The Fugitive and the Vanishing Man

by Rod Duncan

  Having seen Janus swallow, Edwin put a morsel in his own mouth.

  He’d read once of a killer who had accustomed himself to small but increasing doses of strychnine, then served up a meal laced with it. He and his family sat down to eat. All were gripped by the poison. Only he survived, his body having learned to cope. And the courts found him innocent of the crime, for the maids had seen him eat it, and it was held that no sane person would poison himself.

  Janus was sane, Edwin thought. It was a coldness of the soul that set him apart and made him so dangerous. But he was not the type to undergo personal rigours. Many the bullet catcher who’d starved himself or lain on a bed of nails or walked across hot coals for the sake of an illusion. Janus had been cut from a different cloth.

  “The snows aren’t yet come,” the king said, gesturing from Edwin to Janus with a strip of meat. “And the sky’s set fair.”

  Janus did his usual shallow bow of submission to the king’s will. But Edwin found little comfort in the weather. The northern side of Mount Hood still bore white strands from the previous winter. One good storm could lay a full blanket and that would be it. It would come in the next six weeks. Sooner or later.

  “How many magicians can there be in the castle?” Janus asked, his words slipped into a lull in the conversation around the morning room. It caught Edwin mid-swallow and he had to battle not to cough the food up again.

  The king seemed displeased by the question. “Why ask this?”

  “I’ve heard rumours, my lord. Another magician wandering in the hills.”

  “Let him wander. We have our Edwin. That’s enough.”

  “But if another magician did set foot in the castle?”

  “I’m well pleased with this one.”

  “They’d fight,” said Timon, his mouth half-full. “That’s what happens. We’d throw the loser from the battlements.”

  This displeased the king even more. “There will be no fight!” And then to Edwin: “There is no other magician. Is there?”

  Now it was Edwin’s turn to make that little bow of submission: “I know of none.” The lie came smooth and easy.

  When the king pushed his plate away, the meal was over for all of them. Janus did his solemn act while the royals were leaving. Half-monk, half-advisor he seemed. Edwin tried not to let any emotions show. Somehow the obsequious little creep had found out about Elizabeth. It was the only explanation.

  He was about to follow the others from the room but Janus grabbed his arm. “Nice try, magician,” he whispered.

  “I don’t know what you mean!” Gods, but his protest sounded hollow.

  “You lied. To the king.” Janus’s teeth seemed unnaturally white when he smiled. “What would happen if he found out… when he finds out… I imagine being thrown from the battlements will become your fondest wish.”

  “Go to hell!” Edwin snapped back, knowing his anger was a confession, unable to hold his tongue. He wrenched free, stalked away, not caring what others would think.

  Climbing the stairs his mind was reeling. He could hire actors to play the part of an embassy from Newfoundland. No one knew what the real embassy would look like or how they would be dressed. He could reveal the extent of Janus’s corruption, if there was only proof. He could poison the man. Or push him from the battlements in the night. But each new idea was a fantasy conjured by anger.

  Outside the Room of Cabinets, he took a moment to compose himself. It wouldn’t help for her to see him in such a state. He had thought that with her arrival he would at last have someone to confide in. But somehow, she had come to be a secret in herself. And a person to keep secrets from.

  She was standing, tensed, as if expecting some danger to enter instead of him. Or perhaps she’d had a premonition of what he was preparing to say. But before he could begin, she said:

  “They know the Arthurs have gone.”

  “How? Who?”

  “Is there a man in the castle called Janus?”

  He caught the tremor in her voice.

  “There is.”

  “I went out last night. I’m sorry. I couldn’t bear to be here anymore. I met a man from the pigeon loft. He thought I was you.”

  Edwin listened as she told her story. He hadn’t heard of the Bartholomew gang before. Not by name. Though there’d been accounts of bandits in the hills, waylaying messengers. Always to his disadvantage.

  In return, he told her of the things Janus had just said in the morning room. It felt good to be open with her. Though she wished to protect the Gas-Lit Empire and he wished it gone. It came to him that they might be able to help each other in some way. Perhaps if they ran away together, all would be well. The two of them against the world, watching the old age collapse. They might find somewhere to shelter.

  He paced almost to the window, then back. “If Janus knows about you, it’s only a matter of time before he persuades the king’s men to search in here.”

  She was shaking her head. “He doesn’t know about me. He only thinks you’re hiding another magician.”

  “I am hiding another magician.”

  “If they come and search, they’ll be looking for a man,” she said.

  “Man. Woman. What does that even mean to us?”

  “It means the Arthurs didn’t tell them everything. It means they don’t know the magician is your own sister. I can walk out of this room and they’ll think I am you. They can search all they like and they won’t find me.”

  “You can’t pass in full daylight,” he said. “Not if they’re close.”

  “I could with the right misdirection.”

  His heart kicked with the possibility in her words. “I can’t let them search. It’s what Janus has wanted to do for years. There’s too much in here to prove I’m using trickery.”

  “Then invite your king to come. Choose your own time, so Janus will be away.”

  She was right. If he hadn’t been so panicked, he would have thought of it himself.

  “I could bring him in for a demonstration of some new magic.”

