“I’m sure you will find this terribly difficult to believe, given your current unfortunate predicament, but we—my colleagues and I—have no evil intent. Atwood’s lot, on the other hand, are terribly dangerous. We are acting in the best interests of London—of England—the Empire. The world, for that matter.”
Podmore settled back into Atwood’s sofa as if it were a favourite armchair at his club, folded his hands across his belly, and adopted the style of a man making an extemporaneous after-dinner speech. “And you are here quite by accident. I see that now. An innocent—a bystander—entangled in schemes of greater powers. And yet, this is such a time of crisis that no man can stand neutral. The Company of the Spheres must be stopped. Delenda est.”
Arthur reached under his shirt and poked gingerly at his wound. No blood, thank God. It felt swollen, and itched abominably.
One of Podmore’s men stood at his master’s shoulder. Another leaned against the Cabinet, and the third was somewhere behind Arthur, by the window. From where Arthur sat, he could reach out and strike Podmore; but what good would that do? They had Josephine. God only knew where.
“What do you imagine will happen, Mr Shaw, if the Company succeeds?”
“I don’t know.”
“Man was not meant to walk on the moon. Still less on Mars, or Venus, or wherever else Atwood might choose to gallivant off to tomorrow.” Podmore paused, as if expecting laughter, then snorted. He rolled his drink around his glass. “I never did like that arrogant child, even before what happened to his poor father. He sought my support for his enterprise. I was appalled. Delusions! Lunacy! I blame that woman, whoever she is—they encourage the worst in each other.”
He shook his head sadly, then he sent the man who stood at his shoulder off in search of something to eat. “Hungry work, the Mirror of Solomon.”
Arthur took him to be referring to the trick he’d used to enter Atwood’s flat.
“What do you know of the denizens of Mars, Mr Shaw?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Quite. Nor do I. Nor does anyone. Devils; angels; who can know? Unknown powers. Atwood believes he can master them. Perhaps. I consider his confidence unwarranted. God knows what sort of wrath he might call down—and not only upon himself.”
Podmore’s man placed another glass of whisky in his hand and some bread and cheese in front of him.
“Suppose he prevails—suppose the Company opens a route to the spheres. Imagine, before Columbus discovered the New World, trying to guess what wealth it might hold. Understand, Shaw, I’m not talking of goods or furs or silver or potatoes, I mean power. I mean the magical power that might be the Company’s if they control the route to the spheres themselves. How could we permit that? And I shan’t even speak of the trouble that infernal Engine could cause—training a mob of riff-raff in techniques they have no business knowing.”
Podmore ate a chunk of the bread, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“There is a delicate balance, Mr Shaw, and Atwood threatens to upset it. If we don’t stop them now, someone else will—someone worse. Magical war, Shaw, with London as the battleground. The Germans are already here—so my men tell me. And God help us, what if the Americans get involved? Or the bloody Chinese?”
“Germans? Americans? Chinese?”
“Dear me, you are a naïf, aren’t you, my boy? I am speaking of the magical societies of Boston, of Peking. I am speaking of the Teutonic Order and the Hyperborean Society of Berlin and worse…” Podmore shook his head. “So you see, Shaw, why your friend’s ambitions must be stopped.”
“He’s no friend of mine,” Arthur said.
“Good!”
“Will you let Josephine go?”
“Perhaps. If you help us. More is at stake than your young woman.”
Podmore held out his hand, and one of his men placed a notebook in it. He leafed through the pages, muttering to himself. His men hovered. They seemed to be waiting eagerly for something awful to happen.
Arthur’s wound throbbed so painfully that he doubled over. He stared at his feet, trying not to throw up, contemplating his situation. All this talk of Germans and Chinese was more than he could keep straight; it might be true or it might be fantasy. Podmore had Josephine. That was what counted. If he helped Podmore, Podmore might release her. But then what if he helped Podmore, and as a result Podmore prevailed over Atwood? Then who would rescue her soul? Body or soul, soul or body. If he saved her from Podmore, could she bring herself back from wherever she was? He didn’t know what to do. His wound felt as if it might tear open.
