“No. But we’re not worried. I’m sure he’ll try to break a few rebrellas and reclaim them, and unbrellas are going to keep finding their way here, but everyone knows to fix them when found. What can he do? He’s a bandit and we all know it. A nuisance, at worst, these days.”
“Still,” said Deeba. “I’ll be happier when you find him.”
“Binja are looking.”
“Among others,” said the book, tucked under Hemi’s arm.
It was only one full day after that extraordinary battle, but UnLondon was adjusting to the news and ways of postwar life impressively quickly. All over the abcity, stories of heroism and betrayal and incompetence and luck were emerging. There were plenty of champions Deeba had never heard of, who’d done amazing things, in parts of UnLondon she’d never been.
“What’ll happen to Lectern?” Deeba said.
“Oh, she’s confessed,” said Mortar. “She’ll do some time. But she’s by no means the worst of them.”
“No,” said Deeba. “She was just a coward. Although seeing as what she almost did to me…”
“Absolutely,” muttered Hemi. He had become a go-between of sorts, a proto-ambassador between Wraithtown and the Pons, and he was wearing a suit of ghost-clothes. Around the cotton was a corona of older forms of dress.
“Quite,” said Mortar. “There were quite a few people who worked hand in glove with the Smog. We don’t know who they all are.”
“The Concern. They could be trouble in the future.”
There was a lot to do. Mortar was energized, now that he had finally stopped apologizing to Deeba.
“Is the UnLondon-I ready?” Deeba said. “I have to get back over.”
“They’re finishing it up now,” Mortar said. “Don’t worry, it’ll be ready by tonight. And that still gives you a few hours in hand— you’ll be fine.”
The great waterwheel, like so much in the abcity, had been damaged in the fighting, its mechanisms clogged and banged about by rampaging stink-junkies. Nothing too serious before the Smog had dispersed, but enough that they had not been able to use it the previous day, to generate the current to poke the Pons Absconditus through the Odd into London.
A little part of Deeba had almost felt relief. Despite her eagerness to return, she’d been so battered after the showdown that a day of enforced rest and recuperation while the Propheseers worked to fix it had felt like a blessing. Now it was definitely time for her to go.
They strolled on the Pons Absconditus as Propheseers had its ends dip into various parts of UnLondon, gadding busily around the abcity. Elsewhere on the bridge were Deeba’s companions, their wounds bandaged and tended by doctors and apothecaries, whose herbs, poultices, and spells had done amazing things.
“I like your clothes,” Deeba said to Hemi.
“Oh yeah,” he said, embarrassed. “I haven’t often worn ghost togs. Too busy trying not to have that side of me noticed. Extreme shopping.” He grinned. “But the good thing is with these things I don’t end up in the nude if I go through something— they come with me.”
“It’s all going well,” Deeba said, looking around. “Be good to see what happens.”
“The first thing,” said the book, “is that I’m making this lot change their name. Now that we know things don’t go as written at all.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Deeba. “You’re talking to the Unchosen One.”
“Yeah, but where’s the skill in being a hero if you were always destined to do it?” said Hemi. He hesitated, and said, “You impress me a lot more.”
“Destiny’s bunk,” said the book. “That’s why this lot aren’t the Propheseers anymore.”
“From here on in,” said Mortar, “we’re the Order of Suggesters.”
“And what about all those prophecies?” said Deeba. She poked the book gently. “In you.”
“Oh…who knows? Who cares what’s in me, frankly,” it said loftily. “Maybe in a few years we’ll open me up and read out what was supposed to happen and we can all have a good laugh. What Zanna was supposed to be doing. Whether you’re even mentioned. Yes, maybe I’ll end up a comedy. A joke book. There are worse things.”
“You never know,” Deeba said. “One or two of them might be true.”
“Well,” said the book. “Coincidence is an amazing thing.”
“After all,” Deeba said. “The only thing in your pages you thought definitely was wrong turned out to be right. Nothing and the UnGun?” There was a moment’s silence.
“That,” said the book with cautious pleasure, “is true.”
Curdle and the rebrella bounded towards Deeba, as she approached them.
“Have you decided what to do with the UnGun, yet?” said Deeba.
“Well, we’re ready for the first step at least,” Mortar said. “If you’d do the honors?”
In the middle of the bridge was a huge mold, a cube five or more feet on each side, into which mixers were pouring liquid concrete. Jones, Obaday, and the others were gathered around it.
“Ready?” said Hemi.
Skool stood beside him. They’d rescued the little colony before the patch of seawater in the canal had ebbed away. The fish were still mourning the loss of several of their companions, but they’d come to say good-bye to Deeba. They were poured into a new suit. This one was smaller, and more up-to-date: a little wetsuit, complete with ungainly flippers. This time the mask was clear, and Deeba smiled at the seahorse and clown fish staring at her from the brine inside.
“I’m not making a big thing of this,” Deeba said. “No speech.” She chucked the UnGun, the Smog’s prison, into the cement.
It splashed thickly and disappeared. They watched brief, thick ripples.
“When it’s set, what then?” she said. “Got to make sure no one can open it.”
“Opinion’s divided,” Mortar said. “Some people want to put it back among the Black Windows. It must have been one of our predecessors did that, yonks[26] ago, so there’s history. Some want to bury it. Some want to tip it in the river. Or the sea. We haven’t decided yet.”
“We might put it to a vote,” said Jones.
“We’ll see,” said Deeba.
“Well,” said Mortar, “you might not.”
“You’re talking as if you’ll be back again, Deeba,” he said gently. “But it isn’t easy to cross between the worlds. Every time you breach the Odd, the membrane between two whole universes is strained. Think what that means.
“You have,” he said, “to make a choice. You know we want you here. You…well, you saved UnLondon. We owe you our abcity and our lives. You’re a Suggester, whether you join us officially or not. It would be an honor if you’d stay.
“But your family. Your life. All of these things…we understand. We’ll miss you if you go, Deeba. But you have to choose.”
There was a long silence.
“I can’t stay,” Deeba said at last. “I can’t let my family forget me. Forget I even exist. Can you imagine? I’m going back. You know I have to.”
She looked at each of them in turn.
“You know that,” she said. Hemi looked away.
They all looked sad. Obaday sniffed. Jones dabbed surreptitiously at his eyes.
“The stuff that happened here,” Deeba said, “I’ll never forget. What we did. I’ll never forget you. Any of you.” She paused, looked at each of them in turn.
“And part of the reason I won’t forget you,” she said, “is ’cause I’ll be back all the time.”