Camera Obscura

by Lavie Tidhar

  When she stepped into her waiting room there was an envelope on the table. She tore it open. It contained a ticket to a ball, to take place that evening at the Hotel de Ville. An appended note was stamped with the Council's emblem, and a handwritten scrawl said, "British ambassador and entourage to attend – V."

  She was going to a ball. Wasn't there a children's story about this sort of thing? She smiled, though the expression felt grim on her face. She didn't feel like dancing – she felt like shooting someone. Some thing.

  She had a feeling it would not be long before she had her opportunity.

  She watched herself in the mirror. The long coat trailed down almost to her feet, the gun in its shoulder-holster, the other gun on her hips. She wore a dark scarf and a silk blouse and her black leather pants, and when she looked at herself in the mirror she saw a tall dark woman with eyes reflecting grey. Her nails were a dark red. As a final touch she put on her old hat, from the Barnum days, her time in the ring. Lowbrimmed, it shaded her eyes. The horse riders of Vespuccia wore those when they rode the trails, on that massive open continent where the buffalo roamed…

  She went back to the fireplace and Grimm rustled awake. "Stay close to me tonight," she murmured, her hand on its head, and the creature blinked in acquiescence. The gold bracelet on her arm would let Grimm know where she was. And now she stood up, ready to face the coming night.

  The ball, yes, but first–

  The silent coachman dropped her off at Place Pigalle. She looked around for watchers, saw none, knew they would be nearby. She had begun to realise her role in this investigation, her real purpose there. No one cared if she caught the killer, the Council least of all. No – she was there to bring them all out, rather, all the silent watchers – bring them out into the open so they could be seen and studied and made known. She passed the cemetery on the way to the gendarmes. Something seemed to call to her from inside that factory of graves. There had been stories… She walked away and into the station, and almost ran into the Gascon.

  For a moment, their bodies had almost collided. She felt the warmth of him, his tautness, no fat on him, a wiry man as driven as she was–

  The Gascon pulled back. She could not read the look in his eyes. He examined her slowly, from head to toe, and shook his head. Around them a silence fell like snow. "Gunslinger," he said at last. She smiled, touched the brim of her hat in acknowledgment. "Inspector," she said. "What do you have for me?"

  "Very little," he said. "I heard you found another corpse. You seem to have a knack for finding people dead."

  She said, "Tom was a friend."

  He nodded. "Mademoiselle L'Espanaye is safe," he said. "My men have tracked down the killer's escape route." He hesitated. "It seems he had made his way to the cemetery – beyond that we lost his tracks."

  Somehow she was not surprised – and now she said, "What happened in the cemetery?" and watched his face. Yes – the question hit him hard. "What makes you think anything happened?"

  She thought of the corpses in the under-morgue. And now

  she said, only half-guessing – "Have any graves been robbed in the past two years?"

  The Gascon stared at her, not speaking. "And you can offer me a cup of coffee while you tell me," she said, and he slowly smiled. "Yes, Milady," he said.

  When they sat down the man seemed to relax a little. He said, "Yes, there have been. We've kept it quiet – as much as possible. Rumours got out, naturally."

  "Naturally," she said, without inflection, and he gave her a sharp look before catching himself. He shrugged, ceding her the point. "There is a… caretaker in the cemetery," he said. "But he would not speak to us, and I'm afraid we can't press him."

  And now he watched her, waiting – "Who is it?" she said, and his smile was predatory when he said, "What he is might be a better question, Milady."

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Ampère

  No one knew much about André-Marie Ampère. In life he had been a scientist, obsessed with the study of electricity. When his wife died he was distressed to the point of confusion. She had once heard Viktor speak of him – in reverence. He was born, had lived, and died – only he hadn't, not quite…

  There were simulacrums in the world, and that was only natural. There were machines that could almost pass for human, and humans who, one thought, too closely resembled machines. It was told the Bookman could remake the dead, reassemble them into living things once again… and perhaps Ampère was one of his creatures, though who could tell? He was born and lived a man, he died – and now he lived, if such a word could be used, alone and undisturbed in the Montmartre Cemetery, in a small stone building beside his very own grave.

  What was he? A copy of a man? A machine? A ghost?

  She did not believe in ghosts. "Did you search the Clockwork Room?" she said. The Gascon nodded. "We found nothing. Whatever meeting was arranged there, they did not leave anything behind."

  She did not suspect that they did. She would confront the fat man soon enough, she thought. But now she had the traces of the killer and she was going to follow them, wherever they may lead.

  "Ampère was one of the Council, once," she said.

  "When he was still living?" the Gascon said.

  "No."

  "Ah."

  She knew he did not like the machines. Few people did, though they accepted them, lived with them, and to a large extent let them decide their lives. And so she said, "I'll go alone."

  He said, "No–" but she knew the fight wasn't in him. "As you said, he won't see you. I have the authority–"

  Knowing that was another thing that made the Gascon unhappy.

