by Matt Whyman
“The Faerie Ring,” states the boy with conviction. “Seven churches built on seven sites across the city. Each one marks an underground waypoint. It doesn’t look like much when you see one. Just a seven-pointed star scratched into the keystone. But each one marks the spot where ancient ley lines join.”
Julius smiles to himself. “Very good,” he says without turning. “And what is the significance of these ley lines?”
“That’s simple,” Yoshi tells him. “A ley line is a channel for earth magick. They are said to reflect connections between the stars in the sky, so you could say the forces running between them are out of this world.”
“Good grief,” mutters Livia to herself. “It’s Julius junior.”
Yoshi pretends to look wounded, but there’s no hiding the fact that he’s finding his feet as the old man’s unofficial apprentice. “In this ring formation,” he continues, and gestures at the map, “a powerful stream of earth energy serves to protect the capital and allow her citizens to prosper. London’s founding fathers are believed to have erected the first buildings within the ring for these reasons, but obviously the city has grown a bit since those days.”
“The heart of it remains inside the ley lines,” says Julius. “So long as that is protected, both body and soul are safe.”
With a sharp tut, Livia steps around the table, and faces them both directly. “Let me know when the science bit is over, boys,” she says, and looks around for something to do. Her gaze settles on the chessboard, partially hidden among the sprawl of papers and books. “Who’s playing?” she asks, dropping down to study the pieces.
Julius and Yoshi exchange a look.
“This isn’t a game,” says the old man finally. “Last night, when everyone was watching the fireworks, a major event took place beneath the city. But those plumes of fire and water didn’t go off by accident. What’s more, they were just a hint of the forces at work within the Faerie Ring.” He pauses there, and his gaze drops to the chain around her neck. “You may be marked out to make the connection between one waypoint and the next, but what occurred here went full circle.”
As he speaks, Livia reaches up to touch the dog tags strung around her neck. Since their breakout from the Foundation, nobody had talked about their significance. It was as if just raising the issue would somehow revive all memories of the brute who had locked them about their throats in the first place.
Aleister had insisted that Livia, Yoshi and the twins wore the tags for identification purposes, so he said. The numbers stamped on each plate had meant little to them at the time. Now, they knew the string of digits on one plate was a code. One that marked them out as psychics selected to tap into the Faerie Ring. The other plate, stamped with a single number, determined at which waypoint each one of them should be stationed.
Had the brute amassed seven such kids, he might’ve fired up the ring at his bidding. As it turned out, Yoshi and his fellow Foundation runaways had turned what powers they had upon the Programme Director himself. For the last time they had made the connection, taking refuge on a bridge together over the tracks of an old underground platform, he had been close to making them suffer. The fury he had displayed showed them what he thought about their escape. In the same way, the fate that befell him when all four reached up and touched the waypoint in the brickwork made it plain what they thought about returning to his care. The energy they had summoned between the two waypoints had knocked the fiend off his feet at first. It might not have circled the entire ring, but it did show their potential.
Reflecting on that moment now, Livia stops toying with her tags and levels a question at the figure who had first cracked the code for them.
“Even if somehow Aleister survived,” she suggests to Julius, “he would’ve been forced to start from scratch in recruiting seven psychic kids to unlock the Faerie Ring in its entirety. Those who stayed behind at the Foundation were way too young to be in control of their powers, so how could he have pulled it off?”
“Because it wasn’t triggered by seven kids stationed on seven waypoints,” declares Julius, and sighs like it’s a relief for this to be out in the open at last. “Based upon the evidence, I believe last night the entire Faerie Ring was fired up from a single point.”
“How can that be?” asks Yoshi.
