Previously: Pursued by a one-eyed man, Steven Chance has ascended further up Empire Street, trying to avoid trouble, climbing the ropes and bridges of the Valley of Fear. Caught in a choking cloud, though, he almost fell but has been saved by a stranger, who wears a copper-coloured ring similar to the one he carries…
Part Four
Vanity Fair 1
Her name was Faith. Faith McKenna, she said.
"You didn't think you were the only one doing this trip, did you?"
And she showed him her ring. It was the same as his. Well, almost the same. The same broad strip of coppery reddish metal, but where his was marked with a spiral, hers was cut with a pattern of right-angled steps, up and down and up and down and up and down again, like crenelations or ziggurats.
"You get the three wishes too?"
"You what?"
"Just a joke."
"I don't know nothing about wishes. It don't come off though."
"No. Neither does mine."
"So, no use worrying about it, eh. Right, where do you reckon we go from here?"
"This is as high up Empire Street as I've ever been. The men of property don't like you going over their heads. But I know that the Street carries on up through the banking district–"
"The Hill of Lucre?"
"That's the one. Said to be paved in gold."
"They always are, mate. But to get there, we've got to cross the Fair, right."
"Right."
"How's your arm?"
"Agony," he said. "But working."
"Fine. Let's go."
The Fair occupied two or more entire floors over several buildings making up a complete city block. There were nine ways onto the floor, nine celestial gates, be they stairwells or elevators, bridges or in one case a helipad, associated with the eight cardinal points of the compass and a ninth, the Gate of Heaven, the stair that led up.
Steven and Faith approached the Fair by the south-west or Peach Garden Gate, though there were no peaches in the roof garden, just a miniature lawn and even more miniature trees.
Entry to the market was by invitation only. Which, of course, meant you could buy an invitation, usually for fifty pounds. Not that Steven had fifty pounds. And nor, as it turned out, did Faith either. Which by turns meant they must resort to the other way in: blagging an invite from a passer-by.
Fortune chose to favour them. Steven didn't know that many people at the Fair, though he knew a few, and of those, one couple happened by.
"Oi! Bekah!" he called out. "George, George mate, Giorgio!"
A young man with the ruddy, pinkish complexion of a happy pig, and an expression to match, turned at this halloo and stared blankly for a moment before recognition lit up in his piggy little eyes. The woman with him was Chinese, of a similar age, but thin as an iron rake and just as hard. Her hair and clothes were as acuminate as her demeanour. For a moment it looked like she might prefer her companion to ignore them but she was too late, he was speaking.
"Good lor'," he said, "Steven old man, is that you? Great mother Mary, but you look a state. You've not been running up and down the outside of buildings again have you. Strike me, you must be getting too damn old for that, surely."
"Yes, George, it's me. In the flesh. Hello Bekah."
"Steven, a pleasure," she conveyed just how much of a pleasure by her scarce glance.
Rebekah and George. Steven knew them from his days running helicopters for the men of property. Rebekah was quite a big noise: inherited position, obviously, but being Chinese, she avoided the Empire's more openly sexist prejudices. Hardworking and with a genius for brokering the right deal, she worked as a negotiator between some of the larger outfits.
George had signed up as a soldier in the bear pits of the dealing rooms, a role he was violently unsuited for. You needed to be endowed with genius or the luck of the gods to make a success of that game, and George had neither. He had, however, married Bekah's best friend from school, Amy. And while George and Amy had never made anything of themselves, Bekah had risen in the world and somehow they'd always just floated up with her.
"Look, George, could you just, um, you know…"
George started at him blankly.
"Invite us onto the floor, you idiot!"
"Oh! Oh, sorry, yes, sure. Come on, come on in. The water's loverly, that's what they say, innit?"
Bekah glowered at him, but he was impervious.
"What ho!" he said, saluting the Constable at the door. "Chap's with me!"
"And my friend here," said Steven quickly.
"Oh ho? And the lady too," said George, and he pulled out what looked like a notebook filled with coloured ribbons but was in fact his commission from the floor. He waved it two-handed like a tribal totem. The Constable gave it no more than the expected cursory examination. Bekah fixed her attention on some distant spot in the air.
"Right you are, sir," said the Constable and waved them through with studied disinterest.
