The Circus Infinitus - Genesis Infinitus

by Ethan Somerville

  “What d’you want, Sauvage?” the Gent growled, annoyed at the interruption. “This is none of your business, you know.”

  “I’m always interested when there’s new knowledge to discover, you know that.” He tapped his forehead. “It seems to me that you and your associates are having a little trouble catching Icarus. I’ve decided to help you.”

  The Gent planted his hands on his hips. “How can you possibly help us, you great French fop? You lounge around here all day reading!”

  “I admit I’m not much good at the hard leg-work, but I have some Magick knowledge that might come in handy.”

  “Hardly. The little bastard’s protected himself. We can’t sniff him out at all.”

  “That’s because you’re using ordinary Magick. You need to employ some holy enchantment, and I have just the thing.” Aware that he was breaking the rules, Christophe collected his brief-case a corner. However this is for a good cause, he thought as he unlocked the runes and lifted the lid. Inside, nestling amongst various personal papers was a strange device resembling a portable version of the Gent’s lens-machine.

  The Gent folded his arms. “I have one of those already. It’s bigger than yours.”

  “Bigger isn’t necessarily better. Besides, this isn’t a long-range device like yours, only strong enough to cover London. No matter – that’s where he is.” Christophe lifted out the machine and assembled it on a table, drawing out three legs to hold it stable, then adjusting the lenses.

  “How’s this gonna help us?” growled the Underfiend. “We’ve done all this before. He’s hiding inside a barrier none of us can penetrate.”

  “Because this machine has been blessed by the Pope. It’s calibrated to use holy means to uncover the truth. It is especially sensitive to the darker Magicks – especially necromancy.”

  “We know that he’s been making zombies,” piped up Jersey Devil in his high, squeaky voice.

  “Exactly! And if that’s what he used to make himself immortal, it should pick him up as well!” agreed the Gent.

  An icy chill raced down Christophe’s spine. Of course! How could he not have seen it? Icarus was so fast and strong because he was undead! No wonder he wore those bandages. Suddenly Arcanus was torn – part of him wanted to stop the nefarious practices because they were evil and unholy – and part of him wanted to try them himself. Oh, to be able to move freely again to pursue his knowledge! He bent over the machine, twisting knobs to tighten the lenses in place. Then he traced the runes that would activate the machine. Immediately in front of him, the small screen filled with smoke. The others craned forward around him for a better look.

  At first nothing happened. “Your reality altering enchantments could be affecting my focus,” Christophe muttered. “I may have to do this out on the roof.”

  “No, they’re dormant at the moment and can’t interfere.”

  Christophe flicked a couple of switches at the base of the device, locking in the Necromancy setting. “Alright – if there are any necromantic energies in the city at this moment, this contraption should pick them up.” He squinted into the screen, receiving a hazy image of a row of dilapidated buildings. There was a sign above one. It read “Bragg’s Tavern and Inn”.

  Suddenly the entire lens contraption exploded, sending glass and pieces of metal flying everywhere. A thick cloud of sulphur billowed from the twisted wreck. Christophe screamed and cursed, shards of glass embedded in his hands and face. The Gent clapped his hands. “Etheria! Take care of him!”

  An air-elemental immediately wafted off to fetch bandages and medicine. The Gent rushed over to his own viewer and adjusted the lenses. He had recognised not the building but the street in front.

  “Fleet Street,” he muttered.

  As the sylph started picking the glass out of the injured Christophe, the imps gathered around the Gent. He wasn’t using any form of detecting Magick – simply magnifying the streets on his London Map. And there it was – Bragg’s Tavern and Inn on Fleet street, not far from Fleet Ditch and the old wall.

  “Could that be where you’re hiding, Icarus?” the Gent whispered excitedly. “To blow up Christophe’s machine – you must have erected some very powerful protection indeed.”

  “Whatta we gonna do?” asked the Underfiend. “We can’t just march on down there – he’ll send us back to the Immaterium for sure!”

  “We must act quickly – he’ll have felt that for sure.”

