Part 7 (1/2)

”All right,” I said. ”That's it. You're a loony. You people don't know anything for sure, do you? It's all theories and guesses and half-baked stolen philosophy.”

”We're learning by doing,” said Nathanial more than a little smugly.

”Because anything has to be better than the world we're forced to live in. That's why you have to join us, Edwin. Because we're not the enemy your family says we are. We're the good guys. We're humanity's last hope.”

”I don't think so,” I said. ”I've read the family's reports on what you've done and tried to do. The changes you've tried to bring about. Every single one of them was concerned with remaking the world in your image, not G.o.d's. Changes to further your beliefs, your wishes, your needs. To make the Scenes.h.i.+fters powerful and important and a mighty voice in the affairs of man.”

”Of course,” said Nathanial. ”How else can we bring about real change? Permanent change?”

”Your dreams are so small,” I said. ”So petty. No wonder you never achieved anything that mattered. I'll never join you.”

”Of course you will,” said Nathanial. ”In fact, you already have. All the time you were chatting so pleasantly with Bert, we were down here murmuring in the professor's ear, and the Red King dreamed his little dream and made the change so smoothly you didn't even feel it happening. You're one of us, Edwin. You've always been one of us.”

I looked down, and I was wearing a long red robe, just like him. Just like Sister Eliza. Of course I was wearing it. It was the same robe I always wore when I came here to visit my dear friends in the Scenes.h.i.+fters. I'd been working for them for years, ever since I first came to London, their very own mole in the Drood family. It was good to be back among my friends, in my old familiar robes, in this familiar place. I smiled at Nathanial and Eliza, and they smiled back at me. It was good to be home again.

The only thing that seemed out of place...was my wrist.w.a.tch. I looked at it stupidly. Something about it nagged at my mind. Nathanial spoke to me, but I wasn't listening. There was something about the watch, something important, something...special about it that I was supposed to remember. My torc burned coldly around my throat, as though trying to protect me, though I couldn't think from what. I touched the wrist.w.a.tch with my right hand, trailing my fingertips across it, ignoring Nathanial's increasingly angry words. The watch the Armourer gave me, before I left the Hall. The reverse watch, that could rewind time...

I hit the b.u.t.ton, and time stopped in its tracks and s.h.i.+fted into reverse. Light and sound strobed painfully around me as the watch reversed recent time, taking me back to just before Nathanial told me I'd been changed. And in that moment, while the future was still pliable and in flux, I drew my Colt Repeater and shot Professor Redmond right between the eyes.

The bullet slammed through his head, blowing bits of broken tubing and spattered brains out the back of his skull. His eyes snapped open, and for the first time in years the Red King was awake at last. His mouth stretched wide in a soundless scream of rage and horror, and it was clear from his face and from his eyes that he knew what had been done to him, and with him. And in the last few moments of his unnaturally extended life, using power brought back from some terrible other place, the professor set himself to wiping out everything that had been done in his name. He looked at Brother Nathanial with his awful eyes, and Nathanial disappeared. Winking out of existence, not real, never had been. Sister Eliza turned to flee, but the professor looked at her, and she was gone too.

I was already heading out the door when the dream chamber started to disappear around me. The walls painted to look like the night skies became transparent and faded away, and I could feel the professor's power following me as I sprinted up the long stone corridor. There was something behind me, but I didn't dare look back. I burst out into the room of chemical vats, and Bert looked around sharply in surprise. He cried out in shock as the great vats began to fade away, but I was already out of the room and scrambling back up the spiral staircase. Behind me, Bert's voice cut off abruptly.

The wooden steps began to feel increasingly soft and insubstantial under my feet, but I made it to the top, gasping for breath. I couldn't spare the time it would take to call up my armour, and I didn't believe it could protect me from Professor Redmond's wrath anyway. I just kept running, through the library and on into the church. The medieval stained-gla.s.s windows had already faded away to ordinary gla.s.s. The walls were disappearing too, revealing something behind them too terrible to look at. There were great gaps in the floor, and I jumped desperately over them, racing for the door.

