The Sunken (13 page)

He leaned in so close Nicholas could see every lump and furrow of his pock-marked skin. “We’re simple folk, us Stokers, but we have our own rules, and we care about our families, Nicholas Thorne. I’ve already lost one brother because of your presence—”

“Henry’s death was an
accident
—
”

“And
accidents
seem to follow you everywhere, don’t they? I won’t have Aaron caught up in whatever clandestine dealings you and Brunel have dreamed up.” He swept his arm around, indicating the Nave, the Chimney, the flickering lamps, and Brunel’s whole operation. “He believes that because I work for him I’m blind to his ambition, but I’ve
seen
things, Nicholas Thorne. I’ve
seen.
You’re planning something, the two of you, and it’s un-Stoker-like, and Aaron will have
no
part in it.”

“But we’re not—”

“Also,” he added, holding out a thick palm, “I see the bulge of a purse in your pocket. I’ll have that, if you please.”

“But—”

“If you please,
Mr. Rose. I’d hate for the authorities to find out about your presence in this city, and your real name.”

Nicholas pulled the purse from his jacket and threw it at the priest. Oswald caught it in midair, pulling it open with eager fingers, and feeling for the coins inside.

“That will do … for now.”

“This is absurd. Isambard has done nothing but look out for Aaron. And I hardly intend to—”

But the priest had already turned away. “I trust,” Oswald called over his shoulder as he descended the steps towards the priests’ cloister, “you won’t forget this little meeting.”

“Your words, your
Holiness
, are forever etched into my memory.”

“Good.” And he was gone, his robes swishing against the stairs.

Nicholas’ stomach growled. He thought of the two shillings he’d had in his purse — the last of his money ’till Brunel could pay him.
It will be another night with an empty stomach, another night kept awake with the threats of this new enemy hanging over me. I should have never returned to London.

James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

As declared, the first meeting of the Free-Thinking Men’s Blasphemous Brandy and Supper Society took place in my cramped dormitory at Travers College, requiring the members to travel twenty-six miles from London to the grounds of Windsor Castle. I spent some of my meagre savings on a spread of fresh-cut meats and cheese and several varieties of tea, not to mention a fine bottle of brandy.

I raced back and forth between the common room and my quarters, arranging chairs, setting up bowls and spoons and polishing the tea settings. Every time I passed the oak writing desk opposite the door, my fingers brushed the letter that I had leaned against the inlaid drawers. Occasionally I picked it up and fingered it, brushing against the Duke’s seal, imagining what it might say.

The letter had arrived that morning, and it could only be a response to my request for extended leave to undertake an adventure. At twenty-two, I was the youngest of the Naval Knights by a good forty years. Although we are only allowed to absent our duties on medical grounds, I had managed, with a recommendation from a doctor friend, to secure a previous extended period of leave to attend medical school in Edinburgh. My new application sought permission to travel extensively across England, though in reality I meant to escape our closed borders and pursue my dream to conduct a circuit of the world.

Of course, I couldn’t read the letter, and I didn’t want to ask one of the cantankerous Knights to read it for me. So I had been fidgeting in anticipation all afternoon, pacing across the floor and cracking my knuckles in a most un-gentlemanly manner.

Nicholas and Aaron arrived promptly at four, sharing a carriage. Both men handed me their coats — Nicholas’ a fine woolen cape in the latest Parisian fashion, worn and thin around the edges; Aaron’s the tough canvas of a workmen, reeking of soot — and settled into the mismatched chairs I had placed around the cramped room.

“No Isambard?” I asked, secretly relieved.

Aaron shook his head. “He’s been most peculiar these past two days. He’s locked himself in his chambers and has not emerged, not even to give orders to begin construction of the Wall. I’ve no idea what he plans, but he certainly does not wish to leave his workshop for any reason.”

“Too bad, he’s missing out on this.” I presented the brandy to the gentlemen, and poured a glass each for Nicholas, Aaron, and Buckland, who had just arrived by carriage from Oxford.

