by Lavie Tidhar
A damp breeze rose and touched his skin, sending a shiver through his body. Perhaps the automatons, he thought. Perhaps they had their own political ambition, perhaps they too were gathering in secret, preparing for a revolution. The thought neither cheered nor oppressed him. It left him unmoved. He thought of the revolution that had taken place in France, the Quiet Revolution of which so little was known. The French had resisted the might of Les Lézards – and for the most part, the Queen seemed happy in return simply to ignore the new Republic across the Channel. A cold peace lasted between the two nations, though now that he thought of it, Orphan found himself wondering how long that would last for.
The French were difficult. The words of a Carroll ditty rose in his head, and he smiled. "They are the frogs, and we have lizards," he whispered into the wind, "we play the first, and they the second fiddle."
From within the fog he heard a sound like that of a slow-moving boat, waves brushing against a hard, rocking body. He strained but could see nothing, and his thoughts returned to their meandering track. In L'Île mystérieuse, which was banned under the Empire, the author, Jules Verne, claimed to have made a voyage to Caliban's Island, though Orphan suspected it was a mere fancy of the author, who was known for his tales of wild imagination. I'd like to visit France, he thought. Then a boat came sailing out of the mist, a single person sitting in the prow, and his breath slammed into his lungs and froze his thoughts into small hard diamonds.
The person in the boat was Lucy.
She was dressed in a fine white dress that seemed to form a part of the fog, and she sat in an unnatural calm as the boat sailed without anyone to steer it, coming close to the bank of the river, close enough for Orphan to almost reach a hand and touch her. Almost.
He tried to shout her name. It came as a hoarse whisper. She was in profile to him and unmoving, and her head did not turn to him. She was staring out into the fog, into the boat's invisible path and he thought, suddenly and with a dull dread spreading through his bones, She is a ghost.
The fog hid her like a dance of scarves. The boat, the flow of the river itself, seemed to slow. He shouted, "Lucy!" and thought – for just a moment – that her face was turning to look at him.
Then she was gone, and the boat was swallowed by the mist rising from the water and disappeared like the last lingering trace of a dream, leaving only emptiness in its wake.
ELEVEN
Mycroft
You are right in thinking that he is under the British government. You would also be right in a sense if you said that occasionally he is the British government.
– Arthur Conan Doyle, His Last Bow
Orphan stumbled away from the Thames like a drunk, and his hand ached for paper and pen, for something to write with. It was all too much of a poem, he thought. The woman in white. It made him suddenly giggle. He was too tired, too worn-out. Hallucinating, perhaps. And perhaps, he thought, Inspector Adler was right, and the Bookman had the power of life, as well as death.
She hadn't looked at him. That was what mattered, what hurt him the most. She neither looked at him nor spoke. It was as if one of them had not existed, as if one were a ghost and the other real, and the two passed each other in two different worlds. He didn't know which one he was, the real or the ghost.
I need sleep, he thought. I need a cup of tea, a bath and a warm bed. Sleep, above all. Sleep.
But it was not to be. For, as he made his way away from the river, a piece of the black night detached itself from the sky and came floating, as silent as a dark balloon, directly above his head.
Orphan looked up.
It was a blimp.
It was entirely black, with no markings, no legend on its side, no identity code describing its existence or purpose. No beacons were lit on the vehicle: it drifted in perfect darkness, invisible and sinister, like a bat hunting in the night.
Orphan's first thought was: so I did not imagine it.
His second: so it's true!
He had been followed by one of the legendary, mythical black airships. What do they want? he thought, panic rising inside him like heated water in bottled glass. And then, government. For who else could command a ship that did not exist?
The blimp hovered above him. He could see its small gondola, as dark as the balloon, the envelope itself. Were there windows cut into the passenger car? If so, they too were darkened.
Then, full-blown panic settled in. Already unsettled by the vision of Lucy, he did not notice until too late when two indistinct, towering figures rushed him from either side and pinned him between them. He struggled, but the two men held him tight and a cloth was thrown over his head and blinded him. He lashed out, heard one of the men grunt in pain. Then a blow caught him on the back of the head and pain exploded inside him, and he fell loose in his captors' arms.
He was dimly aware of being carried. When he returned to himself he found that he was sitting down (the chair soft and comfortable against his aching body), and the air was warm. He heard the clinking of glasses and voices speak, too softly for him to make out what they were saying.
The cloth was removed from his head.
He blinked. His arms were free, and he touched the back of his head gingerly, but there was no blood, only a small swelling starting up that hurt, but not too badly.
He looked up.
In a wide, plush armchair, a round glass in his hand with an amber drink sloshing inside it, sat the fat man from the King's Arms. The fat man from the mortuary at Guy's. And Orphan thought: Oh, no.
