The Martian Ambassador (8 page)

In Which an Agent Provocateur

Reveals Himself

Thomas Blackwood opened his eyes, unsure of where he was, unsure even of
who
he was. He seemed to recall a dream – no, a
nightmare
, filled with terrible visions of monstrous things writhing upon blasphemous alien landscapes. He recalled something unclean and invisible clawing at his mind – at his very soul – with hideous insistence, and he recalled experiencing the absolute certainty that his mind and soul were about to be devoured...

As he lay there, the memory of his own identity and location gradually returned, and he took in a great heaving breath and raised a hand to his throbbing head. ‘Good grief!’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘What the dickens happened?’

‘Mr Blackwood?’ said a woman’s voice, somewhere off to his left.

‘Mrs Butters?’ he replied, turning his head.

‘I am Lady Sophia Harrington,’ said the woman, who had moved to his side. When he tried to sit up, she laid a hand upon his chest. ‘No, lie still. You need to rest. You have had a very narrow escape.’

‘Escape? From what?’

‘From the ætherial virus with which your cogitator was infected.’

At these words, the memories flooded Blackwood’s awareness, and he cried, ‘The virus! My God, we must get out, now!’

‘Hush, Mr Blackwood!’ she said sternly, pushing him firmly back onto the couch on which he lay. ‘The danger has passed, I assure you.’

‘Passed? How?’

Lady Sophia indicated the cogitator sitting on Blackwood’s desk. The scrying glass had been smashed. Jagged shards lay upon the desk and the floor around it. ‘I broke the glass,’ she explained, ‘with the small clock on the table by the door. I fear,’ she added with a rueful smile, ‘that both the clock and the cogitator are beyond repair.’

‘Apologies are quite unnecessary, Lady Sophia,’ said Blackwood as he slowly sat up, waving away her protests. ‘They are a small price to pay for my life and soul. I owe you my profoundest thanks.’

She nodded, and Blackwood regarded her more closely. He guessed her to be somewhere in her late twenties. She was dressed conservatively but elegantly in a grey jacket and long skirt, but it was not her dress which captivated his attention. The concerned frown which clouded her features could not hide the fact that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Her dark hair shone with a rich, almost jewel-like lustre, and her deep brown, almond-shaped eyes gleamed with intelligence, compassion and – Blackwood thought – a subtle humour.

Discomfited somewhat by these impressions, Blackwood shook them from his mind and stood up unsteadily.

‘I really do think you should lie still for a while longer, sir,’ said Sophia. ‘To experience something like this...’

‘I assure you I’m quite all right,’ said Blackwood, harshly. He brought himself up and smiled at his guest. ‘Forgive me, your Ladyship; I didn’t mean to speak so. But I dislike being fussed over; I have enough of that from my housekeeper...’

‘The Mrs Butters you mentioned?’

‘Indeed...’

At that moment, they heard the apartment’s front door opening and closing, and bustling footsteps sounding along the corridor leading to Blackwood’s study. As if summoned by the very mention of her name, Mrs Butters poked her large, matronly head around the study’s half-open door.

‘Ooh! Pardon me, Mr Blackwood, I didn’t realise you was...’ Her voice trailed off as she took in her employer’s haggard expression and the shards of glass scattered everywhere. ‘Oh, my! Whatever ’as ’appened?’

‘Nothing, Mrs Butters,’ Blackwood replied. ‘A minor accident – do not concern yourself.’

‘But there’s glass everywhere!’ the housekeeper exclaimed. ‘An accident it may well be, but minor it most certainly ain’t! Oh my, oh my! Now, you take the young lady into the sitting room, while I fetch a dustpan and brush...’

‘Mrs Butters,’ said Blackwood in a tone which struck Sophia as grimly determined, ‘fetch the dustpan and brush by all means, but
I
will clean up the mess.’

The housekeeper looked at her employer askance for a moment and then bustled out of the room, muttering, ‘Oh well, ’ave it your own way, Mr Blackwood. I’m quite sure I was only trying to be of service...’

