The City's son

CHAPTER 43

I’m trapped in frigid water. The wires bind me, bite me. I struggle, but I’m held tight, inches away from precious air. I can feel myself ebbing as the blood flows from my wounds. The sacred river squeezes me like a fist.

And as I lie there bound and bleeding out, my last thoughts are of the girl on the riverbank, the girl who, like me, now has the city in her skin.

I wonder how she’ll feel when the black-slicked figures come for me.

(I know they’ll come, they always collect on their debts.)

She’ll have to watch as they wade into the water and take the price I promised them. I try to imagine she’ll forgive me, that she’ll understand, but really, I know she never would.

‘Some poxy ingredient… Long as I live, not something I’m goin’ to use.’

I didn’t lie with my words, but I lied with my tone and my manner, with my smile — I had to, otherwise the stubborn girl would have taken it onto her conscience, and there was no way I could let her do that.

Dying, I still feel like I betrayed her.

And then there’s light, a shining human shape, diving towards the river, and my heart clamps up against my ribs. Panic swells my throat to bursting point. I thrash my head from side to side, choking on great gouts of the Thames as I struggle to shout NO!

As the shining girl enters the water, she starts to burn.

‘Lec!’

‘Lec-!’ In my dream it was a shout. Now, in my ears, it’s a feeble croak. ‘Lec…’

Rich garbage pours over my skin and I can feel the juices soaking into it, patching it up. I’m washed in old rainwater, in sticky Coca-Cola and congealing sweet-and-sour sauce. They are the city, as much as concrete and tar, these discarded treasures, and a nourishing broth to my almost-broken system.

After several attempts I manage to coax my waist into bending and I sit up. The blanket of rubbish tumbles away and my nice safe darkness is punctured by sunlight.

‘Ugh.’ I spit out hours-old blood. I pat around myself, searching for my spear.

‘My, my, what a mess. You’re awake then.’

‘Glas?’ My eyes adjust and he blurs into focus in front of me. After hearing his deep, rich voice, his body isn’t what I expect. ‘A baby? Glas, promise me, you’ll never ’carn like that again.’

‘Why?’ He sounds injured. Perched on a mound of milk cartons and old motors, he rests his chin on drinking straw fingers.

‘Because it’s creepy, that’s why. You’re almost as ancient as Father Thames, and kitting yourself out like a rotting foetus makes me feel old.’

He snorts. ‘You sound like your girlfriend.’

Light flares in my memory: sodium burning, fizzing away…

‘Electra didn’t speak aloud,’ I say.

Bugs bulge his cheeks in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. I meant- You know who I meant.’

I scrub the grit from my eyes and look out across the landfill towards the city. London’s massed ranks stretch into the morning smog.

‘Where is Beth, anyway? I think I dreamed she was here, she-’ I dreamed she kissed me, but I hesitate to say that, not with the memory of Electra, flashing in front of me.

Gutterglass shrinks a little. Beetles flee from his cuffs. ‘She’s gone.’

‘What? She’s gone home?’

His football-head deflates a little more. ‘She went to St Paul’s, Filius,’ he admits. ‘She’s gone to try and kill Reach.’

Something cold slithers inside my ribs. To try and kill Reach. Such a roundabout way to describe suicide. I try to drag my thoughts together. ‘Is anyone else missing?’ It sounds like the sensible question to ask, although at that moment I don’t care about anyone else. Beth’s gone.

‘The Blankleits tell me that Russian you recruited hasn’t been seen for a few hours. He’d taken a shine to the girl.’

‘Did he take any soldiers with him?’

‘No, he went alone.’

A poisonous taste is in my mouth. ‘Those two? Alone? The two humans — Thames and Christ and City blood, Glas! ’ I yell at him. ‘The only two who didn’t grow up with the legends, who have no idea what they’re up against- The Wire Mistress is there, Glas! Can you think of two people less suited to take her on? I have to go after her-’

I cast around, searching the ground. A sickening tightness seizes my gut. ‘Glas, where’s my spear?’

‘She took it to-’ He breaks off.

I look straight into his eggshell-eyes. ‘To drive into his throat, right?’ I finish his sentence, my voice going flat. ‘Just like you taught me. I wonder what put that idea in her head.’ I glare at him. He told Beth how to kill Reach, he acted like she could actually achieve it. Thanks to him, she’ll believe she has a chance.

I start to scramble over the heaps of rubbish, and pain flares around my joints, charting my injuries: an intricate topography of burns, bruises and barely sealed cuts.

Gutterglass’ eggshells track me. ‘Now that you mention it,’ he said, ‘yes, I can think of someone worse. How about a chemical burns-and-drowning victim who’s been half-flayed by barbed wire?’

I ignore him, doggedly trudging uphill in the refuse.

‘Filius, you can’t,’ he says, sounding serious now. ‘The girl’s as good as dead; the same for the Russian. This is war. People die. It’s too late for them. Surely they don’t matter more than the lives you can still save? The rest of the city,’ he pleads, ‘your kingdom. That’s what matters now.’

I don’t answer.

‘You have a responsibility,’ Glas presses on. ‘The army needs you. You’re the son of the Goddess. You have to be strong for all of us.’

Finally I round on him, teetering on top of a smashed-in television. I feel furious, groggy, drunk on shock. ‘Yeah? Once you told her I’d collapse if she died. You were trying to get rid of her. “Weeping, wailing, beating of breast” — remember that? I do.’

He nods, reluctantly, but his resentful eggshells track me, and in my mind’s eye I can see Electra’s yellow eyes behind them too. Both are accusing me of getting too close to the human girl.

‘You were right, Glas. If she dies, I’m wrecked.’ I stumble into a kind of half-run, Glas’ baby avatar skipping along beside me, borne on a constantly renewing conveyor belt of insects. Painful pins-and-needles start to ripple through me as my muscles wake up.

‘Filius-’ His voice has climbed to a higher pitch; his infant face is stretched in despair.

‘I’m sorry, Glas. I’m not proud of it, but she does matter more to me.’ I don’t know if he heard me, because the wind is starting to roar in my ears as I run.