The Sunken (47 page)

The carriage stopped. I knew at once we were in grave danger.

The smell hung thick in the air — blood and piss and excrement, and the unmistakable tang of rotting flesh. But it was the sound that turned my blood cold — a chorus of animals, snarling, hissing, barking, fingers clawing at each other in their frantic attempt to crawl closer to us.

“What have you brought me, Lewis?” a familiar voice asked. Joseph Banks, the Prime Minister, leaned against the carriage and rapped his stick across my back.

“We found these four trying to escape, sir. I figured you’d best know what to do with ’em.”

“Right you are, Lewis. Bring them down to the pit.”

Hands grabbed us again, and pulled us out, threw us on the ground. I tried to stand, but the butt of a rifle slapped me across the face, and I fell to my knees, whimpering. I could hear them,
smell
them. The Sunken — hundreds of them, in a pit only a few feet from me. Each one had once been a person, but the sounds the emanated from that hellish pit were not the sounds of men. Miss Julie landed beside me, and she reached out and felt for my hand.

“The girls first,” said Banks, as his men wrenched Cassandra and Rebecca high in the air and tossed them, screaming, into the pit.

I tried to stopper my ears, to take my mind far away, but I could not turn away from the screams of those girls as they were thrown down to the beasts. The Sunken pounced, and their howls enveloped the screams as they supped their full. Cassandra’s scream rang out. Every tear of her flesh, every squelch of her innards pierced by their bony fingers, every snarl as they fought over the morsels of her body reverberated off the sides of my skull. I forgot myself in my panic, giving my body over to my terror. Something warm ran down the side of my leg, and from my mouth spewed forth an incoherent stream of delirium.

Someone kicked me in the head, and I toppled over, unable to bear up my own feeble weight. Miss Julie’s hand was torn from mine, and she yelled at me to be brave as they heaved her over the side. The Sunken took much longer on her, as if the delights of her ample body should be savoured.

One of the soldiers leaned over beside me. “They’re not clawing the sides anymore,” he said, puzzled.

“That’s what the flesh does to them,” Banks said. “They get lethargic once they’ve had their full. I remember the day I came down with the body of the Crown Prince and two of His Majesty’s other children. They could hardly move at all after that feast!”

“That won’t do,” said Lewis. “We’re meant to keep ’em somewhat stimulated before they go on the train. I don’t want my own self to be thrown in there amongst them for disobeying orders.”

“Very true, very true,” said Banks, thinking. Behind us, up at the castle, a horn sounded.

“Time to move out, lads,” Banks said.

“What about this one? Shouldn’t we—”

“Toss him in the train with the others,” said Banks. “He’ll be in the hands of the Sunken soon enough.”

Chloe watched Aaron pacing the length of the magazine, his face twisted into a ferocious scowl. She sat at the table beside William Stone, her shoulders knitted with tension, watching her husband as he made that silent trek from one end of the narrow room to the other. Above their heads, the engines purred, the familiar vibrations punctuated with a new sound — the low rumble of more Boilers entering the tunnels, making their way to the workstations abandoned by the Stokers.

She was prepared to admit to herself that she was afraid of Aaron. Ever since Brunel had been made Presbyter, her husband drank more than ever. He came home with wild eyes and strange ideas. His advances, which had once been tender, were now fuelled by a kind of inner fury that made her dread their nights together.

After only a night of self-imposed imprisonment, he seemed ready to snap at any moment. She feared he had become utterly lost to her — his mind consumed by hatred for Brunel. William met her eyes across the table and she knew he shared her fears.

“Aaron.” William addressed him, quietly, questioningly. “We can’t remain down here forever.”

Aaron spoke nothing in reply.

“We will run out of food in two days,” said William. “And every hour we remain away from our posts, and those Boilers stoke our fires and tend our furnaces, is an hour closer to the end of the Stokers. We are proving nothing, except that those machines can do our jobs better than we ever could.

“Today they have taken over our jobs, but who is to say they aren’t capable of expelling us from this place by force.” Chloe shivered at the thought. “Isn’t it time we returned to the Ward and tried to salvage what we can of our livelihood?”

