The Extraordinaires 2

by Michael Pryor

  Jia scowled. She pointed at Leetha. ‘Take it away,’ she said to Gompers. ‘Make it learn English.’

  ‘She has been, on the voyage.’

  ‘And find work for them,’ Jia said. ‘We won’t have them sitting idle.’

  ‘Do we need their brains?’ Augustus asked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Gompers said. ‘Let us wait until after the tests.’

  ‘They are biddable?’ Jia squeaked.

  ‘Oh yes. Very biddable.’

  In her cell, waiting for the new day’s work and trials, Leetha remembered that day she first came into the presence of the Immortals. She was afraid of them, and they made her sick to behold, but she recalled the anger with which the sorcerers spoke of the wild boy and his friend. It was the sort of anger that had more than a touch of fear, the anger of the bully who suspects he will not always have his way.

  Wild boy and ghost girl, the enemies of the Immortals. Even then, standing at the awful feet of the awful sorcerers, Leetha had wanted to know more about them. And now? After nearly half a year of looking for a way to escape, of gathering what knowledge she could, now was a good time to look for these enemies of her enemies.

  SEVEN

  In the armoury, Evadne flung open a large metal cabinet and reached inside. ‘Here’s the Angry Hammer. I think it will suit you as a hand weapon.’

  The Angry Hammer was far more discreet than its florid name. Kingsley found that he could hide it in his closed hand. It was shaped like a regular pistol, but showed no sign of a magazine. Made of black metal, the grip was inlaid with cross-grooved wood. ‘It’s compact,’ Kingsley observed.

  ‘It’ll stop an elephant if you need it to. Each round is packed with explosive phlogiston, so be careful with it.’

  ‘I shall.’ Kingsley gingerly put it in his pocket. After the affairs in the Neanderthal den, when he had used some of Evadne’s phlogiston-based explosive to destroy their time machine, he had a healthy regard for the power of the substance. ‘With it and my trusty walking stick, I’m ready to take on anything. You, I take it, are ensabred?’

  She touched the scabbard she’d belted to her side, which neatly matched the light grey coat she’d put on. ‘And I’ll have the Swingeing Blow in my pocket.’

  ‘“Swingeing” as in forceful?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘So let us sally forth and broach the mystery that is Morton,’ Kingsley said.

  Evadne looked pained. ‘As cod Shakespeare goes, that was about the fishiest exit line I’ve ever heard.’

  He bowed. ‘At your service, fine lady. Forsooth. Verily. Hey nonny.’

  She pushed him towards the door. ‘Keep that up and I’m calling the Theatre Police.’

  Morton’s offices were in Rotherhithe, a short distance away from their workshop. Evadne insisted that they snatch a quick meal first, and over bacon sandwiches Kingsley listened to her tell of how – while Kingsley had been testing his Angry Hammer – her myrmidons had been overjoyed to see her, as they were every time she presented herself at her underground lair. The thought of her being swarmed over by excited ratty creatures made him extremely uneasy.

  The afternoon was drawing in by the time they made their way down Jamaica Road. Morton’s offices were in a depressing slab of buildings facing the rear of the seventeenth-century St Mary’s Church. A figure was clearly outlined against the first floor window. Evadne hissed with satisfaction and led the way.

  The man who opened the door would have only been in his twenties, but he affected the dress of someone four times that age. His knee-length frockcoat and high collared shirt could have come from the middle of good Queen Victoria’s reign, while his spectacles looked like antiques. He opened the door, however, with a broad smile and Kingsley noted that his teeth were so even they could be used as some sort of measuring instrument.

  The man’s expression quickly changed from delight to puzzlement. ‘You’re not them.’

  The door was open, so Evadne marched straight in. Kingsley said, ‘Evidently not,’ and followed.

  The office had three arched windows overlooking the church gardens, but their griminess made it clear that those in the office rarely looked outside. The walls were lined with shelves jammed with volumes bearing labels such as ‘Invoices Sept–Nov 1899’ and ‘Deliveries Pending’. Four desks looked as if they were especially reinforced to support the massive stacks of ledger books that towered on them. The most modern aspect of the office was the telephones, one on each desk.

