Horatio Lyle

by Webb, Catherine

  Slyly, behind him, Tess said, ‘You ain’t afraid of heights, are you, Mister Lyle?’

  Immediately Thomas stepped forward. ‘I will undertake to . . .’

  ‘No.’

  Thomas practically pouted, realized what he was doing and hoped that Tess hadn’t seen his expression. Lyle took a handful of rope off Charles’s hands, a hook tied at one end, and threw it towards the statue. On the fifth throw, Tess was trying hard not to laugh. On the sixth throw the hook landed over the outstretched arm of the statue, clinking tight against stone. Lyle tugged until the rope went taut and gave Tess a dirty look.

  ‘I didn’t say nothin’!’

  Lyle then glared at Charles. Charles raised his hands defensively. ‘Hey, I’m more reverent than she is.’

  Lyle scowled, tugged a few more times on the rope to make sure it was tight, and glanced down at the street a long way below. This proved to be a mistake. He felt his stomach churn. Behind him, Tess’s intense silence was even worse than her laughter. He took a deep breath and started pulling himself up, hand over hand, feet braced against the slippery tiles. Down in the street people stopped to stare, peering at Lyle as he clambered slowly towards the statue. He felt a few spare droplets of drizzle land on his hand, white where it clung to the rope, and glanced quickly at the sky. It was darkening from bruised grey to a deep blue-black. The wind rising from the river smelt of thick mud and decay, but carried a trace of a colder, cleaner air from the sea as well, tingling with salt. He kept climbing. On the other side of the road a small crowd was gathering to get a look.

  Lyle reached the top of the roof, and balanced precariously on the peak, one foot on either side curled in like a gorilla’s toes clinging to a tree. He leant on the statue for support, and in the fading light saw it more clearly now than he had when down below at the hatch on to the roof. It was a small statue of a woman, about two thirds of his height and made of stone and brass. The woman was turned towards the street, and stood on top of the Bailey like a patron saint on a cathedral, the god of all that went on inside the building. She wore a stone blindfold and her outstretched arms held, in one hand, a bronze sword, tarnished slightly by weather, and in the other, a pair of scales, also of bronze. Inside one metal scale the surface was dull. Lyle started to smile, as the drizzle increased. He looked at the roofs rising and falling unevenly around the Bailey, and tried to work out what route Bray must have taken. He looked at the statue of Justice, shiny with the rain, and down to one side of the scales. It was a good hiding place, he thought. He only wished he’d been able to tell Bray that.

  From its resting place in the scales in the hands of Justice, he pulled out the Fuyun Plate.

  It was indeed small and dull, cold in his hand. It looked as if it was made of plain grey limestone, but it was so smooth it was almost hard to carry, like a damp bar of soap. It was shallow and roughly the same size as his outstretched hand, too big for his coat pocket, but small enough to be easily missed. It seemed something of an anti-climax, he thought, to have gone to so much trouble to find the Fuyun Plate and finally, now, to have it. He turned it over, looking for any kind of distinctive marks, but there weren’t any. It was just a plain, simple stone bowl. Something angry rose up inside Lyle as he thought about the blood that had covered his hands, for this, for a piece of stone and a collection of legends.

  Thomas’s voice drifted across the roof. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  Lyle glanced towards Thomas and, for a second, thought he saw something in the street that drew his eyes back. He looked slowly round and swept the people again, trying to pick out once more that brief flash of green in all the dull greys and inconspicuous shadows of dusk. He thought he saw a gleam of bronze, and a second later felt a movement in the air. He ducked behind the statue, and the bronze crossbow bolt bounced lightly off the stone statue and away. For a second he looked down, and saw bright green eyes staring up at him. Then he heard the sound of clattering hooves.

  It took the people in the street a good ten seconds to realize what was happening, and a woman took another five seconds before she saw the bent crossbow bolt lying in the dirt outside the court and started screaming. Then, as three black carriages came barrelling round the corner at high speed, the people of London did what sound instinct dictated was the best thing to do, and ran.

  The shouts started far below. Tess, peering down into the street, was already yelling, ‘Mister Lyle! We’re goin’ to have to run! Again!’

  Lyle slipped gracelessly down from the roof, stuck the Plate crudely under one arm and handed Tess and Thomas a pair of magnets each. ‘Put these in your pockets and don’t take them out for moralizing or money! Tess, can you see a way off this roof that doesn’t involve going downward?’

