Salamander (39 page)

– Bringing the slave, he murmured to his companions. Not good for discipline.

Pica muttered a
pardon me
and darted around the women.

In front of her was a naked man. He stood in a shallow tub of water, gazing down at his own body, heedless of her startled stare. Beyond him stretched a long, high-ceilinged hall lined with doors. Vague figures moved in and out of shafts of light falling through narrow barred windows high in the walls.

A keeper stepped forward, his office made clear by the ring of keys on his belt and the iron-tipped staff he banged twice on the stone floor beside the naked man’s tub.

– Here was a doctor, the keeper announced in a stage bellow. He fell into a melancholic humour and developed a moral theory of the elements. Now he believes he will escape the fires of hell by immersing his feet in cold water. Go ahead, you may address him.

A red-faced man stepped forward and circled the tub, tilting his head inquisitively. The doctor’s head lifted slowly from the contemplation of his own flesh. He smiled and held out his hand.

– Go on, sir, the keeper nodded to the red-faced man. You can be assured he will do you no hurt.

The red-faced man grinned at his friends and gave his hand to the doctor, who pressed it warmly between both of his.

– He’s blessing you, sir, the keeper said.

– He looks damned familiar, you know, the red-faced man said, extricating his hand. I may have consulted him once. What’s the poor wretch’s name, keeper?

– We don’t use names here, sir. If you’re looking for someone in particular you have to go by trade, or type of mania, or edifying lesson inculcated by sight of the particular unfortunate. For example, in number seven here, we keep the Evils Attendant Upon Excessive Button-making.

The keeper tilted his staff at a cell door and as if on cue a face appeared in the barred window. The women uttered little shrieks and then began to titter.

– There will be a time, a soft voice said, when the feathered tribe holds not sole dominion over the skies.

– Speak up, please, someone in the crowd demanded.

– When I soar with my army of eagles, the voice went on, to do battle, for all humanity, with the pitiless stars.

– Bravo, the red-faced man said.

They moved away from the cell, the keeper leading them to a shallow, roped-off pit, where a manacled wildman crawled on all fours, his face shrouded in a mane of clotted grey hair.

– Our resident magistrate, the keeper announced. Proudest man in London. Sable and ermine, coat of arms.

The man in the pit ceased prowling to sniff at a wet brown stain on the earth floor.

– Only daughter ran off with a lowly schoolmaster, the keeper went on. Now her once-noble father dabbles in his own shite.

– She must have been in love, one of the taffeta women said.

– Indeed, ma’am. One madness often brings on another.

– Will he speak to us, keeper?

– Do you hear that, Your Honour? the keeper shouted into the pit. Some gentlefolk to converse with you.

– We wish to inquire about the cause of your misfortunes, the woman called down.

– She
went
, the magistrate growled up at them, tossing his head from side to side like a chained bear. She went. And she went. She went. She went. Then she went.

The red-faced man leaned over the pit.

– And then what did she do, m’lord?

The magistrate’s shriek rent the air and set off an echoing chorus up and down the gallery.

–
SHE WENT
.

Pica and Snow followed the tour down the long gallery, staying on the fringe of the group while the other sightseers peered through cell windows and into cages. Most of the inmates who had the freedom of the gallery paid no attention to the visitors. Some stood motionless or shuffled slowly about, their lips moving silently, their eyes staring into vacancy. Others were busy scrawling obscure diagrams in charcoal on the walls. One young man they passed, sitting against the wall with his knees drawn up, fixed Pica with blue, arresting eyes, reminding her of Djinn. She tried to imagine where the compositor was
now, what he was doing, but her thoughts could not pass beyond these dark walls

At the end of the long gallery the keeper stopped and tapped his iron-tipped staff against the floor.

– Second and third floors are up these stairs, ladies and gentlemen. There we keep the female inmates and the most dangerous lunatics. Not for the faint of heart.

– What about that gallery, keeper? the red-faced young man asked, pointing to a corridor to one side of the stairs.