“It’s nothing like the Royal Society lays claim to,” I observed, feeling each man’s fingers brush mine as they took their glasses. “But I feel our club should enjoy the fineries of intellectual countenance.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Buckland, raising his glass to his lips. As requested, Buckland’s wife had indeed baked a cheesecake, and Nicholas had stolen a box of hot chocolate from the kitchen at his guesthouse. He stirred his brandy into his hot drink and sipped, giving a sigh of contentment.

We exchanged pleasantries while we waited for the final two guests to arrive. When I could no longer contain myself, I slid the envelope across the desk toward Nicholas. “Please?” I said.

Images swam inside my head — images of things I could no longer see but might one day hear, and smell, and feel.
Paths unwandered, specimens undiscovered, ingenious peoples whose fascinating customs yearned to be documented …

He slit open the envelope with his bread knife, and read the contents aloud. “… on behalf of His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, we regret to inform you that—”

I froze, my heart galloping in my chest. I didn’t hear the rest of the message. I must have looked horrified, as Nicholas reached across and took my hand.

“I am sorry, James. The current political climate is rather prohibitive to adventuring. Perhaps you will have better luck if you apply again in a few years.”

My application had been declined. I would be stuck in Windsor for eternity, my dreams of travel and adventure remaining simply that — dreams.

The food I had so lovingly prepared tasted sour after that loathsome news. Aaron and Nicholas did what they could to keep the conversation light, but my mind returned again and again to my fate, to live out the rest of my days trapped in these infernal chambers with six crotchety old men, the only travel the gruelling hundred steps I must endure twice per day to reach the chapel.

The maid knocked on my door and announced the arrived of my final two guests: Mr. George Lyell, a biologist, and Dr. John Dalton, a chemist currently researching color-blindness, and the friend whose medical evidence had once succeeded in earning my freedom. Nicholas stood up to introduce himself to the men, and they greeted him warmly, offering their own platters of food for the feast.

When each man had been seated and their glasses filled, Nicholas rapped his knuckles against the chair arm and cried. “I hereby call the first meeting of the Free-Thinking Men’s Blasphemous Brandy and Supper Society to order.”

“Hear, hear!” Buckland was already halfway through his second glass of brandy.

First, we discussed the problem of keeping minutes of the meetings.

“It’s imperative we record our intellectual discussion,” said Dalton. “We might well make important observations that need to be recalled. Often, it’s when returning to the notes from such discussions that the true nature of a phenomenon becomes apparent.”

“But if a written record of our meetings ever fell into the wrong hands …” Buckland’s voice trailed off. We all knew what had happened to Babbage.

“The obvious solution,” said Aaron, “is some kind of code.”

“Aaron is right,” said Nicholas. “However, we face the less-common problem that not all of us can read.” He paused, and I could feel all eyes in the room fall on my Noctograph — the wooden and string frame I used to guide my hand while I printed — lying unused in my lap.

“Worry not about me, friends,” I replied, my cheeks burning despite myself. “I’m used to storing intellectual notes in the recesses of my cranium.”

“Nonsense,” cried Buckland. “We should not leave any one of our members without access to written notes of our proceedings.”

“What about a code printed in raised shapes on a sheet of metal?” said Aaron. “Like rivets on plated steel? That way, Holman could read with his fingers.”

“Brilliant!” I beamed.

Nicholas set his glass down on the table. “Aaron, of all of us, you have the most ready access to a workshop of tools. And I have some skill with ciphers from my time in the Navy. Should we two work together to write our code?”

With that decided, Nicholas — who seemed to fall into the role of master of ceremonies — moved on to the main event of the evening. The first member responsible for presenting research was Buckland, who had spent the summer on a caving expedition in Wales where he’d discovered a human female skeleton, stained with red pigment, amongst the bones of the ancient Great Dragons.

Geologists have already established that many large animals from the
Dinosauria
family — similar to the neckers, iguanodon, compies, swamp—dragons, and other creatures abundant in the British Isles today — had died out before the appearance of man. But never before had a human skeleton been found alongside them, and never one who, like Buckland’s, carried unusual rings and amulets made of the bones of the beasts. Buckland was trying to come to terms with the find before he published his paper.

