The room was not large, and what space it had was blotted out by recumbent bodies. At first sight Kitty feared the worst; then she saw that all were neatly tied and gagged, just as they had been left by Makepeace’s imps so many hours before. Most were secured by the minimum of ropes and cords, but one or two were swathed in sheets or thick wads of black netting. There were perhaps twenty individuals in the room, sardine-packed, head to toe. To Kitty’s great relief, she saw that many of them were moving with sad little wriggles, like maggots in a jar.
One or two pairs of staring eyes caught sight of her; their owners writhed and uttered pleading moans. She took a moment to gather herself; her legs shook with the effort of her stroll thus far. Then she spoke as clearly as she could.
“I’m here to help you,” she said. “Wait as patiently as you can. I’ll try to cut you free.”
This pronouncement induced a remarkable flurry of squirms and wails. Legs thrashed, heads bucked and twisted. Kitty was nearly knocked over by the flailing of the bodies next to her. “If you don’t lie quiet,” she said severely, “I’ll leave you.” Instant quietness among the prone magicians. “That’s better. Now then …”
With clumsy fingers, she took the silver disc from her pocket and, holding it carefully so as not to slice her fingers, set to upon the nearest bonds. The cords parted like butter to a hot knife. Cramped hands and feet moved tentatively, their owner emitting cries of pain. Without ceremony, Kitty removed the gag. “When you can stand,” she said, “find something sharp and help me untie the others.” She moved on to the next magician.
Within ten minutes the room was filled with limping, stretching men and women; some sitting, others standing first on one foot, then on the other, trying to wring the pins and needles from their numb and swollen limbs.There was no conversation; the bodies had been freed, but the minds remained wrapped in shock and disbelief. Kitty worked silently on the penultimate captive, a large gentleman swathed in netting. He seemed inert; blood had seeped through the cloth around his head. Beside her, the first person she had freed, a young woman with mousy hair, struggled with the cords of the last magician. This one, covered in a coarse gray blanket, was very much alive; her legs kicked back and forth with furious impatience.
Kitty passed the silver disc across. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
In moments the swathes of net and blanket had been removed and the two captives lay revealed. One, a woman with long dark hair hanging over a red and puffy face, sprang instantly to her feet and shrieked with agony as her cramp kicked in. The other, an immense old man with a badly beaten face, lay still. His eyes were closed; his breathing came in ragged gasps.
The dark-haired woman leaned back against a wall and massaged a leg. She gave a snarl of pain and fury. “Who? Who is responsible for this? I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them, I swear it.”
Kitty was busy talking to the woman with mousy hair. “He’s in a bad way. Someone needs to get him to a hospital.”
“I’ll fix it,” the woman said. She looked around the room, picked out a spotty youth. “George. Can you oblige?”
“All right, Miss Piper.”
“Wait.” This was Kitty. Wearily she tried to rise, extended a shaking hand. “Can you help me up, please? Thanks,” She turned to face the room. “You all need to know what’s happened. The situation outside may be … difficult. Demons have broken loose in London.”
Gasps, oaths; the assembled faces registered sagging dismay. Young and old, they gaped at her, vulnerable and uncomprehending. Gone was any vestige of magicianly assurance—now they were nothing but humans, panic-stricken, leaderless, stripped bare. Kitty held up a hand. “Listen,” she said, “and I’ll tell you.”
“One moment.” The black-haired woman reached out and clutched at Kitty’s arm. “First, who the hell are you? I don’t recognize your face, or”—she curled a lip—“your dirty little clothes. I don’t think you’re even a magician.”
“Correct,” Kitty snapped. “I’m a commoner. But you’d do well to shut up and hear me out if you want to avoid being killed.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “How dare you—?”
“Yes, shut your trap, Farrar,” a man said.
The woman seemed to choke; she looked around wildly, but let go of Kitty’s arm.
This one exception apart, everyone in the room seemed eager, grateful even, to listen to what Kitty had to say. Whether it was their residual shock that kept them quiet, or whether they glimpsed, in the gray-haired girl with the lined and weary face, something that commanded unequivocal respect was hard to say But they listened with complete attention as Kitty told them what had happened.
