Down Station (20 page)

There was nowhere to run to, and nowhere to hide. The only way down the mountain not barred by a giant winged lizard was straight over the cliff.

‘Fuck. Me.’

Crows hadn’t warned her about this possibility, and he really should have. Or perhaps he had, and she hadn’t been listening. Though casually mentioning that there might be dragons ought to have got her undivided attention. It flexed its wings and blotted out the half-moon. The gust of wind it caused raised a hail of grit, and she had to blink it out of her eyes.

Its scales glinted in the silver light as it loosely folded its wings against its sinuous body. Its two clawed feet rasped against the joints of the stones, and its snake-like head danced on its neck, tasting the air with its tongue.

She placed her hands firmly on the rock and shuffled around on her knees to face the beast. She had no idea what to do. The East End had many dangers. Massive fuck-off dragons wasn’t one of them.

Perhaps it would just fly away. Perhaps it didn’t see her as food, and if she wove a shadow-cloak around herself and crawled away, it’d leave her alone. Perhaps it was a tame dragon, and she could coo to it until it let her scratch it behind its ears. She couldn’t see any ears, though. Its head was smooth and dart-shaped.

In the absence of anything else to try, she swallowed hard against the brick in her throat.

‘Good dragon?’ She knelt up, very slowly, holding her palms out in what she hoped was a calming, non-threatening way. She was a fair way away from it, and if it got lairy, she could stop and back up again.

The dragon opened its mouth very wide and lunged at her. Its teeth were like rows of knives, except for the incisors, which were swords. It covered the distance between them in a single leap, and its jaws snapped shut, just where her hands would have been if she hadn’t snatched them back and dropped to the ground.

Not a friendly dragon, then.

Its head wound back in, coiled for another strike, and she still had nowhere to go. Her hand closed on a frost-edged shard of stone that cut into her fingers as she instinctively picked it up. The dragon’s mouth gaped wide and she threw the rock, as hard as she could. She didn’t think she could miss from that range, but she did. It sailed out of sight, over the creature’s head, and again she had to press herself to the mountain to avoid being swallowed whole.

It seemed surprised that it hadn’t got her, impaled on its teeth. Not as surprised as Mary was. The next time for sure.

It flapped its great wings again, rising into the air and battering her with a gale that almost hurled her over the edge. She grabbed another saucer-sized chunk of rock from the ground and half rose from her crouch.

And just when the dragon was settling again, claws closing against the loose surface, head rearing back and wings cupping the air, there was a clatter of falling stones from behind that distracted it.

It twisted sharply around, fearing an attack and, in that moment, Mary stretched her legs like a sprinter from the blocks. The moonlight wasn’t sufficient for what she was going to do, but she didn’t have a choice. No matter that she was on top of a mountain, she was going to die if she stayed there a second longer. She ducked under the outstretched wing and ran.

It was downhill all the way. She could feel the wind in her face, the wind at her back, and the roaring in her ears was either the speed she was moving at or the dragon’s displeasure. Whichever, she was going too fast to stop, the ground bending away from her feet and forcing her to take larger and larger strides.

She realised her descent was out of control at the same time she knew she couldn’t choose to avoid the drop-off formed by a ledge of rock. She’d climbed up it on the way. She knew how high it was. She could only guess how much it was going to hurt on the way down.

She sort-of-jumped, arms and legs wheeling. She landed in the scree beneath it, feet first but overbalancing. Then she was over. The mountain rose up and smashed her in the face.

It hurt, but more disorientating was seeing the land and sky becoming interchangeable. Moon and mountain passed each other. With each rotation, the dragon hanging above her grew closer, a silver outline against a black sky.

She stopped, eventually, abruptly, catching herself around a boulder like a ragdoll, all the air in her lungs forced out by the impact. The shadow deepened around her in a rush, and her back opened up to cold air and hot blood.

The most remarkable thing was that she was still alive enough to register the pain. She reached up a ragged hand and pushed herself away from her anchoring rock, rolling over and staring at the darkness of the sky and vastness of the moon.

Apart from her own heart, she could hear the steady pulse of beating wings. The dragon was coming around again. This was it. Could she stand? Could she work out how? Nothing seemed to be responding properly. She had one arm, one hand, and the rest seemed useless.

Not like this. She turned over again, on to her front, and somehow managed to wedge a knee under her. Here it came, all night and teeth, and she was determined she would face it. As she half-rose, because that was as much as she was able to manage, the stones of the mountain rose with her.

