Extraordinaires 1

by Michael Pryor

  ‘Not really. If you’re willing to carry me around everywhere, I’ll feign a weakness I don’t feel, just for the luxury.’

  ‘I’ve always aspired to be a human palanquin.’ Kingsley carefully deposited her on her feet in front of the bank of glasses. He was attentive for any sign of injury, but she was steady enough, if a little grimy from the underground skirmish.

  Evadne slipped off to the workshop and came back bespectacled. She stood in front of the wall of glasses, scanning them intently.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ he asked.

  ‘It looks as if the Immortals have tracked you here.’ She pointed at the glass. Kingsley came closer and stood next to her. It wasn’t a window at all, not unless they were looking down on a tunnel from a very lofty vantage point. With growing wonder, he realised that each of the glasses showed a different view. In the one Evadne was gesturing at, a dozen figures were crawling through a tunnel on their hands and knees. It was more like a film in a cinematograph theatre than a window, all greys and blacks, but it was clear enough for Kingsley to recognise the spindly forms.

  ‘They’re like the ones who abducted me at the police station,’ he said.

  ‘They’re Spawn, the servants of the Immortals.’

  ‘Kipling’s evil sorcerers.’

  ‘He knows what he’s talking about,’ Evadne said through gritted teeth. ‘I’d wipe them out in a second if I could find them.’

  The intensity of her loathing concerned Kingsley. Where was the insouciant juggler who had befriended him? He’d assumed that she went through life with an attitude of tolerant amusement – the same sort of attitude that had brought her to nominate him as her project. ‘You have a grudge against them?’

  ‘The Immortals? I’ve never met them.’

  ‘And yet you want to destroy them.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them.’ She glanced at him, but quickly turned her attention back to the glasses. ‘And what I heard put them at the top of my list.’ Her voice was both brittle and uncompromising. She touched a brass knob and the view in the glass brightened a little. ‘Leave it at that, Kingsley, I beg of you.’

  With difficulty, Kingsley swallowed the multitude of questions that Evadne’s confession – and behaviour – had prompted. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘What I should have done in the first place.’ Evadne reached for another lever and pushed it to the left. Her lips moved silently for a moment, her expression distant, then she nodded when the glass showed the Spawn recoiling, spinning on their heels and scrambling back the way they’d come. They were followed by a surge of water that rapidly filled the tunnel. ‘That should take care of them.’

  ‘You did that?’

  ‘A tiny explosive charge in a spot I’d marked earlier, a tunnel about half a mile away, somewhere under Holland Park. They won’t be using that way again.’ She touched her lips with a finger. ‘I do love explosives. I just don’t get the opportunity to use them as much as I’d like to.’

  Kingsley wanted to wave a white flag over his head. ‘I need a cup of tea.’

  ‘Firstly, Kingsley, I need to apologise.’

  Evadne didn’t look at him. In a small kitchen that wouldn’t have been out of place in Surbiton, she busied herself with the breakfast making, taking an inordinate amount of care measuring out the tea while he sat on a stylish wooden chair.

  ‘Apologise? For saving me and bringing me here?’ He stuck out his feet. ‘For providing me with a pair of distinctly smart Oxfords in my size?’

  ‘For my display earlier.’

  ‘Ah. Where you ran out as if you were possessed and single-handedly tried to wipe out a troop of those creatures.’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. It was quite unlike me.’ She paused, kettle in hand. ‘Well, that may not be entirely accurate. I do have an outrageous temper but it’s rarely provoked.’

  While making a note to himself never to provoke her, Kingsley asked: ‘And these Spawn set you off, so to speak?’

  ‘They’re soulless creatures, underlings, but I’ll strike at them until I can get at their masters.’

  ‘The ones on your list.’ Understanding that he might need his caution some time in the future, instead of throwing it to the winds, he tucked it into a pocket for later use before he asked: ‘What list?’

