Extraordinaires 1 (20 page)

He actually blinked at the idea. It wasn't one of those that sidled up edgewise. No, this was the equivalent of a mental blow between the eyes, but as he did his best to recover, he was already seeing its possibilities. Without Clarence – mythical or otherwise – together, surely, they could make something out of this seventeenth-century city with their twentieth-century knowledge and a satchel full of phlogiston. Besides, a city like this was bound to be less civilised than King Edward's London. He may have more chance to let his wild side run free. It could be a relief from constantly trying to keep it in check. He could, strange as it might sound, reach some sort of accommodation with himself.

As long as he didn't think about what was happening in 1908, he might be comfortable here – but he couldn't banish the memory of the plight of his foster father, nor the knowledge of the Neanderthals' plans.

It made his head ache to contemplate, but what would happen if the Neanderthals in 1908 went ahead and constructed their time machine, went back and exterminated the early humans? Would Evadne and he immediately be surrounded by a Neanderthal-populated London? Or would they simply disappear? If so, when? And did that last question make any sense at all when time itself had been turned inside out, or stood on its head, or twisted into something fiendishly knotty and impossible to undo?

A gust of wind from the east made Kingsley squint, but his eyes still watered from the windborne smoke. The scene across the river smeared, with the orange light becoming red and dire.

‘The Immortals.' A notion had struck him with enough force to make his ears ring. ‘You said they have time travel.'

Evadne's hands were on the stone battlements, white against grey. ‘I said they messed about with time and space, whatever that means.'

‘And that Neanderthal woman. When she was leaving the Immortals' place, she was talking with that man about what she called a Temporal Manipulator.'

Evadne yawned. ‘I fail to see the importance.'

‘If these sorcerers are actually immortal, that means that they might be here, now, in 1666. With a time machine.'

Evadne swung around to face him. ‘Kingsley, that is an outstanding piece of brainwork.'

‘D'you think so?'

‘Indubitably. Here I was, thinking through the implications of setting up here with you while you, quite brilliantly, find an escape.'

‘You were thinking about what? Setting up here?'

Evadne put both hands to her mouth. ‘And I've had an equally brilliant addition to your plan. Do you remember my telling you about Demimonde groups opposed to the Immortals?'

‘I – Yes, I remember.'

‘I'm sure they were active this long ago. I'd say they'd know where the Immortals are in this time, and might be persuaded to help us.'

S
oames revelled in being lord of the manor. Taking possession of the Immortals' lair was right and proper; it was a fitting place for him to reside and assume a position in the world that was his due.

At last, Jabez, a place worthy of you!

He explored, wanting to know his estate and its facilities. He found a complex of corridors and rooms leading off the main hall. Stairs led down to the cells beneath. Once he confirmed to himself that they were empty of the children his underlings had sent the Immortals, he promised to inspect them at another time.

The library was a happy find. It was windowless, naturally, but that meant all the more room for books. No concession was made to the decorative, either. It was simply a long, narrow room with books floor to ceiling. A line of back-to-back shelves ran down the centre of the room, to increase the intense bookiness of the place. It smelled of leather and paper, dust and knowledge.

Not many people would know what to make of this, Jabez
, he thought and began to applaud himself. The echoes made it seem as if an enormous crowd were paying him homage.
You were born for this!

Soames was both delighted and daunted. The key to the Immortals' longevity would be in here, he was sure, but where? Starting at ‘A' and working his way around would be the work of a lifetime or two. He could hire assistants. He knew a dozen Demimonders who would leap at the chance, and would probably pay for the privilege, but did he want to share this treasure with anyone? Who could he trust?

No-one.

It was a shame, and he had much to sort out. The Immortals' time in India, for instance. What had they been doing there? The shipment he'd arranged for them would be well on its way. He was looking forward to seeing what they needed so eagerly.

And then there were the devices he'd had his underlings place around the Olympic Stadium. He really should get hold of one to see what was going on there and what he could make of it.

You're a busy man,
Jabez
, he thought,
but a busy Jabez is a happy Jabez!

He continued his explorations.

Hours later, he came across a small room. It was cosy, carpeted and rather too working class for Soames's taste, but he took it as evidence that he wasn't the only ordinary human that the Immortals employed. He settled himself in an armchair, after carefully brushing it off, and appreciated the more human scale of the room. It would make a fine temporary office. He'd have a desk brought in, and some filing cabinets. When he was accustomed to the main hall, he could move everything out there where he belonged.

Soames was sitting back, looking about the small room and estimating where best to locate a bank of pigeon holes, when he heard the noise.

At first, he assumed it came from rats. He wrinkled his nose. He detested rats and their dirty, smelly ways, but he accepted that most underground – and many overground – domiciles were rife with them.

I'll get a cat
, he thought. He laced his hands on his chest.
Maybe two
.

