Everyone present took in a collective gasp, all, that is, except Benissimo. Jonny Magik’s arm rippled with moving ink, just as the Book of Aatol had the day before. A thousand images of Darklings, of memories, of the things he’d seen and done. Some were in text but most were pictures, carefully tattooed on the man’s skin. And they were all moving and angry, all alive and trapped together in the most extraordinary prison imaginable.
Ned felt a tugging in the shadows: it was Gorrn. The familiar swayed his head with a soft “Unt” and disappeared to wherever it was he went. In this instant the “Unt” meant “too much”, even for the otherworldly Gorrn. Whiskers, on the other hand, seemed to find the display fascinating and scampered off Ned’s lap to get a closer look.
“So that’s where you’ve been putting all the Darklings?” asked a staggered Lucy.
“We all have our secrets, child, and we all have to share them at some point or another.” He looked at her, then glanced to Ned.
The point he was trying to make did not go unnoticed by either Ned or Lucy. But the rippling images on the man’s skin were enough to keep the others entranced.
Then, among the creatures and memories, words and nightmares, Ned saw something familiar. At times it billowed like a moving cloud, at others it charged across the man’s skin like an enraged snake. In its furious wisps he saw a shadow of his own memory. There was something in the half-formed features that he recognised. A man he’d known as a friend and protector, a man the Circus of Marvels had trusted with their lives.
“T-T-Tinks?” he stammered.
“Yes, Master Ned?”
“After you trapped Mystero on the mountain. What did you do with him?”
“Well, sir, I gave him to the bossman and he hung on to him until …”
“I got here,” smiled Jonny. “The hardest one yet, took me near three days to ink him on to my skin.”
Mystero the Magnificent had been a mystral and Benissimo’s trusted friend. That was, until he had betrayed the circus and tried to lead them to their doom.
And now he was in Jonny Magik’s skin.
Looking at the patterns of ink on Jonny’s arm, Ned saw a creature transformed. Whatever he had been before, the man he had known was gone.
“Is he in pain?” Ned asked.
“He’s in whatever he deserves, pup,” answered Benissimo coldly. “I shouldn’t wonder his mind is quite gone by now. Mystrals who spend too long in their elemental forms lose their humanity, though his was all but spent when he sided with my brother. Whatever predicament he’s in now, it won’t free your parents or bring us any closer to stopping my brother. Jonny, what have you found out?”
Jonny Magik cleared his throat and the room leant in.
“Teleportation. It’s the key to everything.”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” managed Ned, who was still reeling from Benissimo’s coldness towards his old friend; in part because he felt the same way.
“Soothe yourself, child, I haven’t finished with my explainin’.”
The sin-eater opened the Book of Aatol and ran his fingers over the text. As he spoke, the symbols swirled and twisted with a life of their own just like the ink on his skin.
“The war that took place in the beginning, that much you know about.”
Ned watched in wonder. In front of them all the ink rose up from the paper in a sinewy struggle of black-limbed shapes. The shapes drew themselves apart in the air, like ink in water, cloudy at first, till they re-formed into two clear ranks of armed soldiers, facing each other, their limbs constantly rippling from the magic at work.
Jonny Magik motioned and the two sides charged into one another like silent puppets, their forms changing and blurring with every sweep of their swords and stab of their spears.
“What the book tells us is that the Demons who fought our forces derived their power from the Darkening King, a creature of darkest night and purest evil.”
Rising above all the others, a great inky malevolence with large horns glared across the battlefield. From its body great strands of black flowed down to its gnashing soldiers, and the soldiers grew in both size and strength.
“It could not be destroyed, so powerful was its magic, so a machine was built that could trap it, by teleporting it away from sight, right into the core of the Earth.”
And the strange scene being played out in front of them was drawn up together violently, suddenly, to a ball of bubbling darkness.
“For thousands of years it has burnt in anguish there, waiting for a chance to come back. That is why Demons prefer their homes underground – the deeper they go, the closer they are to their master and the stronger they become.”
