It was still colder by the water's edge, a chilling spray rising off every breaking wave. But there was compensation. Off to her right the mist was patchy, and she caught sight of lights twinkling some distance along the shore, and the vague silhouettes of roofs and spires. Thank God, she thought, civilization. Without delay, she started towards it, staying within sight of the water at all times, so as not to get lost in the mist. As it turned out, it thinned and disappeared after she'd been walking for five minutes, and she finally had an uninterrupted view of the landscape before her. It was not a reassuring sight. The city lights seemed to be no nearer than they'd been when she'd first spotted them, and the rest of the scene-4he shore, the rocky terrain beyond it, and the dreamsea itself-was desolation, or near enough. The only color was in the sky, and that was a fretful stew of bruisy purples and iron grays. There were no stars to light her way, nor any moon, but the spattering of snow upon the scene lent it an eerie luminescence, as though the ground had stolen what little light the sky had owned. As for life, there were the birds, whose numbers were now very considerably thinned, but were still dotted along the shore, like an an-ny awaiting orders from some absentee general. A few had left their stations and were diving after fish in the shallows. It was not a difficult task.
The waves were fairly brimming with tiny silver fish, and she saw a few of the divers emerging from the water with their beaks and gullets so stuffed with thrashing fish she wondered they didn't choke.
The sight reminded her of her own hunger. It was six hours or more since the breakfast she and Tesla had snatched before setting out. By now, even on a diet day, she'd have snacked twice and eaten lunch. Instead, she'd climbed a mountain, viewed a crucifixion, and crossed into another world. It was enough to make anybody's stomach grumble.
One of the birds waddled past her, and as it flung itself into the water in search of nourishment her gaze went up the beach a yard or two to the place where it had been squatting. was that an egg, nestling between the stones? She strode to the spot and picked it up. It was indeed an egg, twice the size of a hen's egg, and subtly striped. The notion of eating it raw was less than appetizing, but she was too hungry to fret. She cracked it open and poured the contents into her mouth. It tasted more pungent than she'd anticipated; almost meaty, in fact, with the texture of phlegm. She swallowed it down, to the last drop, and was just casting her eyes around for another when she heard a vehement squawking sound and swung round to see the irate egg layer charging up the shore towards her, its head down, its ruff of feathers raised.
Phoebe was in no mood to indulge its tantrum. "Shoo, birdie!" she told it. "Go on, damn you! Shoo!"
The bird was not so easily driven off. Its din rousing similar squawkings from all the birds in the vicinity, it kept coming at Phoebe, and its darting beak caught her shin. The wound stung. She yelped and hopped back from the bird to keep out of its range, her advice to it less gentle now.
"Piss off, will you?" she yelled at it. "Damn thing!" She glanced down at her stinging leg as she retreated, and her heel slipped on the snow-slickened stones. Down she went for the second time in half an hour, for once glad her buttocks were well padded. Her fall had landed her in more trouble, however, not just from the egg layer but from sev- eral of its fellows, who plainly viewed her fall and the howl of rage that accompanied it as a threat. Crests and ruffs erected on all sides, and two or three dozen throats gave up the same shrll squawk.
This was no longer a little inconvenience. Ludicrous though it seemed, she was in trouble. The birds were coming at her from all directions, their attacks capable of doing no little damage. She went on yelling in the hope of keeping them at bay while attempting to scramble to her feet. Twice she almost did so, but her heels slid over the rocks. The closest of the birds were in pecking distance now. Beaks stabbed at her arms and shoulders and at her back.
She started to flail wildly, catching birds with her hands and even knocking a few of them over, but there were too many to floor. Sooner or later, one of the beaks would puncture an artery, or stab her eye. She had to get to her feet, and quickly.
Shielding her face with her arms she got onto her knees. The birds didn't have much room in their skulls for brains, but they sensed her vulnerability, and escalated their assault, pecking at her back and buttocks and legs as she struggled to rise.
Suddenly, a shot. Then another, and a third, this accompanied by a hot spray against Phoebe's left arm. The tone of the squawking instantly changed from mob mania to panic, and parting her arms Phoebe saw the birds retreating in disarray, leaving three of their flock dead on the ground. Not just dead in fact, almost blown apart. One was missing its head, another half its torso, while the third-which was the sprayer-still twitched beside her, with a hole the size of her fist in its abdomen.
She looked for their slaughterer.
"Over here," said a faintly bemused voice, and a little way along the shore stood a man wearing a coat of furs, his cap fashioned from an animal pelt, with the snout as a peak. In his arms, a rifle. It was still smoking.
"You're not one of Zury's mob," he observed.
"No, I'm not," Phoebe replied.
The man pushed back the peak of his hat. to judge by his features he was of the same tribe as the hammerer, his head flat and wide, his lower lip bulbous, his eyes tiny. But whereas the cross maker had been unadorned, this creature's face was decorated from brow to chin, his cheeks pierced with rings perhaps fifty times, from which tiny ornaments dangled, his eyes ringed with scarlet and yellow paint, his hair teased into ringlets, which softened his beetling brow.
"Where are you from?" he said.
"The other side," Phoebe said, the correct vocabulary, momentarily deserting her.
"You mean the Cosm?" "That's right."
The man shook his head, and his decorations danced. "Oh," he sighed, "I hope that's the truth."
"You think I'd dress this way if I was a local?" Phoebe said.
"No, I don't suppose you would," the man replied. "I'm Hoppo Musnakaff. And you?" "Phoebe Cobb."
Musnakaff had unbuttoned his coat, and now shrugged it off. "We're well met, Phoebe Cobb," he said. "Here, put this on." He tossed the coat to Phoebe. "And let me escort you back to Liverpool."
"Liverpool?" That sounded like a mundane destination after such a journey.
"It's a glorious city," Musnakaff said, pointing towards the lights along the shore. "You'll see."
Phoebe put on his coat. It was warm, and smelled of a sweet perfume tinged with oranges. She plunged her hands into the deep, fur-lined pockets.
"You'll soon warm up," Musnakaff said. "I'll attend to those wounds of yours while we go. I want you to be presentable for the Mistress."
"The Mistress?"
"My@mployer," he replied. "She sent me along here to see what Zury was up to, but I think she'd be happier if I forsook the spying, and brought you home instead. She'll be eager to hear what you have to tell her."
"About what?"
"About the Cosm, of course." Musnakaff replied. "Now will you let me give you a hand?"
384 Clivc Barkcr
"Please."
He came to her (the perfume on the coat was his, she iscovered: He reeked of it) and putting his arm through hers escorted her over the slithery rocks.
"That's our transport," he said. There was a manycolored horse, as bright as a peacock's tail, a little way ahead of them, grazing on the coarse grass that spurted between the slabs of what had once been a fine road.