Extraordinaires 1

by Michael Pryor

  ‘I don’t fit in?’

  ‘The natural denizens of the Demimonde have a certain moral slipperiness about them. They’re at ease with accommodating values that might, at first, appear contradictory. They can hold several different points of view in their head at the same time without any discomfort at all.’

  ‘I know all about having different points of view, but I’m not so sure about the discomfort,’ he admitted.

  ‘This suggests you’d stand out in the Demimonde. You’d either be easy pickings for those looking for you or you’d be seduced by its blandishments.’

  ‘I say.’

  ‘I’ve seen many well-intentioned overworlders charmed by the Demimonde, becoming so tainted that there was no way back.’

  ‘I could always put wax in my ears.’

  ‘Like Odysseus? What about your eyes? And up your nose? You’d be a pretty sight.’

  ‘And what about you? Are you tainted by the Demimonde?’

  She gave a nonchalant flip of her hand. ‘I glide through that world unaffected, serene in my sense of self.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Either that, or I’ve hardened myself to its temptations.’

  ‘With the thought of Clarence to guide you, no doubt.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Clarence. Your beau.’

  Her hand went to her throat. ‘Clarence. Of course. He’s impervious to the goings-on in the Demimonde. Adamant of will, is he.’

  ‘A model to us all. You know, I’d like to meet Clarence. I’m sure I could learn a thing or two from such a sterling chap.’

  ‘He’s a fine teacher, patient and wise, but I understand he’s a little busy at the moment.’

  Kingsley shook his head. ‘Don’t leave me here alone. I’d prefer to risk the Demimonde, really.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be alone. My myrmidons are here.’

  ‘As much as I like rats, I’d rather be with you.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘With you by my side, I’m sure I’ll be able to resist the call of the Demimonde.’

  ‘Quite possibly.’ She bit her lip, looked away, then faced him. ‘I know I said that I’d help you find your foster father, but I have something I must do first. Perhaps you’d like to help me with it?’

  Kingsley felt the same way he did at the crucial point in a magical routine. Choices. Many could lead to disaster, a few could lead to a winning outcome. He desperately needed to get back on the trail to find his foster father. The longer he left it, the colder it would become. But having the help of someone familiar with the outlandish world he’d fallen into would be necessary. He sighed. ‘I’d be glad to be of any assistance. What is it?’

  ‘I need to kill a band of immortal magicians.’

  While Kingsley wrestled with astonishment he followed Evadne straight to the largest steel cabinet in her workshop. It was vast and the no-nonsense grey colour favoured by the military when it wanted to be serious.

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Before we confront these Immortals, we must prepare.’ She looked gravely at Kingsley. ‘I always prepare, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Preparation is the key to success – but wait a moment.’

  Evadne flung open the cabinet doors with a crash and stood in front of them with her hands on her hips. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You want to kill these Immortals.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The undying, evil, powerful, magical, vastly rich sorcerers?’

  Evadne bit her lip. ‘Kingsley, just come out and say it if you don’t want to go. You can stay here. I think I have the remains of a seed cake in the cupboard.’

  ‘It’s not that. I just think you’re being a little precipitous.’

  ‘Precipitous? This isn’t precipitous. Yesterday was precipitous.’

  ‘The Spawn in the sewers?’

  ‘My temper had the better of me.’ She closed her eyes briefly. ‘Kingsley, I’m doing my best to approach this calmly, because the alternative is launching myself at those horrors in a mad rage, despite the danger.’

  ‘Your crusade is that important.’

  ‘Important? At times, it’s overwhelming.’ She bit her lip before continuing. ‘I’ve known about these Immortals for a long time, Kingsley. Going up against them isn’t a lark. They’re murderous, deadly, and very, very powerful.’

  Kingsley knew that Evadne was spelling out the peril for him. ‘And yet you’re determined to confront them.’

  ‘I have no choice.’

