The Court of the Air

Chapter Sixteen

What is it?’ asked Molly, tapping the thick glass of the containment vessel. ‘It looks like a ball of rock.’

‘Here it is a ball of rock,’ replied Coppertracks, turning across the laboratory at the top of Tock House, his drone bodies moving out of the way in a perfectly synchronized ballet between the machines, tables and instruments crowding the space.

‘Ah, Coppertracks, do not make light of that cursed stuff and the problems it caused us — the deaths on the island,’ pleaded the commodore.

‘Dear mammal, master your fears. It has been inert for all the years since we left the Isla Needless.’

‘The rock was anything but inert then,’ said Nickleby, his face appearing distorted on the other side of the glass. ‘There were creatures made out of this material, Molly, things that attacked out of the stone and rocks. Half the boat’s crew had disappeared from our camp by the time we worked out what was stalking us.’

‘My poor plucky jacks,’ said Commodore Black. ‘Billy Topknot, Sally Gold, old Haggside Peter — there was never a finer group of tars to draw tanked air beneath the waves. I dug their graves with my own thin hungry fingers, lass. I threw the dirt of that terrible place over their cold dead faces.’

Molly stared closer. The black rock glistened under the gas light of the clock house chamber, little shards of silver and veins of metal visible through the containment glass. ‘A curious souvenir to keep.’

‘The miracle of life, Molly softbody,’ said Coppertracks, passing a tray of crystals to one of his drones. ‘Have you never wondered at how some objects in our universe possess a vital spark that makes them able to walk, think, feel. Comprehend and ponder their own place in the scheme of things — while others — even complex systems such as the weather or this rock here as it stands at the moment — do not.’

‘Nothing to do with your little contraption outside, then, Aliquot Coppertracks?’ said Nickleby.

Molly glanced to where the pensman was pointing, somewhere in the grounds of Tock House, beyond the orchard and the topiary garden, but she could see nothing there.

‘My scheme continues,’ said Coppertracks. Then to Molly, ‘Vibrations across the earthflow, my young softbody friend. We are not the only celestial body to orbit the sun. I believe there might be existences similar to our own on one or more of those bodies waiting to communicate with kindred intellects.’

Molly remembered the aeronaut’s tales from the penny dreadfuls — how cold it got when floatquakes sent chunks of land spinning towards the heavens. How warm the jack cloudies had to wrap up when they bravely raised their aerostats in pursuit. How thin the air became as their airships climbed in search of any survivors clinging onto the floating earth. Surely nothing could live beyond the sky? They would have to be ice-people, able to survive freezing temperatures — with the humps possessed by desert tribesmen; storing not water but instead holding the very air they needed to breathe. What a story that would make for the penny dreadfuls. Tales featuring strange life beyond the clouds. Perhaps one day there would be a market for celestial fiction in the stationers of Jackals.

‘So you squander our few remaining pennies on that blessed thing you’re raising in the grounds,’ said the commodore. ‘An artificial mother crystal, as if there’s going to be a crystalgrid operator happily biding their time on one of the moons, waiting to receive an order for cheese from the great Aliquot Coppertracks. Ah well, perhaps there’s a couple of moonlight-touched fools walking the streets of Middlesteel who’ll pay a few coins to see the thing when you’re done … to keep the butcher and his debt collectors at bay.’

‘My apparatus is not intended as a side-show amusement,’ said Coppertracks, angrily. ‘Any more than the apparatus which my colleague in the Royal Society has sent over — which I might remind you, commodore softbody, you are meant to be helping me assemble.’

Grumbling, the commodore left to fetch one of the last crates from the corridor’s dumb waiter. The slipthinker’s tireless mu-bodies were already busying themselves with a pyramid of machinery — sliding copper pistons being greased and fixed in place, glass lenses stacked in frames.

Nickleby lit his mumbleweed pipe and the clock chamber began to fill with sweet-scented smoke, not unpleasant, but too much of it made the bridge of Molly’s nose ache — Circle knew what it was doing to the inside of the pensman’s body.

‘The answer is in front of my face,’ said Nickleby from his chair. ‘There hasn’t been a Pitt Hill slaying in days now. That matches perfectly with what you discovered in Greenhall’s records. The price on your head, Molly, reflects the fact that whatever the reason for the death list being drawn up, you are one of the last to be found and targeted for murder.’

