The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle)

by Webb, Catherine

  ‘Never mind!’

  Feng kicked the horse into action again as the lion drew back ready to spring, tons of rippling stone poised to kill. It didn’t need to get at them with its claws or teeth, thought Lyle. It just needed to sit down and that would be the end of them. The lion reared up, but the roof it stood on, buckling with age and rot, couldn’t take so much weight on such a small area. With a roar, the old timbers parted, sucking the stone lion down. Lyle saw the frames of the glassless windows shatter and explode outwards, flying after the retreating horse and riders, saw the walls of the house, already bent and crippled like the narrow winding streets, bulge with the passage of the beast through its floors, and give out, flying in every direction, and emerging from it all, the lion shook itself free, spitting stone dust.

  The horse lurched, pitching Lyle forward. Ahead he saw a cellar door, tall and open, and ducked as Feng urged the horse down into it. In the rookery, you didn’t use streets to move from place to place; every house was an open road, every cellar a sewer, every rooftop a public tavern, every room a hovel for ten, every shadow a thief. They rode through the stultifying darkness of the cellar, mud and dirt and old straw flying up from the horse’s hooves, and then up on to a winding street closed off at both ends by houses that had grown like cancers out of their limits, shattered walls and piles of refuse combining into something almost solid and sentient.

  Behind them, the end of the road exploded as the lion walked straight through the shoddy, crooked house that blocked it, shaking itself free of dust and shattered timbers, and fixed its eyes on the horse as it swerved into another house, tore through a room of ten, twenty sleeping shapes huddled on the floor head to toe, and out of the door at the end, into another alley.

  ‘Lyle?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you do anything about our pursuer?’

  ‘Do I look as if I carry that much nitroglycerine?’

  ‘Can you do anything else?’

  ‘Do you know the St Martin’s brewery?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You know it has a crane? And a vat in the basement.’

  ‘Yes?’ Feng thought about it. ‘Heaven have mercy - you can do that?’

  ‘Are you asking about the legality or the scientific practicality?’

  Behind, the lion exploded over the next house, and landed in the street with a shudder that sent snow pouring off the rooftops and the horse’s hooves sliding on the unstable cobbles. ‘Neither!’ snapped Feng. He pulled the horse round in a new direction and they thundered on.

  A pause, a moment, another place, another sight.

  A stillness. A stillness so certain and so constant, it is almost hollow and empty, for there is no sign of movement or life in it to give it character.

  A man stands, eyes closed, a statue, on Hampstead Heath, and lives through the stones of London Town. And though Lucan Sasso’s mind is cast through the streets and the stones, though it hums with power as it warps the streets themselves to its will, though the cobbles twitch when his finger does, though he remains still, is in control, aware of all the feet that trample all the stones below him, he is not aware that he sings a little song as he bends the city of London to his will.

  And he sings, in a sad, strangely human voice, from his inhuman throat,

  London’s burning, London’s burning,

  Fetch the engines, fetch the engines,

  Fire, fire! Fire, fire!

  Pour on water, pour on water.

  And still, though they twist and live anew to the mind of one man, the stones of London sing their songs, whisper of their past and their people, of the future, and maybe, in just a little way, they bend back against the will that bends them.

  London’s burning, London’s burning . . .

  Perhaps the city was always alive.

  It just never showed it until now.

  And somewhere off St Martin’s Lane, a pair of huge double doors, barred on the inside, shook, rocked, thundered. Then opened. The giant stone lion sprang inside the St Martin’s brewery, finest distiller of deadly alcohols, gin for the ladies who clustered round Covent Garden and clawed at the coats that passed them by, deadly spirits so heavy in alcohol they were only drunk by those who had burnt away their taste buds, and trained for weeks in advance to repress the gag reflex. The floor was in darkness, a few sheltered, very secure lanterns burning in the corners. The building was long and high, cranes reaching from floor to ceiling, a stairway snaking round the wall to the top floor, barrels stacked against every wall.

