Something powerful is drawing Ward back to Devil's Island. Something he thought he had forgotten. He must evade vicious lighthouse keeper George Jaggles in order to rescue it, but Jaggles will soon be the least of his worries. Because an assassin is...
But Carmen wasn't there when he arrived at the Sloopers at dawn on Saturnday morning.
"Her mere put her foot down," Slops said with an awkward grimace. Slops was scared of Mrs Carmichael.
Ward found himself mildly relieved. Carmen had been pessimistic on the subject of the dice since day one, and the trip would be easier without her dolorous presence. Besides, Slops tended to fall in line around her. She would have found a way to dampen his enthusiasm for the mission as well. A small part of him, deep down, knew this was unfair – that she was just afraid for him – but he kept it buried.
The sun was raising itself above the hills as they set out. The Sloopers' cart was towed by an evil-tempered old drass by the name of Pickle. But Pickle and her cart were the only form of transportation the Sloopers owned, so were treated with deference and respect.
"She's a good creature," Mr. Slooper explained. "Honest as the day is long. One only has to understand her ways. Drass are more intelligent than horses, you know. They would never do anything silly like race on a track. If you explain to em that there's logic to what you're doing, and lay it out just so, and convince em that you know what you're about, they'll think about it and come around."
Sure enough, Pickle found her way out of the barn, down the street, and onto the Croakumshire Road without Mr Slooper even needing to pick up the reins.
Although it was possible to go to Croakumshire and back in a day, it was a six hour drive each way, assuming they weren't held up on the road. This would have left little time for anything else. So Slops had told Ward to bring an overnight pack with him.
Mr and Mrs Slooper sat side by side on the driver's seat. There was no room for Ward and Slops up there, so they sat in the tray on a pair of musty blankets, amongst an array of items that had taken up permanent residence there as opposed to being brought for the occasion: a broken tempus, a withered old pumpkin from the previous summer, a bird cage with no bird in it, two cans of soup, a bellows, and a scythe. Everything jounced and rattled.
Mr Slooper boiled with excitement. He regularly turned around to grin at the two boys, crying things like "We're on our way!" or "Ah, the open road!" For the first part of the journey Ward and Slops stood, gripping the sides of the cart, looking over the elder Sloopers' shoulders as the countryside opened out before them. Mrs Slooper was silent. She had retreated into her travel coat so far that all Ward could see was a mound of frizzy hair. Sara Slooper was not a morning person.
They rattled out of the residential quarter. They passed a dozen wagons before they reached the toll bridge, each driven by a farmer who tipped his hat at them but didn't smile. Saturnday was market day in Bareheep, and the wagons were loaded with heavy korll, mad-eyed goats, confused sheep, and nervous chickens. One, seething with sloughs, left a smell behind it so thick that Ward fancied he could see it.
Ward and Slops laid down out of sight in the tray as they approached the toll bridge. It wouldn't do to be seen. When they stopped at the bridge the tollkeeper walked around the cart and looked it over it in a slow, lacklustre way. He said nothing, though Ward heard him spit several times. Mr Slooper's cheery "good morning" was met with a grunt. The toll paid, Pickle pulled the cart across the bridge.
A sea fog had crept in over the land during the night and was now rising into the air as a salt-smelling mist, cloaking the distance in an unreal haze. The city behind them was like a dream, golden and fantastic in the light of the rising sun. The Wall of Nod, purplish in the dawn light, rose massively to the north; it crossed the winding reaches of the Yar over a series of low, dark tunnels blocked by iron grates, growing progressively lower and more ruinous as it proceeded east, before vanishing altogether in the hills. Ward spied a farmhouse in the distance. The smoke that rose languorously from its red chimney seemed frozen in the still air. Birds sang. Archons cawed gutturally as they moved in sinister packs; burra laughed as they perched on fence posts in ones and twos and watched good-naturedly as the cart rattled by; tiny finches with bright blue heads darted about, occasionally perching on the sideboards of the cart and peering inquisitively in, their fan-like tails flicking from side to side; miser birds warbled from high boughs, occasionally swooping down low over the cart, to the annoyance of Mr Slooper, the terror of Mrs Slooper, the glee of Ward and Slops, and the complete indifference of Pickle. Korll lowed mournfully. Big bulls honked like tugboats.
The plain soon gave way to low foothills. Over the first rise the road began to curve gently, and grassy knolls rose on each side, some crowned with ruins. Sheep grazed about the foundations. The road wound through a valley dominated by a colossal railway bridge, the iron tracks long since pillaged or buried.
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