Merciless Reason (23 page)

“Mister Gordon,” Duffy greeted the new visitor. “We wouldn't have expected a gentleman of your stature to grace us with his presence in an establishment such as this. To what do we owe the honor?”

“Eamon Duffy,” Gerald said, taking off his top hat and laying it on the table, then throwing his navy blue cloak over the back of the chair on which Daisy had just been sitting. “I wouldn't have expected to find you in such a pigsty. A man of your considerable means can surely find more comfortable surroundings to entertain his charming friends.”

With one hand, Gerald gestured to the other four Fenians, who were too obviously on their guard. Gerald sat down in the chair at the head of Duffy's table. Duffy was seated, to his left, with another fellow to his right. The pair of men by the door stayed where they were. Pádraig pretended to polish the bar for a moment—as if that might in any way improve its appearance—before crossing over to sit down at the other end of the table to Gerald.

“I was told I might find you here,” Gerald went on, tilting his head towards Duffy in a leisurely manner as he took his silver case from his pocket, opened it and slipped a French cigarette between his lips. Duffy struck a match and lit the gasper for him. Gerald nodded his thanks. “Thought I'd drop in for a chinwag. You seem so intent on keeping abreast with my activities, I thought it only right that we should meet and catch up in person.”

“My only interest in your activities, Mister Gordon,” Duffy said, “lies in their effects on ordinary working people. At the moment, I am particularly interested in an orphanage full of children who have disappeared while under the patronage of your family. We know you have no qualms in using children in your factories. We were wondering if perhaps you had found them gainful employment and had neglected to tell anyone.”

“You appear to know more about the matter than I,” Gerald replied, dangling the cigarette casually from his fingers. “I haven't the foggiest, frankly. Children, to me, are merely adults who are not yet ripened; small, dense, difficult to prepare and quite lacking in any kind of taste. The ones you seek are setting a good example, as far as I'm concerned. Children should be neither seen nor heard until they have reached a sufficient level of maturity and usefulness. Now, as to the whereabouts of my cousin, the Duchess, you might be able to enlighten me better.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“Did you know that she has a unique
scent
, the Duchess?” Gerald inhaled through his nose, holding the cigarette away from his face as he did so. “She uses a particular skin cream imported from Paris, and sometimes she wears
L'Air du
Temps
… but not today.”

His gaze dropped down to the top of the table, and Daisy thought he might have seen the words written there, for his fingers brushed its surface. He lifted his head to meet Duffy's cold stare.

“You're up to something, the pair of you. I have to say I'm intrigued. I've had you investigated, of course, and from what I've learned of you, Duffy, you are a resolute man. A man with a cause. That's a type of enemy I do not underestimate. Understand, however, that I have a cause of my own. One of immense importance to the wider world. I am a mere cog in a great machine. Now, I'm sure any threat I made regarding your safety or that of your men would have little effect. But take care that you don't involve any Wildenstern women in your schemes, Duffy. I think you know even better than I how that can turn out.”

Duffy's face was set in a tense mask that hid a sudden fury, but he did not move from where he was. Pádraig jumped to his feet at the other end of the table, a knife appearing in his right hand.

“What kind of cur are you, to be threatening a woman?” he rasped. “I don't care who you are, or who your family is, I'll—”

Sticking his cigarette between his lips, Gerald gave a crude grin and struck the edge of the table with the heel of his hand. The force of the blow snapped nails and splintered wood as the plank drove forward into Padraig's groin. As Pádraig howled and fell to the floor with his hands between his legs, Gerald seized the loose plank and hurled it across the room like a javelin, catching one of the Fenians on the head. The plank dropped to the floor with a clatter, the man following close behind. The rebel at the table beside Gerald pulled a gun, but Gerald swept his arm in a lock up behind his back and slammed his face down on the tabletop. The arm-lock that Gerald maintained with one hand kept the man securely pinned there. The second man near the door drew a revolver. In a blur of motion, Gerald's free hand whipped to his body and then out, and the remaining Fenian found the sleeve of his gun-hand pinned to the doorframe by a throwing knife.

“Enough!” Duffy snapped, his jaw set in a look of impatience. “Enough. This is a stupid waste of time.”

“I agree,” Gerald replied, releasing the arm-lock and plucking the cigarette from his mouth. “You are amateurs playing a professional's game, Duffy. You play it at your own cost. But take care that others don't end up paying that price for you. Do not involve the Duchess in your meddling, you tired old bog-trotter. It'll end badly for both of you,”

And with that, he took up his hat and cloak and departed, leaving the rebels to pick themselves up. When they were sure he was gone, Duffy went back to the storeroom and let Daisy out.

