Merciless Reason (31 page)

Nate felt a shock run through him as he heard those words. He spun round and Brutus's engimal claw rammed into his stomach, doubling him over. Daisy fumbled with the keys, trying to fit the right one into the lock. Brutus took her head in his left hand and thumped it against the door. She collapsed to the ground, her senses reeling.

Nate tried to straighten up against his cramped stomach, pulling the gun from his waistband. But a foot caught him across the side of the head and threw him against the wall of the corridor. The gun spun away along the floor. His reflexes took over and he lunged to one side to dodge the next kick. He tried to ignore the way it hit the wall with enough force to smash the plaster, and staggered to his feet, hands raised in a guard stance. Ducking under a swinging hook, he slammed his own fist into Brutus's ribs, then delivered two more blows to the giant's body and a jab to Brutus's jaw. The strikes made no impression at all. Nate kicked the inside of Brutus's knee, knocking the bigger man off-balance. He went to sweep the ogre's other leg, but Brutus sidestepped the sweep and stamped Nate's ankle to the ground, then seized his neck with the claw.

He lifted Nate clear off the ground and shoved him against the wall. Nate kicked at Brutus's groin and thighs, but he might as well have been striking the trunk of an oak tree for all the effect it had.

“It is my fault—I accept responsibility,” Brutus said as he began to crush Nate's throat. “I should have made a better man of you.”

“You're not him!” Nate choked, his teeth gritted, one hand clutching the claw to try and take the weight of his own body off his neck, the other flailing at the pocket of his jacket. “You've just read his words, his thoughts. You've stolen what he is, but you're not him!”

“You're fooling yourself, boy. But you were always good at that. It was one of your mother's naïve traits …”

“Don't say it …”

“No … I am your father!”

“Gaaaaaaagh!” Nate roared and, lifting his knee, drove his foot hard into Brutus's chest.

Daisy was on her knees behind the huge man, shaking her head as she tried to clear it. The power of the kick took the giant by surprise, hurling him back. He toppled over Daisy and his skull hit the wall behind him, striking the plaster hard enough to leave a dent and folding his head down against his chest. Brutus groaned and tried to straighten up, his hand at the back of his neck. Nate had fallen with him, but now pulled free, leaving scrapes in the sides of his neck from Brutus's claw. He rose up onto his knees, frantically trying to get something out of his pocket. Brutus had begun to recover almost as soon as he hit the ground, and the giant was getting to his feet when Nate held up a sheet of paper in front of his face.

“Here!
Here
! If you're really Edgar Wildenstern, then this was meant for you!”

Brutus, Edgar, was about to push the sheet of paper aside when he recognized the handwriting on it. With the tentative fingers of his left hand, he took it with surprising delicacy. The giant slumped back against the wall, sitting down to read the last words his wife had ever written.

“She wrote it the day she intended to leave you,” Nate said with a cough as he stood up and rubbed his neck. “I've been reading those words a lot.
I
have spent my entire married
life struggling to come to terms with the conflicting sides of your character—the implacable leader of men that is your public face, and the tender, loyal and loving husband that so few people see.
She loved you right up to the day you condemned her to an asylum. I have to say,
I
never saw the conflict in you. As far I ever knew, you were a complete bastard your whole damned life. And now you've come back to continue making our lives a misery, just as you did hers. You think
I've
betrayed the family? You've betrayed everyone who ever came close to you. Go back to Hell where you belong …
Father
.”

Daisy was standing now, leaning against the wall and looking anxiously at Edgar in this new, ancient form. It was just one more revelation in what was turning into a truly bizarre day. She picked out the right key and unlocked the door. Eamon Duffy was waiting at the bottom of the steps outside, with ten armed men who wore scarves around their faces to hide their identities.

“Mister Duffy … Eamon,” she greeted him.

“Your Graces,” he said, doffing his cap to her and Nate. “I believe Mister Gordon has left the building?”

“That is correct,” Daisy replied. “There's just the rest of the family to deal with. But I am certain that we might clear the building in good time and with a minimum loss of life if we can instill in them a lively terror. Is your main force on its way?”

“They'll be at the gates in twenty minutes,” he informed her. “Which should give us enough time to get started.”