  Evadne took this in with one sweep. She turned on a heel in the middle of the room, aided by carpet so threadbare that it was more of an idea than an actual floor covering. ‘You are Mr Morton?’ she asked the frowning man who still held the door.

  He closed the door. ‘I am.’

  ‘And who is them?’ Kingsley asked.

  This inspired an additional frown, and Kingsley began to worry about the well-being of the man’s brow. Any more fissuring like that and his skull could cave in.

  ‘Them?’

  ‘The them that we aren’t,’ Kingsley explained.

  ‘None of your business.’ Morton gathered himself. ‘Now, look here – who are you people?’

  Evadne held up a finger in mild admonishment. ‘Oh dear, is that any way to treat customers?’

  Morton immediately became unctuous. ‘Customers? I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. How may I be of service? Please take a chair, all of you. Remove the cat, first, though.’

  Kingsley started. What he’d taken for a furry bag was an immense grey Persian cat. He shook the back of the chair, but the cat merely fluffed up and hissed at him. Something deep inside Kingsley wanted to take its throat in his teeth and shake it, but he had an inkling this could create a bad impression.

  ‘I’ll stand.’ He took the opportunity to move around the room and look menacing. Morton tried to keep an eye on him, but he was torn by the natural attraction Evadne exerted on most males. As a result, his head kept moving from side to side, twisting around, like a cobra following a snake charmer’s flute.

  ‘Now,’ Evadne said. She was sitting demurely, her hands in her lap. ‘We don’t have to involve the Port Authority Police, do we?’

  Morton started, jerking his elbows and knees and neighing in a remarkable display. ‘The police? What? You said you were customers.’

  Evadne shook her head. ‘I simply asked if that was any way to treat customers. I didn’t say we were customers.’

  ‘You tricked me.’

  ‘I was prepared to bribe you, but since the tricks seem to be working I’ll stick with them.’ She waved a hand at Kingsley. ‘You won’t need your pistol just yet, Mr W. Rest easy.’

  Kingsley heard the cue and patted his pocket in as ominous a fashion as he could muster.

  ‘Pistol?’ Morton’s voice was strangled. ‘Who are you people?’

  Kingsley sensed that Morton was nicely off balance and it would be handy to keep him that way. ‘You have special arrangements with the East India dock, do you, Mr Morton?’

  Morton swivelled right around in his chair, hanging an arm over the back. ‘I’m a shipping agent. Of course I do business with the East India dock.’

  ‘That’s not what I asked.’ Kingsley nodded, and Evadne caught it.

  ‘Your reputation is important to you, isn’t it, Mr Morton?’ she said. ‘Without it, you wouldn’t get the extra business that you seem to enjoy.’

  ‘Now, listen here,’ Morton said in a voice that missed being a bluster by a good splutter or two. Instead, he sounded both desperate and pathetic, as if he’d been caught cheating on a test. ‘I demand to know who you are and what you want. Otherwise I’ll ask you to leave.’

  Evadne thrust the shipping manifest under his nose. ‘This is yours, is it not? Imagine what damage your reputation would suffer if it became known that you deliver goods to the wrong people.’ She whisked the document back before he could focus on it. ‘And I’m sure that damage would be particularly serious in the Demimon
de.’

  ‘Demimonde? Who said I had anything to do with the Demimonde?’

  ‘Just about everyone in the Demimonde, which must be good for you, as long as your reputation stays intact.’

  Morton chewed a lip and glanced first at Evadne, then Kingsley and finally Evadne again. Finding nothing helpful, he sagged where he sat, his shoulders doing their best to migrate towards his waist. ‘We have so many deliveries coming in and going out. Things go astray sometimes.’

  Evadne reflourished the shipping manifest. ‘What do you remember of this shipment?’

  ‘I monitor all shipments personally.’ He nudged his spectacles with a knuckle. ‘I remember this like it was yesterday, Miss . . . Stephens.’ He looked up. ‘You’re one of our most regular recipients of items from India.’

