by Nick Baker
Price briefly contemplated tidying himself up before leaving to visit his long-time friend, Cornelius Spydre, but then thought better of it. Spydre kept an antiquarian bookshop in the city and was a wealth of information on any subject to do with old and rare books, and was just the person to enlist under the circumstances. Price had sent him a message regarding the stolen book, and with it, some notes he had made when he had first acquired it. He was convinced that if anyone could help, it was Cornelius, and he wondered speculatively whether the notes would enable his friend to discover something he had missed.
Price returned to the desk and sat down. He lifted the Historoscope from its stand to while away some time before departing for the city, passing the instrument pensively from one hand to the other as if deciding what to do with it next. The Historoscope was undoubtedly his favourite invention, and although it was a valuable tool, Price was often just as happy to look at the beautiful designs filigreed in silver and gold braid in a multitude of shapes and sizes on its surface. The intricate network of metals on the instrument’s housing flowed in an attractive design, creating patterns within patterns that changed perspective in varying lights.
While he was scrutinising the instrument, the sun appeared from behind a bank of thick clouds and cascaded through the skylight above the desk, catching the instrument in a swathe of light. The reflections cast by the instrument’s iridescent surface were scattered around the room and threw off dancing lights that flitted across the walls as if a swarm of fireflies had been released into the room, flying haphazardly in all directions. Price looked on entranced as he followed the shimmering lights, but then, the sun disappeared and the moment was lost.
Price sighed after the all too brief distraction and returned his attention to the instrument. He had assembled the Historoscope many years before as a means of storing thoughts and memories derived from the minds of friends, allies and even enemies, to create a coherent and permanent record of past events. It was an ingenious device that he had conceived by fusing scientific methodology with obscure alchemical learning, but the instrument had only become a reality following his collusion with Saskia Schalk, his late lamented lover and Lily’s mother.
The instrument worked in conjunction with a transparent flexible cap made of a gel formed via a laborious alchemical process. Thousands of minute electrodes were scattered about the cap, which on close inspection could be seen as tiny black dots standing proud of the opaque matrix. When applied to the scalp, the electrodes picked up small changes in electrical activity emanating from deep within the skull. Price had designed the contraption so that whenever a memory was recalled, the unique electrical pattern corresponding with neuronal and synaptic brainwave activity was picked up and fed into the instrument by the external metallic circuitry. The core of the Historoscope was manufactured from the manipulation of electrum and copper in a smelting process derived from an old alchemical technique, giving rise to a unique metal alloy that, in essence, acted as a central processing unit, receiving data from the cap and collating it into a visual representation of the memory. A single thought or memory created a simplistic image that could be visualised through the eyepiece, but even Price had been surprised to discover that the greater the number of individuals recalling a particular event, the more sophisticated the resultant image.
Over the years, Price had built up a comprehensive database of memories, creating a stored archive of past events that had proved invaluable in the Council’s crusade against the Order. Viewing past scenes even allowed Price to discover subtleties relating to events that he had missed at the time. He was well aware of what a valuable tool the instrument could be but also knew that it was not infallible. Past events may have been misinterpreted or not recalled clearly enough, and it was quite possible that some memories were festooned with embellishments, others with deficiencies, and some, no doubt, stored as downright lies. Nonetheless, the greater the number of memories corroborating a particular event meant that rogue or unreliable sources were much more likely to be excluded. What he found frustrating, however, was that the most valuable information often only came from one or two unreliable sources. Even so, he had still managed to build up a coherent, chronological representation of the near-distant past that he anticipated would be of value in countering any future threat.
Using the Historoscope required a great deal of concentration, and with this in mind, Price cleared his thoughts. He picked up the cap and slipped it onto his head. He redoubled his attention as he placed the instrument to his eye. The screen was blank, but after a brief interlude, a mist of swirling lights appeared on the screen that slowly coalesced into a recognisable image. It was not long before he identified the outline of three teenage boys sitting on a wall in front of an imposing Gothic building with pointed arches and vaults set amidst tall, bell towers. It was his old alma mater, the Academy of Arcane and Alchemical Arts. The backdrop blurred as the scene converged upon the boys who appeared to be in their late teens and were dressed in drab, rather formal robes that seemed inappropriate given the glaring sun that was beating down. The boys’ discussion was becoming more and more animated until one of the trio jumped up from the wall, seemingly having lost his cool. He raised a hand and pointed fixedly at one of the other boys still sitting on the wall in a gesture that was undoubtedly hostile. When he prodded a finger forcibly against the boy’s chest, it seemed as if the boy would, at any minute, lose his balance and topple over the wall onto the beautifully manicured lawn six feet below him.
Price recognised himself as the boy sitting on the wall under duress. He shook his head, reflecting ruefully how he had aged in the past twenty years.
He stared intently through the eyepiece at his aggressor. The angry young man had long, wavy, dark hair that fell in curls onto the lapels of his gown and soft, boyish features that persisted despite the sprouting shadow of a moustache. His face radiated an angelic charm that contrasted starkly with his actions. His bright blue eyes shone fiercely, and despite a brief flash hinting at incipient violence, the boy’s expression quickly flitted back to its earlier benign disposition.