‘When someone is left on the poorhouse steps they are not meant to be found,’ said Molly.

‘The unfortunate circumstances of your birth worked in your favour this time, Molly,’ said Nickleby. ‘I have no doubt that if your mother had kept you, I would already have written up your murder for the crime and law section of The Illustrated. So, what else links you with those names on the list?’

‘Nothing at all,’ wheezed Black, returning with a box of equipment. ‘She’s a blessed child. A terrible young age to be thrown into the deadly games you involve us in, Silas.’

‘You have a point, commodore. Molly is the youngest of all the people on the Pitt Hill Slayer’s list of victims. But hardly a child anymore — she is nearly of an age to exercise the franchise.’

‘Marking a cross next to the name of some thieving Guardians on a ballot paper is small blessed compensation for being hunted down by a murdering gang of lunatics.’

‘There is method here-’ said Nickleby ‘- were we but able to see it.’

For the hundredth time he looked over the list of names which Binchy had copied down following the discovery in Greenhall’s engine rooms. The names that were confirmed as Pitt Hill Slayings were marked with a cross. Some of the victims had not been linked to the slayer by the police, too poor to warrant any investigation of substance. There were not that many of those. The majority of the names were from well-to-do families — educated, moneyed. The average age was mid to late thirties, a couple of victims had been in their twenties. Most but not all lived in Middlesteel. Molly was the youngest by far. Both sexes were represented about equally — but the victims were all human — no craynarbians, no steammen or graspers murdered by the Pitt Hill Slayer.

Molly sat down opposite the pensman. ‘So what connects these people to me?’

‘Nothing that I can see, Molly. You might as well ask what doesn’t connect you. In a game of odd one out, you would win every time against the names on this list. I do need to check on some of the people not originally linked to the Pitt Hill killings. I don’t have any details on them — one of them might be the link to you. There’s a butcher down on Ventry Lane. Ham Yard marked his death as suspicious, but finally chalked it up as an open verdict. How they thought he could have accidentally lost all his blood in his abattoir is beyond me. The crushers must have been waiting for the murderer to paint a sign on the wall saying “The Pitt Hill Slayer struck here”.’

‘Deduction is a science,’ said Coppertracks. ‘And it is science which will come to our aid in this matter.’

‘Your science is mortal heavy,’ puffed Commodore Black, lifting down the last of the boxes. ‘If it’s not a tonne weight of old journals I’m dragging in here for you to gobble down, it’s these strange machines of yours, full of mammoth pipes and fizzing with dark energies.’

Coppertracks moved through the throng of drones, his mu-bodies clambering over the half-assembled machine in the centre of the clock room. ‘The scientific method will prove its worth in this case, dear mammal. Lord Hartisburgh has been gracious enough to lend us his latest organic analyser — I would not like to return it to him broken.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t want to put you in poor standing with your wild friends at the Royal Society now. But could you not tinker with light little gases instead. Or we could convert the whole floor to a telescope for you to study the celestial movements — if you would promise to do it at night and not disturb the well deserved rest of an old submariner.’

‘Members of the institute are allowed to use the optics up at Prighty Hill,’ said Coppertracks. ‘And an installation here would hardly take up less space than this device. Blood, Molly softbody. That is what this dark affair turns on — someone sought out yours and that of all the others on that list. From the million Jackelian names on Greenhall’s transaction engine, only yours satisfied the criteria set by your tormentors. This machine will shine the bright light of science on those that seek to stay hidden in the shadows.’

‘I don’t doubt you, Coppertracks,’ said Molly. ‘I know all about the scientific method of detection. We managed to collect the entire series of penny sheets with Barclay and the Game Chicken at the poorhouse.’

Nickleby harrumphed. ‘Your penny dreadfuls can only begin to hint at the insufferable vanity of the man.’

‘You’ve met Barclay?’ Molly was in awe.

‘Our paths have crossed,’ said the pensman. ‘Barclay and his oaf of an associate. I am sure you will find, Molly, the contribution myself and Coppertracks made towards solving the case of the missing abbot was carefully overshadowed by the size of Barclay’s ego and the depth of his connections with the Dock Street press. If I have one consolation with this current grisly affair, it is that Barclay and Bird are not being consulted by Ham Yard or any of the victims’ families.’

