Part One 4 page

Stanley was hopping with impatience. "What have we got?"

"Mouler glasses, couple of elemental spheres... documents... and money. Lots of it."

"Good. Hurry up. We've got five minutes."

"I know."

Kitty shut the bag and left the office without haste. Fred and Stanley had already departed through the window, and were hovering impatiently outside. Kitty crossed the room, jumped out into the yard, and set off toward the gate. A moment later, with an odd intuition, she glanced over her shoulder—just in time to see Fred tossing something back into the storeroom.

She stopped dead. "What the hell was that?"

"No time to chat, Kitty." Fred and Stanley hurried past her. "Play's starting."

"What did you just do?"

Stanley winked as they trotted out onto the road. "Inferno stick. Little present for them." At his side, Fred was chuckling.

"That wasn't the plan! This was a raid only!" She could smell the smoke already, drifting on the air. They rounded the corner past the front of the shop.

"We can't take the carpets, can we? So why leave them to be sold to the magicians? Can't have pity for collaborators, Kitty. They deserve it."

"We could get caught..."

"We won't. Relax. Besides, a little boring break-in won't make the headlines, will it? But a break-in and fire will."

White with rage, fingers clenched on the handles of the bag, Kitty strolled beside them up the road. This wasn't about publicity—this was Stanley challenging her authority again, more seriously than before. It was her plan, her strategy, and he'd deliberately undercut it. She'd have to take action now, no question. Sooner or later, he'd get them all killed.

At the front of the Metropolitan Theatre, an intermittent bell was ringing, and the dregs of the audience were slipping back inside its doors. Kitty, Stanley, and Fred joined them without breaking pace, and a few moments later subsided in their seats once more. The orchestra was warming up again; onstage, the safety curtain had been raised.

Still shaking with fury, Kitty placed her bag between her feet. As she did so, Stanley turned his head and grinned. "Trust me," he whispered. "We'll be front-page news now. There won't be anything bigger than us tomorrow morning."

Simpkin

Half a mile north of the dark waters of the Thames, the merchants of the world gathered daily in the City District to barter, buy, and sell. As far as the eye could see the market stalls stretched, huddled under the eaves of the ancient houses like chicks beneath their mother's wing. There was no end to the richness on display: gold from southern Africa, silver nuggets from the Urals, Polynesian pearls, flakes of Baltic amber, precious stones of every hue, iridescent silks from Asia, and a thousand-other wonders. But most valuable of all were the magical artifacts that had been looted from old empires and brought to London to be sold.

At the heart of the City, at the junction of Cornhill and Poultry Streets, the supplicating cries of traders fell harshly on the ear. Only magicians were allowed into this central zone, And gray-uniformed police guarded the entrances to the fair.

Each stall here was crammed with items that claimed to be extraordinary. A cursory survey might reveal enchanted flutes and lyres from Greece; pots containing burial dirt from the royal cemeteries of Ur and Nimrud; frail gold artifacts from Tashkent, Samarkand, and other Silk Road towns; tribal totems from the North American wastes; Polynesian masks and effigies; peculiar skulls with crystals embedded in their mouths; Stone daggers, heavy with the taint of sacrifice, salvaged from the ruined temples of Tenochtitlán.

It was to this place that, once a week, late on Monday evenings, the eminent magician Sholto Pinn would make his stately way, to survey the competition, such as it was, and purchase any trifles that took his fancy.

Mid-June, and the sun was lowering behind the gables. Although the market itself, wedged between the buildings, was firmly encased in blue shadow, the street still reflected sufficient warmth for it to be a pleasant stroll for Mr. Pinn. He wore a white linen jacket and trousers, and a broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head. An ivory cane swung loosely in one hand; the other dabbed occasionally at his neck with an extensive yellow handkerchief.

Mr. Pinn's smart attire extended even to his polished shoes. This was despite the filth of the pavements, which were thick with evidence of a hundred hurried meals—discarded fruit, falafel wraps, nut and oyster shells, and scraps of fat and gristle. Mr. Pinn minded it not: wherever he chose to walk, the debris was swept away by an invisible hand.

