The Dead Gentleman

by Matthew Cody

  “From your dress I’d say you’re not from any place I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen them all,” said the Gentleman, examining Jez.

  He stepped closer now, his glassy eyes fixed on Jezebel’s, as if he was trying to read something there. She kept her best poker face on—she wouldn’t give up anything more than she already had. When he reached out a hand to touch her face, Tommy made a move to intercept. It was a charming, chivalrous and stupid thing to do. He was well within the reach of those Harvester things, and it seemed they had been waiting for an excuse to hurt someone. One of them snatched him up by the back of the neck and lifted him until his tiptoes dangled beneath him. A few tears squeezed out of his eyes but he didn’t cry out.

  Ignoring Tommy, the Gentleman took Jezebel’s face in his hand, turning it from side to side, studying it. His fingers were hard. Cold.

  “You are fleshy,” he said. “Well-fed and soft. Your clothing contains synthetic fibers and your hair smells of chemicals. Could it be you’re from … the future? Earth’s future, perhaps? Now why would Tommy be peeking around in Earth’s future, unless he was looking for something … something that once belonged to me?”

  He let his hands drop from Jezebel’s face and turned to Tommy. “You don’t have it. Perhaps you never had it? Clever boy. But where is it, then? You didn’t leave it with the Academy. I spilled every last drop of blood searching that place …”

  The Gentleman looked at Jezebel. “You know what we are talking about, don’t you? A delicate mechanical bird. You’ve seen it, perhaps?”

  The Harvester pulled Tommy’s head back with a jerk, exposing his throat to its master.

  Jezebel started to shout something, but the second Harvester shot its long, bony hand toward her and grabbed her hair. With a twist it brought her to her knees. All she could do was watch as the Gentleman reached around and, with a wet sucking sound, drew out the knife from his own back. With an awkward stab, he brought the knife up and sliced open the pouch on Tommy’s belt. The Cycloidotrope tumbled out into the Gentleman’s free hand.

  “Ah, the Cycloidotrope, of course,” he said, holding the device up to his sunken eye. “The High Father’s little toy.”

  With a gesture from the Gentleman, the Harvesters released their grip on the prisoners. Tommy fell to the floor, and when Jezebel took her hand away from her scalp there were fresh flecks of blood on her fingers.

  “Let’s see where you came from,” the Gentleman said. With a pale white hand he rubbed the Cycloidotrope until it started to glow. Images began to flash across its surface, spinning too fast to make sense of.

  “Show me the future,” the Gentleman said. “Show me Jezebel Lemon.”

  A beam of light shot out of the cube, and when it cleared they were staring at a three-dimensional image of Jezebel’s room. Her bed was unmade and the storm still raged outside. Beyond her window the winds blew ripples across the Hudson River.

  “Have you hidden it there, perhaps?” he said. “In your little girl’s bedroom?” The Gentleman gave a cock of his head and the Harvester that had held Jezebel stalked toward the picture of her bedroom, hesitating just as it was prepared to step into the frame.

  “Go,” commanded the Gentleman.

  The Harvester turned and took another step forward, but as soon as its spindly leg touched the bedroom floor it shrieked in pain. The image of her room disappeared into a chaotic swirl of color and light. Jezebel covered her ears as the Harvester was pulled into the twisting mass piece by piece. For one second, strips of straw and wood—Harvester parts—hung in the air. Then they were gone, along with Jez’s bedroom, the light and everything. The Cycloidotrope sat dark and still in the Gentleman’s hand.

  “Fascinating,” he said, but his face was contorted in a sort of angry frown. Something dark and wet bubbled at the corners of his mouth. His voice sounded like liquid. “But no matter. I’ll find the artifact one way or another. And thanks to you, I now know where to look. And when. Time is on my side.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll send my man Macheath down to see what more he can learn from you two. He has a crude touch, but he gets results.” He turned and followed the remaining Harvester out of the room. As the door shut behind him he turned to Jez and winked.

