Twelve-year-old Carmen has a secret: she can talk to her cat Grim. But the powerful Brotherhood has banned pets, and the penalty is death.
Ward is the most wanted boy in the world. The only thing standing between him and the hangman's noose is maste...
The light at the far end of the cavern turned out to be an oil lamp. It hung at the mouth of a tunnel. A wooden gangway with chicken wire stapled to it ran along the tunnel floor; the gangway vanished into darkness, re-emerging in the distance where another lamp hung.
"Who lights them?" Ward said.
"This tunnel belongs to the Argies. They built this walkway and they light the lamps. Some of the other clans aren't quite so – domestic."
Ward felt somewhat in the dark about this business of clans and Argies. It was cleared up to some extent, however, by the sudden appearance of an Argie in the flesh. It was a plump, grubby urchin of about eight years old, with greasy black hair and bulging, unblinking eyes. On sighting Nick it performed a sloppy salute that seemed more a matter of habit than respect. Nick nodded back, at which point it began to gabble forth in great excitement.
"Sir, I'm in the souf tunnels snuffin the glims, and this cove comes upter me and sayed Bunker's been blowin to a beak. Then -" At this point he saw Ward in the shadows, and his voice quieted. "Oh you got cumpny."
"Bunker's on business of mine, Fry," Nick said. "Put it out of your head."
"Was a Bargie said it but," Fry spluttered, like a kettle. "He said it was Tink. But Tinker didn't do nuffing Sir."
"I don't doubt it," Nick said. "Thank you Fry. Now please finish putting out the lamps and return to your dorm."
"Yessir," said the Argie, and with a final curious glance at Ward poured back into the pipe from which it had so suddenly emerged.
"Something wrong?" Ward said.
Nick shook his head and smiled. "The Scowerers are always seeing sinister motives in the Hectors, and vice versa."
"Are the Bargies another clan?"
"Yes."
"What's a beak?"
"A magistrate."
"Oh," Ward said, more confused than ever.
He was still mulling over the Argie's story when they emerged from the tunnel, so it took him by surprise. He blinked and looked around in wonder.
Imagine a room the size of a cathedral, its ceiling converging at a single point far above. Staircases climb the walls to the mouths of pipes, which open out into the room from every direction. Imagine a hearth the size of a coach, in which a fire blazes mightily, filling the scene with hellish red light. Luxurious sofas and armchairs are scattered about. A gigantic statue of a man stands upon a pedestal opposite the hearth. He is attired in a white skirt covered with pink roses, a sequinned blouse, and furs, which are draped over his shoulder. A pink handbag dangles from one hand. He is wearing lipstick, and a pair of spectacles with peacock feathers glued to the frames.
And everywhere, children scurry about like ants, bent to some serious purpose or other, shimmying down rope ladders that dangle from the highest pipes, scuffling in the dirt, or silhouetted in pipe mouths where they sit and swing their dirty bare legs back and forth. Sullen teenagers lope about, smoking; the smaller ones give them a wide berth like fish around the legs of stalking waterbirds, stopping only to give Nick a salute and Ward a suspicious look before scurrying away.
"Where're the adults?" Ward said.
Nick pointed to himself.
"They leave when they grow up?"
"Some might. Don't know. We've only been recruiting for seven years, and we recruit young. A couple of the Hectors are almost seventeen. Do you like our mascot?" He pointed up at the statue. "Vernon Dervish. Our glorious Leader." He snorted. "There was a great scandal when he vanished from out the front of Parliament. Took a whole night to pull him apart and truck him down here in wheelbarrows. Each week he gets a makeover. We're very proud of him." His eyes shone. "The Scowerers call this The Cathedral.Nobody up above knows it's here." There was a note of pride in his voice. "Oneof the clans will make you welcome. I have to go. Bye."
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