The Sunken (7 page)

His Majesty had been so incoherent, so close to death, they dragged his son before Parliament and declared him Regent before Banks had even uncorked a medicine bottle. No one expected him to recover, but he did. With remarkable control of his faculties, King George III marched down to Parliament and disbanded it, declaring the Council of the Royal Society the new governing body, and had the Prince Regent — his own son — executed for treason. The other princes died a few months later of an “unknown” illness (brought about by a certain substance Banks added to their brandy), and several of the more outspoken politicians met with a similar fate.

England’s new government handled both religious and secular affairs, and proved remarkably effective. The country ran so smoothly that, despite some of his more radical decisions — such as closing the borders of England to foreigners — no one had questioned George’s sanity since. At least, not openly.

While Banks tended to his wounds, the King discussed the competition entries. Rolls of drawings, scale models, and intricate moving machetes decorated his private chambers. Whatever entry King George chose, it would be Banks’ job to force this decision on the rest of the Council at their meeting tomorrow.
It will take all of my persuasion to convince each Council member not to vote for his own church’s designs.

Banks’ hand slipped, knocking a blister off one of the sores. Bright, metallic blood oozed down the King’s torso. Banks went to wipe it away, but the King swatted his hand. “Enough of that, Joseph. I have something to show you.”

The physician set down the medicine, and the King handed him a roll of drawings. “This is the winning design.”

Banks unrolled the first drawing, revealing a detailed map of London, completely encircled in a wide iron wall. His eyes widened as he recognised the hand who had designed it.

“Are you
certain,
sire?”

“Of course I’m certain.” George pulled his tunic on, fastening the buttons with deft fingers. “He couldn’t have designed anything better if he were privy to my plans. Since Stephenson refuses to budge, I don’t see why Brunel shouldn’t be the one to build me what I need.”

Panic rose in Banks’ throat. “But sire, it’s
Brunel.
He shouldn’t have even been allowed to enter the competition. The Council will never agree—”

“That is why I have you, Joseph. With your powers of persuasion, I’m sure they’ll soon see things our way. I knew it was the right decision letting him into the Society.”

Banks sighed. “Choosing Brunel will anger the poets, the Aetheriuns, Turner’s folk, not to mention Stephenson and his Navvies. This could drive a wedge between the sects that we cannot repair.”
It will shift even more power into the Great Conductor Sect,
was what he didn’t say.

“Then it will be time again to purge the Council of my enemies. I want this Wall, Joseph, and any engineer who opposes Brunel also opposes me, is that understood?”

Banks choked back his fear, and opened the plans again. This time, he tried to imagine this monstrosity surrounding the city, the high iron wall crisscrossing the districts, more of a fortress than a city. There had been an attempt, at least, to make it appear less intrusive — the architect had decorated the outer faces with rows of straight Ionic columns supporting a row of decorative arches and pedimental sculpture — homage in iron to the classical motifs so in vogue right now.

George watched Banks scrutinise the plans as he smoothed his clothes. “The design is certainly commendable,” Banks managed at last.

“Who is the architect?”

Banks squinted at the name scrawled in the corner. “Nicholas Rose. I’ve never heard of him. He’s certainly not a member of the Royal Society.”

“I wouldn’t expect Brunel to work with one of the established architects, not with most of them joining Turner’s church. You’re to bring Brunel to me, Joseph, tomorrow. And I’ll see this Nicholas Rose, as well, if you please.”

Joseph was about to protest, when a loud crash sounded from across the palace, followed by a long scream, cut haltingly short.

Banks turned to the King, horror in his eyes. “Sir, not again—”

“Attend to that for me, won’t you, Joseph?” the King smiled. “It seems another of my children has broken free of the nursery.”

Lieutenant James Holman, Esq.

His Majesty King George, Prime Minister Joseph Banks and the Learned Council of the Royal Society cordially invite you to attend a special meeting of the Royal Society on Thursday the 15
^th
of July. On this illustrious occasion HMK George III will announce the winner of the engineering competition, and following this, Charles Babbage, engineer of the Metic Sect and inventor of the Difference Engine, will answer the charges of treason brought against him by the Council.