  She was nodding. Smiling. It was a beautiful sight. He found himself smiling back.

  “Have them look in all the cabinets and boxes,” she said. “Say it’s part of the trick. Then, later, when Janus asks for the room to be searched, they’ll say there’s no need.”

  “But what trick can I show that they haven’t seen before?”

  “Have they seen the Vanishing Man?”

  Timon was fighting with a crowd of soldiers in the practice yard. Sword and shield. The old way. The honourable way. He was good, but his opponents were polite enough to set on him one at a time. And perhaps they didn’t swing with such intent, or grip their hilts so hard. One by one, he sent their weapons flying, giving them a smack or two with the flat of his sword as a parting gift. Bruises to remind them of the cost of courtesy.

  Janus stood a distance off, watching, his hands clasped before him. And Edwin stood back further still, in the shadow behind a wall buttress. Not hidden, but not moving either. Unnoticed.

  When the last of the mock enemies had been disarmed, Timon took off his helm and punched the air with a fist. But for all the bravado, his face was sheened in sweat and more purple than red. The soldiers were queuing up to shake his hand. He turned from them and took a few steps away. Catching his breath, Edwin thought. Janus must have seen it too, for he didn’t approach until the after-fight formalities had been done and a servant was unlacing Timon’s leathers.

  “Well fought, my lord.”

  Instead of speaking his answer, Timon made a vague circular gesture with his hand. Still not trusting his breath, it seemed.

  “If you’re done with the yard, we’ll be needing to test the Mark Three.”

  “We’re done.”

  Janus signalled towards the open doors of the metalwork shop and three technicians emerged. Two carried the barrel of a gun so fat that it was a wonder they could lift it between them. The third moved ahead with a stout tripod, which he se
t up in the middle of the yard. Between them they assembled the machine, then hurried back to heft out a box of ammunition.

  Edwin knew the theory of how it worked. But the fact of this new weapon still amazed him. The bullets, complete with the charge needed to fire them, were sewn into a long belt of canvas, so that they would feed naturally into the gun, once it started to devour them.

  “Would you do the honours?” Janus asked.

  Timon got stiffly to his knees. He swivelled the barrel to aim at the bank of straw bales and unfired clay bricks, which were used for target practice. Then he looked up, as if seeking approval. Janus nodded. The king’s brother took sight. Then it began: shots firing so fast they couldn’t be counted, dust flying at the other end of the yard, straw bursting from disintegrating bales. The belt of bullets juddered from the box as if with a life of its own.

  So much noise. So little smoke. So complete a destruction.

  Timon seemed unable to stop, his arms shaking with the machine’s recoil. The gun mounting was juddering back, the aim becoming wilder. Bullets were slamming into the ground, the castle wall, Timon losing his battle to control it. Someone would die if he kept on. And then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over.

  The entire belt of bullets had been consumed. Metal cartridges lay strewn around. But still Timon knelt, as if his hands had been welded to the infernal machine. Even Janus seemed shocked.

  “It didn’t jam,” shouted one of the technicians, who’d been standing near it and must have been half deafened. “It didn’t jam!” His voice echoed off the stone walls.

  As dust cleared from around the target wall, the scale of destruction began to reveal itself. Edwin looked up and saw faces at every window. Fear in some, hope in others. But all of them wide-eyed.

  The king arrived, then. Without ceremony, most likely drawn by the noise. Edwin was quick to step out of the nook he’d been watching from and was following close behind when the king stepped up to the gun and reached out, as if to touch it. Panic gripped the faces of the technicians.

  “It’ll be burning hot, sire,” Edwin said, getting in before Janus could react.

  “Thank you. Yes. Of course.”

  Then he was off again, towards the ruins of the straw bales.

  “We’re still working on the stand,” one of the technicians said.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The recoil. It’s too strong. It sends off the aim.”

  There’d always been a few pockmarks in the wall at this end of the yard. Stray shots from raw recruits. But after this assault, it looked as if a team of men with hammers had been attacking it all day. The worst damage was behind the hay bales. The bullets had gone clean through and demolished the bricks of unfired clay that were supposed to protect the stonework. Most had turned to dust.

  Edwin’s mouth felt gritty. Timon hawked and spat.

  “When will it be ready?” asked the king.

  “The Mark Three is ready now,” said the technician. “You just have to pull the trigger in shorter bursts. Easier to control that way. But we’ll have it more stable. And the Mark Four is going to be more than twice as fast.”

  “We’ll rule the world!”

  “You will, sire,” Edwin said, getting in quick again. But it was a bad situation. Any monarch in possession of a new weapon wants a chance to use it in battle. And quickly. That would make Janus’s plan seem even more attractive.

  “I’ve had news of bandits,” Edwin said. “Up the river. Twenty miles. Hiding out in the hills. You could send rangers to flush them out. Drive them towards the gun.”

  The king glanced to his other advisor.

  “Not a good idea,” Janus said. “If bandits were there, they’ll be long gone by now. And we don’t want this weapon to be seen. Not before we use it in a real battle.”

  “Why is it the two of you will never agree?”