I crashed through and out into the street, panting harshly for breath, and only then turned and looked back. The church was gone; nothing left but a hole between the two modern buildings, like a pulled tooth. The Scenes.h.i.+fters were gone, never had been. The Red King had woken at last from his long sleep; and he had not woken up in a good mood.

CHAPTER TEN.

Cutting out the Middleman M y next stop was on Shaftesbury Avenue, deep in the busy heart of London. I was looking for the legendary Middleman. Shaftesbury Avenue is a long road in two parts. Walk one way and all you'll see is posh restaurants, top-rank hotels, and theatres with old and even famous names. (Sad to say, one of these venerable establishments currently boasted a large banner proclaiming their next big show. Jerry Springer, the Opera-On Ice. How are the mighty fallen; but anything to bring in the tourists.) Walk the other way, and it's all cheap cafes, betting shops, and adult video stores with walk-in knocking shops on the top floor. The kind of place where a card tacked on the door advertises the friendly availability of the lovely Vera. It doesn't tell you that there are in fact three lovely Veras, working eight-hour s.h.i.+fts, which is why the bed is always warm. Not to mention the bas.e.m.e.nt clubs where underdressed and overly made-up hostesses encourage you to buy overpriced ”champagne” for the privilege of enjoying their company. Though usually it's just the foreign tourists who fall for that one these days.

I'd never met the Middleman before, but everyone knew he could be found right in the middle of Shaftesbury Avenue, where good meets bad, and often combines into something deliciously sinful. I was pretty sure the Middleman would know something useful, if I could get him to talk to me. The Man had been around, on and off the scene, ever since the sixties, and he knew everybody, good and bad and especially in between. His great skill and pa.s.sion was in putting people together for mutual profit. If you were planning a bigger than usual heist, an underground conspiracy, or just to take over the world some day, the Middleman could put you in contact with every kind of specialist you'd need. He could arrange meetings, put together a team of like-minded professionals, or organise every step of an a.s.sa.s.sination. For a percentage. He'd never been known to get his hands dirty himself or take a risk that hadn't been calculated to the smallest degree. Whatever happened, you could be sure there were always more than enough cutouts in place so that nothing ever came back to lodge at his door. Word was, the Middleman was so unbelievably rich these days, after so many industrious years, that he didn't need to do it for the money anymore. He did it strictly for the thrill and for the challenge.

You find the Middleman behind a sleazy, deliberately run-down Thai restaurant. From the outside, it looks decidedly appallingly grimy and off-putting, the kind of place only a truly desperate or naive tourist would try. In fact, the Thai language above the door supposedly translates as p.i.s.s Off, Foreigner, and Take Your Stupid-Looking Eyes with You. I peered in through the fly-specked window, past the indecipherable cardboard menu, and wasn't surprised to find the restaurant was completely empty at a time of the evening when it should have been at its fullest. The rickety tables were covered in Formica, the chairs were cheap plastic and none too clean, and the linoleum floor was unspeakable. Somehow I just knew that if you were foolish or brave enough to enter, you'd never get anything you ordered, and if you tried to eat it anyway, the staff would lean out the kitchen door watching you, giggling and elbowing each other and going, Look! He's actually eating it!

No one is ever supposed to eat there. It's just a front for the Middleman. Even the staff send out for takeaways.

I tucked my head down so no one would get a good look at my face, slammed the door open, and strode briskly in. I ignored the startled Thai staff and headed straight for the kitchen door at the back. The waiters were too surprised to stop me, only just starting to react as I pushed the door open. I heard their cries behind me as I marched into the kitchen like I'd come to condemn it on health grounds, and then I armoured up, overriding the stealth function. The kitchen staff took one look at me in my golden armour and fell back with shocked cries, like so many startled birds. The waiters burst in after me, having armed themselves with knives and hatchets, only to lurch to a sudden halt as I turned unhurriedly to look at them. My family's reputation goes a very long way. The headwaiter put down a butcher knife and gestured for everyone else to lower their weapons.