As he progressed, he inspected the stalls on either side through his thick glass monocle. He wore a habitual expression of bored amusement—protection against the approaches of the merchants, who knew him well.

"Señor Pinn! I have here an embalmed hand of mysterious provenance! It was found in the Sahara—I suspect it to be the relic of a saint. I have resisted all comers, waiting for you..."

"Please halt a moment, Monsieur; see what I have in this strange obsidian box..."

"Observe this scrap of parchment, these runic symbols..."

"Mr. Pinn, sir, do not listen to these bandits! Your exquisite taste will tell you..."

"...this voluptuous statue..."

"...these dragons' teeth..."

"...this gourd..."

Mr. Pinn smiled blandly, scanned the items, ignored the merchants' cries, moved slowly on. He never purchased much; most of his supplies were flown directly to him from his agents working across the Empire. But even so, one could never tell. The fair was always worth a look.

The row ended with a stall piled high with glass and earthenware. Most of the samples were quite obviously recent forgeries, but a tiny blue-green pot with a sealed stopper caught Mr. Pinn's eye. He addressed the attendant casually. "This item. What is it?"

The seller was a young woman wearing a colorful headscarf. "Sir! It is a faience pot from Ombos in Old Egypt. It was found in a deep grave, under a heavy stone, next to the bones of a tall, winged man."

Mr. Pinn raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. Do you have this marvelous skeleton?"

"Alas, no. The bones were dispersed by an excitable crowd."

"How convenient. But the pot: it has not been opened?"

"No, sir. I believe it contains a djinni, or possibly a Pestilence. Buy it, open it, and see for yourself!"

Mr. Pinn picked up the pot and turned it over in his fat white fingers. "Hmm," he murmured. "It seems oddly heavy for its size. Perhaps a compressed spell.... Yes, the item is of some small interest.

What is your price?"

"For you, sir—a hundred pounds."

Mr. Pinn gave a hearty chuckle. "I am indeed wealthy, my dear; I am also not to be trifled with."

He snapped a finger, and with a rattling of pottery and a scrabbling of cloth, an unseen person clambered swiftly up one of the poles that supported the stall, skittered across the tarpaulin, and dropped lightly down upon the woman's back. She screamed. Mr. Pinn did not look up from the pot in his hand. "Bartering is all very well, my dear, but one should always begin at a sensible level. Now, why don't you suggest another figure? My assistant, Mr. Simpkin, will readily confirm if your price is worth considering."

A few minutes later the woman, blue-faced and choking from the grip of invisible fingers around her neck, finally stammered out a nominal sum. Mr. Pinn flipped a few coins onto the counter and departed in good humor, carrying his prize securely in his pocket. He left the fair and strode away down Poultry Street to where his car was waiting. Anyone blocking his path was brushed aside cursorily by the invisible hand.

Mr. Pinn heaved his bulk into the car and signaled the chauffeur to move off. Then, settling back into his seat, he spoke into thin air. "Simpkin."

"Yes, master?"

"I shall not be working late tonight. Tomorrow is Gladstone's Day, and Mr. Duvall is giving a dinner in our founder's honor. Regretfully, I must attend this dollop of tedium."

"Very good, master. Several crates arrived from Persepolis shortly after lunch. Do you wish me to start unpacking them?"

"I do. Sort and label anything of lesser importance. Leave unopened any parcel stamped with a red flame; that mark indicates a major treasure. You will also find a crate of stacked sandalwood slabs—take care with that; it contains a hidden box with a child mummy from the days of Sargon.

Persian customs are increasingly vigilant and my agent must become ever more inventive in his smuggling. Is that all clear?"

"Master, it is. I shall obey with zeal."

The car drew up before the golden pillars and bright displays of Pinn's Accoutrements. A rear door opened and closed, but Mr. Pinn remained inside. The car drew away into the Piccadilly traffic.

A short while later, a key rattled in the lock of the shop's front door; it opened, then drew softly shut again.

Minutes later, an extensive system of blue warning nodes extended up around the building on the fourth and fifth planes, coiled together at the top of the house and sealed itself. Pinn's Accoutrements was secured for the night.

