Ned quickly reached into his pocket and touched Abi’s earrings, before closing his eyes. Of all the mechanical contraptions he had ever come across, there was none that he knew better than Whiskers. The semi-loyal mouse had been beside him since he could remember and he could have rebuilt him now from the ground up in the blink of an eye. He thought of his inner workings, of his complex array of moving parts, till he could feel them, and like the security camera at the British Museum he sensed more than lifeless metal. He sensed a network of connected parts, the clockwork heartbeat of his pet mouse.
On one hand Ned’s ring finger began to crackle, in his other, Abi’s golden hoops grew hot. Atom by atom, piece by piece, his mouse began to unravel. Ned’s eyes blinked open and he watched in awe and wonder as he willed its atoms to move. The air shimmered around Whiskers wildly, and the mouse squeaked till FOOM! – it was gone.
An instant later, and the Debussy Mark Twelve rematerialised in a puff of spitting-hot atoms right by the Ringmaster and Ned’s feet. There he was, Ned’s beloved sidekick in every perfect detail, except for one small thing: Whiskers’ head was on backwards.
“Neptune’s boiling teapot, you’ve only gone and done it!” guffawed Benissimo.
“Whiskers, I … ha!”
Ned could barely speak. He was too happy, too wrapped in relief and hope. All he could do was stare at his mouse in stunned, ecstatic wonder.
Whiskers, however, was not nearly as jubilant. He turned his head with a noisy and painful-sounding crack! until it was almost where it should have been.
Then blinked his eyes in mechanical outrage.
“I – Q, U, I, T.”
Happy Christmas
t that moment, despite his feelings for the mouse, Ned simply didn’t care. He had worked outside the Manual, done something he’d thought impossible, and a route to his mum and dad was now quite assuredly open.
All he needed now was Lucy.
But when he went back to George’s trailer, the troupe was strangely absent. Ned had been expecting some hollering, or at least a well-meaning “whoop”, but the troupe in its entirety were nowhere in sight. He didn’t really blame them. They were all, like him, separated from their families, or at least beloved relatives, and all beside themselves with the worry of what lay ahead. The route might well be open but the chance of travelling along it, and reaching its end unscathed, was unlikely at best.
As he lay on his bunk a little later, he heard what sounded like Abigail outside the trailer.
“Can we, boss? Please? He’s worked so ’ard and the poor love deserves it more than all of us.”
A wax-moustached rumbling replied with a rare but cheery “Yes”.
“Ahem, oh, Ne-ed? Ned, old bean, are you in there?” asked George through the keyhole.
The sun was just setting outside and Ned’s nose was blue with cold. There was sniggering and a heavy thump as what could only have been Alice rocked George’s trailer with her head. On the roof he heard the skittering of tiny feet. Whatever was going on, the involvement of the three emperors did not bode well.
“Ahem, I really think you should see this, dear boy,” said George from outside.
Ned walked to the door, pulling on an old duffle-coat he’d borrowed from one of the Tortellini boys, and stepped outside. It was cold, it was snowing and he’d never seen a dafter gathering in his life.
“We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas,” they warbled terribly.
Grandpa Tortellini was dressed as Father Christmas, his ancient and heavily curled satyr horns gouging into a makeshift beard. The Glimmerman had obviously come as a rather rotund and shiny bauble, while the grinning fur-faced George was dressed from head to toe in white and chewing on a carrot as their resident snowman. Even the three emperors were now busying themselves on the roof with the throwing of snowballs in the guise of the three wise men. At the back, sitting on one of his lions, sat a sullen-faced Finn, who for once was allowing the troupe to see his marvellous, angel-like wings.
“We wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year!”
The Circus of Marvels were some of the greatest performers, acrobats and magicians the world had ever seen. One thing, however, was certain: they couldn’t sing for toffee and they were all the more endearing because of it.
“Happy Christmas, Ned!” smiled Lucy, who like him was dressed quite normally, except for a small piece of holly that she’d wedged into her Hello Kitty hair-clip.