  Evadne turned back to the cabinet, leaving Kingsley in a welter of confusion. He wanted to find his foster father, but with events conspiring as they had, he knew he needed help. In addition, there was Kipling and his hints about the Immortals and their plans – unspecified, but assumed to be of dreadful import – concerning the Olympic Games. And here in front of him was an undoubtedly troubled Evadne, setting off to confront these selfsame wizards.

  When trapped in the dark, manacled in a chest with water pouring in, Kingsley knew that the best thing to do was to decide on a single course of action and to stick to it. Trying to do a number of things at once was the way to a disastrous end. Here, his course was clear. He had to help Evadne, and by helping her he’d gain an important ally in the search for his foster father.

  ‘What’s in the cabinet?’ he asked.

  ‘Necessary equipment.’

  She stood aside, and Kingsley had his first real look at what the cabinet contained.

  The objects he was looking at must be weapons, for nothing else in the universe had that combination of elegance of design and utter deadliness in a neat, manageable package. Death-dealing in one hand. Or two, as he took in some of the larger devices.

  Someone had taken the basic components of metal, wood and a smooth black substance like jet and constructed a few dozen weapons that glittered and smelled of oil and destruction.

  ‘You’ve had firearms training?’ Evadne selected a long-armed number that had more glass than Kingsley was accustomed to in a rifle. It also sported various knobs, chambers and levers that should have made it look ridiculous but instead made it look as if it could annihilate regiments once it warmed up.

  ‘Some.’ Kingsley fancied himself as a marksman and had once been a member of the school’s Rifle Brigade, but he’d always preferred target shooting rather than the prospect of hunting.

  ‘Good.’ Evadne slid open what Kingsley assumed was the breech and inspected it. ‘At least you’ll know which end to point where. After that, you shouldn’t have to worry.’

  Kingsley reached for one weapon that was mostly brass, including a skeleton-like stock.

  ‘Not Neptune’s Trident,’ Evadne said. ‘It’s for underwater use, and I don’t anticipate we’ll need it where we’re going.’

  ‘Neptune’s Trident?’ Kingsley blinked. ‘Do you have anything rather less . . . outlandish?’

  Evadne shrugged. ‘I didn’t think I was being outlandish when I made them. I was just having some wicked fun.’

  Kingsley had become well acquainted with astonishment in the last few days, so he recognised it when it jumped up and hit him between the eyes. ‘You made these?’ He surveyed the wreakers of mayhem in front of him. ‘I thought you must have bought them from one of your Demimonde people. I was imagining a secret tribe of weaponsmiths, Brotherhood of Vulcan or the Hammerhead Boys or suchlike.’

  ‘Oh, I had some help with some of the components, and there are some remarkably fine engineers in the Demimonde, but they’re all my own design. They’re all bespoke, you see.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I do hope you’re not still judging by appearances.’

  ‘Me? I’m more than happy to believe that what lies underneath the surface is important.’

  ‘Good. I just happen to be excel
lent at engineering design as well as juggling.’

  ‘Naturally. Of course. Makes perfect sense.’ Kingsley ran his hand over the compact shape of what could be a handgun, if handguns were the shape of a seashell and as lethal as a cobra. ‘These are works of art. What about this one?’

  ‘Midnight’s Kiss? That’s fine. Just be careful of that button.’

  ‘Which button?’

  ‘That button. The one you just triggered and made the spike punch through the top of the cabinet.’

  Kingsley saw no point in denying it, since the evidence was clear. ‘That cabinet needed an airhole, anyway.’

  Gingerly, he touched the button – just next to the safety – and the six-inch blade slid back into a neatly concealed slot. He hefted the pistol – which was really more of an elongated disc than a shell shape – and was impressed at how light it was. He hoped it would be enough to combat immortal sorcerers and their underlings. ‘Do you have names for all of your weapons?’

  ‘It’s part of the fun.’

