Kingsley did wonder, however, if the indiscriminate application of labour was one reason the bodies used by the Immortals wore out. Lopping off pieces whenever a ditch digger was needed couldn’t be good for them.
Which made him even more curious about the Immortals’ choice of bodies. Why children? Wouldn’t adults be more useful? And why were the chosen bodies younger in the twentieth century than they were here?
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answers.
The Immortals listened to the gossip from the Spawn Kingsley and Evadne had followed in, while other Spawn built, cleaned, polished and painted to make a home for the ages. The perfect balance of zero degrees longitude would one day run right through here, and Kingsley was sure this wasn’t by accident.
He wondered where they had been before this place. Stonehenge? Lindisfarne? Or somewhere overseas, a place of great power like Mount Ararat, Olympus or the monasteries of Tibet?
A commotion on the other side of the great hall when a scaffold collapsed was the moment Kingsley and Evadne needed. They slipped through the five-sided door, closed it behind them and descended into the abyss.
Evadne was hard-faced as they came to the first cell. Through the small, barred window in the door they could make out eyes. Kingsley whispered through the bars and tried to gain attention, but the shadowy figures did not stir. When Evadne risked all and shone a beam from her pen light, there were more than a dozen ragged and sooty-faced children, none looking more than ten years old, sitting or slumped on stone. They had no spark in them, no curiosity, no eagerness for rescue. They sat, unspeaking, dull faced, resigned.
The next cell was the same, and the next. Each cell was full of impassive, almost somnolent urchins, forsaken boys and girls.
As they went, Evadne became more and more grim, and Kingsley feared for the pen light, such was the intensity of her grip. Again and again, she touched her glove over her little finger, the one that bore her silver ring.
When she’d spoken of her calling, Kingsley had seen sadness amid the righteous anger. Was the source of this sadness the secret she’d promised to share with him? He put his hand lightly on her shoulder as they neared the next cell, but she shook him off without turning her head.
This cell was different. Evadne shone the light through the bars and piping cries of joy erupted from it.
Evadne thrust the pen light on Kingsley. She gripped the bars and pressed her face against them. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘We’ve come to save you.’
Kingsley struggled to shine the beam past Evadne. In the cell, two children had come to their feet and were leaping up and down, arms extended, crying for their mother with joy that soon became sobbing. They fell at the foot of the door, scratching at it feebly. Kingsley ached to let them out. It would only take a second or two, but then what would they do?
Evadne crouched by the door, speaking softly, promising comfort and safety, repeating herself until their despair dwindled into a soft and wordless lament. The faint sound floated through the barred window, hanging in the air and filling it with a plaintiveness that was as lost as the children themselves.
Kingsley understood, even if he couldn’t share Evadne’s depth of anger. His wild side added to his sympathy: young ones were to be protected – it was the duty of the pack. Rally to take care of the young. Distract predators with your own self. Sacrifice yourself to keep them safe.
He put his hand on Evadne’s shoulder. This time, he refused to be shaken off. ‘We can’t stay here.’
She didn’t look up. ‘I can’t leave them.’
‘Someone will send one of the Spawn to investigate.’
‘Let them.’ She placed one gloved hand against the door. ‘I’ll destroy them. I’ll destroy them all.’
He sighed. ‘I know you will, but let’s just see what we can do to improve our chances here.’
She knuckled tears away from her face. ‘We should go downward, then.’
He helped her to her feet, until she was abruptly standing face to face with him. She wasn’t ethereal, he decided. She was too earthy to be angelic. ‘Lead on,’ he whispered.
On the next level down, she flung her arms wide, nearly striking Kingsley, who was right behind her. ‘Why didn’t the others cry out?’ she asked. ‘Why only those two?’
‘I hope they’ve just been daunted by their imprisonment,’ he said. ‘Imagine facing the Spawn as your captors if you were six years old.’
She shuddered, her shoulders trembling. ‘But you think it might be something else?’
