by Rod Duncan
“I wasn’t going to come back,” I said.
He was quiet after that.
I had been looking up at the tree branches but now turned so that my back was to the fire and to Fabulo. Cloud shadows moved over the fields beyond the copse. The afternoon slipped away. The sun grew low enough for its rays to reach under the trees and touch us.
I had remained silent for so long that, when I spoke again, it was with no confidence that my voice would sound. “Why did you come to rescue me?”
“The boy asked it.”
“Before that. You were trailing me for weeks.”
“You’ve got something I need,” he said. “If you go to the gallows, I lose my only chance to get it.”
“What something?”
“That’s a thing I don’t feel like talking about right now. I’m not sure I trust you enough.”
This was a puzzle I should have been able to solve. I had few enough possessions, and only three of them unique – my father’s pistol, my boat the Harry and The Bullet-Catcher’s Handbook. But the pistol he’d spoken of disparagingly and the boat he could have taken by force if he’d a mind to. He’d pressed his gun to my head that night. It would have been easy.
As for the book – he could know nothing of the dangerous power it contained. Professor Ferdinand had believed it a poison that might eat into the vitals of the Gas-Lit Empire. Fabulo had his own reasons for hating the Patent Office. I wondered if he’d use that power if it came into his hands. I still hadn’t decided what I would do with it.
I turned over to look at him. The firelight reflected in his dark eyes.
“Can you at least tell me your goal?” I asked.
“Now you’re asking the right kind of question,” he said. “When I came to you before and asked if you’d help me steal from the Patent Office, you said no. Well, I’m going to ask you again.”
“What makes you think I’ll change my mind?”
“We’ve travelled a fair few miles since then, don’t you think? And had a cosy pillow chat today. Seems like we understand each other better now. I thought you were mad to try to kill the duke. But then I heard Fitzwilliam’s story. And today I heard more of yours.
“I still think you’re mad. But it’s the kind of mad that I can’t argue with. You were going to your death. That’s an honour thing. I’m not one to stand in the way of a man who’s got a debt to pay.”
“I’m not a man,” I said.
He laughed then. It started as a chuckle and built until he was rolling on his back with his knees pulled to his chest.
“You’ll bring the constables on us with that noise!” I said, when he’d calmed enough to hear me.
He sat up and wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. “Not a man! You’ve got bigger balls than most every man I ever met.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel good?”
“Yes, girl! Now will you listen to me? I asked before if you’d help. You said no because you were scared. And there’s no shame in that. You’d have to be mad to steal from them, right? But now you are mad. And you know it. You’re as mad as me. What have you got to lose that they haven’t already taken?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Like I said, help me steal something.”
“Steal what?”
“That’s a secret.”
“Then tell me how you’ll do it.”
“I’ll do it with your help. But you’re asking the wrong questions again. What you should be asking is this – what will you get out of it if we win?”
“There’s nothing I want,” I said. “Nothing that can be stolen, anyway.”
“Then how about this? You can have all the secrets of the International Patent Office. All the devices they’ve hidden away in a hundred and ninety years. Enough power to bring down your duke and a hundred like him.”
“Enough power to bring down the Patent Office?” I asked.
He laughed again. “You couldn’t stick a knife into a man who deserved it, Elizabeth. You’re not going to pull down the pillars of the Gas-Lit Empire.”
While I was still thinking, he said, “Stand up.”
I did as he instructed.
“Elizabeth Barnabus, will you join company with me and put that madness of yours to good use?”
“Yes,” I said.
He spat on his palm and held it out to me. I did the same and our handshake sealed it.
Sleeping in ditches and under hedgerows, I’d thought my clothes couldn’t become more soiled. But rolling into London on the back of a wagon, I found a different kind of dirt. Oily, metallic and sulphurous, it insinuated itself through the air, coating every surface. And, by stages, it worked its way into the very pores of my skin.
Our conversation had been sporadic on the journey, but passing through the suburbs of the great metropolis it dropped away to almost nothing. After the carter dropped us off, I found Tinker staying close by my side. Fabulo adjusted the canvas bag he carried over his back, retying the straps so they could not be slyly undone.
I didn’t recognise any of the streets through which we passed, though once, between houses and through smog, I saw the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral, pale as the moon in the daytime. It was enough for me that Fabulo knew where we were going. It suited my mood to let him lead.
He kept us to the smaller streets and the poorer parts of town. Gradually the houses became more tightly packed and the stink of the river filled the air. At first people had stared at us because of our filthy clothes. Then we began to blend in. But, as we progressed along what a signpost proclaimed to be Commercial Road East, I noticed that we were being stared at once more. We were no more or less dirty than the population, but our clothes didn’t hang from us in rags.
“Listen,” Fabulo said, beckoning us closer. “We’ll soon be into the rookery of St John’s. Constables don’t much go there, so we’re safe from that. But that don’t mean they don’t have a law. It’s just a different kind. So don’t go looking them in the face. Just walk. And if they stop you, it’s me that does the talking.”
