The Bandalore

by D K Girl

  ‘That one will send the Order broke before long,’ Benedict finally said, with an accent that suggested some breeding. ‘Both with feeding and clothing. I pity your tailor, boy, does he need a step ladder to reach your crotch and do his measurements?’

  The bartender scowled at the pint glass as it filled.

  ‘Certainly not, what a strange thing to suggest.’ Silas touched at the buttons on his coat, which he had not been inclined to remove. He’d not set eyes upon a tailor, the clothes appearing in his closet with perfect cut, placed there by unseen hands. Gilmore, he now assumed, not certain he enjoyed the idea of the man coming and going as he pleased in the cottage.

  ‘Look at ‘is face,’ Tyvain laughed. ‘You’ve gone and insulted our precious giant, Benedict.’

  Both of them appeared to find Silas’s discomfort highly entertaining. He was quickly coming to resent Isaac’s unrequested decision to bring him here. By now Silas could have been seated before his own fire, in his dressing gown, with his favoured Scottish whisky warming his belly, taking a full and deep appreciation of the evenings most startling events. Hunger or no, perhaps it was best to be done with the place sooner rather than later.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Silas leaned down to avoid the jugs and glasses hanging from hooks above the bar. ‘Might I ask if Mr Ahari is available.’

  The bartender set down the fresh-poured stout in front of Silas, brown as syrup with a creamy froth. ‘My name is Kaneko, firstly welcome to The Atlas. Secondly, you won’t be needing any coin in this establishment, Mr Mercer. Pay no mind to them, sir. The hag likes her drink and the djinn just enjoys irritating us all. Enjoy your ale.’

  ‘Where the hell is mine?’ Tyvain thumped the bar. ‘The man didn’t even bloody order a drink and he gets served. You trying to kill me, Kaneko?’

  Ignoring her, he gave Silas a nod. ‘I’ll let Mr Ahari know you’d like a word.’

  And with that, the bartender vanished. Neither here, nor there. Not walking away but popping out of view as though he’d never stood there at all.

  ‘Wonderful job, hag.’ Benedict sighed, cradling his half-drunk pint. ‘Like he needs to inform Ahari of anything that goes on in this place. I’ll guarantee you that bloody tsukumogami is folded back into his umbrella right now and won’t be coming out any time soon. No telling when our next drink ‘ll be.’

  ‘Bastard.’ Tyvain declared.

  Silas leaned over the wooden countertop, as though the man might simply have crouched down. Of course, and unsurprisingly, it was empty behind the bar save for dirty boot prints marking the once-white tiles.

  ‘What did you call him?’ Silas asked. ‘The bartender, you called him a tuku…’

  ‘Tsukumogami.’ Tyvain said, scowling. ‘Cause that’s what ‘e is. Anything gets old enough there’s a chance it’ll find some life. I’m being treated right miserably by a bloody umbrella.’

  Silas’s face must have shown his confusion for Tyvain huffed. ‘Yeah, you ‘eard me right. Everybody is something ‘ere, Mr Mercer, and none of it human.’

  ‘But…how could that man be a umbrella?’

  ‘You mean how can an umbrella be a man. By living a bloody long time, and being around the right people to begin with. Spend over a hundred years being used by someone like Mr Ahari, and things can ‘appen. The lifeless get life. Seems to me that you might have been a man yourself, Mr Mercer. Maybe you sat in here just like those two,’ she gestured to the two men by the fire. ‘Totally blind to what’s going on around you.’

  Silas watched the conversing men, contemplating her words. ‘Perhaps. How is it that they are able to enter here?’

  ‘Through the bloody door like anyone else. This ain’t no exclusive joint,’ Benedict said. ‘Anyone who likes can come in, doesn’t mean they know a thing about those sitting around them. Besides, there are some of our kind who need to indulge in the humankind every now and then, and they appreciate the close proximity.’

  He and Tyvain shared a dark laugh. But Silas had no chance to question them further. A swinging door behind the bar, one whose lack of handle had hidden it before now, opened wide and the beaming visage of Mr Ahari filled the space. They had met but once, and the Oriental gentleman was exactly as Silas remembered. Plump of face, rosy of cheeks and thick of lips. His smile never seemed to waver, as though the curves to his lips were permanent. His almond eyes were dark but warm. His wrinkles suggested his youth was far behind him, but they suited his face so well it was hard to imagine him without their charms.