‘Is he as rakish as his illustrations?’

‘Reality disappoints,’ was Nickleby’s terse reply as he burrowed with renewed vigour into the names on the list.

Coppertracks’ skull threw light off the nearly completed machine as its assembly was finalized. Gold spheres began to rotate on top of the machine as the mu-bodies connected the device’s steam stack to a vent at the side of the chamber. What the pensman’s far-off neighbours would think if they peered out from their windows and saw the clock tower venting steam the Circle only knew. Molly guessed that with Coppertracks’ eccentric interests they had probably seen worse and stranger in their time.

The wooden floor began to vibrate as the device’s transaction engine drums started rotating, steam now visible venting outside into the evening. A flight of startled egrets lifted off from the orchard in search of a more tranquil night’s rest.

‘Molly softbody,’ said Coppertracks. ‘Your assistance in my exploration is now required.’

Molly looked sceptically at the thing. ‘You’re sure it’s safe?’

‘I assure you, Lord Hartisburgh is an expert in his field and this is the very latest thing.’

‘He is not a surgeon, though, Coppertracks.’

‘Dear mammal, few surgeons could afford such an expense as this machine. Now, please, if you would submit some of your system juices I shall begin the analysis.’

Molly rolled up her sleeve as one of the diminutive drones climbed up on a bench, a syringe clutched in its pincer-like iron hands. ‘My system juices are precious to me, Aliquot Coppertracks. It’s not oil I can drain into a saucer for you to skim Gear-gi-ju cogs across the floor. Your rich merchant friend’s machine looks a little unstable to me.’

‘Hardly that,’ said Coppertracks, watching his mu-body drawing blood from Molly’s arm. ‘Its basic design is similar to the blood machines the constabulary use to establish citizen identity when they are sealing a district off for a crime sweep. Your system juices contain a unique biological metric that allows Greenhall to register your birth file. The metric also allows them to estimate your potential for criminal tendencies as well your pre-disposition to plagues — even your latent prospects for worldsinger talents.’ Coppertracks fed the blood into a glass container and it started to bubble, then drained away down into the machine.

‘Ah well,’ said the commodore, looking askance at the analyser as it banged and thumped on the floor. ‘At least you showed the sense to borrow the machine from your club. I would hate to see our funds eaten away procuring one of these blessed things for your studies.’

‘The Royal Society is not a club,’ said the steamman slip-thinker. ‘It is a organization for the furtherance of philosophical enquiries of the most fundamental and useful sort. Nobody there sits in leather chairs and puffs away on mumbleweed pipes, I can assure you of that.’

Molly pushed a handful of cotton gauze against the syringe mark on her arm, a tear of blood showing through the fabric. ‘A serious kind of place, then.’

‘Indeed, young softbody, indeed.’

Behind Coppertracks the device’s tape printer began winding out a reel of results with a gentle smacking sound from the print hammers. The interior of the steamman’s transparent skull sparked with excitement as he scanned down the tape, then forked angrily in a surge of energy as the implications of what he was reading sunk in.

‘Aliquot?’ said Nickleby.

‘What is it, Coppertracks?’ asked Molly.

‘My poor young softbody friend. By Zaka of the Cylinders’ beard, it is small wonder that they wish you dead.’

‘Out with it now,’ said Commodore Black. ‘Blessed Circle, what have you found with that fool machine of yours?’

Coppertracks dangled the tape from his iron fingers. ‘What have I found? Why my dear friends, I believe I have discovered why someone wrote a transaction engine ripper to scour Greenhall’s records. I have discovered why so many wealthy corpses have been turning up across Jackals drained of their vital system juices. And I have discovered why young Molly softbody must die!’

It was strange, Captain Flare considered, that the palace — once so opulent that even the ambassadors from Cassarabia would marvel at its giant chandeliers, its hundred Circlist chapels and private topiary gardens — had been reduced to the shell of a prison quite so perfectly. The room the Special Guardsman sat in, going over the arrangements for the coronation, had once seen intricate waltzes, glittering receptions, feasts of eel and river crab from the Gambleflowers and venison from the hunting lodges. Now its bare walls were decorated only by mould, washed off once a month by a staff that had centuries ago been reduced to a handful grudgingly paid for by the functionaries at Greenhall.

