by Arthur Slade
“Seventy-five hundred.” It was Mauger’s nasal tone, his French accent now very clear.
“Don’t be uffish,” a reedy voice warned. “I humbly suggest you provide the information free of cost.” Colette thought she heard an Irish lilt to the man’s words. She’d never seen such white hair; it glowed in the low light. He was thin, his tan suit very stylish.
“I—I will take sixty-five hundred. But no less. This is very important information. You’re not the only agency who has requested it.”
“But I am here; the other agencies are not. And what if you receive nothing?”
Father Mauger was holding a paper in his right hand, which was clearly shaking. “That was not the agreement. And why did you bring this … this man with you?” He motioned toward a gray pillar that Colette quickly realized wasn’t a pillar but a brute of a man, standing dead still.
“Is the name on it?” With a serpent’s speed, the thin man snatched the paper from Mauger’s hand, then read it. “Names. Addresses. Perhaps this is helpful.”
“Fifty-five hundred?” Mauger pleaded. “Mr. Lime, please. I have risked my position.”
“It is Lime. Not Mr. Lime.” He signaled to the larger man, who didn’t respond. “Ah, such mush for brains! Can you not obey a simple gesture? Fine. I shall use words: Typhon, please separate the dear father’s head from his body.”
The monstrous man grunted an answer and batted aside Mauger’s feeble attempt to block him. He wrapped one hand around the father’s neck.
“No! No—” Mauger’s words were cut off as he was choked.
She couldn’t let the priest die! Colette cocked her pistol and charged down the stairs, leaping high and landing several feet behind her targets. She pointed the gun at Lime’s heart.
“Release him!” she commanded.
Lime smiled as though he’d expected her all along. His teeth glittered in the light of the gas lamp. “Why?” he asked.
“I’ll shoot you if you don’t.”
With his back to her, the beast Typhon continued to choke Mauger.
“And what will that accomplish?” Lime asked. “Will it stop the moon shifting in the sky? Will it silence the music of the spheres?”
He wanted to wax philosophical while she pointed a gun at him? He was mad.
“Drop the paper, too,” she added. “Now.”
Again, that smile. His glinting teeth, if her eyes weren’t deceiving her, were made of sharpened metal. “A girl dressed as a boy tells a man what to do.” With some drama, he held the paper high and dropped it. By a lucky current of air it floated through the several feet between them. She lunged and grabbed it, not allowing the pistol to waver.
“You won’t leave this room alive,” he said quietly. “Your bones will be broken. Your brains stomped to gruel. Your thoughts will leak onto the earth.”
“You must be a failed poet. That’s not how this will play out.”
“I will it to be so and so it will be. Can the tides of destiny be stopped?”
Madness could only be met by madness, Colette decided. She fired, intentionally missing Lime by inches and shattering a lantern behind him. Lime didn’t budge, though he did open his sneering lips to say, “Release the priest.”
Typhon dropped Mauger and the archivist fell to the ground like a sack of stones.
“That’s better,” Colette said. “Now back away from the priest.”
Lime smiled again. “Please, Typhon,” he said to his companion, “kill the frumious girl in an egregiously painful manner.”
The massive man turned, his eyes dead. Collette froze as he lunged; it was as though a mountain was falling toward her. Then she heard her father’s voice: Always be ready to fight! She lurched backward, pulling twice on the trigger. The first bullet struck the wall. The second, a stack of books. Steady, her father’s voice whispered. Aim for the center of the chest. The third bullet hit the man in the sternum, but he didn’t even stagger. The fourth and fifth bullets punched two holes in his greatcoat, right near his heart. Then she was pulling the trigger madly, the hammer clicking uselessly as the giant thrust out an arm to grab her. His skin was slightly greenish and stitches snaked up the side of his neck. His eyes were cold, unseeing.
She ducked and he snatched her fluttering scarf and pulled, yanking so hard that she was lifted into the air. The scarf unraveled from her neck and she rolled across the marble floor, letting the piece of paper go. She’d landed close to the door.
Something struck her hard in the back of the head. White birds flapped in all directions. No, not birds, she realized as she scrambled to her feet, but pages from a book.
I was almost brained by a book! She nearly chuckled. Then, without a backward glance, she tore open the door and fled into the night.
3
Such a Playful Language
Lime chose not to pursue the young woman. She would not dare return. There was no sign of companions. He had known of her existence; both the librarian and the midwife had mentioned being interviewed by her, but neither had any idea who employed her. The woman’s East Asian appearance made guessing the exact country of her origin rather difficult; could it be that even the Chinese were after the same information? It didn’t matter. She might alert the gendarmes or her masters, but his work would be long done and he would be back in his hotel room drinking tea and nibbling chocolates.
Typhon continued to lumber toward the door, following Lime’s initial command. Stupid brainless lump, he thought. “Stop, Typhon,” he commanded. The thing turned and its eyes caught the lantern light, giving even Lime a chill. “Come to me.” The creature slouched back, a slight drag to one leg. It stood right next to Lime, so close that the formaldehyde stink was overwhelming.
