Extraordinaires 1 (23 page)

A few people were still in the park at the base of the hill. An old woman stared at Evadne, averted her eyes and made rough, stabbing gestures. She muttered either prayers or older, guarded chants of protection.

When the Spawn reached the forlorn gardens around the tower, Kingsley was surprised when it showed some awareness of its surroundings. Instead of marching straight through the flower beds it took the path to the rear. To keep it in sight, Kingsley and Evadne were forced to run until they were able to throw themselves behind a mound of large stones, the remains of a stable or barn. They watched as it slipped through one of the gaps in the rear wall and into a courtyard. There, it stood a moment then it took a dozen ragged steps and leaped feet first into the well.

Evadne gasped, but Kingsley was already running. When he reached the well he leaned over the low wall and smiled. ‘Misdirection,' he said softly. ‘Nicely, nicely done.'

T
he handholds began a few yards down the stone wall of the well. They were well spaced, obviously suiting the spider-like Spawn. Kingsley had had some trouble before his foot found the first of them, but once he had, he was easily able to clamber down to the platform he'd spotted some twenty or thirty feet down.

He was begrudgingly admiring the nerveless way in which the Spawn had eschewed the handholds and simply dropped to the platform when Evadne joined him. She'd had no difficulty with the climbing, simply finding crannies among the stones when the handholds were inconvenient.

The platform was tiny. They were forced to stand close together. Kingsley hardly had to tilt his head to meet Evadne's gaze, so tall was she. Above, the oval of light that was the outside world was distant and forgettable, a mere decoration in the heavens.

The arched tunnel that was punched into the wall of the well was dark. ‘You lead,' Kingsley whispered.

He kept a hand on her shoulder as they crept deeper into the heart of the hill, crouched, her sabre occasionally knocking against his hip. His wild self hunched even more, unhappy at the closeness of the passage, fretful in the darkness. The tunnel sloped downward severely, and kinked from side to side, seemingly at random, but the further they went the more sound came from ahead.

When the tunnel ended in an elaborate stone arch, they stopped dead.

The light made it hard to judge distances. Small fires and lanterns punctuated the darkness, as though the stars had come down from the sky for a bit of a hobnob. The impression of vastness came more from the way the sounds of construction echoed, convincing Kingsley that this was indeed a cavernous space being carved out of the hill.

Above the almost comforting sounds of sawing and hammering was a constant, indistinct susurration, like wind whispering in a thousand trees, or a gentle shuffling on a dance floor, backward and forward, backward and forward. It was aural wool, muffling every other sound, wrapping them in blurriness.

A million monks in robes
, Kingsley thought wildly,
scuffling along in socks.

Evadne took his hand and led him to the left. They followed a flight of iron stairs down slowly, testing their weight with each footfall, fearful of drawing attention to themselves. Kingsley strove to remember the pentagon-based chamber of the Immortals, the one he'd seen two hundred and fifty years from now, but the light and the shadows defeated him. He relied on Evadne and her light-gathering spectacles.

She put a hand on his shoulder and made him crouch behind what he took in the dim light to be a pile of handmade bricks.

Kingsley waited, impatiently, while Evadne unslung her satchel full of phlogiston and gazed into the shadows. She touched the side of her spectacles once, then again, muttering. ‘They're too far away,' she whispered to herself and then a long silence stretched. He was beginning to worry –
What if her temper broke loose again?
– then once again he had the uncomfortable and exciting experience of Evadne's putting her lips to his ear. ‘The Immortals are out there, in the middle. Sitting on their throne. Hovering in midair. The Spawn we followed has stopped on the edge of an abyss.'

‘Abyss?'

‘The floor isn't finished. A large section is uncovered. Underneath is a huge space with walkways and rooms around the rim, arranged in levels.'

‘How far down do they go?'

She touched her spectacles. ‘At least ten storeys. Maybe more.'

‘What's the Spawn doing?'

‘Nothing. It's just waiting to deliver its report, I'd say.'

At that moment, Kingsley hissed and flung a hand up to shield his eyes. Evadne gasped and ducked her head behind the pile of bricks.

Light bloomed, filling the space and revealing the colossal construction site. Kingsley gasped at what had been making the eerie whispering noise.

Scores of Spawn clung to surfaces by their supernaturally strong fingers and toes. They moved slowly, lovingly polishing walls, floor and ceiling. The shuffling noise was the sound of hundreds of cloths and papers, smoothing, smoothing, smoothing.

Kingsley managed to look away from the unsettling sight – it was too much like a swarm of insects for his liking – to take in the rest of the gigantic chamber. The dodecahedron shape had already been carved out. Scaffolding, saw benches and metalworking lathes were scattered about in something approaching chaos. The pentagonal alcoves were already in place, but only two of them were occupied. One was a large cube. The other was the mysterious rotating solid that Kingsley had seen two hundred and fifty years from now, the tetrahedron that was the Temporal Manipulator.

