CHAPTER 35

EELS FOR BREAKFAST

The Smith arrived too late for breakfast, but he brought eels, a great basket of them which he dumped on the kitchen table with a smile.

“Eels, Cook, my dear,” he said. “I know you like them, and my traps out on the marsh are fairly humming with them at the moment. Something’s got ’em agitated.”

Cook looked into the basket and saw the serpentine jumble of bodies coiled within.

“Fat ones,” she said approvingly. “Why, those two must be more than three foot each!”

“Good eating,” said Hodge, who walked in behind The Smith. “But bad omens.”

“You’re right at that,” said The Smith. “When the eels run like this, means something bad’s got them stirred up.”

“Old wives’ tale,” snorted Cook, hefting the basket to a sideboard. “And I’m an old wife so I should know. Only thing that’s going to be stirring this lot up is my big spoon, soon as I got them rinsed and cut up and seething in the vinegar water.”

Hodge and The Smith exchanged a look that said they didn’t agree with her but knew better than to argue when she had the bit between her teeth. Indeed it was more than that, for Cook’s kitchen was her precinct and manners dictated she should be deferred to when visiting, the same unspoken species of professional courtesy applying to those who visited The Smith in his workshop or Hodge in his kennels.

“Besides,” she said grimly. “The bad’s happened, worse than you know. The girl’s gone and Sara Falk has lost her hand.”

They both opened their mouths and started asking questions at the same time.

“Quiet and I’ll tell you,” she said warningly. “That’s just the start of it. Now don’t clamour at me or you’ll wake her, and I’ve just got her to lie down again.”

Neither Hodge nor The Smith were given to panic, and both knew Cook would tell them more quickly if they let her do it her own way, so they each took a seat at the table and waited, though The Smith’s eyes kept straying to the door as if he wanted to burst through it and go to Sara’s side to see for himself.

Cook poured tea for the two of them, and as they sat watching her despatch the eels and chunk them into bite-sized cylinders, she explained all that had befallen since the arrival of Lucy Harker. The Smith did not interrupt once, but he leant forward when she told of Lucy seeming to be only able to speak French, and again when hearing of how Sara’s hand had been lost as she had reached into the mirror to try and save the girl just as it smashed. He exhaled like a steam-train easing a pressure valve, and bit his lip to keep it shut as Cook went on to outline the visit from Mountfellon and Bidgood.

When she had finished, he looked at the scrubbed tabletop for a long time.

“Well, Hodge,” he said eventually. “And you were thinking my lead caskets were a little premature.”

“Caskets?” said a voice from the door, and they all turned and rose as one at the sight of Sara Falk leaning on the doorjamb for support. “Has it come to that?”

She was pale to the point of transparency, and Hodge and The Smith made her sit by the stove and fussed over her until Cook growled and they gave her some space. Sara drew her silk robe around her neck, as if warding off a chill though the heat from the Dreadnought was positively dragon-like.

“You have prepared lead coffers?” she said.

The Smith nodded.

“Hodge was right in thinking you somewhat premature, Wayland,” she said. “We have plenty of resources at our disposal, and an enemy, if not the enemy, has indeed made himself apparent only this morning by bursting in here and showing his hand in a way which weakens him. We have not yet begun to fight back.”

The Smith shook his head and pulled up a chair so that he could sit with his eyes at the same level as hers.

“No, Sara,” he said. “The end always happens faster than you think. Our strength is going. And when there is no strength, there is gravity.”

He looked deep into her eyes to make sure she understood.

“And when there is no strength, there is gravity,” she repeated, like a child in a classroom. He didn’t smile. He just nodded.

“Strength fails and has to be regained. Gravity never tires. It pulls everything down in the end. So the coffers are ready because the wolves are circling, and what we can no longer protect here we must hide in safety.”

Her eyes moved to Cook’s, looking for support.

“It is not the end. While there are five, it is not the end,” Sara said. “I am not frightened of anything much, Smith, but you of all people saying that this is the end makes me tremble…”

She put a brave smile on it as if making a half-joke but got no answering smile from him. If anything, the protective rage banked up in his eyes glowed stronger. He shook his head.

“An end is nothing to be scared of, though in this case it is also profoundly not something to be wished for. However, ends are not always what they seem. The rings you all wear were not born as circles. They were cut from rods of straight metal, and at that point had not one but two ends. I bent and hammered those rods into rings and joined them. Now you look at them. I’ll guarantee you cannot see the ends any more, for my joins are good. But the ends are there, hidden in the circle. And where two ends meet in a circle, who’s to say whether or not one remains an end and the other becomes a beginning?”

“Those are just words—” began Sara, and then stopped as he banged the table hard enough to make everything on it bounce into the air.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But they are not words and we must act. I make the rings. And not all the rings are small. Not all the rings are gold. Not all the rings are even visible. But I ensure the circle continues. Even when we come to an end, The Smith always ensures The Oversight can revive when the wheel turns and time moves on. That is why I am The Smith. I make the rings and I hide the joins. Now excuse me. I must speak to Sharp. Where is he?”

“He went north with the Raven,” said Sara.

“Can you find your bird?” said The Smith, looking at Hodge.

“He’s not my bird,” said Hodge. “But yes. We can go and find them.”

The Smith stood, then surprised Sara by leaning over her and hugging her, before leaving wordlessly. Hodge raised an eyebrow at her and followed. Cook chose to ignore the wetness that The Smith’s unaccustomed show of affection had brought to Sara’s eyes, and busied herself putting a bowl and a spoon on the table.

“Soup,” she said gruffly. “Nothing in the world that can’t be made worse by facing it on an empty stomach. Even if the end’s coming, there’s always time to eat. And you’re drawn thin as a rasher of wind. I could read a newspaper through you.”