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.
8
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 Dashell’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.”
The boy’s eyes glittered. “No, thank you. I’m quite all right. This is very—”
“Interesting? Isn’t it, though? Reduced to pure carbon—or near as makes no odds; just the odd tooth escaped. And yet each little mound tells a story. Look at that one near the door, for instance, spread out more than the others. Implies he was moving fast, leaping for safety, maybe. But he wasn’t fast enough, I fancy”
Nathaniel said nothing. He found the minister’s callousness harder to stomach than the remains, which were, after all, very neatly piled.
“So, Mandrake,” Tallow said. “Any ideas?”
The boy took a deep, grim breath and leafed swiftly through his well-stocked memory “It’s not a Detonation,” he began, “nor a Miasma; nor a Pestilence—they’re all much too messy. Might have been an Inferno—”
“Do you think so, Mandrake? Why?”
“—I was going to say, sir, it might have been an Inferno, except that there’s no damage anywhere around the remains. They’re all that’s burned, nothing else.”
“Oh. So what then?”
The boy looked at him. “I really have no idea, sir. What do you think?”
Whether Mr. Tallow would have managed a reply, the boy doubted; the minister was saved from responding by the faint tinkling of an unseen bell and a shimmering in the air beside him. These signs announced the arrival of a servant. Mr. Tallow spoke a command and the demon materialized fully. For unknown reasons, it wore the semblance of a small green monkey, which sat cross-legged on a luminous cloud. Mr. Tallow regarded it. “Your report?”
“As you requested, we have scanned the rubble and all levels of the buildings on each plane at the most minute dimension of scale,” the monkey said. “We can find no traces of magical activity remaining, except the following, which I shall enumerate:
“One: Faint glimmerings of the nexus boundary, which the Security team erected around the perimeter.
“Two: Residual traces of the three demi-afrits that were sent inside the boundary. It seems their essences were destroyed in Mr. Pinn’s establishment.
“Three: Numerous auras from the artifacts of Pinn’s Accoutrements. Most of these remain scattered in the road, although several small items of value have been appropriated by your assistant, Mr. Ffoukes, when you weren’t looking.
“That is the sum total of our researches.” The monkey twirled its tail in a relaxed fashion. “Do you require any further information at this stage, master?”
The magician waved a hand. “That will be all, Nemaides. You may go.”
The monkey inclined its head. It stuck its tail straight up into the air, clasped it with all four feet as if it were a rope, and clambering up at speed, vanished from view.
The minister and his assistant remained silent for a moment. At last Mr. Tallow broke the silence. “You see, Mandrake?” he said. “It is a mystery. This is not magicians’work: any higher demon would have left traces of its passing. Afrits’ auras remain detectable for days, for example. Yet there is no trace, none! Until we find evidence otherwise, we must assume that Resistance traitors have found some non-magical means of attack. Well, we must apply ourselves, before they strike again!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes …Well, I think you have seen
enough for one day. Go and do some research, consider the problem.” Mr. Tallow gave him a side glance; his voice held thinly concealed implications. “You are, after all, officially in charge of this case, this being a Resistance matter.”
The boy bowed stiffly. “Yes, sir.”
The minister waved his hand. “You have my leave to depart. Oh, and on your way out, would you mind asking Mr. Ffoukes to step inside for a moment?”
A thin smile briefly flickered on Nathaniel’s face. “Certainly, sir. It would be a pleasure.”
9
That evening, Nathaniel set off for home in a mood of black despondency. The day had not gone well. A barrage of messages throughout the afternoon had proclaimed the agitation of the senior ministers. What was the latest on the Piccadilly outrage? Had any suspects been arrested? Was a curfew to be enforced on this, a day of national rejoicing? Who exactly was in charge of the investigation? When were the police to be given more powers to deal with the traitors in our midst?
While he toiled, Nathaniel had sensed the side glances of his colleagues and the sniggering of Jenkins behind his back. He trusted none of them; all were eager to see him fail. Isolated, without allies, he didn’t even have a servant he could rely on. The two foliots, for instance, had been useless. He had dismissed them for good that afternoon, too dispirited even to give them the stippling they deserved.
What I need, he thought, as he departed his office without a backward glance, is a proper servant. Something with power. Something I know will obey me. Something like Tallow’s Nemaides, or my master’s Shubit.
But this was easier said than done.
All magicians required one or more demonic entities as their personal slaves, and the nature of these slaves was a sure indicator of status. Great magicians, such as Jessica Whitwell, commanded the services of potent djinn, which they summoned fast as a finger snap. The Prime Minister himself was served by no less than a blue-green afrit—although the word-bonds necessary to snare it had been wrought by several of his aides. For everyday, most magicians made use of foliots, or imps of greater or lesser power, who generally attended their masters on the second plane.