As he flew slowly away, Deeba heard him wail.
She got to her feet.
“Quick,” she said, and staggered. “We should…I should…” She wasn’t sure what to say next.
“Leave it,” said the book. “He saw you with the Smog, at the end. He’s too afraid to do anything but run. We can deal with him later.”
Deeba sank back onto the stool.
“If we even need to deal with him,” she said. She patted the rebrella. “We know how to free his soldiers. Without them, he’s got nothing.
“And not,” she added, looking at the UnGun, “in the good way.”
“Deeba…?” Through the remnants of the door, staring at the wreckage, came Conductor Jones, leaning wearily on makeshift crutches.
Behind him came Bling and Cauldron, holding Hemi’s hands. And behind them, bleeding, holding his wrist gingerly, but wearing a bewildered smile, was Obaday Fing.
Deeba called their names happily. She stumbled over and hugged those who weren’t too bruised to take it.
“What,” said Hemi, looking at the devastation admiringly, “did you do?”
“The utterlings persuaded those words to go exploring,” said Jones. “And we heard all sorts of banging and whatnot. The Hex are all tied up. We shouldn’t have left you alone.” He hobbled slowly forward. “We tried to get up here as quick as we could.”
“Look at the utterlings!” Deeba said. “They’re back.”
Bling and Cauldron weren’t quite fully solid, but they were more substantial than when she had last seen them.
“You were right,” said Jones. “It worked. Took them awhile to work out how to say themselves by signing, but they’re getting it. Bling does it by rubbing his legs together.”
“The smombies all emptied,” said Hemi. “The smoke went up. Zoomed about the sky. But…” He looked about. “You know all about that, don’t you?”
Deeba waved the UnGun vaguely.
“What?” said Jones. “Did you manage to reload?”
“Sort of,” said Deeba. “It’s a prison. It’s full of the Smog.”
They yelled and backed away, then paused as they realized there was no sign of trouble.
“What happened here?” said Jones.
Deeba paused a long time, then laughed.
“I’ll explain,” she said. “But basically…Nothing. Nothing happened.”
The sky was beginning to grow light.
“There’s lots of stuff to do,” Deeba said. “We have to find Brokkenbroll. He got away. And we have to tell everyone in UnLondon what to do with the unbrellas.” She twirled her rebrella, and it did a little midair pirouette of its own.
“There’s all sorts to do. Let’s find the Propheseers. I’ve got an apology to pick up.”
“So we’ve got to get to the Pons, now?” said Jones, trying not to look horrified.
“Don’t worry,” said Deeba. “No more trekking. Give it a minute. The bridge’ll come to us.”
“What about Skool?” said Obaday. “And the binja, and—”
“We’ll make some stops,” said Deeba. “Trust me. Mortar’s going to do exactly what I say.”
She knew it would be awhile, and it was. It took a bit of time, in the confusion at the end of the war, while the Propheseers tried to work out what had happened, and how the abcity had won, and whether they could trust the victory. But after the UnSun had come up and shone gently on UnLondon, the end of the Propheseers’ bridge poked into the ruins of Unstible’s workshop, and Mortar beckoned them all on.
98. Fit for Heroes
“We’re putting the word out,” Mortar said. “All over UnLondon, unbrellas are being converted to rebrellas. Mostly they bounce off immediately into the Backwall Maze or somewhere and join bands of rubbish. But a few of them seem to want to stick around with us.”
“Whatever,” said Deeba. “The main point is Brokkenbroll can’t control them. Does anyone know where he is yet?”
“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.”