The dragon, full of pomp and arrogance, checked its advance, uncertain as to the threat. Mary didn’t dare look away, in case the slowly turning rocks fell. If this was her doing, then breaking her concentration as well as her bones would be the end of her.

Whatever instinct or intelligence drove the dragon on told it that it would come to no harm. It bent its head low and clawed at the ground, then rushed her.

She willed the rocks to stop its charge, and they flew at it, a solid storm of stone, battering its scales and membranous wings. The dragon stumbled and fell, and still the stones kept coming. It turned, lashed its tail, and ran.

The rattle of falling stones like rain marked the end of her resistance. She was alone in a world that was not hers, more than half-dead, halfway up a mountain she’d just fallen down.

‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Enough.’

20

Something had changed, possibly because the guards now realised that they were no more valuable, and no more protected, than the prisoners they were keeping. The man who’d died – Dalip heard him referred to as ‘Charlie’ or ‘Old Charlie’ – had been, if not well liked, not so unpopular that his singling out by the geomancer made any sense. His fate could have been theirs: they knew it, and resented it.

The harsh regime the prisoners had been kept under relaxed by degrees. Inside the cell block, the individual cells were only barred at night. They could talk to each other freely outside those times, as long as it didn’t interfere with their chores. The women were made to work in the vegetable plots inside the walls, fetching and carrying water, doing laundry in vats of boiling water, from sunrise to sunset. It was back-breaking, exhausting labour that would have been hard if it had been done for themselves or with the promise of pay.

Neither Stanislav nor Dalip were compelled to join in. The pit was deemed sufficient for them, but, led by the older man, they turned up every morning to do their share. Hoots of derision had joined the slaps and kicks which had been common enough to begin with. They tailed off as the prisoners got used to their roles. And now, a week later, casual violence was mostly redundant. Of course, the guards weren’t going to boil washing or weed between rows of cabbages. Then again, they’d thought they weren’t going to die in the pit either. That they might made them realise the geomancer didn’t care about them one way or the other: prisoners, guards, they were all the same in her mind.

The threat and the promise was that the regime grew to be normal, when it was anything but. Their lives consisted of mean meals, hard physical labour, beatings and captivity.

Dalip was with Stanislav in the pit, training with short wooden sticks instead of knives.

‘We must rebel. While the memory of Charlie’s death remains fresh,’ said Stanislav.

‘Before my next fight?’

‘Your next fight will be against something that you cannot hope to defeat. Remember that you are supposed to be scared. You are not. You are simply too angry at her to be scared. That is why she shut Charlie in with the boar. He was scared when you were not.’

‘But I was scared,’ Dalip protested.

‘She does not want ordinary frightened. She wants you to experience such terror that you piss yourself and run screaming for the door. You will not give her that, whatever they put in here with you.’

‘Don’t be so sure.’

‘And if it is the dragon?’

Dalip thought about that. They had all seen it early on: almost as if it had made a show of itself. Then it had been conspicuous by its absence. The sky above the castle was strangely blank without it. But the gates had remained open, and the guard not reinforced. It was still around, that was certain.

‘Well, maybe,’ he conceded. He ought to be terrified of it, but he was already thinking of ways of cutting it, if only he could get close enough.

Stanislav lowered his stick, not in a feint or a ruse, but in a way that meant they were no longer sparring. ‘Undress,’ he said, and when Dalip hesitated, he grunted: ‘Just do it.’

Dalip dropped his stick at his feet and wrestled the heavy zip down to his navel, then shucked the top half of his boilersuit. He pushed it down to his knees, and straightened up.

‘Look,’ said Stanislav. He walked around Dalip. ‘Look at yourself.’

Reluctantly, he did so. It was him. It was still him. Yes, he had visible muscles now, even at rest. He had broadened, and he stood taller even if he hadn’t actually grown.

‘This. This should not have happened. Not this quickly. Training, yes, over weeks and months, to make you strong and fast, will bring about such changes. Not days.’ He stood in front of Dalip, his hands on his hips, appraising him. ‘There is something else at work here.’

‘I just thought …’

‘You thought wrong. It is this place, with its wolves and its dragons and whatever else.’ He looked pensive for a moment, disturbed even. ‘I thought this was a new start. For all of us. Perhaps it would be better if we just went home, yes?’

He jerked his head, and Dalip pulled the boilersuit back on. They were still alone, and Stanislav took up a place under the geomancer’s balcony.