It was one of Greenhall’s junior administrators who was taking up his time now. The one commodity they were always generous with was their attention when it came to matters of centralised control.

‘The royal carriage is being renovated for the progress,’ said the civil servant. ‘The people will expect to see the prince firmly manacled to the holding cross in each town, fresh face-gags to be supplied at each stopover.’

‘With equally fresh fruit to throw at the boy, perhaps?’ suggested Flare, only half facetiously.

‘The citizens can bring their own rotting food, captain,’ said the administrator. ‘Now, I understand you have expressed reservations at the length of the royal progress.’

Flare nodded. ‘You cannot expect the Special Guard to visit half the towns in Jackals with the field strength your people have suggested. We have other duties to fulfil as well.’

‘What could be more important than your ceremonial duties as warders of the monarchy? The people are looking forward to a good show — there hasn’t been a coronation for nearly half a century. Let all our free people enjoy the shock of horror they feel, seeing a nearly crowned king with his arms still attached, reminding them he might yet use those corrupt limbs to snatch back the reins of power and reimpose the tyranny.’

‘Warders of the monarchy,’ spat Flare. ‘Hoggstone just wants an excuse to wine and dine the voters with his state-sponsored circus. Protect the people from the human sheep you keep locked up in the royal breeding house? I would have to go to the history books to find the date of the last act of royalist-inspired violence against anyone in Jackals. You want ticks on the ballot paper, not protection from the prince — the King.’

‘Greenhall serves no single party,’ said the administrator. ‘We serve the people.’

‘I am sure that sounds very impressive when you say it in Usglish,’ said Flare.

‘The people expect a couple of weeks of revels,’ retorted the functionary. ‘And we, captain, expect you back at the capital by the end of the month. There will be massive crowds vying for a position in Parliament Square, waiting for the surgeon royal to sever the boy’s arms and crown him the new king. It will be a glorious occasion, captain. There’s hardly an aerostat packet, canal boat passage or coaching billet into Middlesteel left to purchase in the whole of Jackals. I would not want to be the one to report to the House of Guardians any impediment to the start of the carnivals. Good Circle, man, fey powers or no, the people would rip you apart — there would be riots.’

Flare shook his head wearily. ‘I predict an early election this year.’

The two Special Guardsmen at the end of the chamber clicked their heels as the doors were flung open, the gust from the corridor catching their scarlet capes and lifting the administrator’s papers from the table. It was one of the worldsingers — one of the new acolytes. What was his name? Blundy.

‘Captain,’ said the worldsinger. ‘I have an urgent matter to report.’

Flare looked at the administrator. ‘If you would excuse us — it seems the guard has some business other than carnivals to discuss after all.’

‘I am sure what the gentleman from the order has to report will also be of interest to Greenhall,’ said the administrator.

‘This is urgent, captain,’ said the worldsinger, approaching the table.

‘Oh, very well,’ said Flare.

‘It is the King, captain.’

‘Alpheus?’ said Flare.

‘No, the old king — Julius. I was on the detail transferring his body to the undertaker at the royal breeding house. The taxidermists from the state museum didn’t want a repeat of what happened with Queen Marina’s body.’

The civil servant from Greenhall nodded in agreement. The corpse of Julius’s predecessor had been intercepted by an excitable mob and thrown into the Gambleflowers, swept away by the tidal pulls and lost to the sea. No body left to stuff and display.

‘You have my sympathy,’ said Flare. ‘But I am sure the smell is nothing a little rosewater won’t mask.’

‘You don’t understand. I was alone with his body. I was bored, curious — and I am still studying for my second flower.’

‘Does this conversation have a point, son?’ said Flare.

‘I thought I would practise a mind-touch summoning. Memories can last for days after death — it’s always good to practise.’

‘You practised on the King’s corpse?’ said the administrator. ‘That is disgusting. Dear Circle, do your superiors authorize that sort of thing?’

‘No,’ said the acolyte, shame-faced. ‘They would not approve if they knew. But it is practise — and I know now how the King died.’