  Evadne paused, then studied the kettle for some time, as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. She cleared her throat, put the kettle down and faced him, leaning against the sink and absently twisting the silver ring on her finger. ‘I have a list of those who hurt children.’

  ‘Oh.’ Inadequacy, thy name is Kingsley.

  She didn’t look at him. ‘The Demimonde can be a dreadful place.’

  ‘So I’ve gathered. Then again, so can the ordinary world.’

  A small, sweet smile made its way to him, quite unlike the boldness he’d thought her way. ‘That’s true. I can’t abide those who hurt children in the ordinary world, either.’

  ‘You sound as if you have a cause.’

  ‘Like those who go about saving fallen women? Or helping old sailors? Perhaps. I like to think that I’m more . . . vigorous than that.’

  ‘A crusade rather than a cause?’

  ‘That makes it sound rather spiritual.’ Kingsley was pleased to hear a more acerbic tone in her voice. ‘I’m rather more down to earth than a crusader. I see myself as a scourge.’

  ‘A scourge.’

  ‘I can’t abide those who exploit and hurt children. I’m down on them and I’ll do what I can to confound them.’ She shook her head and her white hair flew. ‘The Immortals are among the worst of them. They’ve hurt hundreds of children, thousands perhaps, if the stories are correct.’

  ‘And they’ve just come back from India.’

  ‘So it would seem. Wicked creatures.’ Evadne fussed about in a cupboard, looking for teacups. Kingsley deliberately didn’t notice her dashing a tear from her cheek with her forearm. ‘Immortal and wicked. It’s a terrible combination.’

  ‘How do you know so much about them?’

  ‘By and large, the denizens of the Demimonde all know about the Immortals, and are appalled by them. They dwell outside even the loose notions of morality that exist here. Over the centuries various groups have arisen to exterminate them, but they’ve had a singular lack of success.’

  ‘They’re powerful.’

  ‘Extremely.’

  ‘And you want to destroy them.’

  ‘They deserve it.’

  This was a new Evadne, one that Kingsley hadn’t seen before. Her passion was clear, but Kingsley saw more than that. Was it sorrow behind the anger? It was clearly a tender area, and he didn’t feel he had the right to press. They’d only known each other a few days, after all. A harum-scarum few days, but propriety demanded that he respect her pain.

  ‘This refuge is part of the Demimonde?’

  ‘I hope you like it,’ she said with a gallant effort. ‘It’s comfortable and secure, what more could you ask?’

  ‘A view?’

  ‘If you want a view I’ll find a painting for you.’ She pushed her spectacles up on her nose. ‘Since I move between the ordinary world and the Demimonde, I make sure that I have safe places in both. This is my Demimonde refuge. Living quarters, facilities, viewing room, workshop over there.’

  Kingsley took a closer look at the chaotic space he’d barely glanced at earlier. Between the power cables, he could now make out beaten, coppery figures that looked like giant insects hung from hooks near the ceiling and a rack displaying dozens of goggles where glass, leather, rubber, brass and silver were flung together in a variety of combinations. The workshop was an Aladdin’s Cave with strange and exotic treasures everywhere he looked.

  ‘Impressive, but where exactly are we?’ he asked
over his shoulder and, with embarrassment, he heard the plaintiveness in his voice.

  ‘That’s not always a meaningful question in the Demimonde,’ Evadne replied, ‘but in this case, it is. We’re right underneath the main stadium at the White City. The Olympic Games are going on right over our heads.’

  ‘Construction in London is a blessing for the Demimonde,’ Evadne explained while Kingsley grappled with bewilderment that had assumed the proportions of an airship. ‘When Wren and Hooke were rebuilding London after the Great Fire, many a lair or warren was worked into the developments, above and below ground. Forgotten parts of the city – parts that were supposed to be demolished – were just appropriated and now have thriving communities away from the overworlders. The Olympics has meant a further frenzy of furtive fabrication.’ She clapped her hands together and beamed. ‘Oh, I like that!’