  “Will he figure out where the probe came from?”

  “I doubt it – I haven’t felt any attempts on my wards yet. But I doubt he’ll come after us – he’ll more than likely run.” The Gent made up his mind. He had to do this on his own. Christophe was incapacitated and the imps useless. But he didn’t have to go unarmed. He grabbed his coat, which contained numerous internal pockets full of powders and devices. “I’ve set a recall, so if I’m hurt in any way, it will draw me back here.”

  Despite his protections, the Gent was still concerned. One didn’t become a Master of Magick by charging headlong into battle. He patted his pockets, making sure he carried all the accoutrements he needed to summon an elemental of each type. Then he rang for his carriage.

  Normally the Gent liked to walk and soak up the city’s unique atmosphere. But now he meant business. His carriage thundered down the street, exuding a subliminal aura of fear. People scattered far more quickly than they normally would have, realising that whoever rode inside that ominous unmarked conveyance meant business.

  As he travelled the IntelliGent entertained himself with a fantasy that maybe, just maybe if he asked nicely, Icarus would let him borrow the Da Vinci Codex for a few days. Then any further unpleasantness could be avoided. But then he dismissed the fanciful idea. It was obvious to the Gent that Icarus was protecting the book with his life, and the only way he would release it was if it was pried from his cold, dead – deader - fingers. The Gent smiled to himself, but truthfully he was feeling an emotion he hadn’t experienced for years.

  He was scared. He was about to confront a mage who was as powerful – if not even more so – than himself. He had never battled with someone he considered his equal. It wasn’t often another being even reached his level.

  As his coach rattled along, the Gent prepared himself with numerous spells designed to augment and protect. He didn’t want to take any chances. And before long he reached his destination, a large, rather shabby building of three storeys. As he emerged from his carriage he detected the powerful sulphuric stench of Magick. It hung over the area like a shroud, but most people didn’t seem to notice it. It must have been here for so long the locals were used to it. Now the Gent knew what he was looking for, he sensed the Magick keenly, and even detected the more subtle odour of active Magick. Something was up. He had to be on his toes. Cautiously he approached the tavern. He noticed a sign he hadn’t glimpsed before, beneath the main banner; “The Most Haunted Tavern in London”.

  Interesting, the Gent thought as he ascended the stairs into the main body of the tavern. It was dark and dingy, reeking of smoke, sweat and the everpresent tang of Magick. At this hour only a few hardened, unemployed drinkers occupied the tap-room, slouching unsteadily at their tables. A burly barman lounged behind the bench up the back, reading a newspaper. He looked up as the Gent approached, and immediately his bushy brows lowered in disapproval. The Gent didn’t want to waste time trying to overcome his bigotry with pleasantries, so he muttered a low-level charm spell. Immediately the barman smiled. “What can I do for you, my fine sir?”

  “My name is Mr. Gopal. I’m looking for a friend of mine who is staying here. Little fellow about as tall as me. Always wears a long leather riding coat and hat with a scarf wrapped around his face. One big red eye. Have you seen him?”

  Despite the charm, the barman stared at him like he was mad. “No-one by that description staying here, I’m sorry to say. Would you like a drink?”

  The Gent bought some beer, but he had no intention of drinking it. He va
lued his innards in the order to which he’d become accustomed. “It was worth a shot,” he declared out loud. “So why is this the most haunted tavern in London?”

  “Because of all the strange noises and things going missing. We’ve heard noises like they came from the very devil himself around here; queer groans, shrieks, wails that build to a fever pitch.”

  “What about the missing items?”

  “I’ve lost entire loads of coal and wood over the years, more recently a bed and a bathtub. Who the Hell steals a bathtub? And what’s more, how do they get it out of the building without anyone noticing?”

  “Have you investigated?”

  “Jesus Christ mister! We’ve looked into every nook and cranny!”

  “How about the cellar?”

  “We don’t have a cellar. At least not anymore. It was sealed up years ago because of flooding from the Fleet. No-one can get into it.”