"You," Orphan said. He felt foolish as soon as he said it.
The fat man nodded companionably. "Me," he agreed.
What did he look like? The considerable bulk was spread over the tall body of the man. His head was large, too, with a prominent forehead and dark receding hair that was once – but no longer – lush, and his nose was sharp and prominent, commanding respect. His eyes, deep-set, seemed to penetrate into Orphan's soul. He was a man who missed nothing, who knew everything. He almost, Orphan thought, looked like one of Babbage's analytical engines.
But he was human enough. His fingers were chubby though strong, and his breath condensed on the glass as he raised it to his mouth. Red appeared in his cheeks then, and as he closed his eyes and savoured the taste of the drink there was something sensual in his action. This was a man, and a man who took great delight in drink, and in food.
They sat like this, without speaking. The room they were in was dimly lit and plush, covered in mahogany and dark velvet, like a club-room. Beside their chairs were side-tables. Behind the fat man was a drinks cabinet. Two small lamps burned, electric, behind sombre shades.
The fat man clicked his fingers and a dark-suited butler glided over and handed Orphan a drink of his own. He tasted it, found it to be a whiskey much superior to the brand favoured by Jack. He turned his head, feeling the back of his head hurt as he did so. To his right was a window. He looked outside – and saw the city spread out below.
From high above, the Thames was a silver snake curled into an unknowable glyph. Lights winked in and out of existence as the city breathed below. The lights seemed to spell out a message, a hidden truth that he could decipher if only he tried, if only he concentrated hard enough. The Houses of Parliament were a face, craggy and huge, studded with jewels, whispering secrets that reached out to him and went past, still unknown. The blimp swerved slowly, giving him a view of the north-east side of the river and of the dome of St Paul's, looking like the bald head of a secretive monk. He took another sip of his drink and felt it burn away the pain in his head, and he turned away from the window and said, "Who are you?"
The fat man nodded in approval. "You go straight to the heart of the matter. That's good." But he seemed in no hurry to reply to the question. He sipped again from his drink (the butler had long since withdrawn from the room, as silent and efficient as an automaton) and gazed at Orphan with those clear, penetrating eyes. "Perhaps," he said, "the question of who I am is not as sign
ificant as you suggest. I am intrigued more, my young friend, by the much more interesting question of who you are."
Surely you already know, you miserable old bastard, Orphan thought. He was tired and his eyes hurt, and his mouth tasted like ash. All he wanted was a bed to sleep on, and silence.
"Well?"
"My name is Orphan."
The fat man seemed to consider it. "It isn't much of a name," he said at last.
"That's the name I was given."
The fat man leaned forward. "Ah, but by whom?" he said. "Orphan, after all, is not a name, as such. It is a moniker, a nickname, an alias – a designation. It is a description of what you are. So what was your name before you were–" he coughed a laugh – "Orphaned?"
"Who are you?" Orphan repeated. The fat man's question had hit him like a punch to the liver.
"My name is Mycroft," the fat man said levelly. "What's yours?"
"Orphan."
"No."
The silence between them felt charged, like the air before a storm.
Finally the fat man – Mycroft – stirred. "Very well," he said. And, "Interesting."
"What is?"
"You do not know your own name."
Orphan gently put down the glass he was holding. He was afraid he would otherwise throw it in Mycroft's face.
"Do you?" he said.
Mycroft shook his head. "No. And that, I find, is even more interesting, for you see, I know a great many things."
"You seem to know a great many people," Orphan said. "Vivisectionists, for instance?"
Mycroft sighed. "It is a queer fate that led you down to the basement at Guy's that night. If fate is what it was. Perhaps I owe you an explanation."
"You could start by telling me why you had me followed and then abducted on board this airship," Orphan said.
"You see," Mycroft said, as if he hadn't heard him, "I despise the resurrection men. The thought of grave robbers operating in this city, in this time – it is abhorrent. And yet…" He, too, put down his glass. "Were it not for my brother," he said, "I would have nothing to do with such scum as Bishop and May."
"Your brother," Orphan said, and suddenly the image of the man in the icy coffin rose in his mind, the long and prominent nose, and something about the eyes… He said, "What happened to him?"
Mycroft shrugged and his eyes filled, for a moment, with pain. "I don't know." His fist hit the side-table and made the empty glass jump. "I don't know! I who am the central-exchange, the clearing house for every decision and conclusion, for every branch and department and organ of government – I don't know."
"Is he dead?"
"Yes. No." There was frustration in the fat man's eyes. "He was found. In Switzerland. At the bottom off… the details do not matter. No doubt my secretive brother was on the trail of some conspiracy of crime. But what, or who, he was pursuing, I do not know."
"He was a policeman?"
"A consulting detective," Mycroft said.