Jonny Magik’s bizarre apparition lowered back on to the paper, the inky ball morphing and twisting as it flowed back into its original text.
“What happened to the weapon?” piped up the Tinker. “Surely there must be something that remains, some hint of its technology?”
“Gone. What I saw in the symbols was a machine the size of a city, a machine encased in gold. At-lan. These days the notion of it is just a myth: the idea has survived as ‘Atlantis’. It was real – though it was never a city. It didn’t sink into the sea as many believed, but was torn apart by its own power, its atoms spread to the corners of the Earth.”
“A fascinating hypothesis,” said Tinks. “We minutians have long wondered about the story of the lost city, but a weapon? It beggars belief. Do you know what powered the machine?”
“Gnome,” warned Benissimo. “You can grill him later. Jonny, if what you’re saying is true, then the Demons we have barely contained for centuries will become even stronger when their master returns.”
“Undoubtedly,” smiled the sin-eater.
Every hair on Ned’s skin was now standing on end and he could see from the corner of his eye that Lucy had turned quite green. The evil that had spoken to them was not only real, but was trying to find a way back. And even Bene was not hopeful. He had said “when their master returns”, not “if”.
Not only this, but Ned’s father, in helping Barbarossa, was actually making it possible. Ned shuddered at the thought of whatever it was the butcher had done to turn him to his cause.
Yet Jonny was still smiling.
“I’m sorry, old chap, especially in view of your rather brilliant performance last night,” started George. “But I can’t see what the devil there is to smile about?”
“They have one of the world’s greatest Engineers … but we have the other.”
All eyes now turned to Ned.
“Besides which,” Jonny continued, “they can’t rebuild the weapon unless they get their hands on the boy’s book, and by nightfall it will be inked on my skin. The game is still afoot. What I also know is this. The machine that banished the Darkening King was a teleportation machine. According to the book, it was completely encased in gold. Gold, it seems, is highly useful for teleportation. Time has long forgotten the reason for its true value, but the Book of Aatol is quite clear. It has a magical property, a way of focusing power through its atoms, that is unique, and necessary to teleport something as powerful as a Demon. That’s why they’ve been stealing so much of it.”
“But … that’s bad, isn’t it?” said Bene. “I mean, they must have enough by now.”
Jonny nodded. “Oh yes, that bit is bad. But, you see, there is another object that can be used to teleport things, when employed correctly.”
“And what’s that?”
Jonny pointed. “Ned’s ring.”
Find the Way
hat?” said Ned.
“The Amplification Engine uses the same fusion of magic and technology as the weapon At-lan; was built by the same people. Teleportation is no different to your ‘Seeing’ or ‘Telling’. You use your ring to reshape and move atoms; the weapon Barba aims to rebuild works in the same way but on a much grander scale.”
Ned studied the ring on his finger more closely, as did everyone else in the room, a
ll of them peering at his hand.
“So … I can teleport things?” said Ned.
“With the right training, yes. Nothing as powerful as a Demon, of course.”
“So … how does that help us?” asked Benissimo, and Ned was wondering the exact same thing. “Because – correct me if I’m wrong – but the weapon can bring the Darkening King back, if reversed. So all Barba has to do is build it, summon the Demon King, and then destroy the weapon, so he can’t be banished again.”
Jonny Magik gave him his easy smile.
“First, as we already know, your brother needs the book to finish his machine, and we have it. Then, even if he did have the book, he can’t complete the machine without the boy’s father, without an Engineer. Only an Engineer, with an Amplification Engine, can turn it on.”
“But he has the boy’s father.”
“Indeed. But we have an Engineer too. And an Engineer can activate the machine … or destroy it. The very same power it uses, the very same ring that turns it on, can be turned against it. If Ned can teleport himself to it, he can undo it.”
