by Adam Millard
“And when she does, you want to be able to shoot her?” Gurd’s expression was one of disgust, as if he’d swallowed something that he knew would eventually sprout inside of him.
“Not shoot her,” Alcorn said. “But we don’t know what little toys her tinkerer has furnished her with. I don’t want to find myself faced with her, only to have some mechanical cockroach crawl up my arse.” The thought made him shudder. Whatever the automatons had been the previous night, Harriett Haversham had blown them away. Guns worked against them, and therefore, he wanted a gun, preferably a big one with two barrels.
“It’s not policy to hand out firearms to every Tom, Dick, or Harry that requests one,” Gurd said. “And I’ve made it my policy not to ever give you one, just on general principle.” Once again, he emphasised the ‘you’.
Alcorn winced.
“You’ve got your truncheon, haven’t you?”
Alcorn nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t know how much use a whacking stick is going to be when I’m covered in hungry clockwork mice.”
“Well, let’s hope you don’t have to find out,” Gurd said, smiling. He pushed the brass spectacles up onto the bridge of his nose. “Now, get out of my office before I have to make a new policy, one involving you and these handcuffs.” He gestured to a set of hand-shackles sitting upon his desk.
Realising he was wasting his time, Alcorn turned and made his way out of the office. He returned to his desk and slumped into the chair there. After a quick check around the room to make sure no one was looking, he unlocked the second drawer down and pulled out his father’s double-barrel 1866 Derringer. A relatively small pistol, it was prettier than any weapon ought to be thanks to its brass construction and white composite grips. The whole point in going to Inquisitor Gurd, first and foremost, had been to attain a pistol legally, but since he’d been declined, there was nothing else for it.
He slipped the pistol into his coat pocket, along with a box of .41s, and closed the drawer, making sure to lock it.
“I’m coming for you, Abigale Egars,” he said, leaning back in his chair. It was going to be a good day. A successful day. He could feel it in his bones.
6
Abigale woke with a start to find she was still dressed in the clothes she had removed before climbing into bed. Then it all came flooding back, and the dull ache beneath her hair threatened to send her spiralling toward insanity. She sat bolt upright. At the bottom of the bed, Mouse stirred. There was nothing in his languid movements that suggested anything untoward had happened, but she knew it had.
She climbed from the bed, steadying herself on the dresser. Sunlight poured in through the large window at the edge of the room. It hurt to look at, and so Abigale turned her back on it as if it had offended her in some way.
Mordecai…
Wizards…
Magic…
Werner…
Abigale dropped to her knees, allowing her head to brush against the cold, hard wood of her dresser’s leg. Her head hurt, though not as much as she’d expected. She reached up, and with a trembling hand, she fingered the scar in the bald patch Werner had created before surgery. It was about an inch long, nothing that wouldn’t heal, given time. Her hair would grow back to conceal it, but aesthetics were the least of her worries.
There was poison in there. Something nasty that would cause her an agonising death, and all they had to do was activate it. Was it on a timer? Was there a big red button in Mordecai Pick’s office that, when pushed, would set the whole thing in motion? Abigale listened carefully, but if the clockwork device was ticking, she couldn’t hear it. She’d never felt so violated in her entire life.
“Glad none of this is affecting you,” she told Mouse, who simply rolled over onto his side and began to purr. She waited for the nausea to subside before climbing back to her feet.
That was when she saw the wooden box sitting upon her dresser. Carved onto its lid was the word, Triptych, nothing more. She examined it fastidiously while she decided what to do next. Mordecai had made it clear that time was of the essence, but for Abigale, it was the one thing that no longer mattered. If any of it was real, which she was certain it was, it would take as long as it took to accept. No one wants to believe in wizards, magic, or things that go bump in the night and try to eat you when your back’s turned. Abigale had just discovered that they were all real, tangible monsters that were trying to take over the world.
