Predator's gold hcc-2 Page 2

  “Sorry,” Tom said bashfully, as they hurried down to the docking ring, which was crowded now with traders and sightseers fresh in from Arkangel. “I didn’t mean — I just thought — ”

  “It’s all right,” said Hester. She wanted to tell him that if he didn’t do brave, foolish things like that from time to time he wouldn’t be Tom, and she might not love him so. But she couldn’t put all that into words, so she pushed him into the space under a tier-support and, after making sure that nobody was looking, wrapped her skinny arms around his neck and pulled her veil down and kissed him. “Let’s leave.”

  “But we don’t have a cargo yet. We were going to look for a fur-trader or-”

  “There are no fur-traders here, only Old-Tech, and we don’t want to start carrying that sort of stuff, do we?” He looked uncertain, so she kissed him again before he could say anything. “I’m tired of Airhaven. I want to be back on the Bird Roads.”

  “All right,” said Tom. He smiled, stroking her mouth, her cheek, the kink in her eyebrow where the scar cut through. “All right. We’ve seen enough of northern skies. Let’s go.”

  But it was not to be so simple. When they reached strut seventeen there was a man waiting beside the Jenny Haniver, sitting on a big leather pack. Hester, still smarting a little from Masgard’s mockery, hid her face again. Tom let go her hand and hurried to meet the stranger.

  “Good day!” cried the man, standing up. “Mr Natsworthy? Miss Shaw? I gather you are the owners of this splendid little ship? Golly, they told me at the harbour office you were young, but I didn’t realize quite how young! You’re barely more than children!”

  “I’m almost eighteen,” said Tom defensively.

  “Never mind, never mind!” beamed the stranger. “Age makes no difference if the heart is great, and I’m sure you have a great heart. ‘Who’s that handsome young chap?’ I asked my friend the harbour master, and he told me, ‘That’s Tom Natsworthy, pilot of the Jenny Haniver.’ ‘Pennyroyal,’ I said to myself, ‘that young man may be just the fellow you’re looking for!’ So here I am!”

  Here he was. He was a smallish man, balding and slightly overweight, and he wore a trim white beard. His clothes were the typical outfit of a northern scavenger — a long fur coat, a tunic with many pockets, thick breeches and fur-lined boots — but they looked too expensive, as if they been run up for him by a fashionable tailor as a costume for a play set in the Ice Wastes.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “Well what?” asked Hester, who had taken an instant dislike to this posturing stranger.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Tom, much more politely. “We don’t really understand what you want…”

  “Oh, I do apologize, I beg your pardon,” the stranger babbled. “Permit me to elucidate! My name is Pennyroyal; Nimrod Beauregard Pennyroyal. I have been exploring a little among these great horrible towering fire-mountains, and now I am on my way home. I should like to book passage aboard your charming airship.”

  3

  THE PASSENGER

  Pennyroyal was a name that rang a bell with Tom, although he could not think why. He was sure he’d heard it mentioned in a lecture, back in his days as an Apprentice Historian — but what Pennyroyal had done, or said, to make him worth lecturing about, he did not recall; he had spent too much time daydreaming to pay much attention to his teachers.

  “We don’t carry passengers,” said Hester firmly. “We’re bound for the south, and we travel alone.”

  “The south would be just fine and dandy!” beamed Pennyroyal. “My home city is the raft resort of Brighton, and it is cruising in the Middle Sea this autumn. I am eager to be home quickly, Miss Shaw. My publishers, Fewmet and Spraint, are desperate to have a new book from me by Moon Festival, and I need the peace and quiet of my own study to begin working up my notes.”

  As he spoke, he glanced quickly over his shoulder, scanning the faces of the people on the docking ring. He was sweating slightly, and Hester thought he looked not so much eager to be home as downright shifty. But Tom was hooked. “You are a writer, Mr Pennyroyal?”