“So it begins,” he remarked to her. “You'd best go out the back way, your Grace, in case he's still waiting nearby, although I don't think he means to harm you directly. There's no tellin' what he'll do once we put your plan into action, though. You've unleashed a dangerous one there, ma'am, and no mistake. What's that famous quote everyone uses at times like this? ‘Cry havoc; and let slip the dogs of war!' A fitting line, I'd say.”

“It's from
Julius Caesar
,” Daisy said. “Are you a fan of Shakespeare?”

“No, ma'am,” he said as he walked her to another door on the far side of the room, with Hennessy following a couple of strides behind them.

“Too much old-fashioned language?”

“Too much violence,” he replied with a grim smile. “I've seen enough in my life, and I've had my fill. There's something immoral about portraying it for the sake of entertainment. I prefer a spot of poetry myself.”

Stopping at the door, he took her hand and kissed it once more.

“Take care, your Grace. You've set some fierce dangerous events in motion.”

“Call me Daisy, Eamon.”

“Take care, Daisy,” he said, bowing his head. “God be with you.”

“And with you,” she answered.

He put his hand to his belly again.

“I've been blessed with one miracle in my life. It would be too much to expect any more Divine intervention. But maybe, with a bit of luck, we'll come through.”

Daisy said goodbye, and she and Hennessy made their way up a flight of stairs, through a house joined onto the back of the pub and out a door onto another of Temple Bar's narrow cobbled lanes. It had grown dark, and Dublin's smog was congealing, forming a soupy gas that obscured everything in its gritty fumes. Daisy walked away towards Dame Street with Hennessy close behind her.

As she disappeared into the smog, Gerald stepped out of the shadow of a doorway and straightened the cloak draped over his shoulders. His eyes gazed out from under the rim of his top hat, his face illuminated momentarily as he struck a match and lit a fresh cigarette. He blew out some smoke and turned in the other direction, his heels clicking against the cobbles as he made his way in the direction of the river. Everything was shrouded in blurry fug, and for his own amusement Gerald whistled while he walked. And as he did, the smog parted before him as if it were curtains that could be drawn aside. Then the dirty fog closed around him and thickened behind him, and in moments he had disappeared.

XXIV

MOBY

CATHAL STOOD AT HIS WORKTABLE,
pulling the brain out of a wheel-wolf. Each of the creature's four stumpy legs ended in a chubby wheel with a heavily ridged, flexible covering. The legs themselves were short but powerfully sprung, the shoulders and flanks broad, with the narrow back bowed as if to take a saddle, which many of these creatures did. They were not as fast as velocycles, but were easier to ride and kept their footing better over very rough ground.

With a pair of heavy pliers, Cathal detached the brain from its bonds in the elongated skull. The brain itself was the size of a small marble, joined to the inside of the skull with engimal-gut, those strands of filament that were as thin as fishing line but as strong as steel wire. With a heavy breath, he wrote a description of the creature on a label and tied it to the brain, before placing it in a box beside others that he had removed that day. Gerald insisted that all of the engimals' vital organs be labeled—a service only a few of the children could provide, as most of them could neither read nor write.

Lying in bed the previous night, Cathal had studied the whistle he had stolen from Gerald's study. It appeared to be made of a hard, creamy white material, which could possibly be whalebone or one of the many types of ceramic which formed parts of the engimals' bodies. He had been afraid to blow into it in case it should alert Gerald or the guards. There was no telling if it was the right type of whistle, or if it worked or not, or if it would have the desired effect even if it did work. That was a lot of ‘ifs.' But there was nothing for it—they might not get another chance at this. And Gerald seemed to be getting very close to achieving his jail of gaining control over the intelligent particles.

If he could do even half of what he claimed, he would be virtually unstoppable.

Cathal wished they could have made their move last night, but there had been no time to organize the children. And besides, they didn't know where all the guards were at night. At night, the children were penned up in some small chambers off the main cave, and none of them knew where the guards slept or how many stood watch. None of them had fully explored all the tunnels in this part of the mine. Besides, there were other advantages in waiting until the morning.

The noise of the machinery in the slaughterhouse made communication between the children difficult, but also made it hard for the guards to overhear them talking. Cathal looked up from his worktable to see Pip mouthing words to him. He moved around his table so that he could hear his friend.

“Queg's given us deh wave,” the boy said. “We're on.”

Cathal nodded, and went to raise his hand. Pip reached over and stopped him.

