Extraordinaires 1

by Michael Pryor

  ‘Civilisation? What on earth for?’

  ‘They want whatever they think is inside my head because it might tell them something about civilisation and the wild. I’ll wager that this is connected with gathering the concentrated essence of civilisation.’

  ‘And not in a way that’s likely to lead to good times for all, I’m sure.’

  ‘No. Not good times for all, but even if they’re still around, we’ve stopped them for now.’

  Evadne adjusted her hat. ‘In that case, would you like to watch the parade?’

  ‘Why not?’

  For three days Damona wandered through the sanctuary of the True People. Sometimes, she stopped to pick up objects. She admired their craft. She contemplated murals and carvings. She remembered who lived in the dwelling spaces and workshops. She found additions she never knew existed.

  Three days. She had barely slept since the disaster. She had hardly eaten. She was aware that she had eased into a state only lightly connected to the earth.

  She coughed. Grimaced. Her throat was raw. It rasped in the air, which was still smoky. Sour.

  She took a corner at random. It didn’t matter. She was adrift.

  Her people had gone. Every machine connected to the phlogiston grid had melted. Almost all the lighting had failed. Their sanctuary was dark, foul-smelling, badly made.

  A few oil lamps lit her way. Quickly made after the disaster. They worked. More or less.

  Alone. Damona was determined to visit every part of their sanctuary. A pilgrimage? An expiation? Was she apologising to a place she had hurt?

  She stopped. Looked around. A workshop? She didn’t recognise where she was. It didn’t worry her.

  She rested on a bench. Put her lantern on the parquetry floor. For a moment she studied the inlaid wood. Good patterns. Fine toolwork. True People stuff.

  She shifted. Ignored the pain. Ran a hand over the bench. It was wood, too. A waterfall? Water, waves rolling down a stony slope. Every curve, every ripple smoothed by the long-ago maker’s hands.

  It was supremely comfortable.

  The room was small. Damona could not remember who had lived here. Or when. Not a family place. A one-person place? A basin, cooking facilities, a small bathroom opening off the main area. For sleeping and for work?

  A lathe, bandsaw, both rusty, against the far wall. Damona looked up, tried to find their power source. Cobwebs. Dust. Electricity? Could she turn them on? See their sturdiness in action?

  ‘Eldest?’

  Damona shifted her weight and her hip complained. The title was a burden. On the wings of pain, she eased herself around. Gustave stood at the door. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The last of us are on the ramp. About to set off. I came to see if . . .’

  ‘If I’ve changed my mind?’

  Gustave shrugged. He had stitches in his forehead. His beard was ragged from the fire. ‘If you want to join us.’

  ‘You’d have me?’

  ‘We don’t want to lose you.’

  Damona grunted. No-one had been hurt when the end had come. Gustave and his friends were brave, organised. They had arranged an evacuation to the furthest reaches. Then they went to fight the fires. Two long days. Then Gustave braved the main complex. Inspected it. Declared it safe enough.

  Safe enough to begin their departure.

  ‘You have a destination?’ Damona asked him.

  ‘Far away, I think.’ He leaned against the doorframe. Damona felt his exhaustion. ‘Rolf and Magnus went out into the Demimonde, with the last gold we could scrape together. They say we can get a ship.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘We’re tired of underground, Eldest. We want to feel the sun again. We’ll risk a sea voyage.’

  ‘It’s a brave plan.’

  ‘Won’t you come?’

  ‘Not just now.’

  Gustave left. It took some time before Damona realised.

  Her lamp flickered. She knew that it needed more oil. Without it she’d be left in the dark.

  She was comfortable.

  Damona had striven. She wanted to give her people a future, but she had failed. The Invaders had won.

  She lay back. She remembered Signe. She remembered the songs she sang. She wanted to apologise to her but words were heavy on her tongue.

  The lamp went out.

  Evadne poured.

