“Err, Whiskers, did you just … agree?”
The little mouse nodded again.
“Whoa!” yelped Ned. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The Debussy Mark 12 bobbed its head one last time, before looking up to the ceiling, seemingly with a ‘now he gets it’ expression on his face. Ned was over the moon.
“That’s amazing. I bet you’ve been able to do that all along, haven’t you, boy?” Whiskers shrugged. “How did you get here?” went on Ned, as his sleepiness started to lift.
Whiskers flashed his eyes again, then pulled at his fur as though looking for loose change in an imaginary pocket.
“Ahh, in my pocket. Good thinking. Have you seen the others yet? Kitty or Benissimo?”
The mouse shook his head so vigorously it looked like it might come off.
“What’s got into you? Are you having a malfunction? Whiskers? Whiskers …”
Ned’s voice trailed off when he spotted the fallen fork by his bed. Mr Sar-adin must have missed it when he’d tidied away the plates. The ticker’s antics suddenly seemed less important compared to another taste of the Shar’s syrupy pancakes. His eyes softened and he reached over to pick it up.
“Oww!” he yelled, as the Mark 12 sank its teeth into his thumb. “What was that for?”
He went for the pancake again, this time Whiskers bit him so hard that he drew blood.
“You don’t even eat food! This is not mouse-like behaviour! Any more trouble and I’ll ask my butler for a screwdriver!”
Whiskers answered by pricking his ears up over his head, in the shape of two tiny horns. Ned stared blankly till the mouse started shaking his head, tapping one foot on the floor and hopping about all over the place. Finally he snatched up what was left of the pancake and ran out of the room by scurrying under the door.
“Oi, come back here!”
Ned was surprised to discover that the door was locked, apparently from the other side. He yanked at it, banged on its frame and was about to yell when he heard approaching footsteps and what sounded like chanting. It was the same phrase, low and deep, over and over again. The lock clicked and in walked Mr Sar-adin.
“Young Master,” bowed the butler. “I had thought to find you asleep. Is something causing you discomfort?”
“Well, um, no not really, it’s just that there was … a mouse in here and, well, he’s gone now.” Something told Ned not to mention that the mouse was actually his. The combination of Whiskers’ odd behaviour and the locked door had unsettled him.
“A mouse, you say? Oh dear oh dear, that will not do at all. We take a dim view of mice here.” Mr Sar-adin paused, eyes peering about the floor suspiciously.
For a moment, they seemed to flicker with a light of their own.
“Mr Sar-adin, why was the door locked?”
“To keep you safe. It was deemed better to have such an esteemed guest kept away from the ship’s corridors. Especially on a ship such as this.”
The hot marble walls of Ned’s room felt as if they were closing in around him.
“Ship?” he said, frowning. “Mr Sar-adin … where are we?”
“Young Master, you are aboard the Daedalus. The first dreadnought-class airship of its kind.”
“A dreadnought? Why would the Shar want a warship?”
“The Shar merely paid for the vessel to be built, as a show of support. The Daedalus belongs to His Greatness, Barbarossa.”
“Oh good,” Ned said. “I can’t wait to see him.”
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew it was the wrong thing to say, even as he said it. He wrestled with trying to find the right thing, but his mind went blank, leaving only the strange cloudy sensation of feeling safe.
He was led through a maze of hot metal corridors, the ship’s crew going about their business in ordered silence. Near the engine room the heat was almost unbearable, though you would never have known it by looking at Mr Sar-adin’s dry sweatless face. Up on the top deck, Ned saw that they were floating far above sea, with no coastline in sight. The ship cut an angular, intimidating silhouette, a great gouge of sharp iron against a star-spattered sky. It was large, much more so than the Marilyn and her entire convoy put together. It had the shape of an axe blade, tapering to a sharp point at the bow. Everything about its design was menacing, from the myriad protruding cannons to the steel cages of its wyvern escort, their un-muzzled mouths smouldering with intent. It differed entirely from the other Veil-made circus ships that Ned had seen. The Daedalus didn’t convert to a series of obscure-looking vehicles. It wasn’t built to be hidden, it was built for war.