“Are yeh sure yeh can do dis, Cathal? I mean, we
believe
in yeh an' dat—we'd follow the Highwayboy to the gates of Hell, but we don't want to see yeh gettin' killed fer us. Dis
is
gonna work, innit?”

Cathal was about to answer, but instead just held up his hand.

“Only one way to find out,” he replied. “We've got the whistle—and Gerald's gone out somewhere, so at least we don't have to deal with him. And I don't see Red either. We need to use this thing before Gerald discovers it's missing.”

Cowen, the nearest of the guards, came over. He was the brute with the face like a bag of potatoes, all swollen-looking and knobbly. He had a stubbled scalp and fists which were each the size of a child's head. Cathal guessed the thug must have been nearly twice his weight, and Cathal's head only just reached his shoulder.

“I need to relieve meself,” he told the man.

Cowen lifted his chin to his mate, who stood nearby. They were under orders not to let Cathal leave the main cave without being escorted by at least two of them. Cowen held a wooden club in his hand, and used it to nudge Cathal towards the tunnel leading to the cesspit.

“I know the way,” Cathal reminded him. “You don't have to push.”

With his feet shackled, he could only move with small steps—the chain between the shackles was little more than a foot long. The other man—a burly, wheezy oaf named McCoughlan—followed them as they made their way towards the tunnel. The stench from the mouth of the tunnel was eye-watering, but it got worse the further in you went. McCoughlan stopped at the entrance, gesturing to Cowen to go ahead.

“You're in charge on this trip,” he said in his short-of-breath manner. “You can take it the rest of the way.”

Cowen scowled and swore quietly, but then prodded Cathal with the baton again. Cathal hobbled forward into the stink.

Since the children could not be allowed outside, and Gerald would not allow buckets for their doings in the main cave, a crude but effective toilet had been constructed. A wide board had been laid over a borehole in the floor of the chamber at the end of the tunnel. The children did their business into the borehole by squatting over a smaller, circular hole in the board. The borehole dropped down into an underground stream which, in theory, would carry away the waste matter. This system did not work perfectly, however—partly due to the low light and the wobbly board, and partly because of the hazardous protrusions sticking out of the walls of the borehole itself.

The hole was large enough for a child to climb down, but not a grown man. This obvious avenue of escape had been blocked off by embedding steel spikes into the walls of the borehole about five feet down. Unfortunately, the spikes impeded a bit of
everything
that was dropped into the hole.

Cathal coughed into the crook of his elbow, trying not to breathe through his nose. His sinuses were already burning and he had to blink his eyes to clear the tears. The chamber had a high ceiling and was roughly twenty feet across, but the only ventilation came from the tunnel.

“Get on with it,” Cowen grumbled.

With a quick glance behind him, Cathal jumped right over the plank of wood, turned, got his toe under the plank and flipped it up into Cowen's shins. The guard snarled, more annoyed than hurt by the move. Cathal staggered back as the man bounded across the borehole, baton raised to put this whippersnapper in his place.

He had been warned about the young Wildenstern, but he had not paid enough attention to the warnings. Cathal easily dodged the blow, darting to the man's right. With his feet together, he leaped towards the wall of the chamber, got his feet up onto the stone surface and launched himself back off the wall, diving right over Cowen's head. The chain stretched taut between his ankles and caught across the big man's throat, hooking under his jaw. Cathal's momentum wrenched the thug off his feet and Cathal absorbed the force of the fall by rolling forwards as he hit the ground, hurling Cowen past him. The bigger man somersaulted over and landed hard on his front, gagging on an injured throat. He made a noise like a strangled bear and shook his head as he started to get to his feet. The club had dropped from his grasp, but he went instead for the pistol in his waistband.

“McCacchlish!” he croaked, his call for help reduced to a cough. “McCacch … McCoughlan!”

As he got up on his knees, he raised his head to keep his eyes on Cathal. But Cathal was gone. A clink of chain behind him caused him to turn his head … and then Cathal, still lying on his back, shoved Cowen's arse as hard as he could with both feet. Cowen went head-first into the borehole, his shoulders jamming in the narrow well. His head was well clear of the spikes below, but he was caught with his arms down by his sides. The gun fell from his waistband, hit his chin on the way down, bounced off a couple of the spikes, and then tumbled into the stream twenty-five feet below. Cathal swore as he watched it fall, but managed to catch the man's bunch of keys as they fell from his pocket.

He unlocked his shackles, tossed them aside and stood up.

“You all right there, Cowen?” he asked. “How's the air down there?”

“I'm gonna cut yer liver out for this, yeh little guttie!”

