by Stephen Hunt
‘Deduction is a science,’ said Coppertracks. ‘And it is science which will come to our aid in this matter.’
‘Your science is mortal heavy,’ puffed Commodore Black, lifting down the last of the boxes. ‘If it’s not a tonne weight of old journals I’m dragging in here for you to gobble down, it’s these strange machines of yours, full of mammoth pipes and fizzing with dark energies.’
Coppertracks moved through the throng of drones, his mu-bodies clambering over the half-assembled machine in the centre of the clock room. ‘The scientific method will prove its worth in this case, dear mammal. Lord Hartisburgh has been gracious enough to lend us his latest organic analyser – I would not like to return it to him broken.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to put you in poor standing with your wild friends at the Royal Society now. But could you not tinker with light little gases instead. Or we could convert the whole floor to a telescope for you to study the celestial movements – if you would promise to do it at night and not disturb the well deserved rest of an old submariner.’
‘Members of the institute are allowed to use the optics up at Prighty Hill,’ said Coppertracks. ‘And an installation here would hardly take up less space than this device. Blood, Molly softbody. That is what this dark affair turns on – someone sought out yours and that of all the others on that list. From the million Jackelian names on Greenhall’s transaction engine, only yours satisfied the criteria set by your tormentors. This machine will shine the bright light of science on those that seek to stay hidden in the shadows.’
‘I don’t doubt you, Coppertracks,’ said Molly. ‘I know all about the scientific method of detection. We managed to collect the entire series of penny sheets with Barclay and the Game Chicken at the poorhouse.’
Nickleby harrumphed. ‘Your penny dreadfuls can only begin to hint at the insufferable vanity of the man.’
‘You’ve met Barclay?’ Molly was in awe.
‘Our paths have crossed,’ said the pensman. ‘Barclay and his oaf of an associate. I am sure you will find, Molly, the contribution myself and Coppertracks made towards solving the case of the missing abbot was carefully overshadowed by the size of Barclay’s ego and the depth of his connections with the Dock Street press. If I have one consolation with this current grisly affair, it is that Barclay and Bird are not being consulted by Ham Yard or any of the victims’ families.’
‘Is he as rakish as his illustrations?’
‘Reality disappoints,’ was Nickleby’s terse reply as he burrowed with renewed vigour into the names on the list.
Coppertracks’ skull threw light off the nearly completed machine as its assembly was finalized. Gold spheres began to rotate on top of the machine as the mu-bodies connected the device’s steam stack to a vent at the side of the chamber. What the pensman’s far-off neighbours would think if they peered out from their windows and saw the clock tower venting steam the Circle only knew. Molly guessed that with Coppertracks’ eccentric interests they had probably seen worse and stranger in their time.
The wooden floor began to vibrate as the device’s transaction engine drums started rotating, steam now visible venting outside into the evening. A flight of startled egrets lifted off from the orchard in search of a more tranquil night’s rest.
‘Molly softbody,’ said Coppertracks. ‘Your assistance in my exploration is now required.’
Molly looked sceptically at the thing. ‘You’re sure it’s safe?’
‘I assure you, Lord Hartisburgh is an expert in his field and this is the very latest thing.’
‘He is not a surgeon, though, Coppertracks.’
‘Dear mammal, few surgeons could afford such an expense as this machine. Now, please, if you would submit some of your system juices I shall begin the analysis.’
Molly rolled up her sleeve as one of the diminutive drones climbed up on a bench, a syringe clutched in its pincer-like iron hands. ‘My system juices are precious to me, Aliquot Coppertracks. It’s not oil I can drain into a saucer for you to skim Gear-gi-ju cogs across the floor. Your rich merchant friend’s machine looks a little unstable to me.’
