The Hangman's Revolution (15 page)

They passed an hour stripping the breakfast tray down to the last crumb of muffin and catching up on all that had happened since the last time they had almost expired in each other’s company. There was a lot to digest on the two sides, and both put forward a summary at the end.

Riley went first. “So what you’re telling me, Chevron Savano, is that the entire future has changed just because Farley clapped eyes on you the last time you visited our pungent metropolis. And now everything you hold dear is gone, along with several million murdered innocents, and in its place a dastardly empire of evil that wages holy war with anyone what don’t see things its way?”

Chevron swallowed a final chunk of sausage, which, as a fitness fanatic, she would normally never eat, but she had just this morning constructed a new diet rule:
Anything eaten outside your own time zone does not count.

“That’s about it, kid. And what
you’re
telling
me
is that you were preparing to open your theater with a magic show featuring you as the Great Savano when a bunch of gangsters arrived to milk you dry, except one of their own turned out to be a future soldier who murdered all the rest?”

Riley nodded. “Hard to credit, ain’t it? But that ain’t the entirety of it, is it, Chevie? I recall you mentioning two dodgy yokes by the name of Moley and GooGoo?”

Chevie chased the sausage with a swallow of hot chocolate, as she had just decided that the time zone food rule also applied to drinks.

“Moley and GooGoo, also known as Clover Vallicose and Lunka Witmeyer. Two warrior women sent to kill me. They’re here now, in this time. Hopefully London will swallow them up, but I doubt it.”

“Still,” said Riley, “what are they but a couple of gals with guns? Shouldn’t be too much of a headache.”

“I’m a gal with a gun,” Chevie pointed out. “And I would bet money on either of those two against our sleeping king downstairs.”

Riley whistled. “Well, that’s a new pair of boots altogether. I hope they don’t hitch their carriage to the Farley express, or we could be in real trouble.”

“You can count on it,” said Chevie. “If Colonel Box is somewhere in this time, then Vallicose and Witmeyer will find him.”

Riley stripped off his heavy cape and let it fall with a clang to the floor. “Seems to me that our best plan is to keep well out of this row. We can’t fight an army.”

Chevie’s face was suddenly solemn. “I can’t do that, Riley. Do you remember I told you that my dad was killed in an accident?”

“I remember, and that’s a pain this fellow here knows only too well.”

“In this new time stream, Dad doesn’t die in a motorcycle accident. A neighbor informs on him for writing songs in his spare time. He was executed by the Thundercats. They said he was a traitor.”

“And was he?”

Chevie shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope so. They got my best friend, too, just for taking the wrong turn in a hallway.”

Riley moved down on the divan so he could drape an arm around his friend. “No one should have those memories in their head. We must try to erase them, or at least make them not true.
But there is a more immediate matter that must first be sorted.”

Much of Tibor Charismo’s guest wardrobe had survived the militia cannon, so Chevie and Riley were also able to change their outfits, which were extremely unsuitable for venturing out and about in Victorian London. Riley’s clothes had been shredded, except for his magician’s cloak, which, apart from a few tears and scratches, had held together pretty well. And in her workout gear/cadet jumpsuit combo, Chevron might as well have been wearing a sign that read
lunatic trollop
or words to that effect, many of which variations Riley had volunteered until Chevie told him to shut up or she would shoot him.

“I am merely offering the opinion that other coves what don’t know you like I do might possibly, and incorrectly, assume that you were a shameless hussy escaped from Bedlam, dressed as you was in vest and long johns.”

“Yeah? Well, some
coves what
don’t know you might think you were escaped from the mortuary that I’m about to send you to,” countered Chevie feebly.

Riley raised a finger. “That ain’t a good argument, pal. Firstly-wise, it don’t make a farthing of sense, and second, your pasts and your futures is all mixed up.”

“The story of my life,” said Chevie. “Yours, too.”

Chevie bowed to the pressure and covered up her figure with a silk smoking jacket.

“I’ll pick out something for outdoor wear later,” she said. “There’s a lot to choose from.”

It feels nice to have a choice, she decided. I should try to do more of it in the future.

That, Chevie supposed, would depend on the future.

