The Shadow Arts

by Damien Love

  “I didn’t think I had,” Alex whispered. “He just . . . turned up.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “Nothing. I was waiting until we found you.”

  “We have to tread carefully here, Alex,” his grandfather murmured. “Break it to him gently. Extreme delicacy required. There’s no telling what the shock might do. But first thing’s first, young man: am I correct in thinking you just sent a flier for me? That was you? Controlling that thing?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “What on earth were you thinking? How stupid can you be? Do you know the risk . . . What happened after she took you?”

  Alex told him as best he could. He could see his grandfather growing more worried by the word. And angrier.

  “Agreeing to use the flier when she asked was bad enough,” the old man snapped. “But I can understand that: you had no option. But doing it again? Of your own free will? Do you have any idea what you might have opened yourself up to? How do you even know Zia couldn’t also connect to the machine, get to you through it? When I saw you, I thought maybe they had you under some control.”

  Alex hung his head, stung by the scolding, partly because he agreed with most of it. Using the flier had been foolish. Yet he felt certain only he had access to this particular robot now. And, after all: it had worked.

  “It’s only me who can use it,” he muttered. “She said so. She said it had been prepared—”

  “She?” his grandfather exploded. “She said? After she grabbed you and threw you down a well? Zia? You believe a word that drops from her mouth? If she told me water was wet, I’d think twice. I can’t believe you could be so stupid.”

  “Okay,” Alex snapped back. “I get it. I’m stupid. What was I supposed to do? I was lost, I needed to find you, and the flier was there, and I knew how to do it, and so I acted accordingly, like you keep saying.

  “Oh, and talking of your advice,” Alex went on, yelling now, “what am I supposed to think, anyway? You’re all over the place. One minute you’re telling me all this stuff is dangerous and needs stopping, the next you’re getting me to magic Harry back up from the dead. I mean, make your mind up. Anyway, what’s so bad? It was easy to use the flier. I’m good at it. It’s really useful, we can use it.”

  “Oh, easy, was it? Just you listen to— Wait a minute. What do you mean we can use it? You don’t still have it?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  “’Ere, ’ang on.”

  Alex and his grandfather turned irritably as Harry stepped toward them.

  “Just a minute, Harry,” the old man said. “Alex and I have some—”

  “No, wait. What did the lad mean? Magic me up from the dead. What’s ’e on about?”

  In the heavy silence that followed, Alex and his grandfather exchanged a look from the corner of their eyes.

  “Ha,” the old man said eventually. “Now, Harry. I was planning to talk to you about all this. Yes. You see, well, you, ah—I mean, it sounds silly even saying it—but you . . . Are you sure you’re feeling okay, old chap? Quite yourself?”

  “I’m feelin’ fine,” Harry said. “And I’d feel even better if you’d get to the point.”

  “Of course. Well, thing is—” The old man threw another look at Alex. Alex shrugged helplessly. His grandfather turned back to Harry and tried a reassuring grin. “Thing is . . . Harry. You died.”

  Harry looked at Alex, then back to Alex’s grandfather. “Eh?”

  “Died. Dead. They killed you. Snapped your neck, far as I could tell.”

  “This is us breaking it to him gently, is it?” Alex said.

  “I think you’ll find,” his grandfather said, “it was you who let this particular cat out of the bag. Are you okay, Harry?”

  Harry was staring at the ground. He looked up. “You sure?”

  “Well, yes. I, ah, buried you. A little.”

  “But, when . . . I mean . . . ’ow long?”

  “Three days. More or less.”

  Harry looked away, at the sky, gray patched blue where the clouds were thinning, at the damp green fields, trees hugging the horizon. His lip trembled. He rubbed quickly at one eye with the heel of his hand, then sniffed and straightened.

  “I’m not sure ’ow I feel about that.”

  “Well, no.” Alex’s grandfather nodded sympathetically. “I mean, of course.”

  They stood in an awkward silence broken only by the sound of the old man tapping his boots with his cane to dislodge some dirt. He glanced up at Harry from under his hat brim.

