The Bookman

by Lavie Tidhar

  "If you let machines think they can manipulate lives," Dakkar said, continuing to glower.

  "Well, can't they?" Verne said.

  The captain didn't reply. Then he said, more softly, as if thinking to himself, "But what if the machines themselves are at opposite ends?" and his eyes took in Orphan with a disconcerting gaze, and came to rest on Orphan's thumb, the one the Binder had… had taken.

  "That's neither here nor there," Verne said, oblivious. And, to Orphan, cheerfully, "There was always the possibility you'd fail, of course. But you didn't, did you? It all worked out, and here you are. Here we are."

  "Yes," Orphan said. "Here we are."

  It was Dakkar himself who had sent the message to the pirates. The attack had been engineered. Orphan had suspected Aramis wrongly. He thought of all the people who had died, all so he would – fail. He was angry – but at the same time, simply glad to be alive. And Verne had saved him, in the last count.

  It had been an uncomfortable journey back. They did not speak much. Orphan wondered what he would do. Hunt down the Bookman, he thought. And – Lucy. Would she understand? The Bookman must already know Orphan had failed him. What would he do?

  Verne wanted to know everything about the island. He was fascinated by Orphan's raft. Already, he said, he was working on a new novel, though he was sparse with details. Something involving giant squid, Orphan gathered. Giant squid in space.

  Verne and Dakkar had no further instructions from the Bookman. Their last, Verne had said, was simply to find Orphan and then return home. Verne looked tired; Dakkar, mostly annoyed. Orphan gathered he intended returning to India as soon as was possible and with his excess baggage of passengers suitably discharged. A revolution was coming, he said.

  Change was in the air.

  Change was in the air on the day Orphan landed back in the city. It was night time; the fog swirled, noxious and thick, over the abandoned wharf of Limehouse; and Orphan, stepping onto dry land from the sub-aquatic vehicle for the first time in what seemed like forever, stopped and breathed in the city like a man rolling fine, expensive wine on the tongue after a long-enforced abstinence.

  The city smelled of a thousand different things, manure and smoke, polish and oil, shag tobacco and flowery perfume; somewhere, faint and yet overpowering, the musty smell of venerable old books. The city echoed with a thousand different sounds, from the distant, mournful song of the whales clustered by Waterloo Bridge, to a distant gunshot and, nearer, the scratchy sound of an Edison record, and someone singing. The tune was quick, fiery, and as for the words… it took Orphan by surprise, recognising the words of an old Shelley poem, set to the music, and the unknown singer sang:

  "The sound is of whirlwind underground, earthquake, and fire, and mountains cloven; the shape is awful, like the sound, clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven, a sceptre of pale gold."

  "Earthquake and fire!" came the refrain. The music rolled around the dockyard and seemed to Orphan to eddy with the fog. He felt it stir something in him, a quickening of the blood, a response as to a call to arms. "To stay steps proud, over the slow cloud, his veined hand doth hold," sang the unknown voice, and the words were those of Panthea, speaking of Prometheus, who rebelled against the gods. "Cruel he looks, but calm and strong, like one who does, not suffers wrong!"

  "Not suffers wrong!"

  Almost, it sounded to him like Jack's voice. Jack, shouting, inflamed with the passion of… of revolution. Then the song died down, faded into the fog, its origin unknown. Yet he was to hear it elsewhere, wherever he went in the city, like a musical bond holding together the citizens and subjects of Victoria, Lizard Queen of an empire on which the sun never set, and stirring them into strange and inexplicable acts of rebellion.

  "My friend," Verne said as they parted. "Be careful."

  Orphan shook the fat writer's hand, if reluctantly, and saluted Dakkar's back. The Nautilus closed its hatch and, with barely a sound, disappeared into the dark waters of the Thames. Orphan was left alone on the Embankment. It was suddenly very quiet.

  He was first attacked as he made his way west, past Whitechapel. The streets were deserted, which he found strange, and there were very few lights in the windows. It was as if the city had been abandoned, and yet there was a certain hushed expectancy about the place, a tension underneath the stillness. It set him on edge.

  The attack came near Spitalfields Market. Orphan crossed the deserted street, his attention focused on the distant light of the Babbage Tower, a beacon through the fog. He only noticed the man as he came directly at him out of the fog, a drawn blade glinting dully, and he ducked, instinctively, and kicked out, the way he had once seen Aramis do.

  Luck, not skill, made the kick connect, and he heard his assailant grunt with pain. Orphan reached for his gun, a departing present from Verne, fumbled with it–

  The knife came at him again, and he pulled the trigger.

  The man fell. Orphan saw his face then; and had to hold himself from taking a step back.

  It was a punk de Lézard.

  He had last seen one in Nantes, but he could not forget that moment: lizard boys, Verne had called them. But what was one doing here?