‘And bring me the laudanum,’ Blackwood called after her, ‘for I have a damnable headache!’

Sophia’s eyes widened a little at the profanity, and she raised a long-fingered hand to hide the smile that played suddenly upon her lips.

Mrs Butters brought the cleaning implements and a little dark-brown bottle, which Blackwood took off her before ushering her out of the room. He went to a table by the window, on which stood several glasses and decanters, and poured himself a large brandy, to which he added a drop from the little bottle. Sophia watched him in silence. He seemed to have regained his vigour with remarkable speed, considering the horrific ordeal he had just endured. She waited patiently while he downed the brandy in two large gulps.

Without looking at her, he said, ‘Let me assure you, Lady Sophia, that I don’t usually take this type of refreshment at this time of day.’

‘Not at all, Mr Blackwood.’

‘But I fear my manners have deserted me. Would you care for some tea, coffee?’

‘Thank you, no.’

Blackwood brought forward a chair from a far corner of the room. ‘Please sit.’

Sophia nodded her thanks and sat on the chair, while Blackwood, suitably fortified by the brandy and laudanum, busied himself with sweeping up the jagged shards of the cogitator’s scrying glass.

As he worked, he said, ‘Notwithstanding my gratitude, I must confess I’m puzzled...’

‘In short, you’re wondering who I am and what I am doing in your rooms,’ said Sophia.

Blackwood nodded.

‘The doorman let me into the building,’ she explained, ‘and when I reached the door to your apartments, I heard screaming coming from within. I entered as quickly as I could and found you in here, on the floor, with that... that unspeakable thing emerging from the cogitator’s glass. I knew that the only way to sever the link with the Æther was to smash the glass, so I took up the first object that came to hand, and...’

‘And saved me from shrieking madness,’ said Blackwood with a grim smile. ‘Again, thank you. But how did you get in so quickly?’

Sophia opened her purse and withdrew a small metal device from which several sharp prongs sprouted.

‘A lock-pick?’

Sophia nodded, a mischievous smile playing upon her lips.

‘Intriguing... but not as intriguing as the reason for your being here in the first place.’

The smile faded as Sophia replaced the device in her purse. Lowering her voice to little more than a whisper, she replied, ‘I was given your address by Grandfather...’

Blackwood barely hesitated as he swept the last of the shards into the dustpan. ‘Who?’

‘There is no need to feign ignorance, sir. You know of whom I’m speaking. I came here from the Bureau, at Grandfather’s suggestion.’

Blackwood stood up and regarded his guest with a frown. ‘If you’ll forgive my saying so, Lady Sophia, you are full of surprises.’

‘An observation which I shall take as a compliment, Mr Blackwood.’

He gave a slight bow, a sardonic glint in his eye, and was about to say something more, when a slight movement over Sophia’s left shoulder caught his attention, and he froze. One of the books on a far shelf had shifted a little, as if nudged forward from behind.

Sophia saw the expression on Blackwood’s face. ‘Sir...?’

He held up a peremptory hand, pressing one finger to his lips.
Is something there?
he thought.
Could something from that God-forsaken world have remained when the glass was broken?
Suppressing a shudder, he approached the bookshelf with slow, careful steps, his nerves drawn tight as strings, his breath held in his breast.

The book – a slim leather-bound edition of Bulwer-Lytton – was at his eye level. Reaching out, he placed his index finger on top of the spine and pulled the book suddenly from the shelf.

There was a miniature explosion of tiny wings and lilac haze, and a loud
thrrrrrrr!
as a diminutive, human-like figure flew from the shelf with a raucous screech.

Shocked, Blackwood recoiled halfway across the room, nearly colliding with Sophia, who had stood up and was watching him intently. ‘
What the deuce?
’ he shouted.

‘A denizen of Faerie!’ exclaimed Sophia in delight.

‘It’s not my fault, sir!’ cried the little man as he whirred about the room in the utmost agitation. ‘Please don’t blame me! There was nothing we could do!’

‘The Helper!’ cried Blackwood. ‘What happened to my cogitator, you little oaf?’