‘They could have been given a drug, or potion, or subjected to some sort of magic ritual. I’ve no idea.’
Kingsley decided that the slight, sharp exhalation from Evadne might have been a laugh. ‘Kingsley,’ she said, maintaining a forward regard, ‘at the rate you’re taking aboard new concepts, you’ll be a true Demimonder before you know it.’
Kingsley didn’t reply. He was too busy pondering whether this was a good thing or bad.
The last level before the black disc contained a single, solid iron door. Kingsley spread his hand on it, felt nothing, and put an ear to it. ‘I can’t hear anything.’
‘Another mystery,’ Evadne said.
Kingsley didn’t like having it at his back, blocking their retreat. The lock was more formidable than those on the cell doors. He thought he could open it quickly – but would that be a wise thing to do?
He touched the surface of the door again. It was cold. He shook his head. ‘It’s solid. Whatever is behind it will stay there for some time.’
Evadne looked away.
Just as they reached the black disc, a glass vial appeared in midair with an incongruous tinkling sound and hovered over the centre of the blackness. Kingsley stared at the glow, then glanced up to make sure they were well hidden by the overhang of the ramp above. ‘Is that phlogiston?’ he asked Evadne.
‘Oh, yes.’ She crossed her arms in a strange gesture of satisfaction when the vial rocketed upward, vanishing some way over their heads. ‘We’ll find a stockpile here somewhere.’
‘I’m sure these Immortals wouldn’t tolerate our sniffing about for their treasure store.’
Evadne crouched and held her hand a careful few inches above the surface of the blackness. ‘Remarkable. If I’m not mistaken, this is an entirely different way to extract phlogiston. No moving parts at all. Just magic.’
‘Capital.’ Kingsley looked up. The thin slice of uncompleted floor overhead was growing smaller. ‘While that might be interesting, I’m not sure if it’s providing us with anything to improve our chances.’
‘Mm?’
What we have here is a trap, he thought, on a very large scale. So what’s the way out? It was back to Basic Principles. ‘Thinking is the key,’ he muttered aloud. Another glowing vial appeared and shot off. ‘The back door.’
Evadne whirled, her coat swinging. ‘Bravo, Kingsley! The Immortals wouldn’t drag urchins through their perfect hall!’
He looked around at the iron door. ‘I’m thinking that the old palace by the river and tower on the hill would have had a connection, something underground. It would have been easy enough to run a side tunnel off that. In fact, I’ll wager that the park is criss-crossed with tunnels.’
‘We can take them out the way they came in,’ Evadne said.
Kingsley unlocked the door while Evadne stood to one side, pistol and sabre ready. When he eased it open, however, all that emerged was a soft gust of air, damp but fresh.
‘I can smell the river,’ Evadne said.
‘That’s good. If the children can make it down to the riverbank, they should be able to get away from there.’ He knew they’d be frightened, but at least they’d be well away from the fire that was consuming London. They wouldn’t be the only lost children. And anything would be bette
r than being held by the Immortals.
She looked hopeful. ‘Perhaps the Retrievers will find them.’
They worked from the top down. The children from the uppermost cells were lethargic but biddable. None of them questioned their surroundings, or the orders Evadne gave in clear, strained tones. As they worked downward, the children began to show signs of animation. A few essayed half-hearted queries and Kingsley had to deal with a case or two of strangely detached terror, staunching tears with a handkerchief that immediately became an item of distracted wonder.
Kingsley was dismayed by their demeanour. Even if nothing malignant had gone on, the children were well cowed, their spirits broken.
And who could blame them? he thought as he slipped the bolt on his next challenge. The Spawn were hard enough for an adult to face. Any child who wasn’t daunted after being taken by the ghastly creatures would be a rare beast indeed.
