by Robin Jarvis
A horrendous shriek burst from his lips as a long iron needle shot out of the smoke, stabbing him through the arm. Rising from the burning cabin, looking like a mechanical forged in the smithies of Hell, the Torture Master came lumbering for the final confrontation.
“The tiller!” Brindle yelled at Adam. “Take us down.”
The boy hesitated, but the balm trader pushed him out of the mechanical’s path, yanking the sharp spike from his flesh. Surrounded by flames, the Torture Master lumbered towards them and Brindle staggered away, luring it as far from Adam as possible. The apprentice could only watch in fear as the monstrous invention struck out with its iron claws, slashing mercilessly at the Iribian.
Grappling with the tiller, Adam steered a course back to the river, dipping the prow as low as he dared. Then, braving the searing temperatures, he ran from the refuge of the steerage hold to help Brindle battle the Torture Master.
Into the inferno that the night boat had become he bolted. The remaining masts were now pillars of livid flame and tattered fragments of canvas flowed out like banners of fire. Behind the caravel there streamed a wake of glimmering ash that scintillated in the darkness and, down on London Bridge, the Queen’s soldiers and Henry Wattle witnessed that terrifying spectacle in awed silence.
Over Gog’s great contours, the infernal glare of the terrible burning flared and flickered as the ship descended, looking like a floating bonfire. Henry bit his lip until it bled.
In the heart of that furnace, Brindle and the mechanical were locked in a desperate combat. Yet the Catholic invention was almost invulnerable and the Iribian could not hope to stop it. Countless cuts and gashes raked his flesh. His garments were torn and quantities of dark orange blood sizzled over the Torture Master’s torrefied frame. Pitted against this indomitable foe the Iribian continued to strive, his fists punching into unyielding iron. Blow after blow he struck but it was all in vain – against the Spanish ambassador’s sadistic toy there was nothing he could do.
When Adam came running to find him, Brindle was trapped behind a curtain of fire with the fiendish creation standing in its centre, letting the ruddy blaze shoot up through its metal framework.
It was a portrait of evil which the boy would never forget.
Wreathed in dazzling sheets, the mechanical raised its arms, splaying the heinous implements as the painted leer on its mask caught alight. Wearing this diabolic, incandescent grin, the Torture Master brought a heavy mace hammering through the smoke and Brindle was beaten to the floor.
Battered and burned, unable to escape, the Iribian waited for the death blow. But even as the mace plunged down to split his head, Adam o’the Cogs came charging through the fire and rammed his shoulder against the mechanical’s mighty casing.
Boosted by the rolling motion of the night boat, the boy’s valiant lunge was enough to send the devilish device toppling. In a scorching blast of heat it went crashing through the deck and fell into the hold beneath.
His hair singed and steaming, Adam somehow dragged Brindle to the side. The caravel was beginning to break up. Charred and glowing timbers flaked from the hull; soon the entire ship would disintegrate and he stared over the deck rail. The Thames was still many fathoms below, but there was no other chance left to them.
“We have to make a leap for it!” he yelled.
The Iribian nodded feebly. He had lost a lot of blood and was weakened and shaken but, leaning briefly on the rail, his confidence rekindled and the emerald horseshoes of his eyes gleamed at Adam through the smoke.
“I am ready,” he declared. “You and I, together.”
Quickly they swung their legs over the side and prepared to jump. Behind them the fires roared more furiously than ever and, as the planks of the deck began to collapse and the foremast ruptured and split into forks of flame, they threw themselves from the ravaged ship.
Yet in that same instant a skeletal figure punched its way from the hold and an iron manacle snapped around Brindle’s wrist.
Through the night Adam plummeted alone, a tiny, wriggling shape tumbling from the heavens. By the time he splashed into the river, the Iribian had already been hoisted back on to the night boat to continue the deadly contest.
Into the deep, cold Thames the apprentice fell, submerging beneath the surface for what seemed like an eternity. Then up he came, spluttering and gasping, shocked at the sudden change from roasting to freezing. Churning his arms through the water, he whisked about and sought for Brindle. Then, hearing shouts high aloft, he realised what had happened.