They entered the trading floor, a cyclopean cavern of a room, two stories high, three in places. A cascade of noise, conversation, gossip and bellowed telephone calls, broke over them; the fresh, slightly thunderous atmosphere outside instantly replaced with the dry recycled taste and pervading hum of air-conditioning struggling to cope with hundreds if not thousands of bodies perspiring under the influence of too much adrenalin and caffeine and cocaine.
The fringe of the market was the outer wall of the building, given over to the semi-frosted glass walls of an endless series of offices, the tops of bookshelves and fronds of potted plants waving above the eye-line, discreet name plaques beside the door identifying the illustrious clients able to afford the ground rents.
To left and right, a broad avenue, thick with people hurrying every which way, set off in either direction to circumnavigate the building, marked by the street furniture of office space: the photocopiers, water coolers, and recycling bins, and yet also lined with hawkers and vendors, pushing everything from hotdogs to insider deals and class A drugs. A similar boulevard proceeded straight ahead from the gate towards the centre of the building where it ended at a square light well. Between them, these highways bifurcated the immense floor space into large squares, where shoulder-high partitions further divided the floor space into a labyrinth of alleys and work cubicles.
Beyond the light well, the other side of the building was a mirror of the first, though darker and with many more cables trailing from ceiling to desktops like alien roots in some cybernetic mangrove swamp. There were said to be huge server farms further up the building into which the techno-traders tapped.
"Cheers, George," said Steven, ready to put down his old acquaintance as easily as he'd picked it up again. But George seemed keen for them to stay.
"Hang on, old chum," he said. "What about a spot of luncheon?"
"Well, we, er, don't we want to be getting on?" Steven asked with a vague appeal to Faith.
No help to be had there, however as "Lunch is good for me," was all she said.
"George," warned Bekah, "I've a lunch meeting with Lord Hungerford at two."
"Couldn't be finer. It's, what, midday now? Call this a spot of late breakfast, eh?"
"I've got a spa appointment first"
"Oh you've got time. Come on, Beks. A bite and a botox always cheers you up."
"God, George, you're such hard work!"
"But worth it, my little pet."
Steven remembered how, in the times when he'd known them before, he would always find himself wondering just why did Rebekah allow George and his wife to freeload off her. He was certainly charming, in his guise as an affable Old School Boy, but it was so superficial and Steven reckoned he'd dislike what he found were he ever to discover what lay underneath the veneer.
Faith however appeared to be hungry.
"Come on, then. You're paying, aren't you?"
"Ahh," George looked momentarily pained and then brightened. "Course I am. Treats on me. Can always put it on the tab. I know a fellow who'll treat me all right. Doesn't want to get on the wrong side of…" he rolled his eyes significantly towards Rebekah. "Shall we toddle, then?"
"Sure," said Steven, "let's 'toddle'."
George rolled away through the throng, and they followed in his wake, even the spiky Rebekah. He led them into the jungle of partitions and cubicles like one of his ancestors penetrating the interior, occasionally using his commission like a machete to force away through the throngs. All around them, the locals conducted the business of the Fair in almost any language and at almost any volume.
Faith caught Steven's arm.
"Here," she said, "these people. They're selling guns."
"Probably."
"Yeah, but… guns."
He paused to look at her and she actually seemed shocked.
"Of course they're selling guns. This is an arms fair. You didn't know?"
"'Course I bloody didn't, yer cheeky scrote."
"Just look around. Guns, explosives, tanks, jets, all the mundane stuff that's out here on the floors. Further in, there's the more exotic weapons, intelligence sources, cyber-tech, that sort of stuff. If you get a long way in, you might find some of the real merchandise."
"They do say," George barrelled into their conversation, "that some of the men of property have field effect weapons. Maybe even some real structure ordinance."
"Some what?"
He snorted. "Juju, m'dear, magic. Y'know, 'foreign powers' stuff."
"Right, okay," she said but she sounded dubious.
"Anything you like, you can get it here," Steven added. "This is one of the biggest arms fairs in the world. It's why there's so much money here."
Faith sniffed disapprovingly.
"Figures," she said eventually.
"Come along, come along," said George, gathering them up like a mother hen and ushering them to resume their march.
It was, however, not much further when they came abruptly upon L'Auberge Chasteté, a perfectly miniature Belgian eatery that the proprietor, M. Paul, had somehow contrived to squeeze into the warren amongst all the traders.