Working down the levels, Kingsley had to remind Evadne to keep moving after he caught her consoling instead of shepherding. He was as gentle and as firm as he could be, but more than once she bit back a retort when he interrupted her ministrations.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered as she brought her latest charge to his feet. The pale-faced lad had been the last of nine in the cell to rouse. He rubbed his eyes with his chubby fists, then stuck one of them in his mouth.
‘This is your crusade?’ Kingsley asked Evadne.
‘I never called it a crusade,’ she said. ‘And, anyway, it’s more than that.’
‘I’d guessed. And it’s a secret?’
She bit her lip, but nodded and looked away. ‘Don’t worry about me. I can manage.’
Evadne peered into the face of one of the last children to be freed. One of the least affected and more self-possessed, she was a girl of ten or twelve years, clean-faced and wearing a well-scrubbed pinafore. She had long black hair and dark, serious eyes.
‘Take this.’ Evadne put the pen light into the girl’s hand and curled her fingers around it. She pointed at the tunnel beyond the iron door. ‘Guide the others out of here.’
The girl looked at Evadne, then Kingsley. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Away from here,’ Evadne said firmly. ‘Find the river. People will help you there.’
It was enough. Without hesitation, the girl plunged into the darkness.
Kingsley stood by the arch and helped the urchins on their way. And from darkness shall come light, he thought.
He was amazed at how the children didn’t hesitate, how each one simply followed the one in front. Boys, girls, some on the verge of adolescence, some barely walking. Most of them were still docile, although some showed a flicker of fear as they approached the arch.
If they were placid, Kingsley decided, it was a placidity of a particularly troubled kind. They weren’t sheep, despite displaying considerable sheeplike qualities. It was as if a damper had been placed on their thoughts and emotions, stifling them until they were manageable.
Kingsley wondered if, underneath, the poor children were screaming.
‘It will wear off,’ Evadne said as the last child – a lank-haired, limping boy – stumbled over the threshold and hurried after the others.
‘They’ll be themselves again?’
‘At best, they’ll remember this as a bad dream.’
Kingsley didn’t really want to ask what the worst was. ‘They’re on their way home. Let’s see what we can do about doing the same.’
She gazed at the arch, and she fingered her satchel.
‘You can’t use the phlogiston,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You look as if you’re thinking explosively, so to speak.’
‘And?’
‘The Temporal Manipulator looks as if it could be our only hope of getting home. If you blow up this place, we’re stuck here.’
‘We may not have another chance to destroy the Immortals’ headquarters.’
‘True, but you know what they say about a time and a place for everything.’
The floor underneath the Immortals’ throne was now almost entirely completed. Spawn were on hands and knees and actually stretching the substance of the floor as if they were laying carpet. A dozen or more were on one side of the pentagon, with an equivalent number on the other. Slowly, they were roofing over the abyss.
Kingsley and Evadne huddled under a pile of rough canvas they’d found next to a scaffold. His legs were aching from the climb, but Evadne was showing no signs of weariness. She was driven. The Immortals’ throne was hovering near the rotating cube. Each side of the cube shone dully with one of the primary colours – red, blue or yellow – in a pattern that Kingsley gave up trying to discern when the cube pulsed and the arrangement changed. The faces were still primary colours, but the distribution was now different.
In midair a foot or so in front of the cube, a rippling black mat was appearing. The mat tumbled down over the two steps that led to the alcove and then became part of the floor that the Spawn were stretching across the cavernous space below.
The floor was being extruded out of the air.
Magic, Kingsley thought, and he shrugged at his newfound willingness to accept the evidence of his eyes. He wasn’t foolish enough to keep insisting that there was a trick involved, that there had to be a man behind the screen. Being sceptical didn’t mean refusing to acknowledge the evidence.
The Spawn on the far side of the chamber reached the stairs of the opposite alcoves. More stretching, some smoothing from side to side.
The lights went out on the cube. Its spinning began to slow until it resumed the stately rotation Kingsley had seen when they first crept into the chamber.