Through the sliver of floor that was unfinished, it was almost as if he were looking down on an amphitheatre. He counted ten rings – vast rings – that descended into the heart of the earth, connected by stairways spaced around the perimeter. He even spied a stairway that led to a door in the wall opposite, right next to the Temporal Manipulator.

‘Look at the bottom,' Evadne breathed.

The lowest level was a dead black disc, clearly visible against the grey stone that made up the walkways. It was impossible to tell how large it was with nothing nearby, and as he tried to make sense of it, his hackles rose; it was loathsome.

Kingsley hadn't thought much about black, assuming that black was black. As he tried to make out this slab of nothingness, he understood that he'd been labouring under a misapprehension. Not all blacks were the same. The black of a midnight sky wasn't the same as the black of a friendly cat. The black he saw when he closed his eyes wasn't the same as the black of the ink in his favourite books.

This black disc was different from all of them. It made all the other blacks look half-hearted. It had taken all other blacks, intensifying them, extracting and distilling them, doubling them and then doubling them again until it was the perfect, irrefutable, all-consuming black. This was the acme of blacks.

‘It's throbbing,' Evadne whispered.

Kingsley went to deny this, for the continuous polishing noise tended to swallow any subtle sounds, but then he paused. He couldn't hear it, but he perceived a single pulse.

He peered at the almost void. He couldn't see anything, and was about to convince himself that he was imagining it when it happened again. A ripple as much as a drumbeat, he sensed it deep inside himself – a perturbation of the soul. He squinted, but saw nothing. He listened, but no sound emanated from the blankness. It happened again; he turned sideways and listened for the next trump of doom; his adjusted position was enough to confirm that the stroke came from the disc below.

‘What is it?' he whispered to Evadne.

‘It's the biggest phlogiston extractor I've ever seen. Ever
heard
of.'

‘How can you tell?'

She touched her spectacles, then tweaked the bridge over her nose. ‘On this setting, I can see the lines of disturbance in the ether that mean that phlogiston is being drawn to it.'

‘Ether? You mean the anaesthetic?'

‘A different ether. It's a name for the underlying substrate of reality, through which phlogiston and countless other exotic and no doubt magical elements permeate the universe.'

‘I think I may have to unlearn everything I ever knew.'

‘Not really,' Evadne said absently and Kingsley was pleased to see her absorbed in the mystery of the Immortals' device. ‘Simply add another layer of understanding rather than throw out the old. It may come in handy one day.' Evadne tapped her teeth with a fingernail. ‘So the Immortals have a giant phlogiston extractor under their headquarters. I wonder what for?'

‘To power their whatsits. That cube and their Temporal Manipulator.'

‘We can't use the Temporal Manipulator,' Evadne said slowly.

‘I hope that's not the case,' Kingsley said. ‘Otherwise we're in an appalling situation. Look, I'm sure you'll be able to work it out.'

‘I meant that we can't use it right now.'

‘You're not thinking of trying to destroy the Immortals, are you? Wait until we get back to 1908. We'll be able to equip ourselves properly, plan thoroughly –'

Evadne gripped his arm hard enough to leave bruises. ‘Wait a moment.'

The tri-partite throne swivelled on its own centre and faced the waiting Spawn. Then it drifted to the rim of the yawning pit, coming close enough for Kingsley to see that the figures sitting on the thrones were substantially larger than the children he'd seen in the twentieth century. These looked like ten- or twelve-year-olds.

He felt ill. These entities – he couldn't think of them as people – thousands of years old, transferring their essence to a succession of young bodies? He now understood Evadne's desire to expunge them, regardless of their actions. Any humanity they may once have had was gone, drained by centuries of treating others as items of convenience – necessary for their survival, but hardly important beyond that.

He also saw, with horror, that the Immortals were almost completely swaddled in bloody bandages, right up to thighs and armpits, and they all had bandages wrapped around their heads. Making their army of Spawn had been costly.

Costly. Kingsley clenched his fists. Was this the wearing out that Evadne had spoken of? If so, it meant that the sorcerers would be needing new bodies to inhabit, and soon, if their dreadful current state was any indication. His horror grew as he realised that the streets of a panicked seventeenth-century London might be a fertile place to gather children. The Immortals may well have bodies ready and waiting for them.

How could he broach this with Evadne? He didn't want her rushing off precipitously, as she had in the tunnels near her refuge. He had to be careful.

He needn't have bothered. One look at her face told him that she'd reached the same conclusion he had. ‘The cells down there,' she said. Her voice was like tempered steel. ‘The Immortals could have children down there.'

‘We're not in a good position to do anything,' Kingsley pointed out. ‘We should fall back. Maybe we can find those Retrievers again, or get assistance from the Demimonde.'