  “ Professor Pennyroyal,” beamed the man, correcting him very kindly. “I am an Explorer, Adventurer and Alternative Historian. Maybe you’ve come across my works: Lost Cities of the Sands, perhaps, or America the Beautiful — the Truth about the Dead Continent…”

  Now Tom remembered where he had heard that name before. Chudleigh Pomeroy had once mentioned Nimrod B. Pennyroyal in a lecture about Recent Trends in History. Pennyroyal (the old Historian had said) had no respect for true historical research at all. His daring expeditions were mere stunts, and he filled his books with wild theories and lurid tales of romance and adventure. Tom was rather fond of wild theories and lurid tales, and he had looked for Pennyroyal’s works in the Museum Library afterwards, but the stuffy Guild of Historians had refused to allow them shelf-space there, so he never did find out where Pennyroyal’s expeditions had taken him.

  He glanced at Hester. “We do have room for a passenger, Het. And we could use the money…”

  Hester scowled.

  “Oh, money is no object,” promised Pennyroyal, pulling out a plump purse and jangling it. “Let’s say, five sovereigns now and five more when we dock at Brighton? It’s not as sweet a deal as Piotr Masgard would offer you for betraying some poor city, but it’s pretty good, and you will be doing a great service to literature.”

  Hester stared at a coil of hawser on the quay. She knew she had lost. This too-friendly stranger knew just how to appeal to Tom, and even she had to admit that ten sovereigns would come in handy. She made one last effort to fend off the inevitable, booting Pennyroyal’s pack and asking, “What’s in your baggage? We don’t carry Old-Tech. Seen a bit too much of what it can do.”

  “Heavens,” cried Pennyroyal, “I couldn’t agree more! I may be Alternative, but I’m not an idiot. I, too, have seen what happens to people who spend their lives digging up old machines. They end up poisoned by weird radiation or blown up by malfunctioning widgets. No, all I carry is a change of undies and a few thousand pages of notes and drawings for my new book, Fire Mountains — Natural Phenomenon or Ancient Blunder? ”

  Hester kicked the pack again. It fell slowly over on to its side, but it didn’t let out any metallic noises to suggest that Pennyroyal was lying. She looked down at her feet, then down again, through the perforated deckplates of Airhaven to the earth, where a town was creeping slowly westward, dragging its long shadow behind it. Oh well, she thought. The Middle Sea would be warm and blue, a far cry from these dismal Barrens, and it should only take a week to get there. Surely she could bear to share Tom with Professor Pennyroyal for a week? She would have him to herself for the rest of their lives.

  “All right,” she said, and snatched the explorer’s purse, counting out five gold sovereigns before he had time to change his mind. Beside her, Tom was saying, “We can make up a bed for you in the forward hold, Professor, and you can use the medical bay as a study if you wish. I was planning to stay here tonight and pull out at dawn.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, Tom,” said Pennyroyal, flashing that odd, nervous glance towards the docking ring again, “I’d rather be off straight away. Mustn’t keep my muse waiting…”

  Hester shrugged, and up-ended the purse again. “We’ll leave as soon as the harbour master gives us clearance,” she said. “There’ll be a two sovereign surcharge.”

  The sun went down, a red ember sinking into the haze of the western Tannhausers. Balloons were still rising from the trading cluster below, airships and dirigibles still coming south across the basalt uplands from great Arkangel. One of them belonged to an amiable old gentleman called Widgery Blinkoe, an Old-Tech antiques dealer who made ends meet by renting out rooms above his shop in Arkangel’s harbour district, and by acting as an informant to anyone who would pay him.

  Leaving his wives to moor the ship, Mr Blinkoe hurried straight to the harbour master’s office and demanded, “Have you seen this
man?”

  The harbour master looked at the photograph which Mr Blinkoe pushed across his desk and said, “Why, that’s Prof Pennyroyal, the historical gentleman.”

  “Gentleman my hat!” cried Blinkoe angrily. “He has lodged at my home these past six weeks, and he ran off as soon as Airhaven came in sight, without paying me a penny of what he owes! Where is he? Where can I find him, the creature?”

  “Too late, mate,” grinned the harbour master, who took a certain pleasure in delivering bad news. “He came in on one of the first balloons from Arkangel, asking after south-bound ships. I put him in touch with those youngsters who fly the Jenny Haniver. She pulled out not ten minutes past, bound for the Middle Sea.”

