by Adrian Cole
Jameson muttered his agreement with the observation, arrogant though it was. Indeed, there were few places in the whole of England where Reverence would not have been recognised.
At length their rescuer paused at the top of another flight of stairs, which had brought them several stories up into the hotel. He shifted whatever he was chewing in his mouth. “I apologise for the mad rush, gents, but Li Sung is a nasty piece of work. Now I’d like you to meet my boss.”
Reverence nodded slowly. “Forgive me, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“Nightmare. Nick Nightmare. You may’ve heard of me? Private Eye, Public Fist. No job too tough. Only I don’t do hatchet jobs. Killing’s a last resort, ya know?”
“Nightmare?” said Reverence. “A somewhat inauspicious cognomen. However, Jameson and I are in your debt, for which you have our deep thanks.”
“It was nothin’. Okay, guys, let’s go and see Sir Henry.” He tapped on a door off the landing and it opened a fraction. Nightmare spoke to someone within and the door opened. He ushered Reverence and Jameson inside.
It was a sumptuous room, one of the hotel’s more expensive offerings, Reverence surmised, with its ornate décor and luxurious fittings. Several men, evidently working for Nightmare, had been posted here, and they nodded to the visitors silently. Nightmare led them into another, smaller room, where his own superior was waiting.
“Gents, let me introduce Sir Henry Riderman.”
The man stood up and bowed to his visitors. He was tall, very suave, with a neatly cut short beard, his eyes bright with intelligence. Here he was even more imposing than he had been down in the assembly room. He held out his hand. “My dear sirs, I really must apologise for the manner in which Nick had to bring you here.”
Reverence took the proffered hand and shook it, as did Jameson, both noting the firm grip. “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” said Reverence. “I listened to your contribution to the debate about time and its enigmatic nature with great interest.”
“I have studied some of your cases with no less interest, I am sure,” said Riderman with another slight bow.
“Really?” said Reverence, slightly taken aback. “You know of me?”
“Ironically, Mr. Reverence, there are few people in Pulp City who do. But of course, I will explain all that to you. Have you had an opportunity to take coffee and perhaps something to eat? The eggs here are done to perfection, I promise you. Doctor Jameson?”
“That would be very acceptable, thank you.”
Riderman lifted a tiny bell from his desk and shook it. Moments later a young lady entered, tightly clutching a notepad and pen, clearly used to taking notes in a secretarial capacity. Reverence decided that her hair, cut short, her clothes, loose fitting but surprisingly less modest than those worn by ladies with whom he was familiar, belonged to another age than his, as with Nightmare’s unusual coat. The girl, who appeared to be in her mid to late twenties, wore narrow spectacles and gently applied make-up. Surprisingly, her skirt reached no lower than just past her knees.
“My secretary, Miss Timkins,” said Riderman and the girl curtseyed. Riderman asked her to arrange for some coffee and breakfast for his guests and she disappeared as silently as she had arrived. “Efficiency personified,” said Riderman. “Possessed of a memory that would humble any computer. Oh, forgive me, gentlemen, an anachronism. In Pulp City, the very air reeks of such things. It will take a bit of getting used to.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Riderman,” said Nightmare. “I think maybe I’ll just go and keep an eye on things.”
“Thank you, Nick.” Riderman gestured to two comfortable chairs and his guests sat themselves. “I am sure, Mr. Reverence, Doctor Jameson, you must be completely baffled over recent events. I will do my level best to clarify the situation, as I see it. Where to begin? Well, yes, you may have deduced in your unique way, Mr. Reverence, that you are no longer in London. Indeed, you are no longer in the world you normally inhabit, which will seem preposterous, I realise.”
“Nevertheless,” Reverence cut in with his usual coolness, “it is a conclusion which I had been forced to reach, as I have been telling my companion.”