”Sod this for a lark,” he said in decidedly East End accents. ”Marcus isn't paying us enough to take on a Drood. You want to see the Middleman, golden boy? Follow me.”

He led me through the surprisingly neat and clean kitchen, while the Thai staff watched me pa.s.s with expressions that weren't in the least inscrutable. There are places where looks can kill, but fortunately this wasn't one of them. The headwaiter took me out the back of the kitchen and down a long narrow corridor with lighting so subdued it was positively gloomy. The carpet was bloodred, and the deep purple walls pressed in from either side. The only decorations were stuffed and mounted heads of various animals, peering down from everywhere. Big cats and African wildlife, mostly. The eyes in the heads moved slowly to follow me as I pa.s.sed. Now, I'm used to weird s.h.i.+t; I grew up in the Hall, after all. But something about those eyes seriously freaked me out.

”Let me guess,” I said nonchalantly to my guide. ”If I start any trouble, you just say the Word, and the animals connected to those heads will come suddenly cras.h.i.+ng through the walls and have a go at me, right?”

The young Thai waiter looked at me strangely. ”No,” he said. ”They're just conversation pieces. The boss bought them as a job lot, to brighten up the place.”

”Sorry,” I said. ”It's the company I've been keeping recently.”

We reached the end of the corridor, and he knocked briefly on the only door before opening it and standing back to usher me in. I stepped inside, and he immediately shut the door and retreated back up the corridor. I didn't take it personally. The room was more than comfortably large, very luxurious, almost sybaritic. Deep pile carpet, padded furniture, drapes and throw cus.h.i.+ons everywhere. More subdued lighting, but upgraded to cosy rather than gloomy. The air was perfumed sweetly with attar, the essence of roses, and just a hint of opium. And there on the great circular bed was the Middleman himself, Marcus Middleton, propped up against half a dozen pillows. He smiled at me in a resigned sort of way but made no move to rise.

He was wearing green silk pajamas, stylishly cut, and sipping at a slender flute of champagne. He was also smoking a slim black cigarillo set in a long ivory holder. His long slender fingers were set off by jet-black nail polish. He was handsome enough, in an aged and ruined sort of way, with flat black hair, surprisingly subtle makeup, and mild brown eyes that had seen absolutely everything before. He studied me for a moment, and then beckoned me forward with a vague smile and a languid gesture. I moved to stand at the foot of the bed, facing him.

The bed was surrounded by dozens of phones, all in easy reach, in a variety of styles from Victorian Gothic to the frankly futuristic. These were interspersed with a nice collection of crystal b.a.l.l.s, magic mirrors, and even a scrying pool in a chamber pot. At least, I hoped it was a scrying pool. The Middleman started to say something but was interrupted by a sudden ringing from one of his phones.

”Excuse me, dear boy,” he said calmly. ”But I have to get this. Do make yourself comfortable.”

He waved me towards a chair, but I declined, standing facing him with my golden arms folded across my armoured chest. It's hard to look fierce and imposing when you're sitting down, and I needed all the psychological edge I could get. The Middleman sighed theatrically, flicked some ash from his cigarillo over the side of the bed, and picked up a seventies Trimphone in puke yellow plastic.

”Oh, h.e.l.lo, Tarquin; what can I do you for? Dwarves...Really, dear heart, I told you only the week before that there was going to be a shortage...They're all working on this tacky new fantasy film they're shooting at Elstree Studios. Making good money too, from what I hear. Are you sure you couldn't settle for pixies? I could get you a really nice price on a group booking...Has to be dwarves. I see. Well, leave it with me, duckie, and I'll see what I can sort out for you.”

He put the Trimphone down with a graceful sweeping movement and a swirl of his green silk sleeve, and then looked at me for a long moment, while taking another sip of champagne and a deep drag on the cigarillo. If he was impressed by my armour, he was doing a really good job of hiding it.

”Well, h.e.l.lo,” he said finally, favouring me with an arch and decidedly self-satisfied smile. ”And which little Drood are you?”

”I'm Edwin,” I said harshly. ”The new rogue.”