“No,” he whispered. “NO!”
On board the caravel the fight was almost finished. Surrounded by flames, the Torture Master crushed the Iribian to its horrendous frame. Shackles and bonds lashed tightly about Brindle’s limbs until he could barely move. Then cruel spikes came pushing from the grilled chest to impale him.
Gritting his teeth, Brindle seized hold of the breastplate and, with the last ounce of his dying strength, twisted and prised one of the iron bands out of shape, exposing the remaining ichor bottles within.
The blank mask switched feverishly from side to side as the Torture Master tried to stop him, but it was too late. The Iribian’s fists reached into the meagre opening and ripped the phials from their pipes.
“Your ambassador is going to have to find himself a new plaything!” he shouted and he smashed the ichors against the blank metal mask.
A whining squeal of metal signalled the end. The Torture Master’s internals ground to a halt and the pendulums were stilled. Inside the head the chains ceased clanking and the harrowing contraption was merely a distorted parody of a human shape – inert, grotesque and lifeless.
The traps and shackles which held Brindle captive sprang apart and he rolled from its spikes, the front of his body punctured by horrible wounds. Clutching his stomach, he staggered to his feet. The night boat was almost totally consumed. The flames scorched and blistered him but he threw himself towards the side in a last effort to escape.
Before he reached the edge, the main mast collapsed, crashing down into the stern and the violence of its ruin tipped the caravel almost vertical. Brindle was thrown back, into the burning steerage hold and the unwieldy framework of the stilled Torture Master was sent rolling through the choking smoke after him.
Having swum to the shore, Adam crawled from the river and cast himself on to the muddy bank, staring fearfully up at the final minutes of the fire ship.
“Come on,” he prayed. “Get out of there.” Yet, even as he voiced those words, he knew that if the Iribian managed to survive that furnace he would be killed for his crimes.
“He’s dead either way,” the boy murmured.
His upturned face dripping with slime from the river, Adam watched the final, spectacular moments unfold. Pitched in that near upright tilt, the blazing night boat was rising again, heading straight for the aperture in the firmament once more.
In the burning aftcastle, the Iribian’s legs were pinned under the mechanical’s crushing weight and he was now too weak to lift it. Beyond the fume and the glare, he beheld the massive head of Gog begin to turn towards that incinerated vessel and he laughed bleakly. Although his many nostrils burned, the hair shrivelled on his head and the garments given to him by Mistress Dritchly burst into devouring flame, he knew that his life was not destined to be claimed by the fires.
From the mouth of the giant barbarian the tidal breath came whirling. The fire-enveloped craft was seized in those supreme forces and shining tongues went streaking through the twisting airs – out into the airless void. Caught in the swirling vortex, the cindered timbers of the night boat cracked and splintered. Flaming sections detached, to be shot through the aperture and, at once, the intense crackling fires were quenched.
In the heart of that bright, seething maelstrom Brindle grinned as he sang out the names of his wife and children.
Far below, Adam watched aghast as the burning speck above was drawn ever closer to the entrance in the firm
ament and his scorched, muddy face ran with tears.
“Brindle,” he breathed.
Suddenly, from that remote inferno, a familiar, laughing voice called out, “Purity and absolution.”
And the apprentice knew that the words were meant for him to hear. Brindle had forgiven himself and found his peace at last.
With a roaring whoosh, the remains of the night boat were catapulted through the aperture. Immediately the flames were extinguished and so was the laughter.
Floating through the Outer Darkness a fragile, blackened hulk began a silent, endless journey. On the shore of the Thames, Adam o’the Cogs bowed his head.
A New Apprenticeship
Concentrating on the task he had set himself, Adam squinted down the length of brass pipe in his hands. Poking a long, thin brush into the slender tube, he twirled it fiercely until he was satisfied that all was clean within.