“Stand there!” Lime shouted. “There! There! There!” He pointed at a spot a few feet away and Typhon eventually stomped into position. Of all the tools his masters had given Lime, this one was a sledgehammer.
It had taken Lime several months of research and inquiries to thoroughly assess the numerous accounts of monster children, first in England, then Germany, and later, France. The French, he was beginning to believe, were especially prone to storytelling. Nonetheless, Lime had managed to gather those stories and shape them into the truth. Sometimes it had required a few coins, other times more violent means. He had always been gifted at following leads.
At the behest of the Clockwork Guild, he was pursuing the parentage of a young man named Modo; he didn’t know who Modo was or why the Guild was so fixated on him, other than the reports that he apparently possessed wondrous capabilities: uncanny strength, a quick mind, and the ability to somehow shift his shape into the appearance of another. Lime had assumed the shape-shifting to be a fabrication, but the more he read and researched, the more he was beginning to believe the stories might be true.
He scooped up the paper Father Mauger had provided and read its contents. It was a signed document granting a nameless child to the church. It included the old residence of the parents and their intended new residence. As they had chosen to fill out the papers instead of simply abandoning the child on the church steps, they were probably religious and unlikely to lie to the church, especially in writing.
The priest had crawled into the shadows. He was the last loose end. But what sort of trouble could he cause? No, he had too much information. Though the other buyers he’d mentioned were likely fabricated in an attempt to raise the price, one could never be certain.
“Father Mauger,” Lime said, “please show yourself.”
The room was silent.
“Father Mauger,” he repeated, “I promise not to harm you. You are more valuable to me alive.”
“You promise?” The voice came from behind a desk several feet away.
“I do, Father,” Lime said. “I will not harm you. That is my solemn vow.”
The priest crept out from behind the desk and into the light, what little there was of it. He was pale and shaking with fear. He swallowed.
&nb
sp; “Typhon, please vigorously break his neck,” Lime commanded.
“But you said you wouldn’t harm me!” the priest squawked.
“I won’t.” Lime shrugged. The joke was an old one. He was surprised how many fell for it. “But Typhon will. English is such a playful language.”
4
Through the Window
After his third sleepless night, Modo began to think he was trapped in a reenactment of Macbeth, for he was seeing ghosts and hearing screams. Every time he closed his eyes the gaunt featureless faces of his parents rose up. They were crying out in pain, metallic hounds pursuing them. Or they were tied to torture racks.
The nightmares were particularly vexing. Over his lifetime he’d given little thought to the man and woman who’d abandoned him. Now they were popping up in his head, pleading for his help. How dare they? They’d sold him to a traveling freak show. Sold him!
He owed them nothing.
He also knew Colette would be waiting in Paris, sitting alone at a restaurant table. He had cared deeply for her and had taken a great risk in showing her his face. It had turned out badly.
He owed her nothing.
He punched his pillow, sending feathers into the darkness. The truth was he had never shirked any duty, large or small. Yes, his appearance was likely the reason his parents had abandoned him. And it was definitely the reason Colette hadn’t been able to say goodbye face to face.
If there was one lesson he had learned from the Rain People of Australia, it was that beauty truly was in the eye of the beholder. They had accepted his ugliness, even seemed to worship him as a god. But the gift the tribe had given him was perhaps the greatest gift of his life: they had looked at his face without reservation and with absolute love. They had seen him for who he really was.
His was not a face that the “civilized” could love. But that was their problem.
Modo sat up. For all their faults, his parents didn’t deserve to be in such danger. It’s my task, Modo thought. My duty! Besides, he wanted to prove his parents wrong; they should never have given him up. He pictured himself breaking them out of a jail cell and how they would beg his forgiveness. Faceless and nameless, they still shared the same flesh, the same blood. And that blood was French!
It had been something more than a small betrayal, Mr. Socrates not telling him that the blood in his veins wasn’t English. Modo felt weakened by this new knowledge, for he believed that British blood and intellect were what got important things done in this world. He’d been trained to serve England, in fact had served the country well, and yet, he was not really English.
He stepped gingerly onto the floor. It creaked as he dressed. The thought crossed his mind that he should go directly to Octavia, though it was inappropriate to enter a woman’s room at night. He thought of gently poking her shoulder and asking her to make the journey with him. But how could he ask her to both betray Mr. Socrates and risk her life? These were his parents, not hers. And the journey would be easier without her. He had not shown her his face again since their return from Queensland. He didn’t want her to see it. She desired a handsome prince; she’d admitted as much. His friendship, of course, she wanted. But not him.
He must go it alone. He stuffed a wallet in his pocket, knowing it held twenty Canadian dollars and enough British pounds to buy third-class passage on a steamer. He slipped a stiletto into his belt. Into his haversack he tossed a pocket lucifer; the electric device had proved quite handy and cast a surprisingly bright light. He also threw in spare netting masks, along with a few trousers and shirts. He would need very little.
He decided to slip out the window. He approached it, wincing at each complaint of the floorboards. He had opened the window several times in the past week, but this time it wouldn’t budge. He applied his strength and the wooden frame squeaked noisily. He was strong enough to tear it open, but that would wake up the entire household.