  ‘It’s a gem,’ Kingsley said, even though he felt as if his world had previously been confined to a narrow stretch of beach – and now the tide had gone out, making it bigger, wider and more mysterious than he’d ever believed.

  Evadne held up the teapot. ‘Another cup?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Oh. I forgot to ask if you take milk. You don’t, do you?’

  ‘What would you say if I did?’

  ‘I’d have to send one of my myrmidons to find some.’

  ‘Myrmidons? Some sort of softly spoken professor?’

  Evadne pointed the strainer at him. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Myrmidons. Murmur. Don.’

  ‘Please,’ she said, ‘don’t do that again.’

  ‘I shan’t. Unless the appropriate occasion presents itself.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She sipped her tea before returning to her explanation. ‘Do you remember the rat that found your hiding place near the Fleet?’

  ‘Let me see. It didn’t have three eyes, perchance?’

  ‘That three-eyed rat wasn’t a rat at all. It was one of my myrmidons.’

  ‘Thank you. That makes it all so much clearer.’

  ‘Kingsley, you’re a nice chap but you’re going to have to be quicker than that.’ She lifted the teapot and poured him a fresh cup.

  ‘The Myrmidons were ancient Greeks,’ he said. He held his teacup in both hands and felt its warmth. ‘Immensely loyal to their king. Or so Homer said.’

  ‘That’s better.’ Evadne’s approval did something to Kingsley. Something awkward and unsettling but not altogether unwelcome. ‘Since Homer, the term “myrmidon” has been used to describe steadfast and devoted followers.’

  ‘And your rat is one of those.’

  ‘My rat is a machine I made. More or less. They’re my scouts, my messengers, my general runabouts. Bring your tea and I’ll show you.’

  Evadne took him back to the viewing room. The banks of glasses were alive. She pointed at the last two. ‘These are my myrmidon sentinels. What their third eye sees is relayed here. I’ve sent them scouting and it looks as if the Spawn have all retreated.’ She tapped her chin with a finger. ‘I think I managed to intercept them far enough away for this refuge still to be secret.’

  Kingsley didn’t think that any who’d come close enough to Evadne’s refuge survived to tell the tale either. She’d been very efficient in dealing with them. ‘I imagine you’ve blended cinematograph cameras with wireless Marconi technology?’

  ‘That, Kingsley, was a very educated guess.’

  He bowed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Completely wrong, but very educated. I’ll let it rest at that.’

  For a moment, Kingsley was prepared to gnaw at this bone, but he was happy to leave the matter lie. Once, he would have said his grasp of science and engineering was solid enough, but Evadne was at home in a realm far from his ken. Besides, he had a task he’d left undone. ‘I’ve been remiss. I haven’t thanked you for rescuing me.’

  ‘I couldn’t simply let you disappear like that. Mr Kipling was most upset until I assured him that I’d find you. He went to consult some friends, he told me.’

  ‘I hope he’s safe.’

  ‘I think Mr Kipling has considerable resources. More than meets the eye.’

  ‘He’s not the only one.’

  Jabez Soames sat at his desk, shredded one corner of his blotter and wondered how to detach the stink of failure. Higgs, the lift operator, had been positively surly. Such an attitude could be contagious, especially in the Demimonde. If he gained a reputation for ineptness, the taint could linger forever.

  He hadn’t been able to find the boy for the Immortals.

  Shredding slightly faster, and creating a veritable snowstorm, he decided that immediate action was called for. A demonstration of his worth, something showy – something that would make the Immortals sit up and take notice instead of ordering that he be snuffed out. His efforts in arranging a troop of hirelings to find the children for the Immortals, and to secrete a collection of devices about the new Olympic Games stadium simply wouldn’t be good enough. The Immortals, he knew, weren’t in the habit of overlooking deficiencies.

  Jabez, it’s time for one of your remarkable plans.

  His fingers shredded at a blur as he stared at the window, hardly seeing the grey clouds scudding across the sky. Rain was about, but hadn’t fallen seriously since the night before.