Julius brings his hands together in a steeple now, and addresses them both from over his fingertips. “Because the seventh waypoint is out of bounds,” he reveals to them. “Which means its power remains a mystery to us both. But judging by the display caught on camera that we played back on the Bridge, and knowing that Aleister couldn’t have recruited enough candidates to cover every base, I think we’ve found our main switch. Had he been behind it, we would’ve seen a lot more than water plumes and flame-offs, so this has to be the work of someone else. Someone who holds the fate of the capital in its hands, even if what we saw was simply child’s play.”
“So what’s the big deal about this waypoint?” asks Livia. “Why is it out of bounds?”
Julius studies the map of London in front of him, but it’s clear his thoughts go deeper. “Because it’s located on the far side of an underground chasm,” he tells them. “In the foundations of the church of St Luke’s. It’s out in the east, near the meat market.”
Yoshi turns to Livia, and finds her already looking at him. The pair face the old man again, but Yoshi is the only one who does so with a grin.
“Julius, when it comes to the rooftops, there is nowhere that is off limits to me. You’ve shown me plenty of underground drops and divides, but I’m sure I can cross this chasm no sweat.”
“Oh, getting in there is only half the challenge,” says the old man. “It would certainly take a leap of some faith, but what you’d find beyond that point is what gives me grave cause for concern.”
Yoshi sighs. “Is this about the alligator?”
Julius shakes his head. “If it was just about that,” he replies, “I’d have taken my chances long ago.”
“Can there really be anything worse than an overgrown croc under London?” scoffs Livia. “Until I found myself down here, and saw it with my own eyes, I’d have dismissed that as a very tall story indeed.”
“Quite so,” the old man says. “You may also find that what I am about to tell you sounds familiar. Like the tale of the alligator, flushed down the loo when the owner realised it didn’t make an ideal apartment pet, this one is also spun as an urban myth. Then again, every unlikely story that surfaces in a city must have roots in the truth. And in this case, those roots go down deep.”
12
ONE STOOGE AND AN EARPIECE
Otto Tempesta is forced to hurry in order to keep up with the brute. They’ve only just left the Foundation, heading for the nearest tube station and an easy ride to the city centre. Already, however, the distance between them is growing, and one has broken sweat. Aleister walks so briskly, in fact, that Otto barely has time to take in the young street performers who catch his eye up ahead. There they are, entertaining some of the porters outside Smithfield Meat Market. Aleister ignores them. He strides purposefully under the grand Victorian entrance, through the plastic strips that keep the place chill. Otto strains to see what’s inside this vast covered trading area, and then rather wishes that he hadn’t. For his host has taken a cut-through along a passage flanked by carcasses. Row upon row of pig and sheep hang from hooks like flayed soldiers. Some even seem to swing to and fro in Aleister’s wake, such is the speed with which he sweeps along.
Otto slows outside the entrance, if only to catch his breath. He’s barely placed his hands on his knees, however, when one of the street performers breaks away from the porters. He struts towards him, all smiles and swagger. Then, with a flourish, he produces a fan of cards out of nowhere and invites Otto to pick one at random.
“Come on, mister,” trills the lad. “You look like a gent who enjoys a gamble. A pound says you can take any card from the deck, and I’ll tell you what it is. You can shuff
le them yourself, if you like.”
Inch by inch, with his eyes on the boy, Otto stands up straight. He glances into the meat market once more, sees his host has almost reached the other side, and sighs to himself. Asking the boy to wait a moment, he steps forward to part the plastic strips, slips his thumb and forefinger between his lips and then whistles like he’s trying to retrieve a dog.
“Hey, Al!” he calls out, and is relieved to see the figure stop, shoulders sagging before he turns around. “Take it easy, big guy! Where’s the race?”
The brute in the white mink coat mutters something to himself, and reluctantly retraces his steps. Otto may not have passed on any physical resemblance to the twins, but Aleister was beginning to see where they had picked up their ability to test his patience to the limit. Blaize and Scarlett could be kind of fiery in the way they wound him up, he recalls, on striding between the racks of meat in the market, but at least they did it with poise and spirit. In fact, they possessed all the things Otto seemed to lack. Not least a psychic ability that would prove invaluable to him. If only he could track them down.