– That’s for the new arrivals, sir. Can’t show you those until the doctors have decided just where they fit in, as part of the tableau. It’s all about arrangement, you see. That’s why we save the best for last.

He flourished his staff and the sightseeing party crowded after him up the stairs. Pica and Snow hung back until the others had all rounded the curve of the staircase, then they slipped down the side gallery. An attendant with a barrow and a broom stood lazily sweeping old straw out of an empty cell. When they passed him he did not even look up. In the cell opposite him two attendants were struggling with a man in the throes of a violent seizure. At the end of the gallery another keeper sat dozing in a chair, his hat over his eyes.

Pica found her father in an open cell heaped with straw, the wooden walls covered with gouged words and scribblings. Snow waited just outside the door to keep watch.

He was lying on his side, his back against the wall, in a torn shirt and breeches. Against the far wall of the narrow cell another man sat with his arms around his knees, the fingers of his hands locked together, his head and arms shaken continually with tremors.

– Father, Pica whispered.

The other man looked up when Pica entered, gaped at her with frightened eyes. She turned and knelt beside Flood. He gave no sign of having noticed her presence.

– He doesn’t say anything, the other man muttered, waving a palsied hand at Flood. I don’t think he should be here. I don’t want him here.

– I will take him away, Pica said.

– Yes. Please.

She stepped back out into the gallery. Snow handed her the cloak from the back of the dozing keeper’s chair.

– My boots, too, she whispered, tugging them off. See if they’ll fit him.

When she re-entered the cell the man with the palsy stamped his foot, raising a cloud of dust and chaff.

– Wake up. You’re going.

Flood raised his head and looked up at Pica, frowning.

– You brought the press last time.

– That was somewhere else. A long time ago.

He sat up, leaned back against the wall and looked up at her.

– Don’t let yourself get caught.

She held out her hand.

– Please, Father, get up now. They said we could leave.

Flood closed his eyes, shook his head.

– We can’t. He’s here.

– Who is, Father?

– Him, the man with the palsy said, pointing a shaking finger at the tall, black-robed figure standing in the hallway watching them.

– I’ve been speaking with the doctors, the Abbé de Saint-Foix said, nodding to Snow as he stepped past her into the cell. He bowed curtly towards Pica. They are unanimous, he said, that it would be best for your father to be surrendered to my care.

– I think it’s a good idea, the man with the palsy said.

Pica backed away from the Abbé and crouched beside Flood. Snow drew one of the pistols halfway out of her apron pocket.

– I would keep that hidden,
Captain
Amphitrite Snow, the Abbé said, frowning. Unless you truly
do
wish to be taken and hanged.

– How did you find us? Snow growled.

– After we parted in Alexandria, I tried to imagine what Pica and her father would do next. Where they might go to find the Countess. Evidently we had the same thought, that she might come to London, her longed-for City of the New.

– My mother is not here, Pica said.

– I did not come looking for
her
, the Abbé said. The time we spent together in the pasha’s employ was far too brief, and there is yet some unfinished business between us. I believe, mademoiselle, it should be clear what I want.

– Us, Pica said.

The Abbé smiled.

– I am not your grandfather, the Abbé said. Nor is this the pasha’s domain. I will settle for the press, the ink, the paper. And whatever you were given by the metallurgist. Very little, really, wouldn’t you agree, in exchange for your father’s freedom. And your own.

– Nothing, Flood said. They turned to him in surprise. His eyes were open and fixed on the Abbé. Isn’t that it, Abbé
Ezequiel? You once told me every book has a book of nothing concealed in it. Isn’t that what you’re really looking for?

He made an effort to rise and fell back against the wall. Pica took his arm, helped him to his feet.

– A book, he went on, that will return you to the paradise of your father’s library.

– You’re not as far gone as I had thought, the Abbé said, his voice setting each word down like a cold jewel on velvet. That is good. I am sure you would rather not spend the rest of your life in a place like this.

– Of course he wouldn’t, said the palsied man.