  The IntelliGent frowned, and as though on cue a deep hum sounded, throbbing through the building. It seemed to be coming from directly beneath their feet.

  “Hear that?” the barman exclaimed excitedly. “That’s one of the noises! I’ve only heard it once before! It’ll build and build to a fever pitch, then stop abruptly-“

  “There must be a way into the basement!” the Gent shouted, realising that something big was happening right under their very noses. “Is there a back way into this establishment?”

  “Yes – turn right outside, take the first right, and then the next right again. It’ll take you into the back alley. But there’s nothing down it but rubbish and beggars! Why the concern? Can you do something?”

  “Maybe.” The Gent shot off out the door. The barman was tempted to follow because of the charm, but concern for his establishment won, and he stayed to make sure the drunks left inside didn’t try to steal any booze.

  The Gent followed the barman’s instructions down a side street, then into the filthy, narrow alley that he had described. It was indeed a fetid gutter that time had forgotten, strewn with long abandoned refuse from the various derelicts who spent their nights down here. And the sulphuric stink the Gent had noticed was stronger here. With his enhanced mage’s senses, he was able to detect the various schools that had been used. The street was thick with wards. Indeed he could feel them pushing at him. It seemed they recognised him as an intruder and were urging him to leave. He struggled against a sensation that kept telling him there was nothing to see here.

  He had at last found what he was looking for; the lair of Icarus. He had never experienced such powerful Magick; these wards had been recently and rigorously reinforced.

  The Gent growled a counter-spell and clapped his hands. He felt the first of the spells resisting him and stood firm. Then, with a blinding flash of light and an almighty bang, the initial ward vanished. Gasping for breath, he sagged against a wall. If they were all that powerful, he would be here for a while! If Icarus was still hiding down there he definitely knew he was coming. The thunderous bang and resulting stench of brimstone had shaken the alley and brought locals running from all the buildings.

  The IntelliGent noticed a door up ahead that he swore hadn’t been there before. With his mage-sight, he could see the runes scrawled all over it, designed to kill the unwary intruder. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and he realised he could still hear the hum that had started in the tavern. It was building towards something. Something not good, he thought as he squared his shoulders and started working on the door-spells.

  They were easier to unravel than the initial ward, but still stole stamina from him. Despite his great power, Gurpreet had not been blessed with a strong constitution. He managed to rip the last spell free as the barman raced into the mouth of the alley, followed by the rest of the tavern’s occupants.

  “What did you do?” he shouted as the Gent finally managed to get the door open. “That sounded like a gas explosion!”

  “It’s not over yet!” yelled the Gent as he rushed into the damp, narrow passage that had been revealed. “Wait ‘till I’m finished here!”

  The passage took him down some steps and into a labyrinth that would have flummoxed him had he not clung so tenaciously to his wits. More protective Magick, he thought grimly as he stumbled through the enchanted tunnels. The hum was now an ear-splitting shriek that threatened to steal his self-control. Then, just as thought he’d reached the end of the maze there was another incredible blast. Sufficient to knock him off his feet, it sent him hurtling backwards into the arms of the barman. Both were tumbled backwards down the tunnel, the Gent’s arms flying up to protect his head. Despite his thick turban, his glass skull could still smash, sending fragments into his brain.

  The stench of Magick was powerful enough to make the barman retch. He tore himself free from Gopal and stumbled into a corner to throw up. The Gent slowly picked himself up, making sure his fragile head was still intact. But scarcely had he started moving when a different kind of rumble trembled through the building. “Something’s giving away!” he shouted. “Back up!” Without waiting for the ill barman to respond, Gurpreet bolted back past him – down a tunnel that was now straight and ordinary, leading directly back to the stairs. He clattered up them, the barman following hot on his heels.

  Something gave way with a catastrophic roar. A great plume of smoke and dust burst billowed over from. Coughing and gasping for breath, the pair stumbled back out into the alley, where they were greeted by the now very sober tavern’s occupants, and as many locals as had been able to fit down the narrow laneway.

