Beyond the starline, p.12
Beyond the Starline, page 12
“What shall we do with them, Harry?” asked Davy, edging closer to the pirates, his hand trembling even as he thrust the barrel of the gun towards them.
“We’ll take them to the police. That’s the right thing to do, ain’t it? But I...I can’t go to the police.”
“You got to go an’ find your old man, Harry,” said Sam. “That’s what you got to do. We’ll take ‘em to the p’lice, won’t we lads?”
“Yes,” said Barney, “we will.”
Davy hesitated. “But we should come with you, Harry. It’s not safe.”
“I’m more of a danger to you if you come with me. I can look after meself all right.” As she said it she heard a voice in the back of her mind questioning her honesty. Hadn’t she always been helped by Sibelius or Poliakoff, or Captain Hardcastle, or her crew mates? But I ain’t going to put my friends in no more danger on my account. She steeled her resolve. “Thanks mates, but I have to do this alone.” Parting company with her friends weighed on her heart. She felt her eyes grow hot. Her vision began to blur.
“You’d best waste no time then, Harry,” said Davy. “There’s a ladder goes down on this side.” Barney hugged her. Sam punched her lightly on the shoulder, grinning through his tufts of blond hair. Davy shook her hand. Forcing a smile, he said, “We’ll see you when you’ve found your dad. Come on, lads!”
Harry nodded, unable to speak, as her friends chivvied the pirates back to the stairwell. A few moments later and she stood there alone.
Well Harriet, she thought. This is it. You got to do what you come for now. And that’s find your old man.
But she didn’t move. Her mind ran slow, unable to formulate clear thoughts. She wandered back to the starship and ran her fingers over the brass plate bolted on to her hull: Poliakoff & Watson. How could she know the magician had been telling her the truth? Where should she begin to search for her father? Wasn’t the whole idea just crazy? And with Sibelius dead … She pressed her fingers against her temples. I get it, Harriet, she thought. You’re scared, ain’tcha? Well, listen up. No point refusing to turn the corner just ‘cos you don’t know what’s round it, is there? Maybe it’s all for nothing, but how’re you going to find out if you don’t try?
She turned her back on the starship and, walking to the ladder, peered over the wall. It led down to another roof four stories below, stretching out from the back of the warehouse. From there another ladder vanished into the shadowy back streets. It’s the right direction in any case, she thought. It looks like that’s the way into the town. I guess that’s the thing to do, head to town and start asking questions. Grabbing the iron railing, she swung over the parapet and began climbing down.
The port town was a maze of streets and alleyways just like Lundoon, but there were no towers. The highest structures were the launches. She passed skyfarers dossing down in the quads behind the harbor or gathered outside the inns and chop houses.
“’Ere, lad!” one rough-looking fellow called to her as she scuttled by. “You want to buy some shroom?” Harriet stopped. He was the first person who’d spoken to her, or even seemed to notice her. She peered into his outstretched hand. Nestled in the dirty, cracked cup of his palm, were several frightening looking purple and orange mushrooms.
“What is it?” said Harriet. She was hungry.
“Shroom, lad,” said the old skyfarer crumbling some between his stubby fingers. “You smoke it. Then you can fly, see? Fly without no ship, up way beyond the stars and away and away. Buy some. Just half a ducat for a pipe’s worth.”
“You can’t eat it, then?”
“Aye, you can eat it. But that way it’ll make you puke. Best smoke it.”
Harriet shook her head. “No thanks,” she said. “I’m looking for me old man. They call him The Adventurer.”
The old skyfarer looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Then his face relaxed into a wrinkled smile and he laughed out loud. “You’re looking for The Adventurer? She’s looking for The Adventurer!” He crumpled up laughing, his bloodshot eyes vanishing into the surrounding wrinkles. She could get no further sense out of him.
She pressed on until she came out into a strange, luminous square. Clockwork Conveyancers rattled by, gentlemen of business alighting and descending. Inns and bars were rowdy with song; others dark and smoky; places where heads clustered together in secretive parley, where subterfuge was conceived and shady deals struck. And there were no children, Harriet noted, not even urchins. There were very few women. I guess this ain’t no place for a family, she thought. This was a city with a single purpose: the trade and movement of minerals extracted from the lunar mines; and perhaps other, darker and more nefarious commerce, too.