Lying upon the table in front of him were the disassembled pieces of a wooden mannequin – the Tizzy that the Queen had stilled on that fateful night. Adam returned the pipe to its correct position inside the workings. Two weeks had passed since that terrible time. Restoring the mannequin had been a consummate challenge but now the task was nearing completion.
Every feeder tube had been painstakingly washed and checked, and those parts that had been corroded by the Count de Feria’s malignant indigo ichor had been replaced.
Perched on a stool at his side sat Lantern. The copper secretary observed all that the boy did and nodded approvingly.
Holding up a small burnished wheel so that the light flashed over its surface, Adam was reminded of the blazing night boat which had been catapulted through the tidal breath. Hardly a moment passed without him thinking of it and the boy shook himself, endeavouring to dislodge that painful memory.
Much had happened in the intervening weeks. It had taken a whole six days for Her Majesty to calm down. At first she had unfairly blamed Lord Richard for daring to bring the Iribian to court and threatened him with all manner of dire punishments, including banishment to the Tower. Eventually, however, Walsingham and Doctor Dee persuaded her that it was no one’s fault but Brindle’s.
Since then she had been sullen and yesterday had capriciously removed herself to the palace at Richmond, compelling the astonished court to follow her. Only Doctor Dee remained behind at Whitehall, for there were still matters which needed his attention.
Throughout this time Lord Richard and the apprentices had been the guests of the old astrologer and it was in his apartments that Adam discovered the discarded Tizzy and busied himself with its repairs.
Now, staring at his work, he inspected the three pendulums in the mannequin’s back and looked abstractly at the replenished ichor bottles.
“You waste your time with that,” a voice broke into his thoughts.
Doctor Dee was standing in front of the circular window, peering out through the coloured panes, absently twirling a finger through the ends of his long, white beard.
“Her Majesty will not want the Tizzy back in her service, even if you have remedied the harm done by the Spanish ambassador. She still believes it had the shaking sickness and would rather open the palace to lepers than be seen to own so tainted an automaton.”
Adam shrugged. Now more than ever he needed to keep himself busy. Only that morning Lord Richard and Henry Wattle had left the isle of London and commenced the journey back to Malmes-Wutton without him.
“This really is the best arrangement,” the old man said gently. “Richard Wutton has many debts. I have paid him most handsomely for your apprenticeship. How else was he to replace all those costly mechanicals destroyed by that wild boar of his? I have been more than generous, young Adam. There might even be enough left over to restock his wine cellar.”
The boy was only half listening. Three short hours ago he had bade farewell to Henry and his former master. It had been an emotional parting and even Henry had snivelled into his sleeve, rashly promising to undo the mischief he had made with the rats by creating a mechanical cat for Mistress Dritchly. Then their night boat had pulled away from the river stairs and journeyed under the bridge before rising up and passing beneath the great axe of Gog. Standing on the steps, Adam was left with a dreadful sense of loss and felt completely alone. He had never wanted to leave Malmes-Wutton and now here he was beginning a new life in the city of London as apprentice to the Queen’s astrologer.
Momentarily lifting his gaze, he found that Doctor Dee was staring at him and a benign smile lifted the corners of that silvery white beard.
“Trust me, Adam,” the Doctor said. “This existence will commend itself to you in time. There is far too much skill in your fingers and your brains to squander them in the backwater of Richard’s petty estate. Your mind is hungry for knowledge; with myself as your tutor, that famine will be appeased.”
The boy lowered his eyes. Part of the reason he felt so miserable was because he was actually looking forward to working for the astrologer and could not help feeling guilty and disloyal to Lord Richard.
Lifting the Tizzy so that it sat stiffly up on the table, he made the final adjustments and prepared to press the Tudor rose set into its forehead.
“There’s no guarantee you have eradicated the problem,” Doctor Dee told him. “We know too little about the fatal Spanish ichor. If, when you hit that stilling crest, the Tizzy continues to shudder and reaches for something to hurl at us, then all your work will have been in vain.”
Adam glanced at the carved wooden face of the serving maid. He was confident he had removed every trace of the insidious blue ichor and that it was now perfectly harmless.
“I know my trade,” he said firmly.
