Un Lun Dun (12 page)

23

The Meaning of the Trail

“What happened to Jones and the others?” Deeba said. “The ones who sent the message to you?”

“I’ve given orders to the binja to let them in if they reach us,” Mortar said, looking at Zanna. “Conductors can take care of themselves. And their passengers. Shwazzy, are you…”

“This is
crazy,
” Zanna said. “I’m just a girl. How’s a Shwazzy get chosen anyway? Why’s it a girl? Why not a local? How d’you even know I’m it? None of it makes
sense.
”

“That’s how prophecies work,” Mortar said gently. “They’re not about what makes sense; they’re about what
will be.
That’s how they work. And not only do you fit the description, but you’re
here.
You crossed over…with your friend, even. What greater evidence could there be than the fact that you’re here, now? That you found your way through the Odd, and through UnLondon, to us, the only people who could tell you what you are?”

Zanna looked at Deeba.

“You felt something, Zann,” Deeba whispered. “You did. You knew you had to get us here.”

“Did you turn a wheel?” Lectern said. “You did, didn’t you? How
did
you get down here?”

“Well,” said Deeba. “There was this smoke, and then there was this umbrella.”

In a confused, overlapping way, Deeba and Zanna told the Propheseers about the attack of the terrible smoke, and the umbrella that had come to listen at Zanna’s window.

“And then Zanna followed a trail,” Deeba said at last.

“Not on my own,” said Zanna. “We were both following it…”

“Whatever,” said Deeba. “We ended up here.”

Mortar and Lectern stared at each other.

“I wonder,” said the book.

“What
is
he doing?” Lectern said.

“Who?” said Zanna.

“The man whose servant you saw,” Mortar said. “Mr. Brokkenbroll. Head honcho of the Parraplooey Cassay tribe. The Unbrellissimo. The boss of the broken umbrellas.”

“Lots of the moil tribes have leaders,” Mortar said. “Certain substances in UnLondon exist in prologue form in London, and enter a second life-cycle
here
with new purposes, even as sentient denizens of the abcity. They are
moil,
which is an acronym, the letters thereof standing for—”

“Mildly Obsolete In London,” interrupted Deeba, raising her eyebrows. “We know what moil is.” She leaned in to Zanna. “Old manky rubbish,” she muttered.

“Ah…well,” Mortar said. “Quite correct. And as I say, many of the tribes of moil have leaders of various calibers. Like that princess of discarded typewriters.”

“What’s her name?” Zanna said.

“Can’t pronounce it,” Lectern said. “It’s all punctuation marks. Then there’s Shard, the jack of cracked glass.”

“Arthur Poise-Catching, the pope of empty mousetraps,” Mortar said. “And the others. Some of the moil never seem to care. I don’t know quite what the nabob of ring-pulls ever gained from his reign. But he seemed happy.

“Brokkenbroll’s different. He really does command. And he takes our side. He’s always been one of UnLondon’s protectors. An umbrella’s for keeping off the rain. But as soon as you break it, it doesn’t have that purpose anymore, and it seeps through to here. It becomes something else.”

“An
un
brella,” Lectern said.

“An unbrella. And when it’s that, here, Brokkenbroll commands it.”

“This one didn’t
seep
nowhere,” Deeba said.

“It was dancing around,” said Zanna.

“Yes. That’s what’s confusing,” Mortar said. “Brokkenbroll must have been actually calling it all the way from here. That would take an awful lot of energy.”

“He’s not just
waiting
for them to come through,” said Lectern. “He’s
recruiting.
But why?”

“Is there anything about it in, er…?” Mortar nodded at the book.

“Doesn’t ring any bells,” the book said. “Page two-twelve? Three-oh-three? No…”

“What’s he doing?” Mortar said. “Having unbrellas keep watch on the Shwazzy after she’s attacked. What’s his plan?”

“I’m sorry, but why can’t you just get us home?” Deeba begged. “Our families…”

“My mum and dad…” Zanna said. “They’ll be
desperate.
”

“They won’t,” Mortar said.

“What?” said Zanna.

“Of course they will!” said Deeba. “So’ll mine! They love us.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Mortar said. “That’s not what I mean. Something happens, you see. There’s a zone somewhere between London and UnLondon we call the Fretless Field.”

“What does it do?” said Zanna.

“Is time standing still in London?” Deeba said.

“Well, no. But I promise you your parents aren’t panicking. There’s something called the phlegm effect…”

“That’s disgusting.” Deeba said.

“Not that sort of phlegm,” said Lectern. “But you don’t have to worry about them panicking. And we can help you make contact before there’s any problems.”

“What?” said Zanna.

“We still need to go back,” said Deeba.

“Soon as we can,” said Zanna.