Harriet stepped over to the fountain in the middle of the square and watched its spout coughing up intermittent gurgles of yellowish water. How am I going to get any information and find me dad? It’s all so strange. At least folks still take me for a boy, which is as good a disguise as any. No one seems much interested in me at all.
A group of young men, a little older than her, came and slouched on the other side of the fountain. They were all dressed in the same smart blue uniforms, with polished buttons and little peaked caps pushed back on their heads. They each had a leather belt, too, with a pouch at the front stuffed with scrolls and papers. She’d seen them before, running from one bar to another or from a Conveyancer to a hotel or a bank and back again. They must be messengers, she thought.
The boys were huddled together now, furtively sharing something out between them, that one held in his palm. A moment later and the strong, sweet whiff of tobacco smoke filled the air. One of the boys started coughing, green in the face, as the others laughed and slapped him on the back.
If I can masquerade as one o’ them messengers, I might stand a chance o’ finding out all sorts. Only problem is they all have uniforms and caps.
The boy had stopped coughing and the group had fallen into conversation. The oldest met Harriet’s eyes. “Oi,” he said, pushing through his mates and slouching towards her. “What you lookin’ at, then?”
“I want to be a messenger like you,” she said.
“Ooo, I want to be a messenger like you!” another lad mocked, noticing Harriet and turning towards the older boy with a smirk. “Ooo, and can I kiss your arse, please?”
The group fell about laughing. Harriet felt her cheeks aflame with embarrassment. The older boy stepped right in front of her and leaned down, his nose almost touching hers. “Boo!” he said suddenly. Harriet jumped, despite herself. The boys only laughed louder. “Go on!” said the older boy, now. “Get away! Shoo!”
Humiliated, Harriet turned away. The scene had attracted the attention of some onlookers sitting at one of the shadier looking bars. “Stuff you!” she shouted when she’d put a few yards between herself and the little group. Then she turned and ran. The older boy, egged on by his peers, gave chase. “Oi!” he shouted. “Come ‘ere and say that! I’ll teach you a bit o’ respect when I get me ‘ands on yer!”
Me and my big mouth. Now what? The boy was gaining on her fast. She dodged behind a barrow selling clockwork birds in ornamental cages. “’Scuse me, mister,” she said to the barrow man as she shoved past him, ducked under the barrow and slipped out the other side. The boy had tried to follow but had slammed straight into the barrow man and both of them had tumbled, toppling the barrow onto the cobbles.
Harriet dashed for an alleyway, the sound of curses and the clatter of clockwork devices smashing against the cobbles echoing behind her. She stopped short, gasping for breath. The boy would be after her again soon enough. She wouldn’t be able to outrun him for long. Is there anywhere to hide?
The stones in the corner between the wall and the archway were weathered and crumbling. Maybe I could climb and get onto that ledge above the entrance? Grazing her knees against the gritty block, Harriet hauled herself up and onto the ledge. She crouched, trying to calm her breathing. She would be about a foot or two above the head of anyone running in. The boy’s footfall pounded the cobbles outside. Closer and closer to the alley. Maybe this is a chance to get meself togged up like a messenger. She maneuvered round so she was crouching ready to spring. Got to get this right first time, Harriet, she thought.
The next minute the boy dashed through the arch. Tufts of his blond hair curled out beneath the rim of his cap. Harriet sprang. She landed square on the boy’s back, knocking him face first onto the hard cobbles. But he was a fighter.
He squirmed around beneath her and landed a hard blow directly on her nose. Harriet tasted blood flowing over her mouth and onto her chin. She clung tight to the boy, despite the throbbing in her face, and grabbed at his hat. His hand shot up and snatched her wrist. He gave it a sharp twist. A stab of pain shocked her arm. Harriet threw her weight at him again.
“What the blinkin’ ‘eck...” the boy gasped, getting the better of her a third time, holding her down on her back, astride her chest, his knees on her elbows, “...are you doin’?”
Harriet spat in his face, struggling to get free. The boy’s expression changed from anger to surprise.