  Evadne was once more entirely blithe, as if preparing for a Sunday picnic rather than a mission of mayhem, but Kingsley was concerned at the brittleness of her guise. ‘What about ammunition?’ he asked.

  ‘For that one? Over there, fourth drawer, second from the left. The magazines are already loaded.’

  Kingsley found the ammunition cabinet as Evadne had said. The smell of gun oil was heavy, and each of the many drawers was neatly labelled with numbers that were ominous in their anonymity.

  He paused. ‘You do seem to have expended much ingenuity on devices of destruction.’

  ‘My weapons?’ She gazed around. ‘I suppose so. In the Demimonde, though, prominent means of self-defence are always useful.’

  ‘Self-defence? All this is for self-defence?’

  She shrugged. ‘I became carried away.’

  He didn’t know what to make of Evadne. A juggler, a wit and a genius? Any two would be overwhelming, and he had the feeling that three wasn’t the end of it.

  He found the correct drawer. The magazine was the size of an omnibus ticket, but heavy. He wasn’t surprised when it slotted perfectly into the pistol. Half a dozen others were in the drawer, and he took them all.

  ‘Don’t forget to select a knife.’ Evadne pointed at another cabinet, to the right of the ammunition store. ‘Knives don’t run out of ammunition.’

  ‘You make knives, too?’

  ‘Those, I buy. I know my limitations.’

  You might, Kingsley thought, but I certainly haven’t found them yet.

  Evadne crossed the room and tapped at the bare wall. A door swung back to reveal a safe.

  The safe was waist high and looked as if it had been designed to discourage burglars simply by its looks. ‘Don’t waste your time,’ the solid metal bulk seemed to say. ‘I am impervious,’ its dull grey colour announced. ‘Why bother?’ the many dials and knobs on the front insisted.

  After a complicated series of twistings and turnings, the safe swung open. Evadne found what she was after and heaved it shut with a neat hip swivel that did alarming things to Kingsley. He looked away and concentrated on his knife selection. Far less dangerous.

  Evadne came to his side. Her presence was, he admitted, agreeable. ‘Take the one on the end.’

  ‘The one on the end? They don’t have names?’

  ‘I only name that which I make.’

  Kingsley was about to follow this intriguing delineation when a horde of small furry shapes shot through the open door and raced directly at Evadne.

  He had his knife in hand before he saw that there were only six of the creatures – enough for a horde, in his mind – and that they were Evadne’s myrmidons.

  He relaxed and tucked his new knife away.

  ‘I was wondering what was taking you so long,’ Evadne said to her minions. They swarmed about her feet, some rising on their back legs in the ecstasy of seeing her. She crouched and patted them, distributing her affection evenly.

  This time, Kingsley made an effort to study them, even though something deep inside him wanted to pick them up by the scruff of their necks and give them a short, sharp shake.

  Each was the size of a cat, but after that they did conform to his notion of a rat, apart from half of them having three eyes. They had the snout, the scaly tail, the brown fur that suggested they were, indeed, descendants of those who were the Black Death’s best friends.

  ‘They’re half-machine and half-animal,’ Evadne explained. ‘They’re my first experiment with this sort of hybrid. It’s a very difficult area.’

  ‘So I’d imagine.’

  ‘Not just technically, although it’s a nightmare to mesh the biological parts with the non-biological. I meant that it’s difficult ethically. These creatures are stronger, quicker, more intelligent than they were, but I’m still not sure whether I have the right to do what I have.’

  ‘I’m impressed that you’re troubled.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I imagine inventing types lost in the enthusiasm of projects, not giving a fig for questions like this. I’m happier with someone who’s thoughtful.’

  Before she turned her head away, Kingsley was sure she blushed. It was only a soft pinkening of her cheeks, but he was certain he’d seen it.

  ‘Kingsley, would you please fetch me some of the excursion biscuits? They love them. They’re in the Huntley & Palmers tin.’

  When Kingsley came back with the tin, the myrmidons had gone. ‘Where are they?’

