Horatio Lyle

by Webb, Catherine

  With a final scream, the door burst open, sending a small shower of wood in every direction. Mr Dew staggered through, murder in his eyes, a bronze knife in his hand. His green eyes that flashed like a cat’s in the dark fell on Lyle, who was crouched in the flaring darkness of orange-black smoke and flame. Mr Dew grinned and moved after him, oblivious of the smoke. He got within a few feet of Lyle, and stopped, face frozen, eyes wide. Above Lyle’s head, the kettle hung suspended from a rafter by a long piece of string. The iron fork was half-visible inside, its tines touching a band of velvet torn from Lyle’s coat. The band itself was looped round the ladles, which spun and hissed with speed as they caught the steam billowing off the wall, pushing the contraption round like a windmill, and dragging the loop of velvet round faster and faster as the ladles spun, Lyle’s magnet secured tightly inside their scoop, velvet scratching against the fork, humming inside the kettle. Lyle edged a little closer. A fat blue spark, brighter even than the fires around it, leapt with an angry pop from the surface of the kettle to a metal button on Lyle’s sleeve, making him jump as it earthed into his skin. The entire thing looked like a clumsy accident at suppertime, but the pallor in Dew’s face told a different story. Lyle watched him blurrily through the smoke-induced tears running from his eyes, saw him try to move a step closer, and flinch back again. Where the piece of wire in the kettle didn’t quite touch the velvet, sparks flashed, big electric sparks.

  ‘Is it the electric or the magnetic field that’s causing you so much offence?’ yelled Lyle over the roar of the flames and the scream of the steam. ‘This is just an amateur static generator! What would you do if I had a decent steam engine and belt?’

  Mr Dew’s face was a mixture of pain and hatred. In the doorway, more green-eyed people were gathered, also looking pained. Lyle heard the spitting noise of more sparks dancing, then heard it again, from a direction he didn’t expect. He felt something sharp and hot on his back, and reached behind himself for the bulk of the Fuyun Plate, swinging it round so he could see it more clearly. Inside the coat, in the presence of the magnetic field, the bowl was full of sparks, darting across it in thick blue waves, never quite managing to leave the surface. Lyle reached down and touched it. The sparks ran straight through his finger, cold to the touch, but underneath, the plate was warm. He heard a groan from the Tseiqin. Several had their hands over their ears, as if they couldn’t bear the sound. Most were backing away, their faces masks of pain. Even Mr Dew was now at the door, retreating with an expression of pure hate. Lyle hesitated. He stared down at the plate, then at the makeshift static generator, then at the now-empty black doorway, then up at the ceiling. It was sagging, the fire crawling all over it. He looked down at the plate again. He thought, Oh Jesus . . .

  The roof caved in, smashing down on the ladles, the kettle, and on the Lyle-shaped empty space.

  Lyle’s hand was bleeding. That was the first thing he thought. He coughed, tasting dry smoke in his mouth. He pulled himself up slowly, a little bit at a time, until he was on his knees, holding the Fuyun Plate close to his chest for protection. With the cave-in, his magnetic field had been destroyed, and now the Fuyun Plate felt as innocently cold as ever. He looked up slowly and saw a pair of black leather shoes. They didn’t look as though they belonged to anyone he knew. His gaze wandered to a pair of black silk trousers, a black silk jacket and, finally, a pair of intense green eyes. The face had the finely cut features of Lord Moncorvo. And it was smiling.

  His fingers tightened on the Plate. He thought, Well, this is it, then. I made a small static electricity generator out of a kettle and a few kitchen utensils, and now I’m going to die. I wonder what Tate will do without me?

  ‘Mister Horatio Lyle,’ said Moncorvo, smiling. ‘You are full of surprises. But now . . .’

  There was a noise at the end of the street. It was the sound of frantic horses neighing. A second later there was a clattering, and a carriage, driven by a wild-haired, wild-eyed Thomas, exploded round the corner, its wheels a blur as he slapped at the reins and shouted, ‘Hey-ya!’

  On the roof of the carriage, clinging on with just one hand, was a dark figure trailing a deep red scarf, and holding a gun. As the carriage roared down the street he fired, and with each deafening shot someone fell, the man’s expression never once changing. The carriage neared Lyle, and Tess leant out of the wildly careening vehicle and kicked open the door. ‘Come on, Mister Lyle, don’t just sit there gawpin’!’

