The Devouts dragged Sharkey along the beach, jerking the rope this way and that and laughing when he fell to his knees on the sand. He tried to catch Rain’s eye, but she wouldn’t look at him.
Instead, she said, “He is the last of the underwater savages. I am glad you caught him. Thank you for saving me.”
One of the men, whose brown robe was hitched up over his trousers so he could run, looked down at her. “Brother Thrawn thought you were dead.”
Rain shuddered. “At times I wished I was dead.”
“Well, you are safe now, and Brother Thrawn will be wanting to see you as soon as possible. He will want to see the savage too, no doubt.” The man tipped his head towards Sharkey. “Is he really the last of them?”
“Yes,” said Rain. “There are a couple of small children somewhere, but they will die soon enough without anyone to look after them.”
Sharkey stared at her in disbelief. I thought we were friends. How could I’ve been so stupid?
The man jerked at the rope, and Sharkey stumbled up over the rise and into the trees, with the dogs nipping at his heels. He kept his head down, trying to act as if he were beaten. But all the while he was thinking.
If I can get away, where can I run to? Can I use the tunnel to get Poddy and the others out? And what if I can’t get away?
He was scared of what was coming, but he was angry too. Angry at Rain, angry at Brother Thrawn, angry at every single person in the Up Above. What had the Sunkers ever done to them? Nothing, that’s what. Sunkers just wanted to be left alone, to live their lives the way they’d done for three hundred years.
But the Devouts wouldn’t let them.
By the time they came to Tower of Strength, Sharkey was fuming. Which was just as well, because otherwise his courage might have failed him. There was the Citadel high above him, more toadlike than ever, and he was being dragged up the busy road towards it, with the Devouts discussing his fate.
“What do you think Brother Thrawn will do to him?”
“Hang him. That is what I would do. Hang the lot of them.”
Four men on horses overtook them. Another three strode down the hill with purposeful faces. The Devouts hauled Sharkey out of the way, still talking.
“Break his bones.”
“Drown him.”
They both laughed at that, and Rain said, “It would serve him right to drown. If he loves water so much, give it to him.”
“You are a fierce one,” said the man with the hitched-up robes, in admiring tones. “I always thought you were meek as a mouse.”
“I have had to fight for my life,” said Rain, “and it has changed me. No more meekness.”
Sharkey saw her throat move as if she were singing under her breath. A treachery song, he thought, and looked away.
The road that ran up through Tower of Strength was made of tiny stone chips, like the ones Poddy had been pounding in the quarry. It was a neat road, despite the comings and goings of men and horses. But all around it was squalor.
For as long as Sharkey could remember, the Claw and the Rampart had stunk of sweat, engine oil and fish. Occasionally, if the recyclers broke down, the reek of sewage was added to the mix for a day or so.
But this was different. The houses on either side of the road were crumbling, their walls propped up with sticks and stones, their roofs half-caved in. There was no glass in their portholes, just flaps of filthy cloth, and the stink of hopelessness that rose from them made Sharkey recoil.
Pale-haired children played in some of the doorways, their faces gaunt with hunger, their limbs so thin that they looked as if they might snap. Others drooped in their mothers’ laps. But as the horsemen trotted past, holding their robes over their noses, the women and children scuttled back inside.
Like fish, thought Sharkey, hiding from a predator.
At first it was a relief to come to the top of the hill and leave the houses behind. The smell lessened, the road flattened out, and there was even a bush or two growing beside it. But then Sharkey saw the Citadel.
From below, he had thought it looked like a squatting toad, but now he could see that there was another part to it, a tall, pointed thing that rose above it, white and hard. In fact, the whole thing was white and hard, like a bird skeleton lying on its back with its beak in the air.
Dead, he thought. It looks dead.
“Feast your eyes, savage,” said one of the Devouts. “That is the spire of our Citadel, and the center of the civilized world. People can see it from a hundred miles away on a clear day. You poor ignorant savages never had anything so fine.”
We had better things than dead-bird houses, thought Sharkey. We had the Rampart. We had the Resilience and the Rogue and the Rumbustious. And the Claw, which is still out there somewhere. Least, I hope it is.
The road took them to a high stone wall with a well-guarded wooden gate, and the gate took them to a world of neatness and order. Sharkey had never seen so many straight lines. Even the pebbles seemed to line up one behind another, as if they were too scared to do anything else.
There were Devouts everywhere, in the same brown robes as Sharkey’s captors’. They were all men—there was not a woman among them, which to Sharkey was as strange as the straight lines. He looked around and realized that there were no middies either, or babies, which probably accounted for the neatness.