  Blinkoe groaned, rubbing a hand wearily over his large, pale face. He could ill afford to lose the twenty sovereigns Pennyroyal had promised. Oh why, why, why had he not made the scoundrel pay in advance? He had been so flattered when Pennyroyal presented him with a signed copy of America the Beautiful (“To my good friend Widgery, with Kindest Regards”) and so excited by the promise of a mention in the great man’s next work, that he hadn’t even smelled a rat when Pennyroyal started charging wine-merchants’ bills to his account. Hadn’t even objected when he began flirting so openly with the younger Mrs Blinkoes! Bother and blast all writers!

  And then something that the harbour master had said cut through the fog of self-pity and the incipient headache which had been clouding Blinkoe’s thoughts. A name. A familiar name. A valuable name!

  “Did you say the Jenny Haniver?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “But that’s impossible! She was lost when the gods destroyed London!”

  The harbour master shook his head. “Not so, sir; not a bit of it. Been in foreign skies these past two years; trading aboard them Nuevo-Mayan ziggurat cities, I heard.”

  Mr Blinkoe thanked him and ran out on to the quay. He was a portly man, and did not often run, but this seemed worth running for. He shoved aside some children who were taking turns to peer through a telescope mounted on the handrail and used it to scan the sky. A little west of south, late sunlight flashed on an airship’s stern windows; a small, red airship with a clinker-built gondola and twin Jeunet-Carot engine pods.

  Mr Blinkoe hurried back to his own ship, the Temporary Blip, and his long-suffering wives. “Quick!” he shouted, as he burst into the gondola. “Switch on the radio set!”

  “So Pennyroyal’s slipped through his fingers again,” said one wife.

  “Surprise, surprise,” said another.

  “This is exactly what happened at Arkangel,” said a third.

  “Silence, wives!” Blinkoe shouted. “This is important!”

  His fourth wife made a sour face. “Pennyroyal’s hardly worth the bother.”

  “Poor, dear Professor Pennyroyal,” the fifth said weepily.

  “Forget Pennyroyal,” bawled her husband, pulling off his hat and slipping on the radio headphones, tuning the transmitter to a secret wavelength, gesturing impatiently for wife number five to stop snivelling and turn the starting-handle. “I know people who will pay me well for what I’ve just learned! The trader Pennyroyal just left on was Anna Fang’s old ship!”

  Tom had not realized until now how much he missed the company of other historians. Hester was always happy to hear the odd facts and stories that he recalled from his Apprentice days, but she could offer little in return. She had lived by her wits since she was just a child, and although she knew how to jump aboard a speeding town, how to catch and skin a cat and how to kick a would-be robber exactly where it hurt most, she had never bothered learning much about the history of her world.

  Now, here was Professor Pennyroyal, his amiable personality filling the Jenny ’s flight deck. He had a theory or an anecdote about everything, and listening to him made Tom feel almost nostalgic for the old days in the London Museum when he had lived surrounded by books and facts and relics and scholarly debate.

  “Now take these mountains,” Pennyroyal was saying, gesturing out of the starboard window. They were following a long spur of the Tannhausers southward, and the glow of lava in an active caldera flickered over the explorer’s face. “These are to be the subject of my new book. Where did they come from? They weren’t here in Ancient times, we know that from the maps which have survived. So how did they spring up so quickly? What caused them? It’s just the same in far Shan Guo. Zhan Shan is the highest mountain on earth, and yet it’s not mentioned at all in the Ancient records. Are these new mountains just the result of natural vulcanism, as we’ve always been told? Or are we looking at the results of Ancient technology gone atrociously wrong? An experimental power-source, perhaps, or a terrible weapon! A volcano-maker! Think what a find that would be, Tom!”

  “We’re not interested in finding Old-Tech,” said Hester automatically. She was at the chart table, trying to plot a course, and Pennyroyal was annoying her more and more.