Otto Malarkey roused himself shortly afterward and plodded around the lower floors shouting for his boots, which apparently Figary had spirited away while his master slept, the Irishman being little more than a damn thief—like the rest of his miscreant race, according to Malarkey, who bellowed this and similar insults with such volume that the entire square was made cognizant of his opinions on the subject of his manservant.

Eventually Otto tackled the stairs and stumbled into the drawing room, red in the face from shouting, but otherwise in reasonable order.

“Where are my blasted boots?” he demanded, in a passable American drawl.

Chevie shrugged. “I ain’t the boot lady, Otto. You ought to take better care of your stuff.”

It took Otto a moment to sort out his identities and figure out who he was supposed to be at this current moment. He was pretty definite that he was in the commodore’s home. So therefore, why were the Injun princess and the Ramlet sitting in his drawing room? Were they not part of Otto Malarkey’s life? And to rub salt in the wound, why was the girl giving him sauce? Could it be that she actually believed him to be the genteel Commodore Pierce, who sang shanties after dinner over cigars, always censoring the bawdy verses so as not to cause the ladies to blush behind their fans?

“I ain’t no commodore, missy,” he said, dropping the Yankee affectation. “So you would be wise not to cross swords with me.”

Figary entered through the drawing room’s mirrored second door, bearing Malarkey’s boots in his arms. The enormous high boots were half the size of the diminutive Irish butler.

“Oh, I think the world and its mother is well aware that you
ain’t no commodore.
In spite of your non-commodore-ness, Missus Figary’s boy here decided to polish up your precious boots for you as a little pick-Jack-up when you awoke. And this is the thanks I get: invectives and accusations.”

Malarkey grabbed the boots without a word of thanks. “Invective and accusation is the way of it with me, just as drunken impudence is the way with Missus Figary’s only boy, Michael.”

Otto sat on a filigreed chair with a velvet cushion and legs in the shape of cornucopias, tugging his boots on over his knees and smiling at the footwear as though each boot was a beloved hound at his feet.

“There we go, lads,” he said. “All’s right with the world, eh? So long as we are not parted.” Once the boots were settled, Otto gazed sharply at Michael Figary. “And now to matters of import. How does my hair look on this day? They say anxiety affects the follicles.”

Figary rolled his eyes. “The hair is magnificent, so it is, Commodore, truly. And now would it be too much trouble to request a little of God’s own truth? Missus Figary’s boy would like to know who it is that employs him.”

“So he would,” said Riley, for sport, earning a withering glance from Figary.

“I owe you that, I suppose, though I know you will not get a jot of pleasure from it,” said Otto. “God’s truth, I will miss being the commodore. It was good old sport playing the toff.” Malarkey rubbed his flanks. “Let me begin with the boots. They belonged to my mentor, Reverend John Pine. His favorite pair. He was the smuggler king and gave me my first taste of organized crime. He left me the boots, and I used them to kick a path for my brothers and me to the top of the Battering Rams. And now I am king of the bunch.”

Figary’s hand rose to cover the horrified
O
of his mouth. “Well, carry me out and bury me decent, I am working for the king of knaves; Otto Malarkey, is it? The big costermonger himself.”

Otto shook out his locks. “You have me, Figary. What would Missus Figary think of her boy Michael now? Working as a butler for the high king of low life?”

Figary looked to the heavens as though he could feel the disapproving glare of his dear departed mother.

“I didn’t know, Mammy. I never did,” he said, then returned his attention to Malarkey. “Do you have any idea how many novenas I will have to say for forgiveness? I’ll be praying until Christmas.”

The butler crossed the room to a walnut drinks trolley and poured himself a large tumbler of brandy, which he tossed back in two gulps.

“You are a lucky man that I am generally an inebriated coward, for if I ever faced you sober and found my courage, then you would be in for a thrashing, so you would.”

“I have no doubt, Michael,” said Malarkey.

“Would you care to tell us what’s going on, Otto?” asked Chevie. “Why the leprechaun keeps referring to you as
Commodore
might be a good place to start.”

“Leprechaun, is it?” said Figary, red dots of fury rising on his cheeks. “So this is the class of visitors I can expect from now on? Urchins and waywards? Having the pick of our finest togs too, I see. Perhaps we should send carriages to the tenement hovels? Just ferry them in to pick us dry.”

“I have allowed some latitude because of the circumstances,” growled Malarkey. “But you will not insult my guests, Mr. Figary, is that understood?”

