by Derek Landy
“Apparently you can set him on fire from head to toe and it would do absolutely no damage. But there is a flaw. There is no discipline that does not have a weak point. The danger of focusing on one aspect to the exclusion of all others is that the weak point tends to grow. He had no idea when he set himself on this course, because from what I’ve heard he has never been the brightest of sorcerers.”
“What is his weak point?”
“Water.”
“That’s it? Just water?”
“He can’t be submerged in it. Apparently he has to stand whenever he takes a bath. If he is completely submerged in water even for an instant, something bad will happen.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” said Quoneel. “But something bad. The point of the story is that he made a decision early on and he is now stuck with that decision. There is nothing he can do to change it now. When you were a child, what did you dream of?”
“I wanted to be an Elemental,” the girl said truthfully.
“And then?” Quoneel asked. “As your horizons broadened, and you encountered more and more branches of Adept magic?”
“An Energy-Thrower,” she said. “Or a Teleporter.”
“Ah,” said Quoneel. “A Teleporter. What could be more useful for a knife in the shadows than the ability to appear and disappear in the blink of an eye? A dying art, some might say. But you dismissed this notion also?”
The girl nodded. “I want to walk on walls,” she said.
“Why?”
She hesitated. “So I can strike from above. So I can attack without warning.”
“No, these are not your reasons.”
“You’re distracting me from my lesson.”
“Why do you want to walk on walls?”
The girl returned her foot to the floor and sighed. “I don’t know.”
“You must have a reason.”
“Because it’s useful,” she said. “And it’s unexpected. And in a fight, you’d have the advantage. Everyone else fights with their feet on the ground. If you can make them fight you sideways, or fight you as you hang upside down, they’re never going to get comfortable.”
The master nodded thoughtfully. “And your real reason for wanting to walk on walls?”
“Because no one else is doing it!” she blurted. “All the others are choosing disciplines to help them kill. So what? We’re being trained to kill. We’re going to kill, anyway − we don’t need to do it by shooting energy from our fingertips. For an assassin to choose a discipline like that is... is...”
“Redundant,” said Quoneel.
“Yes,” she said.
“I agree with you completely.”
“You do?”
“Of course. What’s the point of being a hidden blade if you attack with a clumsy old club? Where’s the subtlety? Where’s the finesse? Your friends have sadly missed the point.”
“They’re not my friends.”
“Ah, yes. They still call you Highborn, don’t they?”
“I don’t talk like I used to. I don’t walk around all proud and bright like I used to. But they won’t stop calling me that name.”
“What age are you now, girl? Thirteen? It’s past time you took on a name of your own.”
“I’ll take my name when I’m ready,” the girl said. “I won’t do it just to stop them teasing me.”
Quoneel smiled.
“But why don’t you tell them?” she asked. “If they’re choosing the wrong disciplines, why don’t you just make a list of the right ones and let them pick?”
“It is not our place,” the master said. “We can only hope that through our teachings and our guidance, the appropriate disciplines will become obvious. Sometimes that works. Sometimes it doesn’t.”
“Avaunt said she’s going to be an Energy-Thrower,” said the girl.
Quoneel smiled again. “Another one who has missed the point. She will make an excellent assassin, however. They all will. But none of them will rise beyond merely excellent.”
“Will I?”
“That, I cannot say. You might, provided you live long enough. We never stop learning, in truth. You study here until your Surge, then you rejoin the world outside as one of us, and you grow older and more powerful and more accomplished... And if you’re lucky, you see out your life back here, speaking these same words to some other young girl or boy, hundreds of years from now.” He laughed when he saw her expression. “I assure you, it is a lot more rewarding than it sounds.”
“If you say so.”
“Let us return to your lesson, then. Enough idle talk from an idle fool. Put your foot up on the wall. First you learn to stand sideways. Then you learn to stand upside down.”
Quoneel was not the only master to teach her. Sometimes the girl was introduced to sorcerers whose task it was to teach her one single thing in a day. Sometimes a week. Sometimes a month. Sometimes an hour. It wasn’t just magic or combat, either. There was a man who taught her forgery. A woman who taught her carpentry. She was taught about engines and astronomy and how to pick pockets. There was a woman who taught her everything about women and a woman who taught her everything about men. And then there was a man who taught her about locks.
His name was Audoen, and he was a Wall-Walker. He asked her to open a door and she tried, but it was locked. She told him so and he nodded, then pressed his hand to the lock and it clicked open.
“How did you do that?” the girl asked.
Audoen smiled. “You have undoubtedly heard the phrase ‘branches of magic’, yes? Picture a tree. Elemental magic is one branch. Necromancy is another. So-called Energy-Throwing is yet another. There are many, many branches on this tree. With me so far?”
“Yes,” the girl said. “I’m not stupid.”
He laughed. “On each of these branches there are, shall we say, twigs. Because these ‘twigs’ are so low-key and in most cases passive, learning one or two of them does not interfere with your chosen discipline. For Wall-Walkers, the ability to open locks and seal doorways is a twig you can either ignore, or take advantage of. Because of the work we do, having such a talent can benefit us greatly.”
“Can you teach me?”
