‘I hope so.’
‘Are you in danger?’
‘If I start howling, we’ll know.’ He shook himself. The unsettling sensation was easing.
‘I’ll remember that.’ She studied him, frowning slightly, her pinkish gaze magnified by her spectacles. ‘I hope you’re not doing this just to impress me.’
He rubbed the back of his neck. He might have pulled a muscle there, straining against the music. ‘I don’t do things just to impress you, although I hope you have been impressed on the odd occasion.’
She squeezed his arms and let them drop. ‘I’ve been impressed. On more than the odd occasion.’
Kingsley used a finger to ease his collar, which was feeling unaccountably tight. ‘And that’s a matter for another day, correct?’
‘Correct.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
The music is coming through the walls, Kingsley thought as they crept along the corridor. He glanced at Evadne, but she showed no signs of hearing. She had her Malefactor’s Lament and a determined look that Kingsley feared might presage righteous fury.
Kingsley gripped his walking stick and concentrated on denying his wolfishness.
For that was what it was coming to. The music spoke directly to his wildness, the wildness he thought he’d accommodated, cultivating it as if it were a precious seedling. And like a well-nurtured seedling, it was growing. Inside, he was a ferment, waiting to howl at the moon, the stars, at any enemy who dared to cross his path.
He gritted his teeth. Wildness cannot dominate me, he thought, for it is who I am.
The corridor brought Kingsley and Evadne to the middle of a large chamber, eighty or ninety feet to their left and right and about that in breadth. It was entirely clad in white tiles apart from the wall to their left, which was raw rock. The ceiling was a lofty curve, fifty feet or more at the highest point of the arch. Giant electric lights shone down and made the whole place as bright as day.
The wall opposite had five niches. Two of them were occupied by Platonic solids – the three-sided pyramid and the cube, each three feet in diameter. Kingsley had seen them before, under Greenwich. Before he could point this out to Evadne, and share his satisfaction that the Immortals hadn’t obtained any more of the magical objects, she gasped.
At the far end of the grand chamber a mass of Spawn was trying to hold its ground against a band of women who were tearing them to pieces. The Spawn were protecting the Immortals, who were standing on their throne, chattering and gesticulating, gibbering with anger. Slowly, though, the Spawn were being annihilated, rent apart by a score or more of bare-handed women of all ages, sizes and shapes, skin and hair colours, clad in animal skins or ragged robes and crowned with ivy wreaths. Their expressions were ecstatic; they sang as they grappled with the hideous Spawn. Some were playing on pipes and drums.
They were all laughing as they committed savagery.
Evadne gripped his arm and pointed. The wild-eyed Mrs Winter was prominent in their midst, one arm dripping blood from a long shallow gash.
Behind them, emerging from the rock wall, was a gigantic glowing cloud. It towered high, bending where it met the ceiling.
It, too, laughed.
Evadne nearly went to her knees. Kingsley sagged as the laughter rolled past them and over the mayhem. The mirth was ancient and it was arrogant. It was the amusement that came from seeing others in pain or in distress. It was the delight that enjoyed a diversion from boredom. It was merriment without compassion.
It was then that Kingsley knew they were in the presence of a god. It was oozing from the rock and it had made Mrs Winter – the woman who had summoned it – mad.
Kingsley was sweating and trembling, for the presence of the wild god was making him forget everything about civilisation, rationality and culture. His Inner Animal responded to the air of reckless abandon – the liberation – that the god was bringing. Its breath was the wind off the grasslands, the breeze in the treetops and Kingsley greatly wanted to be part of it.
Desperately, he swung to Evadne to find that she was running towards the Immortals, firing her outlandish pistol as she went. This time it crackled, bolts of lightning lancing from its barrel.
A firearm for all seasons, Kingsley thought. He took a step after her, then the music ran into him. It wrapped itself around his heart, squeezed and when it let go Kingsley was taken up in a torrent of wildness. He fought it, fists clenched and shoulders hunched, his walking stick held as a shield in front of him, but he was overwhelmed by the music, the exhilaration and the smell of blood. He flung his walking stick aside, tore off his tie, threw back his head and howled.