He looked past her at Edgar, sitting slumped against the wall, the letter held in limp fingers. The giant man was rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes riveted to the words on the page. Duffy threw a questioning look at Daisy.

“Pay him no mind,” Nate grunted, studying his father's face. “He's done.”

“These will open all of the hall doors in the house,” Daisy told Duffy, handing him the keys. “You'll find cans of paraffin waiting for you in the housekeeping cupboards by the servants' elevators on the top three floors. That should be more than enough to get a hearty blaze going. In a building of this size, there will be no way to fight a major fire once it has set in on the upper floors. Take care you and your men do not get caught in the blaze yourself, Eamon. And remember that this building is booby-trapped throughout—you must make your way with extreme caution. The house is also full of combustibles, piped throughout with gas, and there are weapons stores containing gunpowder and live ammunition on a number of floors. Please try and make sure all the floors are cleared of people, but once you light your fires, you
must
flee the building.”

“You make a marvelous saboteur, ma'am,” he said, smiling. “I'd hate to have you as an enemy;

“Then it's just as well we can count each other as firm friends.”

“I'm sorry it had to be your home that got invaded, Daisy.”

“This horrible place is no longer my home, Eamon. I shall find another—one that does not turn my stomach. Burn this place with my blessing. Burn it to the ground.”

He tipped the peak of his cap.

“Yes, ma'am.”

XXXII

“POP GOES THE WEASEL”

CATHAL WOKE TO THE SOUND OF GUNFIRE
and, rolling to look at the door, immediately winced at the pain in his stump. Trying to keep his maimed arm as still as possible, he sat up and pushed off the blankets. The mines were cold and his body started shivering as he tossed the covers aside. The effects of the laudanum he had taken were wearing off and he glanced at the small green bottle on the bedside table, briefly pondering taking another dose, but decided against it.

There was no doubt about the sound—those were gunshots. His first thought was that the children were attempting another escape, or even stupidly trying to get to him. He should never have let them go on thinking that he was the Highwayboy, but it had offered them hope, even inspiration when there was none. Cathal had thought it a kind and pragmatic lie. He slowly shook his head from side to side, trying to judge how foggy his head still was after the drug. He had lied to give them hope and one of them had been shot dead, another almost killed and all of them were now sure to be punished for their transgression. And he had lost his hand.

He stood up. He was in his socks and underwear, but his clothes were draped over a wooden chair at the foot of the bed. Pulling on his trousers with some difficulty, hampered by having to do it with one hand, he tentatively pushed his bandaged stump through the right sleeve of his shirt. Moving it in any way changed the dull ache to a sharp spike of pain, and even the light fabric of the shirt seemed to drag across the bandage like sandpaper. Getting the left hand into its sleeve was surprisingly tricky. Doing up the buttons on the shirt was manageable, but when he sat down on the chair and started to push his feet into his shoes, his hands reached down for the laces on reflex. Except there was only one hand to work with. He lifted the laces of one shoe with his left hand, gazing bitterly at them, his stump poised to help. The trembling was making his teeth chatter, and he clenched them tightly shut. He finished pulling the shoes on, then pulled the laces tight and tucked them in the sides. Pulling on his jacket, he stood up, his head feeling clear enough to let him walk normally, though he was surprised to find the lack of a hand seemed to affect his balance a little bit.

When he opened the door to Gerald's cave-like study, the gunfire was only slightly more audible. Seeing Siren in its wire birdcage on Gerald's desk, Cathal walked across to it and opened the door of the cage. The engimal bird erupted from the cage in a mad flutter of wings, spiraling around the chamber, singing in a voice that sounded like someone playing a clarinet and a flute simultaneously while having a fit of the giggles. The music had a strange effect on Cathal, as if his emotions were strings and this creature was strumming them, as one would a guitar or a violin.

The sensation was like Gerald's manipulative music, but there was no sense the thing was trying to control him, merely reaching out to him instead. Siren had never had this effect on him before, and Cathal remembered what he had felt as his shape had begun to change when fighting Moby. How he had somehow unlocked some primal, natural urge. In that moment, he sensed the unmistakable shape of Siren's engimal mind in the air above him, and Siren chirped with pleasure as it felt the connection. But then it was gone, as if it were a momentary scent picked up on the wind.