And then it hit him. Ned had been so worried, so utterly wrapped up in distress that he hadn’t even known what day it was. Something cold and painful twinged in his chest. It bore the shape of his mum and dad.
“Hi, Lucy, happy Christmas,” he managed.
Seeing the look on his face, Lucy reached over and gave him a hug.
“Hey? No time for that now, Ned, Christmas was two days ago,” she whispered.
“Two days?”
“They promised not to celebrate until Jonny and Benissimo had ‘cracked’ us.”
“Cracked us? I don’t understand.”
“Well, I heard you just beat Singe. Pretty impressive – that cat’s barbecued more Darklings than you can possibly imagine.”
“What about you? I’m so sorry about Bertram.”
“I think that’s when it shifted. I tried so hard to help him and he tried so hard to let me but there was just too much damage. I cried myself to sleep that night and when I saw Jonny the next day he told me that that was the problem.”
“Crying?”
“No: caring. It’s all right to care but I can’t fix everyone and I can’t have every pained thought and feeling break my heart either. Not if I’m going to get you to your mum and dad. Focusing’s the key, and for both of us. Now look around you, Ned, focus on them, because they need you as much as your mum and dad right now, maybe even more. Besides, they’ve done all this for you.”
And they had. George scooped Ned up in a powerful arm and hoisted him on to his shoulder.
“Come on, old chum. We’ve got a surprise for you.”
He carried his precious cargo to the centre of the encampment, followed by a procession of hopeless carol singers and their rendition of “Jingle Bells”.
“As you can probably tell by now, we Hidden don’t know the first thing about carols, but we do have our own traditions behind the Veil. Every year we plant a Christmas tree. The troupe take a vote on who gets to do it, and this year they all voted for you, every single one of them.”
George put him down and handed Ned a small seed.
“Go on, Ned, pop it in the ground.”
Ned did as his friend asked and dug out a hole in the snow, before carefully placing the seed inside. There was a dramatic “ooh” from the troupe as they waited for whatever it was the seed was supposed to do.
“Now what?” he asked.
He was answered by a rumbling from under their feet. The three emperors shook with excitement, the first covering his eyes, the second his ears and the third clamping a hand tightly round his mouth. What started as a rumble quickly became a woody, knotted scream. Ned felt a wave of panic and looked to George, who was chuckling to himself with glee.
“Hold on to something, old bean – HERE SHE BLOWS!”
As Ned grabbed on to the something that was the ape’s leg, the ground erupted in a violent explosion of earth, ice and snow.
WHOOSH!
“Duck!” bellowed George.
A vast pine tree shot out of the ice, its branches springing outwards and skimming over the heads of the over-excited crowd, its top stretching high above the snow-covered Slovakian forest.
“Barking dogs!” laughed Ned.
And still the circus’s Christmas tree grew, till it towered over them all and its great branches blotted out the moon. It must have been over a hundred feet tall and the three emperors, now in their pixy form, launched their blue-skinned bodies up its branches. The air crackled and shimmered as they worked their magic and great swa
tches of red ribbon tumbled to the ground. The Glimmerman clapped his hands and a thousand tiny mirrors peppered its branches. All around them the dancing girls skated and somersaulted through the legs of stilt-walkers, who hung floating paper lanterns in the air.
Ned smiled. It was as true a smile as he knew. His mum and dad might well have been in Barbarossa’s hands, but Ned was in the troupe’s. They were strange, frightening at times, but they were his and today, not for the first time, he was very much theirs.
“Thanks, George.”
“Happy Christmas, old chum.”
That night Ned’s tummy and heart were full to bursting. The entire troupe had given him presents. Beaten and separated from their families as they were, some had had to carve them from wood, or stitch them from cloth, and the three emperors had unsurprisingly stolen theirs from Benissimo’s trailer, but no one minded. Ned had been ripped from his home and the troupe had insisted on giving him another.
Scraggs the cook presented them all with a “Tuskan Turkey”. His kind grew their birds to the size of ostriches and the circus gorged themselves till their sides ached. All, that was, except for Benissimo, Jonny Magik and the Tinker.