  It had stopped raining, and the night air felt cool and fresh. And she liked cemeteries.

  They were peaceful places. They were humanity's way of acknowledging change, of laying down the past. The dead did not rise again. They were absorbed into the earth, became, in time, something new, the dying bodies recycled and reused. Cemeteries were quiet and filled with a sense of space and quiet purpose.

  Though now she could see one part of it was not so quiet. And it was still raining where she was going, though it was a strange, localised storm…

  The graves rose all around her, elaborate houses for the dead, though the dead could no longer appreciate them. And there – a miniature castle where the storm hovered, lightning flashing, again and again as it hit a metal pole rising from the turrets.

  Gargoyle-faced edifice… And now she saw they were not, as was common, lizardine, but something different. And she wondered what Ampère really knew, and had he ever been east, for they were shaped like grey and faceless ghosts.

  She walked through the drops and reached the door and banged on it. She heard movement inside. She could see how this place would have appealed to the murderer – but she did not expect him to be there. She waited and Ampère opened the door.

  He was dressed in black, as if in mourning. Whoever fashioned him had done a good job. He moved without stiffness, and his eyes looked very life-like. The face was unlined, and she knew it would never age. Though the machine might run down, one day…

  He said, "Milady de Winter?" His voice was scratchy, old, incompatible with the face. It occurred to her he might have built himself, once upon a time, and the machine kept adding new parts but could not change the voice. She wondered if there were jars of moist artificial eyes in his pantry, different colours for different occasions. She wouldn't look – it was altogether too likely.

  "I've been expecting you. Please, come inside." He gestured at the sky, the storm. Lightning flashed above them. "I've been working."

  "I can see."

  She followed him inside. "Though I am retired from the Council my work still concerns–" Then he stopped, and the machine allowed itself a small, wan smile. It looked very natural. "I'm afraid I can't help you," he said.

  And machines could lie so much better than humans ever did…

  "How long have you lived here?" she said.


  "Over fifty years. Ever since I – ever since my predecessor died. He constructed this lab for me and paid for it along with his tomb."

  "You research electricity."

  "I research life," he said, and smiled again. She did not return the smile and the machine she was talking to dropped it. "I study the fundamental powers," Ampère said and she said, only half-listening – "Why here?"

  "Why not? It is quiet, isolated. I am seldom disturbed."

  "Until the dead began to rise?" she said, and he didn't move. "When did it begin, two, three years ago? Was it something you noticed, or was it something you made happen? Tell me!"

  "Milady," he said, "your accusations are quite baseless."

  What if there had been another key? Another transaction from the Man on the Mekong, as Fei Linlin had called him? Another fragment offered? She said, "Viktor showed me the corpses. But I don't think they were the only ones."

  "Viktor and I are not in the same line of work," he said.

  "Are you harbouring a killer?" she said.

  "What?"

  "I need to know."

  "What I do," he said, "I do for the Council."

  And now the suspicion she had been trying to avoid voicing resurfaced. She said, "He has to be stopped–" and watched Ampère take a step back, then stand very still. "He is killing the living, now," she said.

  "He always did…" The words were a whisper.

  "Tell me."

  The automaton shook itself awake. "Go," he said. "I–"

  "No."

  Lightning struck the roof, the sound echoing through the dark hall of the miniature castle. "I have to go," he said. "I have to finish the work – come back to see me. I will tell you what you want to know–"

  And now a sound rose from the back of the hall, coming from behind a closed door, and Ampère glanced back and then at her, and moved to push her out. "You must go. Hurry! Come back to see me when the night is deep."

  A growling sound, growing louder. "Go!"

  She took out her gun in one swift motion and put the barrel against his neck. The automaton stood still. "Make sure to be here when I come back," she said. Then the gun was gone, an act of magic, and she stepped out of that dark dead room and into the cool air outside. She had the feeling of unseen eyes watching her. She walked away from the castle and the lightning cracked behind her, filling up the sky with violent blue electricity.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The Lizardine Ambassador

  And so Milady de Winter went to the ball.

  Out there, beyond the windows of her carriage, the silent watchers watched. She could sense them there, these intrusions into an orderly world. Xiake, Master Long had called her – a follower of Xia, whatever that meant. A code beyond government or law, the way of righteousness.

  She did not feel very righteous. She felt tired, consumed by three days of not eating properly, of running around chasing shadows, of being kidnapped and assaulted and watching people die before her, and not knowing why. Outside the Hotel de Ville there were carriages, hansom cabs, baruch-landaus, liveried footmen and lounging drivers, the usual Parisian crowd gathered to watch festivities to which they were not invited. There were roast chestnut sellers, newspaper boys, booksellers from their little domain by the Seine, beggars, portrait artists, photographers, and the air smelled of the mix of chemicals from the baruch-landau vehicles and the steaming manure of the more traditional horse-drawn cabs. The air smelled of chestnuts and caramelised peanuts; and lightning flashed overhead in silence, the thunder too far away, as yet, to be heard.