  Lyle was on his feet. He shoved past Moncorvo and ran past him, towards the middle of the street. He threw the Plate into the open door of the carriage as it rushed past and grabbed at the side, fingers nearly slipping. He got one foot inside, pulled himself up, and Mr Dew grabbed his ankle. Lyle clung to the door of the carriage, while Mr Dew staggered, feet going out from under him. Lyle didn’t let go.

  ‘Mister Chink!’ shouted Tess over the roar of the wheels. Feng Darin’s face appeared above the side of the carriage. He took aim with the small iron revolver and pulled the trigger. There was a click on the empty barrel. Tess sighed. ‘Bloody men!’ she screamed. Leaning past Lyle, she started kicking at Mr Dew’s fingers. Every other kick hit Lyle’s ankle, but her grim expression of determination left no room for complaint. On the third kick, Dew’s hold gave and he slipped back, falling into the road. Lyle toppled face first into the carriage while Tess dragged the door shut. As the carriage bounced away, rocking and screaming with the speed, Tess turned to the filthy Lyle, sprawled gracelessly across the floor, black with soot and dirt, and smiled her sweetest, most innocent smile.

  ‘Miss us?’ she asked.

  CHAPTER 18

  Magnet

  Night settled over London. Horatio Lyle, as he climbed painfully out of the carriage, wondered if it was going to be the last night of his life. He hoped not. He never had had a chance to find out what happened if you mixed carbonated water with potassium.

  Feng Darin hesitated on the doorstep of Lyle’s house. He looked up at it with a long, deep frown. ‘It would be more convenient, Mister Lyle, if you’d give me the Plate.’

  ‘Don’t take this wrong, but not a chance in heaven or hell, Sonny Jim.’

  The lock clicked and the door swung open. There was a furious noise from behind it, as Tate bounced up, barking, imperiously summoning Lyle and the children inside. ‘By the way,’ muttered Lyle, as they slid into the gloom of the big, empty house, ‘Mr Smith sends his regards.’

  Still standing outside, Feng Darin frowned, thought about it, and the slow blossom of realization spread across his face. ‘I will not apologize for my actions.’

  ‘Hope is eternal.’ Lyle turned and gave him a long, suspicious stare. Finally he said, ‘Look, you can stand outside working out whether you’re going to shoot me, or you can come in and have a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Are the two mutually exclusive?’

  ‘It would be rude to shoot me over a cup of coffee. And the mess would be dreadful.’

  Feng looked up at the black sky and drew in a long, thoughtful breath. Then, without saying a word, he jogged up the steps two at a time and pushed his way past Lyle into the house, with the manner of a man who’d been planning on doing that all along, and you were a fool if you hadn’t noticed. Lyle glanced up and down the length of the street behind Feng, quietly closed the door, turned every lock, and drew a bolt across the top, a chain across the middle and a small but distinctly heavy table across the bottom.

  They went to Lyle’s workroom in the basement, and Lyle lit the giant furnace. The huge magnet above it started to spin. Lyle put the Plate down on a table, resolutely not once looking at Feng, and threw several handfuls of water over his face. This didn’t so much clean away the dirt, as spread it around more evenly.

  Thomas said, ‘What happens now?’

  ‘What do you think, bigwig?’ said Tess, rolling her eyes. ‘They ain’t gonna just let us take it.’ She looked at Lyle. ‘They ain’t, are they?’

  Feng answered before Lyle could. ‘T
he Tseiqin have dedicated thousands of years towards acquiring this object, and repairing the damage caused to it while it was encaged in iron,’ he said in a calm voice. ‘They will not let anything stop them getting it now. Not even, I fear, your magnet, Mister Lyle.’

  Lyle didn’t answer. He was staring at the Plate.

  ‘So what are we going to do with it?’ said Thomas finally.

  Silence. ‘I say we sell it to Lord Lincoln. For a lot,’ offered Tess.

  ‘I am here to destroy it,’ replied Feng quietly. Lyle smiled faintly, and looked down at the edge of the table, not moving.

  Tess frowned. ‘That ain’t nice. We’ve gone to all this trouble to get it.’ She brightened. ‘If, on the other hand, you feel like payin’ for the goods, on account of how it’s technically ours ’cos we’ve gone to all this trouble of findin’ it, then I’m here to offer a good deal.’

  Lyle looked up slowly at her, eyebrows raised. Tess beamed. ‘For sale, one mystic plate and . . . and token bigwig. Yours for . . . four hundred pound.’