Bringing Otto all the way here had seemed like a smart move at the time. Everything from his golf shirt to his booming voice was hard to ignore. Even in a metropolis like London, his presence turned heads. Aleister certainly had his suspicions as to how the crew behind their escape seemed to be aware of life on every street in the city. If those suspicions proved correct, he thinks, it could only be a matter of time before Otto came to the attention of the twins. And once they had been drawn into the open, along with Livia and Yoshi, there would be no going back for them. Otto was entirely disposable, of course, and the sooner the better. That the man had set off on this search with a camera strung around his neck really was the last straw. What did he think this was? A vacation?
“With all due respect,” says Aleister, sweeping back out into the daylight, “your daughters’ welfare is a matter of some importance. We really don’t have a moment to spare.”
“All right, already!” Otto rolls his eyes for the benefit of the young street magician. “I hear you, chief, but it ain’t every day a fella comes to London Town. I’m thinking if I get a feel for the place it might also give me a sense of where they’re hiding out.”
The brute’s attention shifts to the kid with the fan of cards. His kind was everywhere nowadays. A nuisance not unlike the pigeons that flocked and squabbled over every available space in the city. Both were drawn here for the tourists. One for scraps and the other for coins. In the brute’s considered opinion, an all-round cull would make this city a better place. He sizes up the boy, still stung by the memory of losing half his charges to a bunch of young tricksters about his age. He doesn’t recall this one, however, and the fact that he can see a card hidden up his sleeve marks him out as an amateur. No, the street performers that interest Aleister are way better than this one, which is why he produces something from his own sleeve and shows it to the upstart.
“You see this?” he asks, as the object in question appears as if by magic in the palm of his hand.
“It’s a cell phone,” squeaks the kid, looking less than comfortable now this great brute has squared up to him.
“It is indeed,” he hisses. “And unless you make yourselves invisible by the time I’ve counted to ten, I’ll be using it to conjure up the police. Street performing is illegal here, after all. Now, what is it to be?”
The kid turns briefly to the guy in the golf shirt, and sighs at the loss of such an easy touch. Otto sizes up his host, but clearly thinks better of protesting. “Another time, huh?” he tells the kid. “I got one hundred bucks tells me any trick you can do I’ll see right through.”
“OK, that’s enough.” Before Otto can blink, Aleister has steered him away and pushed him through the plastic drapes. Once inside the meat market, knee-deep in icy mist, he turns to face his guest directly. ‘Now listen to me,” he hisses, unconcerned that what he’s about to share is simply designed to scare the great oaf into staying close. “This city might seem like a picture postcard, but there are people on the fringes who would happily slit your throat for the chance to pick through your wallet.”
“Really?” Otto can’t help but notice the stone floor in here is stained a chilling claret colour. “They don’t tell you that in the guide books.”
“From here on out, keep your money out of sight, tuck your camera inside your shirt, and stay close to me. Is that understood?”
“But it was just a kid,” he protests, as Aleister marches on. This time, Otto follows close behind, trotting through the mist swirling in the brute’s wake. “What’s to fear from street magicians?”
Once again, Aleister spins on his heels. At first he glowers at this man with too much lacquer shining through his thinning hair, and then he appears to remember who he’s facing here. His expression broadens into a smile, though his tight blue eyes remain quite still. “If you want to see real magic,” he says, as chains creak all around, “then stay close beside me. The history and mystery behind this great capital can be enchanting.”
“So you’ll show me the sights?”
Otto cheers visibly. More so than Aleister had anticipated.
“Along the way,” he says pointedly, “we might even make some progress when it comes to drawing your girls into the open.”
“Oh yes, of course,” replies Otto, as if he had momentarily forgotten all about them. He stops there, thinking things through for a second. “But how will they see us?”