  “Of course not, dear girl!” cried Pennyroyal, looking at the bulkhead beside her (he didn’t trust himself yet to look at her awful face without wincing). “Of course not! A very noble and sensible prejudice. And yet-”

  “It’s not a prejudice,” snapped Hester, pointing a pair of dividers at him in a way that made him fear she might do him serious mischief. “My mum was an archaeologist. An explorer and adventurer and historian, just like you. She went to the dead lands of America and dug something up and brought it home. Something called MEDUSA. The rulers of London got to hear about it and sent their man Valentine to kill her for it. He did this to my face while he was about it. He took it to London and the Engineers there got it working and Bang! It backfired, and that was the end of that.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Pennyroyal, rather chastened. “Everybody knows of the MEDUSA event. Why, I can remember exactly what I was doing at the time. I was aboard Cittamotore, in the company of a delightful young woman named Minty Bapsnack. We saw the flash light up the eastern sky from half a world away…”

  “Well, we were right next to it. We flew through the blast-wave, and we saw what was left of London next morning. A whole city, Tom’s city, burned to clinker by something my mum dug up. That’s why we steer well clear of Old-Tech.”

  “Ah,” said Pennyroyal, thoroughly uncomfortable now.

  “I’m going to bed,” said Hester. “I’ve got a headache.” It was true; a few hours of Pennyroyal’s lecturing had set a fierce, throbbing pain behind her blind eye. She went to the pilot’s seat, meaning to kiss Tom goodnight, but she didn’t like to with Pennyroyal looking on, so she quickly touched his ear, said, “Call me when you need a break,” and headed aft to the stern cabin.

  “Whoops!” said Pennyroyal, when she had gone.

  “She’s got a bit of a temper,” admitted Tom, embarrassed by Hester’s outburst. “But she’s lovely really. She’s just shy. Once you get to know her…”

  “Of course, of course,” said Pennyroyal. “One can see at a glance that beneath that somewhat unconventional exterior she’s absolutely, um…” But he couldn’t think of anything good to say about the girl, so he let his voice trail away and stood looking through a window at the moonlit mountains, the lights of a small town moving on the plains below.

  “She’s wrong about London, you know,” he said at last. “I mean, wrong about it being burned to clinker. I’ve spoken to people who’ve been there. There’s a lot of wreckage left. Whole sections of the Gut lie ruined in the Out-Country west of Batmunkh Gompa. Why, an archaeologist of my acquaintance, a charming young woman by the name of Cruwys Morchard, claims to have actually been inside one of the larger fragments. Sounds extraordinary; charred skeletons scattered everywhere, and great chunks of half-melted buildings and machinery. The lingering radiations from MEDUSA cause coloured lights to bob among the debris like will-o’-the-wisps… or should that be wills-o’-the-wisp?”

  It was Tom’s turn to grow uncomfortable. The destruction of his city was still a raw wound inside him. Two-and-a-half years on, t
he afterglow of that great explosion still lit his dreams. He didn’t want to talk about London’s wreck, and so he steered the conversation back towards Professor Pennyroyal’s favourite subject: Professor Pennyroyal.

  “You must have travelled to some very interesting places, I suppose?”

  “Interesting! Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Tom! The things I’ve seen! When we touch down at Brighton air-harbour I’ll go straight to a bookseller’s and buy you my complete works. I’m amazed you’ve not come across them before, a bright young fellow like you.”

  Tom shrugged. “I’m afraid they didn’t keep them in the London Museum Library…”

  “Of course not! The Guild of so-called Historians! Pah! Dusty old farts… Do you know, I applied to join them once. Their Head Historian, Thaddeus Valentine, turned me down flat! Just because he didn’t like the findings of my trip to America!”

  Tom was intrigued. He didn’t like hearing his former Guild dismissed as dusty farts, but Valentine was different. Valentine had tried to kill him, and had murdered Hester’s parents. Anybody Valentine had disapproved of was all right by Tom.

  “What did you find in America, Professor?”

  “Ah, well, Tom, thereby hangs a tale! Should you like to hear it?”

  Tom nodded. He couldn’t leave the flight deck tonight, with this wind blowing up from the south, and he would be glad of a good story to keep him alert. Anyway, Pennyroyal’s talk had awakened something in him, a memory of simpler times, when he had huddled under his bedclothes in the Third Class Apprentices’ dorm and read by torchlight the stories of the great explorer-historians, Monkton Wylde and Chung-Mai Spofforth, Valentine and Fishacre and Compton Cark.

  “Yes please, Professor,” he said.

  4