Ned felt his heart soar. If the Book of Aatol was right, which it undoubtedly was, a route to his mum and dad, however slim, had finally opened.
Then his heart came down again with a thud.
“Wait …” he said. “Let me see if I understand this. The plan is that I learn to teleport things – which at the moment I don’t know how to do, like, at all. And meanwhile we hope that Barba doesn’t get hold of the book. But if he does get hold of the book, and rebuilds the machine, and my dad turns it on for him, then I teleport myself to where it is – hoping that I come back together in roughly the same shape – and just, um, switch it off?”
“That’s about it,” said Jonny.
“OK, great,” said Ned sarcastically. “Sounds like a doddle.”
The Ringmaster, however, remained quiet as he twirled his waxed moustache and weighed up the sin-eater’s plan.
“It’s a daring enough idea, Jonny. We could put an end to my brother’s madness. He’d need a diversion, of course, and a thumping big one to stand a chance. We’ll send word to the Viceroy immediately. With his fleet and his great owls behind us we might just do it. Tinks?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Fire a message to the Viceroy. Tell them we’re on our way to St Albertsburg and need him to assemble a sizeable force – he must get everyone he can. Tell him we have a plan.”
“I thought … we were running, boss.”
“Not any more. Plans change. Now hurry up about it.”
Tinks nodded, and left.
Bene turned to eye Ned. “What about Ned? The boy has a point. Is he up to it? And aren’t we missing something? How can he teleport to his parents and how can we help him, if we don’t know where they are?”
Ned’s last remaining glimmer of hope vanished, yet still the sin-eater smiled.
“You’re right, Bene, we don’t, at least not yet. But I’ve no doubt that the Elder’s prophecy is the key. With enough practice, our Medic and Farseer might just be able to show him the way.”
“M-me?” stammered Lucy. “But my sight, it’s still so new to me. I barely have any control as it is.”
And it was then that Ned remembered two things: the Elder Librarian’s prophecy and what he’d been told by the very woman that Lucy had replaced.
“You can do it, Lucy, I know you can. The Elder Librarian said that the prophecy talked about a key event, that we’d have to join our gifts – he must have been talking about this! But there’s more, and now it finally makes sense – before Kitty died, she told me that I’d be the first to realise the Amplification Engine’s true potential and that it was something to do with the missing pages of the Engineer’s Manual. She also said that you’d help me, that you’d show me the way. What if those pages were about teleportation? This has to be what she meant – and literally. You’re going to help me find the way to Mum and Dad!”
Which was when Jonny Magik’s easy manner finally slid from his face.
“In answer to your first question, Bene, they are not ready.” He looked at Ned and Lucy. “Lucy’s teething trouble and the boy’s own outburst in the Elder’s library would indicate that their gifts are too volatile, too led by their emotions. The slightest error in judgement would be fatal, and I’ve no doubt that if you let them try this as they are, it will kill one or even both of them.”
“So … what do you suggest?” said Bene.
“They need to start training,” said Jonny Magik. “Right now.”
Eyes and Ears
rafalgar Square. Its name commemorates the Battle of Trafalgar, where twenty-seven British ships defeated thirty-three French and Spanish ships in the Napoleonic Wars. Not a single British ship of the line was lost, though their Admiral, Lord Nelson, was shot by a French musketeer and died shortly after the battle.
Nelson’s Column, measuring some one hundred and seventy feet high, sits proudly at its centre and is guarded by four vast bronze lions situated at its base. It is estimated that some fifteen million visitors come to the square every year. Few of them know about the hawk that is flown daily to rid it of its pigeons, at one time a flock thought to be 35,000 strong.
What even fewer know is that there are some pigeons the hawk will not go near.
The spy-birds it fears are not made of flesh and bone but form part of a network of intelligence tickers that span the globe. Rats in the sewers, mice in the homes and cats that prowl the streets. The eyes of the Twelve are global. Paris, Rome, Washington, Tokyo, Berlin, New York, New Delhi and Beijing. Every corner of everywhere has at least one tiny eye on its comings and goings, without which the Twelve and its pinstripes would be blind.