Vines on trestles, wooden decking and even some of the building's columns dressed up as trees contrived to give it an air of the Bois in spite of the oppressive air-conditioning. Delightful in every way, particularly their moules served in the kettle with butter, sent from heaven, though I say it myself. The prices were eye-watering to anyone without an expense account backed by a national government or one of the larger banks, but since George never intended paying this never troubled him. Indeed, surely the greatest crime of his sordid little life was that George eventually sent that dear sweet place to ruin and bankruptcy through his exorbitant and eternally unpaid tab.
Of course, no crime goes unpunished. I need say no more than that.
But that time had not yet come, and on this day M. Paul welcomed George and his guests as old friends, or favourite guests, and provided with the false reassurance of Rebekah's presence he was happy to allow his "old pal" George "just a little extension".
Without further encouragement, George at once ordered them what he called a light lunch: lobster; fois gras; wild boar steak with genuine Belgian chipped potatoes; dessert and cheese, served in the English style, pastries first and then the cheeseboard.
Steven winced, and even Faith appeared a little daunted. Rebekah looked exasperated. George, however, tucked in with gusto, all the while twittering away. If he could have made deals the way he made small talk, he would indeed have been a prodigious figure on the floor.
Steven tuned out. His friend was talking about house prices. George and Amy, he was saying, were currently living with a great aunt, a dear old lady with a huge apartment on the Hill of Lucre, and they'd hate to leave her, didn't know what would happen to her without them but they really wanted somewhere to call their own. Nothing extravagant, but just look at how much everything cost these days…
Steven found himself paying more attention to the conversations on other the tiny tables around them. One in particular suddenly caught his ear.
"They're saying some brawl in the Jǔsàng has spilled over into the lower reaches of the Street."
"Ridiculous!"
"Where are the Constables? That's what I want to know."
"They should go in hard, crack a few heads. These types, they're no more than criminals. Living off our work, up here, expecting hand-outs."
"I heard it had reached street level!"
"Well, if they come up here we'll show 'em what for!"
If they come up here. Steven felt a chill of premonition at the words. They'd stayed here too long. He tried to steal a glance at the fake Rolex on George's flaccid wrist, but George caught him.
"What's this? What's this? After my bit of bling, old man?"
"No, mate, I just want to know the time."
"Come on, old chap, what's your hurry. Aren't we having a good time? I can order this chappie to bring us more champagne. Champers always cheers me up."
"Sorry George, mate. We've really got to go," and Steven made to stand.
Before he could, George's hand closed over his arm. "No, 'old mate', you've really not." The chubby fingers tightened like a vice.
Steven found himself staring hard into George's piggy eyes, seeing the cold animal determination behind them, even as Faith and Rebekah noticed and started to speak over each other.
"Here, what's this? What're you doing?"
"George, what the blue blazes are you playing at?"
"No, it's fine, it's fine," said Steven relaxing back into his chair. Before casually stabbing his fork into George's hand.
"Arrgh!"
The obese trader snatched his hand back and Steven sprang to his feet.
Standing in the entrance to L'Auberge were three men. Two, very smartly dressed in black, slightly-shiny suits, were instantly recognisable as merely a higher class of the kind of toughs-for-hire that had assaulted Steven and Jo in the harbour. The third, inevitably, was the one-eyed man.
"Dabbling in a bit of body-selling, are you, George?" asked Steven.
"What's that?" said Faith.
"He was keeping us here. Probably for a payoff from my former creditor over there."
"Just looking for a little liquidity, old man, to tide the cashflow over. No hard feelings, eh?"
"Dunno, George, maybe just a bit hard, actually."
George's face become a snarling mask.
"You're not getting away, anyway."
"Yeah? Well, we'll see about that."
"Here, mate," Faith intervened, grabbing the nearest waiter. "Back way out of 'ere, or there's gonna be a fight. Don't want yer nice fancy restaurant all busted up do you?"
For a moment the man's eyes flickered between the tableau at the table and the group at the entrance, then quickly gestured them to exit via the kitchen.
"Good choice, mate," said Faith, grabbing Steven by the arm and running.
There were shouts from behind them as surely the two men in black jumped after them, but the restaurant was of necessity congested with tables and they had enough of a head start to be out of the doors and into the throng in the alley outside before their pursuers. They allowed themselves to be carried along with the eddies in the press and around a corner, before daring to pause and look back.