Cathal hurriedly put his finger to his lips, shushing the creature, and it swooped down to him, coming to a rest on his shoulder. Cathal had spent enough time with Tatty for Siren to feel completely comfortable with him. She had even shown him some of the creature's simpler tricks. Cathal stroked its head gently, and it trilled nervously in his ear as he made his way out to the Engimal Works.

The children had come away from their workbenches and were crowded round the entrance to the tunnel leading to the surface. Two guards stood in front of the tunnel with pistols drawn. One of them was Cowen, the man Cathal had pushed head-first into the cesspit. Sirens claws tightened their grip on Cathal's shoulder, digging into the fabric of his jacket. Cowen glowered at Cathal, but kept his attention on the children in front of him.

“I'll say it one more time for the dense ones,” he rasped. “Get back to yer work! I'm warnin' yiz!”

“What's goin' on up there, Cowen?” Cathal asked, cradling his stump carefully.

“None o' of yer business!” the guard snapped back, but he was visibly nervous.

“It's not the police, is it?” Cathal persisted. “It's not the
army
?”

“It's nothin'!” Cowen barked. “Nobody's gettin' in here and none of yiz are gettin' out! Mister Gordon'll be here soon and he'll sort this, and it'll all be back to normal. This place is stronger than any fortress, and we've got the power of the Wildensterns behind us!
Now get back to work
!”

He pointed his gun at one child, and then another. Pip was near the front, and they were all edging slowly forwards.

“All right,” Cathal said to them. “Let's be careful. Do as he says.”

“But dere's only
two
of 'em, Mister Dempsey,” Pip muttered through gritted teeth. “Dey killed Queg, and now someone's come to get us out o' here. Dis is our chance!”

“We can take 'em!” one of the girls shouted.

“No,” Cathal said firmly. “I have a better idea. Just come away from them. They're scared and they're likely to shoot someone in a panic. Come away there, and we'll see what we can do.”

Curious to see what would happen, the children began to back off. This alarmed the guards even further.

“Don't go cookin' up any plans, you!” Cowen exclaimed, aiming his weapon at Cathal. “If anything happens, you'll be the first one I shoot!”

“That suits me fine,” Cathal retorted. “Both of you keep those guns on me. Let's just keep this calm now. Nobody here's goin' to lay a hand on you.” He raised his stump. “You have my word on that.”

When the children had backed away a few yards, Cathal murmured just loud enough for Siren to hear:

“Pop goes the weasel.”

Siren flew up from his shoulder, emitting a deep, haunting tune. The creature flew a couple of low circles over the children's heads as they watched in fascination. Then it swooped out and came in across them towards the guards. In a belated attempt to stop it, the two guards raised their guns and fired, but missed the tiny, moving target. Siren flew between them and, right at the instant when it was little more than two feet from either man's head, it let out a sound like the blast from a cannon. Both men screamed and fell away from the deafening sound, each one clutching a hand to his single burst eardrum.

The children descended on them before they could recover, and enthusiastically kicked the two men into unconsciousness.

Having securely tied up their captors, the children followed Cathal up the tunnel. Cathal had one pistol and Pip took the other. Siren returned to its perch on Cathal's shoulder. Some of the others carried lanterns, the light as low as possible, but put them out as they came into sight of the leviathan's mouth. It was open just a crack, and Red and five other men were firing rifles through the narrow gap at someone outside. Each shot was a loud, echoing detonation in the hard confined space of the mine. The rare bullet that made it through the leviathan's mouth from outside ricocheted dangerously along the tunnel.

“It'd take a cannon or explosives to get past that mouth,” Cathal said to Pip. “And with those bloody tentacles, nobody's going to be getting too close to the end of the tunnel. If that's the peelers out there, we need to help 'em get past Red and them before Gerald gets back. God only knows what he could do if he showed up.”

“We could rush 'em,” Pip suggested, brandishing the revolver.

It was clear from the way the boy held the weapon that he had never fired a pistol in his life. Cathal did not fancy the lad's chances in a shoot-out. He shook his head. He didn't want to risk anyone else getting shot unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Can you use deh bird again?” the boy asked.

Cathal shrugged.