“Where was the Tinker tonight, George?” mumbled Ned, who was munching happily on George’s gift of home-made angel cakes in banana-flavoured icing.
George’s face wrinkled.
“I’m afraid our little minutian is rather out of sorts. He has a niece and nephew in Gearnish and, well, it’s Christmas.”
Ned felt dreadful. Everyone was suffering, or far away from home, and the little wonder that was the Tinker was just as alone and just as worried as he was. Ned reached under his bunk and pulled out the two wrapped presents he’d hidden there.
“I was wondering when you were going to open those,” smiled George. “Your parents would like that, dear boy, they’d like that very much.”
Ned felt a lump in his throat and willed it away.
“They’re not for me, George. I promised myself I’d give them to Mum and Dad when we found them. I know it’s stupid but I thought if I had these, then I’d see them again, no matter what, but I think the Tinker needs them more.”
George and Ned trudged through the darkness, to find a morose minutian in tired red pyjamas, sitting at his bench.
“Master Ned?”
“Here you go, Tinks. Happy Christmas.”
The Tinker looked at the two now dog-eared presents and his face melted.
“For – for me, Master Ned? I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, go on, Tinks, open them,” rumbled George.
Minutians don’t generally wear ties, not even red ones covered in reindeer, which was what came out of the first parcel. But what they almost never wear, are pretty silk scarves in lilacs and pinks, which was what came out of the second. A warm tear trickled out of the boffin’s eyes and his face broke into a smile.
“They’re lovely, Master Ned, just lovely.”
“I’m glad you like them, Tinks, and don’t worry, we’ll save them, your family and mine,” said Ned, and for more than a heartbeat he actually believed that they might.
***
Outside, a man claiming to be a local grocer came calling on the troupe. He’d waded through knee-deep snow from the neighbouring village of Rajec, and had a charming, though oily smile. He did not mind that the Circus was closed for business, it was after all quite late and not long after Christmas. He told Rocky the strongman, in surprisingly good English, that he wished only to say hello, and to invite the circus members to visit his shop, should they need any supplies.
He strolled around the circus tents and trailers, pausing at one trailer, spending rather longer at another trailer, where, unseen by Rocky, he lowered a small box to the ground.
With the box and its contents carefully placed, the grocer left.
Carrion Slight’s nose had led him halfway across eastern Europe to the quiet valley in which the Circus of Marvels now hid. The smell of Ned and his troupe was unique – so full of good intention that it made his head hurt.
He had carried out a small task, a little thing, really, just the placing of a box. It was not his music box, but another, much simpler device. As he walked away from the Circus of Marvels’ entrance and its chest-puffing mountain troll, there was a small click by one of George’s trailer’s rear wheels and the box Carrion had placed there opened.
A second later, a single solitary machine rose from the box. It flew directly to its target, then landed on the Guardian’s marble faceplate and crawled round behind it to where the machine’s brain was housed.
The syringe poured the code that the Central Intelligence had so carefully prepared and the Guardian’s eyes glowed red.
Tick, tick, tick.
Tick, Tick, Tick …
oom!
The ground shook.
“What … was that?” breathed Ned.
He, George and the Tinker raced outside. What had been a starless night was lit up by a ball of orange flame.
“That’s the fuel stores,” said George.
A moment later they were greeted by the flying body of a mountainous Rocky, being hurled through the air like a rag doll.
“NIET!” he roared, landing on the Guffstavson brothers’ doorway with an almighty crash and reducing it to a pile of splinters.
“What happened?” shouted George.
But Rocky just pointed. At the far end of the campsite Ned’s angel-faced sentinel, his so-called Guardian, was busying itself with the noisy demolition of the Circus of Marvels’ trailers and trucks. Its arms were a blur of noisy pistons, hammering at anything that stood in its way like a wrecking ball demolishing a house.
Ned couldn’t believe his eyes. The Guardian, Oublier’s insurance policy that was promised to keep him safe, had turned on the troupe!