  “Be seeing you, Jezebel Lemon!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE DEAD GENTLEMAN

  ABOARD THE CHARNEL HOUSE, 1902

  The Gentleman gazed into the Cycloidotrope’s crystal surface and grinned as a six-year-old Jezebel rode her bike, a small pink thing on training wheels, along a tree-lined park street. A woman ran next to her, laughing as she tried to keep up. The woman had dark hair like Jezebel and the same gray eyes. He touched the cube and the image shifted, moving forward in time to an older version of the girl, sitting uncomfortably in a well-furnished office as a man asked her questions. She responded with sullen, mostly one-word answers. The man tapped a pen against his teeth and watched the clock. Again the Gentleman searched ahead, the moments of Jezebel’s life clicking past like a slideshow in fast-forward. The images came to another halt on her as she was now, standing in a room full of junk. She was looking into an open closet at a shiny mechanical bird.

  “There you are,” said the Gentleman. “Hello again.”

  The artifact. That little bird of metal and clockworks hid a secret so precious, so valuable. To the Gentleman it was the greatest treasure in all of creation, the one thing he’d been lacking in the many millennia of his existence. He bristled at the thought of having to wait a hundred years to get it, but after what had happened to the Harvester, he dared not try stepping through. Time was the domain of forces even greater than he (for now), and he would not risk all on such an impatient act. The girl had managed it, either by accident or by design. If she’d somehow stumbled upon the secret of time travel, then the Gentleman would pry it out of her. If not, what was a century to one such as he? He’d use the years to continue to build his army, to strengthen himself. He’d done enough skulking around in the shadows—when he next returned to Earth it would be at the head of a mighty armada.

  Earth. The center of the Orrery itself and the cornerstone of existence. What made that ordinary ball of mud so special was a mystery even to the Gentleman, but to truly kill everything there was, he knew he’d have to start with Earth.

  And what a wonderful void of death would be left in its place! He felt himself turn almost giddy at the thought of the quiet, the cold of a universe of dead worlds. All so that he might achieve his fondest, his dead heart’s desire …

  Of course, he may not have to wait a hundred years if the children knew where the artifact was right now, and he had the perfect person to find out exactly what they did know. He wouldn’t waste any more time on their lies.

  “Macheath,” the Gentleman called, and at once the weasely vampire appeared at his side. He was never far.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Spread the word that we are hoisting anchor and setting sail. Fire up the portal engines. We are leaving the Hollow World.”

  “Leaving?” asked Macheath. “But we’ve not finished. There’s still plenty living out there to kill!”

  “What? A planet of mold? This place can wait. Our attack on the Academy has left us exposed, and word will spread quickly between worlds. We need to retreat and prepare for the real prize—Earth. Now that we have Learner and the girl, there is no reason to stay.”

  At the mention of the girl, Macheath’s eyes lit up. The Gentleman had noticed the way the vampire looked at her when she was first hauled aboard. He hadn’t had such a fresh young victim in some time.

  “I want you to pay a visit to our two prisoners,” the Gentleman said. “Find out if they know where the artifact is now. Do whatever it takes, but keep them alive for the time being.”

  The Gentleman strode past Macheath, palming the Cycloidotrope and climbing down the stairs toward steerage and the engine. Macheath yipped at his heels like a dog.

  “What is to become of Learner
after that?” he asked.

  “I’ll keep him around for a time. The High Father is still out there somewhere and the two have obviously been in contact. How else would the boy get his hands on the Cycloidotrope? The High Father escaped my Grave Walkers in the Hidden City, and he could still pose a threat—albeit a small one.”

  “That little man won’t be a problem,” said Macheath. “Not without his Explorers around him.”

  “Never can be too cautious, Macheath. The High Father is old. Nearly as old as me, but he’s crafty, that one. A trickster. No, the boy stays alive, for the time being.”

  “And the girl?”

  Ah, here it comes, thought the Gentleman. “What of her?”

  “Is she … I mean, are you keeping her, too?”

  Macheath didn’t even try to hide the drool dripping down his chin or the way his lips smacked in anticipation. He was nauseatingly obvious.