Podmore rapped his knuckles on the table. The noise made Abby jump. “The names of your colleagues, Shaw.”
“Sun. Mercury. Terra Mater. Mar—”
“Their real names.”
“I don’t know them all. Martin Atwood. Samuel—Samuel Jessop. But Jessop is in the same boat as me, Podmore. He’s hardly a leader of Atwood’s group, he’s really only a—”
“I know a thing or two about Sergeant Jessop, Shaw—we can discuss him later. What do you know about the woman who calls herself Jupiter?”
“Nothing.”
“Remember: the young woman’s life is in my hands.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Who is the master of their Company, Mr Shaw?”
“Their master? Atwood, I suppose—or Jupiter, or Sun. I don’t know what you mean.”
“How did Mr Norman Gracewell come by the idea for his Engine?”
“I don’t know. He’s a mathematician.”
“You believe he invented it himself? Without aid?”
“I don’t know what you mean. You have him prisoner, sir—I suggest you ask him yourself.”
“Oh, we have. He’s terribly uncooperative. Says he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember rather a lot—most of ’83 and ’84. I’m sure you can imagine how that worries us.”
“They have a book.”
“A book?”
“They call it the Liber Ad Astra. It’s where they write their secrets.”
Podmore motioned for him to continue. He began to describe it, but soon Podmore was rolling his eyes.
“This is nonsense, Mr Shaw. Mere fog. Atwood has been wasting your time. Keeping you in the dark.” Podmore sighed. “Would you like something to eat? I can see we are going to be here for a very long time.”
By now Abby had stopped sobbing and was curled up in a corner of the sofa as if hoping to burrow into it and be forgotten.
Podmore yawned, and for some reason that casual gesture made Arthur furious all over again. He didn’t see how the members of the Hyperborean Society or the magicians of Peking could be that much worse than Podmore.
“Now, Shaw, tell me about the operations of Gracewell’s Engine.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything, of course. Everything that you know. Can you reconstruct it?”
Arthur’s heart sank still further. He had a vision of his future: working for Podmore, slaving over a third and still more inhuman iteration of the Engine, out in God knows where, with Podmore’s uncanny thugs looking over his shoulder, nothing to keep him working but the promise that one day Podmore might return Josephine to him. He’d grow old. He’d go mad.
“Speak, Shaw. Answer the question.”
It would be better to charge Podmore, hope to bowl him over, break free, and escape into the street. Worry about how to rescue Josephine later.
“Can’t speak, Shaw, or won’t speak?”
He felt Abby trembling beside him.
“Shaw, do you know what they are? My men, that is. Has Atwood told you?”
“No.”
“I want you to understand who I am, and I want you to understand that I am a far greater magician than that upstart, so listen. Each of these men is an employee of one of my newspapers. I won’t tell you their names. They don’t know their names themselves, in their present state. They wouldn’t know their own wives
or children. And tomorrow they will remember nothing of tonight’s events. Nothing of what they might do.”
“Lord Podmore—”
“Lord, they know not what they do! A state of ecstasy. No doubt you’ve noticed their eyes—ink, Mr Shaw. They drink it. At my command. A condition of employment in the inner circle. It’s a precious commodity, that ink; rarer than diamonds. It costs me great labour to extract it. The ink of newspaper stories, Mr Shaw. The nastiest sort. Murders and pogroms and babies dead in their mothers’ arms and disease and sin and wickedness and horror. All the worst that London is capable of imagining. They’re drunk with it, Mr Shaw. Positively tipsy. Whatever they do now, they’ll forget in the morning. Nothing but a nasty story. Do you understand? Do you believe me? In their trance they have a certain gift of prophecy. A gift for bad news. The terrible things that they say come true—even if they have to make them come true themselves. Shall we ask one of them now, what happens to Mr Shaw? What happens if he won’t speak? Eh? Shaw, are you listening to me?”
The wound in Arthur’s side throbbed again, stunning him with pain. He put a hand on Abby’s arm and squeezed so hard that she gasped in shock. With the other hand he pulled up his shirt. The wound was hot and swollen, straining against the stitches.
