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Authors: Philip Reeve
Tags: sf_fantasy
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take what we can get. So we took you. We're going to sell you as slaves, you see. That's how it is. There'll be some slaving towns at the cluster, and we're going to sell you. It has to be done. We need spare parts for our engines, if we're to keep a step ahead of the bigger towns..."
"Sell us?" Tom had heard of cities that used slaves to work their engine rooms, but it had always seemed like something distant and exotic that would never affect him. "I've got to catch London! You can't sell me!"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll fetch a good price," Wreyland said, as if it were something Tom should be pleased about. "A handsome, healthy lad like you. We'll make sure you go to a good owner. I don't know about your friend, of course: she looks half dead, and she was no oil-painting to start with. But maybe we can sell you off together, 'buy one, get one free' sort of thing." He pushed two bowls through the flap, round metal bowls such as a dog would eat from. One contained water, the other more of the blue-ish algae. "Eat up!" he said cheerfully. "We want you looking nice and well-fed for the auction. We'll be at the cluster by sundown, and sell you in the morning."
"But..." Tom protested.
"Yes, I know, and I'm terribly sorry about it, but what can I do?" said Wreyland sadly. "Times are hard, you know."
The hatch slammed shut. "What about my seedy?" shouted Tom. There was no answer. He heard Wreyland's voice in the passage outside, talking to the guard, then nothing. He cupped his hands and drank some water, then took the bowl across to Hester. "We've got to get away!" he told her.
"How?"
Tom looked around their cell. The door was no use, locked and guarded as it was. He peered up at the plumbing until he had a crick in his neck, but although some of the pipes looked big enough for a person to crawl through he could see no way to get into them, or even to reach them. Anyway, he wouldn't have fancied crawling through whatever that thick fluid was which he could hear gurgling inside them. He turned his attention to the wall, feeling his way along the planks. At last he found one that felt slightly loose, and gradually, as he worked at it, it started to get looser still.
It was slow, hard, painful work. Tom's fingers filled with splinters and the sweat ran down his face and he had to stop each time someone passed along the walkway outside. Hester watched silently, until he started to feel cross with her for not helping. But by evening, as the sky outside turned red and the racing townlet started to slow, he had made a gap just wide enough to get his head through.
He waited until he was sure there was no one about, then leaned out. Speedwell was passing through the shadows of some tall spines of rock, the town-gnawed cores of old mountains. Ahead lay a natural amphitheatre, a shallow bowl between more rock-spires, and it was full of towns. Tom had never seen so many trading suburbs and traction villages gathered in one place before. "We're here!" he told Hester. "It's the trading cluster!"
Speedwell slowed and slowed, manoeuvring into a space between a ragged little sail-powered village and a larger market town. Tom could hear the people on the new towns hailing Speedwell, asking where it had come from and what it had to trade. "Scrap metal," he heard Mrs Wreyland bellow back, "and some wood, and a pretty seedy and two fine, fresh, healthy, young slaves!"
"Oh, Quirke!" muttered Tom, working away at enlarging the hole he had made.
"It'll never be big enough," said Hester, who always expected the worst and was usually right.
"You could try helping, instead of just sitting there!" Tom snapped back, but he regretted it at once, for he could see that she was very ill. He wondered what would happen if she was too weak to escape. He couldn't run off into the Out-Country alone and leave her here. But if he stayed, he would end up as a slave on one of these filthy little towns!
He tried not to think about it and concentrated on making the
"Sell us?" Tom had heard of cities that used slaves to work their engine rooms, but it had always seemed like something distant and exotic that would never affect him. "I've got to catch London! You can't sell me!"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll fetch a good price," Wreyland said, as if it were something Tom should be pleased about. "A handsome, healthy lad like you. We'll make sure you go to a good owner. I don't know about your friend, of course: she looks half dead, and she was no oil-painting to start with. But maybe we can sell you off together, 'buy one, get one free' sort of thing." He pushed two bowls through the flap, round metal bowls such as a dog would eat from. One contained water, the other more of the blue-ish algae. "Eat up!" he said cheerfully. "We want you looking nice and well-fed for the auction. We'll be at the cluster by sundown, and sell you in the morning."
"But..." Tom protested.
"Yes, I know, and I'm terribly sorry about it, but what can I do?" said Wreyland sadly. "Times are hard, you know."
The hatch slammed shut. "What about my seedy?" shouted Tom. There was no answer. He heard Wreyland's voice in the passage outside, talking to the guard, then nothing. He cupped his hands and drank some water, then took the bowl across to Hester. "We've got to get away!" he told her.
"How?"
Tom looked around their cell. The door was no use, locked and guarded as it was. He peered up at the plumbing until he had a crick in his neck, but although some of the pipes looked big enough for a person to crawl through he could see no way to get into them, or even to reach them. Anyway, he wouldn't have fancied crawling through whatever that thick fluid was which he could hear gurgling inside them. He turned his attention to the wall, feeling his way along the planks. At last he found one that felt slightly loose, and gradually, as he worked at it, it started to get looser still.
It was slow, hard, painful work. Tom's fingers filled with splinters and the sweat ran down his face and he had to stop each time someone passed along the walkway outside. Hester watched silently, until he started to feel cross with her for not helping. But by evening, as the sky outside turned red and the racing townlet started to slow, he had made a gap just wide enough to get his head through.
He waited until he was sure there was no one about, then leaned out. Speedwell was passing through the shadows of some tall spines of rock, the town-gnawed cores of old mountains. Ahead lay a natural amphitheatre, a shallow bowl between more rock-spires, and it was full of towns. Tom had never seen so many trading suburbs and traction villages gathered in one place before. "We're here!" he told Hester. "It's the trading cluster!"
Speedwell slowed and slowed, manoeuvring into a space between a ragged little sail-powered village and a larger market town. Tom could hear the people on the new towns hailing Speedwell, asking where it had come from and what it had to trade. "Scrap metal," he heard Mrs Wreyland bellow back, "and some wood, and a pretty seedy and two fine, fresh, healthy, young slaves!"
"Oh, Quirke!" muttered Tom, working away at enlarging the hole he had made.
"It'll never be big enough," said Hester, who always expected the worst and was usually right.
"You could try helping, instead of just sitting there!" Tom snapped back, but he regretted it at once, for he could see that she was very ill. He wondered what would happen if she was too weak to escape. He couldn't run off into the Out-Country alone and leave her here. But if he stayed, he would end up as a slave on one of these filthy little towns!
He tried not to think about it and concentrated on making the
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