‘Hardly that,’ said Coppertracks, watching his mu-body drawing blood from Molly’s arm. ‘Its basic design is similar to the blood machines the constabulary use to establish citizen identity when they are sealing a district off for a crime sweep. Your system juices contain a unique biological metric that allows Greenhall to register your birth file. The metric also allows them to estimate your potential for criminal tendencies as well your pre-disposition to plagues – even your latent prospects for worldsinger talents.’ Coppertracks fed the blood into a glass container and it started to bubble, then drained away down into the machine.
‘Ah well,’ said the commodore, looking askance at the analyser as it banged and thumped on the floor. ‘At least you showed the sense to borrow the machine from your club. I would hate to see our funds eaten away procuring one of these blessed things for your studies.’
‘The Royal Society is not a club,’ said the steamman slip-thinker. ‘It is a organization for the furtherance of philosophical enquiries of the most fundamental and useful sort. Nobody there sits in leather chairs and puffs away on mumbleweed pipes, I can assure you of that.’
Molly pushed a handful of cotton gauze against the syringe mark on her arm, a tear of blood showing through the fabric. ‘A serious kind of place, then.’
‘Indeed, young softbody, indeed.’
Behind Coppertracks the device’s tape printer began winding out a reel of results with a gentle smacking sound from the print hammers. The interior of the steamman’s transparent skull sparked with excitement as he scanned down the tape, then forked angrily in a surge of energy as the implications of what he was reading sunk in.
‘Aliquot?’ said Nickleby.
‘What is it, Coppertracks?’ asked Molly.
‘My poor young softbody friend. By Zaka of the Cylinders’ beard, it is small wonder that they wish you dead.’
‘Out with it now,’ said Commodore Black. ‘Blessed Circle, what have you found with that fool machine of yours?’
Coppertracks dangled the tape from his iron fingers. ‘What have I found? Why my dear friends, I believe I have discovered why someone wrote a transaction engine ripper to scour Greenhall’s records. I have discovered why so many wealthy corpses have been turning up across Jackals drained of their vital system juices. And I have discovered why young Molly softbody must die!’
It was strange, Captain Flare considered, that the palace – once so opulent that even the ambassadors from Cassarabia would marvel at its giant chandeliers, its hundred Circlist chapels and private topiary gardens – had been reduced to the shell of a prison quite so perfectly. The room the Special Guardsman sat in, going over the arrangements for the coronation, had once seen intricate waltzes, glittering receptions, feasts of eel and river crab from the Gambleflowers and venison from the hunting lodges. Now its bare walls were decorated only by mould, washed off once a month by a staff that had centuries ago been reduced to a handful grudgingly paid for by the functionaries at Greenhall.
It was one of Greenhall’s junior administrators who was taking up his time now. The one commodity they were always generous with was their attention when it came to matters of centralised control.
‘The royal carriage is being renovated for the progress,’ said the civil servant. ‘The people will expect to see the prince firmly manacled to the holding cross in each town, fresh face-gags to be supplied at each stopover.’
‘With equally fresh fruit to throw at the boy, perhaps?’ suggested Flare, only half facetiously.
‘The citizens can bring their own rotting food, captain,’ said the administrator. ‘Now, I understand you have expressed reservations at the length of the royal progress.’
Flare nodded. ‘You cannot expect the Special Guard to visit half the towns in Jackals with the field strength your people have suggested. We have other duties to fulfil as well.’
‘What could be more important than your ceremonial duties as warders of the monarchy? The people are looking forward to a good show – there hasn’t been a coronation for nearly half a century. Let all our free people enjoy the shock of horror they feel, seeing a nearly crowned king with his arms still attached, reminding them he might yet use those corrupt limbs to snatch back the reins of power and reimpose the tyranny.’
‘Warders of the monarchy,’ spat Flare. ‘Hoggstone just wants an excuse to wine and dine the voters with his state-sponsored circus. Protect the people from the human sheep you keep locked up in the royal breeding house? I would have to go to the history books to find the date of the last act of royalist-inspired violence against anyone in Jackals. You want ticks on the ballot paper, not protection from the prince – the King.’