“We’ll try,” Mortar said. “But we
have
to find out what’s going on. If Brokkenbroll’s putting that kind of effort in, sending commands to unbrellas that far away, it sounds like he knows something we don’t.”

“UnLondon needs you, Shwazzy,” Lectern said.

“I’m sorry, but this ain’t our problem!” said Deeba. “We have to
go.
”

“Go back and what?” Mortar said. “Wait for another attack?”

The girls stared at him. “Please,” Mortar said. “UnLondon needs your help, it’s true. But in any case,
it isn’t safe for you to leave.
You’re followed. All the way in London. If you left now, there’d be nothing to protect you.”

“Think about it,” said Lectern gently. “You think the Smog won’t try again? How safe do you think you are? You’re here for a reason, Shwazzy. For your own sake as well as ours. So we need to know what Brokkenbroll knows. And so do you.”

Zanna and Deeba stared at each in horror.

“We’ll see if we can’t track Mr. Brokkenbroll down,” said Lectern. “Don’t you worry.”

“So he can explain why his umbrella was watching my house?”

“That’s the idea.”

24

An Interruption in the Process

“That thing came after you,” Deeba said. “Becks…she’s alright, but she might not have been. That was meant for you.”

Deeba stroked Curdle. The girls sat in the middle of the Propheseers’ bridge-office as their hosts scurried around them.

“Put out a message on the walls?” the girls heard someone say. The Propheseers had been debating strategy. They rummaged in files, pulled up information on their strange computers, bickered over how to proceed. “Who do we know who might give us an in?” they heard Mortar say over the tapping of typewriters.

“I thought you might be hungry.” It was Lectern, carrying a plate of strange-looking cakes. The girls eyed and sniffed them, but despite their peculiar colors, they smelt like food. Deeba and Zanna ate.

“Sorry this is taking awhile,” said Lectern. “Normal service. You know. Resumed as soon as possible.” She watched them until they were uncomfortable. “Sorry,” she said hurriedly. “I know this must be hard for you. We’re doing everything we can. This is…a very big time for us. I’ve been Mortar’s second for, well, an embarrassing number of years, and no one knows the book better than me—I’m its bearer, after all—and I still can’t believe it.” She couldn’t stop smiling. It was infectious.

The UnSun was halfway across the sky, but Zanna and Deeba’s body-clocks were totally confused. They fought not to doze. Every so often a Propheseer would bring them cups of tea. “We’ll be with you very shortly,” she or he would say. “Sorry for the delay.” Birds flew overhead, along with bigger, odder-looking things.

From the street under the bridge came a faint whistle.

“Did you hear that?” said Deeba. Curdle skipped back and forward.

“Oy,” someone below shouted. The voice was very faintly audible.

“No,” said Zanna, standing. “But I heard that.” There was a commotion.

“Something’s coming,” Zanna said. A figure was stumbling slowly up the bridge, Propheseers running to help it.

“What’s happened?” Zanna shouted. She ran towards them, Deeba and Curdle on her heels.

Helped up the slope of the Pons Absconditus was a binja. Its metal was cracked, and bleeding a tarry goo.

“We’re under attack!” a Propheseer said. “The binja were ambushed! Thank goodness they heard something.”

From the empty street where the bridge touched down, several other binja were coming. They walked backwards, weapons up, guarding the end of the bridge.

“They’re watching both ends,” Mortar said. “No one should be able to get past us.”

“I thought no one could get on the bridge,” Zanna said.

“Well no one’s
supposed
to,” he snapped. “But no system’s perfect. That’s what the binja are for. Just in case.”

The binja congregated in front of their injured friend and the cowering Propheseers. They stood with weapons ready. They waited.

And waited.

“So…where are they?” Deeba whispered.

There were tiny whispering noises. The Propheseers and the binja looked frantically around.

“There!” said Zanna.

Meters
behind
them, in the center of the bridge by the office, grappling hooks were soaring up from below, trailing ropes. They coiled around the girders.

“A trick!” Lectern said.

“They know they can’t get on from either end,” said Mortar, “but now it can’t shake them off…they’ve snared the middle. Quick!”

Tumbling like acrobats, the dozen binja ran to fend off the intruders. But even as they reached the little maze of desks and cupboards, dark and horrifying figures were clambering over the bridge’s side.

The intruders outnumbered the binja. They wore dirty jumpsuits, rubber boots, and gloves. They aimed hoses like guns. What chilled Zanna’s and Deeba’s blood were their masks.

They wore bags of canvas or leather over their entire heads. Their eyes were smoked glass circles. The masks dangled rubber tubes like elephant trunks, stretching to cylinders like divers’ tanks on their backs, covered with oil and dirt, and stenciled with biohazard and danger signs.

“Oh my God!” hissed Zanna. “What are they?”

Lectern had gone pale.

“Lord help us,” she whispered. “Stink-junkies.”