Extraordinaires 1 (17 page)

G
ustave greeted Damona. ‘Good news, Eldest!'

‘Casualties, Gustave.' Damona stood aside. Her fellow raiders dragged themselves up the ramp that led to the river. At the top of the ramp was the tunnel that took them home. It was good to see it. All were weary, but chaffed Gustave. That bluff heartiness that had been missing for years. Laughter. Jokes. The stories growing already.

She was pleased. Not just because she'd ended the threat from the Immortals. Combat bound people together. Useful soon, maybe. She took Gustave by the arm, explained. ‘Holger has a broken arm. Others have bad slashes. Have to get treatment for them.' She rubbed her forehead. The night had been long. ‘Is Ragnar still practising medicine?'

‘Medicine?' Gustave grimaced, then his eyes went wide. Two happy raiders toted the pair of bound prisoners. ‘Invaders?'

‘Useful prisoners.' Would Dr Ward respond best if he saw the boy? Or should she threaten the boy separately? He might be able to convince his father, as long as he had an incentive.

She yawned. Not now. She needed rest and a clear mind. ‘We need some attention. Stitches, bone setting, nothing serious.'

‘You've been raiding?' Gustave said. ‘I thought you were off looking for material for the project.'

Damona had done her best to keep the raid a secret. A failure would have been a disaster. Now, though, battle success on top of their engineering success? Times were good. ‘We were. In a way. Don't concern yourself with it.' Damona laced her hands in the small of her back. ‘What's this good news?'

‘We've improved the extraction process already,' he said. ‘Hilda had an idea about compression and dimensional pressure. Output is up by at least twenty per cent.' He beamed.

‘Twenty per cent? Congratulations. Let me see this advance.'

‘You'd rather see it than your time machine, ready for testing?'

‘What? Already?'

‘I have enough volunteers for us to work in shifts.'

‘Together? Cooperating?'

‘It's a miracle.'

The workshop. Clangour. The screech of metalwork. The smell of hot oil. Vibrations underfoot. More True People were working in one place at one time than Damona had ever seen before. Heads down. Passing tools to each other. Advising, listening, sharing.

The project had already grown far beyond Damona's expectations.

The large space was now divided into bays. Each bay was abuzz with industry. Workers were happy to explain their tasks. Small machines to make larger machines. Devices which would be components. Fabricators. Plotters. Lamination mills. The workshop was a machine itself. Interlocking parts each depending on the other.

A serious youngster with a squint told her that the time machine was in a workshop of its own next door. Then he told her of their progress with reworking water distribution throughout the complex. Smiling.

Damona clapped him on the back. He returned to working on the filtration unit. Looked disappointed that he couldn't spend more time explaining it to her.

Damona was thoughtful as she left him. Such diligence. Such concerted effort. Had she made a mistake in pursuing her dream alone for so many years?

Gustave caught her attention. ‘Eldest! Over here! Our new phlogiston extractor!' The whine of cutting tools. Sparks from a grinder.

Damona made sure she didn't limp. Gustave gestured proudly. Her eyebrows rose.

Right against the rock wall. The machine was long and only waist high. It bristled with large bore input pipes connected to the floor. Three extremely careful youngsters were polishing brass curlicues where none seemed necessary. One of the technicians crawled alongside on hands and knees. He was painting thin, parallel lines on the flanks of the machine. His work made the machine look as if it were speeding along while it was standing still.

It was beautiful. A song of brass and mahogany. Fine materials. From someone's hoard? Damona hadn't seen any wood like it for years.

Behind the machine, on the rock wall: racks of metal canisters. The wall itself was smooth and painted a deep cream colour. A gridwork of wires and struts surrounded the canisters. An open metal lattice. Brass pipes along the top of each row opened directly over the canisters.

Damona was impressed and curious. This machine was nothing like anything in her plans.

Gustave grinned. ‘Watch!' He pointed at the output pipe.

The machine quivered. A glowing vial the size of her thumb flew from the mouth of the output conduit. It dropped into a metal basket. The basket ran along a wire. When it came to the far end the basket hinged open. The vial dropped into a canister. The basket then buzzed to the lattice tower at the far end. It stopped. Settled. Waiting for the next vial, Damona guessed.