  ‘Tyvain, now what have we said about abusing poor Kaneko?’ Mr Ahari said. ‘He really does a marvellous job running the place, and you know it.’

  ‘Wasn’t saying any different,’ Tyvain sniffed. ‘I was just thirsty, is all.’

  Mr Ahari wrapped thick fingers around the middle of three wooden beer taps. ‘Dark ale, that’s your preference I believe, Tyvain?’

  She nodded, the spark at once returning to her eyes. Her tongue ran across her bottom lip. ‘And we ordered fish and chips, one for me, one for our giant friend here.’

  Mr Ahari’s laughter was melodious and oddly soothing. Unbidden, Silas found himself smiling as he took a long sip of the stout. ‘I see you’ve been introduced to our soothsayer, Mr Mercer?’ He’d not yet looked Silas’s way.

  ‘Yes, I’ve had the pleasure,’ Silas replied.

  Mr Ahari’s almond eyes, so rich brown they appeared black, narrowed further as his smile lifted.

  ‘Premier soothsayer.’ Tyvain tapped her fingers against the wood, her impatience for the ale uncontained. ‘Old Bess needs to stop touting ‘erself as your number one, she’s losing her touch if you ask me.’

  Mr Ahari placed the pint in front of Tyvain with a flourish. ‘There. Now how about I see if I can encourage Kaneko to attend to kitchen duties.’ His dark eyes found Silas at last. ‘And you and I are in need of a conversation, are we not, Mr Mercer?’

  Without waiting on Silas’s answer, the old man left the way he had come, humming to himself. Silas frowned at the closing door.

  ‘What the devil you waiting for?’ Benedict said.

  Silas slid from the stool. ‘I should follow him?’

  Tyvain wrinkled her face, hands tight around her pint. ‘You’re pretty, but you ain’t bright, are you Mr Mercer? Get along with you, it wouldn’t do to keep him waiting. But hurry yourself back. I’m mighty partial to chips, can’t say yours will be waiting for you if you take your time. Good luck with the stairs.’

  Throwing back his stout, the thick drink hitting his stomach with heat and heaviness, Silas hurried after the already disappeared Mr Ahari.

  Chapter 9

  It may well have been the overloading of stout that caused his stomach to clench, or the lack of food to go with it, but either way Silas made his way through the dimly lit corridor behind the bar with some caution. As though the events of his earlier evening were not befuddling enough, now he was plagued by the words of Tyvain and Benedict, with their suggestion that the bartender was in fact an object, and the rather darker mention of the convenience of the fully human in the pub. He touched at his pocket, reassuring himself that the bandalore still lay there.

  The corridor held the odour of stale ale and dampness, not exactly the sort of place he’d imagined Mr Ahari, the very head of the Order, might reside, and he thought at one moment that he’d spied a mouse scuttle ahead in the shadows. He reached a staircase, and the end of the corridor, with no other options available but to go up. Why had Tyvain wished him luck with these? They appeared a normal, if not steep, set, with one side holding a balustrade, the other touching at the wall. The first step creaked loudly beneath his weight, and seemed to echo up the entire staircase and back along the corridor. As though the area were far larger than it was. Silas gripped the balustrade, a dark wood smoothed by years of handling. Above the staircase stretched on. He could see no sign of any landing. Silas halted, an ache at his temples. He’d swallowed that stout far too quickly for sure. Over indulgen
ce was becoming a feature of his new life, and he was none too pleased at himself.

  Setting his shoulders, Silas continued on. And on. And on. The number of stairs was astonishing. From view of the carriage it had appeared the Atlas rose three levels, no more, yet Silas’s legs fairly trembled with the work. He puffed and panted his way ever upward.

  ‘Mr Ahari?’ Silas called. He saw no sigh of gaslights, or candles up ahead.

  ‘Yes, yes. Come on up.’ Mr Ahari’s cheerful reply floated down to him.