The two heavies emerged from the service door of the inn and cast glances in both directions before half-heartedly setting off to search for them. Thankfully they chose the wrong way.
"You're lucky. No enhancements."
Steven and Faith both jumped. Rebekah was stood right behind them. She seemed absorbed by examining her nails.
After a moment, Faith asked: "What?"
"Those two. No enhancements. Most of the security round here has no end of upgrades: links to the computers and the CCTV. Infra-red vision, some of them. Some are even said to have laser sights, though that might be a joke, I'm not much good at telling. Must be a cheap outfit. Or someone wanted them quickly."
"And you're telling us this because?"
"George is an idiot. A bloody idiot. And he's made me miss my appointment. I'll have to see Lord Hungerford as I am."
"Well, don't think we're not grateful, but…"
"Shut up, Faith. We're grateful, Rebekah, very grateful."
"Hmm. Here," she flicked out a small, white rectangle. "This is Lord Harlequin's card. You'll need to see him and you'll need this to get to him."
"Oi," said Faith, "I thought you said you worked for Lord Hungerford?"
"I'm seeing Lord Hungerford. I work for Lord Harlequin. It's not particularly difficult to comprehend. Take the card, Steven. I'm bored of helping you, now."
Steven needed no further urging and took it, a heavy cream card with the word "Harlequin" and a bar code embossed in a minimalist font.
"Cheers, Bekah," he said.
"Whatever."
Vanity Fair 2
They took the stairs up to the next level, half expecting a cry to go up, a huntsman's halloo, and the one-eyed man and his suited henchmen to appear.
But there was nothing, just the reverberant susurrations of a thousand urgent conversations like waves on an ocean of commerce and, underneath, the persistent hum of the buildings' processes moving air, water, power and waste like simulacra of organic leviathans.
A Constable tipped his hat to them but made no move to stop them.
"That's a bit odd, ain't it?" Faith remarked.
Steven wasn't one to shrug off their good fortune, and insisted, "Don't jinx it!"
Here, the gridwork of cubicles and office spaces was superseded by long, wide corridors, intersecting hallway boulevards whose pale beech-panelled walls were decorated with discreetly expensive watercolours interrupted infrequently by unrevealing inset doors, in the distance the lightwell at the end of the tunnel.
The crush of people thinned a little too, fewer haggling in the passageways, more small groups or individuals moving urgently from one office to another, their footsteps muffled by the carpet.
Here and there, there were guards, solitary sentinels or pairs, dressed in semi-formalised body armour in the colours of one or other of the men of property. Most were armed, sword and submachinegun, and all were watchful, on edge, alert eyes scanning all the time.
Steven reflected on the nice wide corridors making nice wide lines of fire.
"Is it me," asked Faith, "or are this lot marking off territories?"
Steven looked again, and realised the guards weren't just eyeing the passers-by; they were watching each other too.
"You're right… Oh. Damn!"
"What?"
"See all these guys in blue?" Steven asked. All of the nearby uniforms were marked at the shoulder with a stylised blue peacock-like feather.
"Yeah."
"Those are Lord Peterloo's colours. Step carefully. He's not exactly a friend of Lord Harlequin."
"That's great. They look like they're itching for a scrap," said Faith.
"Yeah, I don't like it," Steven agreed.
"Should we go round?"
"Um, yeah, but…"
"But?"
"Let's not look like we're avoiding them."
"You want us to avoid them without looking like we're avoiding them?"
"You know" he quoted Han Solo, "Fly casual."
"Yeah, right, whatever."
Faith not a Star Wars fan, then.
But she set off, matching her brisk pace to the other scurrying figures in the corridor and making it look like a saunter through a corn field. She looked completely relaxed, like she knew where she was going and had every right to be there. Steven had no such talent and scampered after her.
All the corridors were guarded.
They passed the red stripes of Lord Sharpeville, the yellow flower of Lord Jamestown, the green and white roundels of Lord Glencoe, more of Lord Peterloo's blue feathers.
If Steven's memories of the shifting alliances and balance of power among the men of property could be relied upon, then the first two, at least, of these would not have been so hostile – at least not normally; something seemed have gotten into all the security today.
Normally, it would have been safer and quicker to go through Lord Sharpeville's territories. Safer still through those of Lord Jamestown, who was known to be close with Lord Harlequin, but further and time and their pursuers were very much pressing.