‘Hardly a secret,’ said the administrator. ‘Nobody recovers from waterman’s sickness.’

‘There was one memory left — only one. It was strong enough to last for a week, probably. Prince Alpheus was suffocating his father with a pillow. The sense of betrayal and shock was so strong, I can still taste it.’

‘Alpheus murdered his own father?’ said the administrator. ‘When waterman’s sickness was about to kill him off anyway?’

‘I know it doesn’t make sense,’ said the worldsinger. ‘But the last memory was so strong. I could not have misread it. The pain in his soul was terrible.’

‘It changes nothing,’ said Flare. ‘Remember the revels, the carnivals, the riots if the people don’t get their holiday. The coronation must go ahead as scheduled.’

‘It changes everything,’ said the administrator. ‘However we mate the royal vermin, it seems we just can’t breed that streak of wickedness out of them. There are plenty of candidates in the breeding house we can select for the succession — and the people will turn up just as happily to see the murdering little jigger get the rope outside Bonegate as the crown at Parliament Square. The vicious scum were always poisoning each other in the old days. It looks like our dear little prince is reverting to type. But what an opportunity for us, captain. Think of it. We remind the entire state of the moral authority of our rule with a good hanging — and the people still get a new king on the throne for carnival week.’

Flare reached out and snapped the administrator’s neck, the crack reverberating across the room. The functionary flopped back in his chair, lifeless head hanging limply to the side. ‘Somehow I thought you might say that.’

Across the chamber the worldsinger was stepping back, his legs moving him subconsciously towards the exit. Towards the two Special Guardsmen standing there. ‘You killed him!’

‘Regrettable,’ said Flare. ‘But I doubt he’ll be missed. Unlike yourself, Blundy. Your disappearance will ring too many bells within the order.’

The worldsinger threw his hand out and chanted a hex, swaying as he tossed the magic towards Flare. Nothing happened, the captain stood still, as tall and immovable as a rock.

‘You-’

‘Should be burning?’ said Flare, tapping his neck torc. ‘All those nasty runes and rituals stored inside my torc for a rainy day, ready to tear me inside out? I have seen your kind activate a torc on a feybreed, worldsinger, have you? I still remember the young guardswoman’s eye sockets smoking in the snow. You would call her a rogue — but I just saw a frightened girl who bolted from her first taste of battle, sickened by the bodies and the murder. That’s a terrible thing to wish on anyone.’

‘Only a worldsinger can unlock the hex on a torc.’

‘So it’s said,’ nodded Flare. ‘Of course, while we may have the majority of feymist changelings, Jackals is not the only country with people who sing the worldsong.’

One of the guardsmen opened a door and a deformed grasper-sized thing hobbled out, one of the ill-fated inmates of Hawklam Asylum.

‘Have you gone insane, captain, where is that thing’s hex-suit? Where are its handlers from the order?’

‘The plates that bind? Well, Blundy, it must be a laundry day. As for his handlers, let me show you what happened to them…’

The worldsinger’s head jerked up, blood bubbling out of his nose as the wild creature’s mind forced itself into his brain, advancing on him. Both arms of the sorcerer were seized from behind by a guardsman and a hand clamped over his mouth to stop him screaming.

‘I like this one,’ said the feybreed, caressing the sorcerer’s chest and arms. ‘Strong. Young too.’

‘Mist-brother, you know what must be done,’ said Flare.

‘You are so good to me, brother.’

With a pop the creature’s jaw detached, its chin flowing down to the floor. Then the feybreed clambered up the shaking sorcerer. Blundy, struggling for his life, thrashed and tried to break free of the guardsman restraining him. He did not stand a chance against the fey-born strength of his captor. When the feybreed reached the worldsinger’s shoulder, Blundy’s head vanished as the thing’s lips sucked down over it. Rivers of fey flesh poured down and covered his body. There was a flickering translucence of skin as the two beings merged. The worldsinger fell forward, legs stumbling like a newly born calf finding its feet. Blundy steadied himself against the wall, breathing hard.

‘Are you done?’ said Flare.

Blundy stroked the nape of his neck, feeling his groin with his other hand. ‘Oh yes. This body will last months.’

‘Long enough,’ said Flare. ‘Long enough for our purposes.’

