The Cradle of All Worlds. Jeremy Lachlan

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Hollow clutches his chest. Someone lets out a stifled cry. Old Mrs Jones faints into the arms of some idiot dressed in a bed-sheet toga, but Atlas doesn’t miss a beat.

      ‘Fear not, good citizens of Bluehaven. The Cursed One is our prisoner at last!’

      A collective gasp ripples through the square. I signal Violet to run with a jerk of my head. She stares defiantly back. The crowd doesn’t know what to do, what to feel. Relief ? Happiness? Terror? They aren’t sure whether to celebrate and cheer or dash home and hide. But Atlas stirs them up, milks them for all they’re worth. He assures them of their safety, my treachery, his undying love for them all, and sure enough the good sheep of Bluehaven start a goddamn slow-clap. A slow-clap that quickly turns into outright applause. The idiot in the toga drops Mrs Jones and kisses some guy standing next to him. The Hollows even hug for three whole seconds.

      ‘The Cursed One attacked a group of perfectly innocent fisherfolk five hours ago in White Rock Cove!’ Atlas cries. ‘Ran at them with a machete! Threatened to kidnap their firstborn children! When they tried to flee, she herded them onto a jetty and tried to drown them all. Tried to sink the whole island with another quake!’ Cries of outrage from the crowd now. ‘But my son leaped onto a nearby boat, trapped the beast in a fishing net, and brought her ashore to face her crimes!’

      Eric Junior flashes a cheesy smile and punches the sky. Everyone hoo-rahs and huzzahs and sends gleeful praises to the Makers. It’s amazing, to be honest. Insane, but amazing.

      Atlas raises his hands, silencing the rabble. ‘The sentencing, Gareth, if you please.’

      Peg unfurls a scroll from his vest and clears his throat. ‘By the powers newly entrusted to ’im as Mayor of Blue’aven, the Honerababble Eric Nathaniel Atlas, son of ’ighly esteemeded adventurer Nathaniel Constantine Atlas, does ’ereby sentence Jane Doe, daughter of what’s-’is-face Doe, to – ’ang on, can’t read me own writin’. What’s that last word there?’

      ‘Death,’ I say, adding in a much quieter voice, ‘idiot.’

      ‘Oh yeah – DEATH!’

      Surprise, surprise, the crowd goes wild. Right on cue, a bunch of fisherfolk haul large wicker baskets through the crowd, handing out rotten eggs, fish, fruit and vegetables.

      ‘Fourteen years ago, this filth and her father intruded upon our world,’ Atlas cries above the uproar. ‘Cursed our home!’ He pulls the Manuvian knife from his vest. ‘Now her death shall set us free! Gone are the days of injustice! Gone are the days of fear and sorrow! Tonight we end our long years of suffering! Tonight we take destiny into our own hands!’

DUSK

      By the time the cage reaches the Sacred Stairs I feel like a compost heap and smell even worse. Violet’s no better off, drenched in the sludge dripping through the planks between us. At least she was shielded from the harder projectiles. Rocks, boots, stage props, torn-off pieces of the stages themselves. All I had were the cage bars fending off the occasional attack and half a watermelon shell to wear as a helmet. I’m resourceful like that.

      ‘What do you think of the festival now, huh?’ I ask Violet, but I don’t think she can hear me. What else am I supposed to say? Look away? Close your eyes? Run home and don’t look back? Please, please, please take care of my dad? Don’t let them hurt him?

      The invisible thread tugs at my heart and guts. I feel like throwing up.

      This can’t be happening. This can’t be it. None of this feels real.

      I try to fight Peg off when he snatches me from the cage. Wave my arms, kick my legs, say the things I expect people always say when they’re about to have their throats slit. Pointless things like, ‘Let me go,’ and, ‘Get your stinking hands off me.’ He doesn’t listen, of course, just drags me to the Stairs and pins me down with his wooden leg as the drums bum-ba-dum and the crowd claps to the beat. Eric Junior grabs my ponytail, pulls my head right back. Atlas holds the Manuvian knife high, and every idiot in the square cries out for my blood.

      ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point asking you to – ouch – forget all this, is there?’

      ‘You can beg all you want, witch,’ Atlas growls. ‘Won’t make a difference. We should’ve done this years ago.’ Then the drums thud, bam, boom and Atlas cries, ‘In the name of the Makers! Po, Aris, Nabu-kai!’

      I clench my eyes shut. Try putting myself in a happy place. Any place but here.

      But then a voice says, ‘Wait!’ and silence reigns again.

      I open one eye, then the other. The knife’s hovering above me, dangerously close. Atlas is glaring down at me, veins pulsing on his forehead. Eyes bloodshot, twitching.

      Peg removes his leg from my chest, turns to the crowd. ‘Who dares in’errupt?’

      ‘I dare,’ is the only response he gets.

      Atlas pulls me to my feet then, twisting my arm behind my back. He knows as well as I do who it is. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he shouts, ‘we are joined by a living legend.’

      The red cloak. The scars. Her presence here is clearly as rare as mine. Those closest to her in the crowd step back in awe. Only one person stays by her side. A stooped figure with a hooded cloak of his own. Someone from the museum, maybe. An apprentice?

      ‘Winifred Robin,’ Atlas says. ‘Such an honour. What brings you here this evening?’ And in a lower, aggressive yet undeniably pleading tone, ‘We had an agreement.’

      ‘The agreement stands.’ I swear Winifred’s eyes flick to the wagon where Violet’s still hiding, huddled behind one of the wheels. ‘Everything is as it should be.’

      ‘What? ’ I shout. ‘How can you say that? You said you were on my –’

      Atlas covers my mouth with his hand.

      ‘I merely wanted to congratulate you, Eric,’ Winifred says. ‘You are putting on quite a show. And I must say I am dreadfully sorry for the interruption.’

      ‘No problem.’ Atlas clears his throat. ‘And – and thank you.’

      Whispers ripple through the crowd. Everybody looks from Winifred to Atlas and back again, expecting something else, something more. But the old woman just stares at him, doesn’t even blink. It’s enough to make his palms sweat. I should know. I can taste it.

      ‘Is there anything else?’ he finally asks. ‘Ma’am?’

      ‘Yes. Actually, there is.’

      ‘Oh?’ Atlas mutters. I can’t help but feel relieved. Winifred has just been toying with him. She’s about to tell him it was all a game. Demand he let me go or –

      ‘Could you conduct the sacrifice a little higher up the Stairs?’

      Wait. No. What?

      ‘My friend here is not quite as tall as me, you see. I’d hate for him to miss out.’

      ‘Oh,’ Atlas says again. ‘And, ah, who is your friend?’

      Winifred СКАЧАТЬ