“If you can possibly bring yourselves to accept such a conclusion, it will make some of the other explanations easier. We call this place Pulp City. Its characteristics are as unusual, indeed as outrageous, as you could imagine. For one thing, time and space are defined in different ways here. For example, different periods of your world, Mr. Reverence, are found juxtapositioned here. You’ll have noted Nick’s coat, and that, I have to say, revolting gum that he persistently chews,” Riderman grinned. “In your world, he would exist decades after your time. As would Miss Timkins. Although there is another twist to this.”
Reverence leaned forward, long chin resting on his hand. He nodded, deeply intrigued by his host’s revelations.
“Your world is one of many. How many, I cannot say. The best way I can think of to describe this is through my own craft, perhaps. I myself am a novelist. I have the great fortune to be a celebrated writer, with a score or more romantic novels to my credit. I am sure you will not have heard of me in your world! However, when I create a novel, I use a world of my own devising. Now, it may well be based very much on my world and events that took place in it. But people like Herbert, who you heard speaking downstairs, are far more adventurous in their creations. Between us we have imagined other worlds that may significantly vary from our own.
“The peculiar quality of this world is that it gives life to these imagined worlds. Thus your world, my world, Nick’s world and countless others can actually exist as one here in Pulpworld. Now, have you ever heard of anything so fanciful and ridiculous?”
Reverence was silent for a good few moments.
It was Jameson who spoke first. “I have to say, Sir Henry, that I, for one, have not. Such a concept flies in the face of all scientific possibility.”
“Indeed it does,” nodded Riderman, thoughtfully. “You are absolutely right, Doctor. As a man of science yourself, you must think me quite mad. But consider this: how do you think you came to be here? How do you explain that storm?”
“Ah,” said Reverence, snapping out of his reverie. “That intrigues me hugely. I have a notion that it was linked to the ritual that I was performing.”
“I am sure that was a factor, Mr. Reverence. As there were several others.”
He was interrupted by the door opening behind him. Miss Timkins had reappeared and presently ushered in two servants, who had brought from the kitchen two trays. Coffee and breakfast were duly served. Jameson tucked in to his eggs with a relish, while Reverence picked at his, still deep in thought. Miss Timkins, meanwhile, sat herself quietly near Riderman’s desk, as if waiting for new instructions.
Riderman poured coffee for them all and sipped at his. He was about to continue with his explanations, when Nick Nightmare again appeared at the other door, face beaming. “Sorry to butt in again, Sir Henry, but you’ve got more guests. I reckon you’ll want to see ’em.”
“Waifs of the storm, by any chance?” Riderman smiled.
“That’s about it.”
“Bring them in.”
A moment later a small party entered the room. Mears, Craig Rocklyn and Grimsfeather entered. Riderman bowed and introduced himself, Reverence and Jameson. The room seemed alive with mixed emotions. Jameson found himself trying not to stare at the bizarre figure of Grimsfeather. Rocklyn and Reverence seemed relatively unphased by it all, but Mears was clearly stunned at meeting the detective and his companion.
It’s them, his mind was shouting. It’s really them! As alive and whole as Rocklyn.
As they were all shaking hands in a restrained fashion, given the odd circumstances of their meeting, Mears noticed Miss Timkins, whose shy glance dropped as he approached her. “Pleased to meet you,” he found himself mumbling.
“You, too,” she said. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“I — uh, well —�
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“We sure would,” said Rocklyn beside him. “I could eat a horse. And those eggs look good. Something in this loony world is right.”
“I’ll see to it,” Miss Timkins smiled, ignoring his odd comment as she went to see to the extra breakfasts without another word.
Rocklyn pulled Mears to one side and spoke quietly, out of everyone else’s hearing. “Listen, I don’t want anyone knowing about Darkwing, you got me? I’m just Craig Rocklyn, until I know what I’m dealing with. But I’ll tell you one thing: I think I’ve changed my mind about this place. Your crazy theories about me.”
“What do you mean?” said Mears.
“When I was a kid, I used to read comic books, like everyone else.”
Mears gaped at him. The idea of Darkwing reading comic books had a particularly bizarre irony to it.
“Sure, I did. And you know who my favourite was? A hard-boiled, tough-nut, son-of-a-gun private dick.”
“Dick Tracy?”
