Nero would have managed to free himself before long. He’d tied his beak loose enough to make sure of it. Still, he’d hated doing it. Hated himself for doing it. Taking him, frightening him.
He’d rattled her. She thought a Tonton had followed them. That the dead crow and Nero proved they could get at her—at all of them—at any time, at any place. So what? She wasn’t going to give up. Run away in fear. Had he really thought, even for a moment, that she’d do such a thing?
No. He’d stopped thinking. He’d lost his head. It was a shaming, stupid trick. Born of panic in the night-time woods.
He had to stay cool. Forget about DeMalo and just stick with his plan. It was simple and it would work. He’d follow her as she went to meet Jack. He’d look for his chance. He’d take it.
And his deal for their past and future would be done.
Our way to Sector Five takes us through the fells, with their acid springs an unsettled tors. It’s a place of sudden echoes. Of long ago bloodshed, cold on our skins. The wind whines its claws over rock. There’s bin a fresh landslip, a big one. We hafta dismount an help the horses pick their way through the shattered slabs.
I planted myself at the rear from the off, wantin to be alone with my thoughts. Not that I’ve had much chance. I carry Nero snug to my chest. He’s buttoned inside my coat with his head poked out to see where we’re goin. Tracker sticks like a burr, shovin his nose in, anxious to keep check on his friend.
Ash hangs back to wait fer us. How is he? she says. Hey, Nero. How ya doin, buddy? She reaches out slowly. He chitters nervily, beaks at her. It’s okay, okay, I won’t hurt you, she says. But he won’t let her near enough to stroke him. Helluva thing, she says to me.
You said it, I says. I go to walk Hermes on, but her hand on my arm stops me. The hostile wind circles, snatchin at her forest of plaits. Whippin the manes of the horses. She stands foursquare aginst it, tall, shadow-eyed an sharply white faced. Like a shade of some old war, rumbled from the stones by our passage. Her fingers chill through my sleeve.
I bin thinkin, she says. An I don’t like where it’s took me.
The liar inside me takes a cagey step back. What’re you talkin about? I says.
Come on, she says, you must be thinkin it too. It was one of us did that to Nero. Took him an tethered him.
I stare at her. It never crossed my mind, I says.
I don’t wanna think that one of our own did it, she says. But I cain’t figger how else to explain it.
DeMalo is how. But I cain’t say. I couldn’t ever say. None of us would dream of hurtin Nero, I says.
If somebody wanted to git at you, shake you, what better way than Nero? she says. An, I mean, we ain’t ezzackly bin holdin hands an dancin in a circle. Yer in a spiky time, my friend.
Are you talkin about Creed? I says. You an him’s best friends.
I ain’t namin nobody, she says. I hate that I’m even sayin this. Maybe I’m wrong. But. You need to look into it. If it is one of us, we gotta know who. An why.
You ain’t mentioned this to nobody else, I says.
No, she says. An listen, you make sure you suspect me too, okay? It could be I’m tryin to throw you off my trail here. Mind you, if I was, it’s such a sorry attempt I’d hafta cut off my own head in shame.
No need fer that, I says. Okay, Ash. This stays between you an me.
She nods as she turns up her collar aginst the wind. We pick our way on through the rockfall. After a bit, Ash says, You know me, right? I ain’t crazy or nuthin an … gawd knows I ain’t got no imagination, but … I feel like she’s still here. With us.
She don’t hafta say who she means. I know. It’s Maev.
An I see her, Ash says. Sometimes, I’ll turn an I swear I see her. Jest fer a moment I catch a glimpse of her. An it’s so real. It’s like she’s … caught in the light. In the moonlight. The sunlight.
Maybe she is, I says.
She’s bin so tangled with my life, says Ash. With who I am, fer so long. It don’t seem possible she’s gone. An her an me, we had some … times together. Y’know what I’m sayin? Not heavy or nuthin—neether of us was like that—but …
Oh, I says. I guess I thought becuz her an Lugh—
Ash slants a smile at me. He, she … whoever, right? she says.
I’m sorry, I says. I know we don’t talk about her enough. I jest feel too guilty.
Don’t, she’d hate that, says Ash. She believed in you, Saba. She believed in this fight. Remember who she was, how she was, an take strength from her.
This time, when she puts out her hand, Nero lets her stroke his head. If only crows could talk, she says.
If only.
Mid-mornin. The northeasternmost corner of Sector Five. Sweat wet from a sudden heavy heat, we pick our way along a forest alley. Its single track winds through the grown-over ruins of a settlement. Here, the shape of man-worked stone. There, a peek of iron. The earth creeps an seeps. A slowtime tide of moss an bushes an trees. Sunbeams straggle through branches. Like I figgered we’d be, we’re ahead of Slim. The alley’s rutted deep with long use, but nuthin’s passed along it today. It narrows as it heads fer a wall that towers high. The last gasp of some big Wrecker buildin, slowly bein swallowed by the great bloated bleb of crawlin forest.
Emmi’s walkin jest behind me, with Tracker. I glance back. She’s stood stock still, with the strangest look on her face.
What is it? I says.
She don’t answer. Tracker whimpers an sniffs all around her. She’s stopped next to a great stone, shafted through its heart by a determined hazel tree. She turns her head sharply. Stares at the stone hard.
Don’t lallygag, Em, we must nearly be there. Emmi. C’mon. Quit dreamin.
The track ends at the high wooded wall. There ain’t no sign of no junkyard.
Did we follow Slim’s directions? says Creed.
Yeah, I says. But he did rabbit on. I might of missed somethin.
Mercy says, Did I not hear him say the sign might be overgrown? She nods at the wall, smothered by rambunctious snakecreeper.
Lugh an Creed scramble up, usin roots fer hand an footholds. They start tearin at the creeper. There’s a sudden green flurry as we all join in, haulin an pullin. Then we stand there pickin off bits of creeper as we look at what we’ve uncleared.
A great, rusted fancywork archway. Over twenny foot high, it wracks an twists, saved from collapse by girders an logs. We stare at the sign that hangs from the middle. Hard to say what it’s made from. Nuthin that ever grew in the ground, that’s fer sure. It was brightly coloured once, but long since faded. What looks to be a comet with a tail of stars smashes into bottles an sends ’em flyin. There’s a bunch of letters that could be words.
Star … light … Lanes, says Tommo. This is it.
We stare at him in wonder. He reds-up furiously, shrinks from our close regard.
You can read, I says.
So? he says.
You never said, says Lugh.
You never asked, says Tommo. I got numbers, too. He reads the sign, slow an careful. Ten pin, he says. Twenny lanes. Great for a date. Come in and score. He struggles over the next bit, frownin with the effort. S, e, n, i, o, r, s. Seneyeors? Seneyeors spec-ee-al rates Mon and Thur.
We wait.
That’s all, he says.
What the holy hell does that mean? says Ash.