  The Gentleman stopped walking and Macheath nearly tripped over him. They had come to the real engine of the Charnel House. Under a great black curtain it rested, the nerve center of the ship and, next to the artifact, the Gentleman’s greatest discovery. He drew back the curtain with his stiff white fingers (he really would have to choose a new shape soon; the rigor mortis was making this one difficult to operate). Underneath was a chunk of stone, a carved doorway cracked with age. Inside the door the air shimmered, a black pool that glowed with a weak, sallow light.

  The Gentleman’s portal. Built into the heart of the Charnel House. Its power fueled the engines of this entire vessel, propelling it not just through the air but between the barriers of reality. With it, he could go anywhere.

  For now that meant going home, where no sun had ever shone and there wasn’t a breath to draw. There, he would prepare for war. He would wait a hundred years if need be, and then—Earth. At last it would be his. Earth. Then everything.

  “My lord?”

  “Yes, Macheath, what is it?” The vampire’s voice droned in the Gentleman’s ear like the buzzing of flies. He wondered if he could endure another century of it.

  “The girl, sir. Are you keeping the girl?”

  The Gentleman turned and gazed down at the Cycloidotrope once more. The images of Jezebel’s life kept spinning in a perpetual loop. Now she was a baby again, getting a bath from a man with tousled, paint-splattered hair.

  “She’s yours,” said the Gentleman. “After you’ve interrogated them thoroughly, you may drink your fill. But leave the boy alive.”

  Macheath practically giggled with gratitude. The obscene vampire bowed and scraped his way out of the Gentleman’s presence, hurrying toward the cells, toward Jezebel.

  The Gentleman turned back to his miraculous portal and began to ponder what shape he’d take next. Something festive, something celebratory, something especially gruesome. After all, today had been a very, very good day.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JEZEBEL

  ABOARD THE CHARNEL HOUSE, 1902

  “The way I see it, we’ve only got one option,” Tommy said. “When the guards come to finish us, we’ve got to take them.”

  Jezebel gave Tommy a look. His plan, such as it was, sounded like a reliable way to get one or both of them killed. The problem was, however, that she couldn’t think of anything better.

  “You really think we can overpower those things?” she asked. “Just the two of us?”

  Tommy shook his head. “Not really. But it’s a chance. The outside walls are reinforced with solid weirdwood, and that stuff’s strong as iron. They say it only grows in hangmen’s gardens and you need magic to shape it into anything useful. Besides, the Harvesters probably aren’t expecting it—two kids charging a pair of eight-foot-tall monsters.…”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Jez. “But if we do get free, then I think we should try to find the trogs again. I think they might help us.”

  “The trogs? Are you kidding me? They captured us in the first place! They’re working for the Gentleman!”

  “I don’t think they all are. In fact, one of them saved my life. And he kept saying your name over and over.”

  “My name?”

  “I think there’s more going on here than we realize …,” Jez began, but was interrupted by a sound at the door—the jingling of keys in the lock.

  “Oh no!” she said, stepping back from the door.

  Tommy balled his small hands into fists and stood ready. He looked pretty ineffectual, actually, standing there weaponless. The short kid preparing to face off against the bully—Jez had seen this kind of thing many times before, on playgrounds and in schools. But the sad truth was, no matter how brave the smaller kid was, the bully always won.

  She stood next to him and faced the door.

  “Don’t give them time to do anything,” he said. “When they step in, we rush them and then you run.”

  “You mean we run? Together, right?”

  Tommy didn’t answer. The door handle began to turn.

  The door opened and Tommy charged, with Jez right by his side. He swung at the dark shape that had stepped into the room, but his swing went wide. This Harvester was surprisingly nimble and it ducked out of the way, sweeping Tommy’s legs out from under him and stepping in front of Jezebel. It sat on Tommy’s chest, pinning him, and blinked at Jezebel with bright yellow eyes.

  Jezebel stopped—Harvesters didn’t have yellow eyes. But this trog did, and it looked up at her from beneath a dirty sweatshirt bandage. Tommy was kicking and scratching at it like a cat, trying to get his teeth around its big, hairy toe.

  “Wait!” Jezebel shouted. “I know him! This is the trog that saved me!”