Gustave held up a finger. ‘Wait!'

The vial that had just been deposited shot straight up. Sucked into the hole in the brass pipe directly above it.

Damona was so impressed she applauded. Gustave beamed, pointed at the ceiling. ‘Pneumatic delivery system!' he shouted. ‘Everything in here is now phlogiston powered!'

Damona gazed up. A maze of pipes. Phlogiston extraction must have increased greatly to warrant such a system. But driving machines directly via phlogiston would provide an enormous boost in power.

‘Damona!' Gustave touched her shoulder. ‘Hilda has news!'

Hilda was standing next to Gustave. She was short, even for the True People. Her coppery hair was tied in a braid that reached to the middle of her back. She wore dark goggles. Damona hadn't seen her approach. Hilda pushed back her goggles, remembered to wipe her hands on her white coat before she offered one. ‘Eldest!'

‘Phlogiston extraction! How long?'

Hilda understood the abbreviated question. ‘We have enough for a test, maybe two.'

‘The phlogiston is piped to the time machine?'

Gustave answered. ‘Of course, Eldest. It is our first priority.'

Damona squeezed Hilda's shoulder. She paid her the ultimate compliment of the True People: ‘You do good work.'

K
ingsley and Evadne were finally bundled into what Kingsley decided was a cell, but only after some consideration. It had the requisite heavy steel door, but instead of an institutional dullness, the ceiling, walls and floor were lined with glazed bricks suffused with a gentle blue colour. The hue wasn't uniform. Darker in some places, lighter in others, it created a swirling, almost restful vista. Two o'clock on a summer's afternoon, Kingsley decided. Perfect for an underground prison cell.

While Evadne fumed under her gag – a result of a fearsome tongue-lashing she'd launched into after being dragged out of the Immortals' lair – Kingsley refrained from working on his bonds just in case one of their captors came back. He rested, Evadne subsided and before he knew it, he'd fallen asleep.

When Kingsley woke, he glumly took stock of his situation. Evadne was still asleep, which was good, but he was still dressed in the outlandish clothes she had given him for his excursion in the Demimonde, which was distressing. The yellow trousers were particularly badly off. Mud-bespattered, grass-stained, they looked as if they belonged to a clown who'd taken to rolling about in fields.

He inspected the ropes wrapped around him. Most people had no idea about tying up a prisoner. Even sailors had a tendency to concentrate on knots and not on the firmness of the actual binding. The simplest method – where he took a deep breath, and expanded his chest while the tying was going on – was usually enough, but one of the younger Neanderthals had been alert to this and had thrust a steely knuckle into Kingsley's ribs. The action had made Kingsley lose his lungful of air, so the binding had thus been tight. As a bonus, he'd added another bruise to Kingsley Ward's Marvellous Collection of Bruises, Grazes and Contusions, something he could have done without.

No matter
, he thought,
the Basic Principles of Escapology (Rope Binding Section) still apply.

Some time later, he wriggled towards Evadne. Immediately, her eyes flew open and she glared at him.

‘Now,' he said, ‘I don't want you to gain the wrong impression from this.'

Evadne said something that Kingsley was glad was muffled. Her eyes widened behind her spectacles when he lowered his head to hers, his mouth slightly open. Her skin was fine, even and white. Her perfume was heady. He paused a moment, enjoying her closeness, thrilled by the way the skin over her throat fluttered with her pulse. Then, with a careful movement, he used his teeth to seize the large white handkerchief that had been stuffed into her mouth. A yank or two and he spat it to the floor.

She cocked her head. A ghost of a flush coloured her cheeks for a moment in an altogether appealing display. ‘I suppose I should thank you.'

‘It is customary in such circumstances. Or so I've read.'

‘You must read different books from the ones I read.'

‘Perhaps.' Uncomfortable for a moment, he looked about their cell. A single bed, with no mattress. A three-legged stool. The necessary ablutions equipment looked an odd piece of engineering, and Kingsley decided he'd need an instruction manual to use it. Which he hoped he had no need to. ‘I was hoping you could tell me what we've landed ourselves in.'

