She is alive! She is alive! She is alive!
He is so overjoyed that it is almost a whole minute before he stops to wonder about the young woman who came to him out of the desert with such graphic stories of Oenone’s death.
He snatches a sword from one of his generals. Officers and Stalkers scatter before him as his armor marches him out of the war room, up the stairs. “General Naga, sir?” shouts one of the men behind him.
“The girl Rohini, you fool!” he yells—or tries to yell. (The truth is starting to dawn: What has she done to me?) “Fetch the guard!” But he doesn’t really want the guard to deal with her; he wants to deal with her himself, with this good sword; he wants to split her head like a melon.
He doesn’t bother knocking when he reaches the door of her chamber, way out in the western wing. His armor carries him through it, and shards and splinters of antique wood rattle off him as he climbs the five stairs to her living space. She is rising from her seat to greet him as he reaches the top step, lovely and demure as ever, a big window behind her opening onto a moonlit balcony.
“My wife is alive,” says Naga. “She is flying home. Are you going to keep up the mute act, or do you have any final words?”
For a moment she stares at him, hurt, frightened, confused. Then realizing it just won’t wash anymore, she laughs. “You old fool! I’m glad she’s alive. Now she’ll see where her peace has brought us! To the edge of destruction! Not even you will listen to her Tractionist lies now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You still don’t understand?” Rohini laughs again, a little wildly. “She’s working for them! She’s always been working for them! Why do you think she married you? You’re not exactly the answer to a young girl’s dream, Naga. Half a man, wrapped up in clanking armor. Not even that, soon. I’m going to kill you, general, and your people will rise up and kill your traitor wife. Then they will be ready to welcome their real leader back, when she reveals herself.”
“What are you—” Naga starts to say. And pauses, because at this point Rohini pulls off her hair, which turns out to be a wig, beneath which two things are concealed: short, blond hair, which clashes oddly with her umber face, and a small gas pistol, with which she shoots him. Naga’s breastplate saves him from the bullet, but the impact makes him take a step backward, and he goes crashing and slithering down the stairs.
“—talking about?” he asks the ceiling, as he lies in the splinters of the wrecked door, dazed.
Rohini—or whoever she is—appears at the top of the stairs. The gun is still in her hand. This time she aims at his face, not his armor. She is still smiling. She says, “Cynthia Twite, of the Stalker Fang’s special intelligence group. A few of us kept the faith, General. We knew she would rise again.”
“You’ve been poisoning me! The tea! You—”
“That’s right!” says the girl chirpily. “And now I’m going to finish the j—”
Except she doesn’t even finish the sentence, because just at that moment a shaft of light stabs in through the window, so bright that it looks solid, so hot that it sets Cynthia and everything else in the room instantly on fire. A roaring, shrieking noise drowns out her screams. In the shadows of the stairwell Naga feels the heat on his face like the breath from an open furnace. Above him Cynthia Twite is a black branch, burning. There is a sound of crashing masonry. The Jade Pagoda heaves sideways, as if it’s having second thoughts about perching here on the mountainside. Naga tries to stand, but his armor won’t obey him. Cinders of Cynthia rattle down around him as the light fades. “Help!” he yells into the smoke. “Help!”
Behind him an ancient stone wall is tugged aside like a curtain. The main part of the Jade Pagoda is gone. He is looking down into the valley where Tienjing has stood, the capital of Anti-Tractionism, for a thousand years. There is nothing there but fire, and the million mournful voices of the wind.
Chapter 39
Firelight
Wren began to feel embarrassed as she and Theo walked down to Crouch End. They had been alone in that nook in the wreckage for much longer than she’d intended. She was pretty sure she had finally got the hang of this kissing business, but she couldn’t help but feel that everyone would know what she had been doing. Even when she let go of Theo’s hand, there was a sort of electric feeling in the air between them, and they couldn’t stop glancing at each other.
But although half of London seemed to be standing about in the open space outside Crouch End, none of them so much as looked at Theo or Wren. They were all staring westward. And as Wren joined them, she saw that the sky above the dinosaur spines of the wreckage was glowing red, as if a huge fire were burning just beyond the horizon.
“What is it, Mr. Luperini?” asked Wren, spotting Cat’s father standing nearby. “Is it the war?”
Luperini shook his head; shrugged. Faint, eerie noises blew in on the wind; shriekings and roarings. A ghostly wing of light lit up the western half of the sky, blanching the stars. Wren took Theo’s hand again.
“Reminds me of the night we zapped old Bayreuth,” someone said.
“Wren!” Tom came hurrying over to them. “I was wondering where you’d got to. What do you make of this, Theo?”
Theo shook his head. “How long has it been going on?”
“About a half hour—surely you must have noticed that first flash?”
“Urn …,” said Wren.
Theo frowned at the sky. “If it’s gunfire, it’s not like any I’ve seen before.”
Dr. Abrol came hurrying down the track from the listening post on the edge of the debris field where he spied on the Green Storm’s radio messages and on those of the approaching cities. Londoners gathered around him, calling out to ask what he had heard on the airwaves.
“It’s hard to be sure,” he said nervously, his spectacles flickering with reflections of the sky. “Something keeps interfering with the signals. But it seems … it sounds as if …” (“What? What?” the people around him urged.) He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple making a neat little bob. “Whole cities have been destroyed,” he said, and had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the cries, the curses, the hisses of indrawn breath. “Manchester. All sorts of Traktionstadts and suburbs …”
“Old Tech!” cried Chudleigh Pomeroy, who had come wandering out in his dressing gown to see what all the fuss was about. “It has to be. The Green Storm have some sort of Old Tech weapon…”
“But why wait until now to use it?” wondered Clytie.
“Who knows. Perhaps even they are scared of it. It must be horribly powerful.”
“But where did they find it?” other voices asked. “What on earth is it?”
Lurpak Flint stood behind Clytie, his arms wrapped around her. “Perhaps it is not anything on Earth at all. Remember, the Ancients left weapons in orbit. What if the Green Storm have found a way to wake one?”
“There are distress calls on the Green Storm’s airwaves too,” Dr. Abrol said. “Reports of an explosion at Tienjing. It’s very confused. Sorry.”
“Maybe the Traktionstadts have sent airships to Tienjing to try and blow up the transmitter that controls this weapon,” Pomeroy suggested.
Another pulse of arctic light lit the sky. “Doesn’t look like they hit it,” said Len Peabody. “This is bad, ain’t it? I mean, what’s to stop the Mossies turning their toy on New London as soon as they see us leaving the debris field?”