  “Mind if I try your pulse?”

  Harry shrugged, held out his hand.

  “Strong as a horse,” Alex’s grandfather said after testing Harry’s wrist. “Oh, by the way, here’s your watch back. Harry, do you feel any different?”

  “Hmm.” Harry stretched, then rolled his shoulders and flexed his knees. “Pain in me ’ip.”

  “Pain in your hip?”

  “Yeah. It’s totally gone. It’s all cleared up.”

  “And after you . . . woke up, you just found Alex, by chance?” the old man asked.

  “Eh, well, yeah. I mean, I was walkin’ and just ’ad a feelin’ about the direction to go.”

  “Uh-huh. Harry, try something for me, would you?” Alex’s grandfather said. “Close your eyes and don’t open them until I say. Now let me just turn you around on the spot here.”

  Gripping Harry gently by the shoulders, he spun him slowly around three times. “Good man. Keep your eyes closed. Now, Alex, quietly as you can, could you walk over there?”

  Alex shrugged and went a few steps in the direction the old man pointed.

  “Okay. Now, Harry: keeping your eyes shut, could you point to where you think Alex is?”

  Harry blindly aimed a big thumb over his left shoulder, straight at Alex.

  “Hmm,” Alex’s grandfather said. “Let’s try it again.”

  They repeated the procedure four times in random directions. In each case, Harry knew exactly where Alex was.

  “Fascinating. Ah well.” The old man slapped his hands together, dismissing the issue. “Back to business.”

  “What? No, wait!” Alex said. “What does it mean?”

  “Beats me,” his grandfather said. “Interesting, though. Harry, are you hungry at all?”

  Harry pursed his lips. “Now you mention it, I am a little peckish.”

  “Marvelous food at the hotel not far from here,” Alex’s grandfather said eagerly. “Shouldn’t take too long to walk.”

  “We don’t have time for that,” Alex spluttered. “We—”

  “We need to regroup, Alex, refuel. Besides, we’re not much use on foot, and unless you suggest hijacking a passing vehicle, which is something I’ve tried to give up, our best bet is to arrange another car at the hotel. But before that: Alex, I need you to do something. You still have the flier?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you need to give it up. Here and now.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. Yes, I heard what you said: you can do it, and it’s useful, and you think you can control it, and control yourself. I wonder though. If you get a taste for this little machine, then what about the next thing you’re offered? Something a little more potent, perhaps, something that takes a little more out of you? Or something that requires you to give it something else, not of your own? How far down that road do you think you can go before there’s no turning back? You have no idea what you’re dealing with, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. I have a basic rule, Alex: if we have to resort to using the other side’s methods to win, then maybe winning’s not worth it.”

  “You stick by it when it suits you,” Alex muttered.

  Harry said nothing. He stood watching them pensively.

  “I have neither the time nor the inclinatio
n to argue, Alex,” his grandfather said. “Give it up here, or we go no farther together. So. You have a decision to make.”

  Alex looked from the old man, very tired but doing a good job of hiding it, to Harry, who shuffled from one foot to another. It seemed as if the whole world was watching, waiting. The weight of it all came down on him, and then, as if in response, came a sudden light, exhilarating memory of his soaring flight with the machine.

  He sighed, sagged in defeat, and pulled the flier from his coat, offering it to his grandfather. “You’re right. What do we do with it, then?”

  “Well.” The old man straightened, as if a burden had been lifted. He gestured to the roadside. “Burying it should do the job.”

  Alex hesitated. The little robot seemed to look at him from his hand. He shook himself, then bent and started scooping out a hole in the ground under the hedge. As he placed the flier inside, a sharp memory of being trapped down the well shivered through him. He covered the flier, being very careful about just how he did it, gently patting the dirt down.

  “Okay,” Alex said, when he was satisfied.

  “Thank you,” the old man said quietly. “And thank you for Harry. What you did was extraordinary, Alex. And I know it wasn’t easy for you, in more ways than one. I’m sorry for snapping. But I’m very glad you’ve decided to give this up. When we get through this, I want you to be done with all of this business. Out of it. It’s . . . not for you. Come on, let’s go.”