  Tess looked around frantically, while Thomas stared at the Plate under Lyle’s arm. ‘Is that it? Is that the Fuyun Plate, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Thomas, I think it is. Come on, Tess! Bray must have got up here somewhere, how do we get down?’

  Charles was looking around, panic-struck. ‘You’re going to get me sacked, aren’t you? You said you weren’t and now look what’s happening! Jesus, I knew I should’ve looked after the flocks and stayed in Abergavenny like my pa said!’

  Tess suddenly stuck out a hand and pointed at a ledge on the other side of the roof. A pipe led past it. ‘There, Mister Lyle.’

  ‘Right.’ Lyle was pulling off his jacket, wrapping the Plate in it tightly with string so that just the sleeves dangled. Using the sleeves as a form of strap, he tied one over a shoulder and the other under, so that the crumpled jacket turned into a bag. ‘Tess, lead the way.’ He glanced at Charles. ‘You want to come?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, no!’ Charles disappeared into the gloom.

  Tess led the way across the slippery roof, eyes screwed up in concentration. From the ledge, she looked down a long drop into a small, octagonal courtyard, overshadowed on all sides by buildings and their smooth walls. A black pipe led down from the ledge to a second, lower roof below the high one of the Bailey, just a few inches out of reach. She strained on her toes at the edge of the roof, and her fingers brushed the cold, rough iron. She closed her hand round it. Thomas stared at her, pale-faced. ‘I . . . I don’t know if . . .’

  Tess hurled herself on to the pipe, catching it with her feet, and clinging with all her might. For a few seconds she slid, the world jerking violently, but finally caught herself and held on tightly, knuckles white. She looked back up at Lyle and Thomas. The pipe creaked under her. Below, far below, in the courtyard, two men appeared, with green eyes. Tess goggled as a bronze arrow bounced off the wall beside her and fell away. Lyle scowled and threw a small glass test tube down at them as hard as he could. It exploded into a cloud of purple-grey smoke, hissing unpleasantly. The two men staggered out of the smoke, rubbing their eyes, and Thomas threw a loose tile at them. It smashed on to the ground by their feet. Thomas dragged frantically at another tile. Lyle uncorked a bottle and poured a few careful drops into the cracks between the tile and the roof. The stuff hissed and smelt foul, and the tile came away. Thomas didn’t even stop to grin, but threw the tile. This time it hit one of the men, who crumpled soundlessly.

  As Thomas grabbed and threw more tiles, Tess wormed her way down the pipe, until her feet touched the lower roof, which was flat, with occasional holes revealing a dark, uneven floor below, as pot-holed as the roof itself. She looked up at Lyle and Thomas. ‘Come on!’

  Lyle glanced down at the drop between where he stood and the roof where Tess was cowering in the gloom. Thomas followed his gaze, looked at the gap and said, ‘I can jump that, sir!’

  He moved to take a run-up, but Lyle put a very firm hand on his shoulder. ‘No you can’t, lad.’ He turned to the shadow that was Tess and shouted, ‘Is there anything you can tie a rope to?’

  Tess looked around, and her eyes settled on a pipe nearly on the other side of the roof. ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Right.’ Lyle threw her the rope. She caught it clumsil
y, surprised at its weight, and ran for the other pipe. As she tied it round the pipe on the lower roof, Lyle fastened it to that on the other, and snapped at Thomas, ‘You don’t need your coat, do you?’

  Thomas didn’t hesitate, but started pulling it off. Lyle slung it over the rope, and tugged at it. It was taut. ‘Right, lad, here’s what you’re going to do.’

  Thomas stared at the coat. ‘Erm . . .’

  Another crossbow bolt bounced off the roof. ‘Don’t argue, lad, just don’t let go either.’

  Thomas found himself grabbing either side of the coat, and sidling to the edge of the roof. He took hold of a handful of coat on one side of the rope, and a handful on the other, wrapping it round his hand several times. He hesitated. Just as Lyle moved to push him, he jumped off the roof.

