The Bookman

by Lavie Tidhar

  That was when I knew, Orphan.

  It was the Bookman.

  He had gone into my mind, had found the information there. It was he who set Sebastian Moran for the shot.

  And that's when I knew, Orphan. It was only then I realised.

  Mary's death was my fault.

  Gilgamesh's figure was fading.

  "It was my fault, Orphan," Gilgamesh said again. His voice was becoming fainter.

  "What happened to… to Kangee?" and he thought, What happened to my dad?

  "He tried to bring you up. Perhaps, if you weren't there, he would have sought revenge. But Sebastian Moran disappeared, gone to India, and there was you, a baby… He continued to work as a sailor, and you were kept by a succession of other sailors' wives while he was gone. When you were two years old, he went on a voyage, on a trading ship. It went to India… He never came back. They said he fell overboard, drunk, but your father was rarely drunk, and never on board ship."

  "Was he murdered?"

  A shrug, small and helpless, and Gilgamesh was fading even further, became the bare outline of a man.

  "There was only you left… an orphan. I always kept my eye on you." The last things to remain of Gilgamesh were his eyes, blindly staring into nothing. "But so did the Bookman."

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Simpson's-in-the-Strand

  I met him by appointment that evening at Simpson's, where, sitting at a small table in the front window, and looking down at the rushing stream of life in the Strand, he told me something of what had passed.

  – Arthur Conan Doyle, The Case Book of Sherlock Holmes

  Time passed slowly in the cells. Orphan and the other. Each was wrapped in his own thoughts.

  A sound woke him up. It was the sound of someone quietly opening and shutting the door above the stairs, and doing so stealthily, not wanting to be noticed or observed. He waited, and for a moment could hear nothing. The other, he saw, was wrapped in a blanket; he seemed asleep.

  The sound came again, different this time. Like feet stepping softly against the stairs, but growing louder, coming down into the cells.

  He tensed, waited. There was someone there! He thought of raising the alarm, but who would listen? He opened his mouth–

  "Hello, Orphan," said a familiar voice.

  Standing on the other side of the bars was Irene Adler.

  Orphan stared at her. So she had got his message after all. He said, "Inspector!" and received a tired smile in return, and a shake of the head. "I'm no longer an inspector, Orphan."

  Irene Adler looked tired. There were new lines on her face, around her eyes. Her skin seemed almost colourless, her hair straggly, and Orphan wondered, with a sudden pain, what had happened to her since he had left. He said, "You got my message?" and saw a look of surprise flitter across Irene's face. "What message?"

  "The two policemen who arrested me…"

  Irene laughed. "No. I'm not in the police any more. Sherlock told me where you were. Right after he drugged you. We've been waiting for you to come back."

  "Sherlock?" He thought of the flask, the initials on it. He had known that face… "Mycroft's brother? I thought he was dead."

  Irene shook her head, and a warm, genuine smile lifted her face. "He never was, you see. It was a bluff. He was exchanged for a simulacrum of himself, a crude copy, incapable of thought but–"

  "But looking identical?"

  She smiled again. "He had help from across the Channel. He thought it would be safe to be dead for a while."

  "And you didn't know?" He remembered the frozen corpse he had seen at Guy's Hospital. No wonder no doctor could bring him back to life. Or was even that a lie, and no doctor had ever been consulted?

  Pain erased the smile. "No. But it was necessary. No one could know. It would not have been safe, for either of us."

  "What was he doing?" Orphan said. "And why did he drug me?" He couldn't help a petulant note entering his voice, and Irene smiled. "It was for your own good," she said. "You weren't safe on the street, and at least here you were out of trouble. I came as soon as I could."

  "But I was going to stay with Tom," Orphan said. "He's just around the corner."

  "Your friend Tom Thumb?" Irene said. "He's gone. A lot's changed, Orphan. Too much has changed. And the Nell Gwynne is now a lizard boys' hangout. You would have been dead as soon as you knocked on the door."

  "What happened?" Orphan said. He felt hollow. "And where's Tom?"

  Irene shrugged. "Gone to ground. Joined the Glorious Revolution. Maybe, if he has any sense, gone back to Vespuccia." She stopped talking and reached into her pocket, returning with a set of keys. "We need to get you out of here. Your friend too. I was told he would be here."

  "Told? By who?" He spoke more sharply than he intended and she glanced at him, but didn't answer. Instead she unlocked the door to the cell and moved on to the other's. The other rose, looking at them blearily. It struck Orphan again how unwell he looked. There was a haunted look in his eyes. "It's talking to me," he said. "It wants me to…" and he fell silent.

  "Orphan?" Irene Adler said.

  "Yes?" the answer was doubled.

  Irene drew in breath. "Which one of you…" she said, and didn't finish.

  Orphan was the first to speak. The other merely stared at his feet. Orphan said, "This is William."

  "William."

  "Yes."

  The other raised his head, looked at Orphan. For a moment it almost seemed like he was smiling. "William," he said. "Yes…"

  "I don't understand…" Irene said.

