by Jon Mayhew
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Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin and New York
First published in Great Britain in April 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY
Text copyright © Jim Carrington 2010
The moral rights of the author has been asserted
This electronic edition published in April 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
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For my wife, Lin, and my children,
Sally, Alfie, Frank and even Jack
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Immortal amarant, a flow’r which once
In Paradise, fast by the Tree of Life
Began to bloom, but soon for man’s offence
To Heav’n removed where first it grew, there grows,
And flow’rs aloft shading the Fount of Life
Paradise Lost, John Milton
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PROLOGUE
Abyssinia, 1820
Sebastian Mortlock felt a wriggling invasion between his toes. He glanced down. The ground seethed beneath his torn boots as worms, millipedes, cockroaches and ants twisted over each other. An insect crawled up the arch of his foot. He stamped and grimaced at his two comrades.
Thurlough Corvis grinned and mopped his brow. ‘It’s a good sign,’ he reassured Sebastian. ‘This jungle’s teeming with life. Even three Englishmen might survive.’
‘It’s a sign. I’m not sure how good it is,’ said Edwin Chrimes, pulling a face and swatting a beetle from his leg. ‘There shouldn’t even be a jungle here, not in this godforsaken place.’
The jungle, an inexplicable oasis, had brought them to this barren salt desert in the first place. It had pulled them clear of the raised weapons of hostile tribesmen, tugging them past the narrow-eyed gaze of suspicious warlords; dangerous men, who had spent their lives fighting over this hellhole.
The Englishmen were still alive – if oddly dressed. The three of them had long ago abandoned their dark travelling suits for the lighter, cooler local tribal wear. Travelling had stained the white cotton tunics that flowed down to their boots. Turbans enveloped their heads and scarves masked their faces, showing only their eyes.
During their travels, they had become good friends. Corvis had surprised Mortlock. A slight, pale gentleman, more used to the gaming table and the port, he’d found strength in the face of their many hardships – unlike Chrimes. With his red hair and freckles, he had suffered from the scorching sun, his skin blistering in the heat. He never stopped complaining.
‘So what now, Sebastian?’ Corvis raised an eyebrow, the slanting shadows of the forest canopy exaggerating his dark, pointed features. ‘Do we rest or shall we forge ahead?’
‘Rest?’ Mortlock stretched his powerfully built body, aware of how he towered over his friends. ‘We’re on the verge of the greatest discovery of all time and you want to rest?’
‘You’re in charge. I just wondered if you were tired,’ Corvis said, raising his hands. ‘After all, an old man like you . . .’
‘I’m twenty-six, Corvis,’ Mortlock objected, though he couldn’t disguise the humour in his voice. ‘Only a year older than both of you!’
‘Well, it takes its toll,’ Chrimes chipped in.
Mortlock gave them both a withering glance, then turned and plunged into the bush.
‘If you’re so young and fit, you’ll have no trouble keeping up!’ he called back, throwing down his pack and disappearing into the shadows. He heard Corvis and Chrimes give a yell and then the rustle of foliage as they charged after him.
Mortlock grinned, glancing back only once to gauge the distance between himself and his pursuers. He leapt over fallen tree trunks and dodged around spiny bushes. But the jungle was dense. Vines pulled and snagged at his cotton robes. His laughter died as he panted with the effort of running. Sweat poured down his face. He wrestled through the tangle of vegetation that clung to him, fought against him. It grew darker. He could hear the others still cursing and thrashing about behind him, their voices fainter now. A red glow flickered ahead, enticing him, like a moth to flame, he thought. More branches and creepers gripped him as he struggled forward. He fell heavily on to a rotten tree stump and pain lanced up his leg. Mortlock’s breath grew more ragged as panic swelled inside him. He felt as if he were drowning in a sea of green. With a bellow of rage he dug his feet into the soft earth and hurled himself forward. The wall of foliage gave way, tearing at his clothing as he fell on to the open ground of a clearing.
Silence.
Trees huddled around the small glade, leaning in as if to protect the small flower that grew in the centre of the clearing. It stood about a foot tall, scarlet petals cupping upwards, like a tulip made from the most exquisite jewels. A pulsing light – reminding Sebastian of the beat of a heart – caused the shades of red to flicker and flow across the surface of the flower’s petals.
Now Mortlock could hear Corvis grumbling and snarling as he tore his way through the last few feet of dense jungle. Without looking round, Mortlock heard his friend fall into the clearing, then a second crash as Chrimes followed. The two men appeared beside Mortlock and gazed towards where he was looking. No one spoke.
Birds cried out high above their heads. Distant roars and growls from the undergrowth barely registered in Mortlock’s mind. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the glowing red flower. He found himself sinking to the ground and was dimly aware of Chrimes and Corvis doing the same. Damp moss cushioned his knees and a humid mist seemed to seep into his bones.
‘The Amarant,’ Mortlock whispered, glancing at his companions. ‘We’ve found it at last, eh?’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Chrimes murmured, the crimson luminescence making his red hair look aflame. ‘So much power in something so fragile.’