“You leave my ’usband alone, you ugly pile o’ bolts!” yelled Abigail, her beard lashing out like a harpoon at the metal monstrosity that had turned on their camp.
Without even thinking, Ned walked towards the danger. When he was within spitting distance of the Guardian, it stopped for a second, eyes glowing at him in a menacing red as if trying to remember its purpose.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
Ned swallowed; “kill or not kill”, was that the question behind the machine’s burning eyes? Finally it looked away, refocusing on the matter at hand, and, closing its vice-like fingers round Abigail’s beard, it yanked her to the floor with a hard pull.
“Arh!” she yelped. It was the kind of cry a vixen might make when its leg is broken by a trap.
“Rocky and the Beard, that’s two of our best ‘heavies’ and its casing isn’t even scratched!” came the stern voice of Benissimo. The Ringmaster stood watching, hands on hips and eyes dissecting the chaos across his encampment. “Couteau!” he barked, and the French Master-at-Arms responded in kind.
“Tirez!” ordered Couteau. Two rows of musket-wielding troupe members lined up their sights, the first row on one knee, the second forming a rank of guns behind and above them.
Bang! roared the volley of gunfire.
Ned watched in awe. The most frightening thing about the Guardian was its complete lack of emotion. Its marble face stayed locked in the tranquil form of an angel whilst its limbs of wrought iron sought out their prey with singular, violent purpose. The bullets bounced off its casing with no effect and the ticker continued laying waste to the campsite.
It was nearing the Darkling cages now, and if it were to free even one of the captives, the consequences would be disastrous.
To one side, George made ready to charge and Couteau steeled himself, a look of sober purpose etched across his brow.
“I wouldn’t go at it if I were you, Frenchie,” warned the Tinker anxiously.
“Well, Tinks, how do we kill it?” growled Benissimo.
“Kill it? Oh no, boss, that’s not it at all. You’re looking at the one device that could give a pack of Demons a run for the
ir money. It’s not alive, see? You can’t kill it at all, the most you can hope to do is stop it.”
The Tinker’s eyes narrowed as one of the Tortellini boys was flung over their heads.
“Jupiter’s beard! Where’s the blasted magician when we need him?”
“I don’t know that he’d be of any use to you. It’s pretty much impervious to magic, boss. If I remember rightly, I did try and warn you.”
The Ringmaster stooped down low, his moustache twitching so wildly it looked like it might fly off his lip and throttle the minutian to death.
“GET BERTHA!” he roared. With a startled squeak the minutian went running off into the darkness, closely followed by the galloping figure of George. In front of them, the white-faced Guardian finally acknowledged Couteau’s row of riflemen by hurling the underbelly of a smashed lorry at their heads. They fell to the ground with a sickening break of bone against metal.
“Fall back!” ordered Benissimo. And behind him Ned saw the reason for the Ringmaster’s tactical retreat.
“Aroo!” trumpeted Alice.
Their winged and arthritic elephant was wearing a harness and pulling a giant cannon at least twenty feet in length. George was behind her and pushing with all of his considerable strength. As Bertha was set up and positioned, Scraggs the cook came to the gun’s side with a dozen of his kitchen gnomes and took his position as gunner. The nimble-fingered gnomes worked with impressive speed, calibrating the cannon and loading the first shell.
“She’s only a prototype, of course, and we’ve yet to use her in combat,” beamed a now-excited Tinker. “Everyone, you might want to cover your ears.”
What was left of the gathered troupe took a step back and did as the minutian suggested, all, that was, except for Benissimo.
“Make ready!” barked Scraggs through his tusks. “Fire!”
The head gnome pulled on the firing pin and BOOM!
Through a cloud of smoke there was a loud whistle as Bertha’s shell tore through the air. It hit the Guardian with the force of an earthquake, its explosion obliterating two nearby vans that the ticker had started to dismantle. When the debris had stopped flying and the smoke cleared, Ned’s ears were still ringing.
The Gold Thief Page 18