Forgive me while I take a moment…
She warily removed the box’s lid and took a step back, as if that would somehow make a difference if there should be a bomb contained within. When nothing exploded, she edged forward again. The box was filled with papers. Abigale audibly sighed. From what she knew, papers were not known for their explosiveness, especially not ones with such conspicuous handwriting scrawled upon them. For all of Mordecai Pick’s faults, Abigale couldn’t accuse him of being untidy. The calligraphy was stunning. On the visible top page, it said:
Abigale Egars—Please Read Carefully!
She removed the papers from the box and placed them down. She was surprised to find a bag of money, previously hidden by the papers, and a ticket for something called Poseidon’s Gale. The ticket was dated the fourteenth of August. That was only a few days away, provided only one night had passed. She didn’t feel like she had excessively slept, but for all she knew, she’d been out of action for a week. A month, even. No, The Guild had stressed the importance of her mission. They wouldn’t allow her to oversleep.
The shrill ring of the telephone made the sharp pain in Abigale’s scalp return, and she quickly snatched up the receiver to stop the dratted noise. “Hello?” she said, closing her eyes.
“Ah, so you’re up.”
It was Octavius. Of course it was. He was the only person with her number, and at the moment, that was one too many.
“I need you to meet me this afternoon to discuss the Threadneedle Street job. There are a few things we need to—”
“Octavius, you need to help me!” She sounded like some petrified child lost in a store, which hadn’t been her intention. She hated her voice like that, but it was all that would come out.
“What is it?” he said, suddenly concerned.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up, put the papers back in the box, fixed the small brown bowler to her head—thankfully it covered the patch where the hair had been shorn and replaced by an unsightly scar—and rushed out into morning time London, doing everything in her power not to lose her mind.
*
The table was hard and uncomfortable, and as Abigale lay there, with Octavius leaning over, she was reminded of Werner and how she had unfortunately awakened during the initial procedure. Even with a friendly face looming over her, she was frightened. The thing he was holding did nothing to settle her nerves. It looked like some sort of brush, but the lustrous cobalt light issuing from its bristles suggested otherwise—.
He deliberately ran the end of the device across her entire scalp, making sure not to miss even an inch. Abigale couldn’t, for the life of her, fathom why he was cheerily humming as he worked. Was this not a dire situation? Certainly, she thought, dire enough to warrant silence, instead of a jaunty little tune.
“So you had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Pick, then?” Octavius asked, sounding positively jealous.
“He’s not royalty. You do know that, don’t you?” Abigale was anxious, and it came through in her tone. “He kidnapped me in the middle of the night and planted something in my head.”
“That sounds about right. On the bright side, most people The Guild abducts from their beds don’t live to tell the tale.”
“So I’m fortunate, am I? I should be thankful?”
Octavius moved her hair to one side and ran the device beneath it. “I’m not saying you should be thankful. No one likes being kidnapped and held ransom. I’m just stating that it could be so much worse than it is.” He dropped her hair and moved on to a section beside her ear.
&
nbsp; “Yeah, it could be worse. How, exactly? Did you know about the wizards? About the necromancers, whatever the hell they are?”
Without pause, Octavius said, “There are few who are aware of their existence, yes, and I am one of them…”
“You knew?” she gasped.
Octavius clicked his tongue, palpably annoyed with her sudden activity. She relaxed. Of course, he knew. Everyone probably knew, except for her. And why would she know? She was just a thief.
“When were you going to tell me?”
He sighed. “Never. There are certain things that most people can go their entire life without knowing, and the existence of magic and wizards is one of them. Most of them are loath to reveal themselves, anyway. Since they’ve never bothered us, we’ve never bothered them.”
“Mordecai says there is some sort of uprising planned.” Abigale blew short, red hair from her face. “If they get their hands on these three artefacts, that’s it, it’s all over.”