  With a grimace Silas set on. The width of the step seemed to narrow as he rose higher, and before long was inadequate for the size of his feet. He was forced to near on tip-toe to make his way. His trousers brushed against the faded wallpaper, an elaborate garden print with delicate hummingbirds dipping long beaks into faded pink lillies. It was a print more suited to a fine parlour than alongside this uneven, steeply angled staircase which would have suited the servant’s quarters more ably. With his attention focused on what lay ahead, Silas’s booted toe caught at the edge of the next step, one that was placed slightly higher than the rest. He threw out his hands to prevent a fall, thumping one against the wood, the other against the wall.

  ‘Everything all right out there?’ Ahari’s voice was closer now, but there was still no sign of a landing.

  ‘Fine. Thank you.’

  ‘Not much further now. You’ve done well.’

  Buoyed by the prospect of finishing his climb, Silas quickened his pace. And there, as though out of the thinnest of air, appeared a landing. It was lit by a single wall sconce, cut in the shape of a shell, a candle dancing behind its clouded glass. Silas reached it and stared in astonishment at the three corridors that stretched before him. Vastly longer than the width of the building might suggest. In fact, he could not see to the ends of any of them, darkness swallowing what lay there. There were a multitude of doors along each corridor and all of them were closed with no sign of Mr Ahari. The staircase doubled back on itself, reaching ever further upwards. Considering how high Silas had already laboured, a further ascent seemed impossible. He might well touch the moon at this rate.

  ‘Mr Ahari? Where might I find you?’ He doubted his legs would handle a further climb. Movement came from the corridor at his right, and he turned with much relief.

  ‘There you are, Mr Mercer.’ Mr Ahari leaned out of a room several doorways down. ‘Do come in. I’ve a warm brandy awaiting, I believe that is your preference. Yes? Come, come. There’s a rather cheerful fire too.’

  Cheerful was rather the understatement, roaring was a far better description. Which was quite unpleasant after the heat of the climb. The fire was so bright no other lighting existed in the room at all. Candles perched on the mantle unlit, pointless in the glare. The flames danced madly in a deep hearth, surrounded by a grey streaked white marble. An very odd assortment of items lined the mantle. At the centre, twin candelabra shaped like the horns of a stag and made from what he guessed to be ivory took pride of place. Either side lay several skulls Silas recognised as that of birds, a crow likely, though how he was so certain was yet another mystery. Tilted against the wall sat a framed display of startlingly coloured butterflies, who appeared to be attempting to take flight under the flicker of the fire, alongside which rested a curious mask. A fox face, with sharp pointed ears and a long slender snout, quite elaborately painted with glittering fragments within the rich orange shade.

  While Silas had laboured up the endless stairs, Mr Ahari must have reached the room in impressive haste, having time to change his clothing. He wore a black smoking jacket with wide quilted cuffs and collar, and black silk trousers, appearing as though prepared for bed, rather than a visitor.

  ‘Did you locate the room easily enough?’ Mr Ahari poured a generous serve of brandy into green crystal glasses. Silas considered declining, his last experience with the drink had not ended well, but to refuse seemed ill-advised.

  ‘I’d not say easily.’ Or in a regular way, he mused. ‘I’ll not lie, the stairs seemed rather endless. I thought I was going to end up in the heavens.’

  ‘And I can assure you, you do not want that.’ Mr Ahari held the bottle high above the glasses, allowing a long stream of honey brown liquid to cascade with remarkable accuracy. ‘But you are right to note the peculiarity of the staircase. And were you the wrong type of visitor, they would indeed prove to be as you feared. Endless.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’ Silas was far too sweat-caked and tired for great decorum, besides, Mr Ahari had a rather easy manner about him, no air of superiority that set Silas on edge. The man turned, glasses in hand, his ever present beaming smile in place. ‘Exactly what I said. The Atlas is very discerning about her guests. And rather protective of myself.’

  He handed Silas his glass.

  ‘The building is protective?’ Silas removed his coat, for the heat was truly stifling. The room itself was cluttered, every inch of space covered. The walls were thick with paintings: from enormous gild framed landscapes to portraits of speckled hunting hounds barely larger than a snuff box.

  ‘Yes. But you are here, access has been granted. Here’s to you, Mr Mercer. I feel that great progress has been made this evening.’ He chinked his glass against Silas’s, before seating himself in an armchair that rested so close to the roaring fire it was a wonder its wooden frame did not self-combust. ‘Wonderful news of your success.’

  ‘So you have heard?’ Silas said, oddly disappointed that news had already reached Mr Ahari.

