“Well,” said Victoria, “apart from a tendency to overheat and blow up quite dramatically if you leave it running for too long . . . remember you’ll be inside the field too. So be very careful what you say out loud.”
“It does lead to a certain feeling of liberation,” said Maxwell. “A desire to speak out and damn the consequences. People say all kinds of things. Don’t they, dear?”
“Oh my word, don’t they?” said Victoria. “We had ever so much fun playing with this last week. I haven’t been able to look at Jeremy the same way since.”
“Is that it?” said Molly as I tucked the various boxes away about my person, while making careful mental notes as to which colour did what. “That’s all you’ve got to offer? No weapons? No big guns, no unnatural nastiness, no protein exploders?”
“Since when do you feel the need for weapons?” said Maxwell, just a bit defensively.
“Since I decided this was a killing mission,” said Molly.
Maxwell and Victoria looked at each other uncomfortably.
“Well,” said Maxwell, “we do have something . . .”
“We’ve always preferred to concentrate on espionage,” said Victoria. “General sneakiness, aids to information gathering, that sort of thing, rather than death and destruction.”
“But we do understand the need for weapons,” said Maxwell. “So, we have this.”
He handed Molly a very ordinary-looking wristwatch.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” said Molly. “Tell an enemy that it’s later than they think?”
“You hit the raised button on the side. Don’t touch it now!” said Victoria.
“After that, everything inside the field generated by the watch will accelerate in time,” said Maxwell.
“Thousands of years will pass in seconds,” said Victoria. “We designed it to break down walls and other barriers, or destroy documents and other incriminating evidence. But you can imagine what it would do to a person. Or any powerful creature.”
“As long as you don’t choose something naturally long-lived,” said Maxwell.
Molly strapped the watch on her wrist with a casualness even I found disturbing.
“These are all really clever ideas,” I said. “Jack would have approved.”
“We hope so,” said Maxwell. “We got into this for the Science. It was only when we took over here, and had to concentrate on turning out useful things, that we realised the uses our creations would be put to. Out in the field.”
“No use for pure science in the Armoury,” said Victoria. “We’ve always been more interested in creating things than destroying them.”
“Have you ever considered that you might be in the wrong job?” said Molly.
“Yes,” said Maxwell. “But Jack came to us and asked us to take over for him. We couldn’t say no.”
“We’re just not very interested in finding new ways to kill people,” said Victoria.
“Mostly we let the lab assistants concentrate on the weapon making,” said Maxwell. “Because you can’t stop the little terrors coming up with all kinds of horribly destructive things.”
“It’s just . . . not us,” said Victoria.
“But we know our duty.”
“Anything for the family.”
They stood together, holding hands quite unselfconsciously, like two children lost in the big bad wood.
And then alarms went off all over the Armoury. Bells and sirens and flashing lights. Maxwell and Victoria moved quickly to stand back to back, trying to look in all directions at once. Lab assistants came running from all over, armed with whatever weapons happened to be closest. A dimensional doorway opened up between Molly and me and the Armourer. Just a ragged gap in mid-air, not much bigger than an actual door. Looking through the gap, quite casually, was William the Librarian. He smiled cheerfully at Molly and me.
“Ah, there you are . . .”
Maxwell and Victoria came hurrying round to see what we were seeing, and were immediately outraged and scandalised. They glared at the Librarian, and then gestured for the lab assistants to stand down. They retreated reluctantly, still hanging on to their weapons. The alarms shut down. All except for one bell, which kept on ringing until an assistant hit it. Maxwell pointed an accusing finger at William.
“This is not acceptable behaviour, Librarian! How are you even doing that? Unauthorized entrances into the Armoury aren’t supposed to be possible! Not with all our security measures!”
“That’s right, Max! You tell him!”
“I am telling him, dear . . .”
William just grinned. “Amazing what you can find in books. Eddie, Molly, I need you to come and see me. Right now. I may have found something. Step through, please.”
“But we’re not finished!” Maxwell said immediately.
“You have more for us?” I said.
“Well, no, but . . . ,” said Victoria.
“But you always talk to the Armourer before you go off on a mission,” said Maxwell. “It’s traditional.”
“We were looking forward to it,” said Victoria.
“Later,” I said, as kindly as I could. “Thanks for your help.”
I stepped through the dimensional breach, and into the Old Library, stepping carefully over the ragged edge at the bottom. I’d seen someone lose a foot to one of these things. Molly came through right after me, crowding my back. Possibly because she didn’t want to be left behind with Maxwell and Victoria. The dimensional tear slammed shut behind us.
* * *
The Old Library hadn’t changed a bit since I last saw it. Endless wooden stacks, packed full of books, stretching off into the distance for just that little bit farther than the human eye could comfortably follow. Pleasant, honey-coloured light hung over everything, from no obvious source. The stacks contained everything from modern paperbacks to leather-bound volumes, manuscripts in folders to palimpsests on scraped skin. Grimoires and bestiaries, maps of lands that no one now remembered, and visions of worlds yet to come. Books on everything under the sun, and the dark side of the moon. Drood records go way back . . . There was a general sense of peace and quiet, of academic solitude, and forbidden knowledge right there for the taking. Slightly undermined by a constant sense of being watched, from somewhere out in the stacks. Possibly by the books.