It took Ned some time to notice but the ship was different for another, even more alarming reason. There was nothing keeping it up. No balloons or propellers – nothing. Where the balloons should have been, were six enormous chimneys, belching out a constant stream of oily black smoke. Its crew of cutthroats and pirates looked to Ned like they’d been scraped from the lowest dregs of the Hidden’s criminal underworld and seemed to him like morgue attendants, working some vast angular machine that had been built for the bringing of death.
On their way to the captain’s quarters, he caught the unmistakable stench of clown hanging in the air.
“Enter,” a deep, familiar voice rolled out of the cabin’s open door.
Inside Barbarossa sat facing them. Here in his element and aboard his ship he looked like a pirate-king at court. Two plates had been set. Crystal glasses, silk napkins and dozens of gold-domed dishes had been carefully laid out for their dinner. The rest of the room, like Ned’s, was a grand gesture of black marble. There were two cabinets full of antique weapons and the air smelt vaguely of polish and cigars. It was a room where serious men planned serious deeds. What had no place in a room like this was the scene being played out between Barbarossa and the ship’s cat. The same cat, he vaguely recalled, that he’d seen under the table in Shalazaar.
“Poor Fang, poor little creature. You only scratch when you need to, but nobody understands, do they?” The huge man was crooning over the animal as if it were barely a kitten.
The cat purred in his arms contentedly.
“What you need is a little feeding up. Mr Sar-adin, I don’t think he looks well. Have the kitchen send up a saucer of warm milk, would you?”
“I will see to it right away, your Greatness.”
“And make sure it’s fresh, my personal store.”
Barbarossa put Fang down carefully, before turning to Ned with a smile.
“Thank you for joining me. I trust you’re well rested?”
By now Ned knew he was a prisoner, taken by force, and there was no doubt that the “good hands” Mr Sar-adin had told him Kitty was in were Barbarossa’s. But for some reason, he found himself happy to see him. He was everything his brother wasn’t – warm, courteous even, and the smile that had looked so cruel in Shalazaar made him feel safe here, safe and at peace.
“Now, Ned, I know we got off to a wrong start, but I really don’t want you to feel like a prisoner here. I merely want to talk to you, after which you are most welcome to leave, if you wish to do so,” Barbarossa continued.
Despite his soothing tones, despite the strangeness in Ned’s head, some small part of him managed to remember where he was and who he was with.
“If I’m not a prisoner then … why was the door of my room locked?”
“I don’t know what prisons are like on the outside world, but in the Hidden lands they do not come with silken sheets and a butler. This is a warship, Ned. Warships carry weapons and explosives which do not, I’m told, mix well with thirteen-year-old boys.”
It made good sense and when he tried to look for a reason why it didn’t, the cloudiness in his mind returned. It left him with the feeling that he was talking to a reasonable man.
“I … I suppose you’re right,” whispered Ned.
Barbarossa switched from amiable host to attentive waiter and began lifting the golden domes from their dishes.
“I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of ordering us some supper.”
In front of Ned was a banquet of sugared treats. Candied apples, chocolate cake, giant éclairs, meringues, toffees, every possible flavour of jam, and of course pancakes, mounds and mounds of hot syrupy pancakes. Ned’s jaw went slack and he found himself licking his lips.
“I trust this is to your liking?”
Ned hardly heard him speak, lost as he was in a world of sugar.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then. You know your mum always had a soft spot for sweets. It must run in the family.”
Ned came out of his daydream with a hard thump.
“You … You knew my mother?”
“Indeed, and your father. In a way, that’s where I need to begin. With the truth, Ned. The truth no one is doing the courtesy of telling you. The truth about everything.”