“Nope. The guy I’m talking about is standing over there. The one that met us downstairs and brought us up here. In my world, he belongs in a comic book. I’d know his face anywhere. I’ve studied it a hundred times. That’s him. Private Eye, Public Fist. Nick Nightmare.”
PART THREE
THE INVIDIOUS DOCTOR FUNG CHANG
At times like this, deep under the marsh, moving sluggishly through its curdled depths, the Mire-Beast smothered Cradoc’s being, as if the creature would remove it and all memory of it from its own mutated persona. No matter then that it was a pariah, cut off from the humanity to which it had once belonged. How easy it would have been to have succumbed to that primeval lure.
But the human resolve in Cradoc was strong, abnormally so. Like a swimmer fighting to win back to the surface after the deepest plunge, he fought his way upward, out of the clutches of that loneliest of places. Even though it meant a solitary crusade, a long, tormented search for what he had lost.
—From Curse of the Mire-Beast
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Midstream
Deep inside the complex structure of the immense Temple of Seven Winds, the central shrine was contained like a living heart, its jade walls every shade of green, exquisitely carved, lovingly shaped by artists who had devoted their lives to its creation. Tall pillars, wound around with dragons and mythical beasts, rose up through the incense-thickened air; immense candles lit the shrine and the wide steps up to the central Gateway. A forest of smaller candles spread out on all sides, interwoven with incense tapers, the hazy air above them blue with drifting wisps of smoke. A deep carpet, richly embroidered with Chinese lettering and symbols, ran from the foot of the steps to the carved wooden doors and from the high ceiling hung a score of golden braziers, their own beaten dragons shimmering in the haze.
A lone priest stood upon the steps beside a huge bowl, in which red-hot coals glowed, throwing the priest’s sharp features into scarlet, demonic relief. Dressed in luxurious black silk, embroidered with golden dragons and serpents, he was the embodiment of power. He bowed to the three suited men who had entered the sanctuary and who now knelt in deference to him at the foot of the steps.
When the priest spoke, addressing the men in their native Chinese, his voice was sharp, staccato but measured, patient. His face remained serene, but his eyes were as alive as the coals beside him. “Fung Chang greets you and welcomes your reports.” He spread his left arm, the voluminous sleeve reaching floor-length and indicated the darkness above the steps. There, between two more immense bowls that were supported by dragon statues cast from solid gold, was the Harmonic Gateway. Its void was darker than midnight, starless and pitch, like the emptiness beyond space. Yet within it pulsed life and as the three men below lifted their eyes to it, they saw the vague outline of a figure seated on an immense ivory throne.
Fung Chang remained invisible, no more than a shadow, but his presence exuded a power that put fear into the heart of all those who came before him. Only the priest seemed immune. Fung Chang’s voice came down to the men in a whisper, though it was crystal clear, as though nothing else existed in the universe. It coiled about their minds, cold and biting.
“They are here,” said Fung Chang. “The transition was successful.”
The first of the men bowed his head to the carpet before lifting it and replying. “It is so, master. The six beings were all brought here across the Bridge of Light opened by the storm that you devised and released.”
“Fung Chang knows this,” interrupted the priest impatiently. “He wishes to know where they are now. Why they are not here, in the Temple of Seven Winds.”
“The first of them, the American called Rocklyn, was about to be apprehended by myself and our servants and brought here, when we were unexpectedly ambushed. He has been taken to a place of sanctuary,” the first man said.
“The Barbarian is in Meridian Park. We were about to take him, when he was aided by the Mire-Creature, which had also found its way into the Park,” said the second. “This Creature proved even more elusive, escaping into the sewers beneath the city as we were about to capture it.”
Li Sung lifted his face. His mind was racing. He knew the penalty for failing Fung Chang and was trying not to dwell on it. “The English detective and his companion were followed to the Lady Annabella Hotel, where I was about to bring them here. But they, too, had help. Riderman and his allies have set themselves up against us.”
The eyes of the priest narrowed. “What of the other American, Bannerman?”
The first of the men bowed again. “Hwang Ho has not returned to us yet from the entry point. Reinforcements have been sent.”