  ‘What?’ said Thomas.

  Tess patted him on the arm. ‘You’re worth at least a hundred pound.’

  Feng smiled humourlessly at Tess, who shuffled uneasily away from the smile. ‘Miss,’ he said politely, ‘I appreciate the gesture, but suspect that your employer Mister Lyle might have other intentions.’

  All eyes turned to Lyle. He sighed. ‘The Plate is a scientific phenomenon. An incredible phenomenon. And if I am slowly coming to accept that perhaps there is something a little irregular in the entire Tseiqin situation, then I don’t honestly know if I can pass up the opportunity to learn about an object in whose acquisition they have invested so much energy.’ Feng straightened up, his expression hardening. Lyle raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Not that I’m saying I’m going to give it to Lord Lincoln.’

  Tess squeaked indignantly, ‘But Mister Lyle! He’ll pay! And it’d be safer with him than with us - he’d ’ave the army on his side!’

  Thomas cleared his throat. ‘Technically, sir, the Plate is under the care of the Elwick family . . .’ Three pairs of unsympathetic eyes fixed on him. He coughed, and went on in the same level-headed voice, ‘And as a representative of my family I, erm, give you full permission to dispose of it as you feel fit.’

  ‘That’s decent of you.’

  He brightened. ‘Yes. Yes, it is!’

  Lyle slowly reached out and picked up the Plate by the very edges. Feng’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on the edge of the table, though his expression remained fixed. Quietly, Lyle said, ‘Teresa, Thomas? It might be a good idea if you check that the windows are locked and bolted. And draw the curtains.’

  Thomas hesitated, but Tess immediately nodded, grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him towards the door. The room seemed somehow larger and stiller without them. Lyle looked slowly up at Feng. ‘If this object is so dangerous, it should be destroyed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it should also be studied.’

  Feng smiled thinly. ‘You do not strike me as a man who leaves windows unlocked, Mister Lyle. Say what you want to say.’

  Lyle sighed. ‘Mr Feng, I can’t do much outside building small electric generators in my kitchen, but I just want to clarify something. If you so much as touch the children, or threaten them in any way, I swear I’ll do everything I possibly can to make your life . . .’ he thought about it, ‘. . . horrid.’ It seemed the only word really appropriate.

  Feng thought about this. He looked up at the ceiling, and down at the floor, shoulders hunched up towards his ears, smile immovable behind his deep eyes. Lyle waited, clinging to the Plate tightly with his right hand, the bloody left hand still dangling at his side, fingers curled slightly in pain.

  Very slowly, Feng raised his head, and stared straight at Lyle. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The situation has advanced too far, Mister Lyle.’

  ‘I thought you might say that.’

  ‘Which is why you sent the children away?’

  ‘Well, there was a chance I’d forgotten to lock something.’

  Feng gradually started moving round the table, taking his time, swinging his arms loosely at his sides, threatening only in size, not speed. Even that was threatening enough. He didn’t hold out his hand, didn’t shout, didn’t glare, but said politely, ‘Please give me the Plate, Mister Lyle.’

  ‘You can’t just destroy something like this. It could have so many answers in it! And not just about where it came from and how it works, but why it works, why the Tseiqin want it, what makes it work, what makes them work, how they do what they do.’

  ‘The Tseiqin will come here soon, Mister Lyle. They will take it before you can do anything,’ he said quietly, advancing slowly towards Lyle.

  Lyle backed away a little further, talking in a level but rapid voice. ‘I saw it react when inside a magnetic field, sparking. Stone doesn’t spark in a magnetic field; the idea is absurd. It wasn’t even cutting the magnetic field, but it still reacted. The legend said that when the priests put it in an iron box, it was hit by lightning and that damaged the Plate. Electricity and magnetism are inseparable parts of the same force, magnetism changes the plate, magnetism changes the Tseiqin; that is why they do not like iron! Listen to me!’

  Feng stopped a few steps from Lyle. Lyle’s bloody left hand was clutching a very slim needle, the cap lying discarded on the floor. Feng frowned at it. ‘What will you do with that, Mister Lyle?’

  ‘Destroying this plate is like destroying the Rosetta Stone! You shut yourself out of a world, lose touch with something that we might never have a chance to understand ever again!’