‘You can stay here, if you like. I'm going.'

K
ingsley decided that the Immortals had no truck with order and organisation. Their answer to a problem was to throw Spawn at it. The larger the problem, the more Spawn they lobbed its way. The giant size of their hiding place and the chaos of its building site was testimony to their approach. Kingsley was grateful, for it meant that his and Evadne's passage to the levels beneath the main chamber, while circuitous, would simply be a matter of flitting from cover to cover.

Kingsley did wonder, however, if the indiscriminate application of labour was one reason the bodies used by the Immortals wore out. Lopping off pieces whenever a ditch digger was needed couldn't be good for them.

Which made him even more curious about the Immortals' choice of bodies. Why children? Wouldn't adults be more useful? And why were the chosen bodies younger in the twentieth century than they were here?

He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answers.

The Immortals listened to the gossip from the Spawn Kingsley and Evadne had followed in, while other Spawn built, cleaned, polished and painted to make a home for the ages. The perfect balance of zero degrees longitude would one day run right through here, and Kingsley was sure this wasn't by accident.

He wondered where they had been before this place. Stonehenge? Lindisfarne? Or somewhere overseas, a place of great power like Mount Ararat, Olympus or the monasteries of Tibet?

A commotion on the other side of the great hall when a scaffold collapsed was the moment Kingsley and Evadne needed. They slipped through the five-sided door, closed it behind them and descended into the abyss.

Evadne was hard-faced as they came to the first cell. Through the small, barred window in the door they could make out eyes. Kingsley whispered through the bars and tried to gain attention, but the shadowy figures did not stir. When Evadne risked all and shone a beam from her pen light, there were more than a dozen ragged and sooty-faced children, none looking more than ten years old, sitting or slumped on stone. They had no spark in them, no curiosity, no eagerness for rescue. They sat, unspeaking, dull faced, resigned.

The next cell was the same, and the next. Each cell was full of impassive, almost somnolent urchins, forsaken boys and girls.

As they went, Evadne became more and more grim, and Kingsley feared for the pen light, such was the intensity of her grip. Again and again, she touched her glove over her little finger, the one that bore her silver ring.

When she'd spoken of her calling, Kingsley had seen sadness amid the righteous anger. Was the source of this sadness the secret she'd promised to share with him? He put his hand lightly on her shoulder as they neared the next cell, but she shook him off without turning her head.

This cell was different. Evadne shone the light through the bars and piping cries of joy erupted from it.

Evadne thrust the pen light on Kingsley. She gripped the bars and pressed her face against them. ‘It's all right,' she whispered. ‘We've come to save you.'

Kingsley struggled to shine the beam past Evadne. In the cell, two children had come to their feet and were leaping up and down, arms extended, crying for their mother with joy that soon became sobbing. They fell at the foot of the door, scratching at it feebly. Kingsley ached to let them out. It would only take a second or two, but then what would they do?

Evadne crouched by the door, speaking softly, promising comfort and safety, repeating herself until their despair dwindled into a soft and wordless lament. The faint sound floated through the barred window, hanging in the air and filling it with a plaintiveness that was as lost as the children themselves.

Kingsley understood, even if he couldn't share Evadne's depth of anger. His wild side added to his sympathy: young ones were to be protected – it was the duty of the pack. Rally to take care of the young. Distract predators with your own self. Sacrifice yourself to keep them safe.

He put his hand on Evadne's shoulder. This time, he refused to be shaken off. ‘We can't stay here.'

She didn't look up. ‘I can't leave them.'

‘Someone will send one of the Spawn to investigate.'

‘Let them.' She placed one gloved hand against the door. ‘I'll destroy them. I'll destroy them all.'

He sighed. ‘I know you will, but let's just see what we can do to improve our chances here.'

She knuckled tears away from her face. ‘We should go downward, then.'

He helped her to her feet, until she was abruptly standing face to face with him. She wasn't ethereal, he decided. She was too earthy to be angelic. ‘Lead on,' he whispered.

On the next level down, she flung her arms wide, nearly striking Kingsley, who was right behind her. ‘Why didn't the others cry out?' she asked. ‘Why only those two?'

‘I hope they've just been daunted by their imprisonment,' he said. ‘Imagine facing the Spawn as your captors if you were six years old.'

She shuddered, her shoulders trembling. ‘But you think it might be something else?'

‘They could have been given a drug, or potion, or subjected to some sort of magic ritual. I've no idea.'

Kingsley decided that the slight, sharp exhalation from Evadne might have been a laugh. ‘Kingsley,' she said, maintaining a forward regard, ‘at the rate you're taking aboard new concepts, you'll be a true Demimonder before you know it.'

Kingsley didn't reply. He was too busy pondering whether this was a good thing or bad.