  The trog relaxed, and his big mouth opened in a questioning smile.

  “Tobby Erber?” he said, looking down at the boy beneath his rear end.

  “Excuse me?” said Tommy.

  “See,” said Jezebel. “You’re famous.”

  “So, he’s here to do the Gentleman’s dirty work?” Tommy asked.

  The trog scrunched his face at Tommy and looked back at Jezebel. His third arm held a ring of keys over her head, and with the other two he gestured to the open door and the hallway beyond.

  Jez smiled, understanding. “I think this is a jailbreak,” she said. “He wants us to follow.”

  The trog let Tommy up and stepped several feet out into the hall. He gestured for them, and Jez followed.

  “Come on,” she said. “I told you, he saved my life. And I kind of returned the favor. I trust him.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I do,” said Tommy, dusting himself off. “But I’m sure not hanging around that cell for a minute longer! Lead the way, Mr. Trog.”

  The hallway outside their cell was more of the same dark wood, lit here and there with what looked like fishbowls of blinking lights. They dangled on chains, these orbs of glass, and inside each one fluttered three or four dots of ghostly light. Their trog rescuer led the way, sneaking down the corridor by pulling his short legs along with two arms, while the third gestured for Jez and Tommy to follow.

  They caught up with the trog as he paused to listen at a set of ladder steps. “We need to get off this ship!” said Tommy. “We should make for the hawsehole, where they raise and lower the anchor …”

  Jez didn’t hear the rest of what Tommy was saying—she was focused on the man who’d appeared on the ladder above them. He’d drifted down the rungs, as silent as a ghost. When he spotted Jezebel he showed her his teeth—he was missing all but two. Those that remained were grayish-red, the color her father’s turned after he’d had a glass of red wine. They were long and sharp, and Jez felt certain they had been stained by something else altogether.

  “Tommy!” Jez shouted, but it was too late. The man dropped down just as Tommy looked up, catching a boot square in the face. The man was fast—in a blur of movement he grabbed the dazed Tommy by the hair and brought a long, curved knife up to the boy’s neck. Seeing this, the trog backed away, a low growl issuing from his throat.

&nbs
p; “It’s good to have friends, ain’t it?” the man said, glancing at the trog. “Good for helping you out of tough spots, like cells!”

  “What do you want?” asked Jez.

  “I want you to come over here, that’s all. Come and play with old Archie Macheath,” he said. “Or else I open your boyfriend’s throat.”

  Jez couldn’t tear her eyes away from his mouth. The man, Macheath, noticed this and pursed his lips in a strange, self-conscious way. “My choppers aren’t what they once were, but I can still bite!” He pressed the knife tighter to Tommy’s throat. “I just like to use the blade for starters.”

  Tommy eyes started to focus on Jez. He was coming back to his senses after the blow, although one eye was already beginning to swell shut.

  “D-don’t listen to him, Jezebel,” Tommy said.

  “No one’s talking to you!” said Macheath, and he gave Tommy’s hair a savage twist to quiet him.

  Jez didn’t know what to do. She was unarmed, and Tommy was half Macheath’s size. Even without the knife he would have been outmatched. She took a hesitating step forward.

  “I ain’t got all day!” said Macheath, and he dug the knifepoint a little farther into Tommy’s neck, just breaking the skin. A small drop of bright-red blood appeared at the blade’s edge.

  Macheath’s face went suddenly slack and his nostrils flared as he sniffed the air near Tommy’s head. A low moan escaped his lips as the drop became a trickle. He was sweating now, a disgusting pinkish sheen appearing on his forehead and on his upper lip. He was muttering something over and over again, repeating it like a mantra:

  “You can have the girl but leave the boy, you can have the girl but leave the boy, you can … BLOOD!”

  Macheath became a rabid animal. Dropping the knife, he lunged at Tommy with his jaws opened wide—his eyes rolling back in his head like a shark’s just before the kill. Tommy shouted and fought back, punching and kicking, but he might as well have been hitting an unfeeling wall. In his struggle he was managing to make himself a hard target, however, and Macheath was having trouble finding the boy’s neck with all that squirming.