Orphan nodded politely.
Then, as the thought occurred to him, he said, "But you suspect foul play."
Mycroft nodded. "Perceptive," he said. "Yes."
"Who?"
Mycroft laughed. It was a short, bitter sound. "Why should I tell you?" he said. But in his eyes Orphan could see that he had already decided that he would. He wondered why the man wished to confide in him – and the thought made him afraid. He did not want the man's secrets.
"Moriarty."
Surprise widened Orphan's eyes. "The Prime Minister?"
"A puppet," Mycroft said, "serving the Queen and her line like a simulacrum. While the job of governing, the thousand and one acts required every hour of every day to make the wheels of empire move in unison, is done by other, more capable hands."
Such as yourself? Orphan thought – but he didn't express it out loud. He said, "Why Moriarty?"
Mycroft shrugged. Weariness formed lines at the corners of his eyes. "Odd hints, careful suggestions. An incidental fragment of data suddenly startling in a field of information where it was not expected." He stopped speaking and his eyes stared into Orphan's. "The Martian probe."
Hot anger burst inside Orphan's skull. Mycroft raised a hand as if to ward him off. "I think my brother was investigating Moriarty's space programme. A programme so secret even I was kept unaware of it. I think he was – disposed of – to protect its true nature."
Orphan was about to speak, but Mycroft suddenly roared, silencing him. "I will not let him die!" When he raised his eyes they seemed to hold a silent plea. "The best doctors have examined him," he said, almost plaintively. "The specialists in matters of life itself: Jekyll, Narbondo, Mabuse, Moreau, West… he has been treated with serums, with gland extracts, with electricity, with a spectrum of rays and with devices too arcane and tortuous and numerous to mention. Yet he remains as he is… dead to the world." He looked up at Orphan and said, "You and I are not so unlike. Both of us, after all, are seeking solution for death."
"Enough!" Orphan said. "Who are you? What are you? What do you want?" He felt rising anger and with it something akin to panic. He didn't care for this man, or about his brother.
"Again," Mycroft said, and his expression changed, became almost jovial. "You ask good questions. I hear you are one of our more promising young poets? Exactitude and directness are good qualities for a poet."
Orphan began to rise from his chair. Mycroft merely shook his head. "Don't," he advised. He clicked his fingers and beside him, the silent butler materialised like condensation on a glass of dark beer.
Orphan looked out of the window. The ground was far below. He sat back down.
The butler departed.
He was playing a game with him, Orphan thought. But what sort of game? It was a strange exchange of questions and half-answers, of things implied but not said – what did the fat man want from him? He had referred to himself as someone in government – well, that was clear enough. But whose interest did he represent? And what did he want from him?
It was a strange interrogation, he thought. Almost as if it was he who needed to find out the answers from Mycroft, and not the other way around. Or perhaps, not find them as much as decipher them on his own. He said, "At the cockpit."
"Yes?"
"You weren't watching the fight."
"No."
"Were you there for me?"
"What do you think?"
"No."
Mycroft nodded. "Very good," he said.
"You work for the government, but you are not in government. You have the power to commandeer a black airship, and you consider yourself a clearing house for information. So you must be in Intelligence."
Mycroft inched his head. "That seems obvious," he said. "But do go on."
"Which means that you are a loyal servant of Les Lézards."
"I serve Britannia," Mycroft said, a little stiff.
Orphan nodded thoughtfully. "That's what puzzled me," he said. "There seem to be so many factions at play here that I am quite lost. You claim to serve the empire, but show reticence with regards to Les Lézards." He smiled; he felt his mouth turning in a grimace. "You were watching Jack."
"Jack…" Mycroft mused. He, too, smiled. His expression, too, was ugly. "Your friend, Jack. Yes. An interesting specimen. But of course, he was not alone, was he, Orphan? He and that European troublemaker, Marx, and that beautiful, determined woman, Isabella Beeton… Yes. I was watching them quite carefully. And I was watching you, too. Will you join them?"
The sudden question took Orphan by surprise. "Is that what concerns you?" he asked. "You think they represent a threat to the empire?"
Mycroft shrugged. "There are a hundred different factions and organisations and secret societies in this city at any given time, all conspiring the downfall of the lizards, or of the government, or even of my own department. Do they represent a threat? Possibly. Quite possibly."
He fell into a brooding silence. Orphan glanced again out of the window. They were passing over
the palace now, and the great, greenish pyramid rose out of the capital's ancient ground like a tombstone catching the starlight. He watched the Royal Gardens for a long moment, the silvery pools of water over which the shadow of the blimp passed almost unnoticed. He said, "What do you want from me?"
Mycroft, too, looked out of the window. At last, turning his eyes back to Orphan, he said, "I want you to find the Bookman."