Secrets and Lies
The word truth had taken on an abstract meaning since Ned’s birthday and yet the man in front of him – Benissimo’s nemesis and brother – was offering it freely. A sugary treat reached Ned’s lips and he listened quietly, like a child with a bedtime story.
“My sources tell me you have yet to read the contents of your letter, is this true?”
“Bene wouldn’t let me.”
“My brother,” said Barbarossa with a sigh. “Always so controlling, when sometimes all you really need is honesty. You see, Ned, the fact that you were born the other side of the Veil and raised as a josser does not change who you are. Your father is an Engineer, that much you already know. What no one has been kind enough to tell you is that you too, Ned, are not in the slightest bit average.”
He was enjoying the story so far, though he thought the last bit was a little far-fetched. Barbarossa opened a drawer from beneath the table and pulled out a roll of paper.
“The truth,” he announced.
It was an old circus poster, faded and brown with age. Across the top in beautiful hand lettering it read, Benissimo’s Circus of Marvels presents: Mentor the Magnificent’. And beneath the letters stood a handsome young man with a flowing cape. His eyes were shut in concentration and levitating in front of him was a half-constructed model of the Eiffel tower in miniature, perfect in every tiny detail. To his right stood a beautiful assistant, dressed in a costume that made her look half woman and half bird.
Ned squinted. There was something about the young man, something familiar. A few less wrinkles, a slightly thinner face and a little more hair. It was like a younger version of his …
“Daad?” he slurred, as chunks of cake fell out of his open mouth and on to the image of his father.
“And next to him, your mother.”
For a second Ned couldn’t focus his eyes. He blinked frantically through warm tears at the one thing he’d always wanted more than anything.
“My mu-mum?”
Right in front of him was a picture of his mother. A lifetime of painful longing and here she was.
“She … she was beautiful.”
“The prettiest headliner a circus ever had. Though no doubt she’ll have changed a bit when you next see her.”
Ned almost swallowed his tongue.
“That’s not funny.”
Barbarossa pushed a plate of meringues across the table.
“It wasn’t supposed to be. I know this is hard for you, but I’m going to help you, Ned. I’m going to help you with everything. I’m afraid you’ve been a pawn in a very drawn out game.” Barbarossa’s brow crumpled in sympathy. “I’m only sorry it had to be me to tell you … your mother, she’s alive.”
Ned could feel his heartbeat soaring, as a jumble of emotions raced through him.
“That’s not true, she died in a car crash, I was still a baby.”
“And who told you that?”
“My dad.”
“And he’s always told you the truth, has he?”
The question hurt. Terry Waddlesworth or Terrence Armstrong, depending on what side of the Veil you inhabited, had led a double life. Ned was still coming to terms with that. But to lie about his mum, to let him go on thinking she was dead when she wasn’t? His dad would never do that … would he?
“Yes, I mean no … I-I don’t know.”
“Then let me tell you what I know. Your parents were two of the finest operatives the Circus of Marvels ever had. There was no car or accident, but they did have to make a choice. Two children were in need of protection, Ned, you and the girl. Like your father, your mother, Olivia, has been deep undercover. A false name and a false existence. You’re not going to like this, I can’t think of anyone that would, but the truth is, she could have given the task to someone else, but your mother chose to be with the girl and … not with you.”
Something within Ned screamed, YOU’RE A LIAR, YOU’RE ALL LIARS! LEAVE MY FAMILY ALONE! But all he could muster from the noise and raging hurt was silence.
“I believe their plan was hatched shortly after you were born. You see, at the moment, you and the girl are the last of your line.”
“I don’t understand. What line?”
“Your family have always been Engineers, Ned, and Lucy’s Medics. Lucy, for now at least, is the last Medic and you and your father – you are, as it stands, the last Engineers. That’s why both you and the girl are so important.”
Ned was still reeling from the revelation about his mum. Could his dad really have kept this from him too?
“But I can’t be. I’m just … me.”
“It takes a special kind of parent to put the mission before their own son. The genius of their plan was in not telling you. Here you are, a genuine key to saving the Veil, and you didn’t even know it.”