‘Greenhall serves no single party,’ said the administrator. ‘We serve the people.’
‘I am sure that sounds very impressive when you say it in Usglish,’ said Flare.
‘The people expect a couple of weeks of revels,’ retorted the functionary. ‘And we, captain, expect you back at the capital by the end of the month. There will be massive crowds vying for a position in Parliament Square, waiting for the surgeon royal to sever the boy’s arms and crown him the new king. It will be a glorious occasion, captain. There’s hardly an aerostat packet, canal boat passage or coaching billet into Middlesteel left to purchase in the whole of Jackals. I would not want to be the one to report to the House of Guardians any impediment to the start of the carnivals. Good Circle, man, fey powers or no, the people would rip you apart – there would be riots.’
Flare shook his head wearily. ‘I predict an early election this year.’
The two Special Guardsmen at the end of the chamber clicked their heels as the doors were flung open, the gust from the corridor catching their scarlet capes and lifting the administrator’s papers from the table. It was one of the worldsingers – one of the new acolytes. What was his name? Blundy.
‘Captain,’ said the worldsinger. ‘I have an urgent matter to report.’
Flare looked at the administrator. ‘If you would excuse us – it seems the guard has some business other than carnivals to discuss after all.’
‘I am sure what the gentleman from the order has to report will also be of interest to Greenhall,’ said the administrator.
‘This is urgent, captain,’ said the worldsinger, approaching the table.
‘Oh, very well,’ said Flare.
‘It is the King, captain.’
‘Alpheus?’ said Flare.
‘No, the old king – Julius. I was on the detail transferring his body to the undertaker at the royal breeding house. The taxidermists from the state museum didn’t want a repeat of what happened with Queen Marina’s body.’
The civil servant from Greenhall nodded in agreement. The corpse of Julius’s predecessor had been intercepted by an excitable mob and thrown into the Gambleflowers, swept away by the tidal pulls and lost to the sea. No body left to stuff and display.
‘You have my sympathy,’ said Flare. ‘But I am sure the smell is nothing a little rosewater won’t mask.’
‘You don’t understand. I was alone with his body. I was bored, curious – and I am still studying for my second flower.’
‘Does this conversation have a point, son?’ said Flare.
‘I thought I would practise a mind-touch summoning. Memories can last for days after death – it’s always good to practise.’
‘You practised on the King’s corpse?’ said the administrator. ‘That is disgusting. Dear Circle, do your superiors authorize that sort of thing?’
‘No,’ said the acolyte, shame-faced. ‘They would not approve if they knew. But it is practise – and I know now how the King died.’
‘Hardly a secret,’ said the administrator. ‘Nobody recovers from waterman’s sickness.’
‘There was one memory left – only one. It was strong enough to last for a week, probably. Prince Alpheus was suffocating his father with a pillow. The sense of betrayal and shock was so strong, I can still taste it.’
‘Alpheus murdered his own father?’ said the administrator. ‘When waterman’s sickness was about to kill him off anyway?’
‘I know it doesn’t make sense,’ said the worldsinger. ‘But the last memory was so strong. I could not have misread it. The pain in his soul was terrible.’
‘It changes nothing,’ said Flare. ‘Remember the revels, the carnivals, the riots if the people don’t get their holiday. The coronation must go ahead as scheduled.’
‘It changes everything,’ said the administrator. ‘However we mate the royal vermin, it seems we just can’t breed that streak of wickedness out of them. There are plenty of candidates in the breeding house we can select for the succession – and the people will turn up just as happily to see the murdering little jigger get the rope outside Bonegate as the crown at Parliament Square. The vicious scum were always poisoning each other in the old days. It looks like our dear little prince is reverting to type. But what an opportunity for us, captain. Think of it. We remind the entire state of the moral authority of our rule with a good hanging – and the people still get a new king on the throne for carnival week.’
Flare reached out and snapped the administrator’s neck, the crack reverberating across the room. The functionary flopped back in his chair, lifeless head hanging limply to the side. ‘Somehow I thought you might say that.’