‘Mr Blackwood!’ said Sophia. ‘Kindly lower your voice. The poor little thing is half out of his mind with fear.’

‘He’ll have a good deal to be fearful
of
if I get my hands on him. Come here, you little blighter!’

‘Mr Blackwood, notwithstanding the fact that this is your home, I assure you I will hear no more talk like that.’

Blackwood stopped trying to catch the little man, who was still flitting here and there in panic, and turned to look at his guest. She was standing with hands on hips, regarding him with furious, unblinking eyes, her lips set in grim determination. The Special Investigator felt his own resolve draining out of him in the face of this striking example of womanly fortitude, and he realised, belatedly, that he must have cut a quite ridiculous figure, hopping and jumping around the room like a boy chasing a butterfly.

‘My apologies, Lady Sophia.’

‘That’s better,’ she said, and raised her eyes to the ceiling, where the Helper was still fluttering. ‘Come here, little fellow,’ she called gently. ‘I won’t hurt you.’

‘It’s not you I’m worried about!’ cried the little man.

‘He won’t hurt you either...
will
you, Mr Blackwood?’

Blackwood sighed. ‘No... no, of course not. Come down from there, there’s a good chap.’

After several moments’ hesitation, the Helper descended from the ceiling, alighting in Sophia’s outstretched hand. ‘There now,’ she said with a smile of great affection. ‘I take it you are from Mr Blackwood’s cogitator?’

‘That I am, ma’am,’ replied the little man with a low, theatrical bow.

‘He’s the Helper,’ said Blackwood. ‘Although I’m bound to say that appears to be something of a misnomer.’

‘If you please, sir!’ said Sophia in an exasperated tone. ‘Now, my little friend, won’t you tell us what happened?’

‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I’m awful parched. Do you think I might prevail upon you for a thimbleful of milk?’

‘Of course. Mr Blackwood, would you be so kind?’

Blackwood sighed and stalked from the room, wondering whether the Helper might also like a slice or two of roast beef and half a dozen oysters to go with it. Sophia and the Helper listened to him exchange a few curt words with Mrs Butters, who was in the kitchen preparing the vegetables for dinner.

‘It wasn’t my fault!’ said the Helper in a frightened whisper.

‘Hush now,’ Sophia replied in a gentle voice.

Blackwood returned to the study, holding one of his housekeeper’s thimbles between thumb and forefinger. He handed it to the Helper, who held it before him and breathed in deeply. He thanked Blackwood and handed the thimble back to him. Blackwood noted that the milk was still in it, although it appeared to have taken on a greenish tinge, as if it had suddenly gone sour.

‘That is how faeries drink in our world, Mr Blackwood,’ Sophia explained.

‘I see,’ he said, placing the thimble carefully on his desk beside the ruined cogitator. ‘Now, my good chap,’ he continued. ‘Perhaps you could tell us what happened here.’

‘First,’ said Sophia, ‘tell us your name, for I am quite certain it is not “Helper”.’

‘Indeed not, ma’am. My name is Shanahan.’

‘A fine name,’ Sophia smiled. ‘It means “ancient” in the Gaelic tongue, does it not?’

‘That it does, my lady!’ exclaimed Shanahan, clearly delighted. ‘And may I enquire as to your own name?’

‘My name is Sophia.’

‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance!’ said Shanahan, bowing again.

Blackwood raised his eyes to the ceiling and gave a loud sigh. He felt his headache returning and considered another drop of laudanum... and then considered downing the whole bottle. ‘If the pleasantries are concluded,’ he said, ‘might we now return to the matter at hand?’

‘Very well, sir.’ With a brief flutter of his dragonfly wings, Shanahan sat himself down in the palm of Sophia’s hand. ‘We completed the initialising procedure on the cogitator yesterday, just after you left, sir. All was well and in good order with the machine, and so we returned to the realm of Faerie to await your summons...’

‘My summons?’

‘Indeed, sir. We don’t spend
all
our time inside a cogitator. Only when the machine is switched on do we return and resume our duties within the processing chamber, according to the terms of our contract.’