Away from the formality of the Matriarch’s Council meeting, William had slipped off his tweed jacket and dropped it casually on the floor. He was sitting behind a sturdy old Victorian desk covered in opened books, and yet more books with markers in them. Piles of assorted volumes leaned up against the desk. That amiable young man, Yorith, assistant to the Librarian, came forward out of the stacks, bearing another armful of books. He dumped them beside the desk, started to smile at Eddie and Molly, and then saw the look on the Librarian’s face. He shrugged easily, then produced a long handwritten list and considered it briefly before heading off into another part of the stacks.
“What’s so important, Librarian?” I said.
William marked his place carefully in the oversized volume before him and carefully closed it. He seemed very focused, for him. He’d taken off his cravat to use as a marker in one of the books, and his bushy white hair was looking wild and windswept again. But in his Library, in his place of power, William possessed an authority he didn’t have anywhere else. Here, he was the man who knew things. When he could remember them.
“We don’t just have reference and history books,” he said in his formal lecturer’s voice. “All the information that comes to this family, from whatever source, ends up here. For storage and later retrieval. With Yorith’s help, I was able to locate this particular and very interesting volume that I remembered reading some time back. It contains, among many other fascinating items, a request for funding from a very secret group whose members are dedicated to staying alive in the face of
everything the world can throw at them. They call themselves the Survivors.
“They were extremely detailed in their proposal, concerning their intended field of endeavour, so I had it bound in with a whole bunch of other interesting proposals. Just in case they ever came up with something we could use. According to what I’ve been reading—just to refresh my memory, you understand—it seems they’re willing to use science and magic and everything in between, including alien and other-dimensional technology. And pretty much anything else they can get their hands on. Remarkably open-minded people. It seems entirely possible to me, Eddie, that they might have something to keep you alive.”
“Where are they?” I said. “And what kind of people are we talking about?”
“What does it matter, if they can help?” said Molly.
“It matters, love,” I said. “Survival at any price? I don’t think so. Some prices are just too high.”
“Even if they can’t actually cure the poison,” said William, “they might be able to buy you more time.”
“Where are they?” I said.
“The Survivors have their own very secret, and very secure, hidden bunker,” said William. “Inside a mountain. Don’t ask me which one. Apparently the only way in or out is via a teleport mechanism. Entrance strictly by Invitation Only.”
“I could use the Merlin Glass,” I said.
The Librarian pulled a face. “You still have that awful thing?”
“Yes,” I said defensively. “It might not be as reliable as it was, but it still has its uses.”
“If you’d read as much as I have about Merlin Satanspawn, you wouldn’t let anything he’d touched anywhere near you,” William said coldly. “A truly devious and dangerous mind, with far too much power for his or anyone else’s good. On no one’s side but his own.”
“Do you know why he gave the Glass to the Droods in the first place?” said Molly.
William frowned. “It does seem to me I read something about that, long ago . . .” He scowled fiercely, struggling to find the memory. I waited politely. Molly, somewhat less so. William worried his lower lip between his teeth, his gaze far away. “The Glass, yes . . . It isn’t just a useful device. It has a specific purpose. It guards something . . . or perhaps it was supposed to guard us against something . . .”
His scowl of concentration gave way to frustration, his mouth twisting miserably, and he beat on his desktop with his fists, so angry with himself, he was on the brink of tears. I stepped forward and patted him comfortingly on the arm. As he had with me. He didn’t even know I was there. I held his hands still to stop him from hurting himself. William sighed heavily and sat slumped in his chair. A tired old man who’d been hurt too much, and too often. I let him sit for a while, and then tried again.
“Why wouldn’t the Merlin Glass get me in to see the Survivors, Librarian?”
“Because they have incredibly powerful defences in place. They don’t want to be interrupted in their work, or share their progress with anyone who hasn’t paid for it. To get in, you need to know someone on the inside. And we don’t know any of the current prime movers. Not these days. I’ve been going through the original proposal very carefully, but all references to the original founders were removed long ago. Someone in the family didn’t want the names to be general knowledge. I fear that information is now lost.”
“Come on,” I said. “Someone must know. Someone in the family always knows . . .”
“Usually, yes,” said William. He’d resumed his calm, if not his poise. “But we’ve lost so many of the old hands, just recently. Martha, James, Jack . . . even the Drood in Cell Thirteen. Those who remain may have access to the information, but they don’t know people. Not the way the old guard did. They can’t call in personal favours to guarantee an audience. And if I ever knew the right names . . . I don’t remember them any more. There’s a lot I don’t remember. Not all of it through choice.”
A familiar lost look filled his face. It was easy to forget how damaged he was, when I first found him at Happy Acres. Just one more disturbed soul hiding from a terrible enemy, among the other insane people. He’d come a long way since coming home, but he could still stumble over the gaps in his mind.
