“Away where? Grimsby’s gone. I’ve got a good job here. Where would I want to go?”
“Anywhere,” said Tom. “We could drop you anywhere you liked. Or we could take you back with us to Anchorage-in-Vineland and you could live with us there.”
“Live with you?” echoed Fishcake. His eyes seemed to Tom to be as round and bright as the lamp on the ceiling. “What,” he said, “like a family?”
“Only if that’s what you wanted,” said Tom.
Fishcake swallowed loudly. He didn’t fancy going anywhere with Hester. Hester deserved to die, and one day he meant to make sure that she did, for he had not forgotten his vow. But he could not help liking Tom. Tom seemed kind, even kinder than Mr. Shkin. And Wren had been kind too, even if she hadn’t saved him from Brighton’s trap. He would like to live with Tom and Wren.
“All right,” he said. He glanced at the doorway, scared that someone might have overheard. “All right. As long as you promise—”
Out in the corridor, a nasty, harsh electric bell began to ring, making Tom and Fishcake jump. Doors slammed, and boots pounded on the metal floor. Fishcake snatched the piece of paper from Tom and scampered out of the cell, swinging the door shut behind him. Standing up, Tom ran to peer through the small grille in the top of the door, but he could see nothing. The bell jarred and jangled. Men’s voices shouted at the far end of the corridor, and more boots clanged. Then, a sudden, startling bang, and another.
Someone screamed. “Fishcake!” shouted Tom. There was another bang, very close, and then Hester’s voice, outside in the corridor, shouting, “Tom!”
“Here! In here!” he said, and a moment later her veiled face appeared at the grille.
“I got your note,” she said. He ducked away from the door, and her gun punched holes in the lock. She kicked the door open.
“Where’s Fishcake?” asked Tom. “You didn’t hurt Fishcake? He was here just a minute ago! He had a picture! Wren’s on Cloud 9!”
Hester pulled her veil down and kissed him quickly. She smelled of smoke, and her dear, ugly face was flushed. “Shut up and run,” she said.
He ran, ignoring the warning stabs of pain in his chest. Outside the door of his cell, the corridor made a tight turn. Two men lay dead at the corner. Neither of them was Fishcake. Tom clambered gingerly over the corpses and followed his wife up some stairs, past some more bodies. Smoke hung in the air. Shouts and screams came from somewhere below.
“What’s happening?” he asked. “What’s going on down there?”
Hester looked back at him, grinning. “Someone’s let the Lost Boys out. Careless, eh? We’d better go out the top way.”
The lights went out, all at once. Tom crashed into Hester, who steadied him and said very calmly, “Don’t worry.”
There was inkish darkness for as long as it took Tom’s heart to make five stuttering beats, then dull red lights came on. “Emergency generator,” said Hester.
Tom trailed after her, through a series of deserted offices where the blood-red light shone on the brass handles of filing cabinets and the ivory keys of typewriting machines. He wondered where Hester had found her new coat and what had happened to the old one. He was still wondering when they ran into a bunch of Shkin Corporation men hurrying in the opposite direction. “Get down!” shouted Hester, knocking Tom to the floor. “Not you!” she added, as the guards dived for cover.
The office filled with smoke and stabs of flame and a terrible noise. Not all of the men had guns, and the ones who did fired wildly. Bullets slammed against the walls, smashed the water cooler, and ripped pages from a calendar on the desk. Tom hid behind a filing cabinet and watched as Hester shot the men down one by one. He had not been with her when she’d fought the Huntsmen, and he had always imagined that she must have been angry and afraid, but there was a terrible calm about her now. When her gun was empty, she put it down and killed the last man with a typewriter, the carriage-return bell jingling cheerfully while she smashed in his skull. When she picked up her gun and started to reload it, she was smiling. Tom thought she looked more alive than he had ever seen her before.
“All right?” she asked, pulling him to his feet.
He wasn’t, but he was shaking too badly to tell her, so he just followed her again, up more stairs, and found himself back in the neat reception area where he had spoken to Miss Weems. Her chair was empty now, the sign on the door turned to CLOSED, the guard gone from his post outside. Fireworks boomed and crackled above the rooftops, punching shafts of pink and emerald light through gaps in the blinds. Hester shot the lock off the door and pushed it open, but as Tom crossed the room, he heard frightened breathing, then a whimper.
He went down on his knees and peered beneath Miss Weems’s desk.
Fishcake’s pale, terrified face looked out at him.
“Fishcake, it’s all right!” Tom promised as the boy scrabbled back deeper into the shadows. He waved at Hester to keep her away. “It’s only Fishcake,” he told her, looking round.
“Leave him, then,” said Hester.
“We can’t,” said Tom. “He’s alone and frightened, and he’s been working for Shkin. If the other Lost Boys find him, they’ll tear him to pieces. Just a figure of speech,” he added unconvincingly as Fishcake moaned with terror.
“That’s his fault,” said Hester, poised in the doorway, eager to go. “Leave him.”
“But he told me where Wren is.”
“Fine,” said Hester angrily. “He’s told you. So we don’t need him. Leave him.”
“No!” said Tom, more sharply than he meant to. Beneath the desk his hand found Fishcake’s, and he hauled the Lost Boy out. “He’s coming with us. I promised.”
Hester stared at the boy and the boy stared at Hester, and for a moment Tom thought she was going to shoot Fishcake where he stood, but a thunderous howl of defiance and rage came echoing up from the depths of the Pepperpot, the roar of Lost Boys on the warpath, and she stuffed her gun away and slipped through the door, holding it open so that Tom could drag the scared, quaking child with him out of the building and down the steps into the plaza. Huge, reverberating bangs were rebounding from the walls of the surrounding buildings, and dazzling flashes lit up the sky. Fireworks are so much louder than they were when I was little, Tom thought, and, looking up, saw fierce white airships swooping over the city at rooftop height, raining down rockets from their armored gondolas.
“Great gods and goddesses!” shouted Hester. “That’s all we need!”
“What is it?” whined Fishcake, clinging tight to Tom. “What’s happening?”
What was happening was that a squadron of Fox Spirits had been detached from the main body of the Green Storm fleet to silence Brighton’s air defenses. The MoonFest celebrations were disintegrating into panic as the aviators mistook the firework displays in Queen’s Park and Black Rock for antiaircraft fire and started strafing them. As carnival processions writhed across Ocean Boulevard like beheaded snakes, the Requiem Vortex cut through the smoke above them, powering toward Cloud 9. Ahead stood the armored mountains that were Kom Ombo and Benghazi, smaller towns and suburbs snuggling around their skirts.
“A whole cluster of them!” shouted General Naga, gleeful as a huntsman who has just spied the fox. “That big one ate Palmyra Static a few summers back!” His mechanical armor grated and hissed as it spun him round to face the Stalker Fang, raising his one arm in a jerky salute. “So this is why you brought us west, Excellency! I knew it could not be for that moth-eaten raft resort! Permission to lead the attack…”
“Silence,” whispered the Stalker Fang. The fires of Brighton shimmered in her bronze face. “The cluster is irrelevant. The other ships will keep those city’s batteries and fighters busy, and ensure that the Brightonians do not attempt to help their mayor. Our target is the flying palace. Prepare boarding parties.”