Before the priest could comment, the soft, clinical voice of Fung Chang drifted down to them again. “My astral intelligences tell me that there were seven entry points. You have accounted for six, since the last you refer to was that of Bannerman, the Cyberwolf.”
“Master, my servants were also following another person. Not one of the six. This person crossed the Bridge of Light from his world also.”
“Who is this person?” hissed the priest.
“I have not seen him, master. We were observing the effects of the storm, guarding the gates that were opened.”
“And this person,” said Fung Chang, as if describing a disease, “has come through, with the others?”
“Excuse me, master,” said Li Sung. “I believe I know of him and his whereabouts. One of my men followed him to an inn, but he had help getting away.”
“Well?” said the priest.
“Master, he is now with the American Rocklyn, as are the two Englishmen. They are in the Lady Annabella Hotel, protected by Riderman. I have the Hotel surrounded, above and below ground. They cannot leave it.”
“Who is this person?” said Fung Chang, a hint of impatience in his tone.
“He seems a man of no importance, master. He has no powers that we know of.”
A strange sound came from the darkness in the Gateway, that of soft, mocking laughter. On Fung Chang’s lips, it sounded sinister. “Of no importance? You are so very naïve. He is here, so he is very important. Who sent him? It would be dangerous to assume he came by an accident of fate.”
“Of course, master,” nodded Li Sung, the sweat dripping from his brow on to the rich carpet. “But he is trapped at the Hotel.”
“How soon will the Barbarian and the Mire-Creature be trapped in the Park?”
“We are searching, master. Soon we will have them.”
Fung Chang was silent for ominous moments. But when he spoke again, he appeared to be composed. “I have allowed for such difficulties. These men are possessed of extraordinary powers. It is, after all, why I have selected them. They will not be easy to snare. Remember my commands — they are not to be allowed to combine their powers. They must not gather together! I am patient. Tighten your nets. Notify me when you have them all, chained if necessary, but in separate order!”
The darkness in the Harmony Gateway closed in on itself.
Fung Chang had gone.
Below the steps, the three men in suits breathed a unified sigh of relief, but the priest glared at them. “Our master’s patience is merciful, but limited! Bring the six here soon. Use whatever means necessary. Spare no one! You have been given great powers and privileges. If the Shuddermen and the Manwolves are not enough, use more of the sorcery at your disposal!”
As the three men left the Temple, they nodded silently to one another. Whatever means necessary. Then they would reach into the darkness of sorcery and beyond, to raise Hell itself if they must. Fung Chang would expect nothing less.
* * * *
The Barbarian surfaced, sucking in a huge lungful of air, swiveling his body with the grace of a huge seal and kicking himself on to his back. Overhead the sky was cloudless, deep blue, and on either side of the broad river the banks were overgrown with shrubs, the forest closing in behind them. The journey by river had been a long one, but they had outdistanced the pursuit. It was time to rest. Lifting his head, the Barbarian saw an islet ahead, set conveniently midstream. He turned over and stroked out lazily for it, fetching up on a sandbank moments later. Eyeing the riverbanks on either side cautiously, he went up to the bushes and eased himself down, waiting.
A few minutes later, his extraordinary rescuer emerged from the river like some mythological beast, its own eyes watching its environment like the hunted creature it was. The Barbarian waited, showing no fear, only curiosity. The Creature was over seven feet tall, moulded from mud and slime, its limbs twice as thick as a man’s, the fingers like roots. The eyes were scarlet, yet in them yet burned more than a spark of humanity, expressions that marked the thing as being as much human as beast.
It knelt down beside the Barbarian and dug into the smooth sand of the bar with one of those long fingers. I cannot speak, it wrote. Can you understand?
The Barbarian’s eyes widened in recognition as he read the jerky lettering. “Yes, I was taught to read years ago when I served in the court of Amalrond the Cultured. I speak several tongues, though I don’t read many. When you’ve travelled the world as I have, you pick up these things. Your survival depends on it,” he added bluntly. “Have you a name?”