Formal dress required. Brandy and light supper provided.

In the days since they’d handed in the drawings, Nicholas had spent every spare moment in the Chimney with Isambard, returning to the guesthouse only to sleep. Isambard cut him a key, so he could come and go as he pleased, and even offered to let him sleep in the workshop. Nicholas had to admit the idea of spending the night without the voices was tempting, but he did not want to take advantage of his friend. Also, he was afraid Peter might sneak downstairs and kill him in his sleep.

Both Nicholas and Isambard had guarded their thoughts for years, but the more they talked, the more conversation came easily. Nicholas wondered if he could ever trust Isambard enough to tell him the truth about why he’d fled France. Isambard, who had now read all of Nicholas’ letters, knew his friend’s story up until the time he left the Navy, and so filled Nicholas in on his own life in a haphazard fashion. He would talk fleetingly of people, of deaths and births and important events, dwelling for hours on revelations in the design of his locomotive — the construction of the chassis, the drive-wheel, the pistons.

Aaron joined them whenever he could, but his work on the furnaces and his wife kept him busy, so mostly they were left alone in Brunel’s workshop. The time there passed quickly, and in the gloom it was impossible to tell when one hour ended and the next began.

One day Nicholas inserted the key Brunel had given him into the heavy padlock, hefted off the chain, and swung open the door to the Chimney, to find Brunel sitting at one of the pews, waiting for him. “I want to show you something,” he said, standing to greet Nicholas. “Not here — out in the workshops.”

Curious, Nicholas followed Brunel behind the pulpit, and down a flight of steps leading out behind the church. Isambard led him past row after row of pitched roofed structures, through which Nicholas could hear all manner of hammerings, whirrings, and men swearing. Finally, Isambard stopped in front of one, nodded to the guard who leaned against the wall, pushed aside a long wooden door, and darted inside.

Nicholas followed him, and stopped short, in awe of the sight that greeted him. Occupying every inch of that shed were the towering forms of two black locomotive engines. He’d seen drawings of these peculiarly English inventions in some of the contraband French journals, but he could not have imagined the sheer scale or raw beauty of them.

Built for Brunel’s broader gauge rails, each wide chassis sat on her own bed of track, holding court with the dignity of Egyptian sphinxes. The formidable wheel arches rose at each side, and the open cab gaped from the expanse of iron like the mouth of a dragon, from where a tongue of flame might shoot out at any moment. Stokers crawled over every inch of the engines, fitting parts, taking measurements, welding and shaping raw metal into the zenith of engineering beauty.

“There they are,” Brunel whispered, his eyes dancing with delight. “My two darlings. They won’t be finished for many months yet, but if I win the engineering competition, they’ll be the first locomotives to run in London. In order to meet the demands of broad gauge track, I’ve had to place the boiler on a separate six-wheeled frame behind the engine itself. The 2-2-2 engine is the
Hurricane
and that 0-4-0 beauty over there is the
Thunderer.
”

“You
built
these,” Nicholas breathed, awed by their size, their complexity. They seemed to rise up from the earth, beautiful flowers in a garden of machines, as if Isambard had somehow imbued them with his own spirit.

Brunel nodded. “My first engine — the one I sold to pay for this Chimney — was a cruder version of these. Aaron and I built it together, in secret. It took us nearly nine years. Already I’m making improvements.”

“And Stephenson’s … are they anything like this?”

“Hardly.” Isambard snorted. “I’ve seen his
Rocket.
A piddling thing, it can barely pull two carriages up a slight incline. Throw a pebble on the track and it derails. Broad gauge is stronger, faster, and more robust. The sooner the Royal Society understands that, the better.”

Brunel pointed to the guards stationed at either end of the workshop. “They ensure only Stokers can enter here. Stephenson has Navvy spies all over London, not to mention those in the pay of the Council, who want me prosecuted for engineering. I can’t afford to have my ideas compromised.”