‘Let us make use of this gift you have been given,’ he said, and crouched down, feet planted wide, forearms on his thighs and hands cupped. ‘Go and stand by the wall opposite.’

When he was ready, he nodded.

Dalip understood what was required of him. He pushed himself off the wall and started his run-up. Speed was good: he needed forward momentum, but what he wanted was height. Timing was everything.

He lightly jumped off one bare foot and pressed the other firmly into Stanislav’s already rising hands. He straightened his leg and swept his arms up. He was flying. He clawed his fingers, caught the edge of the balcony, and the rest of his body smacked hard against the stone. The impact tore him loose, and he bent his knees before he broke his legs.

Stanislav grunted his irritation. ‘You must hold on.’

‘I can’t. I don’t think anyone could. I haven’t got a grip of anything at all, and when I hit the wall, my hands just slide off.’

‘Is there nothing you can hold?’

‘The top of the wall’s too wide. If,’ he said, staring at his target, ‘I went straight up, I could hang there, but then I’d have to pull myself the rest of the way.’

‘You can do that.’

‘Yes, and the steward would be hitting me with his cane all the time. And she: we have no idea what she can do.’

Stanislav scratched at his chin, where a white beard was showing through.

‘Can you go higher?’

‘Can you throw me harder? And move a bit away from the wall. Ideally, I’d want to hit the top when I wasn’t rising or falling. If I can get my elbows on it, I can push myself up and over, before they can react.’

They took up their new positions. Dalip would have to run faster now, and timing was critical. The first time, he was too tentative, and missed the wall completely. The second time, he left it too late.

When they’d both picked themselves off the ground and thought about blaming each other for their bruises, they tried again.

‘Concentrate,’ said Stanislav.

Dalip bit back what he was thinking, that this was all too much like school except there, if he’d failed a chemistry test no one would have had him killed.

‘Just, just do your bit.’ He bared his teeth in a grimace and launched himself at the tiny sweet spot contained within Stanislav’s hands.

His heel connected and he pushed off hard. At the same time, he was propelled upwards. If he missed this, it was going to hurt.

He reached up, always closing on the wall. Then his head could see over. He bent his elbows, spread his fingers wide like nets, and slammed them on top of the parapet. He was still moving forward. He was almost bent double over the wall before his legs hit it. He started to go backwards, and no matter how much he scrabbled, his weight was always off balance, always dragging him down.

He slipped down the face of the wall with a gasp of disgust and landed in a heap at the bottom.

‘You had it,’ said Stanislav, standing over him.

‘I know I had it! You don’t need to tell me I got it wrong. I know I got it wrong.’ He angrily waved away an attempt to pull him upright, and got to his own two feet. ‘Again.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘No. Now. We practise until I can do it.’

‘But can you do it?’

‘Yes.’ Dalip was breathing heavily, and his humility regained momentary control. ‘Eventually.’

Stanislav chewed at his already bleeding lip. ‘Okay. Again.’

He didn’t manage it the next time either. The same thing happened. Almost, then he lost his grip on the smooth stone and the sharp edges. He couldn’t judge how many attempts he had left in him. He was tired. His legs hurt. He felt like he’d banged his ribs one too many times. And Stanislav couldn’t keep this up all day.

One more, then stop. Two more, then he’d slink back to his cell and lick his wounds.

He pressed his back to the wall on the far side of the pit, one foot against the stone work. Stanislav readied himself, gave him the nod, and tensed.

Dalip ran: step, step, step, then jump. He connected clean. He was in the air, and rather than trying to stay upright, he brought a knee up, turning his whole body sideways. His feet cleared the top of the wall, and he reached out with his hands, slapping the stonework as it passed underneath him.

He hit it hard, and rolled.

This time he didn’t fall far, just at the feet of the geomancer’s empty throne. He lay there for a moment, quiet and still, checking that he’d actually done it, and that he was alone.

The circular balcony wasn’t that deep, enough room for him to fit between the parapet and the chair, and the same space behind it. He could see a door, set into the wall in front of him. He pulled himself up and looked down at Stanislav. He glanced up, circled his finger and thumb for an okay, and purposefully stared in the direction of the pit door, which was merely ajar.

He wouldn’t have long. He circumnavigated the narrow balcony with its low ceiling, found no surprises, and ended up back at the only door. It was closed with a latch, which he lifted very slowly. He pushed, inching the door away from the jamb, listening at the crack he’d made for any sounds from the other side. The hinges groaned, and he ceased all movement. Nothing. No sudden clatter or shout of alarm.

