by Eoin Colfer
Figary walked down the central aisle. “Commodore, it is so good to see you vertical and breathing.”
“It takes more than an army to kill me,” said Malarkey. “Now, as to your mission. Is it safe for me to be abroad? Are the bluebottles on my tail? What is the talk of the town?”
“Why, you are the talk of then entire city,” replied Figary. “Your heroic river battle. They are saying King Otto slayed the dragon. They are saying King Otto sent the demon back to hell. King Otto saved the Empire.”
Otto nodded, satisfied. “That is no more than the truth of it, I suppose. Anything further?”
“Tea shirts,” said Figary.
Chevie frowned. “T-shirts?”
Riley sat beside her on the stage. “Tea shirts. A kind of very starched formal shirt, worn by waiters in the Savoy tearooms and such.”
Figary continued his transmission of the news. “A fellow is printing your portrait on tea shirts, selling them all over the West End. A lovely likeness it is, Commodore; captures your locks perfect, so it does.”
“Tea shirts, is it?” said Malarkey. “What an idea.”
“You deserve it, Otto,” gushed Witmeyer, and it was probably her first gush. “You are a hero.”
“Chevie should have a tea shirt,” said Riley. “She was the one who actually did the deed and not just the speechifying.”
This reminded Figary of the speech. “Ah, yes, the famous oration. Also printed on the tea shirts.” He coughed dramatically. “‘Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.’ Quoting Shelley, Commodore. Very nice use of irony.”
“Irony?” said Malarkey. “No irony whatsoever, Figary. I wanted the government coves to take a good look and remember who saved the city.”
“Anyway, Commodore, to answer your initial question: you are no fugitive, sir. I think if the law laid a finger on you, the people would rise up in revolution.”
Chevie flinched. She did not like the word revolution.
“And what of my wayward men?” asked Malarkey. This was the important question. Civilians could refer to him as King Otto till Judgment Day, but without the Rams behind him, he was no more a king than the dozens of King Henrys locked up in London’s asylums.
Figary’s hands became more animated, flapping like a magician’s doves. “Your men, Commodore. Those fools—forgive me, but those idiots saw the error of their ways. I paid the Hidey-Hole a visit, and there they were, like a bunch of rats sopping from the catacombs. Touching my hem, they were. Begging for my favor. My favor, if you please, after the same buckos tried to run me out of the place on the occasion of my previous visit. You need to hop a cab over there posthaste, Commodore. They are polishing your throne, so they are.”
Malarkey puffed and preened. “Well, that is indeed good news, though those gulpy dupes don’t deserve me.”
Witmeyer had a suggestion. “Perhaps we should string up a few, make an example.”
“Ah no, my dear, though I am tempted, but now is the time for mercy. Have I not slain the dragon? That is example enough. Let us forgive and forget old quarrels and step into the future together.”
“Nicely said, Commodore. And nicely put. This young lady is having a positive influence.”
“This is your new mistress, Figary. Mademoiselle Witmeyer, from the future. Show her to the carriage, would you?”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Figary. He bowed to Witmeyer, then extended his elbow toward her so that she might link it. Witmeyer, who was familiar with this move only as an offensive jab, presumed she was being attacked and had the butler pinned on the floor faster than he could say so it would.
“Do not hurt him, my dear,” said Malarkey. “He does a bang-up roast on the Sabbath. And he can get bloodstains out of anything.”
Malarkey held out his hand to Riley for a shake. “Considering all the shenanigans we have endured together, Ramlet, I am inclined to let you operate without taxation but with protection.”
Riley clenched Otto’s massive paw and shook it with heartfelt thanks and relief.
“Thanks, Your Majesty. I feels as though I could hug you.”
Malarkey frowned. “I is the Ram king, lad. And I only hug my queen. Any attempts to embrace me will be firmly rebuffed.”
Chevie winked at the Ram king. “He has protection. The best thing you can do is leave us alone.”
