The Empire of Glass - Andy Lane [93]
"Saint Stephen's church," Marlowe muttered.
"What?"
"Saint Stephen's church. I thought you might like the irony."
"Yeah, thanks," Steven snapped, "but I've got more things to worry about than a coincidence in names."
Marlowe half turned to stare at Steven, the strain of moving evident on his face. His shirt was a patchwork of maroon and scarlet.
"There's a channel beneath the church," he muttered. "It's navigable at low tide. I think the house we want is on the other side. I remember noticing the church when we left."
Gazing ahead, Steven could just make out an arched entrance in the wall of the church, black against the dark brick. "Is this low tide?" he said. "I can't tell."
Marlowe chuckled. "What have we got to lose?" he said.
Under the disapproving gaze of the gargoyles Steven heaved at the oar, and the gondola sloshed from side to side as they approached the arch.
William Shakespeare leaned back against the blue marble ( a synthetic polymer lighter than balsa wood but possessing a higher tensile strength than steel) and took a deep breath. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, and his heart was beating so rapidly that he could hear nothing apart from its hammering. Acid surged into his mouth from his churning stomach and he swallowed convulsively, trying not to throw up. He bent double, hands on knees, the air catching in the back of his throat as he tried to recover. Sweat trickled warmly down his bald forehead and dripped to the marble floor. What a weary reckoning this was. He could hardly move another step, let alone make it to the landing area for the skiffs ( small atmospheric and exo-atmospheric craft powered by quantum field fluctuations and capable of flying from England to far Afriq in a matter of minutes). He needed rest, and no matter that he might be caught by the stick-men before he could move again.
After a few deep breaths the giddy feeling and the sickness in the pit of his stomach passed away, and he found that he could straighten up again. A breeze cooled his brow and, gazing around for its source, he caught sight of a nearby window. He staggered closer, braced his hands against the wall to either side of the opening and gulping the pure, salt-tanged air. Barely a few feet below him were the tops of Laputa's trees, and in the distance he could just make out the circle of grey material that he knew must be the landing area for the skiffs. Beyond that, the light blue sky and the turquoise water met at a line directly ahead of him and impossibly distant. Glancing downward he could see the circular shadow of the floating island ( held up by a repulsive force acting against gravity and produced by anti-neutrons circling in a distronic field) against the white-capped waves. A seagull floated close to the window on steady wings, eyed him for a moment, then glided away. Oh for a horse with wings, that he could fly home to England in safety with his prize.
Still weak, he leaned back against the wall and glanced both left and right. The airy corridor along which he had been running was empty. There was no sign of any pursuers. Now that the rush of blood in his ears had subsided he strained to hear any sound behind him, but there was nothing. Perhaps he had thrown them off the scent with his constant twisting and turning down side corridors and through empty halls.
Shakespeare let the breath whistle softly from his mouth and closed his eyes for a moment. Just a moment, and then he would head for the landing area. The marble was cool against the hot, moist skin of his palms, and he could feel the raised golden veins ( quasi-organic structures responsible for maintaining the condition of the marble substrate and replacing damaged sections) pulsing slightly beneath his fingers.
Quasi-organic structures? Quantum field fluctuations? Synthetic polymers? What was happening to him?
After the echo of Shakespeare's hurried footsteps and the frantic rustle of the Jamarians' limbs died away, there was silence in the great marble hall for a while. Vicki gazed from Braxiatel