  The drop down had seemed a very long way to look at it, but the coat slid along in a blur, and his legs flapped lazily behind him as he was dragged downwards along the rope. He saw the pale face of Tess ahead in the darkness, splitting into an expression of alarm as he careened towards her before she darted aside. ‘Let go, you idiot!’ she shouted just before he hit the pipe. He let go, dropping heavily on to his bottom on the cold rooftop with a thump. Behind him, Lyle had already slung his jacket over the rope and was looking down with a pale face, standing out in the gloom. He wondered how strong the Plate was. Enough, hopefully.

  Down in the courtyard there were sounds of more shouting.

  ‘Come on, Mister Lyle!’

  Lyle grimaced, and didn’t so much jump from the roof as stagger. He slid down the rope with his eyes firmly shut and his face screwed up into an expression of pain while the drizzle soaked through his shirt and made his hair hang dankly around his face, giving him the appearance of a tragic clown. Halfway down, as his feet just passed over the lower roof, the upper pipe creaked and bent, and the knot holding the rope taut gave way. It snapped like a whip, dropping Lyle the five feet remaining. He landed on the paper-thin roof with a thud, face green, and for a second sprawled motionless, waiting for something else bad to happen. Very slowly, it happened. The roof, barely a roof at all, creaked once, creaked twice and caved in. Lyle fell into darkness, still clinging on to his jacket.

  ‘Mister Lyle!’ Tess’s shout bounced through the murk. She ran across the roof, Thomas in tow, knelt on the side of the roughly Lyle-shaped hole and peered down. ‘Mister Lyle? You all right?’

  In the darkness something hissed and started to burn. Bright white light rose up from the sphere in Lyle’s hand, and slowly spread to cast a thin light across the floor. Lyle looked miserable, dirty and bruised, but called back in an unconvincing voice of bravery, ‘I’m all right. Are you two all right?’

  ‘Yes, Mister Lyle!’

  ‘Yes, Mister Lyle.’

  ‘Right. I think I can see a way out. I want you two to get out of here as fast as possible! If you don’t find me, go to the Palace, go to Lord Lincoln, all right?’

  ‘We aren’t just leaving you, Mister Lyle . . .’ began Thomas.

  ‘We ain’t?’ asked Tess weakly.

  ‘Well, you’re not coming down here, if that’s what you’re thinking. Here, catch.’ There was a clink in the shadows, and something rose out of the hole in the roof. Thomas caught it clumsily. It was the dynamo. ‘Now get off the roof!’

  Thomas hesitated, but Tess grabbed him by the collar and muttered, ‘You heard the Mister, mister. Come on.’

  She dragged him away into the gloom.

  CHAPTER 17

  Escape

  Lyle picked his way slowly through the shadows of the abandoned building, listening to each creak of the floor and starting at loud noises. His imagination was playing tricks on him, so that he kept hearing the scuttling of rats, the chink of knives, the hiss of falling dust from undisturbed shelves. At least, he hoped his imagination was playing tricks on him. He could feel his heart pounding. The little ball of burning magnesium he held in his hand fizzed out and died. He sighed and tossed the sphere aside, digging into his pocket. Only a few more spheres left. There wasn’t enough light in the day now to see by. Night was settling in to stay. He could hear a distant, gentle pattering of rain and, nearer, the louder dripping of little rivulets running down inside the building. He wished he’d brought more than one dynamo. He felt his way to a doorframe and clung to it, fingers dancing along the woodworm-plagued old, crumbling wood. Kneeling down he groped slowly through the darkness, mindful of concealed mice traps. His fingers touched a loose, splinter-full plank of wood, which he rested against the doorframe. He felt in his pocket for the matchbox, then with trembling fingers counted the matches. Four left. He struck one. It burnt for a few seconds and guttered. He struck another. It flared with a bright, smelly flame, which he touched to the dry, old wood. The flame caught some of the splinters near the top, which fizzled a dull orange, eaten away to little fiery worms. The third match caught the corner of the wood, and for a second he thought the thin flame was just going to burn and die. He blew very gently on it, and the flame guttered, then rose up again to gnaw a little more at the dry wood, until it burnt well enough to cast a strong orange light across the floor.