  The lion edged forward, and looked down at the giant central hole in the floor. Below, a full vat sat, not a ripple disturbing its dark surface, ready to be turned into a true mind-melter. A taut rope led from the ceiling up through an open trapdoor, beyond which something orange glowed and a crane waited to take delivery, then down to the vat. This was the crane that lifted the barrels out through the roof and swung them down into the courtyard, dozens at a time, gently swaying.

  The lion looked at what hung from the bottom of the rope, a few inches above the vat of alcohol. Lyle, the rope tied round his middle, pale-faced, clung to the side of the vat by the tips of his fingers to stop himself from being dragged up by the tension in the rope. He smiled wanly at the lion. ‘I hate heights, you know.’

  Above, something went whumph. The lion raised its head as Lyle let go of the side of the vat and was dragged, lurching, spinning, up through the centre of the giant building in a blur, all flailing limbs and coat. Heading the other way, the weight that dragged him up by its falling, a barrel plummeted down from the skylight. And it was on fire.

  The lion, or at the very least the mind which controlled the lion, clearly wasn’t familiar with the basics of combustion. Lyle, passing the downward barrel as he shot upward, already had his hands in front of his eyes and was waiting for the blaze. The flaming barrel struck the vat of alcohol just as Lyle spun through the open skylight and slammed into the crane that overhung it, nearly falling free of the rope that held him, as the flame crawled cautiously from the barrel into the still pool of liquid, discovered that it was alcohol, and duly exploded.

  Feng, standing by the crane, had snatched at the helplessly hanging Lyle, dragged him to the edge of the roof, grabbed hold of the rope that supported him, and thrown himself and Lyle off the side of the roof before the blue-orange flame had even reached the lion’s knees. As Lyle and Feng dropped down, swinging by the crane rope, falling together towards the street a long way below, the fire and the tattered remnants of the barrel raced each other for the ceiling.

  The blue flame ruptured out of the barrel in a thousand flying spatters of boiling alcohol, pushed every window out of its frame, gobbled through every strut and bolt, melted glass in a second, boiled leather and metal, crawled up the walls and into every corner and then, finding that there was nothing there but wood and darkness, reached into the middle of the building and crawled up the air itself, as if it were a ladder to the moon, pillowing up in a flame so bright and so hot, every inch of snow around turned to slush and steam rose up from the street outside, burning away the fog in an angry hiss. The flame reached the skylight and exploded through it, found the crane, found the rope, ate through both in a second, gobbling them up in a hungry explosion of heat and pressure that shattered icicles and made the sky shimmer.

  When the flame consumed the rope they clung to, Lyle and Feng were only a few feet above the ground. Feng sprang up in an instant, hurrying away from the fire that already lashed through the windows, roaring for more to fuel it. Lyle lay where he’d fallen, blackened and bruised. Feng cursed, ran to where he lay, and dragged him further from the fire. ‘Lyle! Lyle, dammit! Get up!’

  Lyle groaned and tried to cover his blackened face with a blackened hand.

  ‘Horatio!’ hissed Feng. ‘We can’t stay here!’

  Lyle tried to say something, but the words dissolved into a fit of coughing. He rolled over, hacking black spittle on to the snow. Feng swore, and dragged
him up by the armpits. Lyle’s eyes opened on to the inferno, whose heat was almost unbearable, even from across the street. People were grouped at windows, bells were starting to ring out through the night, footsteps sounded through the dark. ‘My God,’ he muttered. ‘Did we just do that?’

  ‘Yes, come on.’

  Lyle looked past Feng, and his eyes widened. He didn’t have time to call out, but pushed Feng to one side without a word, and ducked. The lion, blackened almost beyond recognition, missing its back legs and tail, dragging itself forward on one half-shattered paw, roared painfully in the night, dust and pieces of stone crumbling off it, and lashed out again with its one paw. Even as it did, cracks were spreading through the stone. It caught Lyle, lifting him off the ground and spinning him through the air.

  Feng pulled himself on to his feet in time to see the lion heave itself painfully another inch forward, the cracks in it growing, running up its forelegs towards its head as it raised its paw above the still shape of Lyle. Feng leapt forward, reaching into his coat as the lion brought its paw round. His hand came out holding something long and black that gleamed dully in the night. He scrambled up on to the lion’s ruined shoulder even as its dust slipped away beneath his feet, clung on to the still-smoking, hot stone mane and brought the blade down as hard as he could into the lion’s skull.