Arthur couldn’t take it any more. He tugged at the end of one of the stitches and it came loose, unravelling like a shoelace. Almost at once he felt such a surge of relief that he hardly noticed Podmore getting to his feet. He tugged at another stitch. The pain eased more as the lips of the wound sighed gently open. Wondering why he hadn’t thought of this earlier, he probed the wound. No blood. Longer and wider than he remembered. Another stitch unravelled. He reached inside the wound as if into a pocket and a sharpness pricked his finger. Something soft and warm and sleek brushed out past his hand, flapped out in front of Abby’s open-mouthed face, and up towards the ceiling.
His wound had hatched a bird.
It was black, and no bigger than a sparrow, except for a long, elegant, ribbon-like tail. Its breast was a brilliant ruby-red, and there was a touch of yellow on its sharp little beak, the beak that had pricked Arthur’s finger. It didn’t look English. Its call was clear and metallic. It circled the room, up near the ceiling, in a steady calm orbit, apparently not confused or surprised to be occupying a flat with Arthur, a shrieking maid, several silent thugs watching it with narrowed black eyes, and a furious red-faced newspaper-magnate-cum-warlock.
Something about it seemed to utterly infuriate Podmore, or perhaps terrify him. He threw his drink at it, and then a cushion. He stood on his chair and tried to catch it with his hands. He shouted at his men to stop it, stop it at once! One of them jumped up on the sofa; another ran to get a broom; a third jumped from the mantelpiece, missed the bird, and crashed onto the table, putting out the candle. The bird shrilled overhead. Its call was louder now, loud as a bell, as if it were crying wake up, wake up, wake up.
For a minute or two Arthur watched all this as if he were in the theatre, watching God knows what. Then he jumped to his feet, ran for where he thought the fireplace was, and scrabbled for the poker. He pulled Abby with him. Someone big moved behind him and he turned and swung the poker. He hit something; there was a thump and a howl of outrage. He swung again. Something cracked, and the grunt of pain was Podmore’s. Abby stumbled and nearly pulled Arthur over with her, and the next thing he knew, Podmore was gone. Arthur swung the poker once more. He seemed to be flailing at shadows. There were running feet and shouting and the shrill insistent call of the mysterious tropical bird.
Sun!—Sun must have done this, whatever it was, when he stitched up the wound. A measure of protection, to make up for the watch he’d reclaimed. Which was all very well, but it would have been better if he hadn’t kept it a secret—there were enough bloody secrets!
Arthur ran across the room, swinging the poker wildly, pulling Abby behind him, until he found the Cabinet. It seemed taller in the darkness, much taller and heavier than it could possibly have been when Podmore’s men brought it in. He bashed it with the poker until it opened. Terrible crashing and sparks. Bits of ornamental something or other depicting devils and angels and ibises and jackal-headed somethings fell off. The door swung open. No Josephine. White shadows tumbled out and enveloped him. There was a smell of dust and soap. He flailed at the shadows that covered his face; stumbled and tripped and fell and lay on his back as they fell on top of him.
Abby lit a candle.
Arthur was lying on his back under a small heap of dusty old clothes. There was broken china all around him. There was no looming and arcane Cabinet of Osiris overhead, only the wardrobe that had always been in the corner of the room, which he’d never bothered to open before.
He stood. Abby was in her nightshirt, breathing heavily. The room was otherwise empty. No thugs, no bird, no Podmore. The table was not broken. No sign of Podmore’s half-eaten meal or the glasses he and his men had drunk from. Apart from the damage Arthur had done to the wardrobe, everything was as it had been before he picked up the card.
He ran into the bedroom. One thing had changed: Josephine’s bed was empty. He threw open all the doors and looked out the window. She was gone.
He went back and shook the wardrobe as if she might tumble out of a concealed chamber, like a magician’s assistant.
Abby was already half-dressed and packing up her things. He started to ask her if she’d seen what had happened, if she’d seen Podmore and the Cabinet and Sun’s bird too. She shook her head. She wouldn’t speak or look him in the eye. She finished packing and left.
