Philip Reeve - Infernal Devices

“Never!” spluttered Pennyroyal, standing up in the shallow end with all the dignity an elderly gentleman in a gold lame swimming costume can muster. “You’re nothing but a gangster, Shkin! I will not be intimidated by your puerile attempt to ah, er… It’s not true, is it? It can’t be true! Hester Shaw had no daughter—and anyway, ah, Anchorage sank, didn’t it; went down with all hands…”

“Ask her,” said Shkin brightly, pointing the tip of his cane at Wren. “Ask Miss Natsworthy here.”

Pennyroyal gawked at Wren, his eyes so full of fear that for a moment Wren felt almost sorry for him. “Well, girl?” he asked. “What do you say? Do you really claim to be from Anchorage?”

Wren took a deep breath and clenched her fists. Now that she was facing this legendary traitor and villain, she felt less certain than ever that her plan would work.

“No,” she said.

Shkin turned to stare at her.

“Of course it’s not true,” said Wren, managing a tight little laugh. “Anchorage went down in Arctic waters years and years ago. Everyone who has read your magnificent book knows that, Professor Pennyroyal. I’m just a poor Lost Girl from Grimsby.”

Wren had turned her story this way and that in her mind on the way from the Pepperpot, and could not see how it could be disproved. Of course, if anyone asked the other Lost Boys, they would all say that Wren was not one of their tribe, and Fishcake knew who she really was—but why would Pennyroyal believe their word over Wren’s? She could say that Shkin had bribed them to back him up.

“I’ve never been to Anchorage,” she said firmly.

Shkin’s nostrils flared. “Very well then; the book, the Tin Book, stamped with the seal of Anchorage’s rulers—how do you explain that?”

Wren had already worked out an answer to that. “I brought it with me from Grimsby,” she said. “It is a present for Your Worship. The Lost Boys stole it years and years ago, like we’ve stolen all sorts of things from all sorts of cities. Anchorage is a wreck, sunk at the bottom of the sea. Nobody lives there.”

“But she told me herself she was Hester Shaw’s daughter!” said Shkin. “Why would she lie?”

“Because of your wonderful books, Your Worship,” explained Wren, and gazed at the mayor as adoringly as she could. “I have read them all. Whenever my limpet attached itself to a new city, I would always burgle the bookshops first in the hope that there would be a new Nimrod Pennyroyal. I told Mr. Shkin I was from Anchorage just so that he would bring me to meet you.”

Pennyroyal looked hopeful. He so wanted to believe her. “But your name,” he said. “Natsworthy…”

“Oh, it’s not my real name,” Wren said brightly. “I looked up Hester Shaw in Uncle’s records, and it said she used to travel with someone called that.”

“Oh, really?” Pennyroyal tried to hide his relief. “Never heard of him.”

Wren smiled, pleased at how easy it was to lie and how good she was turning out to be at it. Her story didn’t make a lot of sense, but when you tell someone something that they want to hear, they tend to believe you; WOPCART had taught her that.

She said, “I was planning to keep up the pretense, Professor, in the hope that you would take me into your household. Even if I were only the lowliest of your slaves, at least I would be close to the author of Predator’s Gold and… and all those other books.” She lowered her eyes demurely. “But as soon as I saw you, sir, I realized that you would never be taken in by my lies, and so I resolved to tell you the truth.”

“Very commendable,” said Pennyroyal. “Quite right, too. I saw through it in an instant, you know. Although oddly enough, you do bear a slight resemblance to poor Hester. That’s why I was startled when you first appeared. That young woman was very, very dear to me, and it is the deepest regret of my life that I didn’t manage to save her.”

Ooh, you rotten liar! thought Wren, but all she said was, “I expect I must go now, sir. I expect Mr. Shkin will wish to make what profit of me he can. But I go happily, for at least I have spoken with the finest author of the age.”

“Absolutely not!” Pennyroyal heaved himself out of the pool and stood dripping, waving away the girls who came hurrying round him with towels, clothes, and a portable changing tent. “I will not hear of it, Shkin! This delightful, intelligent young person has shown pluck, initiative, and sound literary judgment. I forbid you to sell her off as a common slave.”

“I have my overhead to consider, Your Worship.” Shkin was angry now, white with it, and struggling to keep himself under control.

“I’ll buy her myself, then,” said Pennyroyal. He wasn’t a sentimental man, but he didn’t like to think of this discerning girl being punished for her love of his books—besides, house slaves were tax deductible. “My wife can always use a few extra handmaidens about the place,” he explained, “especially now, with the preparations for the Moon Festival ball to attend to. Tell you what—I’ll give you twenty dolphins for her. That’s more than fair.”

“Twenty?” sneered Shkin, as if such a sum were too small to even contemplate.

“Sold!” said Pennyroyal quickly. “My people will pay you. And next time, my dear fellow, try not to be so gullible. Honestly, how could anyone believe that this girl came from America? Quite absurd!”

Shkin bowed slightly. “As you say, Your Worship. Absurd.” He held out his hand. “The Tin Book, if you please.”

Pennyroyal, who had been leafing through the Tin Book, snapped it shut and clutched it to his chest. “I think not, Shkin. The girl said this was a present for me.”

“It is my property!”

“No, it’s not. Your contract with the Council states that any Lost Boys you fished up were yours. This isn’t a Lost Boy, not by any stretch of the imagination. It’s some sort of Ancient code, possibly valuable. It is my duty as mayor of Brighton to hang on to it for, ah, further study.”

Shkin stared for a long moment at the mayor, then at Wren. He manufactured a smile. “No doubt we shall all meet again,” he said pleasantly, and turned, snapping his fingers for his men to follow him as he walked briskly away.

Pennyroyal’s girls clustered around him, enclosing him within his changing tent. For a short time Wren was left alone. She grinned, flushed with her own cleverness. She might still be a slave, but she was a posh slave, in the house of the mayor himself! She would get good food and fine clothes, and probably never have to carry anything much heavier than the odd tray of fairy cakes. And she would meet all kinds of interesting people. Handsome aviators, for instance, who might be persuaded to fly her home to Vineland.

Her only regret was that she hadn’t managed to bring Fishcake up here with her. She felt responsible for the boy, and hoped that the slave dealer wouldn’t take out his anger on him. But it would be all right. One way or another, she would escape, and then maybe she’d find a way of helping Fishcake too.

Nabisco Shkin was not a man who let his emotions show, and by the time the cable car set him down again on Brighton’s deck plates, he had mastered his temper. At the Pepperpot he greeted Miss Weems with no more than his customary coldness and told her, “Bring me the little Lost Boy.”

Soon afterward he was sitting calmly in his office, watching Fishcake tuck into a second bowl of chocolate ice cream and listening again to his account of the Autolycus’s voyage to Vineland. This boy was telling the truth, Shkin was sure of it. But there was no point in trying to use him to discredit the mayor. He was young, and easily influenced: If it came to a trial, Pennyroyal’s lawyers would tear him to shreds. Shkin closed his eyes thoughtfully and pictured Vineland. “Are you quite certain you can find the place again, boy?”