  ‘And if the Tseiqin take the Plate, Mister Lyle? If they take it and repair it, as they have waited so long to do, if they repair it and use it - what then? There won’t be people like you left alive to learn its secrets any more, Mister Lyle. They are coming, Mister Lyle, and I doubt if they will be sympathetic to your sense of scientific curiosity.’

  Lyle’s fingers tightened on the needle, the point quavering towards Feng. Feng sighed, and his hand reached into his pocket. It came out holding the revolver. ‘Mister Lyle, I respect you. But you and I really are from different worlds.’

  He pulled the hammer back. Lyle swallowed. ‘You know, I wasn’t scared of death a few days ago?’ Lyle’s voice was very quiet. ‘I thought that I knew what it would be like - nothing. Peaceful, empty, unaware nothing, a dreamless sleep. Now I’m not so sure. Uncertainty always brings a little fear. But I’m not afraid of you, Feng Darin. I don’t think you’ll shoot me. I’m almost certain of it. I have no proof, of course, but I’m willing to stake everything on the chance.’

  Feng brought the gun up. ‘Don’t take the risk, Lyle.’

  Lyle didn’t move. ‘You want the Plate?’ He raised the needle, tiny between his hands. ‘Come on. Take it.’

  ‘Lyle! I will kill you!’

  ‘If you were going to kill me you would have done it on the steps of my house.’

  ‘Give me the Plate!’

  ‘No.’

  Feng hissed in frustration, his hand tightening over the butt of the gun. He moved a step towards Lyle, turning sideways and swinging the gun up to level directly at Lyle’s impassive face. There was an explosion of noise beneath his outstretched arm, and the sound of ripping fabric. Tate dug his teeth deep into Feng’s ankle, growling and snuffling through a mouthful of trouser and skin. Feng grunted, half-turning, trying to shake Tate off, but the dog wasn’t budging. In the same second Lyle ran forward, reaching out with the tip of the needle to scratch at Feng’s arm. Feng grabbed Lyle’s wrist as he came, twisting it round sideways, suddenly oblivious of Tate’s gnawing at his ankle, bending Lyle’s arm back downwards until the bones creaked and Lyle’s bloody hand spasmed instinctively with the grating nerves. The needle fell to the floor and Feng shoved Lyle to one side, grabbing the Plate out of Lyle’s hand as he came. Lyle fell hard, head hitting the table. Feng kicked Tate off, scooped up the Plate,
put it down firmly on the table, stood back, took aim and fired. It bounced on the table with the first bullet, which ricocheted away to bang against the wall, bounced again with the second, and the third, hopping along the table.

  The Plate wasn’t even chipped. Feng’s eyes began to widen, fear starting to seep in. With a hiss of anger he turned the gun round and started smashing the butt against it with all his might. Not a chip, not a scratch. By the side of the table, Lyle half-stirred, blinking blearily. Blood was creeping through the hair behind his right ear. He tried to get up, his bloody hand shaking violently, and fell back.

  Feng seized the Plate, looked around, and his eyes settled on the furnace. He walked towards it with a slow, stately purpose. As he drew near its metal bulk, the Fuyun Plate in his hands started to flash with fat blue sparks. So did the spinning magnet above the furnace itself. Feng grabbed a thick cloth off the desk by the furnace, and dragged open a small black iron door. Smelly orange flame lashed out of it angrily, clawing at the air beyond the furnace. Lyle staggered groggily to his feet. Feng, grinning, stood back and, as Lyle started to run towards him, tossed the Plate lightly on to the flames.

  Lyle stopped dead. The furnace kept rumbling. On the floor, Tate whimpered. Lyle stared at the half-open furnace door. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered.

  Feng was already dropping the gun back into his pocket, smiling a thin, satisfied smile, shielding his eyes from the light and the heat as he tried to see into the flame. Lyle edged gradually towards him, drew level and looked.

  There was a long silence. Feng’s face slowly fell as he peered at the dark shape of the Plate, inside the flame. Fear was starting to creep in properly, slackening some muscles and tightening others, until his face was a battleground of contortion. Wordlessly, Lyle picked up a long hook from its stand by the furnace, and stuck it into the flames, until it caught the edge of the Plate. He pulled it out slowly, and let it drop to the floor. It wasn’t even charred. Lyle gently pushed the furnace door shut, knelt down, ran his hand over the Plate, careful not to touch it, frowned slightly and, with the very end of his bloody left forefinger, felt it. It was cold to the touch. He looked up at Feng, whose face was a mask.