Hoggstone followed the spiral staircase down into the depths of Ham Yard, his footsteps echoing up the stairwell. ‘This is important, Inspector Reason?’

‘The politicals seem to think so, First Guardian. The yard’s been turning down their custody transfer requests ever since we caught the man.’

‘I know,’ said Hoggstone. ‘Where do you think the political police’s complaints end up?’

Inspector Reason reached out to a bank of switches and beneath them a rank of gas lanterns flared into life, the light revealing stairs corkscrewing down into the distance.

‘Your people really should put a lifting room in here,’ said Hoggstone.

‘The exercise wouldn’t have bothered you so much when you were younger, First Guardian.’

‘I was stuffing pamphlets through the doors of the Driselwell rookeries then, playing debating sticks with the young bucks from the Levellers.’

The inspector smiled. ‘And I was a green-around-the-gills crusher trying to run down dippers and the flash mob.’

‘We’ve both come a long way since Driselwell,’ said Hoggstone.

‘Yes. That we have, First Guardian. And don’t think I’m not grateful for the little nudges you’ve given my prospects.’

‘It’s always good to invite the local crusher in for a cup of caffeel, as my mother used to say.’

‘She always made it too sweet,’ said the inspector. ‘Although I don’t think anyone ever told her.’

‘Cheap jinn burns away your sense of taste. Sweet is all you have left.’

‘I’m temperance myself, these days,’ said the policeman.

‘What did the political police leave out of their report?’

‘Most of the credit we took in nabbing him in the first place, I expect. Although to be fair to the g-boys, it was plain luck that we rumbled him.’

‘Did he ever run with the rioters at the docks?’

‘I dare say some of them used to be his compatriots, once upon a time. But he is not directly involved with the new mob, First Guardian.’

‘These new revolutionaries need to be uncovered,’ said Hoggstone. ‘I will not abide this damnable mystery to fester on my streets, eating away at our authority.’

‘Yes,’ said the inspector. ‘I’ve seen the reports from my crushers on the gaslight shift — terrified out of their wits by what they think they’ve seen. Companies of worldsingers and Special Guardsmen herding unmentionable things through the rookeries and the alleys.’

‘Nothing to get to Dock Street,’ said Hoggstone.

‘The news sheets will catch wind of your excursions soon enough if it keeps on,’ said the inspector. ‘Am I to presume your acceptance of my invite down here means your friends haven’t run down any useful information?’

‘You would think they were hunting ghosts,’ Hoggstone snarled. ‘The man you’ve got. He was a printer?’

‘Yes. A small Hoax Square operation — bill stickers for the tonics, supposedly. We raided him on a tip-off he had a sideline in relish, which he did. Crates of real-box smut, enough pictures to keep the Greenhall censorship committee in sitting for weeks. It was probably one of his girls that blew on him — artistic differences and the like.’

Hoggstone held onto the rail at the side of the wall as he walked down the stairwell. ‘But you went back to his print house after the blood machine results?’

‘Too right, First Guardian. We raided it at night, ripped the place apart just as quietly as we could. That’s when we found the other stuff. I have a watch on the place now, to see if anyone else turns up there.’

‘You’ll be lucky if they do,’ said Hoggstone.

‘Could be a waste of time, but stranger things have happened. I dare say the politicals have got the place under observation now too.’

The stairwell finally ended — a single iron door waiting for them. Inspector Reason rapped on the metal and a grill pulled back, then the door swung inward. A grasper in a black police uniform saluted them. ‘You’ve never been down here before, First Guardian?’

Hoggstone shook his head.

‘One door in, one door out. Both manned. Plenty of people have done a bunk from Bonegate after we’ve passed them to the doomsman for sentencing, but nobody has broken out of the yard’s cells. Some right old rascals have had the chance too — the Lions Field strangler, Vaughan the highwayman, even science pirates like Newton and Krook.’

In front of them a second constable unbolted the last door revealing a long corridor, cells on both sides with glass doors. Ignoring the other inmates Reason led Hoggstone to a cell at the end — the only cell with an iron door and rubber seals like the cabin on a submariner’s boat.

‘Turn the noise off,’ Reason called to one of the guards. ‘And pull the bolts on this one.’