“Mordecai Pick is the leader of a very dubious organisation,” Octavius muttered. “I’m reluctant to believe a word that drops from his fraudulent mouth. However, wizards are known for their unquenchable thirst for power. If one of them has discovered how to get more, it’s not unfeasible that they will do everything they can to attain it.” He slipped momentarily, and the strange, glowing, brush-like device clattered against the edge of the table. “Dammit,” he grunted, and then added, “Should have enough now anyway. Your head is surprisingly small for a mammal.” He switched the contraption off and stood, arching his back until it discernibly cracked.
“Can I sit?” Abigale asked.
“I don’t know, can you?”
As she did, Octavius walked the length of his workshop, taking the broom-machine with him. Once there, he attached it to a large bronze box. Abigale had no idea what he was doing, but she found it fascinating all the same. He pushed a lever on the side of the box and it whirred and chirruped into life.
“Right, let’s see what we’re dealing with.” Octavius lit his pipe and pulled his machinist goggles down over his eyes. After a few seconds of tumultuous racket, a thin slice of steel appeared from beneath the box. Octavius pulled on a pair of gloves and lifted the steel, took it over to a bucket of water, and dipped it for a few seconds, where it hissed and smoked.
“What is it?” Abigale asked.
“It’s a bucket of water. Multifunctional, really.”
Abigale rolled her eyes. She wasn’t in the mood for his ridiculous banter, not then, maybe never again.
He pulled the steel slice from the water and allowed it to drip-dry for a moment, whistling a jaunty tune while he waited. Abigale could have strangled him. Why was it that nothing ever seemed to affect him? Life was just one big fascinating game to him. He was as bad as Mordecai Pick. Well, perhaps not that bad, but most definitely in the same league.
“Okay, that should do it,” he said, carrying the steel over to the table.
The gas lamp was bright enough to see by. It didn’t help Abigale, though, who had no idea what it was she was looking at. Upon the sheet was an array of shapes. She could see one or two small cogs inscribed there, but apart from that, it was incredibly understated.
Somehow, Octavius saw something that she didn’t, and mumbled and nodded incoherently to himself for a few seconds. Abigale watched in despair, willing him to say something in English, something that would comfort her.
“Yeah, it’s not coming out,” he finally said.
That wasn’t what she’d expected. “What?”
He jabbed a finger at one of the small cogs on the blurry rendition. “You see that?”
Abigale nodded.
“Well, that’s what we like to call a failsafe. This whole device is tamperproof. You want it away from the rest of your body without it going off, you’ll have to chop your head off.” He sucked thoughtfully on his pipe. “Of course, that would also kill you, and I highly oppose such brutality.”
Abigale was dumfounded. She just stared at him, incredulous and unable to speak. He should have been telling her to lie down, that it would all be over in a moment, and would she like to keep it as a souvenir. Instead, he was telling her it couldn’t be removed, that he was stumped, and that she could always decapitate herself.
“So what do I do?” she asked, though her voice was broken and quavering. It didn’t sound like her, and once again, she hated herself for it.
Octavius removed his gloves and sighed. “There’s only one way to get that out of you,” he said. He gestured to the wooden box on the floor beside the table. “Let’s get to work.”
*
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Abigale said, separating the pages and spreading them across the desk so that each one was visible. There was so much to look at, so much to take in, it hurt her eyes and head simultaneously. “Look at all this. How long’s he been planning this for?” Her guess was quite a bloody while, but now the wizards were closing in, and time was of the essence. And Mordecai had passed the buck, and it was suddenly her under pressure.
Thanks very much, Mordecai, you absolute shit!
“This is all nonsense,” Octavius said as he browsed the pages. “Lots of detail about nothing. Mordecai Pick obviously has a lot of spare time on his hands.”
When he’s not making people disappear and swallowing up smaller organisations like some untamed beast.
“When have you ever needed to know how many guards would be working on a particular night?” He pointed to one of the pages.
“Well…never,” she said, although it would be useful information now and then. To her, one guard was as bad as twenty. Either way she had to take someone down.