But Faith didn't appear to realise any of that and Steven, trailing, could not subtly tell her. Or she had her own ideas about where they should be going.
Or she realised that today was not normal.
She marched them towards one end of the building where they came to the northern gate of the fair, a space that was a kind of courtyard, dotted with ornamental golden apple shrubs, in front of a blank wall of elevators, the black marble façade contrasting with the light wooden panels of the rest of the floor, old-fashioned metal dials above each lift indicated the floor it was currently on.
A face-off was taking place between groups from two gangs: a smaller party of green-and-whites were holding their ground against a larger party of blue feathers.
"—telling you again, the bloody Apple Blossom Gate is and always bloody has been under the protection of his Lordship of Glencoe—"
Steven heard a slight tut of annoyance from Faith but without breaking stride she turned to walk the length of the elevators, with every appearance of taking no further notice of the bristling confrontation.
Steven genuinely thought she was going to get away with it, but one of the blue peacocks turned and grabbed her by the upper arm.
"Where the hell do you think you're off to?"
"Hands off, haircut!" she snapped, "Confidential couriers, see. No one interferes with us."
"Oh yes? And where's your tabard? All couriers are to dress in guild tabard and stripes, so as we know who not to detain."
"Which part of 'confidential' don't you get, braindead?"
"You better show me some accreditation right now or I'm going to take that personally—"
Steven, frozen, unable to work out how to stop this new set-to, one which was rapidly drawing more attention from the larger dispute, found himself saying the first thing that came to him:
"Hey, what's happening with the lifts?"
All of the metal needles on the floor indicators were rising together; every lift at once was on its way up. It was… unsettling. Enough so that it silenced the argument between the rival factions.
Faith angrily yanked her arm free of the Peterloo guardsman's grip, Steven noticed, but the guard only snarled half-heartedly.
"Come on," Steven said to her. She was half-hypnotised by the ascending lifts herself, but at his suggestion broke away, the pair of them making for the first corridor away from the end wall.
Behind them, a series of quiet chimes in close order announced the arrival of every lift.
The doors opened and, in a wave of screams and shouts, a riot broke over the guards like a tsunami. And like inadequate sea defences, the guards went down.
Scores of people burst from the lifts, a haphazard blend of the rough dregs from the Jǔsàng Harbour and the tight angry faces of the Hěn nán, cheap but respectable attire mixing with theatrical pirate costumes, a seething, angry mob, enraged and unleashed.
"Run!" shouted Steven.
They ran. But even as they ran, they were overtaken by something like a blastwave of awareness, comprehension and terror.
First, the screams of the mob caused the busy traders in the corridors to pause and look, doors opened, and people came out to stare.
Then realisation started to dawn. Guards, of all colours, most of them, started to run. Some ran towards the fray; others ran away. People, civilians, started to run too, and then as panic started to catch like wildfire, began to scream also.
And then to fight, as the mob spreading from the elevators began to catch them, or to fight each other, clawing one another out of their way as they sought to reach other exits from the floor.
Some tried to barricade their office doors, but elegant soundproofing was no barrier to a determined assault and the doors were battered down, computers and AV equipment were smashed or seized up by looters and carried away. Flatscreens bourn aloft like talismans or relics from a sacked monastery.
Steven spared a thought for George and Rebekah. Bekah, at least, he hoped was all right.
What Steven was not to know, but I can tell you confidentially, was that she, holed up in her meeting with Lord Hungerford, was well protected by his retinue and never in any danger. George, however, proved his mettle in the battle, a good little scrap he would later call it, and for a time his stock rose.
So, Steven spared them a thought, but one was all he had time or presence of mind for, before he and Faith were running full pelt for the outer wall of the building and the bridge to the next.
The bridge was a clear, hardened-polyethylene tube, almost square in cross-section, with a carpeted walkway suspended within, and decorated, inevitably, with advertising within and without.
A Constable was minding the near end, with his truncheon in one hand, he was tightening the chinstrap of his helmet with the other. As they approached, he pointed the truncheon at them in warning, saying:
"Now, sir, madam, I want no trouble. Just make your way back to one of the Gates—"
"Trouble, mate?" interrupted Faith, "You've got plenty coming, and it's right behind us."
"Ma'am, I'm telling you again, I want no fuss—"
He was interrupted again. This time the interruption was something like a cough, and then another one, from the floor near where the bridge met the wall of the building. The Constable spun and stared.
