by Adam Millard
“Hello, Mrs Thorneye,” Alcorn said, turning on the charm, and why not? He had enough of it. “I’m looking for Joe. It’s official Met business, and it’s very important that I locate him immediately.” Good enough. Maybe the part about official Met business was a little over the top, but apart from that…
“Joe’s not here, Detective,” she said with a voice that would have frightened small children and pets. “He didn’t come home last night. He telephoned me very late. Said he was working a very important case and that he didn’t know when he would be back.”
Alcorn was dumfounded. Who in their right mind would give Joe Thorneye a very important case? No one, that’s who, and certainly not Inquisitor Gurd, who had no idea where the Inspector had disappeared to.
“Yes, the very important case,” Alcorn said. “He’s getting really close to cracking that one, from what I hear.” He took a step toward the door and the chubby face peering through the crack. “He didn’t happen to mention where he was, did he?”
Cynthia shook her head, making her jowls flap. “No, no, he didn’t tell me anything. Confidential, no doubt.”
So confidential that he had to steal a piece of vital evidence from the station and take it for a walk.
He could see she wasn’t lying. Thorneye wasn’t home. He was off, up to no good, and it was killing Alcorn not knowing what it was.
“Okay, Mrs Thorneye,” he said, backing down the steps in front of the building. “Sorry to disturb you. If he comes back can—” The door slamming cut him off. “Can you tell him I’m going to give him the slapping of his life,” Alcorn added. It didn’t make him feel any better.
Where the hell are you, you son a bitch?
Alcorn walked along Hertford Street and turned left onto Old Park Lane. He was looking for a needle in a haystack, and at the back of his mind, all he could think about was Abigale Egars.
He summoned a hansom and instructed the driver to head wherever the hell he wanted to. Alcorn was relying on blind luck, more than a smidgeon of providence, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
*
The brass-wolf was still making Thorneye nervous, and yet none of the people they passed seemed to notice the beast for what it was. Surely, they could see it wasn’t a dog. What kind of dog wears armour, anyway? Has the world gone so mad that people can’t distinguish between a bloodthirsty beast of the wild and a mangy mutt in a costume?
“We’ve been walking for ten hours,” Thorneye said. The sweat was trickling down his spine and pooling in an area he didn’t care to think about. “Are you sure the wolf’s not just taking a tour of the city?”
The giant necromancer, Dorian, grunted. Conversation had been limited during the night, which was fine by Thorneye, but occasionally, something more than a grunt was necessary.
“If you say so,” Thorneye said. On the inside, he was crying, cursing at himself for taking his news to Blithe. This was all his fault, and he was to suffer by walking the streets of London for all eternity. At least, that’s what it felt like. Next to him, the necromancer hadn’t even broken a sweat. His breathing was well regulated, and he looked as if he was able to carry on walking to the ends of the Earth if that’s what it took.
Just then, Kai sniffed excitedly at the ground, slobbered his way up a bright red pillar-box. Drool dripped from his aroused maw. It was one of the most hideous things Thorneye had ever seen, and he’d worked the beat on Old Kent Road.
“Oh, thank God,” Thorneye said. “I thought we’d lost her.”
Dorian shook his head. His jaw tightened as he glanced in the direction they were going. He pointed, and grunted once. Kai began sniffing at the ground once again, leading them onwards to Abigale Egars and a fragment of something very, very important.
*
As she walked tentatively across the airfield toward Poseidon’s Gale, Abigale realised how colossal the task ahead was going to be. She’d never doubted herself before, not even on the riskiest of jobs, but this…this was an altogether different kettle of fish.
Once upon a time, when she’d had a mother and father and everything had been as close to normal as one could expect, her father had told her stories of massive skyships, tremendous cigar-shaped dirigibles that drifted through the sky as easy and as smoothly as clouds. At the time, Abigale had chortled and told her daddy that he was being silly. Such things could never exist. It was fantasy, something he’d created to charm and delight her at bedtime.