‘Power over life and death,’ Corvis said, ruby light playing across his pale face. ‘It’s beautiful, yes, but . . . also wrong, somehow.’
Time seemed to slow as Mortlock stared into the red heart of the flower. It pulsed before him, and he felt like he was bathing in its unearthly light as it painted images in his mind.
A twig snapped deep in the forest.
Mortlock stiffened and glanced around. The shadows beyond the flower’s pulse shifted as if by a slow, steady movement.
‘There’s something out there,’ Corvis said, his dark eyes burning in the ruby glow. He shivered.
‘Like someone’s watching us,’ Chrimes agreed, staring into the blackness. ‘How long have we been here?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mortlock muttered, running his fingers through his matted blond hair. He felt as though he’d just woken up from a deep sleep, drugged and thick-headed. ‘Too long. Look at the moon.’
‘My God,’ Corvis whispered. The bloated mo
on hung high above their heads. It had been a blazing hot afternoon when they’d run into the oasis.
‘Let’s go,’ Mortlock said, jumping to his feet. His heart pounded.
The undergrowth rustled around them. Vague shapes flitted through the shadows. Whispering voices carried on the breeze like the rustling of dead leaves. The sweet, cloying scent of decay filled the air. An emaciated face grinned out of the undergrowth. Behind it were others.
‘What in God’s name are they?’ Chrimes whispered, sweat beading his forehead.
‘I don’t think God has much to do with it,’ Mortlock replied, his voice shaky and hushed. ‘I think they guard the Amarant.’ He heard one of his friends give a low moan of fear.
Corvis broke first, his slim frame almost knocking Chrimes over as he bounded into the bushes. The whispering became a low, angry murmur. Mortlock grabbed Chrimes and dragged him bodily from the clearing.
Thorns and briars snagged and tore at them, ripping flesh and clothes as they fought their way through the vegetation. Mortlock could hear Corvis panting up ahead. He pushed the wide-eyed Chrimes before him, heaving the blade of his machete at branches and creepers. Mortlock snatched a glance into the undergrowth and glimpsed long-dead faces leering out from the shadows. He heard himself scream as the murmur of the dead became a strangled yell of anger. Cold fingers raked his shoulders and snagged at his hair; the sweet stench of decay clogged his nostrils. He slashed at the limbs that tried to snare him, shuddering as his fingers brushed against the dry, icy skin of corpses. His breath shortened as he fell forward. We’re all going to die! he thought desperately. But suddenly the jungle thinned and Chrimes and Mortlock staggered out into the cold night air of the desert, collapsing on to the shivering Corvis.
Dawn light broke over them, even though night had descended only moments ago. The men stared back into the forest, shivering. Steam rose off the fat leaves of jungle plants.
‘Living corpses,’ Mortlock panted.
‘I had a vision while I sat by it,’ Corvis said quietly, looking back into the dark, silent jungle. ‘A cold horror clutched my heart. I saw . . . wings, black wings, stabbing beaks, ravens and crows . . .’
‘Decay,’ Mortlock whispered. ‘I saw a death’s-head, skulls and charnel houses . . . We can’t take the Amarant with us. Those were warnings.’ Sweat trickled down his forehead. ‘We must leave and never come back.’
‘But we’ve come this far,’ Corvis protested, glancing from Chrimes to Mortlock and back. ‘Maybe there’s a way. If we bring back the Amarant, we’ll be famous, rich beyond our wildest dreams.’
‘Will we?’ Mortlock grunted as he stood up. ‘I say we’ve been given a chance. Let the thing alone.’
‘You’re right,’ Chrimes said, smoothing his thin red beard with trembling fingers. ‘We can’t take the Amarant. It would destroy us.’
‘We must swear that none of us will return to this spot,’ Mortlock said. He held out an open palm. He slid his sheath knife from his belt and placed the blade to his hand. He tilted the knife and dragged it across his flesh, scoring a mark on his work-worn skin. Then he offered the handle of the knife to Chrimes. ‘A blood pact,’ he said simply.
‘Agreed.’ Chrimes slashed at his palm and held his hand against Mortlock’s.
They turned to Corvis. He winced as he made a feeble scratch, only just managing to draw blood. He joined his friends.
‘An oath,’ he murmured faintly. He failed to meet Mortlock’s glance. ‘Never to take the Amarant from this place.’
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Part the First
London, 1854
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Many a one for him makes moan,
But none shall know where he is gone;
O’er his white bones, when they are bare,
The wind shall blow for evermore.
‘The Two Ravens’, traditional folk ballad
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CHAPTER ONE
The Knife Thrower
Josie Chrimes levelled the knife, holding it by its blade. She felt its weight shift towards the handle, the cool steel pressing on her forefinger and thumb as she extended her arm. The Great Cardamom stood twenty strides away. It could be twice as far and I’d still be able to send the blade through him, she thought. Josie never missed. She reached her arm back, then snapped forward and, with a confident flick of her wrist, sent the knife whirling towards its target.
