فصل پنجاه و سوم

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Black Tower

Opposite the neglected facade of the office building, in whose unprepossessing facade the London Stone is embedded, is a railway station.

Outside the station, like most stations in London, there is a stand for a man selling newspapers.

People have been filling the streets of the city with the noise of them crying their wares ever since the idea of trade arrived. The man advertising the name of his paper had ruined his voice through a combination of all-weather shouting and three packs of high-tar cigarettes a day. The sound he made was a raw shorthand rather than a clear description of his product.

“Stannid! Gitcha Stannid!” he shouted every twenty seconds.

He spent the remaining time hawking and spitting and wiping a runny nose. The noise was beginning to annoy the Walker, who was pacing the meter of pavement behind him, in the shadow of the Black Tower.

He avoided a splat of phlegm that the news vendor hoiked behind him, and decided enough was enough. If the Raven were here he could be more relaxed, as the Raven’s eyes missed less than it forgot, and of course, it forgot almost nothing. As it was, he had to stand sentry on the Stone across the street, and this yelping coughing man was distracting him.

He put his hand out and touched him. The man turned, shocked to find someone had been so close to him all this time. Before the man could say anything, the Walker smiled and spoke quietly.

“Go home. You’re sick. You’re probably very, very ill. You may die.”

The news vendor started shaking. He forgot he’d just seen the Walker. He didn’t realize he’d been spoken to. He just felt terrible—ill and full of fear. It was the bloody smokes.

He snapped the lid on his metal stand closed and locked it. He felt panic building in his chest. He wondered if he’d get home before his heart attacked him.

The Walker smiled in satisfaction, unconsciously rotating the stone fragment on the chain around his neck with one hand as he watched the man shuffle off in an explosion of coughing.

He backed around a pillar and reached into his pocket. He was sure he could make the boy not see him if he came close to the Stone, but he knew that the Gunner, if he was still with them, would see him. So he pulled a silver disk from his pocket. It was the same size and shape as a woman’s powder compact. He twisted the disk. There was a click, and it revealed itself to be two mirrors that clipped together for carrying. He pocketed one, and held the other around the edge of the pillar. He angled it so that he could get a good view across the street, and paced imperceptibly on the spot, eyes fixed on the Stone. As he watched, he licked his dry lips, one hand loosening the ancient dagger in the scabbard at his belt.