  Orphan shrugged. "Neither do I."

  Irene stared at them for another moment, then shook her head. "This can wait," she said. "We need to go. Come."

  They followed Irene down the row of cells. She did not go back up the stairs but, on reaching the door at the other end, unlocked it and ushered them through, and into a narrow corridor. "There's only a skeleton crew left," she said. "It's rather chaotic out there now. Still, I'd rather we didn't meet anyone at the station."

  They didn't. They left the police station by a back door and found themselves outside, on Agar Street. "Where are we going?"

  "Not far."

  Waning daylight outside. In the distance, breaking the eerie silence, the sound of sporadic gunfire. "What happened?" Orphan said again. He felt numb. Was it all his fault?

  "Revolution," Irene said shortly.

  "Who?" Orphan said.

  Irene shrugged. "Who knows? There are so many factions right now and they're all fighting each other. Your friend Mrs Beeton's in one. Sherlock's brother's his own faction of one, as always. The lizard boys – who can tell? And they say Moriarty is wounded. The government is weak…"

  So Moriarty wasn't dead. Orphan was glad for that. He said, "And what faction are you with?"

  Irene shook her head. "I'm on the side of order," she said.

  They joined the Strand at the bottom of Agar Street. There were people there now, a multitude of them, and for a moment Orphan felt fearful: he was no longer used to such masses.

  A demonstration was in progress: Orphan saw banners with a crowned, empty profile of a human head. Opposite them banners carried the lizardine crest.

  "Hurry!" Irene said. "If we get between those two we're in trouble."

  People hurried down the streets, their heads lowered. He saw uniformed police, and with them some police automatons, too, but they seemed small and lost, little islands in an ocean of hostile human traffic. He grabbed hold of the other's arm and they followed Irene. The other looked dazed. Orphan could sympathise.

  They had turned left on the Strand. Orphan saw several baruch-landaus, belching steam, halted in the melee. They passed Bull Inn Court and he thought of Tom, and of who occupied the Nell Gwynne now, and shuddered. He hoped his friend was well. He could not imagine him having gone back to Vespuccia. No doubt he was in the thick of all this, causing mayhem somewhere. He wondered what Marx was up to. Was he still residing at the Red Lion in Soh
o? Or was the dreamer finally putting actions to his words?

  "Where is the Army?" he said. "What is the Queen doing about this?"

  "Her Majesty," Irene said, "has locked herself up in the palace. The army's in disarray, some following Moriarty, some Mycroft, some protecting the Queen and her get. Some have deserted altogether."

  "But why?" Orphan said.

  Irene suddenly stopped. He almost ran into her. She turned and looked at him. "Because," she said, and there was something bitter in her voice, "for the first time in centuries, we have a king again."

  "Who says that?" Orphan yelled, startling himself. No one on the street paid him the slightest attention.

  Irene shrugged. "Everyone. The rumours started soon after you disappeared, in fact. How the lizards were keeping the royal family captive on Caliban's Island. How the last heir to the throne had escaped, or was about to escape, or was living amongst us all along, and is now ready to return to us." She looked at Orphan. "Don't misunderstand me. This–" and here she gestured around her in a sweeping motion – "this would have happened, sooner or later. The rumour – it was only the match that lit the fuse to the powder keg. And now, unless we do something, it will explode."

  "You mean it hasn't already?" Orphan muttered. They walked on.

  "Here," Irene said, halting. They had just passed the Savoy Theatre and were directly across the road from Simpson's.

  "We're going to a restaurant?" Orphan said. "At a time like this?"

  Irene ignored his sarcasm. "Simpson's never closes," she said. "Come on. Byron wants to see you."

  Orphan opened his mouth to speak.

  There was a huge explosion.

  The explosion came from the Savoy.

  He heard screams, but they were faded, faint. His eyes watered. He shook his head to try to clear it. He saw Irene and felt relief that she was there. But she wasn't looking at him. She had drawn a gun and was aiming, and he turned his head and followed her gaze.

  The other him!

  The other was struggling in the arms of two blankfaced, black-clad automatons.

  He shouted, "William!" and reached for his gun, then remembered he no longer had it. He rushed at the attackers instead.

  But there were more of them, pouring out of a mattblack baruch-landau of a type he had never seen before, a low-lying, bullet-shaped machine, with shark's fins emerging from its back and sides. He kicked, lashed out, landed a punch on a face that barely registered his presence – but had managed to get to William.

  Almost.

  He heard a gunshot, and one of the automatons holding the other dropped down, sparks flying from his chest.

  "Get away from them!" Orphan shouted, and he attacked the second automaton, throwing himself against the black-clad figure. He hit it, bounced off as if struck by a wall of rubber, and collided with his other self.

  The impact threw both of them to the ground. Something heavy hit Orphan like a punch to the kidneys. A voice whispered, "Take it!"