  “I have a better idea, my lord,” said Janus. “I told you this morning of a wandering magician. We thought he wouldn’t come to the castle. But now I hear he’s used his magic to do just that. If he’s found, you could use this gun to execute him. Right here.”

  “That would seem brutal,” Edwin said. “Too cruel.”

  “It would send a message,” said Janus.

  The king sighed. “Very well. Search if you must.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Edwin bowed with a sweep of the hand so deep that his sleeve almost brushed the floor: a theatrical move that might have worked on a big stage. “My lord, would you care to inspect the cabinet?” He opened its door, revealing the interior, lined in black velvet.

  “Too much!” Elizabeth said.

  “I’d do it different if the king were really here.”

  She’d persuaded her brother to try a new variation on the Vanishing Man, which she’d worked out while alone in the room. But he was doing it wrong, not taking it seriously.

  “Start again,” she said. “Properly this time.”

  “I feel stupid.” But he closed the cabinet, setting it up for another run. “I’ve not practiced in front of anyone. Not since our mother died.”

  “Then let me,” Elizabeth said, getting up. “It’d be me doing the vanishing anyway. Your king wouldn’t look at us so closely till the reveal. But after that, he’s going to be asking questions. I might not know how to answer. And he’s going to look close at whichever one of us is un-vanished. So that’s got to be you.”

  She stepped to the door, then proceeded across the room as if she’d just entered. “This is it,” she said to an imaginary king, putting on Edwin’s masculine voice, patting the side of the cabinet, stepping round it as if it were strange to her. When she reached the front again she clicked it open, reaching a hand inside to pat the interior walls, like someone exploring the space, though in reality it was to give the impression of depth.

  “This is new magic,” she said. “New to me. My mother made it years ago but I’ve only just found its secret.”

  Stepping inside, she pulled the door closed, plunging herself into absolute darkness. But she knew how to find the catch and open the inner panel. It was a tight fit, but the panel closed silently, sealing her in. “Please stand back!” she called out the words. “Please stand back. Please…”

  “…Stand back.” She heard her brother finishing the sentence outside, his voice muffled by layers of wood and lacquer. “Please stand back.”

  The voice was the trick. As she softened hers, fading it out, he would begin to speak from the hidden compartment of the other cabinet. To their small audience, standing close, it would seem to be a single voice, which would shift through the air, crossing empty space, alighting in the cabinet from which he’d then emerge.

  But when she stepped out again, he was wearing a frown.

  “It won’t work,” he said.

  “But it’s brilliant.”

  “The idea is. But your voice is too crackly. Like I’d sound if I had a cold. They would notice.”

  “We can practise,” she said. “I can practise. As many times as will make it work.”

  But now he’d said it, she knew he was right, and felt ridiculous to have not seen it for herself. To achieve the pitch of a male voice, she used a resonance from deeper in her throat, but that gave her words a husky edge.

  She sat on the ottoman and sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ve wasted our time.”

  He shook his head, though he still looked troubled. “I’m glad to have done it: the misdirection, the cabinets, it’s giving me flashes of memory. This was our mother’s great illusion. The Vanishing Man.”

  “It was our father’s illusion,” she said.

  “But Mother built the cabinets.”

  Feeling doubly stupid, she said, “I always thought it was his because he was the one on stage with us.”

  “Isn’t that just like men?” Edwin said. “Taking the applause for what they didn’t make.”

  “I never thought about who’d built it,” she said. “I guess we’ll never
know who thought it up in the first place. Shall we say that it belonged to all of us – the family business?”

  He nodded. “I can live with that. It feels so strange though. They used to tell us what to do. But now they’re gone and we’re working out new settings.”

  He came to sit beside her on the ottoman.

  “What happened to them?” she asked. “And don’t tell me he threw her out. I knew the man. He would never have done that.”

  “He told you she abandoned you?” Edwin asked.

  “Not in words. It was a feeling I had.”

  “Well, I knew her. And it can’t have been that way.”

  “Did they just stop loving each other?”

  He paused before answering. “I don’t think so.”

  All this time they’d been sitting straighter, becoming more rigid, as if the conflict between their parents was reaching through to them from that lost generation. But now Edwin lent forwards and covered his face with his hands.

  “If they’d stopped loving each other, it would have been easy,” he said. “She might have set up her own show. Toured the market towns of England. But… he… your father…”

  “Yours too.”

  “…Yes. You’re right. I’ve got to start thinking of him that way. Our father. Our mother. Politics came between them. That’s the truth. He was going to turn informant. He was going to go to the Patent Office, give the names of everyone in the Union of Agitators. He was going to…”

  Elizabeth turned to face him straight on. She could hear her heart in her ears. “I know nothing of this… union. Tell me what it was.”

  “We worked for freedom. As the Circus of Mysteries moved from village to village, we carried messages between the agitators. Father was part of it too. Did he not tell you? But then he turned… that is, he took against us.”

  “How come you knew all this and I didn’t?” she asked.

  “Mother told me. Afterwards. When we were heading out west. It’s the reason we had to leave.”

  Elizabeth took her brother’s shoulders in her hands. “What were they agitating against? What freedom did they want?”