The Cracks in the Kingdom Page 18

  He jogged across to take the penalty.

  5.

  Madeleine was walking the Cambridge night again.

  There was something in the moonlight tonight. It was stroking the stonework and spires, leaning into cracks between the cobblestones, caressing the stained-glass windows. She felt her heart lift with magic.

  A young man, shaved head, walked by, shouting into a mobile phone. “You are fookin kidding me!” He paused, and she could see the intensity of his listening face, furious intensity, tightening his cheekbones. “You are fookin kidding me!” he shouted again.

  Her footsteps slowed a little, subdued, then the moonlight picked back up again. Windows, arches, signs jutting from buildings. Streets that curled and turned, window frames in primary colours.

  She passed bicycles chained to fences, and a pair of drooping, empty chains.

  She reached the parking meter. The alleyway was quiet.

  Hey, Elliot. You there?

  She waited.

  Yep.

  There was a strange unfolding, a slide of relief. Last night with Belle and Jack had left her feeling displaced. Here, with Elliot, she belonged.

  You had a big deftball game today, right? Against the Rangers? Did you win?

  Rangos. But close enough. I’m impressed. And yeah, we won.

  She changed the subject fast, before he could start on a play-by-play account of the game. Boys did that. She’d already given enough of her life to deftball.

  Listen, we keep saying we need to figure out the “cracks,” but never getting into it. So I’m thinking, when does something crack? There’s wind and heat. But don’t tell me to bring a hair dryer. I am not going to stand here in the middle of the night blowing this parking meter dry.

  Take it easy, don’t even know what you’re talking about. Okay, cracks. Well, there’s erosion. Wear and tear. Vibrations over time. If you drop something like a glass jar, it can get a crack in it. Is that the kind of thing you mean?

  If you crash into something it can get cracked.

  Hurts anyway. Someone crashing into you.

  So, what do you think caused the cracks between our world and Cello? A giant collision? Like a meteor hitting? And is it WRONG that they’re there?

  The WSU think it’s wrong.

  Are they right? I mean, a crack means something’s broken, right? Like things are misaligned. Like broken families. Like the crack down the middle of our families — running down the space between our mothers and our fathers. Between us and our lost fathers.

  You’re on fire tonight. Sorry if I’m not keeping up, I’m half dead on my feet after the game. Got a bit injured. Keep going, though. I want to see where you’re headed.

  Madeleine smiled at that, Half dead on my feet after the game. She thought again of Elliot, his skinny arms. They must have let him play today. He wasn’t used to it, tripped over his feet. He was probably proud of his injury. She should have let him give his detailed account.

  Not right now, though. She wrote again:

  It’s like something has gone wrong. “Cracked” means crazy or high or insane. It means broken. It’s like flying, then falling, then you hit or crash and break.

  So you mean Cello fell? Or the World? Or both. Or what. Sorry, what?

  You’re missing the point. I’m thinking of gravity again. Flying, falling, crashing, cracking. We need to make a crack — make a bigger crack — so we need to fly and fall.

  Tried that. Remember? It hurt. Turns out cracks hurt.

  Madeleine held her pen over the paper. Elliot’s handwriting was fading into scrawl. She had the sense he was slipping away, slipping into sleep. She also had the sense that she was on the edge, on the verge.

  She wrote:

  There’s a formula for gravity. It’s to do with centres of things and how far apart they are, and their masses. Mass is not exactly what you weigh, more what you’re made of. So, those are the questions. How far apart are we? What’s inside you? What’s inside me?

  You’re losing me again. I have no idea how far apart we are. We could be standing side by side, or forever apart. Either way, my eyes are closing.

  This was like a race — she had to reach her point before she lost him. But what was her point? She was losing that too. She wrote:

  Here’s a line I read today: The force exerted on you by something far, far away may be vanishingly small, but it’s still there.

  She posted that, and something rose inside her. That was the point. She had caught the point in that note. She felt she had reached across the crack, and touched him. His reply would sing its way into her heart.