The brute smiles to himself, and tells Otto to have faith. He glances skywards as they pass through the flaps on the other side of the meat market. Across the street, mounted on a metal stalk, a traffic camera observes their progress. It didn’t matter which direction you looked in any city nowadays, you could almost always find yourself facing a lens.
And if Aleister’s suspicions are correct, then somehow a band of young illusionists had access to the entire network. It seemed to him the only way they could make their kind of magic. Street illusionists needed eyes in the back of their heads to pull off some of their stunts. You couldn’t stand before a crowd wearing a blindfold and sense what cards a punter was showing you. That kind of thing required a stooge: an accomplice planted in the audience who could feed back all the information through discreet codewords, coughs or sneezes. But these guys were better than that. He had seen them in action. Sometimes they would melt away without warning, somehow sensing that a police patrol or truancy officer was about to round the block, and they always knew which tourists had been secretly set up by their accomplices. Even if they’d been targeted streets away, and carried marked cards unawares, these kids would know exactly who to stop and dazzle with illusions. And most significantly, they knew precisely when they would appear. You couldn’t do that with one stooge and an earpiece. It would require a whole army of lookouts, the brute concludes, with one eye searching the way ahead for the next camera.
The underground tube station is just minutes away. From there, a short journey west would deliver them to a quarter that simply had to house those kids somewhere. Chinatown was where they always disappeared without trace, vanishing in the back alleys behind the chophouses and herbal medicine stores. And that included the boy Yoshi on the night he first escaped. Aleister picks up the pace once more, gunning now to get his guest in front of the traffic cameras there, only to halt once more and pinch the bridge of his nose. He turns, sees Otto standing some metres behind.
“As my tour guide,” says Otto, looking up and around for something to photograph, “I’m waiting for you to impress me.”
Aleister’s first thought is to summon a single lightning strike upon the man, if only the Heavens accepted requests. Instead, he remains quite lost for words, even when Otto finds a subject to snap. The brute turns to see what it is that he’s currently lining up in the camera’s viewfinder, and finds his own solution to the problem. For this talent-booker turned tourist might be taking a shot of a double-decker bus at
a stop, but the monument behind it contains a story that would surely shut him up. With a genuine smile this time, Aleister walks back to Otto, places his meaty arm around his shoulder, and directs his attention to the church overlooking the street.
“Do you see that?” he asks. “More importantly, can you hear the sound inside?”
Otto rests the camera upon his paunch, and cocks his head to hear over the hum of traffic.
“Someone’s scratching on a violin,” he says fractiously. “If they shut up for a moment I might be able to answer your question.”
Aleister struggles to hold on to his smile. “The violin is what I wanted you to hear,” he says, as trumpets, cellos and oboes rise into the mix. “You see, this old church was in ruin several years ago. Now, thanks to a successful restoration project, it has become the home of the London Symphony Orchestra.”
“Is that so?” says Otto, his eye wondering already to the burger bar further up the street. “How quaint.”
This time, the brute’s smile simply vanishes. Some tension appears in his jawline instead as he bites down on his back molars. Half of him wants to remind the man that his daughters are at large in this city. The other half is struggling not to reprimand him for being the kind of cultural cretin that Aleister has come to detest. That London teemed with tourists was understandable. What bothered him was the number who seemed to sleepwalk around the central sights and then content themselves with shopping. It was just such a crying shame, and the reason why buildings of interest such as the one before them often went unappreciated. For this isn’t just a church with an interesting modern history. It’s St Luke’s! The Hawksmoor creation that hides more ancient secrets than anyone dared to imagine. Not only does her keystone serve as a waypoint in the Faerie Ring, somewhere down there with it lurks the very reason why he has yet to lay hands on it himself. Just as soon as he could count upon enough psychic kids to assist him in covering all seven waypoints, he reminds himself, his plan was to assign the most disposable to venture down and connect with the one from which there was no return. Right now, however, with Otto rubbing his ample stomach, that moment seemed a long way off.