  The glass cupola of the Thames Foyer alternated between brightness and gloom as clouds and blue sky exchanged places. Kipling had chosen an alcove with window seats and red cushions, with plenty of room for Dr Ward’s wheelchair. A violinist played, waiters wafted about, and Kingsley enjoyed the absence of being chased, beaten, sold, exchanged or abducted.

  ‘Muffins!’ Dr Ward exclaimed as a waiter uncovered a silver dish. ‘Just the thing!’

  Evadne finished pouring. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Hot buttered muffins and tea is a wonderful way to remind one that one is alive.’

  Kingsley had a high regard for Evadne’s aplomb. She chatted, made a quip or two, and charmed both Kipling and Dr Ward with her wit and steady cheerfulness.

  Kingsley ate half of his excellent muffin and admired Evadne’s light blue dress. She’d pointed out, when she joined them at the Savoy, that it was chiffon and the lace jacket thing was a bolero. All by himself, he could tell that the hat had roses all over it, but she emphasised that it was a broad-leafed chip hat.

  Just so, Kingsley thought. He’d come out in a blazer and flannel trousers, topped with a boater, all well kept and hardly smelling of mothballs, despite having been stored away at Porchester Terrace since he’d left the place to pursue a life on the stage.

  When Kipling found them at the Savoy, he had been overjoyed. Kingsley’s telephone invitation had reassured the writer that they were alive and well, but it was a different thing, seeing them in the flesh.

  The first half an hour of their reunion had been devoted to informing Kipling of the events since they had parted. It was a measure of the writer’s imagination and patience that he remained silent while Kingsley and Evadne bounced the story between them, with a few solemn interjections from Dr Ward – and he expressed no incredulity.

  ‘And so we’re staying at the hotel, here,’ Kingsley finished.

  ‘We couldn’t stay at Porchester Terrace,’ Dr Ward murmured. ‘Not after what happened there.’

  ‘And I’m simply enjoying the luxury,’ Evadne said. ‘My refuge is comfortable enough, but I wasn’t about to pass up a room at the Savoy.’

  ‘That’s a major disadvantage of the subterranean life,’ Kingsley said, ‘the lack of view.’

  Evadne and he shared a look. She challenged him with a smile that he returned.

  ‘We’re grateful to you, Kipling,’ Dr Ward said. His colour was better, and if it weren’t for his still-recovering ankles, Kingsley was sure he’d be up and about under his own locomotion. ‘Your efforts at the Yard have smoothed the way.’

  ‘I did what I could, Dr Ward, but it was your reappearance and the testimony of Miss Stephens that convinced the authorities that Kingsley here couldn’t be responsible for the death of Mrs Walters.’

  ‘And who do they think is?’ Kingsley asked.

  ‘“Investigations are continuing,” I think the phrase is. At least, that’s what I was told, but I have the impression that a few of my more senior sources know more than they’re letting on.’

  ‘The PM, Kipling?’ Dr Ward asked. ‘Did you inform him?’

  ‘Not the PM, Dr Ward, not yet. Once I was sure Evadne and Kingsley were safe, I did have a meeting with the Agency.’

  ‘The Agency? Of course. Should have thought of that. And do they think the Immortals could still be out there?’

  Kipling cast a rueful look at Evadne. ‘I’m sorry, my dear,
but we must consider the possibility that the torrent you unleashed didn’t finish them off.’

  ‘I had,’ Evadne said softly. ‘The world would be better off without them, but I fear that may be easier said than done.’

  Kingsley couldn’t help himself. He reached up and touched the back of his head. He preferred his brain intact, and was determined to keep it so, immortal sorcerers or not.

  Evadne caught his eye and nodded, emphatically, just the once.

  It was enough.

  ‘It’s remarkable, you know,’ Kipling said. ‘I thought I knew a thing or two about the shadowy fringes of the world, but you’ve certainly opened my eyes. I’ll never look at a manhole the same way again.’

  ‘The Demimonde is vaster and more mysterious than a few manholes,’ Dr Ward said.

  ‘And how long exactly have you known of it, Father?’ Kingsley asked.