  Evadne spread her hands. ‘They were so eager to be off on their mission, they wouldn’t even wait for a biscuit.’

  ‘They have a mission?’

  ‘Among other things, I’ve sent them looking for any signs of those inimical to the Immortals. The League of the Righteous. The Supplicants. The Aaconites. No-one has heard of them for years, but my myrmidons are persistent.’ Evadne opened the tin and took out a biscuit. ‘Almond ring. My favourite.’

  Kingsley was dazed. Try as he might, he found it hard to keep up with Evadne. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation; he found himself wanting to rise to the challenge that she was. ‘One thing that puzzles me . . .’

  ‘Only one? What a happy state you must live in.’

  ‘One thing will do for the moment: what on earth are you doing in the theatre?’

  Evadne looked at him solemnly for a moment, then she re-racked her weapon of choice – a pistol that looked mostly to be made of crystal. She reached into a pocket of her riding jacket and produced a handful of brass cylinders – shells, of a sort, but where the bullet looked nothing like lead. Kingsley wondered if they were some sort of incendiary rounds, but at that moment, Evadne began to juggle.

  Slowly at first, two, then three of the brass cylinders glittered, arcing from one hand to the other. They were joined by one more, then another. ‘I enjoy the theatre,’ she said.

  Kingsley applauded, helplessly. He admired dexterity and when it was allied with grace, it was doubly impressive. ‘You’re excellent,’ he said, ‘but that’s not what I mean. I understand the thrill of performance, the challenge of entertaining people, but when you have this –’ he swept an arm around the cabinet-filled room – ‘why wouldn’t you devote yourself to inventing?’

  She made a face and with three quick motions the shells disappeared back into her pocket. ‘A question for a question. How many female inventors do you know of?’

  ‘I don’t know of many inventors,’ he admitted.

  ‘Scientists, then. Or engineers. What about your foster father’s colleagues? How many women academics are there?

  ‘Ah. I see.’

  ‘And that’s not to mention the opprobrium from my family.’

  ‘Are you saying they’d rather have you on the stage than working in s
cience?’

  ‘I don’t know. When it was clear that they wouldn’t favour either, I left them to their own devices.’

  ‘You ran away from home.’

  ‘That makes it sound rather more rapid than it was. I walked away from home, head held high, with a thousand plans in my head and Montague Dobbs waiting for me.’

  ‘Montague Dobbs. What about Clarence?’

  Evadne touched the chain around her neck. ‘Clarence never knew about Montague Dobbs.’

  ‘I expect he wouldn’t,’ Kingsley said. Why hadn’t Evadne spoken of this Dobbs fellow before? ‘Well,’ he said with an effort at briskness. ‘I’ll need some sort of rucksack, if we’re to equip ourselves properly. And rope. Do you have any rope?’

  Evadne laughed, but indicated a cabinet near the door. ‘Rope is in that one. You’ll find a selection of rucksacks in the drawers underneath.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Your face has the virtue of being wonderfully open,’ Evadne said. ‘Mostly.’

  ‘And where is this Dabbs fellow?’ Kingsley busied himself in choosing an appropriate coil of rope. Jute or manila? ‘Why isn’t he here to help you on this expedition?’

  ‘Dobbs, not Dabbs.’ Evadne stifled another laugh. ‘He’s not here because he’s not real. I made him up, years ago.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Evadne had a hand over her mouth, but her eyes danced. ‘Montague Dobbs is the holder of a number of lucrative patents and the owner of several companies. Since minors can’t hold patents, sign contracts or generally do business, I needed someone who could.’

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t let him know about my doings. I’d disappoint him dreadfully. He wants me to be dutiful.’ She closed the gun cabinet. ‘I invented Montague Dobbs. Quite a wealthy man, is Dobbs, but he’s rather a recluse.’

  ‘You can’t just invent someone out of thin air. A company director must have meetings, needs to talk to bank managers.’