Three cracks echoed off the enclosed space and Reason spun the door wheel. Inside, a figure stood upright, blindfolded and chained to a metal frame.

‘The political police would be able to get information out of him a lot quicker,’ said Hoggstone.

‘Slow but steady, First Guardian,’ said the inspector. ‘You know the yard doesn’t approve of their methods. Matey here has got all his fingernails intact, and I don’t need some backstreet sorcerer to rip his mind apart either. Besides, if you are strong you can train against the politicals’ methods, and if you are weak you’ll just say whatever they want to hear in the end. When the yard wants the truth, we just leave them alone with the noise — a day, a week, a month, the noise gets them all in the end.’

Hoggstone glanced around the cell, bare except for the reflecting plates that helped the noise move around the chamber. The sound of devils dancing.

Inspector Reason pulled the blindfold off the prisoner. His wide eyes moved slowly around the room, taking in Hoggstone and the policeman. His gaze was wild, splintered, as if his reality had been fractured and there were other things in the room only he could see. Things he had to move aside to make room for the two visitors.

‘What name are you using today? Garrett or Tait?’

The prisoner mumbled something.

‘It must be hard choosing,’ said Inspector Reason. ‘You’ve been living as Garrett for fourteen years. But your blood records show you to be Tait. Now Garrett was not very respectable, was he? Maybe on the surface he was, but all those boxes of smut you were peddling. That’s good for a couple of years in the clink in itself. So tell the gentleman here what your name is.’

‘Tait,’ said the prisoner. ‘It’s Tait.’

‘But Mister Tait is a combination man,’ said the inspector. ‘From the coal fields. How did you end up as someone else?’

‘Identity. I took Garrett’s name. He was dead in the famine — nobody knew.’

‘Well now that’s a problem,’ said Reason. ‘Because Tait is still wanted for organizing the mine labour in the Carlist uprising. Garrett gets two years in Bonegate, but Tait — well, he’s going to get the rope, isn’t he?’

‘Tait, I’m Tait.’

‘Good,’ said the inspector. ‘To tell you the truth, Tait, I don’t really care about your relish, and as for what you did in the old days? Well, if I were to arrest everyone who stuffed a fuse in a jinn bottle during the uprising, I’d have the lords of commerce lining up outside Ham Yard to complain about the labour shortage. What worries me is the hidden basement under your print room. All those fresh copies of Community and the Commons boxed up and ready to distribute. Do you find much of a market for that rubbish these days?’

‘Please, let me sleep. I just want to sleep.’

‘Then tell me what I want to know, man,’ said Hoggstone. ‘So we can move you to a cell with a bed. Tell me about the troubles on the street. Were you and your friends at the docks when things got ugly down on the Gambleflowers?’

‘Not us,’ said the prisoner. ‘It’s not us.’

‘But the rabble rousers call themselves Carlists, man.’

‘Not the sort to join my chapter,’ said the prisoner. ‘Different.’

‘How?’ Hoggstone demanded.

‘They want things. Things from their members. Crazy stuff. Crazy like a hex. People start believing it.’

‘I often find the most powerful ideas are like enchantments,’ said Hoggstone. ‘Who are the organizers, where does their committee meet?’

‘Vicious,’ said the prisoner. ‘They’re killing us off. Killing their own.’

‘He doesn’t know who they are himself,’ said Inspector Reason. ‘The noise would have winkled it out of him if he did.’

‘Something this well organized doesn’t just spring up from thin air,’ said Hoggstone. ‘Tait, you might not be familiar with the new Carlist movement, but one of your people must know where this latest brand of revolutionary poison is coming from.’

Tait moaned in pain.

‘Tell him the name, Tait,’ said Inspector Reason. ‘Tell the gentleman the name you blew for me. Tell him exactly who your relish money was going to. Who you’re funding and printing for.’

Tait shook his head.

‘Damn your eyes, man, I need that name,’ said Hoggstone.

‘You lasted three days alone with the noise, before,’ said the policeman. ‘I’ve seen a real hard man last five, maybe seven days before they broke. You want to find out if you’re a hard man, Tait?’

‘Carl. Ben Carl.’ The prisoner said the name like a prayer. ‘He knows about the new revolutionaries.’

