The Sunken (49 page)

The street was now dangerously crowded. Onlookers packed the narrow footpath, pressing against each other in a desperate attempt to see inside the palace grounds.

“It seems odd word of such an occasion hasn’t appeared in the papers,” I said. I couldn’t read the papers, of course, but the other Knights discussed them constantly.

Brigitte gripped my arm. “I’m certain there is an explanation for all this. We should find—”

She was interrupted by the ripple of panic that darted along the crowd, passed from soul to soul by some invisible force. It swept the people into a frenzy, and as one they bolted toward Westminster. Several horses reared up, and our driver expertly swung us into a side street as soon as a gap opened up. Brigitte caught a glimpse of the palace grounds as we hurtled along the fence, and cried out. “That’s no party! Something is terribly wrong!”

And then the screaming began.

Aaron watched Nicholas and Isambard climb into a cab together and speed off toward Stephenson’s church. Nicholas’ final words to him echoed in his mind.
If I can save London from the Sunken, perhaps I’ll finally be at peace with my crimes.
Peace. Aaron longed for peace, longed to be free of the anger that gripped his chest.

When he was certain the Ward was again deserted, he dashed across the empty Stoker workcamp to the lifts. Down he went, down past the Boilers toiling on levels C and D, down to the darkest places, where the Stokers waited for him.

He heard them as soon as the elevator clanged to a stop, drinking and talking in low, solemn voices. He stood awhile on the darkened gangway, listening, hoping to catch a smatter of conversation, to understand the sentiment of the men he would call upon tonight.
Have I done right by them? Would they still follow me?

But he could hear nothing over the hum of the engines above. He stepped into the first magazine, unnoticed by the men huddled in groups on the floor, heads pressed together as they whispered to each other. Aaron touched one on the shoulder.

“Willy?”

William Stone whirled around, splashing his drink across his overalls. “Aaron? Is that you? I can hardly see in this gloom.”

Aaron stepped into the light of the lantern.

“Did you find him? Is everything going to be all right?” William asked.

Aaron paused. “I don’t know. William, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you lost your son. I’m sorry I didn’t figure this out sooner. I hated it from the start, but I didn’t have a—” He stopped.
There’s always a choice.
“I did the cowardly thing, and it cost us all dearly. I didn’t know what to do. That makes a man angry, do you see?”

William nodded.

“Do you still trust me?”

William nodded again.

“Something terrible will strike in London tonight, and I’m damned if I’m going to stand by and watch it destroy this city. I need you to round up every able-bodied man willing to return to the surface with me, and any weapon you can find, and meet me outside the South Gate in thirty minutes.”

“What are we—” But Aaron had already left him.

He found Chloe in the second battery, with the other women, fast asleep with her back leaning up against the wall and her hands clasped tightly around his battered barker. Aaron ran his hand over her soft hair and eased the weapon from her grip. “Sleep well, my wife,” he said. “I am sorry. For everything.”

He met William on the gangway, with forty men in tow, each man carrying weapons of varying levels of effectiveness. The sight of them made Aaron’s chest swell with pride.

“I know you’ve never been taught to equate the word ‘Stoker’ with bravery,” he said, “but in the last three days you’ve all proved your worth a thousand times over. When Isambard was accepted into the engineering elite, we all held him up as a model Stoker, the man we could all aspire to be. But Isambard isn’t one of us, not really, not anymore. And he makes mistakes, just like any of us — the trouble is, when a great man makes mistakes, the consequences are hundredfold, spreading out into the world and infecting those around him. When that happens, when the great men of this world fall into darkness, it’s up to ordinary men like us to bring them back to the light.

“If we don’t do something, this city will burn tonight, and vile creatures the likes of which you cannot even fathom will be set loose upon her streets. London has never been kind to us, and I, like many of you, would rather hide down here and let them suffer, but these creatures … they will find us. And it will be your women and your children who will be defiled and devoured. The army will not stand against them … the Metropolitan Police are useless, but we Dirty Folk, we Stokers, we will be the ones to save this city.”

The men yelled their approval, and crowded into the stairwell and lift shafts in their haste to get to the surface. William looked at Aaron, tears in his eyes. Aaron smiled back.

