by Mark Latham
With eternal fondness,
Your Father
EPILOGUE
Nine months later: 22nd August 1880
AFGHANISTAN, THE MIRROR-WORLD
The trek from the camp had been more arduous than Brigadier Sir Marcus Hardwick had expected, but the message had been clear. He could not be late. He had been lucky to avoid any awkward confrontations with his own sentries, although now, four miles from the British camp near Kandahar, it was hill-bandits he would have to be more wary of.
He clambered over the detritus of a thousand years, over uneven scrub and massive stones that had once formed great Indo-Greek temples to Buddha. Now they were nothing but ruins, sundered long ago in one of many long-forgotten wars.
The brigadier stumbled over the rocky ground. He had found his way at first by moonlight, for in enemy country he could not risk a lantern. After much toil across difficult ground, with a chill wind against him, the object of his covert hike finally came into view as the sun began to rise. The brigadier squinted against the glowing rind of light that crested the hill ahead. Broken stairs of sandstone led up a steep hill, atop which a great black archway loomed against the yellowing sky. The walls about the arch were long-toppled by the conquerors of what was once called ‘Alexandria’, and now only headless statues stood witness to this long-abandoned holy site.
The brigadier did not think of himself as old, but neither was he a young man, and he felt age upon him acutely as he rested an arm against the rough stone, his breathing ragged and his limbs burning. It had been many a year since he had had to march double-time across rough terrain, and four miles was enough for him. He would have to work hard in the months to come if he were to endure the toil of his mission, both physical and mental. He did not relish the walk back, but he would have to be in his tent before the morning roll-call, or even he would have to answer questions he would rather went unasked.
‘Turn around.’ The girl’s voice was light, but firm. English, well-spoken. He knew it at once, and obeyed.
‘You came,’ he said, and felt rather stupid for it.
‘Of course. This matter is too important to entrust to another. I had to do this in person.’
‘Thank you,’ the brigadier said, the words sticking in his throat.
‘I do not have much time,’ the woman said. ‘Everything is set. The battle will begin a week from now, if all goes according to plan. You must steel yourself, for the losses will be heavy.’
‘I have made my peace with that,’ the brigadier said.
‘Good. During the battle you will be wounded—a shot to the leg should suffice, as long as there is plenty of blood to go around. Do not put yourself in needless danger, you understand?’
‘Of course, I shall take care of it myself.’
‘Timing is everything. When you are returned to the camp, our agents will be on hand to explain away your sudden demise. A ruptured artery, shock, fever, that sort of thing. The details are written in this book, in the standard code.’
A small, leather-bound notebook was passed over his shoulder. He took it, brushing cold fingers as he did so. He flipped through the pages to find row upon row of neat, Burmese characters. Satisfied, he placed it in his breast pocket.
‘The exchange will be made that very night,’ the woman went on. ‘Our people will get you aboard a ship to London, and once there you will meet our… broker. He will ensure you are hidden, and that you cross safely to our side.’
‘I still don’t understand why I have to return to England,’ the brigadier protested.
‘The journey is not safe on our side. That is one of the reasons that we need you. John and I.’
Sir Marcus Hardwick trembled. ‘And… Dora.’
‘In time. But she is well. You will see her, soon enough. Now, I must warn you—this broker is not to be trusted. He calls himself the Artist, though his real name is Tsun Pen. If there were any other option, we would take it, but our list of allies is thin. You will meet him at his business premises on the Isle of Dogs, and await further instructions. Under no circumstances give him your name.’
‘No, of course. Lazarus.’
‘Indeed. From the moment your death is certified, you will be only Lazarus, until you reach us safely. I wish you Godspeed on your journey… Father.’
‘Please, let me see you,’ the brigadier said.
There was silence for a moment, and then: ‘Turn around.’
He obeyed. There, standing in the great archway, with the sun blood red behind her, was Lillian. His darling Lily, now a grown woman. She wore a severe, high-collared black dress, a hat with a veil, and stood beneath a small black parasol. Her face gleamed pale white even from beneath the veil, and when she pulled it away Sir Marcus was taken aback by her beauty. There was no mistaking his own flesh and blood; this was the daughter he had lost, now returned to him through a miracle. The God he had renounced long ago had not forsaken him.
He reached out to touch her face, but she took his hand away, gently, and smiled at him.
‘There is not much time, Father, for either of us. Are you confident you can complete this mission?’
‘I am. Nothing will stand in the way, my dear, sweet girl.’
‘Then you must go and prepare for the battle. I shall return to my people, and we will meet again on the other side.’
Sir Marcus at once began the descent from the hilltop ruins. A low droning sound struck up behind him, increasing in pitch and intensity. Before he had even reached the bottom of the slope, the sound had become a shrill whistle. He heard a great crackle and fizz of electrical power, the light from which stripped away the long shadows in front of him, and then the noise stopped, the light was gone, and all was still.
Marcus Hardwick took one last look over his shoulder at the dark archway. The woman was gone. When next he saw her, he would be embarking upon the greatest work of his life.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks go out to my harshest critics and most valuable alpha readers: my lovely wife Alison, my agent Jamie Cowen, and my good friend Mat Ward. This book is better for your input.
An extra thanks to Vadim Kadyrov, a Russian translator who was kind enough to help me with my linguistic pursuits. Social media can be a wonderful thing!
Oh, and for those dear readers who are wondering what happened to the Captain John Hardwick in our own universe. Fear not.
John Hardwick shall return…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark A. Latham is a writer, editor, history nerd, frustrated grunge singer and amateur baker from Staffordshire, UK. A recent immigrant to rural Nottinghamshire, he lives in a very old house (sadly not haunted), and is still regarded in the village as a foreigner.
Formerly the editor of Games Workshop’s White Dwarf magazine, Mark dabbled in tabletop games design before becoming a full-time author of strange, fantastical and macabre tales, mostly set in the nineteenth century, a period for which his obsession knows no bounds. He is the author of The Lazarus Gate, published by Titan Books.
Follow Mark on Twitter: @aLostVictorian