Horatio Lyle (26 page)

‘You and me?’

‘Yes!’

‘All right,’ said Tess, folding her arms. This unnerved Thomas, who stopped turning the handle of the dynamo. The light slowly went out, but he could still feel her venomous expression. ‘You tell me just how you think you and me can help Mister Lyle deal with this whole bunch of evil faeries with an evil plan.’

He hesitated. ‘Well
. . .
you could
. . .
or I could
. . .
but if we distract them
. . .
or perhaps if we could find a long enough bit of string
. . .
’

‘We don’t even know if Mister Lyle is there any more!’

‘Well, yes, that’s a thing, but I’m sure
. . .
’

‘Thomas?’ Tess’s voice had a strained quality to it.

‘No, don’t say anything yet, I know we can think of something if we try
. . .
’

‘
Thomas!
’

He realized Tess wasn’t looking at him any more, but at a shadow standing behind him. He turned slowly, feeling dread in his stomach. The man standing above him smiled thinly. ‘Well,’ said Feng Darin politely, ‘I have a few suggestions.’

 

Lyle looked into the bright eyes of Mr Dew, and instinct kicked in. He slammed the door, grabbed the half-sawn table and dragged it in front of the door in an instant. Outside, Mr Dew said, ‘Mister Lyle, you have nowhere to go.’

Lyle glanced at the flame over his shoulder, slowly spreading up the flimsy wall as it made a bid for the wooden ceiling. The smoke was already rising in dirty, choking billows. He looked around for inspiration and tools. The door shook under the impact of a shoulder. His eyes fell on a wrought-iron kettle, lying on its side, without a lid. He looked around, and saw a pair of light metal kitchen ladles, lying neglected, and an iron fork. He thought about it, as fire lapped against the wall, brushed against a patch of mould that started hissing loudly, smelling of mouldy eggs and giving off a thick steam as the water dripping down through the leaking floors boiled. Steam and smoke blurred in a mixture of black and white that made Lyle’s eyes water and choked him. He reached a decision, and reached for the kettle.

With a final scream, the door burst open, sending a small shower of wood in every direction. Mr Dew staggered through, murder in his eyes, a bronze knife in his hand. His green eyes that flashed like a cat’s in the dark fell on Lyle, who was crouched in the flaring darkness of orange-black smoke and flame. Mr Dew grinned and moved after him, oblivious of the smoke. He got within a few feet of Lyle, and stopped, face frozen, eyes wide. Above Lyle’s head, the kettle hung suspended from a rafter by a long piece of string. The iron fork was half-visible inside, its tines touching a band of velvet torn from Lyle’s coat. The band itself was looped round the ladles, which spun and hissed with speed as they caught the steam billowing off the wall, pushing the contraption round like a windmill, and dragging the loop of velvet round faster and faster as the ladles spun, Lyle’s magnet secured tightly inside their scoop, velvet scratching against the fork, humming inside the kettle. Lyle edged a little closer. A fat blue spark, brighter even than the fires around it, leapt with an angry pop from the surface of the kettle to a metal button on Lyle’s sleeve, making him jump as it earthed into his skin. The entire thing looked like a clumsy accident at suppertime, but the pallor in Dew’s face told a different story. Lyle watched him blurrily through the smoke-induced tears running from his eyes, saw him try to move a step closer, and flinch back again. Where the piece of wire in the kettle didn’t quite touch the velvet, sparks flashed, big electric sparks.

‘Is it the electric or the magnetic field that’s causing you so much offence?’ yelled Lyle over the roar of the flames and the scream of the steam. ‘This is just an amateur static generator! What would you do if I had a decent steam engine and belt?’