Her shrug was muted by her bonds. ‘I'd say we've become caught in a dispute of one sort or another. Common enough in the Demimonde.'

‘Common enough in the ordinary world too, but such things don't usually result in open warfare.'

‘Really? I must remember to tell that to the Boers next time I see them.'

Kingsley winced. ‘So if we're incidental to their struggle, we should be able to slip away without too much trouble?'

‘Apart from being bound and locked up.'

Kingsley stood, the ropes falling away. ‘And now, for my next trick.'

She glared. ‘You could have done that at any time. You didn't need to . . . to . . .'

‘Remove your gag like that? Ah. True.' Kingsley extemporised. ‘I heard someone at the door. Didn't want to give away too much.'

Her glare smouldered, dropping from ‘surface of the sun' to ‘interior of a volcano'. ‘Unbind me.'

‘My pleasure.'

Kingsley reached behind his collar and found the length of thin metal, one edge of which he kept sharp. Carefully, he sawed through the key ropes and soon Evadne was standing in front of him, rubbing her elbow. ‘I'm assuming the door won't be a problem?'

Kingsley had his lock picks in his tie. The Neanderthals had been thorough in their searching, showing considerable interest in the numerous weapons Soames had found on Evadne, but – as most people did – they missed the various bits of wire and metal secreted about Kingsley's person.

‘The Basic Principles of Escapology begin with three very fine suggestions,' Kingsley said as he assembled his tools. ‘Take your time. Stay calm. Take stock of your situation. I find they help in situations like this.'

Evadne eyed him. ‘Basic Principles of Escapology,' she repeated. ‘By a well-known master of the trade, no doubt?'

‘The Basic Principles are a fluid set of guidelines, subject to change, and they're vital to any true escapologist.'

‘That doesn't answer my question.'

‘Surely you don't answer all questions anyone asks you about juggling? The mystery is important, after all.'

‘You're still avoiding the question.'

‘Rather than discuss such things, let me demonstrate the principles by taking stock.' He put his ear to the door.

‘Is it safe?' Evadne asked.

‘In the heart of the lair of prehistoric people who eat humans? Probably not.'

‘Wait.'

‘What for?'

‘To show you you're not the only one who has something up his sleeve.'

From the folds of her top coat, from the brim of her hat, from the hem of her scarf and from the heel of her boot she produced a quick succession of cogs, tubes and struts that she snapped together into a small, but lethal-looking, firearm. It was just larger than her palm, a combination of shiny steel and close-grained wood, and she regarded it fondly. ‘I've been dying for a chance to try out Whispering Death. Pneumatic, accurate to fifty yards.'

‘Poison darts?'

‘Or soporific. Or simply painful, if you're hit in the right spot.'

Kingsley reminded himself not to volunteer as a target. He wasn't sure if the little pistol would be of much use so he simply nodded, with gritted teeth, holding his wolfishness on a tight leash. It wasn't happy, being confined in a cell like this. It was aching to get out and run free.

He held one pick in his teeth while he inserted the other. The lock was sturdy-looking, but its mechanism was straightforward, even though the way the pins were arranged did take some adjusting before he had it. ‘There.'

‘Stand back. I'll go first.'

His wolfish self reared at that, fearing a snub. His civilised self objected, too, but quickly subsided. It was the sensible thing to do, since she was armed, and his estimation of Evadne's capabilities was continuing to grow. No shrinking violet, she. He'd be prepared to match her against any tough, bravo or bully boy, Neanderthal or not.

Then he saw the markings on the wall over the bed. The pretty blue bricks had been defaced with scratches, the traditional prisoner's tally marks, rough and crude, but some were also uniform and precise, evidence of different hands – and of different prisoners being incarcerated here. The hair on the back of his neck rose. In the corner, in scratchings that could only be called ‘dainty', was a single, recognisable sentence amid the tallies, in French:
Le vrai Lavoisier se trouve ici.

Without a word, he pointed at the wall. Evadne left the door. ‘Lavoisier,' she said and looked at him. ‘The scientist?'

‘One of my foster father's heroes. He discovered oxygen and was guillotined in the French Revolution.'