  ‘Of course, I’d not be much of a head of the Order if I did not.’ Mr Ahari laughed, kicking off the slippers he wore and stretching his short legs so his bare feet were closer to the fire. ‘Tell me, how do you feel?’

  Silas took a long sip of sweet, burning liquid before he spoke. He was rather queasy in truth, but well aware that was not what the man spoke of. ‘Confused, of course, but…content, somehow.’ He rubbed his thumb against the glass, recalling he vibration of the song. ‘As though something lost,’ he frowned in thought. ‘Has been found. Is this what Jane spoke of? My true nature I mean, has it shown itself? I am to banish spirits. An exorcist, as it were.’

  To imagine himself saying such a thing with so little consternation just a few ago would have been impossible.

  ‘Banish, Mr Mercer? Goodness me, no. That is not what you do at all. It is far more honourable than that. You restore lost souls to their rightful path, dear boy. Here, sit, sit. Join me.’

  Invitation to seat himself closer to the fire was not appealing, but Silas did as he was bid. Once seated, he took another sip, conscious of Mr Ahari’s eyes upon him. ‘I’m not certain I understand my purpose any better, my apologies, Mr Ahari—’

  ‘Oh, pish posh, I won’t have you apologising for things that are perfectly understandable. You’ve been kept in the dark, I know, and it is I who should apologise for that. The Lady Satine thought it best to let your nature find its own course, and she does tend to know best. You did wonderfully this evening, by all accounts, but I would so love to hear of it in your own words. Tell me every detail as you remember it, from the moment Isaac delivered you.’

  ‘Every detail?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Silas glanced at where his coat hung from a hook behind the door, the bandalore buried in the depths of one of the pockets. He wished he held it now, the smoothness of wood between his fingers. There was a large vase to one side of the door, its print a royal blue not far removed from the material of Silas’s coat. Mr Ahari’s walking can rested within. The ivory carved fox head jutting over its rim. Facing towards Silas it were as though the animal kept its wide white eyes upon him. Silas began his tale. Beginning with the surly butler. As he spoke, Silas’s gaze drifted over the cluttered room so as to avoid the penetrating stare of Mr Ahari who appeared intent on every word relayed. The floorboards were covered with an assortment of rugs, utterly mismatched. A rag-rug lay beneath a card table, colourful strips of material all woven together and meant for a workin
g family’s cottage. Beneath a leather lounge, that was in truth far too big for the room, lay a Persian carpet of rich reds and gold that could have graced a castle’s floors.

  ‘Tobias Astaroth was there?’ Mr Ahari interrupted.

  Silas nodded.

  Pursing his lips, Mr Ahari finally released his gaze from Silas and considered the fire. ‘Asking for trouble there, my lady, at least give him something to do to occupy his time.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Mr Ahari waved off the question with a grin. ‘Do go on, don’t mind me.’ He sipped at his brandy.

  After many more diversions and questions from Mr Ahari, Silas finally arrived at the moment when he brandished the bandalore at the spirit.

  ‘Might I see it?’ Mr Ahari said.

  ‘It is in my coat.’ Silas moved to rise.

  ‘No. Sit down, sit down,’ Mr Ahari tutted. ‘There is no need for you to move. Bring the bandalore to you, Silas.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Mr Ahari gave him a sly grin. ‘Come now, you have done such a thing before. Just now, in the carriage.’

  Silas blinked, his thoughts slippery with the warmth of brandy and ale. Tyvain must have informed the old man of the incident. Or Isaac. Silas must endeavour to remember there was little privacy in this new world. ‘That may be so, but I do not understand how I managed it.’

  ‘Why must you understand, just simply do it. Call the bandalore to you, Mr Mercer. Wish it so, and you’ll find it is so.’ He settled back into his chair, awaiting the performance.

  Certainly Silas had drawn the bandalore to him, but earlier it had been a sense of desperation that drove him. An anxiousness that came with the removal of the bandalore from his person. That was not the case now. Silas was at ease, fully aware that the wooden trinket was close by and within reach, his mind lazy with drink, and his muscles fatigued by the climb. Mr Ahari folded his hands over the top of his empty glass, seemingly ready to wait as long as necessary. Silas shifted to the edge of his chair. He set down his glass and wiped his hands against his trouser legs.