Evening drew on. Traffic lessened on Piccadilly and few pedestrians passed the shop. Simpkin the foliot picked up a hooked rod in his tail and drew hinged wooden shutters down across the windows. One of them squeaked a little as it descended. With a tut of annoyance, Simpkin removed his semblance of invisibility, revealing himself to be small and lime green, with bow legs and a fussy expression. He located a can behind the counter and extended his tail up to oil the hinge. Then he swept the floor, emptied the bins, adjusted the mannequin display and, with the shop tidied to his satisfaction, dragged several large crates in from the backroom.

Before settling down to his task, Simpkin double-checked the magical alarm system with great care. Two years previously a vicious djinni had succeeded in getting in under his watch and many precious items had been destroyed. He had been lucky that the master had forgiven him, far luckier than he deserved. Even so, the memory of his punishments still made his essence tremble. It must never happen again.

The nodes were intact and vibrated warningly whenever he stepped near the walls. All was well.

Simpkin gained entry to the first crate, and began removing the wool-and-sawdust packing. The first item he came to was small and wrapped in tarry gauze; with expert fingers he removed the gauze and surveyed the object dubiously. It was a doll of sorts, made of bone, straw, and shell. Simpkin scratched a note in the accounts with a long goose quill. Mediterranean Basin, 4,000 years old approx. Curiosity value only. Of insignificant worth. He placed it on the counter and continued delving.

Time passed. Simpkin was on the penultimate crate. It was the one stuffed with sandalwood, and he was carefully picking through it in search of the smuggled mummy when he first heard the rumbling sounds. What were they? Car traffic? No—they stopped and started too abruptly. Perhaps rolls of distant thunder?

The noises grew louder and more disquieting. Simpkin laid down his quill and listened, his round head slightly to one side. Strange, disjointed crashes... punctuated by heavy thudding. Where did they come from? Somewhere beyond the shop, that was obvious, but from which direction?

He hopped to his feet and cautiously approaching the nearest window, raised the shutters briefly.

Beyond the blue security nodes, Piccadilly was dark and empty. There were few lights on in the houses opposite and little traffic. He could see nothing to explain the sounds.

He listened again. They were stronger now; in fact, they seemed to be coming from somewhere behind him, back within the recesses of the building.... Simpkin lowered the shutter, his tail swishing uneasily. Retreating a little, he stretched behind the counter and retrieved a large and knobbly club.

With this in hand, he padded to the storeroom door and peered inside.

The room was as normal: filled with stacks of crates and cardboard boxes and shelves of artifacts being prepared for show or sale. The electric light in the ceiling hummed gently. Simpkin returned to the shop floor, frowning in puzzlement. The noises were quite loud now—something, somewhere, was being smashed. Should he perhaps alert the master? No. An unwise thought. Mr.

Pinn disliked being bothered unnecessarily. It was best not to disturb him.

Another reverberating crash and the sound of breaking glass; for the first time, Simpkin's attention was drawn to the right-hand wall of Pinn's, which joined on directly to a delicatessen and wine merchant's. Very strange. He stepped forward to investigate. At that moment three things happened.

Half the wall exploded inward.

Something large stepped into the room.

All light in the shop went out.

Transfixed in the center of the floor, Simpkin could see nothing—neither on the first plane, nor on any of the other four to which he had access. A swath of ice-cold darkness had engulfed the shop, and deep within it, something moved. He heard a footstep, then a horrendous crashing noise from the direction of Mr. Pinn's antique porcelain. Another step followed, then a ripping and a rending that could come only from the racks of suits that Simpkin had so carefully hung that very morning.

Professional distress overcame his fear: he let out a groan of fury and, flexing the club, scraped it accidentally against the Counter.

The footsteps stopped. He sensed something peering in his direction. Simpkin froze. Darkness coiled about him.

He flicked his eyes back and forth. From memory, he knew he was only a few meters away from the nearest shuttered window. If he stepped backward now, perhaps he could reach it before—

Something stepped across the room toward him. It came with a heavy tread.

