by Peter Oxley
He led us to the kitchen at the rear of the building and glanced around outside. Satisfied, he beckoned me forward. “Give me your wrists.”
I watched with raised eyebrow as he unlocked each of our manacles in turn. “What’s going on, Captain?” I asked.
“I probably do not deserve that title any more,” he said, “as I suspect I will be as wanted as you three in a short while.” He opened the bag he had been carrying and tossed the runic sword to me. “You will probably need this.”
I caught the weapon one-handed and bit back a sigh as its restorative energies flowed into me, expelling the remaining weaknesses that had afflicted me in the Tower. I grinned at Pearce. “Does this mean we are no longer prisoners?”
“Time for talking later,” he said. “Come with me.”
He led us out of the door and into the yard behind. He pulled a crate over to the rear wall before jumping up on to it. Whatever he saw over the other side satisfied him, as he nodded and then waved us forward. “Over, now.”
We did not hesitate, clambering over the wall to find a carriage waiting on the other side. “Afternoon gents,” grinned the coachman from under a wide brimmed hat.
“Sergeant Jones,” I said with a smile. “You are mixed up in this… whatever this is… as well, then?”
“You could say that, sir,” he said. “If you would oblige me in taking your seats, sirs, we need to get movin’ afore them out front realise what’s goin’ on back ’ere. I’d rather not have to shoot my way out this alley.”
We piled into the carriage and then Pearce barked a short command for Jones to get us moving. We pulled the curtains closed and sat back in a tense silence, listening to the sound of the street beyond as we made our way out of Spring Gardens and onto the main thoroughfare of Piccadilly.
I shot a questioning glance at Pearce and he shook his head. All in good time, he seemed to say as he turned his attention to the window, leaning his head to peep out of the small gap between curtain and panel.
The four of us kept our silence as the carriage bumped and jolted along the road, hardly daring to make a noise lest it betray us to those without. We pulled to a halt and held our breaths as the sound of a handful of horses clattered alongside, fearing that they were the same soldiers who had escorted us from the Tower. I looked to Pearce; he was ramrod straight and keeping a wary eye on the window, his hand on his pistol.
“You there,” barked a voice, so near it made us flinch. “Where did you come from?”
“Who wants to know?” Jones replied.
“I am a Sergeant in Her Majesty’s armed forces, and this is a restricted area for civilians.”
“That it is,” grunted Jones. “Which is why I’m not carting civilians.”
I felt my heart skip a beat; had we been betrayed already?
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve come from the back of Horseguards,” said Jones. “Ask yourself whether there are any people who might want to be coming and going from there unobserved by the masses. Then ask yourself whether you’d fancy being the one who delayed them.”
We held our breaths as the other Sergeant mulled over these words. I fancied that I could hear his mount shuffle closer to our carriage, and I shrank away from the window in response.
We jumped at a shout from one of the unseen riders, a harsh “Yah!” followed by the stamp and clop of the horses being spurred into motion past us.
We exhaled as one, shaking our heads as we sank back into our seats and let the coach rock us onwards to safety.
After a few moments, Byron cleared his throat. “Gus, there is something we need to talk about.”
I frowned at him, struggling to concentrate on his words in my tense state of mind.
“It appears that we were gone for longer than we thought,” he continued.
“I know,” I said slowly. “We never expected the delay caused by the Warlock taking Kate.”
“Not quite that,” he said. “When we arrived back in St Albans from the Aether, we were surprised by how quickly the government had gathered soldiers to arrest us, were we not?”
“Yes,” I said. “We were only gone a few hours; even if Horseguards had found out about our trip as soon as we left, there is no way they could have mobilised in such numbers so soon. They must have been forewarned.”
“Or you were gone much longer than a few hours,” said Pearce.
I frowned at him, and then looked over to Byron, who nodded.
“I am afraid that is correct,” he said. “Time has a tendency to travel at different speeds in different realms. Whilst from our perspective we were only in that other place for a few hours, from the point of view of this realm—Earth—we were gone for two weeks.”
I opened and closed my mouth. “Are you sure?” I asked finally. “Why did you not warn me of this beforehand?”
“We did not know; it was the first time we had visited that realm.”
I turned to Pearce. “And I suppose you are still not going to tell us what is going on?” I asked.
Pearce ignored me, staring out of the window.
The rest of the journey was uneventful, and we relaxed as the minutes ticked by. Pearce resisted any attempts by us to draw him into conversation, save to reassure us he was not acting as our captor any longer.
“So we’re free to go?” I asked.
“You can, but I suspect you won’t get very far when the word gets out that you have escaped from the Tower. Which is probably already the case.”
“What’s the plan, then?” asked Byron. “Where are you taking us?”
“All in good time,” he said again. “The person I am taking you to meet would not be best pleased if he found out I had stolen his thunder by giving you the full story.”
I mulled over whether it was likely to have been Maxwell or Andras who had orchestrated this prison break. There was precious little love lost between Pearce and Andras, not to mention that we had not seen the demon for many months. So Maxwell it was, I concluded as I sat back and readied myself for the inevitable tongue-lashing that my brother would no doubt relish delivering. He had warned us plenty of times that we should play ball with Gladstone, at least until we had no other alternative. He would have regarded our little trip as a superfluous distraction and a risk that had jeopardised what little trust the Prime Minister had in us. The annoying thing was that he was right.