  It slid in like a knife through treacle. The cracks rippled across the lion, reached their very limit, and split. The lion collapsed gently into dust, which spilt across the street in a little storm that billowed into nothing before it reached the corner.

  Feng lifted the half-conscious Lyle on to the horse’s back, swung up behind, and kicked the horse into a gallop, heading towards Hyde Park.

  And in the darkness of the Heath, Lucan Sasso’s eyes fly open in surprise and horror. For a long while he just stands, frozen, mute with amazement. His mouth soundlessly moves, trying to speak, trying to find an emotion to match what he thinks he should feel. He remembers how to be surprised, remembers how to be hurt, worried, pained, angered, and he clings to these memories, gives them a face, gives them a name, feels the shock of the lion crumbling into dust, sees the face of Lyle swept away into darkness, and thinks, a roar of thought louder than any speech, making the city’s bells sway in their towers and the pigeons start up in surprise, The blade! Selene’s blade!

  CHAPTER 20

  The Great Exhibition

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing to my ship?’

  Tess recognized the voice instantly. Half-supported by another man, a dark shape in a burgundy scarf, Lyle was staggering away from an exhausted black horse. She gave an irrepressible cry of delight, ran towards him, reached out to hug him, saw that he was covered in soot, thought better of it, stood back and bounced with joy on the spot.

  ‘WeflewMisterLylean’therewerethisbigdragonthingwhatcameafter usan’IsaidhowIhadthisplanan’howwecouldjustuseoneoftheexplosivetubethingstostopitan’thebigwigdidallthesteerin’althoughIwerethe realbrainsbehindtheplanan’ . . .’

  ‘What the hell happened here?’ demanded Lyle, limping towards the stricken shape of Icarus.

  ‘Sir! You’re all right!’ Thomas exclaimed as Lyle paused on the edge of the ice.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve been chased, burnt, battered, bruised, stared death in the face, experienced heights at speed, blown up half of St Martin’s, rushed through a series of cellars on horseback, met an old friend, caused thousands of pounds of damage and been half-eaten by the Marylebone Road: I’m perfect! But what the hell have you children been doing to my pressure-differential device?’

  ‘OhohIcantellletmetellitwasallfastandscaryan’Isaidhowweshould dive’costherewerethisthingan . . .’

  ‘All right!’ Lyle raised his hands defensively. ‘You can explain later. It doesn’t look as if the damage is irreparable. Thomas, though, I’m surprised you couldn’t land it better than that. Incidentally . . .’ Lyle glanced at each disappointed face. ‘You two are all right, are you?’

  ‘Allright?Allright?MisterLyleyoushould’veseenusalthoughIsayus Imean . . .’

  ‘Yes, Mister Lyle,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Well . . . good,’ mumbled Lyle. He hesitated and then, to Thomas’s and Tess’s complete surprise, knelt down, put an arm round each of them and hugged them close, touching their messed-up hair and brushing their faces with his filthy fingers, which if anything left them more dishevelled than before. And to their respective surprise, each child clung on, digging their fingers into his coat and hair and holding him close as if he were the last thing left alive on the planet.

  A second later, he was back on his feet, brushing himself down self-consciously and muttering, ‘Well, yes, glad to hear it, good thing, carry on. Yes . . . well . . .’

  There was an embarrassed silence, broken by the sound of Tate whining.

  The three of them turned to look at Tate. He was sitting squarely in front of the dark stranger, tongue lolling, tail wagging, looking expectant. The stranger’s hand went into his pocket and came out holding something square and large, wrapped in a handkerchief. He unwrapped it carefully, to reveal a ginger biscuit.

  ‘Don’t feed him that!’ snapped Tess.

  The hand paused, biscuit halfway to Tate’s mouth. Tate, sensing difficulties, leapt up with surprising agility for a dog of his refined laziness, grabbed the biscuit and swallowed before anyone could protest.

  ‘It ain’t good for him!’ Tess stamped a foot, thwarted in her motherly instinct.