“What about the rest of us?” one of the older men said plaintively. “There were a hundred at least sitting in that theater. Surely they haven’t all—”
“I’m not sure,” Kitty said. “Perhaps there are other rooms of prisoners that the demons forgot, or decided to ignore. You’ll have to see. But many of you are dead.”
“What about Mr. Devereaux?” a woman whispered.
“Or Jessica Whitwell, or—?”
Kitty held up her hand. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know. I think it likely that many of the most senior magicians have been possessed or killed.”
“This one hasn’t.” The dark-haired woman spoke savagely. “Until they are found, I am the sole Council member remaining. So I am now in charge. We must get to our pentacles and conjure our slaves. I shall contact my police wolves forthwith. The renegade demons will be found and destroyed.”
“Two things,” Kitty said quietly. “No, three. This man must be seen to first. Can anyone provide transport?”
“I can.” The spotty youth bent beside the limp body. “Going to need three of us for this. Mr. Johnson, Mr. Vole, can you lend a hand, help me get him to a limo?” Assistance came; the men departed, supporting the invalid between them.
A clap of the hands; the dark-haired woman was by the door. “To the pentacles!” she commanded. “No time to waste!”
Nobody moved. “I think this lady had something more to say,” an older man said, nodding toward Kitty. “We should hear her out, don’t you think, Ms. Farrar? Out of courtesy, if nothing else.”
Ms. Farrar’s lips twisted. “But she’s nothing but a—”
“I had two further points to make,” Kitty said. She felt very tired now, light-headed; she needed to sit down. No—get a grip; get the job done. “The chief demon, Nouda, is very terrible. It would be suicide for you to approach him without the greatest possible weapon. And that is already being done.” She looked around the silent group. “A magician, another surviving Council member”—Kitty could not resist a sly glance at Ms. Farrar here—“has gone to meet it. He uses Gladstone’s Staff.”
She was only half surprised by the stifled exclamations of astonishment. Ms. Farrar in particular seemed incensed. “But Mr. Devereaux has forbidden it!” she cried. “Who would dare to—?”
Kitty smiled. “It is Nath—John Mandrake. You had better hope he is successful.”
“Mandrake!” Farrar’s face was pale with fury. “He doesn’t have the talent!”
“The final thing I would like to say,” Kitty went on remorselessly, “is that with this being so, the most important thing for us—for you, I should say; you are the magicians, you have the power—is to provide protection and guidance for the people. Since Makepeace imprisoned you all, there has been no leadership, no one to evacuate areas where the demons are at large. We risk mass casualties here, mass casualties. If we do not act, many commoners will die.”
“Never bothered us before,” a young man muttered at the back, but general opinion was against him.
“What we need is a crystal,” Piper said. “See where the demons are.”
“Or a scrying bowl. Where do they keep them in this place?”
“Must be one. Come on.”
“Let’s get to the pentacles. I could summon an imp, send him off.”
“We’ll need more
cars. Who here can drive?”
“I can’t. My man does that.”
“Nor me—”
At the door, a harsh, forced cough. Ms. Farrar’s face was haggard, her hair tangled and disheveled, her mouth a thin-lipped slash. White hands pressed hard against the door frame on either side. Her arms were bent, her shoulders slightly hunched—the posture gave her a faint resemblance to an inverted bat. Her gaze spat venom. “Not one of you,” she said, “is anything better than a junior minister. Most of you are scarcely even that—just secretaries and desk-hands. Your knowledge of magic is painfully limited; your judgement, it seems, is even worse. The commoners will look after themselves. Some have resilience—no doubt they can repel a few Detonations. There are, in any case, many of them. We can afford to lose a few. What we cannot do is stand around dithering while our capital is under attack.What, we’re going to leave it up to Mandrake? How good a magician do you think he is? I’m going for my wolves. Anyone with any remaining ambition will follow me.”