The boxes were placed at midnight, by the squares, offices and homes that the Twelve liked to watch. All of them were inconspicuous dark-looking things, and sat quietly doing nothing until the very last one had found its target.
A tiny click later, and the boxes opened as one. From their insides poured a swarm of minuscule winged predators. Each of them had a single target and each of them was designed in a way that made them almost undetectable to their larger cousins.
The Turing Mark Three sat as it always did atop the sculpture of Lord Nelson. It was the perfect vantage point to monitor the square. Its alexandrite-lensed eyes watched each sector in turn, clicking in recognition at the other ticker pigeons that watched from the rooftops of old London.
When the buzzing started it was almost inaudible, but only almost. The Turing heard it, recalibrated its sensors, and turned its head.
The buzzing stopped.
A small amount of pressure was applied behind the base of the robotic pigeon’s skull. It had no sensors across its casing and it did not feel the syringe as it delivered its message. There was another buzzing of wings and the tiny intruder left the Turing in search of the rest of its swarm.
The message it had left behind was a complex set of instructions, a code.
A short while later the air of London filled with the flapping of wings and one metal-bodied bird after another rose, to join a rapidly growing flock.
In the sewers, a rat joined a pack, and all along London’s streets, cats came together into a clutter.
It was the same everywhere.
Across the world’s borders and centres of power, the Twelve’s eyes were plucked from their positions, moving as one to new locations, and only the Central Intelligence with its clever code and its new eyes for seeing, knew where.
“Tele-pot”
he circus had now turned round, and was heading towards St Albertsburg, which Benissimo informed them was off the coast of Britain. Their plan was to divide their time between training by day and travelling by night.
Right now, Ned wasn’t sure where they were. A clearing in a forest in … Romania, maybe?
The inside of the sin-eater’s trailer was a mass of painted runes, glyphs, scrolls and oddities, like a cabinet of curiosities except that the
objects in Jonny Magik’s possession were not only curious but entirely magical. They had been collected from every corner of the Hidden’s sprawling world. Bottled spirits, cursed blades, living flames and even a jar that held the glittering tail of a comet. One vial was overflowing with bubbling hags’ tears and next to Ned were a cluster of floating pebbles from the shores of Tiree.
Ned was now grimacing at the remains of yet another unsuccessful attempt, one of Abi the Beard’s prized golden earrings hot in his hand.
Somehow, when his skin connected to the gold it enhanced the powers of his ring and he was able to begin the feat of teleportation.
Beginning, however, was not the same as ending. The broken pieces of a metal fork lay crumpled and twisted on the ground as if the wavering belief Ned had in Jonny Magik’s plan, or even in himself, was somehow woven into its metal.
Beside him, the sin-eater’s stones lifted off their bowl violently. As Jonny had explained, “Tireean truth-stones” reacted to whatever emotions they sensed nearby. Ned was clearly full of them.
This much he had managed to work out: teleportation was a form of “Telling”. Moving the atoms from A to B was one thing; Ned could see their movement as they travelled. Pulling them apart, then making them reappear a moment later, and in a completely different position, required a leap of faith, but also a huge amount of “Feeling”. The feeling was the key, the way to channel enough power through his Engine for the feat to be instantaneous. And it was the feeling Ned was having trouble with.
At St Clotilde’s his “feelings” had almost completely destroyed the convent and only days ago, to Ned and the Elder Librarian’s horror, had very nearly set the entire paper city ablaze.
“Thirty-seven,” announced the sin-eater.
“That’s not helping, Jonny.”
“When I scrawl it in my inks, it places it in the past. Now, are you ready? Shall we try ourselves a thirty-eight?” asked his tutor.
The skin at Ned’s finger where it touched his Engine was chafed and burnt. Ned had rarely felt more tired or defeated.
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