  As they started walking, Alex’s grandfather put an arm around Harry’s shoulders, speaking in a confidential tone. “Harry, just out of interest: can you remember anything about when you were, y’know. Out. Away . . . Dead.”

  Harry chewed his lip, head bowed in silent concentration, then looked up. “Coconut.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There was a coconutty smell,” Harry said decisively.

  “Absolutely fascinating.”

  Alex sighed and dropped behind a few steps, leaving them to it. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Back along the road, the patch of dirt he’d left as loose as possible trembled, and his flier came bursting out. Damp earth fell away from it as it climbed for the sky. Alex held it high in the air behind them as they walked, far enough back that no one would see.

  XXIII.

  DEAD MAN TALKING

  The drizzle became a mist over the country. Alex’s grandfather kept up a largely meaningless conversation with Harry, mostly, Alex suspected, just to get the dead man’s mind working. Harry was still having trouble with his memory.

  Alex let them talk, more focused on scanning the roads around them using the wavering overhead images coming to him from his flier. They seemed safe, so far.

  He hated lying, but he was sure his grandfather was wrong. The old man had said as much, more than once—his thinking wasn’t clear. There was something wrong with him, Alex was increasingly sure. With his grandfather’s concentration waning, and with Harry . . . being in whatever state Harry was in, Alex had taken the decision, to protect them all.

  With his flier, he could watch for anyone following, anything waiting around the bend. It was eating up his energy, but the more he used the machine, the more he understood how to control it. It could prove useful in whatever lay ahead. Then, once it was all over, once he was out of this deranged dream life, he would give it up and get rid of it.

  He would.

  Before long, in his high mental view, he spotted the hotel, the busier roads beyond. Arriving at a crossroads, his grandfather hesitated over the way to go.

  “It’s left, I think,” Alex said.

  “Think you’re right, Alex.”

  In the small lobby, the old man and Harry called a car rental company, then gave the hotel’s bemused owner details about where to find the wrecked Citröen, and instructions for having a local garage transport it to Albert in Paris, along with extra cash not to ask questions.

  Alex’s grandfather slapped his hands in satisfaction. “So: car’s on its way, they’ll fix us an early lunch, and lunch’ll do us good.”

  The small dining room felt more like someone’s home than a hotel. They took a table by large windows that framed a panoramic view across the valley, the world vibrating in shades of green beneath bulging clouds so dark they were almost blue.

  Look out your window. Alex sat thinking about Kenzie’s last message, still not understanding it at all.

  It was barely nine in the morning. The place was almost empty, just one other couple finishing breakfast in the corner. “I propose,” Alex’s grandfather said happily, examining the menu, “we make the most of this. Nice big lunch. I’m hungry, and we need the energy. Now, this trout sounds rather delicious, eh?”

  Alex tried to relax. The coast seemed clear, anyway. He had the flier perched on the hotel roof and flicked his mind across the bridge into it every few minutes, turning it on and off. After a while, he realized that, with a slight increase of effort, he could keep a small part of his consciousness active in the machine without having to focus entirely upon it: a kind of standby mode, like keeping a finger tapping. He recalled something his grandfather had said, about sectioning off the mind. This must have been what he’d meant.

  When it arrived, the meal the old man had ordered—crispy fried fish, with creamy sauce and generous mounds of salad and potatoes—did something to restore Alex. As Harry started eating, Alex and his grandfather both stopped and stared, mesmerized.

  “Somethin’ between me teeth?” Harry frowned.

  “No, no,” Alex’s grandfather said. “Sorry. It’s just—how is it?”

  “Yeah.” Harry waggled his fork. “Tasty.”

  “No, I mean eating. How’s it feel? Is eating still something you can do? Want to do?”

  “Eh? Oh, yeah. Forgot for a second.” Harry took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “Yeah, reckon so.”