“Then prove it, Adam o’the Cogs,” the astrologer chuckled. “Why do you waver?”
Before his fingers touched the carved rose, the boy frowned as a sudden idea seized him.
“I’ll show you how much I trust my own abilities,” he announced and he reached into the pocket of his jerkin to take out a small glass phial. It contained the black cordial of Suet – the only part of the little piglet that remained – and Adam gazed at it thoughtfully.
Beside him, the green lenses of Lantern’s eyes glimmered with understanding as, with expert hands, Adam quickly fitted Suet’s ichor into the Tizzy. Then he closed its back plate and deftly pushed the stilling crest.
At once the mannequin jerked into life, the ichors rushed through its pipes and the pretty carved head switched from side to side as it took in the unfamiliar surroundings. Holding his breath, Adam took a step back and watched intently, but the Tizzy showed no sign of any trembling and merely waited for its first command.
Rising from the stool, Lantern began to applaud and the boy laughed, but Doctor Dee tutted into his beard.
“Once more I admire your skill, young Adam, but again I tell you, no one will want this creation. You will never be able to rid yourself of it.”
“I don’t know,” Adam answered. “It might be useful.”
The astrologer shook his head. “As firewood only, I fear,” he sighed. Then he called the boy over to the window and gestured to the haze of buildings jostling beyond the curve of the river.
“Look at that great city,” he muttered, his tone becoming serious. “Is it not wondrous fair? I pray that it remains so, yet I have foreseen dangerous times ahead. Englandia will have need of fighting machines, not housemaids. Walsingham has intercepted new intelligences: the war with Spain is fast approaching.” A piercing glint shone from beneath the Doctor’s brows and he whispered darkly under his breath, “When the Catholic storm breaks, we must be ready.”
Ambling after them, Lantern slid his gauntleted hand into Adam’s and gave it a squeeze of friendship. Doctor Dee’s face had clouded with the grave futures he predicted and they all stared out at the spires and rooftops of London.
Behind them, the Tizzy’s attention was attracted by its own discarded workings which were scattered over the tabletop and began playing w
ith them. Picking up a brass pipe, it gazed at the corroded holes and tilted its head on one side.
“There is much to be done,” Doctor Dee declared darkly. “We can no longer fritter away time and resources. Deadly work lies before us and we had best begin at once. The safety of the realm is in our hands; perilous adventures await each one of us.”
Adam opened his mouth to speak, then gasped as an unexpected sound startled him and they all whirled swiftly around.
Still sitting upon the table, the Tizzy had raised the pipe to its wooden lips. As its internal bellows blew and the jointed fingers danced over the holes, Edwin Dritchly’s favourite tune floated up into the air.
“O Mistress Mine …” Adam smiled.
In his cabin, on board a night galleon bound for the isles of Spain, the Count de Feria read through his correspondence and set quill to parchment to write a letter of his own. With a flourishing hand, he addressed it to King Philip himself and, in cypher, set down all that he knew concerning the heavenly messenger.
A momentary chill passed through him when he recalled that fearful night upon London Bridge. He had barely escaped with his life and he made certain that the King was fully cognisant of the valiant part he had played in the whole, mysterious affair.
Don Gomez de Feria had never before experienced such extreme terror but now the trauma was past he complimented himself on his courage, reflecting that the night had not been a complete failure. Pushing the tip of his tongue into the gap where his rotten tooth had ached so bitterly, he thanked the fist that had punched him in the jaw. The offending molar had shot from his mouth in what was the most painless extraction he had ever experienced.
There was, of course, another bonus gleaned from that frightful time scrabbling beneath the royal guard’s mechanical horse and he lifted a velvet pouch from a small jewel box. Wearing a delighted grin, he foraged inside and took out the souvenir he had brought back from the bridge that night.
Now, holding it between his fingers, he marvelled at the precious thing. Resembling a golden tadpole, set with a wondrous blue stone that blinked and pulsed with an inner light, it was a curious device and the Spanish ambassador was captivated by its strange beauty.