Sovereigns of the Collapse Book 3 by Malcolm J Wardlaw

Author:Malcolm J Wardlaw [Malcolm]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Malcolm J Wardlaw
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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The town was a most peculiar place. The roads were covered with dark tarmac, smooth as planed wood, with iron hatches set randomly about. It was far from obvious why the inhabitants would require access to the underworld—he saw no one climbing into the depths. The houses were old, solid stone painted white. They were too small to be the residences of genteel people while being far larger than the hovels in which asylum slummies lived. Almost all of the townspeople were white-skinned. There did not appear to be any split of classes between owners and workers, nor did he see any man hauling teams or other heavy manual labour. Wagons were drawn by fine draft horses. There were also electric carriages humming along on the charge of batteries slung between the wheels. Woman walked about openly without veils. Oddest of all were iron posts of great age, at the top of which were cast plates in the form of arrows with words written on them. The sergeant—surprised by Donald’s curiosity—told him they were sign posts from the Public Era. When Donald asked what a sign post was, the sergeant glared at him as if he was being flippant. After that, he kept his mouth shut until he was being questioned inside a modest brick office building in the centre of the town.

The most awkward question concerned the ownership of the barge. Donald was deeply reluctant to lie, while being restricted in the truth he could reveal. He decided to stretch the truth creatively.

“It belongs to our family by tradition. We don’t have any ownership documents or anything like that.” They were far enough from Erith that there was no serious danger of their possession being challenged, so the barge became theirs de facto. In Donald’s eyes, it was no different from gaining land by adverse possession.

“What is your occupation?”

“I am a barrister.”

“Can you briefly explain what that is?”

“I advise clients in legal disputes and represent them in court.”

“You work in the consistory?”

Donald recognised this term, although he had not heard it since his Oxford days. A consistory was the Canon law court of a diocese.

“I specialised in land law, not Canon law.”

“How does that square with sailing a substantial vessel?”

“My brother Lawrence has a Master’s Certificate.”

“Can you point out on this atlas where you started from?”

The sergeant opened a Public Era road atlas similar to the one from the armoured car at a page showing the whole of the Island of Britain. Donald traced their journey with a finger.

“We started here at Erith near London, sailed out into the North Sea, south through the Straits of Dover, west down the English Channel and around Land’s End, north up past Wales and across the Irish Sea. We got blown too far north and could not reach our desired landfall at Heysham, so I ran her ashore somewhere here.”

The sergeant followed his finger with rising astonishment.

“How long did that take you?”

“Thirteen days.”

“That is a prodigious nautical achievement and no mistake. This town is Ravenglass.

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