‘Fine!’ Frey called after him, when he saw that he really did mean to leave. ‘Fine! Go!’ He turned on the rest of the crew. ‘Anyone else?’
Malvery stepped close to him, his bristly white eyebrows gathered in a frown above the rims of his round, green-lensed glasses. ‘Cap’n,’ he said sternly. ‘That woman is turning you into an arsehole. Stop it.’
Frey swallowed a retort. He could see by the faces of his crew that he’d done wrong. Even Abley looked startled. Crake was his friend, and they’d saved each other’s lives many times. He didn’t deserve the short shrift he’d got. And he must have been plenty offended to storm off in the middle of a warzone.
‘I’ll go get him,’ said Silo.
‘No,’ said Frey, holding out a hand. ‘I’ll go. You lot get back to the Ketty Jay. Malvery, can you see to the lad? We’re gonna need him.’
‘Right-o,’ said Malvery. The others readied their packs and picked up their bits without further discussion, more subdued than normal. Frey hurried off through the pumping station after Crake. He was glad to get away from them, to hide his face from their gazes.
There was no sign of anyone when he emerged from the pumping house. The junction where five roads met was quiet except for the distant chattering of gatling guns. He turned off his lantern and left it in the doorway for the others to find, then stepped warily out into the junction.
Crake was nowhere to be seen. Frey cursed under his breath.
There was only one thing for it, then. This place was far too dangerous to call out his name, so he picked a random direction and set off to search.
Crake. Where are you?
Grayther Crake, several streets away, was already beginning to regret his decision. The reality of his situation cooled the heat of his anger. He found himself alone in a broken city, with Coalition troops on one side, Awakeners on the other, and neither likely to ask questions before they opened fire. He didn’t even know which direction he should be heading in to find safety.
You’re a fool, Grayther Crake. A scared, prideful fool.
He was already ashamed of his outburst in front of the Cap’n. He didn’t like to lose control. Crass emotional displays weren’t his style. But the incident with Jez had disturbed him, brought back terrible memories of Bess, his beautiful niece whom he’d stabbed to death with a letter knife while under the control of a daemon. On top of that, he was humiliated by his latest failure. His daemonist skills were the one thing that set him apart from the arrogant, vapid elite that he came from. Now he’d made himself a laughing-stock. He felt angry and wretched, and Frey’s comment had been the last straw.
Where could he go now? The Cap’n wanted them to join the Awakeners. No, he absolutely wouldn’t do that. Even if it was in order to infiltrate and hurt them. He hated them too much, opposed them too squarely. What if they made him undertake some sort of initiation to prove his faith in the Allsoul? It would be too much a betrayal of himself. The others might possess a more elastic moral fibre than he did, but he wouldn’t be swayed.
And yet, he couldn’t help wondering if that was really the reason. ‘Don’t you want to strike a blow for the Coalition?’ Frey had said. And he did want that, he did want to strike. For the Coalition, but more importantly, against the Awakeners. Wasn’t this his chance to do that? And wasn’t he turning his back on it?
Since the civil war began, he’d fretted about whether he should be joining in. Now that he had the opportunity, he realised that he really didn’t want to get involved. Much as it pained him to admit it, he was scared. He wanted to sit out the war and let somebody else deal with the Awakeners. In the end, he was no better than Frey, or any of the others.
He stopped, turning this way and that. The smashed and shadowed streets watched him malevolently. Fear wormed its way into him.
‘You have no idea where you’re going, do you?’ he asked himself.
And then, with a shock, he remembered Bess. Not the girl he’d killed but the golem he’d made of her. In all his self-absorbed fury he’d forgotten that there was someone back on the Ketty Jay that relied on him. Spit and blood, what a selfish creature he was! If his thoughts weren’t of himself then they were usually of Samandra. And where did that leave the golem in his charge?
No choice, he told himself. Go back.
No way was he going to any Awakener hideout, but the Cap’n would surely drop him and Bess off at the forward base. Or somewhere safer than this, anyway. They’d both have to swallow a bit of pride, but Frey wouldn’t refuse him that.
And then he could go to Samandra. He wondered if he’d have stormed off at all, if he hadn’t known that she’d be waiting for him.
Taking a deep breath, he turned around to retrace his steps.
There was a man in the street, walking purposefully towards him. A tall man in a trenchcoat and a black hat, carrying a shotgun. Crake’s heart leaped in his chest. He had no idea who that man was, or what side he was on, but he knew that he didn’t want to meet him. He spun to go the other way.
And found himself staring down the barrel of a revolver. The man on the end of it was young and clean-shaven, and gave him a crooked smile.
‘Grayther Crake,’ he said. ‘We’re from the Shacklemore Agency. And you’re comin’ with us.’
Eleven
Frey flinched as the sky overhead erupted with a boom louder than thunder. Running in a half-crouch, he scampered along the street, staying close to the walls for cover but ready to flee if any looked like falling on him. The anti-aircraft guns had started up again in earnest. A few streets away he saw a ragged old Westingley lift itself above the broken parapets of the ancient city.
The Awakeners were pulling out, under covering fire from their guns. If the Ketty Jay didn’t get going soon, they’d miss their chance to infiltrate the Awakener fleet.
Damn you, Crake. Why’d you have to run off now?
The street ended suddenly at a chasm, an enormous rip in the earth, twenty metres wide. Parts of buildings still hung precariously over the abyss. Frey decided that Crake was unlikely to have gone this way, unless he’d secretly developed the ability to fly. He backtracked and tried a side-alley, but that turned out to be blocked by a fallen house.
Frey spat on the ground. Dead end. He must have picked the wrong road back at the junction. That meant Crake could be anywhere. Searching for him was all but hopeless.
But he wouldn’t give up. Not yet. Not when it was his fault that Crake was out here. The crew always became unbalanced when one of them went missing. They were a team, and they needed each other. And what about Bess? He didn’t want to think how she might react when she twigged that her master wasn’t coming home.
His eyes fell to the silver ring he wore on his little finger. Crake usually carried the compass with him on expeditions, just in case Frey managed to get himself lost. Had he brought it this time? Frey wasn’t sure. But the compass meant Crake could always find him, if he wanted to.
The problem was, he didn’t want to.
He heard running footsteps coming from a side road. He cast around for a way to get out of sight, but he wasn’t quick enough. Three men came into view. Two of them wore a Sentinel’s cassock and carried rifles. The other was a middle-aged man with a broad, plain face and a cauliflower ear.