Figary searched the pockets of his tweed jacket until he
located a small leather-bound notebook with a pencil in the spine.
He took it out, licked the pencil, and wrote a note to himself.

“
‘Otto Malarkey, the ex-smuggler and current crime boss, is an enthusiastic supporter of murder and theft but takes a dim view of people insulting his guests, so he does.
’
” He shut the notebook with a defiant snap. “Oh, I understand you, sir. You can be sure of that. And if you’ll excuse me, I shall repair to my room in order to compose my letter of resignation.” He executed his trademark sarcastic bow and strode toward the door.

“I will not be maneuvered, sir,” Malarkey called after him. “This little jape only works the once on Otto Malarkey.”

Figary did not offer a rejoinder. The only sound from without was the clatter-jig of the butler’s hard shoes climbing the stairs to his room.

Otto stood and bellowed. “Off with you then, you peacock! I am King Otto, and I will bend the knee to no damn Irish gin-soak!”

More clattering, fading now.

“Oh, very well, blast you!” shouted Otto, stamping his feet as though ants were heaped beneath them. “Double. I’ll give you double chink to stay. You can purchase that village of yours. SO YOU CAN.”

Figary’s head appeared in the doorway. “A deal, sir. And cheap at twice the price, if I may say so.”

Malarkey and Chevie could only stare in wonderment. After all, a mere moment before, Figary’s footsteps had echoed from the top story. Riley, on the other hand—and with both hands—drummed up a round of applause.

“Well done, sir. Well done indeed.”

Figary bowed, and this time it was real. “Thank you, Master Urchin. Never bet against Michael Figary when there are wooden surfaces and hard soles involved. Sure I can play those stairs like a grand piano.”

Malarkey shook his head ruefully. “You will be the death of me, Figary. Tell me one thing, hand on heart now: were you truly ignorant of my real moniker? All this time?”

Michael Figary laughed. “Is there anybody in London town who does not know the great King Otto? I knew you the second I walked into the hallway for my interview. I knew you from your
silhouette
, sir. Missus Figary didn’t raise any idiots, so she didn’t.”

And this was a statement that no one in Grosvenor Square had the gall to poke a hole in.

Malarkey insisted on breakfast before he would continue with his story of the copper commodore. And so Figary, in a matter of seconds it seemed, conjured up a mountain of kippers and eggs, of which Riley accepted a portion even though he had stuffed himself to rotundity not an hour previously.

“This is sheer ambrosia,” Riley declared. “Mr. Figary is worth his wages and more besides.”

“What a clever urchin,” said Figary, patting Riley’s head. “May we keep him, Commodore?”

“There is no need to persist with the title,” said Otto. “I would not have you lie with every breath.”

Figary played his invisible piano, dismissing the objection. “What is a title but a collection of letters or stripes on a sleeve? And at any rate, I think it wise to maintain the illusion, if we are to stay on in Grosvenor Square. The residents are not known for their tolerance of criminals. I refer you to Mr. Charismo, the previous resident of this house, so I do.”

Malarkey nodded. This was a wise argument, and in truth he had always liked how the word sounded in Figary’s Irish burr.

“Very well, you may address me as Commodore, for appearances’ sake.”

“My pleasure, Commodore.”

Once the master-servant relationship had been bolstered with cash and titles, the morning’s exposition could begin in earnest. Otto told his Commodore Pierce tale, bemoaning the fact that Ram kings rarely survived to enjoy a retirement wallowing in their ill-gotten gains, but he intended to buck that trend. So when his associate Tibor Charismo’s assets were seized and the demolished Grosvenor Square house went under the hammer for mere pennies, Otto had purchased it under the name Commodore Pierce, a secret alias he had established years previously to salt away his private wealth, mainly stolen Saltee Island diamonds. Perhaps the house had been under something of a shadow at the time of purchase, but with a new facade and the passage of time, someone would pay top guinea for a Grosvenor Square address, and that would go a long way to financing his retirement. Otto’s plan was to abdicate from the Hidey-Hole when the house was habitable, take up residence as Commodore Pierce, then turn it over for a profit as soon as possible. After that it was a first-class cabin on the
Campania
all the way to New York City. He even had an American passport run up by the best purveyor of fakements in London.