He looked to each of us, as if searching for assurance that we understood. Then he set off again and at the next junction turned right onto a road far narrower than the thoroughfare. The name Grove Street had been stencilled high on the wall of the first house in the row. There was no traffic. Indeed, none could have passed, such was the number of people milling about. Some sat on doorsteps, others huddled in groups in the roadway, their backs turned outwards like a wall. I kept my eyes downcast as Fabulo had instructed. Conversations dropped away as we approached and started again in our wake. I could feel their eyes on me.
There were more women than men. And too many children to count – most running barefoot with the dogs. A man turned to gob on the ground in front of me. To my right, a woman shouted something about dwarfs, at which others laughed. We carried on walking. A little girl burst from a doorway and pinched Tinker on the arm before running away again. He flinched, but didn’t break stride.
Then we turned left onto a yet narrower alleyway. This one sloped inwards from the close-packed houses on either side to an open drain running along the very centre. There were fewer people here, and they had no time to form an opinion of us before we were turning off again. The words Samuel Street had been daubed on a wall. The way was so narrow it seemed strange it had been named at all.
A dead dog lay on the ground, blocking the drain. A pool of black water had formed behind it. Fabulo stopped in his tracks and I thought he was recoiling from the putrefying animal. Then I looked and saw that he was gesturing for us to follow him into the open doorway of a tenement.
We stepped after him into a dark corridor then up a narrow flight of steps to a landing where he unlocked a door. We shuffled through into a bare room in which no angle was square. The entire contents were two beds, a limp curtain hanging half over a skewed window and a chamber pot lying next to the wall.
“Well done,” whispered Fabulo.
“What is this place?” I asked. “And why have you brought us here?”
He spread his arms in a flourish as if revealing some marvellous trick. “This is your new home. The duke’ll never find you here. Safest place in London. And as to why we’re in the great city – that I’ll show you tomorrow.”
I woke with a jolt, not knowing where I was. Then I saw the dwarf, pacing wall to wall in the small room. The whites of his eyes seemed unnaturally bright in the darkened room. With each pass, the floorboard near the door creaked under his weight. Tinker lay snoring in the other bed.
“This is London,” I said, as the memory came to me.
He didn’t answer. Then I must have been asleep again because when I next opened my eyes he had gone. So had the boy.
CHAPTER 13
September 30th
Cut a second into a hundred pieces and put your bullet inside one. Though it is in full view of the audience, it will never be seen.
The Bullet-Catcher’s Handbook
London. A crawling mass of humanity. A paradise for gamblers, lawyers, beggars, bankers and royals. For every church it was said you could find a pub. And for every gin house, a museum or university. It was, in short, the fairest, foulest, safest and most dangerous metropolis in the entire span of the Gas-Lit Empire – depending on who you were talking to.
With so much chaos and lawlessness it might have seemed an unlikely place to find evidence of the Patent Office. But in a twist of perversity, or perhaps genius, it was here that the architects of that all-powerful institution had chosen to place their most conspicuous structure. Even from a distance, it dominated the skyline.
“You’re not taking us there!” I said.
“Keep walking,” said Fabulo.
I drew closer to him and whispered, “When you said you were going for them, I didn’t think… That is, I didn’t imagine…”
My words dried up.
He winked at me.
I’d yet to ask him about his midnight wanderings. When I’d woken in the hour before dawn, he and Tinker had both been sitting on the other bed, eating bread and taking turns to drink water from a wine bottle.
“Rise and shine,” he’d said. “The sun waits for no man.”
Later, when the memory of the empty room came back to me, it became just one more in a list of questions that the dwarf seemed in no hurry to provide answers for.
He pressed on along Fleet Street, leading us past the doors of the Royal Courts of Justice, whose curved towers and turrets lay under the shadow of the great monolith that was the International Patent Court.
The sacrilegious thought of stealing from the Patent Office had been enough for me. I hadn’t worried about practical concerns. When Fabulo had spoken of the theft, I’d imagined him breaking into a discreet building tucked away in a side street. I had been picturing the office on High Pavement, not the tallest building on the continent of Europe.
Tinker, walking beside me, had never before been to the great city. He slowed as we approached the wide plaza before the court, his head tilting back to take in the columns, the high portico, the cliff face of grey granite behind it, the rows of identical windows, fading into the smoggy air.
I caught his elbow and pulled him along.
“Those soldiers,” he said, meaning the swordsmen in yellow silk standing to each side of the great entrance.
“Don’t stare,” I whispered.
“Stare all you like,” said Fabulo. “Everyone else is.”
“Where’re they from?” the boy asked.
“These ones are Chinese,” said Fabulo. “Tomorrow it might be Prussian or Crow or Nigerian. It’s an honour thing. Only the best soldiers get to guard it.”
“But if they’re the best…”
I squeezed Tinker’s arm. “Hush! We’ll talk later.” Though I’d been thinking the same thing. The greatest bastion of the Patent Office, guarded by elite fighters from around the world – it seemed impossible that anyone could break in and get away with their lives.