He dared himself to push a little more, when he heard Stanislav’s extravagant throat-clearing. They hadn’t agreed on a warning, but it couldn’t be anything but. No one must know that he could escape the pit, until the moment he did so. Dalip pulled the door shut and sprinted for the edge. He lay on the top of the parapet, and swung himself over. His nervous fingers slid, and he fell the rest of the distance to the floor, which was where Pigface found him.

He turned his gaze between Dalip and Stanislav with an expression of disdain. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Dalip looked like he was resting, propped up against the wall. Stanislav had his stick in his hand, as if berating the boy for being weak. He snorted, and turned his back on them.

‘You’ve had enough for one day,’ he said.

‘We decide that,’ said Stanislav. He threw his stick at the door, where it clattered near to Pigface’s head.

‘Push it too far, Slav, and I swear I’ll do you.’

Stanislav shrugged, flexing his shoulders. ‘Come, then. It will end up as before, with my hand on your throat and you gasping for air.’

Pigface half-turned, and hesitated.

Dalip picked himself off the floor. ‘We shouldn’t be fighting each other. We know who the enemy is.’

‘And who’s that, little lion man?’

‘Your mate Charlie worked it out, didn’t he?’ He dusted himself down. ‘I’m just sorry I wasn’t quick enough to save him.’

Nor quick enough to save himself from waking up in the night, cold but sweating, as a phantom boar tore through his own guts.

Pigface took the apology with a shrug. ‘Stupid bastard got himself stuck the wrong side of the door, didn’t he?’

‘You know that’s not what happened,’ said Dalip. ‘She trapped him in here, held the door shut, then watched him die. Maybe you should ask her why she did that.’

Genuine fear washed over Pigface. He shuddered and shook his head.

‘I’m not stupid.’

Stanislav grunted. ‘No? Stupid enough not to realise that you are a slave like us. Can you leave the castle for somewhere else? No? Then you just have a better class of prison.’

Again, Pigface turned to leave, and couldn’t quite bring himself to go.

‘What is it? You want more?’ demanded Stanislav, but Dalip waved him quiet.

‘When’s the next fight?’ he asked.

‘No one knows. She’s been in her rooms, last few days. She’ll tell us when it’s time.’

‘What about the steward, the man with the cane?’

‘He’s around. More than usual.’

Dalip beckoned Pigface closer. After a moment’s reluctance, he crossed the pit floor, but still remembered to stand out of lunging range.

‘Is this the life you want for yourself? When you ran from whatever was trying to kill you in London, and you had your new start, is this what you imagined?’

Pigface worried at the ball of his thumb with his crooked teeth and listened very carefully.

‘Because this isn’t what I want. I want to go back home, but if that’s not possible, I won’t live like this. I didn’t run from the fire to become a pit-fighting slave in some witch’s dungeon. Do you understand?’

The guard nodded slowly.

‘You can get in the way, you can ignore us, or you can help us. Up to you. Just remember what happened to Charlie before you run off to the geomancer.’ Dalip bent down and retrieved his stick. ‘You’re as expendable as we are.’

Pigface left the room this time, shoulders slumped, back bent.

‘It will not work,’ said Stanislav. ‘I have met men like that before. They are broken. They prefer living in their own shit than the trouble of cleaning themselves off.’

‘If we don’t have to fight them too, it’ll be easier. Easier still if they’re with us.’

‘You cannot count on Pigface, or any of the others. Our plan will not include them because they will let us down.’ Stanislav punctuated his speech with finger-jabs into Dalip’s chest.

He knocked the man’s hand away. ‘I don’t know where you get this from, but not everybody is a …’

‘Bastard? There are two kinds of men. Corruptible bastards and incorruptible bastards. That is all.’

‘What are we, then?’

‘We make common cause. Pigface has already shown his true self, so we do not trust him.’

‘Why should I trust you, then? I mean, I don’t really know
you. We just happened to be in the same shift. That, and we survived together.’

Stanislav walked away, ostensibly to retrieve his stick. He scooped it up, and idly scraped the thin end against the wall.

Dalip persisted. ‘Like where did you learn to fight with a knife? Some of the things you say, they’re … hard. Like nails hard.’

‘My history is the other side of the door, and that is where it will stay. The wolfman was right when he told us all that matters is what we do now. You ask me to help you train, yes? How and why I can do that, is something you do not need to ask.’