‘Henry, my dear fellow, I don’t believe we should be quarrelling like this on such a beautiful day,’ said the boy in a soft, vaguely melodic manner.
Although Price knew the instrument was generating impulses through the cap and creating the impression of the boy’s voice inside his head, it seemed as if he was back there on that very day, listening to the words of Pearly Black.
At that moment, the third boy, who had been watching the exchanges with growing concern, jumped to his feet and positioned himself resolutely between the pair. He absent-mindedly pushed his spectacles onto the bridge of his nose before laying hands on the boys’ shoulders, smiling at them in turn before addressing Price. ‘Pearly’s right, this is no time for arguing, especially over a … er, girl,’ he said.
Once again Price was taken aback by the realism of the images and the sound of Abel Strange’s voice as the interjector. He marvelled at the scene playing out before him when he saw his own lips move in response to his fellow student. ‘I didn’t raise the issue as you well know, Abel. I can’t help it if Pearly’s jealous of the time I’ve been spending with Saskia.’
At these words, Black visibly tensed as if readying himself for action.
‘I’ve tried to reassure him that we’ve been studying together and nothing else,’ Price continued, pointedly ignoring Black. ‘I’ll repeat this one last time. Saskia and I have been pursuing an area of mutual interest and nothing more,’ he said in a vaguely threatening manner.
‘If that’s the case then why not tell me what you’re so interested in?’ enquired Black.
While listening and watching through the Historoscope, Price detected an undercurrent of resentment that betrayed the calm expression on Black’s face, despite his recollection of the event being somewhat different from the scene he was witnessing. He briefly reflected on Strange’s interpretation of what had happened and
assumed that his friend’s memory must have been stronger and subtly different from his own in several ways.
Price watched transfixed as his doppelgänger jumped down from the wall, set himself in front of Black and said, ‘Saskia wants to keep our work to ourselves. I aim to honour her trust and I’m not prepared to discuss it with anyone else, and that includes you, Pearly. I suggest that, if you wish to know more, you should take this conversation up with her.’
Price turned his back on the boys and made his way towards the building, not stopping to look back as he disappeared through a high, pointed archway.
Strange looked uneasily at Black, unsure of how he was about to react. ‘I’m, er, sure that Henry is telling the truth, Pearly. I don’t believe he’s purposely misleading you.’
A flash of anger passed across Black’s face, but just as quickly disappeared. ‘Don’t be so naive, Abel. You always take things at face value. Maybe that’s why people take advantage of you,’ he said in a manner that was not unkind. ‘Perhaps I, too, am at fault. My mind’s different from yours. I tend to search for motives that aren’t always there. Somehow, though, I don’t trust Henry in this; I believe he’s hiding something. I’ll speak to Saskia about it again, but, so far, she’s been reluctant to talk to me about their meetings.’
The conversation seemed to be over, and moments later, the scene faded, leaving a blank void on the Historoscope’s screen.
Price returned the instrument to its stand. As he removed the cap, his eyes turned reflexively towards a silver-framed photograph that held pride of place on the desk. He took the picture-frame in his hands and looked intently at the photograph, seeing a younger version of himself standing in the background with his arms draped around the shoulders of an alluring young woman with long, curly black hair. She was smiling intently with a radiance that illuminated her attractive features and implied that the photograph had been taken at a time of great happiness. Cradled in her arms was a baby girl, no more than a few months old. The woman was looking down at the child, who seemed to be gazing back into her eyes.
Price continued to stare at the picture that showed him standing behind Saskia and Lily, but it was not long before a film of tears obscured his view of the two people he loved most. He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief just in time to prevent the tears from spilling onto his cheeks. With a sigh, he placed the frame back into its space amidst the clutter on his desk. He sat for a while reminiscing about the happiest period in his life before he shook himself down and got up from the chair.
This is no time for melancholia, he told himself. He looked briefly at the clock suspended on the wall with its long pendulum swinging silently below it before striding purposefully from the room, determined to bring some respectability to his appearance before his meeting with Spydre.
7
THE STONE OF MADNESS
Number 34, Curiosity Street
AN HOUR LATER, PRICE was walking briskly along the northern embankment of the Thames. The sky was a dramatic shade of gunmetal. The clouds were low and foreboding with dampness in the air, hinting at impending rain. He stopped and looked across the river. A chill easterly wind was gusting across the water causing it to roll and boil. Water traffic was sporadic apart from the occasional barge toiling upriver against the current. Price briefly contemplated heading down the adjacent gangway to take the vessel stationed there, but thought better of it. The water taxi would save time, but he was in no hurry. Despite the buffeting icy wind, he was enjoying the fresh air and the sense of purification that went with it, cleansing him of the uneasy thoughts that lingered following the scenes he had viewed on the Historoscope.
Price watched a solitary gull perched on a buoy looking for easy pickings in the middle of the fast-flowing river. The large bird hesitated before pushing off into the air. He heard it call with a lone, harsh cry before it headed towards him, then wheel away and glide on the breeze before disappearing into the ever-increasing gloom on the opposite bank.