Hoggstone bit his lip. ‘Middlesteel’s prodigal son? Circle, I thought he was dead for sure! Where has he been hiding all these years?’

‘Worth the trip?’ said Reason to the First Guardian.

Tait was crying, stung by the shame of how easily betrayal came. ‘I only saw him the once, at a meeting. He’s scared too. They’re hunting for him now as well, the new ones. He’s too important to leave in peace.’

The First Guardian turned to Inspector Reason. ‘Do you believe the fellow?’

‘Three days in here, I do.’

‘Keep his works under watch,’ said Hoggstone. ‘Day and night. The devil take Benjamin Carl. I never thought I’d need an audience with that bloody troublesome philosopher. He must be in his dotage now … and still up to his old mischief too.’

Reason gestured towards the prisoner. ‘The magistrates? He’ll be given the scaffold for sure.’

‘I just see a tired old fool who has traded printing one type of dirty book for another. Charge Garrett, not Tait. Do it quietly and put him through my district. I’ll see he only gets the boat.’

‘Sleep,’ Tait moaned.

The inspector checked his pocket watch. ‘You’ll stop seeing the visions by this evening — then you’ll sleep for days.’

‘The first days of a fairer nation,’ said Hoggstone, quoting the opening dedication of Community and the Commons.

The inspector called for his warders to come in and unchain the restraining frame.

‘Ben Carl,’ said Hoggstone, rolling the name around his mouth. ‘Benjamin Carl. Old man, I thought you were dead.’

‘I got everything on the list you gave me,’ said Awn’bar.

‘Nice one,’ said Binchy, taking the wicker basket of food from the craynarbian boy. He reached into his pocket and took out a thruppence coin. ‘How was Jerps on the Park?’

‘Big queue, same as always.’ The adolescent mottling on the boy’s armoured skull glowed in the sunlight of the corridor. ‘The jellied eels looked fresh, so I got you a cup’s worth of those too.’

Binchy smiled. ‘Good lad. That’s my supper sorted then.’

‘My matriarch said to ask after Damson B,’ said the boy.

‘You say thanks to your mam, tell her we’re both winning the race.’

‘The race?’

‘The race of man,’ laughed Binchy.

‘You haven’t got time to show me the cards again, have you?’ asked the boy.

He was good too. At an age when most of the Shell Town youngsters were running through the rookeries tossing mud balls at anyone who took offence at their larks, the boy could sniff out a recursive loop in a line of Simple and read the tattoo of a punch card like a born engine man.

Binchy checked the time on the grandfather clock in his hall. ‘Best you get back to your clan, Binchy must be about it. There’s always tomorrow.’

‘Circleday then,’ said the craynarbian boy, sounding disappointed.

They both turned as the tapping of a cane sounded down the tower’s corridor. Nobody who lived on his floor as far as Binchy could tell.

‘Mister Binchy?’ said the dapper old man as he came up to them.

Binchy put the basket of food down on the hall floor. ‘You have me at an advantage, sir?’

‘Professor Vineis. My office wrote to you, I believe.’

‘The alienist? I only got your letter yesterday.’ He looked at the boy. ‘On your way then, Awn’bar. Tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said the craynarbian, running down the corridor.

The professor rested on his cane. ‘They are a fine people, the craynarbians, are they not? I have heard about your wife’s unfortunate condition, Mister Binchy, and would like to talk to you about her if I may.’

‘Best you come in, then,’ said Binchy. ‘You’re not on the Royal Institute’s list? I’ve consulted with most of them — useless buggers. Engine sickness is beyond their field of expertise. If it struck down guardians and counting-house masters I’d say they’d find it within their field of expertise fast enough.’

‘I have been consulting in the city-states for the last few years,’ said the professor, taking off his cape.

‘Thought your accent had a touch of the exotic to it.’ Binchy took the cape and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. ‘How did you find me? It’s been a while since information sickness appeared in any of the journals I subscribe to.’

‘A curious turn of events,’ said Count Vauxtion. ‘Culminating in a message and a broken mirror.’

Binchy scowled in incomprehension. ‘A broken mirror? That’s bad luck.’

‘Indeed it is,’ said Count Vauxtion. ‘For someone. Now, Mister Binchy, shall we begin our consultation…’