  The punk's face was a tattoo of green bands, his ears pinned back against his skull, and his head was round, a polished dome with only a strip of spiked hair at the centre. The man, wounded, hissed at him, and he saw that his tongue had been crudely modified, stretched and pared in the middle, so that it was forked and elongated, in bad imitation of a lizard's.

  The man tried to rise. The blade was in his hand. It was bloodied, Orphan saw. He had hurt – perhaps killed – at least once before that night.

  The man lunged at him.

  Orphan shot him again.

  The lizard boy sank back. The knife, finally, fell from his hand.

  Who was he? Orphan thought. The man was a killer. And again – a lizard boy? Here?

  He put the gun back in its holster. He felt hot and clammy under the heavy coat he was no longer used to wearing.

  What had happened to the city?

  After a moment, he picked his way again, more cautiously this time. He was not even sure where he was going. And then – find Tom, he thought. Get back to the Nell Gwynne. Tom would know what was happening. He always did.

  He was passing through Farringdon, the old city walls on his left, when he first saw sign of people. They were marching in the street outside the courts, a group of them, all silent, wearing heavy coats against the chill, women and men who could have been anyone, clerks or magistrates, carpenters or cooks, yet here they were, in the small hours of the night, marching outside the courts, and there was a burning effigy held high above their heads.

  Orphan watched the silent procession. The effigy was giant-sized, and lizardine. It could have been the Queen herself, or it could have been a stand-in for all of lizardkind. It was burning too fiercely by now to be able to tell.

  What was happening to the city? He drew deep into the shadows and watched the marchers go past. Behind the effigy of the lizard another group came, cowled in black, another effigy held high.

  This one didn't burn.

  He stared at it, horrified. It was in the image of a man. The man was dressed in rich robes. He held a sceptre in his hand.

  He wore a crown, and he had no face.

  As the cowled figures moved past the one in the lead turned her head and for a moment the light of the fire fell on her face. Her eyes looked into the shadows and seemed to gaze directly at Orphan. He felt the force of her scrutiny like a physical thing, and shock as he recognised her.

  It was Isabella Beeton.

  Did she see him? He couldn't tell. Her head turned again and she marched ahead, and the effigy of the King followed her.

  Wherever Isabella Beeton was, Orphan thought, conspiracy was never far behind. And yet he almost ran after her: she was a familiar face, and had always, before, been a friendly one.

  Yet he didn't. He did not know what was going o
n. The city had changed, become a dangerous, unpredictable place. He was disturbed by the sight of this midnight march. A burning lizard…

  But it was the other effigy that made his heart beat faster and his hands sweat. The crowned, human king.

  He had to find shelter, and some information.

  The second, successful attack on Orphan came in the early hours of the morning, as the sun began to rise, pale sunlight transforming the city streets into, somehow, more ordinary places from which the danger of night seemed to be lifted, if only a little.

  He was on the Strand, curiously empty of people but for a lone beggar sleeping in the doorway of Gibbons' stamp shop, and had almost reached Bull Inn Court – and with it, or so he hoped, the safety of the Nell Gwynne – when he was struck from behind.

  The pain blossomed in his head like a rapidly growing mushroom, suffocating him. He fell to the ground and lay there, numb. Hands riffled through his pockets, expertly, then the sound of feet, running away. He never saw his assailant.

  After a while, the pain abated, and he groaned and began to move. As he began to cautiously rise he felt a presence beside him and instinctively lashed out.

  "Sir!" said a rugged voice, and Orphan turned and saw that the beggar from the doorway was now standing beside him, stooped in his dirty rags. "I am but a humble beggar, coming to your lordship's aid!"

  "A bit too late for that," Orphan said sourly. His head hurt, and his gun and his money were gone, though the beggar left him his mother's old book, which was no doubt not worth stealing. Books in this city were a penny a pound. The weight of words pressed down on the old streets, numerous millions of them, cranked out day or night by the printing presses and the men and women who churned them out, like so many factoryproduced trinkets.

  Money and a gun – you knew were you were with them. But a book? What good was a book?

  "Did you see who it was?" Orphan said.

  The beggar shook his head dolefully. "A common thief," he said. "He'll be long gone by now."

  "No doubt," Orphan said. He staggered up and felt his eyes water.

  "Here," the beggar said. "Sit down a while." He helped Orphan to the doorway of the shop and sat him down; and, wearily folding himself beside him, extracted from a hidden pocket a small flask at the same time.

  "Drink this," the beggar said. "It will help. Also, it will warm you up."

  Orphan looked at the flask. Though worn and faded, it was monogrammed with the letters S.H., and he wondered how the beggar had got hold of it. Stolen, possibly, or just found in a rubbish tip. He eyed it with suspicion.

  The beggar grinned, unstoppered the flask and handed it to Orphan. "Whiskey," he said. "It's a wonderful medicine."

  Orphan drank; and the heat of the whiskey ran through his body like a series of controlled explosions. He coughed and felt his face go red and his eyes water. The beggar grinned and slapped him on the back. His face swam before Orphan's eyes, the sharp features and prominent nose, awakening a dim memory. "Do I know you?" he said. The beggar looked much livelier now, though that may simply have been a product of the drink.