The last level before the black disc contained a single, solid iron door. Kingsley spread his hand on it, felt nothing, and put an ear to it. ‘I can't hear anything.'

‘Another mystery,' Evadne said.

Kingsley didn't like having it at his back, blocking their retreat. The lock was more formidable than those on the cell doors. He thought he could open it quickly – but would that be a wise thing to do?

He touched the surface of the door again. It was cold. He shook his head. ‘It's solid. Whatever is behind it will stay there for some time.'

Evadne looked away.

Just as they reached the black disc, a glass vial appeared in midair with an incongruous tinkling sound and hovered over the centre of the blackness. Kingsley stared at the glow, then glanced up to make sure they were well hidden by the overhang of the ramp above. ‘Is that phlogiston?' he asked Evadne.

‘Oh, yes.' She crossed her arms in a strange gesture of satisfaction when the vial rocketed upward, vanishing some way over their heads. ‘We'll find a stockpile here somewhere.'

‘I'm sure these Immortals wouldn't tolerate our sniffing about for their treasure store.'

Evadne crouched and held her hand a careful few inches above the surface of the blackness. ‘Remarkable. If I'm not mistaken, this is an entirely different way to extract phlogiston. No moving parts at all. Just magic.'

‘Capital.' Kingsley looked up. The thin slice of uncompleted floor overhead was growing smaller. ‘While that might be interesting, I'm not sure if it's providing us with anything to improve our chances.'

‘Mm?'

What we have here is a trap
, he thought,
on a very large scale. So what's the way out?
It was back to Basic Principles. ‘Thinking is the key,' he muttered aloud. Another glowing vial appeared and shot off. ‘The back door.'

Evadne whirled, her coat swinging. ‘Bravo, Kingsley! The Immortals wouldn't drag urchins through their perfect hall!'

He looked around at the iron door. ‘I'm thinking that the old palace by the river and tower on the hill would have had a connection, something underground. It would have been easy enough to run a side tunnel off that. In fact, I'll wager that the park is criss-crossed with tunnels.'

‘We can take them out the way they came in,' Evadne said.

Kingsley unlocked the door while Evadne stood to one side, pistol and sabre ready. When he eased it open, however, all that emerged was a soft gust of air, damp but fresh.

‘I can smell the river,' Evadne said.

‘That's good. If the children can make it down to the riverbank, they should be able to get away from there.' He knew they'd be frightened, but at least they'd be well away from the fire that was consuming London. They wouldn't be the only lost children. And anything would be better than being held by the Immortals.

She looked hopeful. ‘Perhaps the Retrievers will find them.'

They worked from the top down. The children from the uppermost cells were lethargic but biddable. None of them questioned their surroundings, or the orders Evadne gave in clear, strained tones. As they worked downward, the children began to show signs of animation. A few essayed half-hearted queries and Kingsley had to deal with a case or two of strangely detached terror, staunching tears with a handkerchief that immediately became an item of distracted wonder.

Kingsley was dismayed by their demeanour. Even if nothing malignant had gone on, the children were well cowed, their spirits broken.

And who could blame them?
he thought as he slipped the bolt on his next challenge. The Spawn were hard enough for an adult to face. Any child who wasn't daunted after being taken by the ghastly creatures would be a rare beast indeed.

Working down the levels, Kingsley had to remind Evadne to keep moving after he caught her consoling instead of shepherding. He was as gentle and as firm as he could be, but more than once she bit back a retort when he interrupted her ministrations.

‘I'm sorry,' she whispered as she brought her latest charge to his feet. The pale-faced lad had been the last of nine in the cell to rouse. He rubbed his eyes with his chubby fists, then stuck one of them in his mouth.

‘This is your crusade?' Kingsley asked Evadne.

‘I never called it a crusade,' she said. ‘And, anyway, it's more than that.'

‘I'd guessed. And it's a secret?'

She bit her lip, but nodded and looked away. ‘Don't worry about me. I can manage.'

Evadne peered into the face of one of the last children to be freed. One of the least affected and more self-possessed, she was a girl of ten or twelve years, clean-faced and wearing a well-scrubbed pinafore. She had long black hair and dark, serious eyes.

‘Take this.' Evadne put the pen light into the girl's hand and curled her fingers around it. She pointed at the tunnel beyond the iron door. ‘Guide the others out of here.'

The girl looked at Evadne, then Kingsley. ‘Where are we going?'

‘Away from here,' Evadne said firmly. ‘Find the river. People will help you there.'

It was enough. Without hesitation, the girl plunged into the darkness.

Kingsley stood by the arch and helped the urchins on their way.
And from darkness shall come light
, he thought.

He was amazed at how the children didn't hesitate, how each one simply followed the one in front. Boys, girls, some on the verge of adolescence, some barely walking. Most of them were still docile, although some showed a flicker of fear as they approached the arch.