It dawned on Ned that his dad was not the only one to have lied.
“So Bene, Kitty, George, Miz, even Rocky and Abigail … they all knew about me being an Engineer?”
“It’s hereditary, and you’re your father’s son, Ned, of course they knew.”
Ned was feeling both joy and sickening rage. Here was a picture of his mum, and she was alive, but she’d chosen to be some stranger’s guardian … chosen someone else. Terry Waddlesworth was a liar, and Ned was some pawn in an elaborate game of chess. Had his dad only been worried for his safety in order to protect the Veil? Surely there was more to it than that? Surely he loved him? Maybe not though. His mother had abandoned him, after all; left him for Lucy. Did she care? Did either of his parents really care? Till now the thought of Lucy Beaumont had given him comfort – maybe they could have helped each other? Not any more. This girl had taken half his childhood, the half that was his mum, and Olivia Armstrong had helped her do it.
Tears now rolled freely down his cheeks. He took another bite of cake. With each mouthful the pain in his chest subsided. Something in the sugar seemed to help.
“The ring you retrieved in Shalazaar is one of a pair, your father wears the other. Both the rings and the skills necessary to wield them are passed down every generation. Its technical term is an Amplification-Engine. Like your father and his mother before him, your brain is perfectly wired to control and work with it. To explain it simply, it gives your bloodline the power to create things, nearly anything, using only their mind.”
“Bene tol’ me … i’s like magic …” slurred Ned, as his hand drifted to a plate of éclairs.
“Science, magic, nature, even the arts … they’re all related. The Amplification-Engine is limited only by what an Engineer is capable of seeing in his mind’s eye and how clearly, how completely he can put together and hold the picture. Skilled Engineers spend lifetimes perfecting their craft, but it’s the strength of their imagination that determines their level of power.”
“So … what can the Medic do?” It pained him to ask but he had to know.
“Lucy Beaumont is a healer. Her skills are not dissimilar to that of an Engineer, though they focus on the living. She can control the structure of cells, reverse damage, restitch what’s broken. It is the combination
of these two skills, yours and hers, that we believe will fix the Veil’s source of power.”
Ned was finding it hard to grasp what he was being told, his thoughts were getting increasingly confused with every bite of his food. What he did understand – quite clearly – was that for the first time in his life he was being given the truth.
“Why are you telling me all this? The truth, I mean … aren’t you …”
He looked down at his plate.
“The bad guy? Wicked? Working with Darklings and Demons?”
Ned didn’t answer. His eyelids had started to droop once more.
“I’m sure my brother and his cronies have told you all manner of nonsense. All the dark ones really want is freedom, freedom which the rest of the world takes for granted. That’s what they fight for, Ned, despite what you’ve been led to believe. They simply want to come out of the shadows, to walk free. What if I told you that Mr Sar-adin is an Ifrit, otherwise known as a djinn, or genie. A high ranking one at that. Ifrit means ‘fire-demon’, Ned. Yet here he works for me, changing your sheets and bringing you breakfast. Hardly end of the world stuff, is it? Now, your father has been leading my men on quite the merry dance, I think he hoped I wouldn’t find out about you, that you could go and mend the Veil while we chased him through half of Europe. But I have you, Ned, and they will catch him soon enough. Rest assured, their orders are not to harm him, that’s not what I want for either of you. Stay here with me, let Lucy remain unfound, and the Veil will tumble of its own accord. Then and only then, the world will see the truth. Think of it, Ned, no more secrets, no more lies, and all because of you. Join me and we could build glorious things together … you and me in our brave new world.”
His smile was so broad and his words made so much sense, yet somewhere deep inside of Ned a little voice still whispered. He wanted to ask Barba something, something about a cat, a Kitty-cat. But the voice was little and his host’s, so deep and strong … and soothing.
Ned’s eyes closed and the room spun. Maybe he’d eaten enough? Maybe he could just have a rest, get back to his food later …
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