  Yeah, okay. Seriously, I can’t see the paper or hold the pen anymore. It’s like I’m already dreaming. Gotta go, sorry. Talk tomorrow night?

  Or maybe it wouldn’t.

  She tapped her fingers fast against her forehead. She felt in the strangest trancelike state herself. Before she could write again, another note appeared.

  Forgot — I’ve got the next RYA conference tomorrow, so I can’t talk then. It’s just for one night, though, and it’s in Tek, Jagged Edge, which is only a few hours by express, so see you here Monday night? I’m sure there’s sense in what you’re saying but you’re sounding like a total lunatic. Night, Madeleine. Sleep sweet.

  Wait, she thought. Wait.

  She whispered: the misaligned centre of you, the misaligned centre of me, and there was a mighty drag sideways and there he was.

  Just there.

  Right there.

  6.

  Elliot walked away from the sculpture.

  He stopped in the school gate, trying to remember where he was.

  You could be asleep and awake at the same time, turned out.

  Or maybe he was purely asleep.

  He scratched his head, and it came to him. The truck was parked just up the street. He teetered a little, felt a presence behind him, and turned.

  7.

  Night in a cold schoolyard, and there he was, Elliot, walking away from her.

  The shape of him, the width of his shoulders in a big coat with a hood. He was wearing old boots and his stride was fast. He was at the school gates. She tried to call, but she had no voice. She wasn’t there, but she was there. He had stopped and was scratching his head in an artless way — using his whole hand, like a child, thinking about something else. He took another step through the gate, and there was that lack of consciousness about his body again. It was in the way he swung his arms, in his head’s movement from side to side.

  Then he turned right around.

  He was facing her.

  And there he was.

  It was as if someone had shoved her hard from the side. The shock of it.

  That he’d have that kind of face.

  Even with his right eye swollen shut and bruised, even with his distracted look, even in the half-light, you could see what it was.

  It was the kind of face that makes everything that’s tight or tense inside you fade away. The kind that makes you smile a slow, slow smile. The kind that makes passersby turn to look, then turn again. The kind you want to press closer to. To see all its expressions. You want to see it in the light and in shade.

  She ran her eyes over his nose, his forehead, his cheekbones, his hair. Ah, that kind of hair. The kind that has a messiness to it, that he probably didn’t notice except to wash it, or to run his hands through it when he recalled he was supposed to look neat. The kind that gets all kinds of sunlight in it.

  Her eyes returned to his face. The kind of face you want to pause, then let it free, then pause again —

  There was another pull sideways.

  She was back in Cambridge.

  8.

  There was nothing behind him. Empty schoolyard.

  He turned back again, and walked through the school gate. Under a streetlight, into the dark, under a streetlight, into the dark.

  He shook himself. Ah, this was ridiculous. He shouldn’t have stayed talking to her for so long, but he w
asn’t this tired.

  You have to be awake to drive, he reminded himself. Maybe he ought to just fall asleep in the truck? Just for half an hour maybe, then drive home?

  He found the keys in his pocket, and a hand fell on his shoulder.

  The clash of keys on concrete juddered through him.

  He swung around, and there were two of them.

  Shapes with grins, one big shape, one small. Agent Tovey, Agent Kim.

  “What are you doing out this late?” Agent Tovey said.

  He started to answer. “Just,” he said. He couldn’t remember the reason he had planned. Up his sleeve. Something about deftball.

  “Heard you were a hero in the big game today,” Tovey said. “Have to watch you play sometime.”

  “Looks like you took a hammering,” Agent Kim added.

  They were both grinning at him. Their eyes were all on fire.

  He fumbled for thoughts again. What? What was he doing out? The sideways tilt of it.

  “It’s great,” Agent Tovey said. “It’s great you’re up and about.”

  Why is it great? he thought, reeling. They like arresting people?

  Well, he guessed they would. It was their job. Catching the bad guys.