  ‘My work introduced me to it years ago.’ Dr Ward closed his mouth and frowned. Kingsley knew this was a matter for another day.

  A three-tiered stand of small cakes and elaborate biscuits was placed on the table. Evadne plucked a pink concoction from the top level. ‘Superb,’ she adjudged after taking a small bite.

  Her lipstick was subtle and suited her, Kingsley decided, and was very evenly applied. He wondered if she’d invented a device to do it for her.

  ‘And what are you going to do with my son’s story, Kipling?’ Dr Ward asked.

  ‘It remains a fine and private thing, Dr Ward.’ Kipling took out his notebook and started to read. His voice was low, but carried perfectly to the three listeners at the table.

  Waters of the Waingunga, the Man-Pack have cast me out. I did them no harm, but they were afraid of me. Why?

  Wolf Pack, ye have cast me out too. The jungle is shut to me and the village gates are shut. Why?

  As Mang flies between the beasts and the birds, so fly I between the village and the jungle. Why?

  I dance on the hide of Shere Khan, but my heart is very heavy. My mouth is cut and wounded with the stones from the village, but my heart is very light because I have come back to the jungle. Why?

  These two things fight together in me as the snakes fight in the spring. The water comes out of my eyes; yet I laugh while it falls. Why?

  I am two Mowglis, but the hide of Shere Khan is under my feet.

  All the jungle knows that I have killed Shere Khan. Look––look well, O Wolves!

  Ahae! My heart is heavy with the things that I do not understand.

  When Kipling finished, he looked at Kingsley. ‘I don’t have to write your story, my boy, because I’ve written it already.’

  ‘But that’s not me. I’m not Mowgli.’

  ‘I know. I meant that I understand your predicament. Caught between two worlds cannot be the easiest place to be.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Evadne said. ‘But being alone would make it worse.’

  ‘“Things that I do not understand”,’ Kingsley repeated. ‘There are so many of them, still.’

  ‘Such as?’ Dr Ward asked gently.

  ‘You told me of my parents. My real parents.’ Kingsley bit his lip, then rushed on. ‘But all you said was that my father was a mysterious man who worked for the government.’

  Kingsley couldn’t fail to catch the sharp look that Kipling shot Dr Ward. ‘Mr Kipling?’

  The writer grimaced. ‘A number of mysterious agents have been working in India over the years. The place is full of them.’

  ‘From the little I know, Greville Sanderson was a hero,’ Dr Ward said.

  Kipling cocked his head. ‘Greville Sanderson was your father, my boy? Extraordinary.’

  ‘Dr Ward is my father,’ Kingsley said firmly. ‘This other man is someone I’ve never known.’

  Dr Ward reached over and patted Kingsley’s hand. ‘Troubled and troublesome as you might be, Kingsley, you’re a good lad.’

  Kingsley warmed to his foster father’s words. The old man was often preoccupied, occasionally forgetful, but he was always generous.

  ‘Mr Kipling,’ Kingsley said, pushing that thought away for later. ‘You obviously know something of my father. My other father. Would you tell me of him? In exchange for my telling you my story?’

  ‘That, young Mr Ward, is an offer a writer could never resist.’

  Dr Ward leaned in the other direction. ‘And you, Miss Stephens, what are your plans?’

  For an answer, Evadne held up a finger. Then she picked a small silver dragee from a cake and balanced it on the end of the handle of a teaspoon that was resting on the damask table cloth. With a tilt of her head, she tapped the bowl of the teaspoon and launched the silver sugar ball into the air. It landed, with a tiny splash, in Kingsley’s glass of lemon squash.

  ‘We have an audience waiting for us,’ she said when the applause died.

  Kingsley had been listening. ‘We?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking that while juggling is all well and good, I’m looking for something new, something innovative. I thought a two-handed act might do the trick.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ Dr Ward said, on the verge of floundering.

  ‘Stephens and Ward: Juggling and Escapology.’

  Kingsley sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. ‘What about Ward and Stephens: Escapology and Juggling?’