“Are you sure? It may only be a simple twig on the tree of magic, but even so it will take time to master, and you have a lot of work to do.”
“Teach me,” the girl said. “I can handle it.”
etting to Germany? Simple.
Finding Johann Starke’s house? Easy.
Breaking into said house? Not a problem.
Breaking into said house while remaining undetected? Surprisingly difficult.
Kneeling here on this highly polished floor with his hands up and half a dozen sickle blades aimed at his throat, Dexter Vex wasn’t exactly in the mood to look back over his plan to pick out the flaws, but he knew they were there, and that was the important thing. Hubris, he figured, was a killer.
“Mr Vex,” said Johann Starke, “I have to say, I am as surprised as I am disappointed. I would not have thought a man of your reputation would stoop so low as to engage in robbery.”
“Johann,” Vex said, giving him a smile, “there’s really no need for hostilities. Isn’t there somewhere we can talk?”
“We’re talking right here,” said Johann, “with you and your associates on your knees and very much under arrest.”
They were in a large circular room with glass walls. The sun came in through the trees that bordered the lake and the glare hit Vex right in the eyes. He risked a glance at the others. They were all calm – bemused but calm – with the possible exception of Wilhelm, who seemed to be quietly hyperventilating.
Johann walked between the Rippers that surrounded them. “Did you really think it would be so easy to steal the dagger?”
Vex frowned. “How did you know we were after the dagger?”
“Your associate is not as subtle as she thinks,” Johann said.
“I am very subtle,” Aurora responded, s
ounding offended. Then, “Wait, what do you mean?”
“Not you,” said Johann. “The pretty lady from last night.”
“This pretty lady,” said Vex, “she didn’t give a name, did she?”
“Please, don’t insult my intelligence.”
“There are plenty of things I’d insult before getting to your intelligence, Johann. Your beard for one. It looks like the beards of Fu Manchu and Ming the Merciless mated, and their bizarre mutant offspring crawled on to your face and died on your chin.”
Johann sighed. “A pretty brunette. French – though the accent may have been faked. You sent her here to gather information. Where exactly the dagger was, what security was in place, what safeguards I had set up...”
“That was tricky of me,” Vex murmured. “And when she had all this information?”
Johann shrugged. “She vanished, along with one of my Rippers. He is dead, I expect?”
“Sorry, Johann, I wouldn’t know. I have no idea who you’re talking about. I didn’t send her. I didn’t send anyone. If we were going to rob the dagger, we wouldn’t raise your suspicions by sending someone ahead of us.”
“So you’d just drop in unannounced,” Johann said, “like now.”
Vex shrugged. “OK, you got us. Yeah, we were going to borrow the dagger.”
“Borrow it?”
“Just for a little while. We were going to return it, honest we were. Just as soon as we used it to stop Darquesse.”
“Ah,” said Johann, “this notorious Darquesse person that has the Sensitives so nervous.”
“If she’s as powerful as everyone says she’s going to be, we’re going to need some serious weaponry to put her down. Your dagger is a powerful weapon.”
“And if you needed it so badly, why not go through official channels? Erskine Ravel and Ghastly Bespoke are on the Council of Elders in Ireland – you could have got your friends to ask for it.”
“Ah, now Johann, we both know that would have been a waste of time.”
“But why?” Johann asked, all innocence.
“Because your boss sits on the Supreme Council, and the Supreme Council isn’t all that happy with Ireland at the moment, now is it? So any formal request for the dagger would have been ignored.”
“So instead you decide to steal it?”
“Borrow it.”
“Taking without asking is stealing.”
“But stealing sounds so much worse than borrowing.”
“It does sound bad,” Johann admitted, “but I’m afraid I have no choice. I am a stickler for the rules. Once in custody, maybe we can negotiate with your Council for your release.”
“That’s not going to happen, Johann. Things are kind of tricky right now as far as this international intrigue goes. You don’t trust the Irish Sanctuary, they don’t trust you, everyone has ulterior motives for everything else... I just can’t be part of that. If you arrest us, you can use us as leverage against our friends.”
“And yet you have no choice,” said Johann. “You’re hardly going to resist, are you? You’re hardly going to use violence. Such a thing might be seen as a provocative act between Sanctuaries.”
“The Irish Council didn’t send us.”
“I wish I could believe you. But stockpiling powerful weapons sounds exactly like something Erskine Ravel would do before hostilities boiled over into all-out war.”
“Careful now, Johann. Don’t make this into something it’s not.”
Johann looked at the others. “I am giving you all an opportunity to co-operate,” he said. “Confessing now will go a long way to securing you an early release and a comfortable stay while in our cells. You have this one chance.”
Frightening didn’t say anything. Aurora remained unresponsive. Saracen looked bored. Only Wilhelm seemed like he was considering the offer. Vex raised an eyebrow at him.
“I don’t do well in confined spaces,” Wilhelm said weakly.
“You don’t do well in open spaces either,” Aurora reminded him.
Wilhelm shook his head. “I’m not cut out for prison. Look at me. They’d eat me alive in there. I’ve seen gaol cells where you have to go to the toilet in front of other people. I can’t do that. I have a shy bladder and anxious bowels.”