“I will stay away until I am needed,” conceded the Ram king. “But if you do have need, send a runner to Figary in Grosvenor Square and I will fly to your sides. King Otto is never too busy for his friends.”
This was a good offer indeed from Malarkey, and even Chevie had to almost not scowl.
“We are still not friends, Otto,” she said. “But I am less inclined to knock your block off.”
“Good enough, girl,” said Otto. “For one day only, I shall tolerate your sauce.”
“Keep that one out of my way,” Chevie added, nodding at Witmeyer, who was straightening Figary’s coat. “And sleep with one eye open.”
Malarkey sighed. “So that I may gaze upon her?”
“No, so that you may watch your throne. Your sweetheart has a dark past.”
“That all be in the future, as it were.”
Figary was recovering from his brief ordeal. “Manhandling, is it? Missus Figary’s boy did not risk his life crossing the channel to get himself manhandled, so he didn’t.”
Lunka Witmeyer actually apologized. First gushing, now apologizing. “I am sorry, strange little fairy man. I see now that you were attempting to be courteous. I am not accustomed to courtesy in my line of work.”
Figary thought rightly that it would be wise to accept this ham-handed apology. “Think nothing of it. And what line of work would that be, madam?”
Witmeyer shrugged. “Oh, the usual. Murder, intimidation, some torture. But I usually delegate that.”
“I understand completely, so I do,” said Figary with a straight face. “Torture is so cruel.”
“No, it’s the mess. I don’t mind the cruelty.”
Figary knew then that he would have to tread very carefully with his master’s new lady love, or Missus Figary’s son could wake up dead some morning. He recalled a fortune-telling gypsy at Puck Fair warning him that he would meet a dark stranger at some unspecified point; he had laughed.
But now that I think on it, did not an owl hoot as Madam Tea Leaf made the prediction?
There had been an owl, and as any devotee of the psychic knew, and owl’s hoot during a reading was the spirit world’s seal of approval.
This is the dark stranger.
She wasn’t really dark, but she was standing in the shadows a bit, and that would do.
“Madam,” he said. “I am about to extend my elbow toward you so that I may escort you to the carriage outside the theater.”
“Extend away,” said Witmeyer, who found this little man amusing, like a puppy, or a suspect listing imaginative reasons why he should not be interrogated. Her favorite had come from a suspected poet. He had admitted that he wrote poetry, but he claimed that his online reviews were so bad he could not technically be called a poet.
Another funny little man, just like this one.
Witmeyer laid a hand on the offered elbow and allowed herself to be escorted down the center aisle. She did not say good-bye to Savano or the boy Riley. There was only one person she cared about, and he was going to be by her side till the day he died. One way or another.
Malarkey took one long look around the theater, his gaze lingering on the spot where his brother Barnabus had fallen. It was some consolation that Farley had died horribly—but not much of one, if he was honest with himself.
“And here am I falling in love in the same week that my brother was murdered,” he said, and then pensively, “Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.”
“We don’t none
of us control our own hearts, King Otto,” said Riley.
Malarkey thought on this and decided that it was indeed true. “We do not, boy,” he said. “But we must follow them. And I must follow mine.”
He bowed deeply. “Remember, friends. Otto Malarkey is no more than a whistle away.”
And he walked swiftly after his beloved so that he might hold the carriage door for her—and ensure she did not kill Figary in response to some sudden movement.
Riley and Chevie sat on the stage, morosely finishing the last morsels of food. The first reason for their moroseness they shared, but in the second, they were direct opposites. The first reason was mutual post-traumatic depression, now that their adrenaline levels were dipping. As for the second, Riley believed that his pal Chevie would soon sling her hook off homeward, whereas Chevie knew this to be impossible, even if the phrase concerning hook-slinging was not in her vocabulary. Not yet, at any rate.
I could be learning a lot of new phrases, she thought.