  "Wind, rain, and thunder," the beggar said, "remember, earthly man is but a substance that must yield to you. And I, as fits my nature, do obey you."

  Orphan looked at him. There was something familiar about the face, glimpsed briefly, in the midst of night, in a cold place, behind a plate of glass…

  Guy's Hospital. And a still, unmoving man frozen in a coffin, whose brother…

  "Who are you?" Orphan said. He tried to stand, but felt his head swimming; his arms would no longer obey him.

  "A friend," the beggar said, his voice soft and faraway. "A friend who can see what the sea has cast once more upon these shores. It is no magic, but logic only. Be careful, Orphan. This is a bad time to be a prince."

  "What… what did you do to me?" Orphan said, his voice slurring. He could not focus his eyes.

  When he opened them again, the beggar was no longer there, though his flask remained, somehow clasped, unstoppered and upturned, in Orphan's hands. The liquid seeped into his clothes. He felt a kick, not hard but prodding, and raised his eyes to the sight of two beefy policemen.

  "Drunk as a dog!" one of them said. "help me up with 'im, Harry."

  "I ain't touching him, Bert!" the other policeman said. "Last one I did emptied his guts all over me!"

  Bert chuckled. "A bit of experience," he said, "is priceless in this job. Now let 'im up, and watch where he aims."

  Orphan was lifted up. He swayed, but wasn't sick, for which the policemen were no doubt grateful.

  "Don't worry, lad, we'll find you a nice dry cell to sleep it off," Bert said. "Don't want to be out on the street on a day like this. Lizard boys'd get you."

  "Or the rebels," Harry said. Orphan was meanwhile being moved. He tried to speak, tell them he was fine and to leave him alone, but only managed to dribble, which made Harry swear and his partner chuckle.

  "Things might be better when the King comes back," Harry said quietly.

  "Shut it, Harry," Bert said. "You don't know who's listening."

  The rest of the journey to the police station progressed in silence. The streets were still deserted. The same eerie silence greeted them at the police station. There were few policemen, and even fewer prisoners. Bert and Harry took Orphan down to the cells, which were empty but for one, where a dark figure lay unmoving. They released him into the nearest cell, and he collapsed down on the floor. He tried to speak again, but couldn't.

  "Sleep it off, lad," Bert said. "Believe me, we're only doing you a favour."

  "A day like this…" Harry said, and shook his head meaningfully.

  "At least the Ripper is finally caught," Bert said. "You hear that, boy? They found his corpse last night. Somebody shot him."

  "And good riddance," Harry said.

  Orphan moved his mouth groggily. He couldn't stay here. How did he end up in this situation? He tried to speak again as Bert was locking the cell door.

  "What did he say?" Harry said.

  "Addled," Bert said.

  "No, Bert, listen to him," Harry said. He watched Orphan through the bars. "He said 'saddler'."

  Orphan tried again. The two policemen exchanged glances. Their faces were suddenly serious.

  "He said 'Adler', Harry," Bert said.

  There was a short, pregnant silence.

  "As in Inspector Adler?" Harry said. His voice was very low. And then, "What do we do, Bert?"

  There was another short silence.

  "We keep him in there," Bert said. "For now. He's in no state to go anywhere. Safest place for him, probably."

  "What about the inspector, Bert?" Harry said. "We could get into a lot of trouble."

  "Keep your voice down, for starters," Bert said. "This needs some thinking, Harry."

  "Would a cup of tea help, Bert?" Harry said, and the other policeman smiled and nodded, and some of the tension seemed to go from his face. "It certainly would," he said.

  They left Orphan in the cell and, as they left, the door upstairs closed shut behind them.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Orphaned

  For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground

  And tell sad stories of the death of kings;

  How some have been deposed; some slain in war,

  Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed.

  – William Shakespeare, Richard II

  Nothing had changed by the time Orphan had finally got back control of his limbs. He was locked up. The single figure in the cell next door had not stirred.

  It was dark. He tried shouting, but nobody came, and he soon gave up. The fogginess gradually subsided, though his head still ached. He cursed the beggar, but it didn't make a difference. Who was he?

  He looked at the flask that was still, somehow, with him. It was empty, but smelled foul. So, he had to admit, did he.

  All he could hope for was that Inspector Adler might hear he was there and come to investigate.
This, or that the policemen might get tired of him and release him. Meanwhile, he just had to wait.

  "Hey!" he said, shouting to the prone figure in the other cell. "Are you awake yet?"

  There was no reply. He called again, then, getting an idea, ran the flask against the bars.

  The noise was tremendous. It beat at his headache like a drum, and he stopped.

  The figure in the bed shook, moved, and a head finally half-emerged from underneath the filthy blanket.

  "I'm sorry," Orphan said, a little untruthfully, "I didn't mean to wake you."