  ‘And I haven’t had cause to complain until now,’ Evadne said.

  Kingsley was lost in admiration. In the face of her certainty and indignation, Morton hadn’t realised that Evadne was the beneficiary of the delivery gone astray rather than the injured party.

  Morton ran his finger down the columns of the manifest. ‘All seems to be in order. Letters. Documents. Indian newspapers.’

  ‘And a box.’

  ‘A box? It says nothing about a box here.’

  ‘And yet one was delivered to me along with all these other items.’

  ‘What?’ Then Morton’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Wait. I do remember this box.’ He rubbed his jaw. ‘It was meant for you.’

  ‘It couldn’t be. Everything that has come to me from India was from a known correspondent. This was a mystery, unattributed and not appearing on this manifest.’

  Morton crossed his arms on his chest. ‘Nevertheless, it was yours.’

  ‘Your memory is that good?’ Kingsley growled.

  Morton was regaining some of his composure. ‘I pride myself on it.’

  ‘Then you’ll remember who sent it,’ Evadne said.

  In a series of movements so transparent that Kingsley thought they’d give glass a run for its money, Morton looked at the manifest, then at Evadne, then at the nearest ledger. ‘We respect the privacy of all our customers, Miss Stephens. You can’t expect me to divulge such information when the customer paid for anonymity.’

  ‘Don’t be tedious, Mr Morton. Eventually, you’re going to tell us because you won’t want us to let everyone in the Demimonde know how indiscreet you are.’

  ‘Indiscreet? But telling you the identity of the party you’re after would be indiscreet.’

  ‘Precisely. You could argue about it, complain and protest about it, but eventually you’ll tell us because you have no real choice. I’d simply prefer that you do it now rather than subject us all to such dreariness. Mr W over there is easily bored, and when he’s bored he tends to become violent.’

  Morton swallowed. ‘I’ll need to consult our records.’

  While the slumped-shouldered Morton opened the ledger, Kingsley’s sides were trembling with the effort of not laughing, and his bruised rib was aching. Evadne kept a hand over her mouth, but her eyes were bright with suppressed humour.

  ‘Here we have it,’ Morton said. He looked over his shoulder, but kept a finger on the page of the ledger. ‘One of our most regular customers. Does the name “Jabez Soames” mean anything to you?’

  The snarl that leaped into Kingsley’s throat was not entirely a product of his animal self. Jabez Soames had been the Immortals’ foremost underling, a vile go-between who was prepared to deal with the amoral sorcerers for the gold they paid him. Kingsley despised the man, and not just because he’d had plans to sell Evadne into slavery, but because of his utter lack of scruples. Kingsley had shed no tears when Evadne told of his death when she had flooded the lair of the Immortals last year. Part of Soames’s work for the Immortals had been shipping items from India, magical and otherwise.

  Evadne’s voice was steady. ‘I have heard of Soames. He has been arranging shipment of items of an unusual nature from India for some time. He would have emphasised the items’ value – and the extreme displeasure that the owners of said items would feel if said items were damaged or went astray.’

  Morton sat up, ashen-faced. ‘But we haven’t! I haven’t! It wasn’t us!’

  ‘That’s not what we’ve heard. Isn’t that correct, Mr W?’

  Kingsley nodded and crossed his arms on his chest.

  By now, Morton was actually wringing his hands, an action Kingsley had never been able to understand. Were they wet and in need of drying? Was it an attempt to mould them into innocence? ‘I haven’t done anything,’ Morton croaked.

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ Evadne said.

  ‘It’s not my fault.’ Morton put both hands to his head and squeezed. ‘This box was sent to you on behalf of Mr Soames.’

  Kingsley started. ‘On behalf of?’

  In his outpouring of denial, Morton didn’t appear to hear. He went on. ‘I want it recognised that, as stipulated, I held every other shipment until Mr Soames came for them. It’s not my fault that he hasn’t collected them yet.’

  Evadne was half out of her chair. ‘Think carefully, Mr Morton. Are you saying that you have more items for Mr Soames waiting in your warehouse?’