  Holding the plank precariously at one end, feeling the rough splinters beneath his fingers, Lyle straightened up and looked round. He avoided the windows, and crept slowly through the house. He found a shattered flight of stairs, only the banisters and a few precarious planks remaining, hesitated, and tossed the plank down to the bottom of the stairs. Then, thinking that if Tess saw him she’d never stop laughing, he slunk to the banister and managed to throw one foot over it. He clung to the banister for dear life and let himself down a support at a time. Halfway down it creaked ominously, and he stopped clinging and slid the last of the way. The banister leaned just before the end, tossing him off like a rag doll, supports cracking and bending every which way they could. Lyle landed awkwardly almost in his own flaming torch, and felt pain blossom in his hand. He flinched and raised it to the dull light. A slim sliver of wood had embedded itself under the skin of his palm. He felt nauseous. Other people’s blood he could deal with. He tried not to look at it, tried not to think about it, and stood up. Beside him, the flame from the old wooden plank gently went whomph, and was suddenly a good deal larger.

  Lyle picked up the plank. Under it the old wooden floor, abused by too much neglect, was also burning in a square, soft flame of light. He backed away from it hastily, and nearly tripped over a two-legged table lying miserably on one side, half of it hacked away for some other purpose. He jumped away from this and saw a door. Scampering towards it as quickly as his fear of falling would let him, he eased it very gently open, peered out into the street beyond, and straight into the bright green eyes of Mr Dew.

  A street away, there was a little thud, a whirring sound and light bloomed, revealing high alley walls and a small refuse pile next to an overflowing drain. The whirring sound died. The light went out. In the darkness, someone hissed, ‘Keep turnin’, bigwig!’

  Light slowly bloomed again. Two small figures dropped down from a glassless window on to a pile of empty crates below. In the darkness, Tess said, ‘They weren’t good trousers, were they?’

  Thomas didn’t answer. Etiquette hadn’t taught him how to deal with this kind of situation. The alley they’d landed in smelt of old cats and tar. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Don’t ask things like that. Where we are now ain’t as important as where we gotta be in a minute.’

  ‘What should I ask?’ he hissed, exasperation just starting to wear through his overwhelming sense of decorum.

  ‘Is there anyone else here?’

  Tess, he admitted grudgingly to himself, had a strong sense of priorities. She peered out round the corner. ‘Can’t see no one. They must’ve all run away. Come on.’

  ‘What about Mister Lyle?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘We ought to go and help him! He might have been lying - he might be lying - with a broken leg in that house and . . . and b
leeding and . . . and shot and . . .’

  ‘You and me?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘All right,’ said Tess, folding her arms. This unnerved Thomas, who stopped turning the handle of the dynamo. The light slowly went out, but he could still feel her venomous expression. ‘You tell me just how you think you and me can help Mister Lyle deal with this whole bunch of evil faeries with an evil plan.’

  He hesitated. ‘Well . . . you could . . . or I could . . . but if we distract them . . . or perhaps if we could find a long enough bit of string . . .’

  ‘We don’t even know if Mister Lyle is there any more!’

  ‘Well, yes, that’s a thing, but I’m sure . . .’

  ‘Thomas?’ Tess’s voice had a strained quality to it.

  ‘No, don’t say anything yet, I know we can think of something if we try . . .’

  ‘Thomas!’

  He realized Tess wasn’t looking at him any more, but at a shadow standing behind him. He turned slowly, feeling dread in his stomach. The man standing above him smiled thinly. ‘Well,’ said Feng Darin politely, ‘I have a few suggestions.’

  Lyle looked into the bright eyes of Mr Dew, and instinct kicked in. He slammed the door, grabbed the half-sawn table and dragged it in front of the door in an instant. Outside, Mr Dew said, ‘Mister Lyle, you have nowhere to go.’

  Lyle glanced at the flame over his shoulder, slowly spreading up the flimsy wall as it made a bid for the wooden ceiling. The smoke was already rising in dirty, choking billows. He looked around for inspiration and tools. The door shook under the impact of a shoulder. His eyes fell on a wrought-iron kettle, lying on its side, without a lid. He looked around, and saw a pair of light metal kitchen ladles, lying neglected, and an iron fork. He thought about it, as fire lapped against the wall, brushed against a patch of mould that started hissing loudly, smelling of mouldy eggs and giving off a thick steam as the water dripping down through the leaking floors boiled. Steam and smoke blurred in a mixture of black and white that made Lyle’s eyes water and choked him. He reached a decision, and reached for the kettle.