  Elliot stared at them. Or tried to. They were fading in and out.

  “Thought we’d have to wait until morning,” Kim added. He was jerking his thumb toward the Sheriff’s station across the road. “We’ve been in there on conference call all night. We’ve got news, Elliot.”

  “Good news,” Tovey added.

  Something shifted again in Elliot. They were swaying with their smiles. They were rolling on their feet. Or maybe his eyes were swaying and rolling them for him. Did they mind? That he was making them sway?

  “That recipe book that you found,” Tovey said, and Kim’s smile widened. “You were right. There was a code in it. Our guys cracked it,” he said. “So we know what your dad and Uncle Jon were up to. Where they hid their samples.”

  They were watching his face, smiling at his eyes.

  “It’s a huge step,” Kim added.

  “It’s good news, Elliot,” Tovey said. “It just about tells us where he is. Setting aside the implications of the invention. Smart guy, your dad. Impressive guy.”

  “Swing by the Watermelon in the morning,” Kim said. “We’ll explain.”

  “We’ll show you one of the samples.” Tovey smiled. “Know how to have a good time, don’t you, kid? You look half dead. Not too drunk to drive, are you?”

  Elliot shook his head.

  They walked on, grinning back at him.

  “It’s great news,” Tovey called again.

  Something snapped awake in Elliot. It’s great news, he thought.

  He opened the truck door. His hand trembled. It’s great news. The tremble took ahold of his heart. He climbed inside and allowed himself to smile.

  1.

  “There is no button.”

  Elliot had been in an elevator before. Not one with a waterfall for a door, sure, and not one set in a corridor lined with green apples and glass chutes. But there was a bank of elevators in the new shopping complex in Sugarloaf, and he knew that you had to push a button.

  “There’s no button,” Keira repeated. “It’s got a sensor. It’ll come.”

  “But how does it know if you want to go up or down?”

  “Senses that too.”

  Elliot shot her a look to see if she had her glint, but she was watching the waterfall. Dancing a little too. She kept doing this sideways thing with her shoulders, and now, as he watched, she added a quick swivel with her hips. It just about killed him, that swivel. She was dressed in the Jagged Edge style: the short tunic with huge pockets, where all the Edgians kept their fold-away computing machines, a capelbeast wool cape, tied loosely at the throat, and black tights. The only thing he didn’t like was the netting over her hair.

  He looked away and noticed he was tapping his own foot. It was that music they had going all over this place. Its rhythm got right inside your body but it also felt like a manifestation of Elliot’s own excitement. There was a high-speed drumbeat, and it was running alongside his own heartbeat, like it wanted to keep it company. Like the beat and his heart were jogging companions.

  Something kept rising out of the drumbeat too. He didn’t know much about this sort of music, but he guessed it was electronic? And that rising part was the melody? Nope. It was too weird to be melody. It was more a twanging, supernatural thing, which might have been underwater bagpipes played with steak knives. Now and then, surprisingly, there was something sweet about it.

  Anyhow, whatever it was that kept rising then folding itself back into the beat, that matched up with the hope that kept surging inside Elliot.

  The agents knew where his dad was. The agents were about to rescue him.

  * * *

  But here, now, he was at the Cardamom Palace in the city of Tek, Jagged Edge.

  This was a night-dwelling city and Princess Ko had decided that, as a gesture of respect, the Royal Youth Alliance should immediately adjust to the time zone. So they’d all arrived at eight P.M., in time for hair and makeup — the makeup guy was looking lost and bored until he saw Elliot’s black eye, lit up, and performed some kind of magic with a tube and brush so it completely disappeared — followed by welcome reception and photo shoot.

  Sunshine cocktails, papaya squares, and pecan clusters had drifted into their hands, apparently riding on drafts. They’d been invited to partake of light washes and chilled by mini-tornadoes.