  “What the Hell did you do?” the barman demanded of the Gent again. What charm had been over him was rapidly disappearing.

  “We’d better take a look, shall we?” the Gent headed back around the front into the tavern. He raced up the front stairs to charge inside – and had to grab onto the doorframe to support himself.

  The last explosion had been the floor giving away. Gaping in front of the horrified Gent was an enormous hole with fragments of floorboards poking into it. All the tavern’s furniture had tumbled into the chasm, disappearing from sight. The bar sagged dangerously forward, threatening to follow suit.

  The barman came up behind the Gent, almost pushing him forward. “What in God’s name? Wh-where’s me bloody pub?”

  The Gent squinted, trying to see down into the darkness. “It seems you have a basement after all!” He could hear water rushing and a smell of Magickal residue mixed with damp stone and sewage wafted out. “But the thing that was living down there is long gone – and appears to have taken most of your support-structure with it. I suggest you don’t go in there – the whole building could come down.”

  “What the Hell’m I goin’ t’ do now?” shouted the barman. “That tavern’s me livelihood!”

  The Gent sighed. It seemed damage control was up to him. Fortunately he had more money than he knew what to do with. A large sum of cash would quell the scandal. But one day he would make Icarus pay him back for everything he had just shelled out – and for managing to elude him yet again. One day very soon.

  He knew where the elusive apprentice had gone.

  To Sheffield, of course!

  Chapter 12

  The Infinite Circus

  It was mid afternoon when a colossal explosion behind the unfinished theatre brought work to a standstill, and sent everyone scuttling into the field out the back. A great cloud of smoke and dust billowed from the middle of the meadow, obscuring the incident. Ominous sounds came from the midst; the crashing of falling stones and creaking of twisting metal. A terrible stench of brimstone billowed from the mess.

  The workers were the first to arrive, followed by Del and Nicholas. The zombies came next, having sprinted from their carnival tents out the front. Local visitors pursued them.

  “Wh… what the Hell is that?” Gordon gasped, clutching his chest. “I don’t think my poor old heart can take much more excitement!” But he wouldn’t have traded the last few months for all the tea in China.


  Del could only gape. He had no idea. But slowly the smoke and dust cleared, revealing what looked like a tangled pile of rubble; pieces of broken wall held together with splintered wood and twisted pipes. A door had popped from its hinges and leaned drunkenly. It looked familiar. Is that the inner door to Icarus’ basement? Del wondered.

  Gruff Jones the Foreman began to approach, holding a shovel in his large, hairy hands. But then Del lifted his hand and stepped forward. “I think I know what this is.”

  Suddenly, the lopsided door was pushed from the inside and it flew off across the grass. A chorus of hair-whitening swear-words issued from the darkness, and a small, disheveled figure stumbled out, holding a battered, broad-brimmed hat onto its head. Hastily applied bandages trailed in its wake.

  “Icarus!” exclaimed Del, unable to disguise his excitement.

  “Oh no, not you again!” shouted Gruff. “So you’re responsible for this mess!”

  “What happened?” Del asked.

  “Someone tracked me down. I had to leave. In a hurry.” Icarus turned as another figure emerged from the smoky darkness.

  “Sweet Jesus!” exclaimed Willkie. “You were right! We’ve moved! The whole Goddamn cellar has moved!”

  “Meet Ed Willkie – my new assistant,” Icarus growled, a great cloud of black smoke shrouding his head. “Now, if you’ve all finished gawking and asking questions, I’ll need some help to get all the equipment in there up to my office, as quickly as possible! Tim, Tom, Ethel!” He clapped his gloved hands. “Willkie, you too! We don’t have much time!” He disappeared back into the dilapidated structure. In response it groaned ominously, a few more bricks tumbling from its sides. It looked about to collapse.

  Gruff tightened his grip on his shovel. “I see your trip down to London didn’t improve your mood,” he growled under his breath. Standing beside him, Gordon grabbed his arm and squeezed it in warning.