Price turned away and crossed the road into a secluded side street, which opened onto a tree-lined square. A crowd was gathered there, milling around several market stalls with brightly coloured awnings billowing in the freshening breeze. He wondered what was attracting their attention and set off towards the throng. He edged into a small space between two stalls to peer over the shoulder of an onlooker and was intrigued to see a man with a long, grey beard solemnly dealing cards to a group of men gathered around a trestle table covered in worn baize. The men were examining their cards while the onlookers encouraged them to bet far more than they could afford, judging by their unkempt looks and shabby attire. The dealer asked each player whether they wished to keep their card or exchange it with the person next to them. Then, after some fearsome betting, the cards were turned face-up, and the person with the card bearing the highest value took the winnings. Price was amazed at the stakes involved in what was, after all, a simple game of chance. The game was engrossing for all that and he found himself drawn into the spectacle because of the sheer intensity of the play.
Despite trying to fathom out the various denominations of the cards, he struggled to work out how the winning card was determined, even after watching several hands trying to puzzle it out. The cards were beautifully hand-painted with intricate artwork depicting fantastical creatures of obscure and bizarre forms. Eventually, Price began to identify a pattern to the play, but he was still bemused by the hierarchy of cards grouped into four suits of air, fire, water and earth.
A card portraying a terrifying sea serpent named Yofune-Nushi won the first hand, but in the next game, when the same card appeared again, it lost to a rather odd-looking bird called the Ouzelum, which seemed to be flying backwards. Every now and again a great shout went up as money exchanged hands. Judging by their careworn expressions, Price suspected that the men had been playing for some time, but even in the brief period since his arrival, he could sense the game building into a feverish climax.
As he watched, he sensed a movement a dozen paces behind him. To the casual observer, it was the innocuous act of a market browser, but to Price, it was a sign that someone was watching him. He recalled his recent conversation with Lily concerning psychic defence and felt a thrill of excitement course through his body. In the space of a few seconds, a leisurely stroll had turned into something menacing, although what threat he was facing, he could only guess.
He continued to watch the game with feigned nonchalance. The man with the grey beard was dealing another hand of cards, and while he expertly flicked the cards across the table, Price took the opportunity to study the onlooker loitering behind him in the shadowy reflection of the dealer’s glasses. The man was hanging back, aimlessly examining the cheap goods laid out before him, and did not appear intent on coming closer. Price relaxed a little; perhaps the man was merely tailing him. He made up his mind to find out and pulled away from the game.
In the time since Price had arrived at the market, it had started to drizzle. He elbowed his way through the throng and crossed the square. He passed a row of deserted stalls and left by a narrow street diagonally opposite to his entry point. He listened intently for the sound of pursuit but all he heard was the echo of his own steps on the cobbled paving stones. As he turned a corner, he veered off into the recessed doorway of a terraced house and waited. In the silence that followed, he briefly wondered whether he had been mistaken, but while he was debating whether to emerge and continue his journey, he heard footsteps, irregular and circumspect, and not the sound of a straggler heading home to escape the rain.
He waited until the pursuer was almost upon him before he sprang from the alcove, bringing him face to face with a small, shabbily dressed man, whose expression showed, first surprise, and then fear. The look on the man’s face was both an admission of guilt and an indication that he had recognised Price. As the man turned to flee, Price, anticipating the move, threw out a hand and grabbed him by the sleeve of his tattered jacket.
Price stared i
nto the man’s eyes and spoke calmly. ‘Make no attempt to escape, and I won’t hurt you. I know you followed me into the market. What do you want?’
The man lowered his head under Price’s intense gaze and looked down at the wet pavement. ‘I … I wasn’t following you, sir,’ he replied nervously.
The man was poor at hiding the lie and Price noted the telltale signs etched on his face: the brief dilation of his pupils, beads of sweat on his brow and the rapid pulsation of an artery at his temple.
As he studied the man, Price suddenly realised that, not only was he lying, there was something else. In a sudden blur, the man reached into his jacket, and with surprising agility, brandished a pistol, which he lifted uncertainly and pointed towards him.
Price did not flinch but smiled casually at the man, fuming with himself at having misread the signs. ‘Don’t be foolish. You cannot hurt me,’ he said in a voice that was calm and resolute. He reached out calmly with a free hand and gestured to the man to hand over the weapon.
The man laughed nervously, and from the whites of his knuckles, Price could tell that he was squeezing the trigger.
‘Back off, and I won’t fire this thing,’ the man called out, his voice wavering with uncertainty in tandem with the gun shaking in his hand.
Price readied himself. In an instant, he unfurled a hand as if merely casting something in the man’s direction. The sudden movement startled the man, and as he backed off, the gun discharged, sending out a loud report at precisely the moment the gun flew from his hands.
The weapon spun through the air and fell into the gutter. The man looked blankly at Price assuming that the weapon’s recoil had kicked it from his hands. As he waited for the inevitable fall of his target, he was shocked to see Price still standing there, staring impassively back at him in a calm and assuring manner.