“Look at me now, Daddy,” Abigale whispered as she slowly approached the very thing her father had prophesised. While he had described its shape in perfect detail, he’d left out just how beautiful the skyships would be. Perhaps, in his own head, he’d had an image, an idea of how they might turn out, but he’d been unwilling to commit—just in case he turned out to be wrong.
There were two dirigibles sitting on the grass, one much larger than the other. The one on the right was called, according to the inscription upon its side, The Mad Knave. Catchy, but not her ride. She was on the big one, and her smile grew broad as she turned to face it.
Poseidon’s Gale was astonishing. Her gondola filled the entire right side of Kensington Airfield, which must have made her around one-hundred and fifty foot in length. On either side of her, steps stretched down to the grass, and people were queuing at the bottom—talking excitedly and being generally merry. It was a lot for Abigale to take in, and she found herself constantly drawn to the mammoth balloon overhead. Everything beneath it was cast into a gloomy darkness, and yet, the atmosphere was akin to that of a festival banquet.
She joined the queue of two-hundred people all dying to climb aboard and cross the sea to Europe. Abigale felt as if she weren’t quite sure if she was dreaming or if it was all real and she was having an out of body experience as she gawked up at the huge gondola. Those must be the life ships, she thought as she noticed the six smaller vessels secured to the larger dirigible’s side. They were like miniature versions of Poseidon’s Gale, as if the ship had birthed them and was taking them along with her for the ride. Carbon copies of their mother, each had a small balloon already filled with hydrogen and gondolas with the Poseidon’s Gale painted along their sides in eloquent script.
“Have your tickets ready,” a man said as he marched up and down the line. “Everyone, please make sure you have a valid ticket and passport, otherwise you won’t be flying today.”
He looked like the type of guy who should be taming lions in a travelling circus, and he must have seen Abigale staring at him, for he turned on her, his tailcoat whooshing behind him.
“And I know a beautiful young thing like you wouldn’t be trying to stowaway on old Mother Gale, here, would you?” he dampened his lips and grinned.
Abigale tried not to let her disgust show. The last thing she wanted to do was annoy the Ticketmaster, who was well within his right to simply deny her admittance.
“I have a ticket,” she said, fumbling around in her satchel. A moment of panic washed over her, but then she remembered she’d put the ticket in her coat pocket. She retrieved it and flashed it at the lip licker, hoping it would be enough to send him off to pester someone else.
“Indeed you do,” he said, grinning.
Why did all the sleazy ones always latch onto her? She wasn’t even dressed pretty, and she certainly didn’t feel attractive, what with the itchy head and the fact she was carrying a multitude of explosives.
“Enjoy the journey, ma’am. Be sure to come find me if you have any,” he gave another lick of his lips, specific requirements.”
Abigale forced a smile. It was either that, or she was going to upchuck right there on Kensington Airfield. “Thank you.” She tucked the ticket back into her pocket and faced forward. Off he went, questioning other people. I’ll bet he doesn’t slaver all over them, Abigale thought as a shudder ran down her spine.
With aching legs, she stood waiting, silently praying for a comfortable seat when they were finally allowed to board. Her ex
citement had waned a little. She couldn’t help feeling that everything was running too smoothly and that it was all a little easy—something that she wasn’t used to.
Don’t tempt fate, a voice in her head reminded her. You’re a good thief, girl, but you aren’t infallible.
Wise words for a bodiless narrator.
*
“Slow down!” Alcorn said, leaning out of the right window and calling back to the driver. He waved his hand in the air. “Stop right here!” The horses slowed to a halt, and Alcorn stepped down from the cab and made his way around the back.
It’s him!
Thorneye was walking alongside a much larger fellow with the biggest damn dog Alcorn had ever seen. Alcorn couldn’t believe his luck.
“I know you’re a copper, and whatnot,” the driver said, glaring down at Alcorn like some Roman emperor, “but I’ve got two bleedin’ kids to feed.”
The man held his hand out, and after fumbling around in his pocket without taking his eyes off the dawdling Inspector on the opposite side of the street, Alcorn paid him.