“There is a Roman settlement nearby,” said Buckland. “Perhaps she discovered the bones in a nearby cave and carved the jewelry from them.”

Lyell shook his head. “The bones would have to be carved when they were still hard. You said the decomposition was the same? It seems your red lady was contemporary with the beast.”

“The bestial skeleton is old, probably pre-flood — I mean, pre-
catastrophe
. I can’t suggest that humans lived then. That’s counter to the whole Industrian dogma. You saw what happened to Babbage!”

“Relax, William,” said Dalton. “Unlike the Royal Society, it matters not to us what you write in your papers to please the Church. We’ve all written similar plaintive.”

Nicholas reached over and topped up Buckland’s brandy glass. “We’re interested in what
you,
as a scholar of biology and geology, think was going on in that cave.”

Buckland sighed. I felt a surge of pity for the man. I too knew what it was like to struggle against the bonds of society.

“The artefacts indicate she lived either before or during the Roman occupation,” he finally said. “And when this woman lived, Great Dragons still inhabited England. Not a word of this must leave this room, for it is blasphemy—”

“Great Dragons and humans … together?” Nicholas’ voice shuddered. “It is a terrifying thought.”

Sensing the panic in Buckland’s voice, I changed the subject. “Tell us, Buckland, as the expert on animal behaviour, why do the dragons now come into the city in such force?”

“It’s funny that you should ask, James.” Buckland shuffled forward in his chair, his voice steadying as he regained control of his emotions. “I’ve spent the last two days discussing the exact same subject with the new Presbyter.”

“Brunel?” Now it was Aaron’s turn to lean forward. “What interest does he have in biology?” his voice took on a new urgency.

“I don’t rightly know. He spoke little of his own thoughts, only wanting to listen to my theories. Not that I can give a conclusive answer, but I think I may offer the beginnings of an explanation.”

“And that is?”

“After the
catastrophe
that killed off the big dinosaurs — the Great Dragons and the twelve-foot tricorns — the swamp-dragons became the largest and most fierce predators in England. Their skeletons appear uniquely adapted for the fens, explaining why we don’t usually see them outside the great swamps. For perhaps fifty years they were hunted near to extinction by the Stokers, their skins and teeth used for expensive clothing and jewelry. My first inference is that since the Stokers moved to the city in 1765, the dragons have been able to rebuild their numbers.”

“Makes sense,” said Aaron.

“So if the swamps are free to them once more, what would turn them toward the city with such increasing frequency? There could be only two possible explanations. One is that the food in the swamps has become so scarce that they can no longer sustain themselves and so seek to pick off meals in our overpopulated city.”

“This doesn’t seem likely,” said Aaron. “My grandfather used to tell me stories about the swamps. Even when the Stokers left there were plenty of animals and fish the dragons could eat.”

“Both Brunel and I thought so, too. The second explanation — and the one that seemed to particularly interest him — is that some other factor — a change in environment, most likely the introduction of another, larger predator — has pushed the dragons from their usual habitat. It was the same in pre-
catastrophe
times, when tricorn numbers were at their height.”

“Because the tricorns ate the trees and reeds, where so many of the dragons’ prey lived?” Dalton asked. Buckland nodded.

“The Great Dragons moved on to other areas. Many of the Great Dragon species found a new niche in the forests of the north, before they too died out.”

“But what could be causing the dragons to flee the swamps now?”

Buckland shrugged. “No man of science has cared enough to investigate the swamps. These days, if you want real glory from science, you impress the King by manufacturing a steam-powered shoe-polishing machine, not by venturing knee-deep through England’s bogs.”

Aaron spoke up. “My grandfather was the greatest dragon-hunter this country had ever seen, so great, in fact, that it was believed he shot the last dragon in the swamps, and forced the Stokers to come to London to work on the engines. If anybody could figure out what makes the dragons flee the swamps, a Stoker could.”

“Are you volunteering, Mr. Williams?” Buckland laughed.

“Maybe I am.”

The discussion of catastrophe-theory, dinosaurs, and Buckland’s mysterious red girl continued around him, but Nicholas listened with only half an ear. He watched Aaron, whose intent expression belied the enthusiasm with which he took part in the conversation.