Free! I run free!
A hand dropped on his collar. He was jerked to his feet and twisted around to come face to face with Dr Ward, who grabbed his lapels and shook him as if he were a naughty puppy. ‘Kingsley! We don’t have time for that now! Selene and Evadne need our help!’
It was like a dash of cold water; Kingsley flung off the intoxication that had seized him. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he shouted over the ululating chorus of women and the snarling of the Spawn – who had divided their numbers and were moving on Evadne as well as doing their best to keep the madwomen away from their masters.
‘They’re the Bacchae!’ Dr Ward cried. ‘The wild followers of the god Bacchus! Must’ve been a Roman settlement hereabouts with wine production. Mrs Winter has invited him here to combat the Immortals!’
‘Get to her!’ Kingsley shouted over the pandemonium. He scooped up his walking stick. ‘I’m after Evadne!’
Evadne had been backed against the wall by a dozen Spawn. A handful were heaped in front of her, scorched by the crackling discharge of her Malefactor’s Lament. Kingsley leaped into the fray from behind. He swung his walking stick hard, aiming for knees and ankles. One Spawn toppled, howling, and then Kingsley lashed out again to bring another down. Four or five then hurled themselves at him.
Kingsley was plunged into the confusion where time goes both slowly and infinitely quickly. He plucked his Shocking Pinch and used it left-handed, yelling in triumph when the Spawn reeled away, smoking wherever touched by its prongs. In his other hand, his walking stick was never still. He sized up targets, jabbed at faces and throats, slashed and took them on knees and elbows. He took charges and shouldered them aside, caught blows on the outstretched walking stick, elbowed, punched, kneed and suddenly he was through the press and facing a dazed and panting Evadne. He, too, struggled for breath, but in the brief moment of respite he held out a hand. ‘May I have this dance?’
She stared at him for a moment, still struggling for breath. Her eyes were wide and two spots of red bloomed in her cheeks. ‘Oh. Oh my.’ Then she put one hand to the side of her face. ‘I lost control again, didn’t I?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know, but you haven’t answered my question.’
Evadne looked quizzical for a split second, then she had it. ‘Dance? I was hoping you’d ask. Of course I shall.’
‘And damn professional conduct?’
She nodded solemnly. ‘Damn it to hell.’
The Bacchae had dispensed with most of the Spawn guarding the Immortals. They were spreading in a tumbling, riotous wave. Dr Ward was circling the mob and looking for a way to Mrs Winter but he was driven back again and again by the fierceness of the women. As they fought, they continued to dance and sing their wild, wordless song.
The Immortals were using their magic to move the throne behind the remaining Spawn. It wasn’t long before the throne was backed against the far wall, in front of the niches that held the cube and the three-sided pyramid – which were now rotating slowly.
‘There.’ Kingsley had to lean in close to Evadne’s ear to be heard. ‘The Platonic solids. Malefactor’s Lament.’
One of the many things he admired about Evadne was her quickness of apprehension. He didn’t have to repeat himself or explain what he meant. They ran, skirting the dwindli
ng numbers of Spawn. Kingsley had his faithful walking stick in one hand and he did his best to stay slightly ahead of Evadne in their headlong charge, with the dim thought of being a better, closer target than her if anyone dashed at them.
In the wild mish-mash of noise, the screeching of the Immortals was only evident when Kingsley and Evadne drew within ten yards. Then one of the sorcerers – Forkbeard – caught sight of them. He flailed a bloody, bandaged hand and almost fell off the throne, but he caught the attention of the Immortal next to him, Jia.
Evadne didn’t have to be told. She loosed a round from her pistol. The bolt of crackling power lashed at the rotating cube where, with a sound like the world coming apart, its eye-singeing glare was met with a bolt that could have come from the heart of the sun.
Kingsley became aware that he was lying on his back, drifting through the air and thinking: This is comfortable and Why, it’s so quiet!
Then he hit the floor.
The impact drove all the air from his lungs. He slid, kept sliding, and when he finished sliding, he lay and spent a horrible moment or two remembering how to breathe. What felt like a few lifetimes later, his body finally lurched into normality. He sucked in a huge gulp of air and loved every smoky, greasy particle of it.
