“The Twelve’s tickers?” said Ned.
“Mechanical spies,” said Bene. “The Twelve have them everywhere – all the major cities on this side of the Veil, to make sure things are all right, to keep an eye out for Darklings, that sort of thing.”
“And now the Central Intelligence has … sort of taken some of them over?” said Ned.
“Oh, not some of them,” said Bertram. “All of them.”
The Tinker shivered. He glanced at Ned. “This is very, very bad,” he said.
“Yes,” agreed Bertram. “Barbarossa and the Central Intelligence, they’re readying themselves for war – and the Demons, sir, are with them.”
“What this means, pup,” said Benissimo, “is that we are in dire trouble. Barba has an army, and he has blinded the Twelve by stealing their tickers. Any assault by force would be as good as suicide. We need to warn Oublier and the Viceroy, if they don’t know already. It would appear that you and Lucy are our only hope, though in view of this news, I wonder if even that is a slim hope indeed.”
Ned didn’t care what army was waiting. He didn’t care about Demons or Darklings, right here and now he didn’t even care about Barbarossa or the Darkening King. All he really wanted was to see his mum and dad.
“Tell me, Bertram,” he said. “Have you seen my parents?”
“Your parents are alive. But slaves we all are to the machine and his butcher. It was my job to clean out the labs where your father worked, him and all the others.”
Ned felt his anger boil. He willed it to stop but, despite the satyr’s lesson, feelings, when they’re hot and dark, take on a life of their own. A vision of his parents chained and trapped stuck in his mind like an ugly glue and Ned wanted to scream.
“Has he hurt them?” he managed.
The minutian paused, as much from pain as from what he was about to say.
“We’ve all been hurt, sir, some more than most. I came here to warn you. I overheard the butcher talking to the Central Intelligence, sir. Once the weapon is built, they aim to kill your father. See, being an Engineer, he’d be one of only two people able to destroy it.” He paused. “The other, of course, would be you. So, you see, just as soon as he fires the weapon, he’ll kill your father. And once that’s done, he’ll come after you.”
The last time Ned had travelled behind the Veil, Barbarossa had wanted him to join him, at least in the beginning. Ned wondered if the man had already known then about At-lan, and that he would need an Engineer to work it?
This time was different. Barbarossa aimed to kill both father and son, just as soon as he had his weapon. All of a sudden the angel-faced Guardian by the entrance to George’s trailer didn’t seem quite so bad.
“There’s more, sir,” continued Bertram. “I managed to get away before we were moved to the construction site. The others travelled by mirror, thousands of them, that’s when I snuck away, so I don’t know where the site is – but I do know this: the butcher Barbarossa, he’s coming to the Circus for the book and he’s certain he can get it. There’s one of you here already that will help him to do the getting.”
“A traitor – again!” seethed Benissimo. “Bertram, who? Who is it this time?”
“That’s just it, your Ringship, I don’t know and neither does the traitor,” he drawled, his voice weakening and the lids of his eyes drawing south.
The Ringmaster’s great brows furrowed angrily.
“The traitor doesn’t know he’s a traitor?! Bertram, what are you saying?”
But despite Lucy’s best efforts, the gift of her healing hands and heart, Bertram Wrenchgood, brave as he was, would never breathe again.
Cat Fight
he next evening, in a frost-covered field, George was sitting in his favourite armchair reading from a book of medieval poetry, which apparently helped calm his nerves. There was a fresh bruise on his left eye from the latest demonstration.
In this he was not alone. Ned had been forced to watch various pummellings over the past two days. Abi the Beard and her husband had knocked the stuffing out of each other, ending with the normally kindly woman half strangling her husband into submission, with nothing more than a flexible beard and a shockingly fierce tongue. The Guffstavson brothers, Sven and Eric, could not raise a spark of electricity unless they were being unkind to each other. Grandpa Tortellini had taken to his task with merciless enthusiasm and pushed them so hard that they had left the big top in furious tears. This was after their lightning bolts had short-circuited every generator in the encampment. The same generators that not only powered the circus’s lighting but also the electric heaters that they used to fight off the freezing December air. The point had apparently been that neither of them had won and the troupe would have to freeze in their bunks.
