The Emperor of All Things - By Paul Witcover Page 0,216

smile. Then, compounding his shock, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his.

The result of this kiss was even more astonishing than the fact of it. Blessed coolness radiated out from the touch of her lips, and Quare felt his fever retreat before it, all the way to the end of his arm, where it pulsed distantly.

The woman pulled away. ‘Better?’

He was – so much so, in fact, that whereas mere seconds ago it was the struggle of marshalling his sluggish thoughts into speech that had impeded him, now it was the rapidity of thought that made articulation difficult. ‘I … How …’

She laughed. ‘You may ask as many questions as you like – only not here. Not now. My kiss is no cure – you require more help than I can give. We must away, before your captors return.’

‘But … who are you? How did you know to find me here?’

‘You called, and so I came, as was promised.’

But he hadn’t called her. The only one he’d called was …

‘My God. Tiamet?’

‘You may call me that if you like,’ she said with a smile and a sly sideways glance, as if enjoying his befuddlement.

Quare’s questions – of which he had many – were brushed aside by this self-assured if not imperious young woman who went by the name of a dragon. She led him out of the cell and into a narrow, torchlit corridor extending in one direction only. They followed it, coming to a room whose sole occupant – the turnkey, Quare assumed – lay dead or unconscious upon the floor.

‘How did you get in here?’ he asked.

‘The same way we are getting out.’

‘But why did you not come sooner? I could have used your help that night at the Pig and Rooster, and many times since then.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said, wincing as if at a painful memory. ‘I was unavoidably … detained. But no more questions, Mr Quare – in fact, it would be best if you not talk at all. The Morecockneyans have sharp ears, among other things.’ She accompanied her words with a gesture, as if flicking away an insect, and Quare felt – as he had before – the sovereign weight of an implacable will descend upon him, sealing his lips. ‘Stay close,’ she whispered, pulling her hood and mask back into place so that she was once again, to all outward appearances, Grimalkin. ‘Stay quiet.’

She had given him no choice but to obey, yet he did so gladly, eager to be gone. He could tell that time was short, not only because it seemed certain that his escape would be noticed, or, even if it were not, that they would encounter one or more Morecockneyans along the way to wherever it was they were going, and so raise a general alarum, but also because he could feel the hot tingle of his banished fever creeping back up his arm. It would break upon him again, and sooner rather than later. He did not want to be here when that happened.

Leaving the room behind, Tiamat led him with utter assurance through a maze of passages that would have left Quare baffled had he been forced to navigate them on his own. The most he could say was that they seemed to be descending rather than climbing towards the surface. But it was plain that Tiamat knew where she was going. Equally if not more amazing was the fact that, once out of the room, she moved with confidence not only through the spaces lit intermittently by torches but through longer stretches that were sunk in near-darkness, illuminated only by phosphorescent spores of the sort with which the Morecockneyans dusted their bodies. The vial that Longinus had given to Quare was gone, no doubt taken from him along with his weapons, and lacking it he felt all the more dependent on his guide. He stuck to her like a shadow.

From time to time as they descended, Tiamat would halt, or backtrack, or pull him into a side passage – all in response to some warning signal he had not heard or seen. Twice groups of Morecockneyans walked by their hiding place, talking and laughing among themselves as if they were strolling down any busy London thoroughfare, and once a silent, armed patrol stalked past, glowing like grim spectres. More than once Quare reproached himself for not having thought to take a weapon from the turnkey, though in his present condition, weak as he