“Okay, so this looks like your first objective.” He brushed a rheumy, liver-spotted hand over a single page. Abigale moved in closer to be able to read Mordecai’s exquisite handwriting.
“The Victoria and Albert Museum,” Abigale said. “Oh, goodie. Right on our doorstep.”
Well, technically, it was five miles away, but it was close enough to be under John Wesley Alcorn’s jurisdiction, and that was something she could do without. He’d come close to catching her on a couple of occasions, but she’d always managed to escape by the skin of her teeth. Something like this, though, a distinguished museum housing some of the world’s greatest antiquities, was dangerous.
Very dangerous.
“Bansei,” Abigale said.
“Bless you,” Octavius replied.
“No, it’s some sort of vase. Look. Thirteenth Century, Southern Song Dynasty.” She pointed at the illustration, which didn’t look anything special to her. It had ceramic handles on either side of a long, slender neck. To be truthful, Abigale didn’t know how it had lasted all those years without shattering. “If that’s part of this triptych, I look forward to seeing items two and three.” Probably a dusty old saucer and a wooden spoon, the way things were going.
“It’s not the vase,” Octavius said. “It’s what’s inside. According to this, the base is hollow. Whatever Mordecai wants, and what the wizards are after, it’s at the bottom of ‘Bansei’.”
Abigale wished she’d had a chance to ask exactly what the pieces of the puzzle looked like. If Werner hadn’t stuck her with that damned needle so abruptly, she might have more of an idea what she was going for. Still, if everything went to plan, she would find out soon enough.
“What’s next?” she said, scouring the spread pages, ignoring the superfluous information.
Octavius held up the brown ticket That read, ‘Admit one: Poseidon’s Gale.’ “Have you ever been across the ocean?” He knew she hadn’t. He also knew it would excite her more than a little.
“A dirigible?” she said. Her heart pounded inside her chest as the thrill of a potential adventure washed over her.
“First class to Saint Petersburg,” Octavius said, apprehensively.
It meant he wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on her. She would be wholly alone in Russia. If trouble presente
d itself to her, he would be powerless, and she could tell the thought perturbed him. Sure, she could look after herself—she always had—but Octavius had been her wingman, the one with the brains. Without him, she might find it difficult to adapt.
“Leaving on the fourteenth. That’s the day after tomorrow. No, this is just not possible. You’re not ready. I’m not ready…” he trailed off, clearly distressed.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” she said, reminding him that time was most certainly of the essence, unless she wanted to find out what clockwork-dispensed poison tasted like. “We prepare for the London job tonight. It’ll be easier to steal the vase during opening hours. Tomorrow, I’ll have crowds, people in the way.” It was true. Confusion amongst the unassuming public was a marvellous distraction. It would be much better than creeping around in the dark when guards would be at their most vigilant.
“This is not a good idea,” Octavius pressed.
He looked pensive, and Abigale found herself wanting to throw her arms around him and tell him that it was going to be okay.“Okay, so what’s in Saint Petersburg?” she said, changing the subject. It was no good dwelling on something they were powerless to change.
The tinkerer leaned in, scanning the pages for information. After a brief search, he said, “You are to pay a visit to the Hermitage Museum, where you will find a dinosaur egg from the Triassic period and belonging to a…” He very carefully enunciated the next word, which Abigale found endearing. “Chin-de-saur-us. Never heard of it.”
“How the hell did they get something inside a dinosaur egg?” It was a very good question, and once again, she wished she had more information. Damn you, Mordecai.
“Well, there are many ways in which they could have inserted something into an ancient egg. With the right tools and a little patience—”
“Okay, it doesn’t matter,” Abigale said. “So that’s two. Providing I get the vase, make it out of London and onto Poseidon’s Gale, get all the way across the ocean, where I’m to steal an egg. How big could it be, right? Then what? Where to next?”