The river of black material stuttered, dwindled, and ended, the last of it falling onto the stairs like a black velvet drape.
Four Spawn leaped towards it. With sharp blades like sickles, they trimmed the join, smoothing it and making it straight. One of them staggered off with the offcuts of the black material that, to judge from the difficulty it had in gathering, was growing harder and less flexible.
‘A phlogiston-powered Material Manipulator, I’d say,’ Evadne whispered. ‘It could explain why the Immortals don’t have much to do with the rest of the Demimonde. They don’t need to trade for materials.’
‘So, a Time Manipulator and a Material Manipulator.’ He pointed at the empty alcove. ‘They have others?’
She shrugged. ‘While I’m curious, I can wait to find out.’
‘Can you wait two hundred and fifty years?’
‘I’m a model of patience.’
Anger rarely sat well with a squeaky voice, Soames decided as he stood in front of the Immortals. He held his hat in one hand, ready to leave for his office, and his umbrella in the other, the most useless of shields in the face of Augustus’s spittle-laced tirade. Soames took some solace in that umbrellas were at least the most British of shields. He was proud of that.
He had been astonished, dismayed and angered when the Immortals had been carried up from the depths of their lair by a brace of Spawn. How underhand of them to vanish like that and leave him as a mere caretaker! It was reprehensible!
He had an awful moment when he thought they’d come back to punish him, but they showed no signs of knowing that he’d conspired with the Neanderthals.
Of course they didn’t know, Jabez, he thought. Your plan was masterly!
The Immortals were different. Still in the bodies of children, but different children. Which made sense, in an outlandish way, for hadn’t Soames himself seen the Immortals torn to pieces by the Neanderthals?
Using his years of practice, he hid his feelings and welcomed the Immortals back, assuring them that he’d kept the place just as they’d left it.
It didn’t stop the Immortals’ ranting at him.<
br />
Augustus came to a snarling conclusion in his estimation of Soames’s abilities. Jia took over, cold and hard and unstoppable as a glacier.
Migration of souls. In all Soames’s scheming, all his planning, he hadn’t really understood the extent of the Immortals’ magic. He knew that they moved from body to body as they wore out, but he simply hadn’t thought of the implications. That they had simply migrated out of their endangered bodies just before the Neanderthals descended on them and taken up residence in fresh bodies in a nearby, but undisclosed, location hadn’t occurred to him.
It gave him a chill as he re-estimated the extent of the Immortals’ abilities.
‘Of course I understood that your dismemberment was a mere inconvenience,’ he lied when Jia’s ire subsided. ‘That’s why, once I discovered that those appalling Neanderthals were in residence, I brought my own band of bullies and bravoes to drive them out, clean up your . . . remains . . . and make the place secure for your return.’
In some ways he was glad to relinquish guardianship of the uncanny place, but he was irritated by the peremptory nature of their homecoming. They weren’t even surprised at his presence.
‘This cannot be countenanced!’ Augustus snapped. Although their physical appearance had changed, their taste in clothing hadn’t, much to Soames’s relief as it gave him some indication who he was talking to. Augustus’s feet dangled nowhere near the floor, the same as his equally incensed colleagues’. Jia had both tiny, bloody, bandaged hands clenched on the arms of her throne and looked as if she were barely restraining herself from leaping at Soames and biting him. Forkbeard was more subdued, but only in the way that an angry bear is more subdued than an angry wildcat. His chin was down and he looked at Soames from bloodshot eyes, his lids drooping and his breath a rough rumble. His feet were bare and bandaged.
Soames was wary of their anger. There was no dignity here, no gravity gained from millennia of experience. This was the fury of the elderly, the wrath of the frustrated geriatric. While most of Soames was devoted to remaining dignified in face of the anger directed at him, a small part wondered what sort of minds were couched behind those once sweet faces. Was mental decay a fact of existence that their bodily transfer couldn’t overcome?
Extraordinaires 1 Page 22