Simpkin tiptoed backward.

There was a sudden splintering noise midway across the room. He halted, wincing. That was the mahogany cabinet that Mr. Pinn was so fond of! Regency period, with ebony handles and lapis lazuli inlays! What a terrible disaster!

He forced himself to concentrate. Only a couple of yards more to the window. Keep going... he was almost there. The heavy tread came after him, each step a ringing concussion against the floor.

A sudden clatter and screeching of torn metal. Oh—now that was too much! Those racks of protective silver necklaces had taken him an age to sort!

In his outrage, he paused again. The footsteps were closer now. Simpkin hurriedly tottered a little farther and his searching fingers touched the metal shutters. He felt the warning nodes vibrating beyond it. All he had to do was break his way through.

But Mr. Pinn had instructed him to remain within the shop at all times, to protect it with his life.

True, it was not an official charge, made in a pentacle. He hadn't had one of those for years. So he could disobey it, if he chose.... But what would Mr. Pinn say if he left his post? The idea didn't bear thinking about.

A shuffling step beside him. A cold taint of earth and worms and clay.

If Simpkin had obeyed his instincts and turned tail and fled, he might yet have saved himself. The shutters could have been broken through, the alarm nodes torn open, he could have fallen out into the road. But years of willing subjugation to Mr. Pinn had robbed him of his initiative. He had forgotten how to do anything under his own volition. So he could do nothing but stand and tremble and utter hoarse squeaks of ever escalating pitch as the air about him grew grave-cold and slowly filled with an unseen presence.

He shrank back against the wall.

Right above him, glass shattered; he felt it cascading to the floor.

Mr. Pinn's Phoenician incense jars! Priceless!

He gave a cry of rage and, in his final moment, remembered the club held in his hand. Now, blindly, with all his strength, he swung it at last, lashing out at the looming dark that bent down to receive him.

Nathaniel

When dawn broke on the morning of Founder's Day, investigators from the Department of Internal Affairs had long been busy in Piccadilly. Ignoring the conventions of the holiday, which prescribed casual wear for all citizens, the officials were dressed in dark gray suits. From a distance, as they clambered ceaselessly over the rubble of the ruined shops, they resembled ants toiling on a mound. In every direction men and women were at work, bending to the floor, straightening, placing fragments of debris in plastic bags with tweezers or inspecting minute stains upon the walls. They wrote in notebooks and scribbled diagrams on parchment strips. More peculiarly, or so it seemed to the crowd loitering beyond the yellow warning flags, they uttered orders and made curt signals into the empty air. These directions were often accompanied by little unexpected air currents, or faint rushing noises that suggested swift and certain movement—sensations that nagged uncomfortably at the imaginations of the onlookers until they suddenly remembered other engagements and went elsewhere.

Standing atop the pile of masonry that spread from Pinn's Accoutrements, Nathaniel watched the commoners depart. He did not blame them for their curiosity.

Piccadilly was in turmoil. All the way from Grebe's to Pinn's, each shop had been disemboweled, its contents scrambled and disgorged out into the road through broken doors and windows. Foodstuffs, books, suits, and artifacts lay sad and ruined amid a mess of glass, wood, and broken stone. Inside the buildings the scene was even worse. Each of these shops had an ancient, noble pedigree; each had been ravaged beyond repair. Shelves and counters, stands and draperies lay bludgeoned into fragments, the valuable produce smashed and crushed and ground into the dust.

The scene was overwhelming, but it was also very odd. Something appeared to have passed through the partition walls between the shops, in a roughly straight line. Standing indoors at one end of the devastation zone, it was possible to gaze right down the length of the block, through the shells of all five shops, and see workers moving in the rubble at the other end. Also, only the ground floors of the buildings had suffered. The upper reaches were untouched.

Nathaniel tapped his pen against his teeth. Strange.... It was unlike any Resistance attack he had ever seen. Far more devastating, for one thing. And its exact cause was quite unclear.

A young woman appeared amid the debris of a nearby window. "Hey, Mandrake!"

"Yes, Fennel?"

"Tallow wants to speak with you. He's just inside."