“I can’t take this any more, George,” said Ned.
“You’re not alone. I must say the serial beatings are not helping your friend gain any popularity and I’m rather concerned about his welfare. The only person he sees now is Lucy, and she’s been completely distraught since that poor chap Bertram passed away.”
Ned had only glimpsed Lucy now and then, taking special care to follow the sin-eater’s instructions not to bother her too much, or make her upset. He had no idea how her training was going, only that when she’d heard about Bertram she’d had such a bad bout of “teething trouble” that it had knocked out half the troupe, if only momentarily.
With the news about Gearnish, tensions were high generally. And as brave as Ned was trying to be, he was also terrified, because nothing, not Barba or his hideous allies nor the trouble that no doubt lay ahead, was more frightening than the fact of the voice.
The Darkening King was talking to Ned and Lucy, actually calling to them, and if Jonny was right, he wanted to use them somehow, or at least their rings. Ned was desperate to tell Benissimo and especially George, but now more than ever a wall separated him from his friends.
“I wish I could talk to Lucy, George.”
The great ape put down his book and patted him on the head.
“I believe the feeling is entirely mutual. Have faith, old bean, at least you’re not the one getting a beating.”
And herein lay the problem.
“That’s what’s killing me – everyone’s suffering. Here, in Gearnish, Mum and Dad … George, well, I’d rather it was me.”
It is not commonly known – at least not to those that have never come across George the Mighty – that apes, even big apes, are as soft-hearted as they are strong.
“You don’t get it, do you, chum? Your parents have been protecting you since you were born and there’s a whole troupe out there that would gladly lay down their lives to keep you from harm. That’s what family means. Chin up, we’ll be at St Albertsburg soon, Ned, and then we’ll have the Viceroy’s troops to help us. And none of this is your fault or your parents’, but you’ve a way to fix it and fix it you will. Of that I am, as I have always been, sure.”
Ned prayed that the ape was right. He picked up Whiskers and ground through the evening snow on his way to the big top. He’d quite lost count of the borders they’d crossed but had a small inkling that they were somewhere in the forest-swept corners of the Slovakian countryside and the chill in his bones told him that it must have been some degrees below zero.
A well-covered Alice gave him an encouraging blast of her trunk and even the battered though recovering Rocky managed a cheery “Nied!”
The troupe’s unbounded support was heartbreaking. They had just as much to fear for their loved ones as he did, and whilst the Circus still possessed the Book of Aatol, maybe more.
Nor was it just the troupe. Gorrn had seemingly had a change in spirits. Where he had been lazy, he was now unnervingly helpful and had taken it upon himself to appear without being summoned. Ned had seen him burning his sheets with an iron, scrubbing George’s floor so hard that it actually splintered, and on one occasion his familiar had brought him a cup of tea, to which he’d added four spoonfu
ls of coffee, twelve of sugar and what he presumably considered a generous helping of soap.
Hopelessly or not, everyone really was trying to help.
The question that laid heavily on Ned’s heart, was whether he would be able to help them.
In the big top, in place of the octogenarian half-satyr, stood a brooding Benissimo. The two of them had barely spoken since Bertram had come and then so quickly departed.
“Bene, what are you doing here? Where’s Grandpa?”
“I gave him the morning off.”
“What about my training?”
“I know a fair bit about training, pup. I am, after all, a Ringmaster, and this is my ring. Let’s have a little chat, shall we?”
The two of them pulled up a pair of hay bales and sat by the makeshift boxing ring.
“Ned, we’re almost out of time. We must reach St Albertsburg, we’re flying as fast as we can, and Jonny tells me that you and Lucy aren’t ready – but ready or not, you need to be able to do this, or our whole plan fails.”
“Right, so today’s the day, then, ready or not?”