They walked around the engines, Brunel stopping men in their work to discuss their progress and the problems they’d encountered. He listened as they explained parts that wouldn’t fit, questioned flaws in the design, and discussed mechanical processes Nicholas couldn’t even begin to understand. Brunel did not dismiss any opinion, but each time offered an answer that seemed to please the men.

“Your men respect you,” said Nicholas. “I wager not many engineers can say that.”

“The Stokers are clever men,” replied Brunel. “They understand a machine intuitively — as if it were an extension of their own bodies. They have only to glance at the plans to tell you what works and what will not. There is no reason — apart from the arrogance of certain powerful men — why Stokers cannot be engineers in their own right, or whatever they wish to be … if given the chance.”

“And this is your dream? To have Stokers in the Royal Society? To give them seats on the Council?”

“Freedom is the dream of every man, don’t you agree?”

Nicholas said nothing. Brunel stopped walking, and turned to face him, his dark eyes fixed on Nicholas’ own, searching relentlessly for an answer.

“We dance around this question,” he said. “But we are old friends, and I tire of the dance. I have not heard from you since they closed the borders, and yet, here you are again, returning at great risk to London, changing your name, wanting to work in secret, and with barely a shilling in your purse. Now the best I can figure, the only reason a learned man would want to return to London is if he were running from a woman, from the law, or from someone who was trying to kill him.”

Nicholas’ mouth went dry. He raked his tongue across his teeth, desperately trying to think of something to say. “You may be right on all three counts,” he managed.

“You should tell me what has happened. I could help.”

“If I tell you, Isambard, I throw everything you’ve built here into jeopardy. Someone may come for me at any time, and I will not drag you into my problems, any more than I already have.”

“Nicholas—” Brunel stepped toward him.

“Isambard,” Aaron’s voice interrupted. Nicholas jumped. He hadn’t even heard Aaron come down the stairs.
How much has he heard?
“I don’t mean to disturb you, only there’s a messenger from the King waiting in the Nave. He wants you and Mr. Rose to accompany him to Windsor Castle promptly.”

Isambard’s face changed instantly. His conversation with Nicholas forgotten, he dropped the plans onto the table and raced to the elevator. Nicholas jogged behind him, his heart leaping in his chest.
The King? He wouldn’t concern himself with the affairs of a minor engineer. The only reason he could want to see us would be if
he’d
got to him, if
he’d
found me
—

Nicholas gulped.

“—you are not under
any
circumstances to speak to him on any matter other than that which he requests. You must
only
answer his questions, and be quick about it. Do not otherwise initiate conversation in any way. There will be some small sandwiches and cakes on the table, but the King will not touch them, and so neither should you. You must raise only the teacup to your mouth, and return it to the saucer after each sip. You must not slurp. If he speaks to you, address him only as ‘Your Majesty’. Do not touch him in any way—”

The steward kept up a constant stream of instructions as he frantically brushed lint off Nicholas’ jacket. The complex protocol and fussing attendants were only serving to make Nicholas more and more nervous. Beside him, Brunel was having his hair plastered into place by two grunting attendants, while a third was trying in vain to steam out the stains on his overalls. He looked utterly unfazed to be standing in Windsor Castle, about to meet the King.

Nicholas and Brunel had arrived at the castle in the messenger’s carriage, only to be whisked around the back to a servants’ entrance and locked in a small waiting room, where they had remained for the past two hours, subjected to various barbaric beauty treatments in preparation for their audience with King George.

“Is this all really necessary?” Brunel asked, as one of the attendants tied a pair of starched white cuffs around his wrists.

The steward glared at him. “His Majesty has never had an audience with
Stokers
before. We hadn’t anticipated how long it would take to make you presentable. And since you won’t co-operate—”

“These overalls are a symbol of my heritage,” said Brunel. “I will not remove them, not even for the King.”

“—then we’ve had to do the best we can with what
little
we have available to us. At this rate, I don’t think you’ll be able to meet with him at all today—”

There was a knock at the door. “The King will receive them now,” a voice called through the panel.

“They are not ready!”

“He won’t wait any longer.”