”Really? How thrilling...It's been such a while since anyone was able to tempt one of you away from the straight and narrow. Can I tempt you with anything? I have some fine beluga caviar, or perhaps a little Martian red weed? It's such a smooth smoke...No? There must be something I can offer you, to make you feel more at home and relaxed. How about if I was to call in a pretty Thai lady or ladyboy?”

”Definitely no,” I said. ”I'm here on business.”

”How very tiresome.” The Middleman sniffed loudly. ”Typical Drood; you people just don't know how to have fun. I suppose it was too much to hope you might have been thrown out of your nauseatingly self-righteous family for actually developing a few civilised vices. So, what can I do for you, dear boy?”

”You've worked for the Drood family for years, off and on,” I said carefully. ”Helping us locate just the right specialist, when needed for certain out of the ordinary operations.”

”Yes, and don't I know it, duckie; your family uses me ruthlessly and never pays a penny. I do as I'm told, or they'll shut me down. And they're always so terribly rude to me. I don't know why; I merely provide a service. I put people of like minds together for mutual fun and profit. What they do afterwards is no concern of mine.”

”No,” I said. ”You don't care how much trouble and suffering you cause. None of the blood that ends up spilled ever stains your dainty fingers. You make awful things possible but never take responsibility for your actions.”

”Oh, how very tiresome. A philosopher Drood. But still something of a man of action, I hear. It's all over town, what you did to the Chelsea Lovers, the poor dears. It'll take them years to regain the ground you've lost them. Not that I care, of course. I never care; it's bad for the complexion. And I can't help feeling they'd find my little peccadilloes far too bland for their extreme tastes. I never had much time for revolutions anyway, of any stamp. I like the world just the way it is.” He reached across his pillows and took a Belgian chocolate from a large open box. He popped it into his mouth, chewed for a moment, and then gestured vaguely at me with one black-nailed hand. ”What exactly did you come here for, dear boy? Do get to the point. I have some important lounging about I should be getting on with.”

”You have contacts inside my family,” I said slowly. ”You must...hear things. Do you know why I was banished, declared rogue?”

”I'm afraid not, no. Haven't heard a thing, I promise you. The news came out of nowhere, no warning at all. You could have knocked me down with a feather, duckie. Cover me in chocolate and throw me to the lady-boys, I thought. Not dear upright Eddie! You've established quite a reputation here in the city, these last ten years. Honest, upright, and depressingly incorruptible, I would have said. No wonder your family a.s.sembled such an army to attack you on the motorway...”

”It was you,” I said abruptly. ”The penny's just dropped. You organised the attacks on the M4!”

”Well, of course, dear boy. Who else? And don't think it was easy, contacting and putting together so many disparate elements, and getting them to play nice with each other for the duration of the attack. I wouldn't have chosen half of them, but my instructions were very specific; all bases were to be covered, scientific and magical. Honestly, the disputes I had over orders of precedence! Half of them wouldn't even talk to each other, except through me. I would have had them all attack you at once, get it over with, and be sure of killing you...but no, they all had to take their separate turn, to show what they could do...Why can't people be professional?”

I lowered my arms and took a step forward, and he actually flinched back against his pillows. ”There's something else you haven't been meaning to tell me, isn't there?” I said. ”What is it, Marcus?”

”All right, all right! It's just that...this particular commission didn't come from your family. As such. This was a private commission, from the Drood Matriarch herself. Dear old Martha, bless her black vindictive little heart. I danced with her, you know, one memorable evening back in the sixties, when Soho was still Soho...Of course, we were both a lot younger and prettier in those days. Such a glamorous scene...It was only after the attack on you failed that I got word you'd been officially declared rogue. What did you do to upset her?”

”Didn't she tell you?” I said.

”Didn't tell me one thing more than she absolutely had to, duckie. Just the hired help, that's all I was. And she wanted the whole package put together impossibly quickly, as well as extremely secretly. Gave me less than twelve hours to get the job done, and then was very rude to me when I tried to explain how difficult that was going to be. The words guts and garters were mentioned, and not in a good way.”