Evadne was at his side, kneeling and helping him to his feet. ‘What happened?’ he asked and could barely hear himself past the ringing in his ears.
‘You threw yourself in front of me as a shield.’
He blinked, and rubbed his forehead with the heel of a hand to cover his bemusement. ‘I know that, but what was I shielding you from?’
‘The cube exploded.’ She gestured with the Malefactor’s Lament. ‘It wasn’t altogether a mundane explosion. Mostly magical, I think. Some phlogiston involved, I wouldn’t be surprised.’
Three child-like forms lay in the ruins of the throne. The cube had disappeared. The pyramid solid was dull and resting on the bottom of its niche.
The Bacchae resumed their singing and the silence was broken. They gaily returned to their dismembering of the remaining Spawn, who had all fallen senseless to the floor. ‘It happened when the Immortals were stunned by the explosion of the cube,’ Evadne said when she saw the direction of Kingsley’s gaze.
Kingsley held up a hand to shield his eyes. The radiance behind the dancing, dangerous women was larger and brighter than before, pouring from the rock wall into the room like a misty avalanche. Kingsley could now make out a giant form, a man with curly hair reclining amid vines and grapes, and smiling at the celebrations of his followers.
The Bacchae had grown bored with the limpness of the Spawn. Their merry savagery dwindled. Their dancing and song slowed.
One of them saw Dr Ward, who was trying to approach from the side. She pointed and cried out. Her sisters, with expressions that could only be that of joy, abandoned the Spawn, and danced towards him hand in hand, glad now they had more prey to amuse them.
Dr Ward didn’t flinch at their approach. As they cavorted towards him he stood still, his hands behind his back. Kingsley ran, Evadne close behind, but they were never going to reach the Bacchae before they encircled the old man. Kingsley cried out, but it was Mrs Winter herself who was at the vanguard of their antic advance. She neared, singing and dancing, arms floating, the pale, insipid blood of the Spawn dripping from her nails, her own blood streaking her arm. Her eyes were quite, quite mad.
Dr Ward waited until she was only a yard or two away. Then he tossed a golden ring high into the air.
Like birds, all the Bacchae goggled at the shiny thing as it soared, spinning and glinting. Mrs Winter was open-mouthed as it crested and then began to fall, still spinning, still glinting. Then she stood on bare tiptoes, reached out and plucked it from the air.
‘Your wedding ring,’ Dr Ward said while she was admiring it, ‘and a pre-emptive apology. I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.’ He took a step and punched her on the point of her jaw.
THIRTY-NINE
Mrs Winter’s eyes rolled back. She crumpled, but Dr Ward caught her. He straightened to find the Bacchae still singing and advancing on him. ‘Oh, I say.’ He jerked his head up and blinked at the glowing god behind the Bacchae. He was still drifting towards them, growing more solid and more ominous as he came. ‘I’d hoped you’d be gone.’
Kingsley bowled into the Bacchae and sent them scattering. I’m still not accustomed to fighting women, he thought, even as one rolled to her feet, laughing, and clawed at his eyes. He sighed and swept her feet out from under her with his walking stick. She fell and then Evadne cried out, ‘Back away, Kingsley!’
He didn’t argue and bounded away just as a blessed thwang sounded from behind him. A gauzy mesh, larger than the one Evadne had deployed on the guards in the kitchen, spun over his head and dropped over the Bacchae. Within seconds, they were all asleep.
An angry moan, loud and painful, came from the golden cloud. Dr Ward was struggling to hold Mrs Winter, so Kingsley scooped up the woman who was now his foster mother. ‘Now, we run.’
‘I don’t think we’ll be allowed to,’ Evadne said. She reached for Mrs Winter’s ear and cruelly twisted the lobe. Mrs Winter’s eyes fluttered open. Kingsley nearly cheered when they had no trace of madness. ‘Malcolm?’
‘My dear,’ Dr Ward said, ‘I’ll explain later, but can you possibly close the way you opened and make sure that Bacchus is on the other side?’