‘The true Lavoisier lies here,' Evadne read. ‘Maybe he didn't lose his head.'

‘In the chaos that was the revolution, anything could have happened.'

‘Even Neanderthals abducting the father of modern chemistry? Why?'

‘Lavoisier was a genius. The Neanderthals might have needed one.'

With another mystery on his hands, Kingsley followed Evadne from the cell.

Presently, he decided that whoever was in charge of this part of the Neanderthal warren could have designed hospitals or industrial kitchens. It was spotless. Underfoot, the glaze had been roughened to prevent slipping. Light spilled from roundels in the ceiling, white tinged with yellow, the promise of sunshine.

The corridor was military straight. It sloped upward fifty yards or so to where a central observation point was sited. From there, Kingsley guessed, it could monitor the radiating corridors. Simple, efficient design. He was impressed.

‘I think one of the cells is occupied,' Evadne said, pointing.

The cell closest to the monitoring station, on the right, had a small white light glowing on the floor in front of it, inset, as if the moon had fallen to earth.

Thirty yards away. Thirty yards of corridor, totally exposed to anyone in the monitoring station. Kingsley rubbed his chin. No time for creeping about. This had to be done with authority.

He took a deep breath, summoned some of his stage presence, and strolled up the middle of the corridor. His wild self was alarmed, would have preferred flitting from doorway to doorway, seeking cover, looking for danger, but this was an occasion for a civilised approach. Ambling along, hands in pockets, exuding confidence and projecting the total and utter right to be there was the best way. His gaze roamed from side to side, taking in the surroundings with unabashed interest, admiring the helpful light in front of the last cell.

It may not buy him more than an instant or two of doubt if a Neanderthal came around the corner, but it was the best Kingsley could do.

The monitoring station was empty. With relief, Kingsley took in the circular bench, the two stools and the wheelchair, a few crates hastily stowed next to one of them. The station was dusty, but it showed some signs of recent activity. The section nearest the occupied cell had been hastily swept clean. The large hand marks were still obvious.

Kingsley waved, gestured at Evadne to join him, and while he was waiting he saw something – one of the crates half-shoved under the bench of the monitoring station wasn't as dusty as those next to it.

Curious, he vaulted over the bench. He squatted and spied Evadne's satchel sitting on top of her sabre and the knife she'd insisted he carry. The other weapons were gone. With a sense of increasing unease, he saw that underneath this hasty arrangement the crate was packed with books. Familiar books, books that had a smell that made his throat tighten.

I wish I didn't know what blood smells like,
he thought numbly as he shuffled closer. The spines of a dozen books looked up at him, the gold lettering not as bright as he remembered. Two of the volumes were spattered with a distressing brown stain:
The Peoples of the Sindh
and
Creation Legends Among the Jain
. The name of the author was obscured by the stain, but Kingsley didn't have to see it to know that the books were authored by – and belonged to – Dr Malcolm Ward, his foster father.

Evadne joined him. ‘What have you found?'

He handed the weapons to her without answering. She buckled on her sabre, but took in his distress. Nimbly, she leaped over the bench. She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘These came from your library at home, didn't they?'

He plucked one of the books from the crate. The bookplate on the flyleaf confirmed it.

Kingsley remembered the kindness of Mrs Walters. She'd been a practical, busy woman. She complained about his magic paraphernalia and never understood his interest, but she was always ready with some sustenance between meals, saying she knew all about the appetites of growing young men.

‘They killed her for books?' he said aloud. It was so petty. A flicker grew inside him, calling for vengeance against the brutes, but it was smothered by sadness. So pointless.

‘So it would seem.' Evadne tugged on his sleeve.

‘Why? Why did they do it?'

Evadne glanced at the head of the stairs. ‘Think. It's not a random selection of books. What do they have in common?'

‘My foster father wrote them all.'

‘True. And the subject of the books?'

‘People. Origins of people.'

‘So they're either interested in your father or this theories about the origins of humanity. That's enough for us to speculate on. Now, I want to see who's in that cell.'

‘So do I,' Kingsley said, ‘especially since I have some idea who it is.'