“Could give it a try … It won't help open Moby up, though. We need to let those peelers in here somehow. I don't have the whistle any more. And that trick with Siren back there was something I learned from its mistress, but I only know how to get it to make one ‘bang' at a time. It was a one-off thing she taught the engimal as a defense against someone attackin' her. I can't play music to it … give it
instructions
, you know … do the Pied Piper bit like Gerald can …”

He went quiet for a minute, listening to the gunfire and the occasional shouts from Red's men. They were scared but confident, knowing the attackers would have to get past Moby to get into the tunnel. The coves were sure that they only had to hold out until Gerald returned. They had faith in his power—either to turn back the attacking forces with his political influence, or with his music.

“Just don't go turnin' into a monster again, Mister Dempsey,” Pip muttered. “I nearly soiled meself den—an' I only own one pair o' trousers.”

Cathal grimaced at the memory. And then he thought of the link he had sensed with Siren in Gerald's study. There had been something about his experience in the tunnel with Moby that had left a mark on him—as if a door in his mind had been opened and had not been properly shut. He wondered, could he force it open again? Did he want to?

He took the little engimal from his shoulder and cupped it in his hands, holding it near his face.

“I need you to understand me, Siren,” he said to it. “Can you understand me? I need you to go up there and sing out whatever note opens that great big bloody mouth. Can you do that for me? Go on, now. Go open that mouth, Siren!”

With a push of his hands, he sent the bird fluttering towards the gunfight, fervently hoping it would be too small to be caught by any stray shots. He glanced down at Pip. The boy was looking a bit dubious, but obviously didn't want to say anything. Cathal was feeling more confident, however, now that he had taken the step, showing faith in this link he had with the bird.

“Give it a chance,” he said to the boy.

“Aye, right. We'll watch and see what deh little birdie does,” the boy replied, carefully looking in any direction except Cathal's , “… But den I'm goin' to rush 'em.”

Siren flew silently towards the men crouched inside the leviathan's jaws. The tunnel was high up on the mountainside, with only the sheer wall of a cliff visible on the far side of the valley, so there was no way for the attackers to shoot at them from a distance. Red and his men were taking careful aim at anyone who came close enough to show their head at the bright square opening of the tunnel in front of them. The leviathan's flexible metal lips were parted about six inches, allowing the defenders to shoot out, but giving their attackers very little to aim at. And bullets made little impression on hide that had, for thousands of years, withstood the most fearsome predators and the crushing depths at the bottom of the sea. Even hand grenades were of little use, the tentacles seizing any that were thrown in and hurling them back out again.

The bird flickered in and out of sight as it neared the tunnel, only visible, like the men at the mouth, when it passed in front of the three-pointed star of light shining through the narrow gap. Cathal held his breath, his grip tightening on the handle of his gun. He thought he heard a whining sound, just at the highest range of his hearing, and then Moby's three-jawed mouth snapped open. Red and his men cried out in alarm, stumbling backwards. A figure leaped into sight at the opening to the tunnel, charging forwards, firing a revolver with each hand. He roared as he ran, shooting down one and then another of the defenders. Cathal let out a triumphant shout. Siren flew straight out of the tunnel and into the valley beyond … And then Moby's mouth slammed shut, throwing the tunnel into complete darkness.

“Ah, shite!” Cathal swore through his teeth.

He felt Pip lunge forward and run up the tunnel, but was too late to grab him. Pip fired off two shots into the pitch darkness, wasting ammunition. Cathal cursed again and started after him. Stumbling and tripping over the sleepers and rails as he ran, he tried to catch up to the boy, who fired another useless shot, the flash illuminating him for an instant and marking him as a target for anyone who might be aiming in that direction. Up ahead, other gunshots were going off, men were shouting, someone screamed. The muzzle-flashes gave the impression of chaos, each burst of light showing men standing in different positions, acts of violence frozen in after-images on Cathal's eyes as he blinked in the darkness. He was running blind, with no idea how far it was to the leviathan's mouth, or who might be ahead, waiting for him. More shots, the sounds of a struggle. He heard Pip fall and cry out just ahead, and Cathal was nearly hit by a bullet zipping past his face as the boy hit the ground and accidentally jerked on the trigger.