“Men-at-arms,” Fabulo said, pointing to a kiosk between us and the court. It was a structure of glass and wood, bigger than the ones next to the border crossing in Leicester. Through its windows, I could make out eight guards, all wearing the scarlet uniforms of the Kingdom.
They had not looked in our direction. I was about to hurry away before they could see us, but Fabulo had set off towards them with Tinker by his side. He strode out with such brash confidence that I found myself following.
In this grand setting, I felt conspicuous, though no one seemed to be looking. Alarmingly, Fabulo had stopped right next to the guard kiosk. He looked back and gestured for me to hurry up.
“Are you mad?” I hissed, when I was close enough.
“Look at the grand building,” he said out loud, playing the tourist.
I forced my tight muscles into a smile. Fabulo’s eyes flicked down to the paving slabs below our feet. I followed his gaze and saw the regular pattern of flagstones was cut by a line of yellow bricks immediately in front of us. It ran parallel to the road as far as I could see in either direction. The guard kiosk was just on the road side of the line, as were we. On the far side was another stretch of plaza, then a flight of low stairs rising towards the doors of the Patent Court.
A few paces further down the line, a young man hovered, trying to catch our attention. A vending tray hung from a strap around his shoulders. When Fabulo beckoned, he hurried over.
“Maps, guides, histories, court proceedings.” His accent sounded Eastern European.
Fabulo dropped some coins on the tray and gathered up one pamphlet from each of four piles. The man grinned, then hurried off towards a party of scholars in uniform, who were standing further down the brick line. “Maps, guides, histories, court proceedings,” he called.
“He has to stay this side of the line,” said Fabulo. “So do the red coats.”
“Why?” asked Tinker, for whom any strangeness could become homely if the ones he trusted were relaxed.
“This side, we’re in the Kingdom of England and Southern Wales. That side you’re in no country. Kingdom soldiers can’t go there. Nor can anything be sold or bought.”
Then he stepped across the yellow bricks and turned to look back at us. Holding out the pamphlets to me, he said, “You should read this stuff. You’d be amazed.”
I hesitated.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve travelled a long way to be here.”
“A long way,” I said, stepping after him, pulling Tinker with me.
“We’re tourists,” Fabulo said.
I took the pamphlets. One was a map, which I handed to Tinker. “Open it up,” I whispered. “Pretend you can read.”
For myself I leafed through The International Patent Court: A Visitor’s Guide. It was a flimsy object – six sheets of poor quality paper, folded down the middle and held together with stitching. The print was smudged and uneven. Illustrations of the building were printed in ink of a different shade.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“Casing the joint,” said Fabulo.
“Why not speak louder?” I said. “I don’t think everybody heard.”
He laughed at that. “No one cares. You’ve been too long in the Republic, girl. This is London. Full of strange people. The louder you speak, the less they listen. If you really want to be ignored, wear a bright red jacket and juggle pineapples.”
“But if you want to get someone’s attention, you say you’re going to steal from them.”
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “If they’re a fruit seller. Or a jeweller. Or a bank, maybe. But this…” He spread his hands, palms raised, and craned his neck. “This is beyond theft. Beyond any dream of it. You’ve been saying as much yourself. You could walk up to one of those guards and tell them you’re going to break in next Thursday and they wouldn’t even twitch.”
Noticing that Tinker had the map opened upside down, I turned it and gave it back to him.
�
�Is it a picture?” he asked.
“It’s like a picture,” I said. “It shows where things are. Like the road and the buildings.”
He shot me a disbelieving glance. I’d seen him use the same betrayed expression on those occasions when I’d forced him to have a bath.
“What time is it?” Fabulo asked.
I looked up at the clock mounted at the centre of the portico. “Half past eight,” I said.
Sure enough, the half hour began to chime. Perfectly on cue, four new guards in yellow silk came marching up the steps, swinging their arms in synchrony, an exaggerated but precise movement from hip to chest and back. We were not the only onlookers. Other tourists stood watching the ceremony. The party of scholars stood nearby, gawping. And there were other people watching, from all over the plaza, Londoners and visitors from all over the Gas-Lit Empire. The chimes had not finished when the changing of the guard commenced. Once the new soldiers were in place, the relieved guards marched away, their movements just as crisp, though they must have spent hours standing frozen. I’d seen the ceremony once before. That time the soldiers had been German, wearing blue uniforms and helmets capped with a spike.
With a creak and an echoing boom, the great doors of the Patent Court swung inwards. A queue of civilians had been waiting under the portico. They now began to shuffle forwards into the building. Among them would be claimants, plaintiffs and lawyers – all cast of the morning’s court cases. I thought for a moment about Julia. In her letter she had said she came to the courts hereabouts on Tuesday and Friday afternoons. I had assumed she meant the Royal Courts, but now realised that she could equally have meant the International Patent Court. So confusing had been recent events that I didn’t even know the day of the week.
“You notice anything strange?” asked Fabulo.
“Give me a clue,” I said.
“The time.”
“Half past eight,” I said. “Always prompt and punctual.”