  “How’s about a drink?” Alex’s grandfather hurried away and returned bearing two brandies. “Shall we do the toast?” The old man raised his glass “Remember, man, that thou art dust—”

  “An’ that’s why you always feel so thirsty,” Harry replied. They touched cups and drank. “Oh, that’s a lovely drop,” Harry said, smacking his lips.

  “Taste buds seem in order, anyway,” Alex’s grandfather said. “Now, Harry. We were in the middle of something, remember? The stolen paintings?” He quickly filled Harry in on what had been happening in his absence, including his vague recollections of the Shadow Gate story and the news of the most recent painting stolen in Paris.

  “We’re still in the dark,” he continued, speaking lightly. Alex sensed him working hard to hide his desperation, trying not to put too much pressure on Harry to remember. “So, can you recall what you’ve been up to since the last time I saw you? I mean, before your, ah, accident. We split up, remember? We were trying to track down any trace of my father’s movements.”

  “Oh,” Harry said quietly. He nodded at Alex. “You’ve told ’im then. About . . . your father.”

  “More or less. But back to the point: I headed for Italy. You stayed in Paris. And then you found something, you got onto their trail.”

  “That’s right,” Harry said dimly. “Yeah. We’d put word out on the concierge network—that’s the people who run the front desks in all the ’otels,” he explained, catching Alex’s uncomprehending look. “Receptionists, concierges. Pays to keep in their good books. Add in all their connections with taxi drivers and restaurants and everything, it’s still the best way of knowing what’s going on in a city. Grapevine. We’d circulated descriptions ’alfway across Europe. Bit of a long shot, but I got an it: a message next afternoon that someone matching Willy von Sudenfeld’s description ’ad been spotted arriving in Paris from London. Willy’s not very good at the cloak-’n’-dagger stuff.”

  “Arriving from Britain. The Schalcken picture,” Alex’s grandfat
her muttered. “The painting that was stolen in Cambridge, Alex, waffle lady. Must’ve been Willy. Might have been him that carried over the flier that was sent to watch you.”

  “Yeah.” At mention of a flier, Alex shifted slightly, feeling guilty.

  “It’s coming back,” Harry went on. “I got on their trail at the ’otel they’d checked into. Willy and the bald bruiser. I tailed ’em when they left that night. They left Paris, drove east. I followed them to an ’ouse, a château. I ’id nearby. When they ’eaded for the ’ouse, I stuck a GPS tracker under their car.”

  “A what now?” Alex’s grandfather frowned.

  “Cheap little gizmo, tells me where the car is. Sends messages to me cell phone. I showed you one before, but you said you weren’t interested.” Harry turned to Alex, gesturing to the old man. “See, unlike your grandad, I try to keep up with technology.”

  “Well, what was wrong with the little electronic bugs we always used to use?” Alex’s grandfather said petulantly. “The beepers. I liked those.”

  “These’re better,” Harry said. “Anyways. This château. They went over the wall and were prowling the gardens. Casing the place—’ere, that’s it!”

  “What’s what?” Alex and his grandfather spoke in unison.

  “That’s where the painting is! The last one! They said so. It’s in this château. I followed, close as I could. They got right up to a ground-floor window—but then there were people coming out from the ’ouse with guns and . . . dogs.

  “Willy and his pal ran. Next thing I know, dogs are coming at me. I got over the wall in time to see Willy’s car racing off. By the time I got to my car, the people from the château ’ad come out in a motor and were after me. They didn’t look like they were in a mood for explanations, so I floored it. It took me ages to lose them. Then I picked up Willy’s location again using the GPS and went after ’im.”

  “Admirable.” Alex’s grandfather tapped his nose, thinking. “So you headed for Germany, racing after von Sudenfeld?”

  “Yeah. Eventually, I saw they’d stopped beneath the Kandel. I parked farther down the road. When I crept up, they were still in the car, waitin’, then the others arrived, in a van, and I think another car, a kind of . . . Not sure. I was a good distance away, but it looked like Zia, and your old man, standin’ with a couple of life-sizers. Uh.” Harry rubbed big fingers gently over his brow.