  ‘Children,’ said Lyle with a little smile, ‘a friend.’

  Feng Darin stepped forward, and bowed politely to each of them. Thomas bowed back automatically, though he wasn’t sure why. Tess put her head on one side. ‘Oi! You chink spy; you been trailin’ us?’

  ‘I am delighted to see you well, Teresa,’ replied Feng with a smile, ‘and must confess that, drawn by your incisive detecting skills and radiant charms, I have been for a few days your faithful shadow - with, naturally, the purest of intentions.’

  Tess tried to translate this, then gave up. ‘You got any more of that biscuit?’

  Lyle said, ‘Just hand it over now; don’t give her an excuse to go for your pockets.’

  Feng passed a ginger biscuit to Tess, then brought them back to serious matters. ‘We can’t linger here. It’s not safe.’

  ‘Where is?’

  Feng pointed towards an incandescent shape in the near distance. ‘There.’

  Thomas’s father had once described the Great Exhibition as ‘a wonderful thing, my boy! British power at its most spectacular, a demonstration of why our nation has been appointed to greatness above all others!’

  Tess’s friends had called it ‘a place full of things what no one ain’t never going to go an’ fence’.

  Lyle now described it as ‘This monkey house?’ adding, ‘What about this place is safe?’

  ‘Horatio, I’m surprised at you,’ chided Feng. ‘Aren’t you a man of cultural curiosity?’

  ‘This place isn’t about cultural curiosity,’ snapped Lyle. ‘It’s about cultural snobbery.’

  And such had been the Great Exhibition. Encased in a huge glass and iron haven, it had stretched across Hyde Park, galleries and galleries of the strange or spectacular, dragged from every part of the world to be gawped at by the British public: the most extravagant masks from the Indies, sweetest fruits from Asia, brightest clothes from Africa, latest inventions from America, strangest religion from India, and largest fish from Indonesia. Many booths contained people, long-limbed black women who stood in their cultural costume and were examined like specimens in a zoo; dwarves forced into clown costume to parade up and down all day long; giants who carried children on their shoulders; and singers who told tales of their homelands in mournful voices to the uncomprehending crowds. Up in the rafters, sparrows and pigeons had made their nests, along with stranger, wilder fowl, bright flashes of colour, parrots escaped from their cages and birds with tail feathers that stretched longer than their wings and who blinke
d with emerald eyes.

  The birds were awake, squawking nervously, although all the people, both spectators and spectacles, were long gone. Feng led the way round to a small wrought-iron door in the glass, difficult to spot as anything other than just another piece of framed ornamentation, and unlocked it with a key from his pocket. Inside, the air was cold and heavy. He showed them all through a maze of silent booths to a small area where hung silk flags, sewn with Chinese symbols. They ducked under these, past a window through which the crowd could stare and gape at the Chinese world displayed for them, through another small iron door, and into a tight, windowless room. Feng closed the door behind them and lit a lamp. As the light rose, it fell on heavy leather armour, spears gleaming for the kill, pistols, letters covered with neat Chinese script, several long sofas, and a couple of armchairs.

  These were already inhabited.

  Tess gave a yell, and jumped back to hide behind Lyle. Feng Darin slipped across to stand next to the two figures in their chairs.

  Lord Lincoln said, ‘Well, I’m glad to see you made it. Please sit down.’

  Thomas did so, heavily, on the nearest sofa. Tess cautiously sat down next to him. Tate sat at her feet, looking up imploringly towards the hand that still clung to the biscuit. Lyle stood, a dishevelled mess of a man in a small room made entirely, he realized, of iron. Surprised, he reached out and touched the wall, running his hand down its smooth surface. ‘What is this?’ he asked.

  ‘A place of safety,’ said Feng, concern written on his face.

  Lyle glanced sharply at him, then down at Lord Lincoln and across at the man in the other chair. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you a scheming manipulator of men too, or do you just keep bad company? ’

  The small, wizened Chinese gentleman sitting in the armchair grinned an astonishingly wide grin at Lyle and said, ‘I believe it is necessary to master all skills for a fruitful life, xiansheng.’