“You’ll be off now,” said Riley eventually. “I understand for why you’re leaving, pal, but I am sad nonetheless. I have plenty of room here for you. Your own chamber, and so forth; plus, I am making inquiries viz a flush toilet, which a future gal like yourself would no doubt appreciate.”
Chevie dipped a hand under her shirt and pulled out the Timekey, which was, amazingly enough, still intact.
“Takes a bashing but keeps on flashing,” she said. “But the port has been destroyed. There’s no way home for me. I am afraid you’re stuck with me.”
“I am truly sorry, Chevie, on the one hand,” said Riley. “But on the other I am glad to have my dearest friend under my roof. Our roof, I should say. We are partners now.”
Chevie stuffed the pendant back inside her clothing. “I appreciate that, Riley. But if this is our home, you need to get someone working on that flush toilet. And indoors, if you don’t mind.”
“Indoors?” said Riley. “This ain’t the Savoy, Chevie.” He thought for a minute. “I need a beautiful assistant. How would you feel about that?”
“I could do gun tricks, maybe,” said Chevie. “And take on all comers for money.”
Riley leaned in close, as though someone might hear. “No need. We have money. It’s blood money and there’s no denying it, but maybe we can wash it clean again by putting it to decent purposes, eh?”
Chevie meant to smile, to assure Riley that she would stick with him and help out in the theater, do whatever was needed, but she could not escape a sad conclusion.
“I will never know for sure how my father died, or my friend DeeDee. Or even if they died at all.”
Here was something they did not share. Riley knew exactly how his parents had died: throats slit by the blade of Albert Garrick.
“Betimes, Chevie, the knowing of things ain’t no help regarding peace of mind. Knowing things ain’t no boon at all, if you ask me.”
Footsteps echoed from the Orient’s cozy foyer, and soon a figure caught up with the footsteps and revealed itself to be Bob Winkle. He ran flat out down the aisle, barely stopping before the orchestra pit.
“Ha!” he said, pointing at Chevie. “Injun princess, they are saying all over town, and I just knew it was Miss Chevron back with us again. Bob, says I to meself, there’s only one lady who could send a dragon into the Thames with no return ticket—Miss Chevie Savano, I says. And I was right.”
The youth was breathless and excited. “I just hopped off the Brighton train to find the whole of the city in an uproar.” Bob stopped and sniffed the air. “What is that ungodly stink, boss? Is the drains playing up again?”
Riley grimaced. “That’s we two, I am afraid. We was engaged in a bit of toshing.”
This didn’t seem to surprise Bob one whit. “Yep, toshing will do that to a body. Carbolic is the only thing for it, and you may as well burn your garments.”
Chevie didn’t like the sound of that. Her strange hybrid suit was all she had left from her future. She had even worn it under the dancing girl disguise. Burning her clothes would be like an admission of defeat.
“I will soak my clothes for a few days,” she said. “I am fond of this suit.”
“We will ask Figary for advice,” said Riley. “I bet he can get the whiff out of anything.”
“So he can,” said Chevie, and they both smiled, marveling that Figary was such a character that simply repeating his catchphrase could cheer a body up. Even Bob Winkle showed his teeth, though he had never met Missus Figary’s boy.
“Anyway,” said Bob once his breath came back, “I ain’t a-running because of all that’s been happening around here. I am running because I have news.”
“News?” asked Riley, jumping from the lip of the stage and rushing to Winkle’s side. “What news?”
“News viz your brother, Tom.”
Riley stepped back. This could be the very best of news, or the very worst, and he thought on his recent declaration that knowing things weren’t no boon at all.
But I have to know, he thought.
“You found Tom in Brighton?”
“I found Tom’s trail in Brighton,” Bob corrected him. “A trail wide as Blackfriars Road, it was. Your boy Tom is quite the character.”
Riley’s heart beat hard in his chest. “Is? Is quite the character. So he’s alive, then, and living in Brighton?”
