Philip Reeve - Infernal Devices

“What about her father, Tom? He was taken today.”

“Never heard of him. There’s no Drys in here, lady. Just Lost Boys.”

“Could he be in the holding cells on the middle tier?”

“Could be.” Krill shifted thoughtfully. Around him, in the other pens, all the other captives were shifting too, listening, wary as animals. The ones who were close enough to see Hester never took their eyes off the keys. “There’ll be more guards up there, though. You’ll need something to distract them.”

“Did you have anything particular in mind?” asked Hester. Krill grinned, and behind her veil Hester grinned too, because this was exactly what she had planned. She dropped the keys into Krill’s cage. “Play nicely” she said. As she ran toward the stairs, she could hear him scrabbling through the bunch of keys, trying each one in the lock on the door of his pen, and the voices of the Lost Boys, like rising surf, urging him on.

Mayor Pennyroyal had had the pavilion ballroom specially redecorated for the festival. The front wall had been replaced with a long row of French windows that opened onto the sundeck outside and let in the light of the sacred moon. Around the dance floor, swags and cascades of silvery fabric hung from every pillar and cornice, reflecting the Milky Way of tiny bulbs that swirled across the ink-blue ceiling. Spotlights illuminated a podium, where a small orchestra played. The walls were covered with priceless works of art: antique masterpieces by Strange and Nias hanging next to the latest snot paintings by Hoover Daley, master of the Expressionist Sneeze.

In a hive of hexagonal chambers opening off behind the main room were all manner of amusing diversions for the guests. In one was a replica of a “bouncy castle,” a strange inflatable fortification that Pennyroyal claimed had been a key feature of Ancient warfare, but that could also be used as a trampoline. In another a projector rattled, showing copies of copies of some of the fragments of film that had survived from before the Sixty Minute War. Armored knights rode through a burning wood, their shadows stretching up through the smoke; flying machines lifted into a tropical dawn; a little tramp walked down a dusty road; groundcars chased each other like tiny cities; a man dangled from a broken clock high above some enormous static settlement; and in soft, beautiful close-ups rose the dreaming faces of the screen goddesses.

Wren, running in from the garden on her mission for Shkin, barely noticed any of it. But as she darted past the film room toward the spiral staircase that would take her up to Pennyroyal’s office, she almost collided with Theo, who was coming in the other direction, clutching his ostrich-feather fan. He wore baggy silver trousers and a pair of silver angel’s wings.

“Hello,” said Wren. “What’s the wing thing about?”

Theo shrugged, and his wings flapped. “All the boys are dressed like this. Boo-Boo’s idea. Horrible, isn’t it?”

“Vile,” agreed Wren, though secretly she thought he looked rather fetching.

“Look,” he said, “this idea that Boo-Boo’s got about us—”

“It’s all right,” said Wren. “I don’t fancy you either.”

“Good.”

“Good.” She was glad he was there, though, and she didn’t want to part from him. She thought how much easier it would be to burgle Pennyroyal’s safe if she had an accomplice.

Especially an accomplice like Theo, who had been in battles and was probably ten times braver than herself.

“Look,” she said, “I’ve got to do something…”

“Another escape attempt?”

“No. I’ve got to take something from Pennyroyal’s safe.”

“What? After what happened to that antique dealer?” Theo stared at her, waiting for her to admit that it was all a joke. When she didn’t, he said, “It’s that book thing, isn’t it? That metal book?”

“The Tin Book of Anchorage,” Wren said. “Shkin sent Plovery for it, and now that Plovery’s dead, he’s sending me.”

“Why?” asked Theo. “What’s so important about it?”

Wren shrugged. “All I know is that everybody seems to want it… I think it might have something to do with submarines, but…” She paused uneasily. Maybe she shouldn’t be telling Theo this. He was Green Storm, after all, or had been once. But she was glad she had. She touched his arm. “He’s got my dad at the Pepperpot, and if I don’t do what he asks, he… I don’t know what he’ll do. Will you help me?”

She did know, of course; she just didn’t want to say it. She felt glad that she had Theo to confide in.

“Your dad?’ he asked. “I didn’t know Lost Girls had fathers…”

“I’m not really a Lost Girl,” said Wren. “Just mislaid. I told Pennyroyal I came from Grimsby because… Oh, Theo, it’s too complicated to explain. I just have to save Dad!”

She could tell that he understood. He looked scared and serious. “But if the safe’s booby-trapped…” he said.

“That’s why I want you to keep a lookout. Please, Theo. I don’t want to go in there alone.”

“I’m supposed to be on duty in the ballroom. Boo-Boo’s orders.”

“Boo-Boo’s having a wonderful time. She won’t notice if we sneak off for five minutes.”

Theo thought about it, then nodded. “All right. All right.”

Gripping his fan like a battle-axe, he followed Wren up some stairs and through a door at the top into an antique-lined corridor. The noise of the party faded as the door swung softly shut behind them, then dipped again as the corridor turned sharply to the left. Creeping past the door to the control-room stairs, they heard the faint voices of the crewmen chatting at their stations down below, but there were no other sounds. Everyone else was busy in the ballroom or the kitchens, and this part of the Pavilion was deserted.

They reached the end of the corridor and stopped, staring at Pennyroyal’s office door.

“What if he changed the combination of his safe after last night?” whispered Theo. “What if he’s changed the locks on the door?”

Wren hadn’t thought of that. She prayed that Pennyroyal hadn’t either. Her groping fingers quickly found the spare key, still hidden in the vase. At first it didn’t seem to fit the lock, but that was only because her hands were trembling so badly. After she spent a few moments swearing and fumbling, the lock snicked and she turned the handle and pushed open the door.

The office looked peaceful and safe. The Walmart Strange drawing was back in its place on the wall. Wren went to it and took it carefully off its hook, laying it down on the desk. Theo followed her into the office and quietly closed the door, then almost knocked a statue off its pedestal with his fan.

“Couldn’t you have left that stupid thing outside?” she hissed.

“What, where someone might see it lying about?”

Wren turned to the safe. “Ready?” she asked.

Theo didn’t look ready. “You think there’s a booby trap inside the safe?” he said.

Wren shook her head. “The safe was open last night, remember, and I didn’t see anything booby-trappish in there.” All the same, she made sure that she was standing well to one side as she reached for the dial. “Mr. Plovery opened the safe and got the book out. That’s when something got him. Now hush.” She frowned, remembering the combination. Two-two, oh-nine, nine-five-seven…

As the dial clicked and the tumblers inside the lock chunked and grated, Theo turned slowly around, looking for hidden dangers. There was nowhere much in this small room that a trap could be concealed. The objects on the desk looked innocent enough—a blotter, a few pens, a photograph of Boo-Boo in a heavy black frame. There was a teak filing cabinet against the far wall, a picture hanging above it, and above that just a lot of architectural curlicues and the high, shadowy dome of the ceiling and…