If Nicholas wants to throw in his lot with Brunel, that’s his business, but we have a city to save.

Deep below Stephenson’s church, Nicholas followed Brunel down a long tunnel; his back bent double to prevent scraping himself on the roof. The barrel of his pistol jammed in his hip, and once again, he bent down to adjust the belt.

Brunel kept up a vigorous pace, despite the heavy rucksack of equipment on his back. He would not look back or wait for Nicholas, who at times had to sprint to catch up.

Suddenly, Brunel stopped. Nicholas stumbled over him, fumbling wildly to keep the lamp from smashing against the stone floor. “What did you—”

Brunel held up his hand, and Nicholas fell silent. “Can you hear that?”

He could. If he closed his eyes, he could hear faint sounds from the city above: carriage wheels bouncing over the cobbles, the clank and grind of London’s great machines. And over this, faint but unmistakable, he heard screaming. Women and men screaming, and heavy footfalls as hordes of Londoners rushed back and forth, shrieking all the while.

“We’re late,” whispered Brunel. “It’s already begun.”

Nicholas thought of Brigitte, and Holman, shut up at his home.
Please, Great Conductor, let them be safe there.

“We’re nearly there,” Brunel said. “The station is right underneath the Palace.”

After a time, the tunnel narrowed, pressing against Nicholas’ shoulder, so he had to squeeze through sideways. He tried not to think of Aaron’s men, holed up in tunnels such as these, mourning the deaths of five of their number. He followed Brunel up a narrow staircase and found himself on the platform at an underground station.

The whole structure glowed with eerie yellow light, illuminated by wall sconces and moonlight shining through grates in the ceiling. An opulent, tiled platform stretched on into the distance, much longer and wider than Nicholas expected.
Surely Aaron was wrong … surely machines didn’t create all this?

A huge, black locomotive waited at the platform, steam still curling around her. She had not long been used. Several carriages waited behind her, and as Nicholas walked past them, he could see dark smudges across the walls. Blood.

“It’s not perfect,” whispered Brunel, stretching out his fingers to touch the locomotive. “I designed it myself, but Banks insisted on letting Stephenson look it over. He installed the vents to carry the steam and smoke out of the tunnel, but they don’t work as efficiently as I’d hoped. Actually, they don’t seem to work at all. When you exit the train, it feels as though you are walking into the smoky pits of hell.”

Nicholas nodded, too stunned to speak.

A grand staircase wound up into the palace proper, but Brunel led him through a nondescript wooden door down a stairwell and up into a steep vertical shaft. A ladder made of iron pins mounted into the stone served as the means of ascent.

“I had this built secretly, while we constructed the platform,” said Brunel, heaving his broad figure up onto the first rung. “When I first laid eyes on those deplorable creatures and was given the job of constructing this railway, I knew the time would come when I would need it.”

“How far must we go?” Nicholas asked, slipping his hand through the metal handle of the lantern and grabbing the first rung.

“Not too far,” answered Brunel, in a tone that implied he climbed precarious ladders up thin ventilation shafts every other day.

Up and up they climbed, Nicholas holding his breath and trying to ignore the heat from the lantern as it banged against his arm. Brunel stopped, pushed open a tiny trapdoor, and wriggled his way through. Nicholas followed, squeezing his shoulders together and thrusting himself through on a jaunty angle. He slammed his shoulders on cold stone and slid a few feet down a winding staircase.

“Servants’ access,” Brunel whispered. “We must hurry.”

A strange noise penetrated Nicholas’ ears, a kind of buzzing, almost like a swarm of insects trapped behind the walls. From somewhere within the palace, more screams echoed, and the fear tightened in his chest. As quietly and quickly as they could, they descended the steps into a long, low hall, with thin wooden doors on either side, probably leading to more halls — a maze of passages extending throughout the palace grounds, to allow servants ease of access to every room without being a nuisance to the royal family and their guests.

Brunel led the way, strangely confident of his path for someone who should never have spent much time wandering through servants’ passages. The sound was even louder here, and Nicholas thought perhaps he heard individual voices, hissing and crying, producing the hideous cacophony. He remembered what Aaron had said, and wondered if Aaron had been correct in no longer trusting Brunel.