It’s mean, he thought suddenly. It’s mean and hollow, and it’s got nothing to do with real life.
The new Devouts had an air of excitement about them, and one of them, a big man with scratches on his face, stopped and said, “Have you heard? We captured the demon and its helpers.”
“And the boy traitor,” said a second man, “the one who injured Brother Thrawn so grievously. What a thumping we gave him.”
“Tomorrow morning they will be put to death, all four of them. It will be quite a spectacle.”
Sharkey’s anger slid away like dirty water, and he was almost knocked down by a wave of horror. Because of him and his rescue expedition, the others had been caught, every one of them. And now they were going to die.
The man with the scratched face peered at him. “Is this another of the demon’s cohort?”
“No, he is one of the underwater lot,” said the hitched-robe man. “The last, thankfully.”
The other men spat on the ground, and as Sharkey was dragged away, one of them said, “They are as hard to get rid of as cockroaches.”
Up close, the Citadel looked bigger and more corpse-like than ever. Everything about it was white and bleak, and the only sounds were footsteps and the mutterings of passersby. Sharkey felt as if he were dead already, and lost in some terrible afterworld where the Hungry Ghosts would torment him for the rest of time.
“Punishment cells,” asked one of his captors, “or Brother Thrawn? What do you think?”
“Brother Thrawn, definitely.”
“Poosk will be there, of course.”
They both snorted, as if Poosk was someone they enjoyed despising. “Pathetic little man,” said one of them. “I do not know how Brother Thrawn puts up with him.”
“He is well named. Poosk. Flea. Parasite.”
“Have you heard him going on and on about what an honor it is to serve our leader?”
“Well, he is right. It is an honor to serve. As a member of the Circle, or a hunter of demons, or a warrior. But as a nursemaid?”
They snorted again. Then they became very serious and hustled Sharkey and Rain though a hatch— Nay. Sharkey made himself concentrate. Made himself find the right word. They went through a door—and into the Citadel itself.
And now at last he saw the workings of the empire that had eaten the world. The wide passages were packed with men, all of them bustling back and forth with scrolls in their hands and important expressions on their faces.
Every now and then, a couple of them would stop and talk to each other in low voices before hurrying about their business.
As Sharkey was dragged past, he overheard snatches of conversation.
“—have five fields? They reported only three. Find out the truth, and then—”
“—news from the Northern Zone suggests that—”
“—someone trying to teach the peasants to read in District Four. I have ordered a purge, and I think we should also—”
There was no crowing over the new prisoners here, and no one so much as glanced at Sharkey and his captors. They were too busy, and the crowded passages seemed to go on forever. But at last Sharkey was shoved into a long line of men that was creeping, bit by bit, through a doorway.
It took them nearly half an hour to shuffle from the end of the line to the door. Plenty of time to think about the tunnel. Plenty of time to think about Petrel and her friends and to wonder if they were expecting him to come to their rescue.
I can’t, he thought. I’ll be lucky to save myself. And if by some miracle I manage that, the next thing’ll be Poddy. And then Adm’ral Deeps and the rest of the Sunkers. That’s why I’m here.
He felt as if he were standing in front of Petrel, trying to excuse himself and not doing a very good job of it. The despair threatened to grab him again, and he fought it with all his Sunker strength.
I’m sorry, he said to the imaginary Petrel, but I can’t afford to worry about anyone else. I hope you escape—I really do. But I can’t help you.
It was an ugly thing to say, especially after they’d come here to help him. But he knew it was sensible. No distractions, he said to himself. And with that resolution, he turned his mind away from the other four captives and focused on what was in front of him.
As soon as he passed through the doorway, Sharkey knew where he was. This is the control room, he thought. This is center of everything.
It was ten times as big as the whole of the Claw. The ceiling was carved in intricate patterns, and the walls were draped with silver-gray cloth that looked even finer than sea silk. Spaced out along the base of the walls were cavities, and in each cavity was an enormous fire, so that, despite the stone underfoot, the room was as warm as a summer’s night.
At the far end was a wheeled chair with a man sitting in it.
And that, thought Sharkey, is the high adm’ral. Brother Thrawn.
The man in the wheeled chair was thin and angry-looking, with lines on his face that might’ve been carved with a knife. There was a coldness to him, and a heat as well, and his eyes were so full of hatred that Sharkey took an involuntary step backwards, and Rain went very still, as if she didn’t want to be noticed.
Ahead of them, the long line of men made their reports.
“Brother Thrawn, the grain harvest from Subdistrict Seven, Village Number Four, was only half of last year’s harvest. The peasants claim they are starving and have asked for their tithe to be halved as well.”