“You'll have to catch me first,” Cathal snapped back. “And after a spell in there, I'd say I'll smell yeh comin'!”

Lifting his foot, he stamped down on Cowen's ample backside, wedging him in even further. Cowen screamed blue murder. Cathal heard footsteps hurrying down the tunnel.

“Cowen?” McCoughlan called. “What's goin' on down dere?”

Cathal picked up Cowen's wooden club and ducked down to the side, tucking himself in against the wall by the entrance, out of sight of the tunnel. McCoughlan trotted down the tunnel and saw Cowen's legs sticking up out of the borehole.

“Jaysus!” he exclaimed. “Here, boyo, is that you?”

Despite the stupidity of the question, McCoughlan kept his head and hung back from the chamber. His own club, the stout handle of a hatchet, was held at the ready. It was a habit of his to whack the backs of the young workers' legs with it when they weren't meeting his high standards of productivity, but he was equally enthusiastic about cracking skulls, given the chance. Cathal swung out, his hand whipping forward, and Cowen's heavy bunch of keys struck McCoughlan squarely in the face. The man cried out and clutched his face, swiping wildly with his club. Cathal rolled in under the swinging club to slam the heel of his shoe into McCoughlan's groin. McCoughlan squealed and folded in half, putting his head in easy reach of his opponent. Cathal whacked his own club into the side of the man's head with stunning force. McCoughlan collapsed to the floor, moaning dizzily.

Cathal grabbed his discarded shackles. They had been a tight fit on his ankles. He rolled the burly guard over onto his front and pinned his arms behind him. The shackles fit the man's wrists nicely. Cathal pulled the pistol from the holster on his belt, stood up and ran quietly up the tunnel.

Stopping at the mouth of the tunnel, looking out at the main cave, he saw Queg standing at a worktable nearby. A dark-skinned, tattooed, sturdy little gurrier with a shaved head, Queg was watching for the signal. Cathal slapped the wall twice, and Queg nodded. It was time for Gerald's flock of sheep to turn on its dogs.

A guard with a grizzly mop of hair and beard was standing nearby, shouting at one of the girls who had dropped her box of engimal parts on the floor. Another guard was staring over, distracted by the commotion. That one did not see the attack coming until it was too late—four boys jumped him, one hitting him over the head with a wooden bucket. The blow was enough to stun him so they could drag him to the ground. His wrists and ankles were swiftly bound with rope and engimal-gut.

A third guard saw what happened and pulled his revolver, shouting in alarm. His shouts were not heard over the noise of the machinery. Queg ran in front of him, yelling something and pointing off towards where Cathal was standing. A girl crawled up against the backs of the man's legs. The guard looked over at Cathal, and then Queg shoved the man as hard as he could. The guard toppled backwards over the girl and was set upon by five children. A shot went off and Queg lurched back and staggered to the side. He struggled to stay on his feet as a red stain spread through his shirt from the hole in his chest.

Everyone heard the gunshot. The bearded guard who had been about to beat the girl for dropping the engimal parts looked up, searching for the source of the sound. But the one who had fired the shot was out of sight on the ground. Letting go of the girl's arm, the grizzly guard stepped out between the worktables, his hand going to his belt to draw his own firearm. A mallet hit him across the shin, swung by a boy hiding under one of the tables. The man cried out and fell back against the table, lifting his leg to clutch it to him. More hands grabbed his other foot and pulled it out from under him. His gun was snatched from his belt and a gang of child workers quickly subdued him.

Keys were found. Shackles were unlocked. A shiver of fear and excitement spread through the wide space.

There were six guards—five had been taken care of. The sixth was coming out of the smaller cave where the slaughtering was carried out. A ferret-faced man with a bushy moustache, he froze as he found Cathal pressing the barrel of a revolver against the side of his head. Cathal put a finger to his lips and six children piled on top of the guard, flattening him against the floor. Cathal strode down the tunnel, pistol raised. The stout door was standing open. There were only two slaughterers here, and he found them on the verge of killing a bright-eye. There were two other tables and the room was filled with racks of various weapons, tools and means of slaughter. Another tunnel led to the pens where other engimals waited. The floor was littered with shards of engimal carapace, shreds of skin and lengths of engimal gut. The bright-eye, with its long, multi-hinged neck, turned its large illuminated eye towards Cathal with a pleading look. It was strapped to the heavy table. One man was holding a cleaver over its neck while the other struggled to hold its head still. They stopped what they were doing as they noticed the young man with the gun standing in the doorway, mild surprise written on their faces.