The hansom galloped off down the street, leaving Alcorn exposed. It didn’t matter. Thorneye was too busy rambling to his friend to notice anything else. They looked as if they were on a mission, and Alcorn had to move quickly if he wanted to keep up. He fell in behind them, all the while keeping his distance and wondering who the hell the other man was, anyway.
They came upon a market, and Alcorn watched as the large man allowed his dog to sniff around. It wasn’t like any dog Alcorn had ever seen before. It was almost wolfish, and he guessed it was probably illegally imported from another country, but that didn’t matter right then. What mattered was keeping Thorneye in his sights.
Whatever that fool was up to, it was wrong. Corruption was a problem in the Met, had been for quite some time. Alcorn loathed nothing more than a dishonest copper. He hated them more than he hated the run-of-the-mill arsehole criminals.
“You want apples?” a voice said.
A woman with one tooth had crept up on him, which took some doing. She was holding a tray of what appeared to be tomatoes, but Alcorn didn’t have time to correct her. His mark was moving, the weird dog leading the way.
Where are you going?
Alcorn kept close, following them through a set of gates that had been somewhat concealed by the bustling market. If Thorneye turned, that would be it. All over. See you later. No arrest, and no corrupt rozzer behind bars, where he belonged.
He stood between the gates leading onto Kensington Airfield. Thorneye and his mystery associate were heading toward a dirigible, but Alcorn knew the Inspector wasn’t about to go anywhere. Why would he? His wife would kill him, Inquisitor Gurd would suspend him, and then his wife would divorce him. That chain of events seemed unlikely to happen, but the longer Alcorn stood there watching—they were almost at the dirigible, now, and getting closer still—the more he believed Thorneye capable of anything, no matter how silly.
“He wouldn’t,” Alcorn sighed, and yet he realised he was nodding at the very same time.
*
“Where does she think she is going?” Thorneye asked, shielding his eyes from the midday sun and inspecting the huge dirigible sitting on the grass. “What, she steals something she knows nothing about and then takes a holiday? Hey, you don’t think she’s sold it, do you?”
Dorian huffed. It was a rather welcomed change from the grunt Thorneye had expected.
“I’m serious. How else can she afford to fly to…where is this thing going?” He looked up at the side, but apart from the name of the ship, there was nothing. “Anyway, she’s going somewhere, and we need to get her off here now before…wait, where are you going? We can’t. We don’t even have tickets, and my wife…please stop walking...”
Dorian stood at the bottom of the steps, facing some maniac that had deemed it appropriate behaviour to accost a necromancer. Thorneye couldn’t help but wonder if the man had not noticed the giant armoured beast by Dorian’s side. Did he, too, think it was some sort of mutant Chihuahua?
“Tickets, please,” the man said, leaning against the side of the gondola and twirling his handlebar moustache between thumb and forefinger. He looks like the type of person that should be taming lions at a travelling circus, Thorneye thought.
Dorian grunted, and Thorneye stepped forward, ready to mediate before things got ugly. “I’m afraid my friend here doesn’t speak English.” He flashed his badge at the suspicious man and smiled. “I’m Inspector Thorneye, this is my associate…” He looked up at the necromancer and tried to pluck a name from obscurity. The first thing that came to mind elicited a snarl from Dorian. “Detective Gulliver.”
The ticket master straightened himself up. Most people did when they realised they were addressing the law, and that’s because most people were doing something illegal.
“What is this about?” the man asked, his confidence sapped.
To say that he looked dubious was a little like saying Henry the Eighth had women issues. Thorneye knew he could use it to his advantage, as he’d done with so many before.
“We need to get on board this ship,” Thorneye said. “We have reason to believe that a well-known and wanted thief has taken it upon herself to leave the country, and we must do everything within our power to make sure that does not happen.”
The ticket master sighed. “There is nothing I can do. Poseidon’s Gale is property of Russia, and to Russia, she must return. She is already late, and I…” he trailed off there. The knife protruding from his stomach might have had something to do with his sudden silence.