  ‘Safe, I say. Absolutely safe. If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you.’

  EIGHT

  The next day, after the test with Gompers, Leetha was exhausted. Even though some of her reactions were feigned, she had been surprised by the force with which others took her, a storm that left her shaking.

  The morning gathering was in a room bare of comfort, a room typical of the dwellings of the big people. The walls were hard, red brick. The floor was cold. The air was stale and without life. On the bench, her feet dangled well above the floor, something she had grown accustomed to. Slowly, her tiredness faded. Inside, she was empty, as if she had not eaten for days. She stared at the brick wall, tired of not knowing what was on the other side. Her curiosity nibbled at her like an ant. It demanded she find out more about their surroundings.

  The door opened and her cousin Mannor trotted in – bright, smart Mannor. When he saw her, he gave a quick shake of his head and glanced back to let her know that a guard was behind him. He joined her on the bench and the door closed.

  ‘You were tested yesterday?’ Leetha asked. Mannor was a fine rope maker, and his nimble fingers had much work in the factory of the big people. He was quick to learn, too, and already understood much about the machines and the science of the big people.

  He sighed and put his hands on his knobbly knees. ‘Sounds. From a box. Animals. They watched me listen to them.’

  Leetha hissed between her teeth in sympathy. She patted him on the back and felt his shoulder blades sharp as ever. Mannor never ate enough at home. How was he managing here? ‘They caused you no pain?’

  ‘Not this time.’

  More of her people joined them and their stories were similar. More tests, mysterious in their intent. Calli was the only one who suffered, having been made to run around the outside of a room until she collapsed, after which her breath was captured in a jar.

  Leetha saw how tired Calli looked, and her mind was made up. Now was the time to do what she had been planning for days.

  A few minutes later, Ubbo was pushed through the door. His tale of being asked about his family was interrupted by a guard barging into the room. ‘Right,’ the guard said, slapping a sparky stick in one hand. ‘It’s the factory for you lot today.’

  Leetha was on her feet. Her hands were already sweaty because of what she had decided to do. She lingered at the back of the group, her heart pounding. As they left the room, she called on her hiding skill. She kept her head down and thought of walls and floors, of greyness and hardness, brick and stone. Through lowered lids, she watched the guard gesture in the direction he wanted them to go, but she eased her way to one side, close to the wall. Her people nearly blocked the corridor as they moved closer together, enjoying the nearness, something they were
often deprived of in this world of big people. Leetha, however, sought the shadows that lingered even in this brightly lit place, the places where the electric lights did not reach. She slowed in her walking, thinking about the clay that made the bricks, the heat that baked them. She thought unimportant thoughts for she was not worth noticing. She belonged there. She was not a threat. She could be forgotten.

  She was drawing on an age-old talent of her people. When they chose, they remained beneath the notice of those around them and could hide even in plain view. It had helped them to survive, allowed them to slip away whenever big people blundered near in the jungle.

  As long as no-one could hear the drumming of her heart, Leetha thought that she was safe. The guard glanced at her once, but his gaze found nothing to see. His attention slipped across her like water on a smooth stone.

  When her people reached a corner, Leetha hung back. When they rounded it, she hurried away in the opposite direction. She needed to find a way out of the place. She needed to find the outside. She needed to find help.

  She felt in her pocket. The gold she had clipped from the small sheets used in the electrical machines – a bit here, a bit there, over many weeks – was still there. She knew the big people were greedy for it. She hoped to use that greed.

  Panting, with fear gripping her throat, Leetha crept from the place where they slept and were tested, casting around as if she were in an unfamiliar part of the jungle. If she could find a way to the outside, she would be a step closer to her dream.

  She strained her senses, afraid she would be discovered. She would be beaten, at the least. Worse, she could be taken in front of the Immortals.

  Down stairs and past open doors, she came to a stone way roofed with glass. It led to the hard metal and the machines of the factory. Leetha slipped past the wires and tables. She came to the rear, the place she had glimpsed through open doors, the place where big people came with their carts and their boxes to bring material for the factory. It was the place where the world of their captors touched the wide world.