“You’re...” he stammered. ”You’re a girl!”
“So what?” said Harriet.
“What d’you attack me for? What’s yer game?”
“I wanted your hat.”
“Me ‘at? What d’you want me ‘at for so bad you’d fight me for it?”
“I need to find me old man. I ain’t never been on the Moon before. I thought if I made out I was a messenger then I could ask questions without folk thinking I was up to something.”
The boy stood up. He stretched out a hand and helped her to her feet. He wiped his face on his sleeve. From his pocket he pulled out a grubby handkerchief.
“’ere,” he said. “Sorry ‘bout yer nose.”
“Thanks,” said Harriet, mopping up the blood from her chin. “Sorry I jumped on you. I’m getting a bit desperate, I guess. And I been chased by pirates and I ain’t got no money. I just want to find me old man.”
“Well, all you had to do was ask,” said the boy, shaking her hand. “Don’t worry about that lot,” he added, nodding towards the square. “Just a bunch o’ kids, that lot. Me name’s Tom. I been a messenger since I could walk. If yer tell me yer old man’s name I can most likely take yer to him.”
“Can you?” she said.
“Reckon I can. But first we got to get yer out o’ sight. Ain’t safe for a kid, ‘specially a girl, to be alone around ‘ere. An’ I’m late with this message now, thanks to you.” He held up a crumpled scroll. “I know a place yer can ‘ide out a while. Then we’ll see ‘bout getting’ yer to yer dad. Come on, then. Perk up!” Harriet narrowed her eyes. The boy shrugged. “Or not,” he said. “’tsup to you. But I got stuff to be about.”
He turned on his heels and ran.
“Hey, wait!” Harriet called as she sprang after him. “Wait for me!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Harriet kept her eyes trained on the boy in front as he zigzagged through the alleyways and cobbled backstreets. More than once Harriet thought she was going to lose him, but she kept doggedly on. Her lungs burned and her legs ached. At last he came to a sudden halt. He looked back to check she was following, then ducked into the shadows under a dark building, set back a little from the street. She followed him in.
“What’s up?” she panted.
“This is where I ‘ave to deliver me message. Yer can ‘ide ‘ere. Don’t even move,” said Tom. “If anyone tries to talk to yer, run like the clappers.” Then he vaulted over an iron gate and vanished around the back of the building.
Harriet crouched in the shadows, her legs aching, but glad of the opportunity to catch her breath. The boy’s words had unnerved her. What’s so dangerous about this place? She pushed herself deeper into the shadows.
Tom wasn’t away long. When he saw she was still there, he nodded for her to follow and took off once more at a dash. Don’t he ever get tired? Harriet dragged herself to her feet and forced her limbs to push on after him.
As they pounded on, heading away from the busy center of the town, broken-windowed houses crowded together, rats scurried among the refuse littering the streets, and rough-looking fellows skulked in doorways. The smell of stale urine and shroom lingered in the smog.
They stopped outside a ramshackle inn. It looked as if it stayed upright more by habit than by architecture, or perhaps only buttressed by its equally rundown neighbors; much like the three drunks that staggered out the door arm in arm.
A woman, laughing hysterically and dressed, it seemed to Harriet, in not much more than her underclothes, stumbled out after them. The men turned about and, suddenly silent, followed her around the back of the rowdy hostelry.
“This is it,” said Tom. “Residence o’ the infamous Cap’n Howland, Adventurer.”
“Where is it?” asked Harriet, shocked.
“Here,” said the boy, pointing.
Harriet followed the line of his finger. He was pointing at the inn. “The Rancid Pig,” he added for clarity. Harriet read the grubby sign. She didn’t know what she had expected, but this wasn’t it. When she looked back, Tom was gone.
Harriet shivered under the yellow glow of the lunar sky. Stinky green mist crept in tendrils of foggy moisture over the damp cobbles. Comfortless electrostatic light bled onto the street from the inn’s grime-stained windows. The place was dirty and no doubt dangerous.
This is where me dad is? Maybe it ain’t true. Or maybe it’s a good enough place to hide out. After all, I’d never have guessed that he’d be in a dump like this.