  In the tide of affairs in which any middleman found himself, sometimes there came an opportunity so unlikely that it took a special mind to apprehend it. Soames liked to think that he possessed that kind of mind. To do otherwise would be to assume the sort of false modesty that he found puzzling.

  What if instead of being on the verge of disaster, this was the time for him to advance his plans to usurp the Immortals? They would hardly think that he would be plotting such a thing, since he was so incompetent as to fail to present them with the boy Kipling was interested in. After going to all the trouble of locating this scamp and using some seconded Spawn to abduct him; losing him didn’t just smack of incompetence, it was the sort of thing to make the notoriously touchy Immortals extremely irritated.

  Especially if they heard – as he had – that the leader of the Neanderthals was after the boy as well.

  Absently, Soames made a pile of blotting paper shreds and he stroked through it, arranging and re-arranging as he sifted through possible courses of action.

  Soames was aware of the movements and alliances in the world of the Demimonde. He made it his job. With such knowledge, he could do something about inconveniencing the Immortals, at the very least. It would divert any attention from him, for a start. Of course, this could be a very dangerous game. He shuddered as he contemplated what would happen if the Immortals found out, or the Neanderthals found out. Or both.

  An idea struck him. Soames swept his arm across the desk and sent paper shreds whirling. He rushed to his pigeon holes. He remembered something, a recent report, something one of his informants had noted about increased activity among the Neanderthals . . .

  He whipped slips of paper from pigeonholes, glanced at them, and rammed them home again until, finally, he found what he was looking for. He gave a crow of triumph and, certain no-one could see him, performed a little jig, his patent leather shoes winking in the morning light that spilled through the window.

  Jabez, no-one senses an opportunity like you!

  Feverishly, he returned to the desk, found a pencil and a sheaf of foolscap in the top drawer and began to make a list.

  Soames sat on a chair that was meant for hips much broader than his, and legs slightly shorter, but he hid his discomfort in the way that business people and diplomats had done forever, willing to sit in uncomfortable chairs until the end of time if it helped them advance their position.

  The location he’d been directed to, after requesting the meeting by convoluted methods, was in a room
deep underneath the Abbey Mills pumping station. The rumbling of the giant steam engines made the green tiles vibrate on the floor, and the tiny room seemed even smaller. The room smelled of mildew, and Soames pursed his lips at the rankness. And was that a rat peering down at them from the cobwebbed rafters? He shuddered.

  The sooner he’d finished his business with the Neanderthal woman, the better.

  ‘You know that I have been of service in the past,’ he said to her. She showed no sign of discomfort, but the chairs were meant for such as she. ‘And that I have dealt fairly with you.’

  The Neanderthal woman had her elbows on her knees. She wore peculiar canvas overalls that had pockets and loops right down each leg. She grunted. ‘Means nothing. If you deal false with us . . .’

  She bared her teeth at him. When she snapped them together, twice, hard, Soames swallowed at the narrow joy in her eyes, as if she couldn’t wait to lunch upon him if he crossed her.

  ‘Perish the thought.’ He spread his hands quickly. ‘Trust, that’s the ticket. I’m glad we understand each other, Damona. You desire certain items. I procure them for you.’

  ‘At a price.’

  ‘Of course.’ Soames coughed into a fist. ‘This time, I have some information, something that might be of interest to you.’

  Damona grunted again, but the way she looked at him made Soames uneasy. He eyed the distance between them and cursed himself for having been manoeuvred so the Neanderthal woman was sitting between him and the door. He had his trusty Bulldog, but he had doubts about how effective it would be on the massive woman. He’d seen Neanderthals shot before. A single bullet often made them angry, and it took a number of rounds from a significantly larger calibre firearm than the Bulldog to inconvenience them.

  Soames wanted to pat his forehead dry but knew it was a poor move in a negotiation. ‘With respect – and please do not become agitated – I understand that you have some antipathy for the group known as the Immortals.’

  Damona stiffened. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You heard this? Where?’