His wound was closed. A pink bumpy scar. No stitches.
He poked around the flat for a little while longer. Then he began to imagine Podmore’s men returning. Or Atwood and Dimmick, wanting to know what had happened. Thérèse, paying one of her visits. He thought of all the things he’d told Lord Podmore, all the secrets of the Company he’d spilled. He packed up a handful of possessions and any money he could find, and fled.
Chapter Twenty-one
By dawn, Arthur had decided that he had no choice but to return to Atwood, to confess his betrayal, to seek sanctuary and forgiveness, but when he arrived at Hanover Square, he found Atwood’s house in ruins. Fire had shattered the windows and collapsed part of the roof. It was clear at a glance that the house was abandoned. The trees nearby were bare, and the square was littered disgustingly with dozens upon dozens of dead crows, and pigeons, and rats. Lord Podmore had obviously wasted no time.
Arthur turned and walked away, and walked for hours, until he hardly knew where he was any more. He found a cheap boarding-house room and a corner of a park to sit in until the evening; then he got drunk in a vile and noisy gin-palace. He told himself that he was drinking to get up courage—but for what? He didn’t know. He had no plan. He drank with the diligence and patience of a man working out mathematics in Gracewell’s Engine, and he staggered back to his room and fell asleep on the floor, where he suffered a terrible nightmare all night long.
In his nightmare, Josephine was lost on a vast blood-red plain, under a dark and shifting and shadowy sky. She stumbled in the gloom over sharp rocks. Something pursued her, something that was too huge and too dark to see clearly, something so huge that it seemed perhaps it was Mars itself. Arthur called to her to come and join him in his hiding place, but she could not hear him—or perhaps, he began to fear, she didn’t trust him. He had failed her once too often. It was his pride and greed that had left them in their current predicament. He said as much to Atwood—in his dream Atwood was with him in his hiding-place, stroking his elegant little beard and chattering away about Albertus Magnus and Dr John Dee, and about the uses of vervain and mandrake root, and the thousand hidden names of Krishna, and the monsters (black and thousand-legged and hungry and squirming) that lived on Saturn. Gracewell was there too, drawing geometric figures on the walls of the cave. Sun stood behind Arthur, writing something on his back. Even Podmore was there, watching and taking notes. Art
hur stood in the mouth of the cave and called out for Josephine. He called out all the names he could think of for her, until he was calling out nonsense words into a shrill wind that smelled of sand and blood and ruin. Josephine ran, and stumbled. The shadow loomed over her like the rising of a hideous purple-green moon, a sour and rotting thing.
* * *
He went to ground. The Company couldn’t help him, wouldn’t help him. If Atwood had survived the destruction of his house, he’d know that he had been betrayed. He would not forgive. Arthur was almost as afraid of Dimmick finding him as he was of Podmore. He hid from mirrors and covered the windows of his rented room with newspapers. He performed the few magics of protection against evil that he remembered from Pow-wows.
* * *
On Saturday afternoon he went out to Blackheath. He sat out on the grass by himself until it was dark, and all the holiday-makers and picnickers with hampers and nurses with perambulators and children with kites had gone home, and he was alone. Then he lay down on his back with his hands behind his head and waited for the stars to come out. It was a clear night and the sky was soon an unbroken spread of stars. Arthur thought he recognised Orion, and Cygnus. He could see the unwinking light of Mars in the southern part of the night sky, and he prayed. He willed himself to see Josephine. He strained to set his imagination free, like a hawk. He sought new modes of perception. He thought that perhaps, his need and desire being so great, he might somehow invent for himself methods that had so far exceeded the grasp of Atwood and Sun and Jupiter and all the combined minds of Gracewell’s Engine. He focused his mind on the steady light of Mars, and he thought of its red plains, its two moons. He tried to imagine how Earth might look to someone standing on Mars; struggled to cast his imagination there, to forget his body, the damp of the grass, dogs barking, the dirt clumped beneath his shoulder. Josephine, he thought, Josephine, help me, show me the way, show me where you are, stretch out a hand to me. It didn’t work. Nothing happened. He got very cold.
The Revolutions Page 22