A pair of galvanized Steamhorses clanked past, breaking her reverie. Harriet threw herself sideways onto the cobbles to avoid being crushed under their hot metallic hooves. The blinds were down in the windows of the carriage the horses drew behind them. “Watch where you’re blooming going!” she shouted. She pulled herself back to her feet and checked for the chart reader. It was still tucked safely in the bag at her waist. She crossed the street to the inn. Rowdy laughter, cursing, and bawdy song spilled out from inside. She pushed the door open.
Inside the lights were bright, the air hot and heavy with odors: tobacco, shroom, sweat and ale. Skyfarers, miners, rag-bone conjurers, tuppenny sorcerers and scarlet women, all jostled together. Men slouched in a darkened corner, their skin glowing faintly green from the shroom they were smoking. Their eyes were glazed and unseeing.
Harriet held her breath, pushing her way to the tap-room. The landlord, a bleary-eyed, unshaven man, leaned on his elbows at the hatch, smoking a metal pipe. “’Scuse me, mister,” said Harriet. “I’m looking for Cap’n Howland.” The man puffed on his pipe and blew the smoke out slowly through his nostrils. He turned his drooping eyes on her, looking her up and down slowly.
“You lookin’ for The Adventurer, are yer?”
“Cap’n Howland.”
“You’re not his usual, that’s for sure.” The landlord grinned, shaking his head. “A ducat for the room, then. I’ll get Maisie to show yer up.”
“I don’t want no room. I ain’t got no money. I want Cap’n Howland. Is he here?”
The landlord frowned. “All right,” he said, sighing. “Yer can pay after with what he gives yer fer...yer services. Maisie!” A short, fat woman waddled out from behind the rows of barrels, throwing a mop down in the corner. She wiped her stubby hands on a greasy apron. “Show this young lad up to The Adventurer – an’ make sure ‘e comes back wi’ a penny ‘fore ‘e scarpers.”
Maisie grabbed Harriet’s arms, dragging her along, shoving people out of the way with her fleshy elbows. She flung a door open and pulled Harriet through. “Up them stairs, third on the right.” She looked Harriet up and down through a squinting eye. “Dirty beggar!” The door slammed behind her.
A dim glow seeped from the top of the narrow, creaking staircase. The inn’s rowdy noises became muffled, dying away. At the top of the stairs, a corridor of paneled oak - lit by a low-burning oil lamp whose years of smoke had stained the ceiling black - sank into darkness. Harriet’s mouth dried, her tongue cleaving to her palette. She shivered with cold, even as the blood pumped faster through her veins. The third door on the right, that girl said.
Harriet took a deep breath and knocked.
A man’s voice called out, “Come in!”
She lifted the latch and slipped inside. The room stank of stale alcohol, sweat and tobacco. It was dark, save for a sour, gray light filtering through tattered curtains hanging over smeary windows. There wasn’t much furniture: a plain table piled with clothes, books, charts, molding plates, empty bottles; a cupboard and a traveling chest. A threadbare rug lay crumpled over splintered floorboards. A sagging bed slumped in the far corner. Someone lay on the bed. Harriet listened for breathing. “Dad?” she whispered. “Cap’n Howland? It’s Harriet. I’ve come to...”
The door slammed behind her.
A mechanical arm closed around her throat, pulling tight. Real hands held hers in a painful grip. Foul breath spat words in her ear, rough hair spiking her neck. “Too late, girl. Your father is dead – and you will be, too, if you don’t cooperate.”
The pirate captain.
“Yes,” the voice hissed, “I’m still alive. Did you imagine my men would abandon me as you abandoned your stinking monkey friend? No, they’re loyal. They cast me a line and pulled me free before the ship went up.”
“And Sibelius?” choked Harriet.
“The monkey’s as dead as your father. The story’s over. Do you understand? I don’t suppose you feel there’s much more to live for now, do you? What a pitiful, pitiful shame. But that’s the way the world is, girl. The strong survive. The weak perish.”
Harriet’s eyes blurred with tears. She gasped for breath. She felt as if the pirate’s fingers clutched her heart. I’m beat, she thought. I done me best. I done what I could. But I let me mum die, I abandoned me best mate. I destroyed the ship and all them good men. All I had left was me dad and now...