– Let us say you are right, the Abbé shrugged, about what I’m looking for. I would have thought, then, that you would be eager to show me what you’ve accomplished since we last met. After all, are we not really after the same thing, you and I? If one could print an infinite number of pages there would have to be, amid all those words, an infinite amount of nothing. Is that not so?

– I haven’t any answers for you, Flood said. Take what you will and make of it what you can.

The Abbé sighed.

– You
have
come to your senses. And thus we need not tarry much longer in this terrible place. If I may, though, let me suggest what you should do in order to guarantee your newfound liberty. When you leave here, return to your ship and, as soon as the tide permits, head downriver. My associates will meet you past Southend-on-Sea, and transfer the printing equipment to their vessel.

– And you? Snow asked with a dangerous grin. I hope you’ll be there with your
associates
.

– Be assured you will see me again, the Abbé said, moving towards the door, and I will hold you to the bargain we have made.

– We will hold you to it as well, Snow said. You have my word.

The Abbé stepped up to her and raised his hand. She stiffened but made no other movement as he tucked a loose curl of hair back under her straw bonnet.

– Your word, Captain Snow, is of little consequence to me.

– Well then, the palsied man said brightly. You’ll be going now.

Outside, the air had turned green and electric. The coachman’s horses snorted and tossed their heads.

– Pleasure to see you again, sir, the coachman said, doffing his hat to Flood and glancing back at the gates. I take it we need to use haste.

At Covent Garden, Snow left them in the coach and waded into the crowd to find the Turinis. By this time the sky had closed over and the first fat drops of rain were pattering on the awnings of the market stalls. People began running for shelter, and those who couldn’t find any were lifting baskets and newspapers over their heads. Pica turned from the window to look at her father, who had been drifting in and out of awareness since they left Bedlam. He lay back against the seat, his eyes closed.

Snow returned with Turini, Darka, and Miza. Lolo had just gone off with his hard-earned money to buy himself the toy he had seen in a shop window the day they arrived.

The rain was falling in earnest now, sweeping across the square in slashing gusts. Turini stowed his collapsible scaffold
on the back of the coach and was about to set off in search of Lolo when the boy appeared, dashing through the rain with his hand tucked under his coat. When he reached them they all climbed into the hackney coach, dripping. Pica shouted to the coachman to take them to the nearest landing place.

– Savoy Stairs it is, miss.

The coach started off and she settled back, glancing across at her father to see that he was still sleeping quietly, despite the noise Lolo and his sister were making as they quarrelled over his prize. Turini growled at them. They left off arguing and took turns blowing on the whirligig so that the loop of cardpaper spun on the end of its curiously contrived wheel. Pica saw now that there were tiny paper figures affixed to either side of the loop.

The rain roared on the coach roof. She leaned closer.

On one side a rider on horseback. On the other side another rider, galloping upside down and in the opposite direction from the first. When Lolo spun the wheel, she could see that the riders were in fact both travelling in the same direction. Pursuing one another.

– May I see that?

Reluctantly, Lolo surrendered the toy to Pica. She set it spinning and saw that she had been right. Tracing the twisting path of the riders she saw that they galloped on the same side of the paper ribbon. Or was it that the ribbon really only had one side?

Pica slid the window open, stuck her head out into the rain and shouted to the coachman. The coach slithered to a halt on the muddy pavement. She leaned towards Lolo and held up the whirligig.

– Can you show me where you got this?

The boy looked up at his father, who nodded.

– Cabinet of Wonders, Lolo said.

Pica glanced at Flood, who was stirring restlessly in his sleep.

– We’ll get him to the ship, Snow said, swinging open the door.

Tucking the whirligig into her breast pocket, Pica climbed out of the coach after Lolo. She let him take the lead back along the street to Covent Garden. Pelted by the driving rain they dashed across its flooded, empty expanse and down the slope of a narrow, winding alley. Lolo soon outpaced her and she called to him to wait, but the water pouring from the spouts of the eaves drowned out her voice.

She ran, slashing through puddles and slipping in her thin shoes, under an arcade and around the curve of a lane of shops, where at last she saw the sign she had barely noticed that first day, the name painted in green and black above a deep-set narrow door.