He tiptoed into the hallway and paused in front of Octavia’s door, lifting his hand to knock gently, but then lowered it. She would be angry that he’d left without a word, even angrier when she learned he was going to France to see Colette. You must be your own man, he told himself.
He stopped at the hallway window, the crescent moon drawing his gaze. He opened the window easily and climbed silently out onto the roof tiles. The pitch was not too steep. Freedom was only a short climb to the ground.
“Are you leaving us, young sahib?”
Modo nearly fell off the edge of the roof. “Tharpa?”
“Yes, it is I.”
The words seemed to float in the air, coming from no particular direction. Then he saw his weapons master leaning against the dormer wall, hidden in shadow. “H-how did you know I’d be out here?”
“I have come to know you well over these past fourteen years. Restless sleeping for three nights in the room next to mine has come to mean something. The news of your parents isn’t something a young man like you can ignore, and so I took the liberty of nailing your window shut.”
“Ah, you know me too well.”
“I know your heart.” Sometimes Tharpa seemed more mystic than human. “I repeat my question: Are you leaving us, young sahib?”
“No,” Modo said, “I was only … Oh, all right, then. Yes, I am.”
“Ah, then Mr. Socrates wins.”
“Wins?”
“We had a wager.”
“A wager!” Modo lost his footing momentarily.
“Yes. I said you would not leave without permission. He believed you would.”
The very fact that they’d foreseen his departure as though he were as predictable as a windup soldier was most distressing.
“You bet on me?”
“Just a small sum. Do not worry for my financial loss. Now, I suggest you go back through the window. Mr. Socrates awaits you in his office.”
Modo shook his head in frustration and stepped back inside the house, followed by Tharpa. It was as though he’d been caught stealing sweet biscuits. To these men I’m still a child, he thought. Trudging down the stairs to the main floor, he saw light under the door of Mr. Socrates’ office. Tharpa knocked gently.
“Enter.”
Modo blinked at the brightness when he opened the door, but strode into the room, holding his head high. Mr. Socrates gave him a tired smile.
“So, you were slinking out,” he said.
“I wasn’t slinking.”
“You were leaving without permission. When I was a soldier, desertion was a capital crime. In India we would tie deserters to the mouth of a cannon and let the cannonball do the rest.”
“That’s barbaric,” Modo scoffed.
“It was. I myself was not in favor of it. It did inspire discipline, though.”
“Well, this is not the army.”
“No, Modo, what we do is more important than what any company of soldiers does.” Mr. Socrates lifted his sterling-silver letter opener—a miniature saber—from the desk. “They are a hammer. We are the surgeon’s knife.”
“I’ve not been a knife—or should I say an agent—for some months now. It’s clear I’m no longer of use.”
Mr. Socrates sighed and rubbed his temples. “What’s clear to me is that I have made a mistake.”
Modo raised his eyebrows. Had Mr. Socrates ever admitted to a mistake before?
“And what’s this mistake?”
“I have let my emotions—my anger at you—get the better of me. You have been trained to a keen edge and you grow bored with inaction. I should have kept you busy with tasks and goals. Instead, a missive from France arrives and its contents stir you up. You become obsessed. That is clear. I must purge you of your obsession.”
“Purge me?”
“Yes. I’ve decided to send you to France.”
Modo couldn’t stop himself from blurting: “You’ll send me?”
“Yes. It’s just a small assignment, really. I’ve booked steamer passage for you and Octavia first thing in the morning. I’ve decided t
hat it’s important for us to discover whether you have any living relatives. I have no idea what the Guild or the French would want with them, if indeed they are seeking them. It would take years to train another agent as skilled in transformation as yourself. I suppose our rivals could be looking at the long game. Or they have some goal that I cannot surmise. You are to be my eyes and ears again. Just don’t become overly emotional.”
“Emotional?”
“Yes. You shouldn’t think of the people in question as your parents.”
“And who are my parents then?”
Mr. Socrates pressed his lips together, a look of confusion crossing his face. “You don’t need parents, Modo. You have done very well with the appropriate guidance and training. A trip to France is your chance to free yourself from the past.”
Could one ever be free of the past? Modo wondered. It seemed to slink after him wherever he went.
“Does Octavia know that she’s been assigned to this mission?”
Mr. Socrates shook his head. “She’ll know in the morning. She’ll be pleased to be doing something more exciting than eating croissants in Montreal.”
Modo wasn’t so sure of that. In fact, when he pictured Octavia and Colette in the same city, a certain queasiness set in.
5
Setting His Mind to the Task
Mr. Socrates stood in his office, slowly spinning a small globe, his fingers tracing the Atlantic, France, the Mediterranean, and India. He’d visited all these places and would do so again in a heartbeat. But here he was trapped in a house in Montreal, like a fox backed into its hole.
With Modo and Octavia gone, he was left with Tharpa, Mrs. Finchley, and the newly arrived Cook and Footman, whom he’d summoned from their hiding places in England. How his great dream of the Permanent Association was shrinking. Yes, he had fellow heads of the Association who had their own agents, but they had sworn to cut off all contact with him and retreat from active duty. It seemed the best course of action until they discovered how the Clockwork Guild had tracked down the location of one of their safe houses.