“Yes to the first and not to the second. Tom is alive, but his misadventures have led him here to London. No more than a few miles from where we stand.”
Riley felt weak, light-headed. “London. We must be away from here and visit him. But first, new duds, Chevie. We can’t have my brother clapping eyes on us in this state. Or clapping nose on us, for that matter. I cannot believe that my own Christian name can finally be revealed. Perhaps I am an Albert, or a George. I fancy Oliver, so I do.”
Chevie was watching Bob, and she saw in his face that the news was not yet fully transmitted.
“What else, Bob? There’s more, right?”
Bob swallowed, a little nervous to be delivering the bad news, though Riley was a good employer who had never been anything but kind. Still, sometimes the messenger was blamed for the message.
“There is more, Riley. Visiting Tom is not such a walk in the park as a fellow might think.”
Riley was bubbling with his excitement, so Bob’s tone did not penetrate.
“Of course it is. I know we don’t look our spiffing best at the moment, but half an hour in the tub and a lick of the soap will sort us out right as rain.”
“It ain’t that, pal. Tom ain’t just any old where.”
“London. You said he’s in London.”
“In London, right enough. In the most reviled pile o’ stones we has in the city, leaning on its leeward shoulder again’ the Old Bill Bailey itself.”
Riley knew exactly the building that Bob was circling and trying not to utter.
“Newgate?” he said, the excited rouge in his cheeks fading fast. “Tom is in Newgate Prison?”
“He’s in a debtor’s cell.”
Debtors. The most hated species in London. Lower in the law’s eyes than smugglers or highwaymen.
“He ain’t to be stretched in the morning, is he?” Riley asked Bob Winkle.
“Nah, he ain’t hanging tomorrow,” said Bob the Beak. “They ain’t stretching him till Thursday.”
This was indeed devastating news, and it bent Riley in two like a gut punch.
“An attorney,” said Riley, when he had recovered himself somewhat. “We need the best attorney in London.”
“That would be Sir James Maccabee, the man defrauded by your brother. The case is done and dusted beyond appeal, Riley. I hate to be the one bearing this foul parcel.”
Riley’s eyes were wide, and he waved his arms around like a man in pitch-blackness searching for a familiar sur
face.
Chevie felt her post-traumatic depression disappear. She had a new mission now.
“We need to break him out,” she said. “Pack your bag of tricks and let’s get a move on. I need to see this Newgate before I can put a plan together.”
Riley looked at his future friend up on the stage with the light behind her, a true heroic figure that would give a body hope.
“You would help me in this matter?”
“Of course. We are a team.”
“A team. Of course.”
Chevie hopped off the stage. “We already took down an entire empire this week. What chance does a prison have?”
Riley thought that his friend was underestimating her opponent, as usual. Newgate Prison was a veritable fortress that foiled escape attempts every day of the year and swallowed criminals as effectively as a monstrous hungry beast. Liberating Tom would be the very devil of a job; but Riley thought it best not to deflate his partner, for they would need any good spirits they could find.
“That prison has no chance at all,” he said, bolstering his words with a steel he did not truly feel. “Newgate will open its doors to the two of us, and Tom will be restored to me.”
Bob Winkle had no intention of being left out. “Count me in that number, Riley. Without you, I would still be smoking wallpaper in the Old Nichol.”
“Three, then, there are three of us. Together we cannot fail.”
“We cannot fail,” agreed Bob.
“Failing not allowed,” said Chevie.
It seemed to Chevie that all this repetition of the word fail would surely ensure that failure would take place, so she attempted to put a positive spin on the situation by raising her hand for a group high five.
The other two simply stared puzzled at her elevated hand.
“Come on, team,” she said. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
Which was, perhaps, a bad choice of words in the circumstances, so Chevie tried again.
“Here we go again, boys. Off on another adventure. This time busting Riley’s brother out of prison. There will be danger; there will be spills and thrills. There will be knives and there will be guns and there will be people saying stupid things at the worst possible time.”