I disembarked the carriage somewhat reluctantly when we pulled up in front of a long row of terraced houses. By the amount of time we had been travelling since leaving Whitehall, and in particular the lack of any bridges, I had reasoned that we were heading north towards St John’s Wood and Hampstead and a quick glance around me confirmed this. At the end of the street, over to our right, I could see the greenery of Regents’ Park; we were within spitting distance of the Lord’s Cricket Ground, somewhere I had had precious little opportunity to visit for far too long.
“Do we have time to take in a game?” I asked. “Maybe just a couple of innings?”
The others looked at me quizzically. Apart, that is, from Pearce, who scowled. “It is best we do not linger too long out of doors. Try to look natural.”
As we followed Pearce towards the nearest house I bit back a grin at the thought of a Pooka, a half-demon, a sorcerer and an army Captain looking natural in this most English of high-class residential streets on the outskirts of the city.
Pearce opened the front door without knocking and ushered us inside, glancing up and down the street before shutting it behind us. I looked around the hallway, drinking in the fine furnishings and calm serenity. Something was not quite right; there was not enough noise, mess and smell for Maxwell to be in attendance.
“Why are we here?” I asked as Pearce pushed past us. He opened a door midway along the hallway and held it open for us, gesturing that we should enter. I shrugged to the others and walked through.
We found ourselves in a large sitting room shrouded in darkness, the only illumination coming
from a handful of candles and a small slit in the curtains through which the sunlight struggled to penetrate. Turning away from the curtains to greet us was a tall, thin man with a shock of greying black hair receding from a high forehead, a hangdog face framed by that famous chin-beard.
“My dear fellow, you are here at last!” he exclaimed, making his way over.
“Prime Min—” I started, then corrected myself: “Mr Disraeli.”
“Please, call me Benjamin,” he said, shaking my hand vigorously. “We have no more need of honorifics these days. We are all mere mortals are we not? Ah, the Pooka!” He turned to greet Byron, who accepted his hand with a bemused smile.
“It has been a long time, Benjamin,” he said. “Do you remember Joshua?”
“How could I forget? Good fellow, how are you keeping?”
I smiled as I watched the former Prime Minister bounce around us like an excited puppy. Such a transformation from the last time we had met; losing office to Gladstone had hit him hard, particularly as it had been as a direct result of the demons’ influence. To then be succeeded by a man who specialised in pious inertia was the final straw. He had appeared broken and bent in the aftermath, his confidence and standing destroyed in one fell swoop.
The last time we had seen him, shortly after leaving office, he had worn every one of his 60-odd years and more. However, the man before us was positively rejuvenated, his old bright-eyed intensity in full attendance along with a confident posture that spoke of his keenness for action. I felt my spirits lift as I followed him round the room: in spite of my fears, maybe all was not quite lost.
Disraeli was still fussing around us. “Please do sit down. I am afraid there are no servants here to tend for us: we had to send them away so we could be guaranteed privacy. You see, I am not supposed to be here: is that not right, Captain?”
“You are correct, sir,” said Pearce, standing to the side of our chairs, as formal as ever. “To tell the truth, none of us should be.”
“Quite true, quite true.” Disraeli patted a hand on his knee in a miniature tattoo. “Captain Pearce told me about Miss Thatcher. Kate.”
I turned to look at Pearce, my mouth opening in sudden understanding as I took in his stiff demeanour, as though it was taking an effort of will to stop himself from charging around the room in a mad panic. Of course.
“Captain,” I said. “I did not realise…”
My words were cut off by the cold stare he turned on me. “Realise what, exactly?” he asked.
I looked around for support but there was precious little being offered by the others.
“I knew you and Kate were close, but…”
“A friend of mine is stranded behind enemy lines,” he said. “Alone, unarmed and probably in great danger. I will not stand by while that state of affairs continues.”
“Which is exactly what I know our esteemed Prime Minister will choose to do,” said Disraeli. “Stand by and wait, that is. Which is in turn why I have brought you here.”
Joshua frowned. “Forgive me, but I thought we were brought here on the Prime Minister’s orders?” He turned to Pearce. “You showed the guards at the Tower an order signed by the Prime Minister, didn’t you?”
Disraeli coughed. “Yes, ah, that would be my doing. You see, I retained some headed notepaper when I left office. For sentimental reasons, you understand.” There was a mischievous glint in his eye as he continued: “And I can mimic Mr Gladstone’s hand in a rather passable manner. The man has no imagination, you see, and such things cannot be hidden from the pen.”
We looked at him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, gentlemen, what?” he said, waving a long finger at us.
“But is this not criminal behaviour?” I asked. “That you would take such a risk…”
“I am the one taking the risks,” said Pearce. “Mr Disraeli has no part in all of this.” He walked over to a candle and held the counterfeited order over the flame, dropping it in the fireplace when it was well alight.