  He got the sunshine cocktails and light washes — Night-Dwellers had to compensate for deficiencies brought on by their hours — but the mini-tornadoes? What were they all about? Apart from messing up your clothes and your hair. “They’re a facet of the Ethos,” Keira explained, which was helpful.

  The photo shoot too was bewildering. JE photographers seemed to work without cameras and without actually looking at their subjects. Who knew where to turn or when to smile? Or which person actually was the photographer.

  Next they’d been shown to their rooms to relax for a moment. But how could you relax with hologrammatic image consultants dressing you up, restyling your hair and then holding up mirrors: “Do you like?”

  “Well, sure,” Elliot had said at one point, just to be polite.

  The voices had faded instantly then, as if they’d lost interest, and he’d found himself back in his own jeans, shirt, and scuffed boots. Right away, though, white light had shot across the air and a new voice had spoken: “Time for a sunshine massage before your meeting. Would you like?”

  “Thanks, but no,” Elliot had said, and he’d headed out into the corridor.

  He’d run into Keira at the elevator.

  He couldn’t help it. The excitement was like a puppy that keeps jumping at you.

  “They think they’ve found my dad,” he said, and Keira turned, and he’d never seen her smile like that before. It was a beam. It heightened her cheekbones, and gave her one disconcertingly cute dimple.

  “Turns out he and my Uncle Jon invented a listening device,” Elliot continued, and he reached into his pocket. “The agency decoded his recipe book, see, so that told them his secret hiding place — an air vent behind the corkboard in his shop — and there were a bunch of samples there. This is one.”

  He held out his hand. The listening device sat on his palm, looking exactly like a paper clip.

  A door opened somewhere down the corridor, and Samuel emerged backward, calling to his room: “Call yourselves a good evening from me! As you suggest, I will turn my mind to your sartorial suggestions, but I cannot promise any fondness for your fashion choices, for … oh.” The door had closed itself, firmly. “I did not mean offense,” Samuel muttered, then he turned and saw Elliot and Keira, standing at the elevator.

  “They wish to dress me!” he shouted to them. “The voices in my room don’t like my clothing!” This last he added with a jocular downturn of his mouth, as if
they would share his astonishment.

  Elliot and Keira regarded the approaching ruffles, frills, and jodhpurs, and tried to muster some echoing surprise. Tricky.

  “Just ignore the voices,” Keira advised.

  She took the paper clip from Elliot’s hand, and studied it.

  “Looks good,” she said, “but I don’t get why the Hostiles would care. There are plenty of smaller, slicker listening devices than this. I made some myself at school when I was ten.” She glanced up. “No offense to your dad.”

  Samuel looked at the waterfall-elevator.

  “Picturesque,” he said. “Shall we locate the stairs? We are convening in a Conference Room labeled with the letter Q, which is on Level 3, I believe, and that needs must be up.”

  But Elliot’s attention was on Keira. “This one’s different,” he said. “It’s super-nano technology. It works with particles smaller than light.” He paused. “Finer than particles of magic.”

  “Does magic consist of particles or waves?” Samuel murmured, half to himself, as he drew out his pocket watch. “Should we not locate the stairs?”

  “The agents were raving about it,” Elliot said.

  “This thing transcends magic?”

  “Right.”

  “It can bypass magic?”

  Elliot nodded.

  “So you’re saying it will work in Olde Quainte and the Magical North?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But that changes everything! It gives the Loyalists an unbelievable edge!”

  Elliot was grinning.

  Samuel, meanwhile, was studying the waterfall again. “Oh,” he said. “Like to a cobblestone in brill cream, this must be one of those people-moving machines. Thus, we have no need of stairs?” He turned to the others, and followed their gaze to the paper clip, now on Keira’s palm.

  “There were also a couple of transponders in the hiding space,” Elliot said. “And it turns out the woman who was working with my dad — Mischka Tegan — she used one of those to communicate with her people — which was dumb, and might be how Dad and Uncle Jon figured out who she was — which was when everything went to hell. But it also means —”