“We
are
in the Ward.” Aaron hissed his reply through clenched teeth. “We are in the heart of the Ward — the very soul of this cursed place.”

“Our homes are up there—”

“I said no!” Aaron spun around and kicked the table across the room. Chloe shrieked and buried her face in William’s shoulder.

“By Great Conductor’s steam-driven testicles, Aaron, you’re scaring your wife,” William snapped. “You’re scaring everyone. What do you expect? That we will stay down here forever?”

“We don’t even know what’s happened up there,” said Chloe. “What about the Sunken? What about Nicholas and James and—”

“They threw their lot in with Isambard. What happens to them is not my concern. As for the Sunken — if they even
do
exist, let them feast upon this ungrateful city ’till her streets are piled high with bones. Why should we care for them—”

“This isn’t you. This isn’t my husband talking … the man who has such empathy for every living being. What’s
happened
to you?” Chloe angrily wiped fresh tears from her cheeks.

“Isambard happened to me. He turned his back on the Stokers, and on me, the minute he fired the first Boiler. He—”

“But he was your
friend,
your oldest and dearest friend, and you abandoned him when you could have been his one voice of sanity. You could’ve saved the Stokers, Aaron. You could have stopped Isambard, but instead of showing him a better way, you let your anger overcome you, and you hid down here and sulked—”

“I’ll
not
be talked to like that—”

“Enough.”
William pushed his chair back. “I will go to Isambard myself, and I will see if I can make him understand the Stokers’ position.”

“No. I will go,” Aaron said. He pulled his shoulders back, and took a deep breath. Chloe caught his expression; saw him battling the anger, pressing down his temper so it did not impair his decision. She stepped back, wiping her tear-stained face. Aaron would not let his anger override his concern for the Stokers. He would do what was needed. He was still the man she loved. “It was my idea to strike, to hide down here, and it was our leaving that has caused Isambard to issue forth the Boilers. No Stoker will be put in danger because of me.”

“You will talk to Isambard?” Chloe asked. “You will find a way to end this?”

“I will,” he pulled his coat close around his face. “But first I shall find Nicholas.” Chloe glared at him. “No, you don’t understand. I have treated him poorly, but I must show him what we’re up against. I must help him understand what I’ve done here, why I did it. And together we might be able to stop Isambard before he destroys the Stokers, and London, and everything we hold dear.”

James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

The carriages were closed on all sides, without windows to let in air or light. Anyone who might see the train as she made her clandestine journey would not know the contents of her cargo — would not see the fear that spread like a fire through every inch of the claustrophobic space.

It was standing-room only — maids and Knights and footmen and cooks pressed up against each other in the darkness. I had secured myself a spot in the furthest corner, my back against the wall, hemmed in on both sides by the stooped shoulders of my fellow Knights. The other carriage — longer still, but no less cramped — contained the courtiers, priests, handmaidens and the King’s private staff. No one knew what was happening or why they were being moved to the new court like cattle on the way to market.

No one except me.

My mind raced with the memory of those horrid creatures, trying to discern a way out of this mess. Nicholas and Aaron must learn what I’d heard — they needed to know that Brunel could not be trusted. I knew if I reached Buckingham Palace, I would not be able to leave again, but the door to the carriage had been padlocked behind us. Besides which, I didn’t fancy leaping from a moving train at this speed.

The train rocketed over a rough stretch of track, and everyone lurched backward, slamming me against the wooden wall of the carriage. I heard a crunch and felt a cold breeze blow past my elbow.

A breeze …

I felt along the wooden struts, hardly daring to hope … but my fingers slipped through a gap in the wood. When building the wagons the Boilers must’ve malfunctioned — or a programming error had caused them to miss adding the rivets on three planks in this corner. Now, the clattering of the train at high speed had forced the planks apart.

Twisting around in my crevice, I grabbed the planks and began wriggling them free. The first flew off in my hands, sending me stumbling backward into a fresh round of grumbles from my fellow Knights.

With a swift punch of my walking stick, the second plank clattered onto the tracks below. Another couple of whacks dislodged the final plank, and a cold gust of wind hit my bruised face. I felt the edges of the gap I’d created, ensuring it would be large enough for me to escape through.

