and tied it shut, there was nothing of Vineland left about her but her boots.

She sat in the hold, listening to Fishcake clattering about on the bridge. Her stomach rumbled, but the Lost Boy had offered her no food, and she was afraid to ask for any. It was a bit embarrassing, being held prisoner by someone so much younger than her, but Fishcake’s feelings were balanced on such a knife-edge that Wren was still afraid he might kill her if she annoyed him. Better stay quiet. She drank foul-tasting water from the sink faucet and thought about escape. Daring plans formed in her mind, only to burst like bubbles after a few seconds. Even if she somehow overpowered her little captor, she would never be able to steer the limpet back to Vineland. She was stuck here, and it was all her own fault. She had been incredibly, dangerously stupid, she could see that now, and it made her ashamed because she had always thought herself clever. Hadn’t Miss Freya always said that Wren had more brains than any of the other young people in Vineland?