Across the chamber the worldsinger was stepping back, his legs moving him subconsciously towards the exit. Towards the two Special Guardsmen standing there. ‘You killed him!’
‘Regrettable,’ said Flare. ‘But I doubt he’ll be missed. Unlike yourself, Blundy. Your disappearance will ring too many bells within the order.’
The worldsinger threw his hand out and chanted a hex, swaying as he tossed the magic towards Flare. Nothing happened, the captain stood still, as tall and immovable as a rock.
‘You—’
‘Should be burning?’ said Flare, tapping his neck torc. ‘All those nasty runes and rituals stored inside my torc for a rainy day, ready to tear me inside out? I have seen your kind activate a torc on a feybreed, worldsinger, have you? I still remember the young guardswoman’s eye sockets smoking in the snow. You would call her a rogue – but I just saw a frightened girl who bolted from her first taste of battle, sickened by the bodies and the murder. That’s a terrible thing to wish on anyone.’
‘Only a worldsinger can unlock the hex on a torc.’
‘So it’s said,’ nodded Flare. ‘Of course, while we may have the majority of feymist changelings, Jackals is not the only country with people who sing the worldsong.’
One of the guardsmen opened a door and a deformed grasper-sized thing hobbled out, one of the ill-fated inmates of Hawklam Asylum.
‘Have you gone insane, captain, where is that thing’s hex-suit? Where are its handlers from the order?’
‘The plates that bind? Well, Blundy, it must be a laundry day. As for his handlers, let me show you what happened to them…’
The worldsinger’s head jerked up, blood bubbling out of his nose as the wild creature’s mind forced itself into his brain, advancing on him. Both arms of the sorcerer were seized from behind by a guardsman and a hand clamped over his mouth to stop him screaming.
‘I like this one,’ said the feybreed, caressing the sorcerer’s chest and arms. ‘Strong. Young too.’
‘Mist-brother, you know what must be done,’ said Flare.
‘You are so good to me, brother.’
With a pop the creature’s jaw detached, its chin flowing down to the floor. Then the feybreed clambered up the shaking sorcerer. Blundy, struggling for his life, thrashed and tried to break free of the guardsman restraining him. He did not stand a chance against the fey-born strength of his captor. When the feybreed reached the worldsinger’s shoulder, Blundy’s head vanished as the thing’s lips sucked down over it. Rivers of fey flesh poured
down and covered his body. There was a flickering translucence of skin as the two beings merged. The worldsinger fell forward, legs stumbling like a newly born calf finding its feet. Blundy steadied himself against the wall, breathing hard.
‘Are you done?’ said Flare.
Blundy stroked the nape of his neck, feeling his groin with his other hand. ‘Oh yes. This body will last months.’
‘Long enough,’ said Flare. ‘Long enough for our purposes.’
Hoggstone followed the spiral staircase down into the depths of Ham Yard, his footsteps echoing up the stairwell. ‘This is important, Inspector Reason?’
‘The politicals seem to think so, First Guardian. The yard’s been turning down their custody transfer requests ever since we caught the man.’
‘I know,’ said Hoggstone. ‘Where do you think the political police’s complaints end up?’
Inspector Reason reached out to a bank of switches and beneath them a rank of gas lanterns flared into life, the light revealing stairs corkscrewing down into the distance.
‘Your people really should put a lifting room in here,’ said Hoggstone.
‘The exercise wouldn’t have bothered you so much when you were younger, First Guardian.’
‘I was stuffing pamphlets through the doors of the Driselwell rookeries then, playing debating sticks with the young bucks from the Levellers.’
The inspector smiled. ‘And I was a green-around-the-gills crusher trying to run down dippers and the flash mob.’
‘We’ve both come a long way since Driselwell,’ said Hoggstone.
‘Yes. That we have, First Guardian. And don’t think I’m not grateful for the little nudges you’ve given my prospects.’