The sound of the audience’s gasp made her smile. The knife flashed across the stage until – with a thunk! – it pinned the Great Cardamom’s top hat to the cork-board behind him. Knife after knife had described his outline, so close that Josie had seen the front rows of the audience craning forward, wide-eyed, eager to spot a trickle of blood. But now this last knife had hit its mark, Cardamom stepped neatly from under his hat, still pinned to the cork, and smoothed his red hair. With a flourish, he gave a deep bow, looking over at Josie to share a secret wink. The crowd went wild, clapping and cheering.
Josie strode across the stage, narrowing her eyes against the harsh glare of the footlights. Then she took Cardamom’s hand and shared the second bow, dipping so low that her nose brushed against her skirt.
As the two of them straightened up, Josie glanced over at Cardamom. She was almost taller than him now. Out in the street, they would have made a curious sight: he stocky, with dyed red hair, clipped moustache and red-lined cloak, she dressed in leggings and a light shift, her long, blonde hair spilling from under a black bow. But onstage, they still made a perfect fit.
Josie took a deep breath, smelling the sweat from the audience and the dust ingrained in the velvet curtains. The music from the orchestra’s pit filled the air, vibrating through her bones. This is where I belong, she thought, squeezing the hand of her guardian, the Great Cardamom.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He raised his hand, asking for quiet. ‘I give you Artemis the Huntress! Thirteen years of age, a lifetime of talent!’
After a fresh round of applause, their act moved on. Josie watched as Cardamom amazed the audience by producing almost anything they called out from his pockets: pork pies, mousetraps, fruit, coins, doves . . . Even a ferret appeared in his hands. He dragged a bunch of fresh carnations from inside his coat, winked at Josie and threw them to her. Now and then he would release a balloon, and Josie would flick a knife from her hand to burst it. Josie kept her smile fixed but she wondered how Cardamom conjured up all these things. Backstage, she’d often secretly checked his pockets and found them to be ordinary and empty. Her guardian didn’t let her in on his secrets. ‘That’s magic,’ he’d say mysteriously. Josie knew it was nothing more than sleight of hand, but that still didn’t explain how he knew what the audience was going to ask for.
A levitation act followed the conjuring, then filling a jug from a bottle that never seemed to run dry, rabbits from hats – it was all standard material. Cardamom and Josie often went to the Lyceum up the street to see Professor Anderson, the so-called ‘Wizard of the North’, perform similar feats. But Cardamom’s performance was seamless. As he wove his real magic, Josie would tumble, cartwheel, flip and roll in between tricks or when she brought props on. The collective gasp from the audience when she ran across the stage, then bounced and somersaulted to Cardamom’s side, made her grin. She enjoyed herself almost as much as the audience.
Tonight, the clapping and cheers spilled into the wings as Josie and Cardamom squeezed past the dancers who were next on.
‘But why Artemis?’ Josie asked, pressing herself against the wall and blowing the dancing girls’ plumes from her face as they filed by. ‘It’s such a dull name.’
Cardamom stopped and turned, thrusting his face into Josie’s. ‘Your talents come from ancient gods,’ he hissed, suddenly sombre. The flush of excitement had faded from his cheeks. Then he gave a wink. ‘And we wouldn’t like to upset them, would we?’
Josie watched her guardian push past the stagehands and waiting actors, h
eading out of sight into the dark interior of the theatre. She frowned. Those moods of his! Cardamom could shift from maudlin to joking in the blink of an eye. Onstage he looked demonic with his pointed red beard and arched eyebrows. And yet, in rare moments, he could reveal the gentlest of souls. She hurried after him.
Josie caught up with Cardamom in a storeroom, where they could talk with no fear of their voices disturbing the action onstage. It was the place they always went to when they needed to talk.
‘If it makes you happy, Uncle,’ Josie sighed, ‘I’ll keep the name Artemis.’
Cardamom gave a faint smile. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘The audience is going to love you whatever stage name we choose. As you grow up, the act gets . . . easier.’ Cardamom suddenly looked much older. With a pang of sadness, Josie noticed that his dyed hair drew attention to his advancing years.
A short, barrel-chested young man dressed in dark breeches and a waistcoat emerged from the backstage shadows beyond the storeroom. A stubby clay pipe wreathed curls of smoke around his mop of black hair and his thick moustache. He held a dripping paint brush, paint speckling his rolled-up shirt sleeves.
‘Gimlet!’ Josie threw herself at the stocky character and hugged him. She was grateful for the distraction. ‘What have you been up to? Have you finished the new backdrop for the Underworld?’
Josie had been watching Gimlet’s preparation of the scenery for Cardamom’s new act. Her guardian had decided on the theme of Dante’s Inferno. Dancers would be dressed as imps and demons, while Cardamom would perform tricks that would baffle the Devil himself. Gimlet had set to work on creating the backdrop: flames and furnaces with fearsome, satanic faces staring out from rocky caverns.
‘Steady,’ Gimlet laughed, holding the wet brush away from Josie’s hair. ‘I need to put the finishing touches to the scene. I might be living in this theatre for the next few weeks!’
‘You already do, Gimlet,’ Cardamom teased.
‘It beats making coffins,’ Gimlet said.