Mrs Winter stood, swaying a little, and supported by Dr Ward. ‘I’m sorry for all this,’ she said. ‘I tried to invite little local gods to help me escape, but the Immortals defeated them. I had to invite a more powerful being.’
The god was still cloudy and indistinct, but Kingsley made out two immense hands coming together. He had just enough time to shout ‘Cover your ears!’ and the whole chamber shook with the sound of thunder.
The Bacchae woke. Within seconds they’d risen and shredded Evadne’s net with hardly an effort.
‘That’s not meant to happen,’ Evadne said. Kingsley’s ears were still ringing from the godly thunderclap, but he shepherded the others back towards the corridor, away from the wild women.
Instead of advancing, though, the Bacchae withdrew, singing a song that was almost a dirge. They gathered in front of the glowing cloud of godhood and puissance. They smiled languidly, as if they’d just had the most super time on a picnic, and were now looking forward to some real fun. Some reclined, others sat, others wafted about with sinuous steps. All of them looked as if they were listening to music they loved.
Kingsley heard it too.
It called to him, tickling under the skin. It asked him to abandon all restrictions and laws, to join them in the free, exhilarating wildness.
I won’t, he thought. He glanced at his father, at his new mother, and at Evadne. I can’t.
With that, and without moving a muscle, he rejected the siren call of the Bacchanalian extremes of abandon, but not without regret. He couldn’t deny the appeal of the heedless, headlong rush into the untamed.
Mrs Winter pushed past him. She dropped her head for a moment as she flexed her hands. When she lifted her gaze and addressed the golden cloud of godhood, Kingsley once again could not focus on her. As when she performed her magic in their Southwark workshop, Mrs Winter was blurred, as if two of her were standing so close that they overlapped. ‘I thank you,’ she said in a voice dark and deep. ‘I was in need and you came.’
In response, from the roil of golden cloudiness came something that could have been the wind or may have been a godly sigh. Kingsley reached out for Evadne’s hand only to find she was reaching for his.
Mrs Winter spread her arms wide. ‘I know it has been long since you were asked back here. It is time to return, nonetheless. With my gratitude, I shall open a way for you.’
A boom like an indistinct echo and another sighing of the wind in a thousand trees. Then laughter. Haughty, cruel laughter. The Bacchae rose to their feet, threw their heads back and began to dance again.
‘My dear?’ Dr Ward said. ‘Does that mean what I fear it means?’
Mrs Winter was grim. ‘We have a god on our hands who doesn’t want to go home.’
‘Ah,’ Dr Ward said. ‘That would seem to be a problem.’
‘This is why we hesitate to invite the old gods back,’ Mrs Winter said. The jewel in the side of her nose flashed. ‘Once unleashed, it can be difficult to slip the collar back on.’
Kingsley could already imagine the unearthly figure of Bacchus striding down Pall Mall, with his Bacchae laughing and singing while they tore people apart. No-one could stand in their way – and he suspected that their madness was infectious.
Kingsley had Evadne’s hand. On his other side were his foster parents. In front of him was a god and its bloodthirsty followers. He was afraid, but he had a plan. It was foolish and desperate and poorly conceived, but he decided that if there were ever a time for a foolish, desperate and poorly conceived plan this was the moment.
Kingsley and Evadne backed away from the dance of the Bacchae as it spread and became an erratic but unmistakeable advance. Dr Ward and Mrs Winter retreated as well while the golden billowing behind them continued to take on more substance. Kingsley touched Mrs Winter’s shoulder. ‘Can you open a way anywhere you like?’
‘Within reason. I must be able to see the location for the opening, and see it well.’
Several of the Bacchae had pipes and were playing what Kingsley could only describe as skirls. ‘How quickly can you do it?’
‘It takes me a little time to perform the invocation. A minute?’
Too slow. ‘Can you perform part of the invocation and drop the last bit into place quickly?’
‘I’d never thought of doing that, but I suppose so. There’s no reason why not.’
‘Good. So if I get that god thing to follow me, you could crack open a gate just behind me?’
Her dark eyes were sceptical. ‘You’re asking me to do something I’ve never done before.’
The Extraordinaires 2 Page 25