Mr Dew’s face was a mixture of pain and hatred. In the doorway, more green-eyed people were gathered, also looking pained. Lyle heard the spitting noise of more sparks dancing, then heard it again, from a direction he didn’t expect. He felt something sharp and hot on his back, and reached behind himself for the bulk of the Fuyun Plate, swinging it round so he could see it more clearly. Inside the coat, in the presence of the magnetic field, the bowl was full of sparks, darting across it in thick blue waves, never quite managing to leave the surface. Lyle reached down and touched it. The sparks ran straight through his finger, cold to the touch, but underneath, the plate was warm. He heard a groan from the Tseiqin. Several had their hands over their ears, as if they couldn’t bear the sound. Most were backing away, their faces masks of pain. Even Mr Dew was now at the door, retreating with an expression of pure hate. Lyle hesitated. He stared down at the plate, then at the makeshift static generator, then at the now-empty black doorway, then up at the ceiling. It was sagging, the fire crawling all over it. He looked down at the plate again. He thought,
Oh Jesus . . .

The roof caved in, smashing down on the ladles, the kettle, and on the Lyle-shaped empty space.

 

Lyle’s hand was bleeding. That was the first thing he thought. He coughed, tasting dry smoke in his mouth. He pulled himself up slowly, a little bit at a time, until he was on his knees, holding the Fuyun Plate close to his chest for protection. With the cave-in, his magnetic field had been destroyed, and now the Fuyun Plate felt as innocently cold as ever. He looked up slowly and saw a pair of black leather shoes. They didn’t look as though they belonged to anyone he knew. His gaze wandered to a pair of black silk trousers, a black silk jacket and, finally, a pair of intense green eyes. The face had the finely cut features of Lord Moncorvo. And it was smiling.

His fingers tightened on the Plate. He thought,
Well, this is it, then. I made a small static electricity generator out of a kettle and a few kitchen utensils, and now I’m going to die. I wonder what Tate will do without me?

‘Mister Horatio Lyle,’ said Moncorvo, smiling. ‘You are full of surprises. But now
. . .
’

There was a noise at the end of the street. It was the sound of frantic horses neighing. A second later there was a clattering, and a carriage, driven by a wild-haired, wild-eyed Thomas, exploded round the corner, its wheels a blur as he slapped at the reins and shouted, ‘Hey-ya!’

On the roof of the carriage, clinging on with just one hand, was a dark figure trailing a deep red scarf, and holding a gun. As the carriage roared down the street he fired, and with each deafening shot someone fell, the man’s expression never once changing. The carriage neared Lyle, and Tess leant out of the wildly careening vehicle and kicked open the door. ‘Come on, Mister Lyle, don’t just sit there gawpin’!’

Lyle was on his feet. He shoved past Moncorvo and ran past him, towards the middle of the street. He threw the Plate into the open door of the carriage as it rushed past and grabbed at the side, fingers nearly slipping. He got one foot inside, pulled himself up, and Mr Dew grabbed his ankle. Lyle clung to the door of the carriage, while Mr Dew staggered, feet going out from under him. Lyle didn’t let go.

‘Mister Chink!’ shouted Tess over the roar of the wheels. Feng Darin’s face appeared above the side of the carriage. He took aim with the small iron revolver and pulled the trigger. There was a click on the empty barrel. Tess sighed. ‘Bloody men!’ she screamed. Leaning past Lyle, she started kicking at Mr Dew’s fingers. Every other kick hit Lyle’s ankle, but her grim expression of determination left no room for complaint. On the third kick, Dew’s hold gave and he slipped back, falling into the road. Lyle toppled face first into the carriage while Tess dragged the door shut. As the carriage bounced away, rocking and screaming with the speed, Tess turned to the filthy Lyle, sprawled gracelessly across the floor, black with soot and dirt, and smiled her sweetest, most innocent smile.

‘Miss us?’ she asked.

CHAPTER 18

Night settled over London. Horatio Lyle, as he climbed painfully out of the carriage, wondered if it was going to be the last night of his life. He hoped not. He never had had a chance to find out what happened if you mixed carbonated water with potassium.

Feng Darin hesitated on the doorstep of Lyle’s house. He looked up at it with a long, deep frown. ‘It would be more convenient, Mister Lyle, if you’d give me the Plate.’

‘Don’t take this wrong, but not a chance in heaven or hell, Sonny Jim.’

The lock clicked and the door swung open. There was a furious noise from behind it, as Tate bounced up, barking, imperiously summoning Lyle and the children inside. ‘By the way,’ muttered Lyle, as they slid into the gloom of the big, empty house, ‘Mr Smith sends his regards.’

