Un Lun Dun

Deeba waved the UnGun vaguely.

“What?” said Jones. “Did you manage to reload?”

“Sort of,” said Deeba. “It’s a prison. It’s full of the Smog.”

They yelled and backed away, then paused as they realized there was no sign of trouble.

“What happened here?” said Jones.

Deeba paused a long time, then laughed.

“I’ll explain,” she said. “But basically…Nothing. Nothing happened.”

The sky was begi

“There’s lots of stuff to do,” Deeba said. “We have to find Brokkenbroll. He got away. And we have to tell everyone in UnLondon what to do with the unbrellas.” She twirled her rebrella, and it did a little midair pirouette of its own.

“There’s all sorts to do. Let’s find the Propheseers. I’ve got an apology to pick up.”

“So we’ve got to get to the Pons, now?” said Jones, trying not to look horrified.

“Don’t worry,” said Deeba. “No more trekking. Give it a minute. The bridge’ll come to us.”

“What about Skool?” said Obaday. “And the binja, and—”

“We’ll make some stops,” said Deeba. “Trust me. Mortar’s going to do exactly what I say.”

She knew it would be awhile, and it was. It took a bit of time, in the confusion at the end of the war, while the Propheseers tried to work out what had happened, and how the abcity had won, and whether they could trust the victory. But after the UnSun had come up and shone gently on UnLondon, the end of the Propheseers’ bridge poked into the ruins of Unstible’s workshop, and Mortar beckoned them all on.

98. Fit for Heroes

“We’re putting the word out,” Mortar said. “All over UnLondon, unbrellas are being converted to rebrellas. Mostly they bounce off immediately into the Backwall Maze or somewhere and join bands of rubbish. But a few of them seem to want to stick around with us.”

“Whatever,” said Deeba. “The main point is Brokkenbroll can’t control them. Does anyone know where he is yet?”

“No. But we’re not worried. I’m sure he’ll try to break a few rebrellas and reclaim them, and unbrellas are going to keep finding their way here, but everyone knows to fix them when found. What can he do? He’s a bandit and we all know it. A nuisance, at worst, these days.”

“Still,” said Deeba. “I’ll be happier when you find him.”

“Binja are looking.”

“Among others,” said the book, tucked under Hemi’s arm.

It was only one full day after that extraordinary battle, but UnLondon was adjusting to the news and ways of postwar life impressively quickly. All over the abcity, stories of heroism and betrayal and incompetence and luck were emerging. There were plenty of champions Deeba had never heard of, who’d done amazing things, in parts of UnLondon she’d never been.

“What’ll happen to Lectern?” Deeba said.

“Oh, she’s confessed,” said Mortar. “She’ll do some time. But she’s by no means the worst of them.”

“No,” said Deeba. “She was just a coward. Although seeing as what she almost did to me…”

“Absolutely,” muttered Hemi. He had become a go-between of sorts, a proto-ambassador between Wraithtown and the Pons, and he was wearing a suit of ghost-clothes. Around the cotton was a corona of older forms of dress.

“Quite,” said Mortar. “There were quite a few people who worked hand in glove with the Smog. We don’t know who they all are.”

“The Concern. They could be trouble in the future.”

There was a lot to do. Mortar was energized, now that he had finally stopped apologizing to Deeba.

“Is the UnLondon-I ready?” Deeba said. “I have to get back over.”

“They’re finishing it up now,” Mortar said. “Don’t worry, it’ll be ready by tonight. And that still gives you a few hours in hand— you’ll be fine.”

The great waterwheel, like so much in the abcity, had been damaged in the fighting, its mechanisms clogged and banged about by rampaging stink-junkies. Nothing too serious before the Smog had dispersed, but enough that they had not been able to use it the previous day, to generate the current to poke the Pons Absconditus through the Odd into London.

A little part of Deeba had almost felt relief. Despite her eagerness to return, she’d been so battered after the showdown that a day of enforced rest and recuperation while the Propheseers worked to fix it had felt like a blessing. Now it was definitely time for her to go.

They strolled on the Pons Absconditus as Propheseers had its ends dip into various parts of UnLondon, gadding busily around the abcity. Elsewhere on the bridge were Deeba’s companions, their wounds bandaged and tended by doctors and apothecaries, whose herbs, poultices, and spells had done amazing things.

“I like your clothes,” Deeba said to Hemi.

“Oh yeah,” he said, embarrassed. “I haven’t often worn ghost togs. Too busy trying not to have that side of me noticed. Extreme shopping.” He gri

“It’s all going well,” Deeba said, looking around. “Be good to see what happens.”

“The first thing,” said the book, “is that I’m making this lot change their name. Now that we know things don’t go as written at all.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Deeba. “You’re talking to the Unchosen One.”

“Yeah, but where’s the skill in being a hero if you were always destined to do it?” said Hemi. He hesitated, and said, “You impress me a lot more.”

“Destiny’s bunk,” said the book. “That’s why this lot aren’t the Propheseers anymore.”

“From here on in,” said Mortar, “we’re the Order of Suggesters.”

“And what about all those prophecies?” said Deeba. She poked the book gently. “In you.”

“Oh…who knows? Who cares what’s in me, frankly,” it said loftily. “Maybe in a few years we’ll open me up and read out what was supposed to happen and we can all have a good laugh. What Za

“You never know,” Deeba said. “One or two of them might be true.”

“Well,” said the book. “Coincidence is an amazing thing.”

“After all,” Deeba said. “The only thing in your pages you thought definitely was wrong turned out to be right. Nothing and the UnGun?” There was a moment’s silence.

“That,” said the book with cautious pleasure, “is true.”

Curdle and the rebrella bounded towards Deeba, as she approached them.

“Have you decided what to do with the UnGun, yet?” said Deeba.

“Well, we’re ready for the first step at least,” Mortar said. “If you’d do the honors?”

In the middle of the bridge was a huge mold, a cube five or more feet on each side, into which mixers were pouring liquid concrete. Jones, Obaday, and the others were gathered around it.

“Ready?” said Hemi.

Skool stood beside him. They’d rescued the little colony before the patch of seawater in the canal had ebbed away. The fish were still mourning the loss of several of their companions, but they’d come to say good-bye to Deeba. They were poured into a new suit. This one was smaller, and more up-to-date: a little wetsuit, complete with ungainly flippers. This time the mask was clear, and Deeba smiled at the seahorse and clown fish staring at her from the brine inside.

“I’m not making a big thing of this,” Deeba said. “No speech.” She chucked the UnGun, the Smog’s prison, into the cement.

It splashed thickly and disappeared. They watched brief, thick ripples.

“When it’s set, what then?” she said. “Got to make sure no one can open it.”

“Opinion’s divided,” Mortar said. “Some people want to put it back among the Black Windows. It must have been one of our predecessors did that, yonks[26] ago, so there’s history. Some want to bury it. Some want to tip it in the river. Or the sea. We haven’t decided yet.”

[26]

Yonks: A long time.