Extraordinaires 1 (28 page)

Evadne didn't reply. She remained still and silent. The world beyond them, with barrels rolling and oaths echoing from the rafters, was distant, as if behind a haze. ‘Kingsley,' she finally said. ‘That's the sort of romantic tosh that makes me . . .'

‘Melt?'

‘Makes me want to throw something.' She smiled. This time, it was entirely Evadne – challenging, enigmatic and staggeringly fetching. ‘But I've learned something from you.'

‘How not to lose one's mind while being pulled in a hundred different directions?'

‘I've learned something about control.' She patted him on the arm. ‘You go and save the world, I'll go and save the children and afterwards we'll meet for tea at the Savoy.'

‘I –'

Soames chose this inauspicious moment to stride towards them, clapping his hands together and rubbing them in anticipation. ‘Now, what about showing me some of this escapology business, eh?'

With a wrench that could have torn several major muscle groups, Kingsley brought himself back to the task at hand.

He was almost amused at how interested Soames was. The man questioned him endlessly as Kingsley arranged himself at the bottom of the large barrel, asking his opinion of Herrmann and Devant. Kingsley realised that Soames had seen hundreds of magic performances. His opinions were well-considered and informed. His enthusiasm changed him. His oiliness disappeared. His face became open, his voice direct.

The man has hidden depths
, Kingsley thought.
Who would have suspected it?

He braced his shoulder while Soames himself leaned inside the barrel and nailed in the false bottom. The noise was hurtful, and soon after Kingsley felt the extra pressure when the barrel was filled with split peas. Kingsley hoped that Soames had nailed well, fitting the bottom into the extra croze in the barrel. He didn't want to be suffocated by split peas, an ignominious end if ever there was one.

Kingsley's resting place smelled of dust and oil. He wrinkled his nose, not wanting to sneeze. He lay on his side, curled around so that his head and his knees were nearly touching.

He cradled the device Evadne had given to him as contribution to the plan.

After that, he heard a tap on the side of the barrel, the stave right near his head. Evadne's voice came to him clearly: ‘Tea at the Savoy, remember?'

The barrel jerked. He was off.

Time became inconsequential. It
had
to be inconsequential. Kingsley couldn't afford to pay attention to it. He needed to drift, to detach himself as best he could from his surroundings. It was something that he found extremely difficult – and his wildness found it almost impossible. Not pay attention to one's surroundings? That was the way to ending up in someone's belly.

He had to soothe his fretting wildness, calming it, sending it to sleep while he maintained his regime of leisurely, even breathing.

Dockside sounds, wheels on cobblestones, grunts and curses, all were irrelevant as Kingsley concentrated on the sound of his heartbeat.
Slow is good
, he repeated to himself over and over.
Slow is good.

He retired from engaging with the world. He drifted. Every sound, every movement, every smell, was background, a mattress on which he rested.

Curled up in the dead space, nailed in under the consignment of dried peas, Kingsley knew that death was hovering nearby, waiting for the air to lose its goodness. He pushed the concern away lest it grow into fear, then panic. He deliberated instead on lying still and conserving what little air there was.

The blackness came closer as time stretched. When stray thoughts came to his attention he wiped them out, casually cleaning the blackboard of his mind. Every breath was long and flavoursome. He had time to welcome each one and to feel disappointed at its departure. Dimly, he became aware that the air in his tight space was growing thick, but he took it as comforting, like a blanket on a cold night.

His wild self roused for a moment and looked at the blackness for what it might contain. He could roam free in it, forever, if he chose.

Rest
, he told it.
Your time is not now.

A banging, a settling, a time of nothing at all – no movement, no sound. He had to remind himself – and it was difficult to stir enough awareness to do so – that Soames had said that the barrels would be delivered to a place from which the Neanderthals would take them. Breaking out here would be a disaster.

He slipped back into the drowsy embrace of torpor.

Guttural voices, heavy footfalls. The barrel lifted suddenly, shockingly. Movement, rumbling, travel – but irrelevant, a far-off tale, hardly real or bothersome.

He didn't sleep but he wasn't truly awake either. He breathed, his heart beat, and that was all. Savour each breath. Take all that it has to offer before letting it free. Repeat.

He knew his body was in pain, curled and unable to move as it was, but it was an abstract thing, as if it were happening to someone else.

He drifted.

Control.

If he couldn't control his actions here, he'd be lost. If he couldn't control his breathing or he couldn't control his wild self, he would die.

Control.

Rocking, halting, descent. Tipping suddenly, enough to startle. For a moment, his surroundings came to him, an urgent welter of sounds and smells. He was shaken, disorientated when the barrel rolled on its side. Up and down exchanged places with each other, again and again. His tiny, dark world spun.