  Kipling tapped his glass with a fork. ‘I have a suggestion.’

  It was perfect.

  Kingsley’s heart drummed, but he was pleased to see his hands were steady when he held them up in front of his face. He allowed his wildness some rein so it could take in the surroundings. The smells and sounds were disquieting, but he exerted himself and his wolfishness settled, satisfied that it was safe, especially when the scent of gardenia came to him from nearby.

  Evadne emerged from the darkness, a portrait in silver and ruby. Her sequined headdress framed her face, and beads hung on either side, intertwining with her hair. Her dress continued the sequin and beads theme, which was made consistent with her slippers and her rose spectacles. She cocked her head, sending the beads swaying in an enchanting fashion. ‘All set?’

  Kingsley glanced at his equipment. The Chest of Terror was ready. The Cabinet of Doom was in place. The chains, the ropes, the manacles were in position. The stagehands were attentive and prepared, on their best behaviour since Kingsley had had a quiet word with each of them. A half-sovereign did the trick with most of them, but one troublemaker had needed some assistance falling over and getting up again – a small, physical discussion – before he understood the importance of cooperation.

  ‘All set,’ he confirmed.

  Kingsley tugged the lapels of his dinner jacket. No turban this time. Lorenzo wasn’t needed any more. After all he’d been through, Kingsley didn’t feel much like hiding. Let the world see Kingsley Ward for who he was.

  The orchestra began tuning. In a dressing room, a dog barked. Just the once, but Kingsley was sure its companions would have poked relentless fun at the offender for premature performing.

  Evadne stood by his side, her face serene. She’d managed to do more than calm Mr Bernadetti. With Mr Kipling’s help, she’d negotiated their way into a London show. Near the bottom of the bill, but Camden was undeniably a step up.

  The orchestra, obviously deciding it had something better to do than tuning, banged straight into the overture. Kingsley took Evadne’s hand and squeezed it. She squeezed back, but didn’t let go.

  The curtain rose and the announcer gave voice: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to present, in their debut performance, please welcome The Extraordinaires!’

  Hand in hand Kingsley and Evadne stepped into the limelight that was their world.

  One of the joys of writing in this mode is the researching I have to do. In an effort to get my detai
ls right, I comb through many volumes and innumerable web pages. I inevitably stumble on titbits that amuse and entertain me, as well as making me think of narrative possibilities.

  I’d like to mention a few that were particularly helpful, as their contribution to my story was immense.

  For help with the Edwardian period in general, I appreciated Roy Hattersley’s The Edwardians, as well as the extraordinary Lost Voices of the Edwardians by Max Arthur, which was a captivating collection of snippets from those who lived in these times, with details ranging from the mundane to the regal. Wonderful reading. In addition, The Big Shots by Jonathan Ruffer was important in adding to my coming to terms with the Edwardians and their ways.

  For details about the 1908 Olympic Games and the Franco-British Exhibition, I was grateful for The First Olympic Games by Rebecca Jenkins. Full of lively anecdotes and tantalising photographs, this was extremely helpful.

  For down to earth material about London, Roy Porter’s London: A Social History was invaluable, while Peter Ackroyd’s magisterial London, the Biography is unsurpassed in detail and scope.

  The internet, of course, was a treasure trove. From actual street maps of 1908 London, to weather charts for the period, to the actual 330-page ‘illustrated review’ of the Franco-British exhibition, I had a wealth of material to work with. Edwardiana lives!

  Naturally, the scholarship and diligence of all the writers and compilers I’ve listed cannot prevent a storyteller from getting things wrong. If I have, please accept that it is my fault, and not theirs.

  Michael Pryor has published more than twenty-five fantasy books and over forty short stories, from literary fiction to science fiction to slapstick humour. Michael has been shortlisted six times for the Aurealis Awards, has been nominated for a Ditmar award, and six of his books have been Children’s Book Council of Australia Notable Books, including three books in The Laws of Magic series. His most recent series are The Chronicles of Krangor, The Laws of Magic and The Extraordinaires.