“I wish it weren’t so. A long time ago I told you the dangers of wearing the ring, that many who had worn one before you had ‘turned’ because of its power. I am still honour-bound to protect you, Ned, we all are, even from yourself. But with all the goodwill in the world this last leap is yours and yours alone.”
“So what do I do?”
Benissimo smiled.
“You win.”
At that, the Ringmaster clapped his hands and the trenchcoat-wearing Finn with his greasy hair and two unusually meek lions came ambling into the tent. Left and Right cowered behind him with their heads low to the ground and their padded paws pacing gingerly at his feet. It took a moment for Ned to realise that the thing they were so clearly frightened of was not, in fact, the tracker: it was the covered cage under his arm. He stepped into the ring and placed it on to the canvas.
“Car’ful, boy, it’s reel nasty.”
Finn left with the two relieved man-eaters and Ned and Benissimo stepped into the ring. Whiskers was less than happy about tagging along and, after some excitable squeaking, freed himself from Ned’s hands and took a spot outside the canvas and away from the harm that was no doubt on its way. Suddenly Ned felt less responsible for the battered troupe and wished he was still a spectator. Finn could capture any number of Darklings and mostly on his own or with the help of his lions. “Real nasty” was not something that Ned wanted to face, either this day or any other.
Benissimo lifted the cover and opened the cage’s door, revealing … a thin and rather scrawny-looking cat.
“Oh,” said Ned.
It wasn’t even a large cat, but actually quite young. It had a sweet face and stretched its little legs on the canvas before taking in the big top with its bright yellow eyes.
“Meow.”
Ned couldn’t believe it. There was a spy, unknowing or not, somewhere in their midst, an entire city’s population had been turned into slaves and the fate of the world and all of the Hidden depended on him teleporting to a machine the whereabouts of which they didn’t know. And now this: Benissimo, a seemingly wise and able Ringmaster, wanted him to pick a fight with a small and rather sweet-looking cat?
“Bene, are you all right? I mean, I know this is your ring and everything, but that’s a cat!”
“Yes, it is,” said the Ringmaster, whilst backing out of the ring carefully.
“What am I supposed to do, stroke it?”
“It isn’t your average moggie. ‘Singe’ is a Siamese Fire-coat. In days gone by they protected the treasury of Asia’s Hidden kings and queens.”
Ned studied his adversary. Singe had very short fur and was currently looking at him as though he were a warm bowl of milk.
“So where’s the fire?”
There was a rumbling from the little cat’s chest. It grew louder and louder till the canvas they both stood on started to shake. The rumbling stopped and Singe gave off a happy and contented purr. Just then, Ned saw what looked like smoke coming from the creature’s nostrils. Behind him and quite decidedly away from harm, Whiskers squeaked a warning and shut his eyes tight.
“I believe he’s getting ready,” announced the Ringmaster.
And with that there was a mighty FOOM!
Ned watched in awe as the cat’s coat turned to a torrent of fire.
Hiss … It spat and its eyes became narrow slits, both thin and full of intent.
“Barking dogs!” exclaimed Ned.
“Cats, Ned, it’s a cat,” corrected the Ringmaster.
And the cat hissed again. Out of its mouth came a speeding fireball aimed directly at Ned’s head. A mother’s careful training kicked in and he dropped in shock to the ground.
“Only one rule, Ned. You have to beat it without putting out its flames.”
“Oh, come on!” yelled Ned, narrowly rolling out of the way of yet another ball of flames. Think, think, think! he urged himself.
This time the cat jumped in an arcing streak of fire. Ned was up on his feet, and sprang backwards just in time as the blazing furball landed. Undeterred, Singe turned his little feline head to Ned, looked at him and meowed in a jet of loud and noisy flame. Ned closed his eyes in terror and his ring fired. In front of him atoms fizzed and a wall of water curled itself out of the air, blocking Singe’s fiery torrent in a cloud of boiling steam.
“That’s the spirit, pup,” said Benissimo, who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle enormously. “Remember, his flames mustn’t go out.”