Aaron had told me that the locomotive would slow when it reached the city, for too much speed in the underground tunnels could cause a cave-in. Judging from the smell of soot and excrement on the breeze, we were passing through the outer boroughs of London. Sure enough, the train began to slow, the clattering of the rails spreading out, and the whisper of buildings whooshing by less discernable.

Paying no heed to the protests behind me, I dropped to my knees, creeping forward and ducking my head under the limber so I crouched, like a frog, on the edge of the wagon. I manoeuvred my stick through the hole and clutched it tightly in my hand, and listened to the pace of the train, trying to gauge a speed that would ensure my survival.

The wind on my face grew suddenly colder, and the sound of the train changed, becoming hollow and amplified, as if it bounced back from a surface close by. We must have entered the tunnel. Now was my chance.

I took a deep breath and launched myself from the carriage, landing hard on the track and rolling clear as the train clattered away into the darkness. The shock jolted up my legs and back, and I lay in a crumpled heap between the rails for many minutes, trying to calm my racing heart. Slowly, I pulled myself up to a sitting position, my fingers tracing every inch of my body, looking for cuts or broken bones, but I could find none.

Standing on shaking legs, I realised I could only just hear the low rumble of the train as it disappeared deeper into the tunnel. I had to hurry. Thrusting my stick in front of me and tapping it against the rails to hear my way, I set off toward the entrance at a brisk pace.

After a few hundred yards I found it, emerging into a damp ditch between two rows of tenements on the edges of metropolitan London. I slipped into the street and found my way to a coach house, where I dug out two shillings and paid for a cab to Nicholas’ residence.

When I arrived Brigitte answered the door, her voice registering her surprise. “James? By the Gods, what’s happened to you? I thought you—”

“I need to speak to Nicholas. Immediately.”

“I — of course. Come in. Aaron is here also. He just arrived.” She held open the door, and I stomped upstairs to Nicholas’ study while she fetched Nicholas. He entered the room soon afterward, followed by Aaron. He told Brigitte to wait in the kitchen, and shut and bolted the door behind her.

“James Holman, just look at your face, all battered and bleeding! I’m not even going to ask if you went snooping in the castle, because I already know the answer. The question is, what did you find?”

“More than I ever wished for, and I barely escaped with my life. Brunel was there,” I said. “And Banks.” Quickly I recounted the conversation as I remembered it. I told them of my foiled escape, the pit of Sunken, and my subsequent ride on the train. As I described the deaths of Miss Julie and Rebecca and Cassandra, I thought I heard a sob come from the hallway, but no one else acknowledged it.

“See?” Aaron said. “We’ve been blind, Nicholas. We both believed Isambard had no part in this.”

“He could merely be referring to the safe transport of some other royal children,” Nicholas replied. “I don’t see how this proves any of your crazy notions—”

“There are no other children,” I said. “Banks had them thrown to the Sunken. I heard that, too.”

“And what about my men?” I heard a crash as Aaron leapt from his chair. “Benjamin Stone thrown from a building, and five others burnt to death—”

“This is ludicrous,” Nicholas shouted. “We have no proof. Perhaps Brunel had no choice.”

“I know what I heard, Nicholas. For whatever reason, Brunel is helping Banks smuggle the Sunken into London,” I said. “And if we’re all agreed the King bringing his lead children into the city would be a bad thing, perhaps we should stop debating the motives behind Brunel’s involvement in it, and come up with a way to stop them.”

“Have any of us even
seen
the Sunken?” Nicholas yelled. “Perhaps they’re not what we assume them to be. We have the testimony of James and Brigitte, but James is blind, and his observations cannot be given full weighting in this matter—”

His words hit me with the force of a blow.

“—and Brigitte is young and vulnerable and afraid. She could have mistaken what she saw.”

“You’re
mistaken, Nicholas, if you insist on blindly believing Isambard means well for England! The only person he’s looking out for is Isambard!” Snarling, Aaron yanked open the door, and Brigitte, who had been standing behind it, eavesdropping, shrieked as he stomped past. Nicholas called after him, but the front door slammed. Aaron had already gone.