Walking under the Pons was no problem. Zanna and Deeba went back and forth below it several times, and it stayed politely immobile. They tried to walk onto it, and its ends stayed stubbornly one or two streets beyond them. They came at it slowly, quickly, sneakily, in full view. It was always just out of their reach.
Zanna and Deeba and the Slaterunners stopped in the dark under the bridge, among the dustbins. Deeba stroked Curdle.
“It’s like a rainbow,” Zanna said. “You can’t reach its end. How are we supposed to get on?”
Something flitted quietly through the air. They tensed, but it was just a scrunched-up piece of paper, dropping from the bridge. It settled among the dustbins.
“I wondered how they kept undesirables off,” Inessa said. “I didn’t realize the bridge was shy.”
“Yeah,” Deeba said. “Looks like they don’t need any guards.”
“Actually,” Inessa said, “I think they have them too.” She pointed.
One by one, dustbins around them were standing up.
There were seven or eight of them. A pair of skinny legs jutted from each of their round metal undersides. From their sides sprouted thin, muscly arms. Their lids teetered, then tilted. They opened just a slit. Inside was darkness, in the thick of which were eyes.
The dustbins stepped closer.
They moved with an athletic precision. The Slaterunners circled warily, ready for attack. But the bin in front raised its hand, and spread surprisingly dainty fingers, as if to say, Wait. It tapped the side of its lid, and cupped its hand in an ostentatious listening motion. There was that sound again. The noise of boots.
“They’ve found our trail!” Inessa said.
The dustbin put its finger to where its lips should be. It made quick gestures, and two of its companions ran fast and soundlessly out of the shadows.
In the light of the streetlamps they retracted their arms and legs with a faint shlp, leaving only grubby stains where each limb had been. They were instantly disguised— just a pair of dustbins. After a moment they sprouted limbs again. They stood in karate poses. Then they opened their own lids, reached into their own dark interiors, and drew out weapons.
One took out a sword, and the other two pairs of nunchucks, which Zanna and Deeba recognized from martial-arts films. The two dustbins ran off towards the sound of the pursuers, disappearing in shadows.
You: the dustbin leader pointed to Zanna and Deeba, then pointed straight up, to the bridge above them. Beckoned.
“It wants us to go,” Deeba said.
“Not without the Slaterunners,” Zanna said. “They’re the ones got us here…”
“It’s alright,” Inessa said. “I’ve no business with the Propheseers, whereas you…you’re expected. You go, Shwazzy. We need to get back to the Roofdom. These are the Propheseers’ protectors. They’ll get us out of here safely. We’ll be alright, and so will you.”
Zanna and Deeba gave each of the Slaterunners a hug.
“Thank you,” Zanna said.
“Take care of yourself,” Inessa said. “Shwazzy…we’re counting on you. All of us.”
The dustbin crept, Zanna and Deeba behind it, through the same streets that they had just walked. This time, however, the end of the bridge grew closer with every turn.
“How did you do that?” Zanna muttered. The dustbin motioned her to silence.
The Pons Absconditus rose in front of them. To either side were the doorless backs of houses. UnLondoners might be able to see the bridge from their rear windows, but without a guide, they’d have no success reaching it.
It rose like the back of a sea serpent. At its apex were moving figures.
The girls’ dustbin escort walked them onto the bridge.
“Finally,” said Zanna. “The Propheseers.”
“We can go home,” Deeba almost gasped.
“And find out the truth,” said Zanna quietly.
20. The Welcome
There was an office on the bridge.
In the middle of the road was a collection of desks and chairs, telephones, weird-looking computers, bookshelves, and potted plants. Twenty or thirty men and women were working away. Mostly they wore shabby suits. They read reports and shuffled files. None of them noticed Zanna, Deeba, and the dustbin approach.
The girls could see to the Roofdom; they could see the waterwheel; they could see the outline of Manifest Station and across the skyline of UnLondon.
Eventually, one by one, the people on the bridge looked up. One by one, their mouths fell open. Deeba moved closer to Zanna. The two girls stood quietly, and waited.
“Um…” said Zanna eventually. “Hello. We were told you could help us.”
“Can I…help you?” It was an old man who spoke. He wore a nondescript suit and an extraordinarily long beard. He spoke hesitantly, and his voice contained disapproval, surprise…and, though he was trying to hide it, excitement. “May I ask how you managed to get here? Who exactly are you?”
“My name’s Zanna. This is Deeba. Are you…”
“I am Mortar of the Propheseers. But…but who are you?” He spoke more breathlessly, and quickly. “Where are you from?”
“I’m Zanna, I said. I’m from London. I think you know who I am.” She spoke with sudden authority that made Deeba stare at her. “I’ll show you.”
All the Propheseers gasped as Zanna reached into her pocket—
— and hesitated, and fumbled, and groped in another pocket, and another, more and more frantic.
“Deeba,” she whispered. “It’s gone! The travelcard…it’s gone!”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s gone. It was in my back pocket and now it’s not.” The Propheseers and the dustbin were watching, puzzled.
“That…that ghost-boy!” said Deeba. “He must’ve took it! On the roofs…Excuse me,” she said more loudly, to the old man. “It’s just…my friend had something that sort of said who she was, and, and we’ve been using it to get here, and now it’s been stole, and we…”
Her voice petered out at the sight of the Propheseers’ faces.
“I knew it wasn’t possible,” one muttered.
“Remember,” said another, “the enemy’ll try anything.” She looked at Zanna unpleasantly.
“Who are you really?” said a third.
“I had a card,” Zanna said, stricken. She searched her pockets again. “It’d show you…” She and Deeba began to back away.
“Wait.” It was the old man who spoke. “We have to be sure. Lectern! Bring it!”
A woman came trotting towards them through the desks. In her arms, she carried a huge, mottled book.
“Is it her?” whispered the old man.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Hold on…”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute.”
Zanna and Deeba started. This new voice was reedy and self-important. It rolled sounds around. It seemed to come out of nowhere. “Check page three-sixty-five,” it went on. The woman flicked to the right place.
“Who is that?” said Deeba. She and Zanna looked around.
“Tall for her age, blond hair,” the voice went on. “Let me have a good look…Decent-enough aura, brustly at the spectrids. Resonating in at least five or six dimensobilities…Let’s check the history. Page twenty-four please.”
“Deeba,” whispered Zanna.
“I know.”
The voice was coming from the book.
“Oh my,” it said, suddenly hushed. “Well tear me up and shove me in a hutch. It’s her. It is.”
The woman slapped the book shut. Her mouth went slack.
“It’s her,” she said.
“It is,” the book said. “It’s the Shwazzy. We’ve found her.”
“You’ve found her?” Deeba said. “I don’t think so. She found you, more like. And it wasn’t easy, neither.”