Singe stopped and sat on the canvas. His eyes widened and, besides his burning coat, he looked suddenly calm. For a heartbeat, Ned prayed that his lesson had come to an end, until Singe launched two fireballs to either side of him and tore forward. With flames on his left and right and a jet-propelled cat closing fast – Ned panicked. He got down on one knee, curling himself defensively, and something in his head said,
“YeSsS.”
Ned’s entire arm burned and the Amplification Engine at his finger fired again. Behind him came the sound of rushing water.
Whoosh!
A vast wave pulled itself up from the big top’s floor. It came like a cold wall of blue protective vengeance, knocking Ned, Benissimo and the Fire-coat on to their backs.
When Ned looked up from the charred and sodden canvas, there wasn’t so much as a wisp of smoke anywhere and a bedraggled Singe the cat sat licking its paws. His flames were out and Ned had failed. Failed to pass Benissimo’s test, failed to master his powers, and failed just about everyone that needed him to succeed.
Ding! Ding! Round Two
enissimo’s moustache was dripping wet and his jacket splattered with damp sawdust.
“Well, that’s one way to do it,” he said.
“Sorry, Bene.”
“Never mind that, boy. We’ve no time for sorry, not any of us, and most certainly not the citizens of Gearnish or your long-suffering mum and dad. Now tell me, what were you thinking about just before you drowned little Singe here?”
Little Singe’s eyes narrowed menacingly.
“Err, not getting burnt?”
“Were you scared?”
“Not being funny, Bene, but I think anyone would be scared.”
“You’re not funny, Ned, and you’re not anyone. You pass the test when you beat it without putting out its flames. Focus on the goal, Ned, the outcome, not on what you’re feeling, and you might just win. AGAIN!” he barked, and Singe the Siamese Fire-coat burst into flames.
Ned ducked and dived as wave after wave of fiery projectiles were launched across the canvas. He pulled his own jets of water from the air, but only at the flames and never the cat. How could he beat it if all he was doing was defending himself? The exertion was killing him with or without his mum’s training, but not nearly as much as the effort he was using to work his ring.
“Does this thing ever get tired?” he yelled as yet another ball of fire sped past his face.
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“Fire-coats can go at it for days, pup – BEAT IT!” demanded Benissimo.
The fiery feline was showing no signs of slowing up and Ned was fast running out of steam, when the voice came to him again.
“MorRe,” it whispered, but Ned, maybe for the first time, would not be told.
“Beat it,” he seethed and focused his ring. Round the cat, in front and behind, a barrier of ice started to form. Seeing his imminent capture, Singe arched his back with a hiss and his fiery coat burned brighter.
Ned kept concentrating and drew on his power; he felt the emotions coursing through his ring and he controlled them, as a steady unending surge of cold formed round the cat. The ice was melting almost as fast as he created it and the effort to strengthen it exhausting as fire and ice sputtered and spat.
“I can’t keep this up all day!” he yelped.
And just as he said it, Singe sat down on the canvas and stopped.
“Well, the cat isn’t stupid, boy, at least he knows when he’s beat.”
Singe put out his coat with a muffled hiss and began licking his paws in readiness for a nap. Exhausted, Ned fell to his knees, wet from his wave, a bedraggled boy who had just defeated … a cat.
“Well done, pup, well done. How are you?”
“Honestly? I’m knackered.”
“No, my boy, you’re ready.”
Ned thought about this. The Hidden needed him. The world needed him. And maybe … just maybe … he was ready.
He turned to look at the side of the ring, where his clockwork mouse was cowering.
“Whiskers, old boy, come here, would you?”
Whiskers, who had taken a decidedly quiet stance since the Fire-coat’s unveiling, answered with a blinking of his beam-bright eyes. A dash then a dot, followed by three more dashes.
“N, O? No? Oh, come on, Whiskers, we need you.”
Benissimo, who already had a good idea of what Ned was up to, came to the rescue.
“You know, pup, if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, there’s another way of getting him over here.”
Yes.
The Gold Thief Page 17