Soames liked cats. He understood the self-absorbed, clinical killers. Their complete selfishness appealed to him. Feed them, let them in and out, and they'd cooperate. Cross them, and watch out.

A plan that was clear, simple, straightforward. He liked it.

Soames stood, shook out his trouser creases, and went looking for signs of rats.

An hour later and Soames was puzzled. He couldn't find any signs of rats. No holes, no chewed books or furniture, no nasty droppings. He'd inspected the small room, the library, a dozen rooms in between and all their corridors as well.

Nothing.

He returned to the small room and shrugged. It may be a puzzle, but it was a small one.

Then he heard the noise again.

Plink
, it went. Then
plink
again.

Soames exited the small room. He found the main hall and stood just inside one of the five-sided doors.

Plink. Plink.

This wasn't rats. Soames rubbed his hands together. His gaze darted about the vast chamber. No, nothing rodental about this noise, but he had no idea what it was.

Jabez
, he thought,
this is a mystery of an unpleasant sort.

Soames retied the laces on his shoes, then flicked a speck of mud from the toe of his left. He straightened, shook out the creases in his trousers, unbuttoned and rebuttoned his waistcoat, and made sure it was even.

Unexplained noises in what had been the lair of mysterious magicians. No, this didn't augur well at all. He was rapidly revising his plans to move his entire base of operations to the subterranean Greenwich warren. He might be called overly suspicious, but he'd learned that such an attitude paid useful dividends in the Demimonde.

Plink. Ka-plink.

In the morning of the following day, after a sleepless night caused by the irregular but remorseless noise, a red-eyed Soames made a cup of tea in the small room. He found a slightly stale digestive biscuit and ate it for breakfast. For a moment, he'd enjoyed the unexpected rush of memories – young Soames in his nursery – then he heard the noise.

Plink
.

Soames jerked. The tea soaked his sleeve and he jerked again before flinging the cup away from him in disgust. It shattered on the sink. He uttered an oath that he thought coarse when others resorted to it.

He dabbed at his sleeve with his handkerchief, pursed his lips at the stain on his cuff and promised himself that he'd get Mrs Tollemache's Steam Laundry to go to work on it. Then he plucked his trusty Bulldog from his pocket, determined that
this time
he'd find who was intruding on his domain.

He edged out into the hall.

Ka-plink.

Soames stiffened then swivelled on the spot, taking in the whole chamber.

Ka-plink-plink.

He swept his Bulldog over the pentagonal floor. Nothing stirred in any of the alcoves apart from the two gently rotating manipulators. This time, he had it.

The sound came from below.

Soames's experience with the Demimonde had led him into much contact with magic. As a result, he rarely wasted time puzzling over the uncanny. It simply
was
, as the weather was, or hunger was, or destiny was. He'd seen enough to realise that the sounds leaking up from the nether reaches of the Immortals' complex were likely to be dangerous, but he also knew that he'd never be comfortable in the place until he'd investigated. Besides, in his quest to understand the Immortals' methods, he couldn't overlook anything. The smallest device or the tiniest phenomenon might be the key to unlocking their secrets.

His descent took him past cell after cell, all empty.

At first, Soames was horrified by the lack of parapet or guardrail, but after passing a hundred cells or more he became accustomed to the dizzying drop on his left. He smiled as he heard, repeated at long intervals, the
ka-plink
sound or its cousins, confident that he had an inkling or two as to its origin. Eventually, he found it a homely, reassuring sound, like glasses touching after a toast. He even amused himself by imagining a banquet in his honour, with kings and queens pleading for him to speak.

The final ladder led to the floor, a featureless black disc that Soames had no intention of setting foot on. It was ten or fifteen yards across, as black as any soul that Soames had met. He had the disturbing notion that it would eat him if he touched it, so he put his hand on his chin, balanced his elbow on the back of his other hand, and waited.

Some time later – he blinked when he realised he hadn't looked at his watch – he felt the sound rather more than heard it.

Ka-plink.

A glass vial hung in the air over – as far as Soames could judge – the centre of the black disc. It glowed with a light that Soames recognised and lusted after, as would anyone who did business in the Demimonde.

Phlogiston.

Soames reached for the glowing vial, almost before he realised it, but pulled back suddenly at the impression of overwhelming eagerness from the black disc. The vial shot upward, blurring with speed, leaving a trail that shimmered in Soames's vision, lingering red before reluctantly fading.

Soames waited, his excellent watch in his hand this time, to find that it was twelve minutes before the next glowing vial appeared. Seventeen minutes later, two vials appeared at once with a double-clink, shooting off like paired comets.

While waiting for the next vial to appear, Soames was doing some rough calculations. He was helpless not to, and the result suggested that at this rate, with this much phlogiston, he could be richer than the dreams of avarice, except that, in this one particular field, he was a very fine dreamer indeed.

He looked up when the most recent vial flew up. Overhead was nearly as black as the hungry black disc near his feet.

All he had to do now was find out where the flying vials were going.