The boy frowned slightly, but turned, and treading delicately to avoid getting too much brick dust on his patent leather shoes, descended the rubble into the murk of the ruined building. A short, burly figure, wearing a dark suit and a hat with a wide brim, stood in what had once been the center of the shop. Nathaniel approached.

"You wanted me, Mr. Tallow?"

The minister gestured brusquely all around. "I want your opinion. What would you say happened here?"

"No idea, sir," Nathaniel said brightly. "But it's very interesting."

"I don't care how interesting it is," the minister snapped. "I don't pay you to be interested. I want a solution. What do you think it means?"

"I can't say yet, sir."

"What good is that to me? It's not worth a farthing! People are going to want answers, Mandrake, and we have to supply them."

"Yes, sir. Perhaps if I could continue looking around, sir, I might—"

"Answer me this," Tallow said. "What do you think did it?"

Nathaniel sighed. He did not miss the desperation in the minister's voice. Tallow was feeling the pressure now; such a brazen attack on Gladstone's Day would not go down well with their superiors.

"Demon, sir," he said. "An afrit could wreak such destruction. Or a marid."

Mr. Tallow ran a yellowish hand wearily across his face. "No such entity was involved. Our boys sent spheres into the block while the enemy was still within. Shortly before they vanished, they reported no sign of demon activity."

"Forgive me, Mr. Tallow, but that can't be true. Human agencies couldn't do this."

The minister cursed. "So you say, Mandrake. But in all honesty, how much have you yet discovered about how the Resistance operates? The answer is not very much." There was an unpleasant edge to his tone.

"What makes you think this was the Resistance, sir?" Nathaniel kept his voice calm. He could see the way this was going: Tallow would do his best to foist as much blame as possible onto his assistant's shoulders. "It's very different from their known attacks," he continued. "A completely different scale."

"Until we get evidence otherwise, Mandrake, they are the most likely suspects. They're the ones who go in for random destruction like this."

"Yes, but just with mouler glasses, small-time stuff. They couldn't wreck a whole block, especially without demons' magic."

"Perhaps they had other methods, Mandrake. Now, run me again through the events of last night."

"Yes, sir; it would be a pleasure." And a complete waste of time. Inwardly fuming, Nathaniel consulted his vellum notebook for a few moments. "Well, sir, at some time around midnight, witnesses living in the apartments across Piccadilly summoned the Night Police, describing disturbing noises coming from Grebe's Luxuries at one end of the block. The police arrived, to find a large hole blown in the end wall, and Mr. Grebe's best caviar and champagne scattered all over the pavement. A terrible waste, if I may say so, sir. By this time, tremendous crashes were coming from Dasheh's Silk Emporium two doors down; the officers peered through the windows, but all the lights had been extinguished inside and the source was not clear. It might be worth mentioning here, sir," the boy added, looking up from the notebook, "that today all electric lights are fully functioning in the buildings."

The minister made an irritable gesture and kicked at the remnants of a small doll made of bone and shell, lying in the debris of the floor. "The significance being?"

"That whatever entered here had the effect of blocking out all light. It's another oddity, sir. Be that as it may.... the Night Police commander sent his men inside. Six of them, sir. Highly trained and savage. They entered through the window of Coot's Delicatessen, one after the other, close to where the crashing noise was sounding. After that, it all went quiet.... Then there were six small flashes of blue light from inside the shop. One after the other. No big noise, nothing. All was dark again. The commander waited, but his men didn't come back. A little later, he heard the crashing again, somewhere up near Pinn's. By this time, about 1:25 A.M., magicians from Security had arrived and had sealed the whole block in a nexus. Search spheres were sent in, as you mentioned, sir. They promptly vanished... Not long afterward, at 1:45, something broke through the nexus at the rear of the building. We don't know what, because the demons stationed there have disappeared, too."

The boy closed the notebook. "And that's all we know, sir. Six police casualties, plus eight Security demons gone.... Oh, and Mr. Pinn's assistant." He glanced over at the far wall of the building, where a small heap of charcoal gently smoldered. "The financial costs are of course far greater."