She pushed herself back from the door frame, and without a backward glance, set off down the corridor. Uneasy silence. After a pause three of the young men, heads lowered, brows scowling, pushed their way past Kitty and departed. Several others wavered, but remained.
The young woman with mousy hair shrugged; she turned to Kitty. “We’re following you, miss … um, sorry, what is your name?”
Clara Bell? Lizzie Temple? “Kitty Jones,” she said. Then, more faintly: “Can anyone get me something to drink?”
While Kitty rested, while she sipped cool mineral water from the Council’s own supply of bottles, the junior magicians set about their work. Some ventured around the Whitehall chambers: they returned trembling and wan, with reports of bodies piled in side rooms, of pentacles slashed and ruptured, of such devastation as none had ever dreamed. Carnage like this was generally visited on enemies at a distance. It was troubling for the magicians to experience it first hand. Others crept to the front of the building and peered forth into Whitehall. Buildings were on fire; corpses lay in full view—what was most unsettling was the utter absence of the people. Ordinarily, even in the small hours, buses and taxis continued to pass that way, together with the comings and goings of night staff in the ministries, and patrols of police and soldiers. The machinery of government, beheaded by the treachery of Makepeace and surprised by the appearance of Nouda, had for the moment ceased altogether.
The destruction of the pentacles was a setback, but it soon became clear that the ferocity of the demons exceeded their efficiency, and here and there circles were found that had been overlooked and spared. A few small imps set forth on reconnaissance; meanwhile, in a chamber close to the Hall of Statues, a giant crystal ball, formerly employed by the Council, was located and brought to the room where Kitty sat. The magicians congregated, hushed and somber. Without preamble, the strongest individual present—a junior minister from the Fisheries—summoned the djinni trapped within the ball. In ringing tones it was directed to its task: to reveal the position of the renegade demons.
The ball went smoky, dark…. Everyone leaned closer.
Lights within the crystal! Red and orange. Leaping flames.
The focus cleared. Raging fires, near and far; lanterns among dark trees. In the distance, a giant humpbacked glow of light …
“The Glass Palace,” someone said. “That’s St. James’s Park.”
“The commoners were demonstrating there.”
“Look!” In the foreground, hundreds of running forms, wheeling, scattering like fish shoals through the trees.
“Why don’t they get out?”
“Surrounded.” Here and there, bursts of magic, corralling the panic-stricken crowds, redirecting them back upon themselves. Glimpses of unnatural movement on the margins—great bounds and leaps, sudden rushes. Hopping, prancing figures, human in their shape, inhuman in their gleeful capering, active on all sides. One loped into clear view beneath a lantern; it spied a cluster of men and women fleeing in its direction. It bent its back, prepared to spring—
A shaft of white light—a tremendous explosion. The loping creature vanished—in its place a smoking crater. A figure passed beneath the lantern out of sight, going with steady strides; it held a long staff in its hand.
Kitty placed her mineral water carefully on the floor. “Summon whatever demons you can,” she said. “If we’re going to do any good at all, that’s where we have to be.”
35
It has to be said, we worked well together. Better than either of us expected.
Okay, maybe it took a little while to get the system sorted—we had a couple of embarrassing moments when our body did two things at once, but we always rectified it sharpish, so no harm done.1 And once we got into our seven-leagued stride, we really began to motor, and to enjoy the advantages of our irregular condition.
It was our first success against poor old Naeryan that really fired us up: it showed us what we had to do; how to combine to best effect. We stopped trying to second-guess each other and did a bit of delegation.