“Wilhelm,” said Johann, “what happened to you, my friend? You were once one of Deutschland’s brightest stars.”
“You told me I was rubbish when you fired me.”
“Was that you? Oh. Well still, it is disappointing to see you associating with a criminal rabble.”
“Now Johann,” said Saracen, “let’s not resort to name-calling. Who knows where that would lead? Why, in the heat of the moment I might be forced to remind you of some things you did in your wild and crazy youth, and then where would we be? One of us would be red-faced and embarrassed, and one of us would be me.”
Johann narrowed his eyes. “I know just the gaol cell for you, Mr Rue. I think you’ll really like it.”
“Maybe later. Right now, though, we have a job to do.”
“You are going nowhere. We have you, we have your colleagues, there is nothing—”
Vex laughed, and Johann returned his attention to him.
“Something is funny?”
“Something is funny, yes,” said Vex. “How many of the Dead Men were there, Johann? At any one time, how many of us were there?”
Johann took a moment before answering. “Seven,” he said.
“That’s right. Seven. A good number for any group of people, I’ve always thought. The Seven Samurai. The Magnificent Seven. Seven Dwarves.”
“Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,” Saracen added.
“Exactly,” said Vex. “Seven of them. And seven Dead Men. So why would you think that when it came time to lead my own little group of warriors, I’d only have five?”
“Very well,” said Johann, “so there are two more at large. We will find them and—”
“You don’t have to find them,” Frightening said. “They’ve found you.”
Johann frowned, then noticed the little red dots that were circling his chest. He stiffened.
“Did I tell you how much I love your glass walls?” Vex asked. “Because I really, really love them.”
“You would not dare give the order,” said Johann.
“It’s not my order to give,” said Vex. “They’ll take the shot if they think the mission’s compromised. We’re free agents, Johann, like I said. We’re not sanctioned by any Sanctuary. Killing you would be no act of war – it would be the simple removal of an obstacle. So, we’re going to walk out of here, because this mysterious woman has just changed everything for us. Up till now, I thought we had the luxury of time – obviously I was wrong. So you’re going to let us go, Johann, and then you’re going to take your dagger and hide it away in the deepest, darkest vault you can find, and when Darquesse turns up, you can hand it over to us and beg us to save you.”
One of the red dots was now on the tip of Johann’s nose.
“Stand down,” Johann said, and the Rippers put away their sickles. Vex and the others stood up.
“Thanks awfully,” said Vex. “We’d stay and chat, we really would, but apparently we’re in a race, and we’re already behind.”
retty cold air in Chicago, and that’s no mistake. London could be cold, too, could be freezing, but London didn’t have buildings as tall as Chicago’s.
Jack stood on the tallest he could find, his toes curled, toenails digging into the concrete to keep the winds from just blowing him off like a leaf from a tree. He pictured himself falling lightly, tossed and turned by that wind that was rushing around him, caught in its currents, ebbs and flows. He might even look graceful, falling like that. Course, he wouldn’t be looking quite so graceful when he hit the ground. Not nearly so graceful as a leaf from a tree, coming to a gentle stop on the pavement – or sidewalk, as they called it here. Nope, if Jack were snatched from this rooftop and fell all that way, no matter how gracefully he was fall
ing or not, as the case may be, he’d still end up a splatted smear of red across grey.
Wouldn’t that be something, though? To go from who he was, what he was, whatever he was, to just the essence of him. At his essence, what was he? Blood and bone and cartilage and flesh. That’s how he’d end up, down there, after the fall. Blood and bone and cartilage and flesh all mushed together. The bones pulverised. The flesh burst. The cartilage crushed. The blood... everywhere.
What would they say, when he was gone? Would they pick at his remains, run them through a sieve of some sort to try and figure out what manner of creature he had been? Would they mourn the extinction of a species? Was he even a species? Does one specimen make a species?
One thing he knew – no one would mourn for him, for plain old Springheeled Jack. He had no friends to tell stories about him once he was gone, no family to remember him fondly. What legacy was he leaving behind? Dead bodies? There weren’t even any of those – not after he was done with them. Bloke’s got to eat, after all. He’d lived hundreds of years and all he had to show for it was a list nobody would ever compile of people who went out one evening and never returned home. He was leaving voids in his wake, patches of empty space where the missing people should have been. That was it. The grand total of his many years.
Jack adjusted his top hat and launched himself from the rooftop, the bright lights of the street blurring below him into streams of red and yellow, eclipsed by a broad expanse of darkness as the next building came to a stop beneath his feet. He danced up, as high as he could go, threw himself back and flipped, arms out and legs together, falling like a crucifix. He watched himself in the windows as he fell, then curled his body beneath him, and struck out, his feet slamming into the side of the building, propelling himself across the gap to the building on the other side. Fingers digging into the concrete, he stayed there for a moment, his eyes closed, listening to the pulse of the city. He could clean up in a place like Chicago. All these tall buildings. He could run and jump and spin and dance and kill and eat and live out his life here. Safe. Secure. Anonymous. And then he could die of old age and boredom, if the world hadn’t been destroyed by then.
