following Wavey out of the tent.
Charley Shallow watched them go from his hiding place in the shadows between the back row of the seats and the tent wall. It was a good hiding place, but he was too far away from Wavey and the dwarf to catch what they were talking about. “ News for you . . .” Borglum had said, hadn’t he? “. . . about the power up there . . .” Something like that. As they all started to leave he squirmed quietly sideways, hoping to get closer, but his foot came down on a loose plank beneath the seats which croaked like a bullfrog. Borglum, standing at the exit to hold the tent-flap open for his guests, looked round. There was a slinking sound and a flash of quicksilver reflections as he drew his dagger.
“Is someone there?” asked Dr Crumb, who was still jittery after the night’s display of violence.
“Prob’ly just some low-life come sneakin’ round to try an’ steal our fuel or catch a peek at Lady Midnight in her undiewear,” said Borglum. “Quatch! Stick!” he shouted. “Get out here!”
Charley heard the footsteps thudding down the gangplanks as the misshapes came scrambling out of the barge. He didn’t see them, though, since he was busy struggling his way out through the tent’s side by then; wrenching apart the ties that held two panels closed and forcing himself out through the gap he’d made.
Tent Town seemed quiet. He set off running, drawn by the faint sound of fiddle music and a raucous laugh from one of the canvas pubs. But behind him he could hear those ’shapes yelling to one another as they came out through the Carnival’s hungry mouth.
“There he goes!”
“Get him!”
Charley regretted running. If he’d just walked away casually the ’shapes might have taken him for a passer-by. He could have called out to them and said, “I seen the man you want; big fellow; he went that way!” But ideas like that always came to Charley just too late, and so he ran, and the misshapes ran after him. Along an alleyway between two rows of tents he went, leaping guy-lines like a hurdler. The pub he’d been aiming for loomed up ahead, but when he got close he saw it was a Movement place, with a northern name outside the door and northern songs spilling out. He couldn’t be sure how the folks in there would take it if a London boy came asking them to save him from angry ’shapes. They might help, but then again, they might stand back and watch the misshapes murdering him like a free show.
So he swerved around the pub, stumbled over a drunk in the shadows behind it and ran on, flagging now, wondering if any of the empty-looking tents around him would make a hiding place. But when he looked back he could see the misshapes behind him; big hairy Quatch and that snowmad boy, and if he could see them then they could see him and they’d follow him into any tent he chose like ferrets down a rabbit-hole.
On his left now something dark rose, like a sea-cliff rearing up out of a surf of tent-tops. It was the old temple of St Kylie. Till lately it had stood huddled round with houses at the heart of a busy web of streets, but the salvage gangs had taken all the houses now and left it lone and lorn. For the moment, fear of St Kylie had made them spare the temple, and Charley offered up a heartfelt prayer of thanks to her as he scampered round a corner, up the steps and into the shadows of the portico.
He could hear the voices of the misshapes coming closer, but they weren’t in sight yet, so he nipped through into the temple precinct; a space as big as their arena, open to the sky, where a statue of St Kylie towered behind a broad stone altar. He ran behind her, hoping the misshapes might be too superstitious to search there. Above him dozens of broken kites rustled and whispered on strings stretched between the temple’s eaves. The gods and goddesses of London seldom saw eye to eye on anything, but this past year they had all united to forbid their worshippers from making
Charley Shallow watched them go from his hiding place in the shadows between the back row of the seats and the tent wall. It was a good hiding place, but he was too far away from Wavey and the dwarf to catch what they were talking about. “ News for you . . .” Borglum had said, hadn’t he? “. . . about the power up there . . .” Something like that. As they all started to leave he squirmed quietly sideways, hoping to get closer, but his foot came down on a loose plank beneath the seats which croaked like a bullfrog. Borglum, standing at the exit to hold the tent-flap open for his guests, looked round. There was a slinking sound and a flash of quicksilver reflections as he drew his dagger.
“Is someone there?” asked Dr Crumb, who was still jittery after the night’s display of violence.
“Prob’ly just some low-life come sneakin’ round to try an’ steal our fuel or catch a peek at Lady Midnight in her undiewear,” said Borglum. “Quatch! Stick!” he shouted. “Get out here!”
Charley heard the footsteps thudding down the gangplanks as the misshapes came scrambling out of the barge. He didn’t see them, though, since he was busy struggling his way out through the tent’s side by then; wrenching apart the ties that held two panels closed and forcing himself out through the gap he’d made.
Tent Town seemed quiet. He set off running, drawn by the faint sound of fiddle music and a raucous laugh from one of the canvas pubs. But behind him he could hear those ’shapes yelling to one another as they came out through the Carnival’s hungry mouth.
“There he goes!”
“Get him!”
Charley regretted running. If he’d just walked away casually the ’shapes might have taken him for a passer-by. He could have called out to them and said, “I seen the man you want; big fellow; he went that way!” But ideas like that always came to Charley just too late, and so he ran, and the misshapes ran after him. Along an alleyway between two rows of tents he went, leaping guy-lines like a hurdler. The pub he’d been aiming for loomed up ahead, but when he got close he saw it was a Movement place, with a northern name outside the door and northern songs spilling out. He couldn’t be sure how the folks in there would take it if a London boy came asking them to save him from angry ’shapes. They might help, but then again, they might stand back and watch the misshapes murdering him like a free show.
So he swerved around the pub, stumbled over a drunk in the shadows behind it and ran on, flagging now, wondering if any of the empty-looking tents around him would make a hiding place. But when he looked back he could see the misshapes behind him; big hairy Quatch and that snowmad boy, and if he could see them then they could see him and they’d follow him into any tent he chose like ferrets down a rabbit-hole.
On his left now something dark rose, like a sea-cliff rearing up out of a surf of tent-tops. It was the old temple of St Kylie. Till lately it had stood huddled round with houses at the heart of a busy web of streets, but the salvage gangs had taken all the houses now and left it lone and lorn. For the moment, fear of St Kylie had made them spare the temple, and Charley offered up a heartfelt prayer of thanks to her as he scampered round a corner, up the steps and into the shadows of the portico.
He could hear the voices of the misshapes coming closer, but they weren’t in sight yet, so he nipped through into the temple precinct; a space as big as their arena, open to the sky, where a statue of St Kylie towered behind a broad stone altar. He ran behind her, hoping the misshapes might be too superstitious to search there. Above him dozens of broken kites rustled and whispered on strings stretched between the temple’s eaves. The gods and goddesses of London seldom saw eye to eye on anything, but this past year they had all united to forbid their worshippers from making
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