  Then the automatons were on top of them, and by the time Orphan climbed back to his feet William was already being carried away. Before Orphan could follow, the baruch-landau came into roaring, smoke-belching life, and shot off across the crowded street, its shark's fins extending like blades. The crowds parted before it, running away in panic. Those who weren't fast enough remained lying on the ground, screaming as they clutched new, deadly wounds.

  In what seemed like mere seconds, the vehicle had disappeared.

  Orphan and Irene were left alone outside Simpson's.

  The other had been kidnapped. And in the last moment, when they both collided, he had passed him the Binder's egg. Orphan hid it in his clothes. Already he could feel it at the edges of his mind, like a long and sinuous whisper, like a crawling spider finding its way inside him.

  "We need to get out of here before the police arrive," Irene said, and Orphan almost laughed: the last time he had seen her, Irene Adler was the police. He worried about his other self: how would he fare? He had seemed… damaged in some way. He had to save him, and he didn't know how. Perhaps Byron could help, and Irene. For the moment, he had no choice but to trust them. And so he followed Irene through the doors, and into Simpson's-in-the-Strand.

  Rain, snow, or revolution: Simpson's remained open. At the entrance a liveried footman welcomed them gravely, cast a disapproving glance over Orphan's clothes, and said, "Formal wear only, sir."

  "Can you get him some, Anton?" Irene said. "We're in a hurry."

  "Certainly, madam," Anton said. He disappeared into the cloak room and returned with a brown jacket. Orphan gratefully put it on.

  "The gentleman is waiting for you upstairs, madam," Anton said. He walked to the foot of the stairs and stood there, clearly waiting for them to follow him, which they did.

  A piano was playing somewhere nearby, and with it came the smell of cigars, the clinking of ice in tall glasses. At the top of the stairs Anton stopped again and was about to speak, when Irene stopped him. "Please don't announce us, Anton."

  "Very well, madam," Anton said. "Please follow straight through. The gentleman is in the banquet room. That's directly ahead, sir," he said, turning to Orphan.

  Orphan muttered a "Thank you," and followed Irene through the grand, open doors into the dining room beyond. As he did, he passed the source of the music – a Babbage player piano, its keys moving without the aid of human hands.

  From within Simpson's, the noise and threat of the outside world – its demonstrations, its bombs, its squalor and pain – were dimmed to a distant hum, like waves lapping gently against a sandy, tropical shore. The spacious room was half-full with prominent diners, drinking, talking, watching expectantly as the chef prepared to carve a giant piece of beef on a silver serving-trolley.

  In the corner of the room, his back to the windows overlooking the Strand, sat the Mechanical Turk.

  How did the Turk move? He was a machine, immobile, only the top half of him resembling a man's. Orphan wondered, but then remembered the Egyptian Hall was only one of the places the Turk had resided in. Did they disassemble him before every move? Was that, for an automaton, a form of sleep? Orphan didn't know.

  Beside the Turk sat Lord Byron's simulacrum.

  "Orphan," the Turk said. His voice sounded even more worn than it had the last time they had met, the scratches and pauses more pronounced than Orphan had remembered. "It is good to see you again."

  "I wish I could say the same," Orphan said, and the Turk laughed. Byron, unspeaking, nodded a welcome. Orphan stood opposite them, feeling at a loss. He had not expected to see either one of them again.

  But, of course, this was Simpson's, he thought. The place all were catered for, be they human or lizard or machine. Simpson's was famous: Orphan, of course,

  had never been there.

  In front of the Turk was his chess set. It was a part of him, Orphan thought. It was his body. He sat down, without being asked. The pieces were already arranged on the board, and he remembered the game he had played with the Turk, all that time ago.

  He swept the pieces off the board. They cascaded off the table onto the floor and rolled there. Heads turned, then went back to their meal. This was Simpson's, after all.

  "My friend has just been kidnapped," Orphan said, standing. "I need to find him."

  He thought about it. Was the other really his friend? He was him, and yet a different him, and–

  He thought of that strange, metal egg, the Translation that was meant to do… what?

  To hatch, he thought, and shivered. He was suddenly aware of just how cold and hungry he was. The smell of roast beef wafted through the banquet room, as overpowering as ether.

  "Your… friend?" Byron said and then, turning to Irene and speaking sharply, "Where is the simulacrum? What happened?"

  The simulacrum. Orphan wanted to shout. The other was real, as real as himself. Who could say what he must be feeling now, beside Orphan himself – fear, pain, the utter terror of captivity, of not know
ing what your future holds, not knowing if you had a future?

  Irene shrugged. She reached for a chair and sat down heavily. "The Bookman," she said, as if that, alone, explained everything.

  The name hung heavy in the air, stalling conversation. Byron's eyes turned on Orphan, his face thoughtful. "Sit down," he said. "You are no good to anyone in your current state." He raised his hand and signalled to a waiter, who hurried over. "Bring us a bottle of Bordeaux, Philip. And a roast beef sandwich for the gentleman."