  She stepped out of the carriage and the silent driver with his stitched-up face drove away.

  Photographers – and now she recognised one of them. He tried to walk away when he saw her coming. She grabbed him by the arm and saw his face twist with the unexpected pain. She said, "What are you doing here?"

  It was the photographer from the Rue Morgue. The one whose camera she had smashed against the wall. It felt like months ago. It wasn't.

  He didn't speak and the pressure on his arm increased, Milady finding the nerves, her long fingernails driving into the man's flesh. And now he said, "He sent me! Let me go!"

  "D–" no, she would not say his name, "The Gascon sent you? To take pictures of the guests? Why?"

  His face was pale. He did not relish being there. He said, "He thinks… he thinks…"

  She let go of his arm. He rubbed it, shying away from her. "He thinks the killer might make an appearance?" she said, and the man nodded.

  "Clever Gascon…" she whispered, and then she smiled. The photographer melted into the crowd. Very well. She wondered what the Gascon knew, or what he guessed at. She went through the gates and up to the building.

  The Hotel de Ville – municipality building, mayor's house, the beating heart of the urban metropolis of Paris. The Seine was nearby, carrying ferries, rafts, fallen flowers, fish and the occasional human corpse. The smell of it wafted through the air and was replaced, as she stepped through the doors into the Hotel de Ville's ballroom, by the stench of expensive perfumes, canapés, polish, engine oil and something she could not quite discern until she turned and found herself, suddenly and without warning, beside a tall royal lizard.

  Les Lézards. She had never expected that, and it always came as a surprise to her, no matter how many she had met before in the English court: their smell was different. She couldn't quite describe it. The ambassador (for that was who it must be) smelled of the warmth of rocks in the late afternoon, of swamps and – very faintly – of eau de cologne.

  He was tall and – she thought – elderly. He towered above her, green-skinned but for bands of colouration that ran across his body, and his tongue hissed out as if tasting the air. He was dressed in an expensive, understated suit. His tail looked formidable, like a weapon. And now he turned to her and said, "Milady de Winter, I presume?"

  She nodded, trying to remember him from the court and failing. The ambassador took her hand in both of his, bent down gracefully and kissed her – the tongue flicking out again, the touch of it like electricity against her skin. When he straightened up he seemed to be smiling.

  "You were married to Lord de Winter?" he said. "A most charming man. Often we went hunting together at Balmoral."

  The Queen's remote estate, in Scotland – so the ambassador was high up in the lizards' social order. Which wasn't surprising–

  "His death was most unfortunate," the ambassador said.

  "Yes…" Milady said, and the ambassador again seemed to smile. His tongue flicked out again, disappeared back into the elongated mouth. "And so you have returned to the place of your childhood? It must have been a pleasant childhood indeed."

  She thought of the small girl running in the night, of the abandoned houses where predators roamed… "Very," she said, giving him a smile full of teeth. They were playing a game – and she thought it was no coincidence, the ambassador standing just there as she came in. She wondered if he really had known her husband, or whether he was merely reading out of her dossier. Well, perhaps it was both. "Sometimes when I was hungry I'd catch geckos and roast them on the fire – you had to stick a sharpened wood branch into them to stop them wriggling."

  "Indeed." He reared back, looked down on her. And now there was nothing friendly in his face at all. "You have been luckier than your husband, it seems…" he said. "Be careful that your luck doesn't run out."

  She moved her coat aside, just a little, and saw his eyes fasten on the gun. "I'm always careful," she said, and the lizard hissed.

  "Ambassador," a voice said, close by, and she turned, startled, for she had not heard the man approach. "You must meet this absolutely charming mechanical–"

  She had not heard the fat man approach. And now she watched him stir the lizardine ambassador away, towards an ancient man-shaped automaton on the other side of the ballroom… She followed him with her eyes and for just a moment the fat man turned back and winked at her.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

&n
bsp; The Electric Ball

  The ballroom was filled with revellers. Metal globes hung from the high ceiling and lightning flashed between them back and forth – a Tesla invention, if she recalled correctly, but one that seemed ill-suited for a night's entertainment. She looked around her and realised something had been missing from her invitation: it was a masked ball.

  She should have expected that.

  The lizardine ambassador, of course, was bare-faced. And the automatons' faces were masks all by themselves – though some, she saw, had joined in the spirit of the event and wore elaborate mechanical masks that changed expressions in a sequence or randomly, it was hard to tell. The humans, most of them, were masked. She saw chieftains from Vespuccia in their elaborate headdresses and what she knew to be war paint, short men armed with decorative shields from the Zulu kingdom accompanying a young woman, Indian rajahs with diamonds in their hats, Aztec priests in their garb – the cream of the diplomatic circle of Paris, all gathered here for the electric ball.