“As much as it may seem devious and maybe even cowardly,” said Disraeli, “it serves our purposes for me to fight the good fight from within. May Allah forgive me, as I’m sure He will, for He must have a sense of humour to burden us with such a leader. Mr Gladstone is not short of enemies within Parliament, and I for one intend to encourage them.”
I smiled at the glances that the others gave him at the reference to Allah, the mention of the Muslim God seemingly at odds with his status as a sometime Christian of Jewish descent. However, I knew from experience that Disraeli took great pleasure in wrong-footing people by playing with their expectations, almost relishing the accusations and rumours that painted him as an exotic Asian sorcerer.
“And the Queen?” Byron asked Disraeli.
“Especially Her Majesty,” he grinned. “We still correspond on a regular basis, and Mr Gladstone seems to have not yet learnt the finer arts of keeping our dear monarch happy.” He leaned forward. “I always say: everyone enjoys flattery, and when dealing with royalty, one should lay it on with a trowel.” He looked around at us, savouring our attention. “The secret to my success. Mr Gladstone, alas, seeks to lecture Her Majesty, treating her more like a subservient schoolgirl. As you can imagine, this does not amuse her.”
“But I always thought Mr Gladstone was a good sort?” said Joshua. “The G.O.M.—the Grand Old Man and all that?”
“Pah! Grand Old Man… God’s Only Mistake more like!” Disraeli wielded the pun like a vicious weapon. “The problem with that man is that he has no redeeming defect. Never trust a man with no vices, that’s what I say. Speaking of which: I see cognac over yonder. Shall we partake?”
I waved for him to remain seated as I went over to the drinks cabinet and poured us all stiff measures. “So I take it you are back in the fight?” I asked.
“With a vengeance, young man, with a vengeance,” he nodded as he accepted the glass from me. “Thank you. I appreciate that I was somewhat flattened by the events following St Albans, but I have been revived and cannot sit by and watch any longer. In his floundering to do the right thing, Gladstone is achieving precisely nothing. Worse: every moment that passes is a chance for our enemies to strengthen and plot. I do not just mean the demons; the other Earthly nations are also seeking to take advantage. The French are always keen to cause mischief, as are the Prussians, to name but two.”
“But the threat from Almadel is not just directed at England,” I protested. “Do they not see that?”
“I am afraid not. Many do not believe the fantastical stories emanating from our country, and in a way one cannot blame them. Others do believe, but affect not to concern themselves in the hope that we will be distracted with our ‘domestic’ issues long enough for them to take advantage in the Asiatic countries. Our interests in India and Turkey are under threat just to start with.”
I shook my head. “Such things are the least of our concerns, are they not?”
“The duty of a leader and statesman is to consider all fronts and all interests. At present, we have no interest in the Aether except as a threat. The British Empire, on the other hand, is very much our concern and remains so as long as there is still a world for us to worry about. Something that is in danger of being destroyed thanks to Gladstone’s endless vacillation. The man is prevaricating on at least two fronts.”
Byron cocked his head to one side as he considered this. “But surely the other countries must see that there is also a risk to them here? Not just in terms of contamination from the demon threat, but also the advantages of our being so close to the magic and the assets of other realms?”
Disraeli stabbed a bony finger at him. “And there you are also correct. It suits our enemies and erstwhile allies to isolate and distract us with temporal concerns. You will have heard the reports of people trying to flee England, the demon threat and the inevitable next invasion, but being turned away from the Continent?”
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��I thought those were exaggerations,” I said. “Surely English refugees are no threat to the French?”
“You would think so. But the Emperor contends that there could be demons mixed in with the innocents, infiltrating the Continent amidst a flood of refugees. The message has been skilfully deployed across our neighbours, instilling a fear of destruction and terror like that which we have suffered. So they send back our refugees, forcing us to expend our efforts in dealing with camps of desperate displaced people that grow in size by the day. One more distraction from the demon threat, and one that plays rather well to the hand-wringing preacher we have for a Prime Minister.”
Byron shook his head. “If I live another thousand years, I swear I shall not understand your ways.”
“In another thousand years, I would hope we had grown a bit of sense,” grumbled Disraeli. “In any case, much of this has been allowed to pass as a result of a criminal dearth of communication from Gladstone. Nature abhors a vacuum and so other things rush in to fill that space: rumours, disinformation and so on. Never fear, though, old Dizzy is already mobilised: I have recommenced my correspondence with a number of contacts on the Continent.”
Pearce cleared his throat. “That is not why we are here, though, is it sir?”
“Quite, quite,” said Disraeli, his demeanour at once shifting to a much more sombre one. “The issue of Miss Thatcher’s abduction.”
“You intend to mount a rescue mission?” I said to Pearce.
He nodded. “You three will come with me.” It was a statement, not a request, and while none of us would have disagreed, I bridled at the idea of being ordered around.
“We did not intend for this to happen, you know,” I said.
“You returned without her,” he replied coldly. “Something that we will rectify forthwith.”
I bit back a retort, saving it for later. Pearce was carrying a large amount of anger, and it served no one’s purposes for us to have a blazing row now of all times; especially not in front of Disraeli.