Maybe I’m being led into a trap …
he remembered how frightened he’d been when Brunel held him aloft over the pulpit.
No.
He shook his head, trying to shake off the thoughts.
No. Brunel was angry with me, and rightly so. He is placing himself at great risk to save the city. I trust him.

They rounded a corner, and thumped down a flight of small steps. At the bottom, Brunel stopped abruptly, and Nicholas crashed into him, sending the pair of them into the stone wall.

“Argh!” Nicholas cried as his head scraped against bare stone. His vision blurred, and pain shot through his skull. From somewhere outside the pain he became aware that Brunel had picked himself up, and was facing away from him, his back rigid.

And then he heard the animalian snarl from somewhere in the darkness, and his chest tightened in fear.

“Nicholas,” Brunel said, his voice strained. “You need to get up and run back down the passage. You need to go
now!”

Seizing every ounce of courage, Nicholas heaved himself to his feet. His vision swam and he toppled forward, grabbing the edge of the stone staircase, and scrambled away, barely able to tell if he were going up or down. He heard Brunel cry out behind him, but he couldn’t look back. He ran, his feet sliding out from under him on the slippery stone.

Down the corridor he stumbled, around one corner and the next, not sure where he was going. Footsteps thundered behind him. “Nicholas!” Brunel called out. “Not that way!”

He reeled around, the hallway spinning in a whirlpool of shadows. He stumbled into the wall, banging his temple against a protruding candle sconce. Black dots appeared in his vision. The creature hissed, so close now, he could hear it breathing, panting, and salivating for his flesh.
I’m going to die,
he thought.
I’m going to die here in the palace and I’ll never see Brigitte again.

Brunel grabbed his shoulder and shoved him forward. Nicholas stumbled over his feet, falling forward, spinning out of control. Rough hands yanked him back, and Brunel groped for the pistol on his belt. The creature hissed again, and pounced. Nicholas caught a blurry glimpse of that horrid, disfigured face and bulging eyes as it tore at his shirt with emaciated fingers. He shut his eyes and waited for the pain.

The gun went off, and the creature screamed. Its hands tore from Nicholas’ chest as it bounced against the wall. It crashed in a heap, squirming and screaming as it clutched at the wound. Brunel leaned over it, and stomped on its neck. Once, twice … Nicholas heard the bones crunch … and it was dead.

“Are you all right? Did it bite you?” It was Brunel’s voice in his ear, softer now. He pulled Nicholas to the ground and inspected his chest.

“No … I don’t think so.”

Brunel untied the powder horn from Nicholas’ belt and refilled the barrel, using the ramrod to pat it down. He wrapped a ball in wadding and dropped that in on top, then handed the pistol back to Nicholas.

His vision stopped swimming, and the dim world came into focus once more. His head throbbed, but he thought he might be over the worst of it. In front of him, on the stone ground, the creature twitched, groaning as it sank into death. Nicholas leaned over, straining his eyes for a look.

It had once been a man, and wore a tattered tunic and trousers much like Nicholas’ own, but the resemblance ended there. The skin on its face and arms hung from the bones like wet sailcloth, slick with sweat and mucus that oozed from the hundreds of weeping boils that covered its skin. The eyes bulged from the skull like a reptile, and Nicholas recoiled as these blinked once before rolling back in the creature’s head. Where the mouth had once been was now a gaping hole, surrounded by charred flesh. The jawbone protruded, stained green by a diet of lead, and a metal protrusion extended from the cheeks and chest, like unholy surgeries gone wrong, surrounded by more patches of charred, broken skin.

“This is madness.”

Brunel tugged his jacket. “More will be coming for us soon, if we don’t get to the King’s private chamber. Are you able to walk?”

“I think so. My head hurts, but the dizziness has subsided.”

“Good.”

Something skittered along the corridor. They both whipped their heads around, but couldn’t see anything. Brunel tightened his fingers around Nicholas’ arm.

“We need to leave these tunnels,
immediately,
” said Brunel. “Follow me, and for Great Conductor’s sake, don’t fall again.”