“Brother Thrawn, I am pleased to report that the factional rebellion in the Northern Zone has been squashed, and the ringleaders hanged. This does leave us with a temporary problem of leadership—”
“Brother Thrawn, three of our informers in District Nine have died in the last six months. Their deaths appear to be accidental—”
The horrible thing about it, thought Sharkey, was that it was all so ordinary. The Devouts spoke in dry, level voices, as if they were talking about marks on paper rather than people’s lives and, after a pause, Brother Thrawn answered in an equally dry voice.
“The tithe will not be halved. They are not starving but lazy.”
“Send Brother Trounce to assume leadership of the Northern Zone. He will come down hard—”
“Of course the deaths are not accidental. Hang twenty peasants from each village.”
Sharkey and his captors moved forward step-by-step. Rain’s face was so stiff that she might have been made of coral. The line in front of them grew shorter—
And suddenly Sharkey realized that it wasn’t Brother Thrawn speaking, after all. It was his nursemaid, Brother Poosk.
Rain’s uncle was such a nondescript little man that Sharkey hadn’t even noticed him. Like the other Devouts, he wore brown robes, but his were made of rougher cloth, and although they were neat, they were also old and threadbare.
Whenever someone asked Brother Thrawn a question, Poosk would bend a respectful ear to his leader, listen to the answer, and pass it on in that arid voice. Between questions he held a cup to Brother Thrawn’s lips, then wiped them gently with a cloth.
When it was Sharkey’s turn, the hitched-robe man shoved him forward and said, “Brother Thrawn, I am pleased to report that we have caught the last of the underwater savages. He was with the demon but ran off separately. I do not know how he escaped the attack of three days ago.”
The figure in the wheeled chair mumbled something. Poosk bent closer. “What is that you say, dear leader? They are crowding you?”
The two men holding Sharkey quickly shuffled back a few steps. Sharkey glanced at Rain. Her eyes were fixed on Brother Thrawn. Her throat moved.
Brother Thrawn said something else, though Sharkey couldn’t pick out the words, not from where he was. He wondered what was wrong with the man and whether he could be healed.
I bet Surgeon Blue could fix him, he thought. And Thrawn’ll never know, because I’ll never tell him.
Poosk raised his voice and passed Brother Thrawn’s message on. “The day’s audience is finished. Our dear leader is tired. You may leave the prisoner here, roped to a chair, so he cannot escape.”
The dozens of men who had been waiting in line behind Sharkey left without a murmur, their sandaled feet slapping on the marble floor. But the hitched-robe man said, “The prisoner is slippery, Brother, and violent. Perhaps we should stay.”
Poosk drew himself up to his not-very-impressive height. “Are you doubting our leader’s wisdom?”
“No,” said the man. “I just thought—”
Poosk held up a hand for silence. Then he bent his head closer to Brother Thrawn’s lips. “It is not your place—to think,” he relayed. “Tie him up and leave us. The girl can stay too.”
At that, Poosk looked up with a surprised expression, as if he’d been so busy passing on Brother Thrawn’s instructions that he’d hardly noticed who else was in the room. “Niece,” he said, “is that you? Are you alive after all?”
“She helped catch the boy,” said the hitched-robe man. “He was trying to drag her away, and she grabbed hold of him. She is a hero, she is.”
“Oh,” said Poosk, “I am so relieved, so proud—”
There was a sound from Brother Thrawn, and Poosk broke off, his plump cheeks flushed. “Yes, of course,” he said. “My apologies, Brother.”
Through most of this, Sharkey was looking for ways out. Looking for things he could use. He hadn’t found anything yet, but his gaze kept coming back to Brother Thrawn’s frozen figure. To the hatred that radiated from him, so powerful that Sharkey could almost touch it.
No wonder everyone jumps to obey him. He might be stuck in that chair, but he’s got enough nastiness in him for a dozen Massy sharks.
Brother Poosk, on the other hand, was like one of the tiny fish that cleaned the teeth of those sharks, ducking in and out of their dreadful jaws day and night. The little fish were necessary, but no one liked them or took any notice of them. Not even the Massy sharks.
If I could get loose, thought Sharkey, I could shove Poosk out of the way as easy as a baby. He’d probably cry as soon as I touched him. But not Thrawn. He’s the one to watch, even though he can’t move. I bet he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve.
Unfortunately, getting loose was about to become even harder. Sharkey’s captors tied him to a heavy chair, then placed it a couple of yards away from their leader.
Before he left, the hitched-robe man whispered, “You keep a polite tongue in your head, savage, when you speak to Brother Thrawn. Or else.” Then he and his friend left the room, closing the door quietly behind them.
And that’s when Sharkey discovered where the real danger lay.