Thorneye shot Dorian a reproachful look. “Really? We couldn’t have talked him into letting us on board?”
Dorian grunted, threw the corpse of the ticket master over his shoulder, and made his way up the steps in front.
“And now we’re taking the dead body with us. I’m sure that will go down well with the other passengers. Why not…we already have a brass-wolf…not to mention the biggest necromancer... Hey, wait for me.” Thorneye scrambled after Dorian, and by the time they reached the ship, the ticket master had made a miraculous recovery, albeit with a twist. Dorian placed him down on the ground and gave him a slight nudge forward, as if expecting him to suddenly fly free.
“This way, gentlemen. I’ll show you to your seats,” the ticket master said, pulling his moustache through bloody fingers. At first, Thorneye didn’t know what was going on, but then he remembered, Dorian was with a necromancer. Reviving the dead was a specialty of theirs. It didn’t matter if it’d been dead for ten seconds, or ten centuries; a powerful necromancer could bring back anyone or anything. To be truthful, it made Thorneye’s skin crawl just thinking about it.
“Can we just get the girl, find out where the Configuration piece is, and get the hell off this thing?” Thorneye had had enough. The situation was way out of his league. Blithe and the necromancer could go to hell. Once he was out of that mess, that was it. No more. Wizards…who do they think they bleeding are? “Hey, wait a minute. Are we moving? It feels like we’re moving, which I know can’t be happening because…”
The ship rose slowly from the grass beneath and suddenly drifted across to the right. Those that saw it coming had managed to grab onto something stable, but Thorneye hadn’t, and it was all he could do to stay on his feet.
“Erm, yes. Well, that answers my question. Spiffing. Off to Russia we go.” There was no joy in his voice whatsoever, and the other passengers watched him rambling with some confusion.
Kai sniffed at the air, trying to pinpoint the scent he’d been following for almost ten hours, but for the moment, amongst all the people, it was lost. Dorian growled at the brass-wolf, and it lowered itself to the ground, whimpering. Once they were up, and the ship was more stable, they would find the girl. They had her trapped at what would shortly be eight-thousand feet, and unless she was feeling lucky or had some magnificent clockwork eagle that she could ride back to Earth, she wasn’t going anywhere.
*
Alcorn ran across the airfield as quickly as his legs would carry him, but he’d left it too late. The ship was up and out of reach, and no amount of arm waving or bellowing was going to bring it back down.
Had they killed that man? It sure looked like it, but Alcorn had been too far away to be certain. Now they were drifting off to wherever the magnificent bitch was going, and he was being left behind. What a terrible week he was having.
“Miss the boat, did you?”
The voice was a little too cheerily for Alcorn’s liking. As the dirigible got smaller and smaller in the sky, the sun bouncing off it like pure magic, Alcorn shielded his eyes and turned to face the source.
A small man, wearing coveralls obviously made for a man of much larger frame, stood before him. . The sleeves hung listlessly from his wrists, and if he wasn’t careful he’d be tripping over the legs, which covered his boots entirely. Strapped to his head was a pair of aviator goggles, and despite the coveralls being cleaner than the day they had been made, the man’s face was absolutely filthy.
“Where’s it going?” Alcorn asked, pointing at the shrinking shape in the sky. The run across the airfield had left him breathless and shaky.
“Oh, Poseidon’s Gale?” the man said as if that should mean something to Alcorn. “She’s a Russian dirigible, so I’m guessing she’s off back to Rus’.” He grinned.
Alcorn could see that dental hygiene was not something that the fellow considered important.
His smile faltered, and the dirty creases making up his face momentarily lessened. “Should you have been on board?”
Alcorn took a deep breath; the air was dirty, and he almost choked on the steam the departing dirigible had left in its wake. “I wasn’t,” he said, “but neither were two men that I followed here.”
The filthy man frowned. “’Ere, you’re not some sort of pervert, are you? Can’t be doing with none of that nonsense and—”