It was not clear that Mr. Tallow had gained much from the account; he grunted irritably and turned away. A black-suited magician with a gaunt, sallow face passed through the rubble, carrying a small golden cage with an imp sitting in it. Every now and then the imp shook the bars furiously with its claws.

Mr. Tallow addressed the man as he passed. "Ffoukes, has there been any word back yet from Ms. Whitwell?"

"Yes, sir. She requests results in double-quick time. Her words, sir."

"I see. Does the imp's condition suggest any pestilence or poison remaining in the next shop?"

"No sir. He is as limber as a ferret, and twice as evil. There is no danger."

"Very well. Thank you, Ffoukes."

As Ffoukes moved off, he spoke sidelong to Nathaniel. "You're going to have to work overtime on this one, Mandrake. The P.M.'s not at all happy, from what I hear." He grinned, departed; the rattle of the imp's cage faded slowly into the distance.

Stony-faced, Nathaniel swept his hair back behind one ear, and turned to follow Tallow, who was picking his way among the rubble of the room. "Mandrake, we will inspect the remains of the police officers. Have you eaten breakfast?"

"No, sir."

"Just as well. We must go next door, to Coot's Delicatessen." He sighed. "I used to get good caviar there."

They came to the partition wall leading to the next establishment. It had been staved clean through. Here, the minister paused.

"Now, Mandrake," he said. "Use that brain of yours that we've heard so much about, and tell me what you deduce from this hole."

Despite himself, Nathaniel enjoyed tests such as this. He adjusted his cuffs and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "It gives us some idea of the perpetrator's size and shape," he began. "The Ceiling's thirteen feet high here, but the hole's only ten feet tall: so whatever made it is unlikely to be larger than that. Breadth of hole three and a half feet, so judging by the relative dimensions of height and width, I'd say it could be man-shaped, although obviously much bigger. But more interesting than that is the way the hole was made—" He broke off, rubbing his chin in what he hoped was a clever, mulling sort of way.

"Obvious enough so far. Go on."

Nathaniel did not believe Mr. Tallow had already made such calculations. "Well sir, if the enemy had used a Detonation or some similar explosive magic, the bricks in the way would have been vaporized, or shattered into small fragments. Yet here they are, snapped and broken at the edges certainly, but many of them still mortared together in solid chunks. I'd say whatever broke in here simply pushed its way through, sir, swiped the wall aside as if it didn't exist."

He waited, but the minister just nodded, as if with unutterable boredom. "So...?"

"So, sir..." The boy gritted his teeth; he knew he was being made to do his leader's thinking for him, and resented it with a passion. "So... that makes an afrit or marid less likely. They'd blast their way through. It's not a conventional demon we're dealing with." That was it; Tallow wasn't getting a word more out of him.

But the minister seemed satisfied for the moment. "My thoughts exactly, Mandrake, my thoughts exactly. Well, well, so many questions.... And over here is another." He levered himself up and over the space in the wall into the next shop. Glowering, the boy followed. Julius Tallow was a fool. He appeared complacent, but like a weak swimmer out of his depth, his legs were kicking frantically under the surface, trying to keep him afloat. Whatever happened, Nathaniel did not intend to sink with him.

The air in Coot's Delicatessen carried a strong taint, sharp and unpleasant. Nathaniel reached into his breast pocket for his voluminous colored handkerchief and held it under his nose. He stepped gingerly into the dim interior. Vats of olives and pickled anchovies had been broached and the contents spilled; their smell combined nastily with something denser, more acidic. A trace of burning.

Nathaniel's eyes stung a little. He coughed into his handkerchief.

"So here they are: Duvall's best men." Tallow's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Six conical piles of jet-black ash and bones were dotted here and there across the shop floor. In the nearest, a couple of sharp canine teeth were clearly visible; also the end of a long thin bone, perhaps the policeman's tibia. Most of the body had been completely consumed. The boy bit his lip and swallowed.

"Got to get used to this kind of thing in Internal Affairs," the magician said heartily. "Feel free to step outside if you're feeling faint, John."

Date: 2015-02-28; view: 751