In time, he was on his side again. He sipped once more at his tiny corner of air.
Easy
, he told his heart,
no need to run away. Easy.

All was quiet. All was still. Kingsley existed until he knew it was time.

Move
.

He opened his eyes, saw nothing but blackness. He found the hacksaw blade in his sock. He used the pry bar to ease the staves apart and he slipped the saw between them. He cut the chime hoop, the one nearest the base, then the quarter hoop. He was halfway through the bulge hoop when the barrel gave way. Kingsley spilled onto the floor in a tide of green split peas.

I did it.

Lying on the floor, surrounded by dried legumes, Kingsley breathed freely and counted his aching muscles. Then he revelled in his triumph. He'd succeeded. He'd kept death at bay simply through his self-control. His will had overridden his body's natural impulses and he'd survived.

He rolled over, aching everywhere, and regarded the ceiling, accepting what had happened. He needn't shy away from anything again. He could keep his wild side leashed. He could attempt the most dangerous escape. He could approach life squarely.

He rolled to his feet. He made a fist and shook it, bubbling with the triumph that came from success, but also from the exhilaration that came from understanding a little bit more about who he was.

Something ran into his boot. Kingsley looked down. He almost kicked at the furry shape before he realised it wasn't a rat but one of Evadne's myrmidons.

The creature circled at Kingsley's feet, chasing its tail, then it sat up on its back legs and blinked at him. At least, two of its eyes blinked.

Kingsley went to his knees, curious. The myrmidon must have followed the delivery, but what had Evadne been thinking?

The myrmidon dropped to all fours, then it wriggled. A tremor passed along its length, then it hunched and opened its mouth wide.

The creature shook its head, then spat out a tiny vial. It looked up at Kingsley, then it nudged the vial with its nose.

Kingsley picked it up. The vial was half the size of the phlogiston vials and it was dull grey, not glowing at all. He tilted it to the light and made out fine script etched along the side.

Anti-phlogiston.

Breaking in was a great deal like breaking out, Kingsley decided as he listened at the door he'd just slipped through. He'd kept the pry bar with him after freeing himself from the barrel. While he was ready to use it as a weapon, it was mostly for reassurance – and for some quick ingress when he had no time to pick a lock.

After so long being shuttlecocked around, it was good to be fighting back.

The Neanderthals' complex was even busier than the last time he was there. Anyone he'd seen was carrying tools or materials – and hurrying. The whole place had an air of urgency that Kingsley wasn't at all happy about.

However, this activity did mean that the focus of the Neanderthals was on things other than expecting an intruder.

With something approaching confidence, Kingsley called on his wild self, hoping that its wariness would be helpful. He crept around the disconcerting corridors, halls, chambers and galleries; on several occasions he sensed the approach of Neanderthals and hid just in time.

Meanwhile, his civilised self noticed the patterns of movement and gave him a destination. By and large, the Neanderthals were all moving in one direction, along corridors or via stairs and lifts.

The great project of the Neanderthals was drawing them all together.

The True People, Soames had said the Neanderthals called themselves. Kingsley wasn't surprised. Hazily, he remembered his wild upbringing and knew that there were only two sorts to the pack: us and others. Strangers were to be feared.

So many of the world's ills could be attributed to that sort of attitude. Kingsley wished that the Demimonde had a magic to change it.

Increasing pandemonium and an industrial cacophony of steel and steam told Kingsley that he was approaching the major workshop.

He waited, patience itself, watching eager, chattering workers come and go. He recognised one, the red-haired female Evadne had rendered unconscious with her dart gun. She spoke expansively to her colleagues, flinging her arms wide in her enthusiasm.

Inside his jacket, his fingers found the pocket watch and phlogiston device that Evadne had given him. In Soames's warehouse she'd used jeweller's tools she'd brought from her refuge and constructed it with dazzling speed from her own pocket watch and some wire. He remembered how her juggler's hands had moved with grace and precision.

Listening intently, alert for any presence, Kingsley slipped into the workshop that was the home of the time machine.

He stared. The machine had changed.

The inner spiral was still present, but the disc from which the golden wires had hung had been removed. An airy framework was in its place, made of exceedingly thin wires radiating from the central tower, joining to an equally thin hoop supporting the golden curtain. The tower was now connected to the ceiling by a complicated arrangement of pipes and cables, all of them a bright silver that flashed in the light.

Near the control panel
, had been Evadne's instruction. Directly underneath the control panel struck him as close enough, so he used the wire to lash Evadne's device around the pedestal, up high, as close to the underside of the control panel as he could make it. He took a step back and it couldn't be seen; not unless someone dropped on hands and knees and peered upward. He couldn't imagine the humourless Neanderthals engaging in a spot of leap frog or shamble-my-toe, so he congratulated himself on an optimum solution.