"What? No!"
There was a plastic shriek and a tearing sound, and the bridge suddenly slumped at their end.
Steven worked out what was happening.
"Oh man!" he said.
"They're blowing the ruddy bridge, aren't they," said Faith. Adding, this to the Constable, "Leaving you behind, aren't they, mate?"
"Stay… Stay back, ma'am…" the man stammered.
Another couple of muffled coughs echoed from across the bridge and the supports at the far end were blasted away too. The whole clear plastic box dropped about a foot, before suddenly stopping tangled in more neon advertising. For a second it looked like it might hold, but no, and in an instant, it just fell away, trailing broken neon tubes and cabling.
Behind them the sound of running feet on carpet and then the sharp cry of discovery as the first of the rioters came around a corner and spotted them.
"Oh man," said Steven again. "Wait here!"
He ran. He ran away from the bridge, towards the oncoming rabble, and quite frankly he took them by almost as much surprise as he took himself. He pulled up short and doubled back, accelerating to a sprint, and flung himself past Faith and the astonished Constable out into the chasm left by the falling bridge…
…and caught hold of the trailing cables.
As before, in the valley, he twisted his wrist to tangle the wires around his arm.
His momentum carried him forward in an arc, swinging over to the far side. A second Constable stood there, holding a remote control – probably the device that had just exploded the bridge's supporting joists – and another, older man, dressed in Chinese robes, green and white dragons coiling up the long sleeves. Steven returned their dumfounded stares with a grin, before allowing himself to swing back across the now-unbridged gap.
"Get ready!" he shouted to Faith as he reached the opening on her side again.
She waited for him to reach the apogee of his swing before leaping into his open arm.
He looked at the Constable again. "Sorry!" he called before the reverse swing carried them back into space and his arm took both their weights, popping his shoulder back out of its socket.
He managed to hold on long enough for them to make the crossing one more time. On the far side, he released his grip and they fell in an undignified heap between the Constable and the robed official.
Left behind them, it looked for a moment like the mob would have the Constable, but he flung his truncheon in the face of the leading rioter, buying himself a scant second to turn and dive from the open face of the building. His short cape snapped and billowed like a flying wing and his dive turned into a shallow glide, not enough to lift him, but well able to carry him over to the far building where he kicked off into a second shallow dive back again and so proceeded, like some enormous, blue, flying squirrel, to descend by safe stages between the two skyscrapers.
"Blimey," said Faith, "I'll tell anyone who asks: our coppers are marvellous!"
Abruptly, the howl of the rabble was interrupted by the ugly staccato of gunfire.
"Good," said the man in the robe. "The unpleasantness has been contained. Now order will be restored."
"Brutal," muttered Faith.
The official considered the pair of them for a moment, possibly contemplating having the Constable hurl them back into the void. Eventually, he settled for saying:
"These are the private territories of their lordships. You will return to the trading floor, please. You will be perfectly safe; the Constabulary will see to that."
Another burst of gunfire seemed to put the lie to that last statement.
"Please," said Steven, aware that the pain from his twice-torn shoulder was making him squeak, "we need… please… directions to the ninth gate."
"The ninth celestial gate? Certainly not. Be off."
"Wait," Steven twisted the ring on his finger, hoping the right words would come to him. "We have… we have an appointment… that is, it would be improper for us not to attend…"
"Improper?" that seemed to give the official pause. "Disorderly. Hmm."
His face showed distaste, but, clearly, he made a decision and clapped his hands sharply. A half-a-dozen security guards seemed to appear by magic. They were wearing armoured breast and shoulder plates, marked with green-and-white roundels.
"Ah," thought Steven, only now recognising the official's green-and-white robes. "He's Lord Glencoe's man."
"Bannerman," the official ordered, "is the way to the ninth gate clear?"
"Ah, yes, we think so."
"You think so?"
"Well, there's no, ah, difficulties reported this side of the Fair. Not yet."
"Very good. In that case, take an escort and see these persons go directly to the gate and that they remove themselves forthwith."
"Very good, sir."
"And you," the official turned back to Steven and Faith, "go!"
"Here," said Faith, tiredly getting up and reaching for Steven. "I'd better fix your shoulder. Again."
As Steven braced himself, he happened to glance back across the empty space where the bridge had fallen. From the open gap on the other side, a one-eyed man stared back at him.