Here’s how it went. Nathaniel worked the boots: if we had a long straight distance to travel, he did the strides. Once at our destination (one or two seconds later, generally—those boots were pretty snappy), I took over the legs, imbued them with a little of my trademarked vim, and sent us bounding like an impala, back, forth, up, down, left, and right, until any enemy, and occasionally even myself, was hopelessly confused. Meanwhile, Nathaniel retained full control of his arms and of Gladstone’s Staff; he fired it whenever we came within range, and since I could anticipate his intentions, I usually stayed put long enough for him to do so. The only exception (justified, I feel) was when I was hurrying us out of the path of a Detonation, a Flux, or a Spiraling Dismemberment. Always best to avoid such things if you wish to retain momentum.2
We communicated with pithy, rather monosyllabic thoughts: viz. Run, Jump, Where? Left, Up, Duck, etc.3 We didn’t ever quite say Ug, but it was a close-run thing. It was all a bit butch and male, and left little room for introspection or emotional analysis, a factor that fitted in nicely with the business of staying alive, and also with a certain subdued detachment that now flooded Nathaniel’s mind. It hadn’t been so noticeable at first, when we were back with Kitty (his head was full of softer things, then—half-formed, eager, outward-looking), but after that moment in Trafalgar Square, when the woman had turned away from him with a face of fear and scorn, it rose up swiftly and closed him off. His softer emotions were new and hesitant—they didn’t like rejection. Now they were sealed away; in their stead returned the old familiar qualities: pride, remoteness, and steely determination. He was still committed to his task, but he undertook it in an attitude of vague self-disgust. Not healthy, maybe, but it helped him fight well.
And fighting, now, was what we had to do.
Naeryan, dawdling at the square, had been the most tardy of the spirits; the others had hurried on, drawn by the sound and smell of human bodies, under the Churchill Arch and out into the dark acres of St. James’s Park. Perhaps, if the commoners had not been congregated here in considerable numbers, Nouda’s army would have immediately dispersed across the capital and so been far harder to discover and waylay. As it was, the people’s protest had been gathering through the night, emboldened by the government’s inertia; now, for the avid spirits, their teeming masses provided an unmissable temptation.
When we arrived, the entertainment was well underway. Far across the park the spirits wandered, chasing herds of fleeing humans as the whim took them. Some used magical attacks; others preferred to move for the sake of moving, trying out the unfamiliar stiffness of their limbs, racing around to cut off scurrying prey. Many of the distant trees were aflame with colored lights; the air was a montage of flashes, spinning cords of smoke, shrill screams, and general outcry. Behind it all, the great Glass Palace cast illumination down upon the hectic lawns: across its projected slabs of light the people ran, the spirits bounded, the bodies fell,
the breathless hunt went on.
We paused under the arch, at the gateway to the park, taking it all in.
Chaos, Nathaniel thought. It’s CHAOS.
It’s nothing to a real battle, I said. You ought to have been at al-Arish, where for two square miles the sand clogged red. I gave him a mental picture.
Lovely. Thanks for that. See Nouda?
No. How many demons are there?
Enough.4 Let’s go.
He tapped his heel; the boots took wing. We launched ourselves into the fray.
Strategy dictated that the spirits did not collectively notice our presence. One by one, we could fell them; facing them en masse would be a mite more tricky. Hence rapid-fire attacks and continual movement. Our first objective, close by on the lawns, was an afrit cloaked in the body of an elderly woman; uttering shrill whoops, it sent Spasms ricocheting among the crowds. In two strides we were behind it. The Staff pulsed. The afrit was a memory, sighing on the wind. We turned, moved … and were far off among the fairground stalls, where three strong djinn, plumply dressed in human skin, industriously toppled the Sultan’s Castle. Nathaniel pointed the Staff and claimed them in a single greedy flash of light. We looked, saw: up by some trees, a rickety hybrid stalking a child—in three strides we had him in our sights. White fire consumed him. The child fled into the dark.
We need help, Nathaniel thought, for the people. They’re running round in circles.
That’s not our con—Yep; I see them. Go.
A stride, a leap—we landed on a bandstand roof, spun round the central pole, fired the Staff four times. Three hybrids perished; the fourth, alerted by the others’ deaths, dodged, jumped back. It spied us, sent a Spasm. The bandstand shook itself to splinters, but we had somersaulted clear, slid down a tent awning and, before our boots touched ground, reduced the culprit’s essence to a twirl of dwindling sparks.
A prickle of regret, a slackening of desire. Nathaniel hesitated. That … that was Helen Malbindi! I know it was. She’s …
She’s been dead long since. You killed her killer. Shake a leg! There—by the lake! Those children. Quick—be swift!