Still standing outside, Feng Darin frowned, thought about it, and the slow blossom of realization spread across his face. ‘I will not apologize for my actions.’

‘Hope is eternal.’ Lyle turned and gave him a long, suspicious stare. Finally he said, ‘Look, you can stand outside working out whether you’re going to shoot me, or you can come in and have a cup of coffee.’

‘Are the two mutually exclusive?’

‘It would be
rude
to shoot me over a cup of coffee. And the mess would be dreadful.’

Feng looked up at the black sky and drew in a long, thoughtful breath. Then, without saying a word, he jogged up the steps two at a time and pushed his way past Lyle into the house, with the manner of a man who’d been planning on doing that all along, and you were a fool if you hadn’t noticed. Lyle glanced up and down the length of the street behind Feng, quietly closed the door, turned every lock, and drew a bolt across the top, a chain across the middle and a small but distinctly heavy table across the bottom.

They went to Lyle’s workroom in the basement, and Lyle lit the giant furnace. The huge magnet above it started to spin. Lyle put the Plate down on a table, resolutely not once looking at Feng, and threw several handfuls of water over his face. This didn’t so much clean away the dirt, as spread it around more evenly.

Thomas said, ‘What happens now?’

‘What do you think, bigwig?’ said Tess, rolling her eyes. ‘They ain’t gonna just let us
take
it.’ She looked at Lyle. ‘They ain’t, are they?’

Feng answered before Lyle could. ‘The Tseiqin have dedicated thousands of years towards acquiring this object, and repairing the damage caused to it while it was encaged in iron,’ he said in a calm voice. ‘They will not let anything stop them getting it now. Not even, I fear, your magnet, Mister Lyle.’

Lyle didn’t answer. He was staring at the Plate.

‘So what are we going to do with it?’ said Thomas finally.

Silence. ‘I say we sell it to Lord Lincoln. For a lot,’ offered Tess.

‘I am here to destroy it,’ replied Feng quietly. Lyle smiled faintly, and looked down at the edge of the table, not moving.

Tess frowned. ‘That ain’t nice. We’ve gone to all this trouble to get it.’ She brightened. ‘If, on the other hand, you feel like
payin’
for the goods, on account of how it’s technically
ours
’cos we’ve gone to all this trouble of findin’ it, then I’m here to offer a good deal.’

Lyle looked up slowly at her, eyebrows raised. Tess beamed. ‘For sale, one mystic plate and
. . .
and token bigwig. Yours for
. . .
four hundred pound.’

‘What?’ said Thomas.

Tess patted him on the arm. ‘You’re worth at least a hundred pound.’

Feng smiled humourlessly at Tess, who shuffled uneasily away from the smile. ‘Miss,’ he said politely, ‘I appreciate the gesture, but suspect that your employer Mister Lyle might have other intentions.’

All eyes turned to Lyle. He sighed. ‘The Plate is a scientific phenomenon. An incredible phenomenon. And if I am slowly coming to accept that perhaps there is something a little irregular in the entire Tseiqin situation, then I don’t honestly know if I can pass up the opportunity to learn about an object in whose acquisition they have invested so much energy.’ Feng straightened up, his expression hardening. Lyle raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Not that I’m saying I’m going to give it to Lord Lincoln.’

Tess squeaked indignantly, ‘But Mister
Lyle
! He’ll
pay
! And it’d be safer with him than with us - he’d ’ave the army on his side!’

Thomas cleared his throat. ‘Technically, sir, the Plate is under the care of the Elwick family
. . .
’ Three pairs of unsympathetic eyes fixed on him. He coughed, and went on in the same level-headed voice, ‘And as a representative of my family I, erm, give you full permission to dispose of it as you feel fit.’

‘That’s decent of you.’

He brightened. ‘Yes. Yes, it is!’

Lyle slowly reached out and picked up the Plate by the very edges. Feng’s fingers tightened ever so slightly on the edge of the table, though his expression remained fixed. Quietly, Lyle said, ‘Teresa, Thomas? It might be a good idea if you check that the windows are locked and bolted. And draw the curtains.’