Read The Sunken for Free Online Page B

he’d roused himself from his melancholy long enough to flip open the pages. He hadn’t seen a British newspaper in several years — they were in short supply on the ships, and they’d been banned in France since George III denounced Christianity. Not that he could’ve got his hands on one anyway from his mountaintop prison—
    He scanned the headlines. The announcement of the engineering competition sounded vaguely interesting — perhaps he could find work with whoever won. Suddenly, a sentence popped out at him.
    “Excuse me?” he called to the landlady. She bustled over with her tray of tea things, but he held his hand up to stop her filling his cup. He pointed to the article. “The paper talks about the King recovering from an illness. When did this happen?”
    “Gor, you been living under a bridge, sonny?”
    “Something like that,” he said gravely. “I had no news where I’ve been. Last thing I’d heard, he’d made a complete recovery from his malady and sent his eldest son to the block.”
    She snorted. “That nasty business was some years ago, now, though the next two sons is dead too. The King was distraught — he’s only got daughters left now, and he keeps them locked in the castle for their own protection.”
    “What did the princes die of?”
    “Well, that Joseph Banks — he was only the Royal Physician then — said it was venereal disease on account of all the ladies they were having relations with — but both of them within days of each other? Most say ’twas poison, the poor dears. George hasn’t married again, and with none of his immediate family still livin’, no one knows who’ll be crowned when he dies — I get men in here all fired up over the Council debates, an’ they think we’re headin’ for another Cromwell. But dammit if George ain’t ninety years old and no sign of him bein’ infirm ’till he took ill a few months ago—”
    “And that’s why Banks—”
    “—is now the Prime Minister. You’re a clever lad.” She patted his shoulders. “More tea?”
    He obliged, hoping she didn’t charge extra for the tea. His financial situation was already dire. He’d left France with all he had, but that wasn’t much. He could only afford a few more nights at this guesthouse — one of the cheapest, seediest ones overlooking Convent Garden — before he’d be on the streets.
    Everything must go well with Isambard today, or I am doomed. How fitting that my future now lies in the hands of the schoolboy whose own future had seemed the bleakest of all.
    Wringing his fingers in the napkin until the ends turned white, Nicholas stared at the crusts of his toast, his mind unfocused — travelling in endless circles. Another guest entered the dining room, dragging a mangy dog on a chain. The mutt yapped at the table legs, its eyes wide as it took in the room. The dog’s thoughts floated into Nicholas’ head — the curious smells emanating from every surface, rising like clouds and swirling together into a haze of colour. Nicholas rubbed his neck, feeling the bite of the chain against his skin.
    If I return to the Ward, to the machines, perhaps the voices will finally be silenced.
    Nicholas retired to his room to prepare for his meeting with Isambard. He spread his things out on his desk. He didn’t have much — he had brought only a small satchel from France — some papers, his faded lieutenant’s jacket, the cuffs stained with blood, a Lammarchean bible, a tiny switchblade, and a small flask of his favourite whisky. He stuffed the switchblade into his pocket. Clasping the bottle, he unscrewed the lid and swallowed the entire draught.
    “You know, most Englishmen drink tea at this time of the morning.”
    Nicholas jumped, startled. He turned around and saw Aaron leaning against the door to his room, his face and clothing even blacker with coal dust than the previous day. A trail of dirty footprints followed him up the hall.
    “Isambard sent me to collect you.”