“Should we call Ammonia?” Molly said quietly. “Maybe she can help.”
“No,” said the Librarian. “Don’t disturb her. I’ll be fine.”
Molly looked at me, and I shook my head. You can’t help someone who isn’t ready to be helped.
“All right!” said Molly. “We go to the Wulfshead Club. Because someone there always knows what’s going on. Someone will know of a way into the Survivors’ mountain base.”
“Remind me,” I said. “Are we still banned from the Wulfshead?”
“Don’t know; don’t care,” said Molly.
“I haven’t given up, Eddie,” the Librarian said quietly. “It’s just that there are so many books, and the index isn’t worth the vellum it’s written on.” He fixed me with a surprisingly bright gaze. “I’ve been to too many funerals since I returned. I would rather not have to attend another. But . . . there is an old saying, Eddie. If all that’s left to you is to die, die well. And take as many of the bastards down with you as you can.”
Molly glared about her. “Tell me, Librarian. Is the Pook still here?”
William looked at her oddly. “No use asking me, my dear. The Pook comes and goes at his pleasure. I feel his presence more often than I see him. He’s disturbingly playful, for such an ancient entity. He shows up now and again, for a spot of civilised conversation . . .”
“What do you talk about?” said Molly.
“Oh, you know,” the Librarian said. “Things . . .”
“Do you know what the Pook is?” I said.
“You mean apart from a giant white rabbit that not everyone can see? To be honest, Eddie, I’m always surprised anyone else can see him. I thought I’d left him behind in the asylum.”
“Isn’t there anything in the Library about him?” said Molly.
“Oh yes,” said William. “Any amount. All of it utterly contradictory. Which is only fitting, I suppose, given the Pook’s nature. He’s something from the very old days. When we all lived in the forest, because there was nowhere else. He is the lightning in the skies and the laughter in the woods, a thing of March Hare madness and pagan wildness. A survivor from a time when men talked with their gods every day and thought nothing of it. Who comes and goes as he will, revealing himself to this one and to that one . . . To the broken people, like me, because he feels a kinship. He is the Pook. That’s enough.”
Molly turned away from him and raised her voice against the quiet of the Old Library. “Pook? Are you there?”
We all waited, looking into the shadows between the stacks, but there was no response.
“Pook!” said Molly. “Damn it; we need you!”
And then we all tensed as we heard footsteps moving among the stacks. Drawing slowly, steadily closer. Molly fell back. I moved in beside her. William sat up straight in his chair. Until Yorith emerged from the stacks, carrying another armful of books. He stopped for a moment, clearly wondering why we were all looking at him, and then moved forward to put his books down beside the Librarian’s desk.
“You can’t compel the Pook to do anything, Molly,” the Librarian said kindly. “It isn’t in his nature.”
“The Pook?” said Yorith. “Is he back?”
“Apparently not,” I said.
“Good,” said Yorith. “He puts the wind up me something fierce.”
“Perhaps the Pook can’t help,” said Molly. “And just doesn’t want to admit it.”
“Perhaps,” said the Librarian.
Molly studied the rows of stacks coldly, the glint of battle rising in her eye. “Maybe if I . . .”
“No,” I said immediately.
“Why no
t?” said Molly.
“Because this is no time to be making enemies,” I said. “Let’s go. We have things to do and a deadline to beat. If we can find Dr DOA and bring him down, at least we can avenge his past victims. And prevent any new ones.”
“That’s not enough,” said Molly.
“No,” I said. “It isn’t. But it’s what we’ve got.”
CHAPTER FOUR
No Greater Love
As so often happens with the members of my family, I felt the need to hide something from them. So I gave Molly a significant look, and just casually announced to the Librarian that I was going to look for a book in the stacks before I left. William regarded me with a certain amount of surprise, not to mention suspicion.
“Of course,” he said. “Tell me which book, and I’ll have Yorith locate it and bring it here.”
“I’m interested in a particular field,” I said. “Rather than a particular book. Think I’ll just browse for a while. Run my fingers across a few spines, see what I can turn up.”
“You’re up to something,” the Librarian said resignedly. “Full of obscure poisons and half-dead on your feet, and you still won’t be straight with me.” He smiled suddenly. “Typical Drood. Off you go, Eddie. Do what you have to. But if you so much as dog-ear a single page, I’ll have your guts for bindings.”
He busied himself with the volume before him, leafing through the heavy oversized pages with thunderous concentration; so he could honestly tell the Matriarch he had no idea what I was up to. Yorith dropped me a wink, and disappeared back into the stacks with his list. I led Molly into a whole different area of the Old Library. She waited more or less patiently until she was sure we were out of the Librarian’s hearing, and then tapped me sternly on the shoulder.
“A book? Really? That was the best excuse you could come up with?”
“The choices are somewhat limited in a Library,” I said. “I could have volunteered to do some dusting, but I think he would have seen through that. Besides, there’s dust here that hasn’t moved since the Venerable Bede decided to jot down a few odd thoughts. I have a horrible suspicion some of it might fight back.”
Secret Histories 10: Dr. DOA Page 12
