The Society of Thirteen (11 page)

Chapter 28

Although the river spell had been a little rough around the edges, Mondriat had to admit it showed promise. Tom had not referred to the book at all, which was a good sign. Conjury was much better when it came from the Conjuror's own imagination. Conjury was supposed to be instinctive. It was a natural process. A true Conjuror looked into his heart, not into the pages of some book. But what use was that if the boy refused to listen to him? He needed to cast his True Reflection into a mirror that could not easily be smashed or discovered. Until then, performing any spell was highly dangerous, let alone such richly complex Conjury as the river spell. It was no surprise at all that Tom collapsed once Esther was safe, making the girl scream and run to his side.

‘Tom!' she wailed. ‘What's wrong, Tom?'

‘I'll tell you what's wrong. Your foolish friend just performed extremely advanced Conjury while his spirit is still dangerously untethered,' explained Mondriat. ‘I warned him. I did warn him.'

Esther looked at him. ‘Evening, Mister Magpie,' she said.

‘
Evening Mister Magpie
,' Mondriat squawked. ‘This boy is half dead because of you and all you can say is Evening Mister Magpie. You need to take him somewhere safe so that he may recover.'

Esther turned back to look after Tom.

It was hopeless. Mondriat could talk until his beak fell off but his words were nothing but the meaningless prattle of a magpie to this unInfected girl.

Tom stirred, half opening his eyes. ‘Esther,' he said vaguely.

‘Happy now, Tom? Happy, are you?' exclaimed Mondriat. ‘I told you this would happen. You didn't listen.'

‘I had to save her.'

‘Well, now she has to save you. Tell your friend to get you somewhere safe, somewhere you can recover properly.'

Tom looked at Esther. ‘The crypt,' he said. ‘Take me to the crypt.'

‘All right.'

Mondriat watched as Esther helped him to his feet. Tom's loyalty to the girl was to his credit, but performing such bold Conjury in plain view was pure folly. The Conjurors of old did not demonstrate their powers with showy displays. Powerful Conjurors moved within the shadows. Tom had a great deal to learn. Mondriat only hoped the foolish child was around long enough to learn it.

And if he didn't recover? What then? Where would that leave Mondriat? Well, he thought. At least the girl was also of Conjuring age too. Maybe he could persuade her to perform the Creation Spell and take Tom's place. Yes, that's what he would do.

Chapter 29

Harry Clay and Fred Limb had been friends since their orphanage days. Clay, with his ability to make money, had always supported Fred financially, whereas Fred had looked after Clay in every other way. Over the years Fred had acted as butler, personal guard, theatrical agent, nurse and best friend, depending on Clay's needs at the time. While the rest of the world might have found Harry Clay's antics unfathomable and inexplicable, there was very little he could do to surprise his old friend, even when he turned up in the middle of the night, with clothes that were both singed and soaking wet.

‘Out of a fire, into a sewer?' Fred held the door open for his old friend.

‘Something like that.' Harry stepped inside.

‘I'll get a towel.'

‘First, I need you to go and fetch Lord Ringmore.'

‘At this hour?'

‘At this hour,' replied Clay.

‘Something's happened?'

‘Something has most definitely happened.'

‘Shouldn't we run you a bath and fetch you a brandy first? Your new show opens in a couple of nights and you don't want to catch a chill.'

‘As soon as you go I promise I'll do both those things,' said Clay.

‘I'll get my hat,' said Fred.

‘Thank you, Fred.'

By the time Fred had returned with Lord Ringmore, Clay had bathed, wrapped himself in several layers of his warmest clothing and drunk enough brandy to warm a polar bear. He was sitting in front of a roaring fire nursing an empty brandy glass when Fred led Lord Ringmore into the room then left. Lord Ringmore noticed the posters and props that filled the walls.

‘They're mementoes from my career,' explained Clay. ‘Fred puts them up. I'm not one for wallowing in past glories but he's a sentimental old fool.'

‘What's this one?' asked Lord Ringmore, indicating a rusty old chain that hung above the fireplace.

‘The first chain from which I ever escaped,' replied Clay. ‘Fred hung it there as a symbol of our own escape from destitution and poverty. Me, I'd have sold it for scrap.'

‘So why have you summoned me? Have you got the book?' said Lord Ringmore, eagerly.

‘Not yet,' said Clay, ‘but, Silas, I have seen what it can do. I witnessed the Thames itself rise up and save the girl from drowning. I watched an enormous hand carry her across the river. It was the single most extraordinary sight I have ever seen. You were right, Ringmore. You were right all along. Magic. It exists. Real magic.'

‘You saw it? You witnessed real magic?' gasped Lord Ringmore.

‘With these eyes.'

‘So where is the book? Who is using its powers?'

‘I believe it is the orphans themselves.'

‘Then we must waste no time in finding them,' said Lord Ringmore.

‘Silas, I need a moment to take all this in,' said Clay. ‘Magic. Can you imagine what I could do with such powers?'

‘This isn't something to be squandered on a stage, Clay.'

‘Yes, but everything I believed, everything I thought I knew, it was all wrong. My world has been turned upside down.'

‘You were a closed-minded cynic and now your eyes have been prized open,' exclaimed Lord Ringmore angrily. ‘Whereas I, Harry, I have always known there was something else. So try to imagine how I feel as I hear that you allowed it to slip through your fingers this evening.'

‘Calm down,' said Clay. ‘We'll get the book, it's just a matter of time. But don't you want to know how these orphans unlocked its mysteries when we could not?'

‘It
is
perplexing,' he agreed. ‘I will gather the other members. Now, tell me what you saw. Spare no detail. I want to hear it all.'

Chapter 30

The crypt beneath the church in Shadwell was another of the orphans' hide-spots. Tom had never been overly keen on it. He said it made him feel like a trapped animal, but Esther believed his objection had more to do with the spookiness of the damp, dark underground room.

Esther half dragged, half guided the semi-conscious Tom away from the river, across the churchyard and down the stone steps into the crypt, closely followed by the hopping magpie. When she lay Tom down, she took the book from his left hand but was unable to prize the thick branch from his right.

It was a cold night and she was tired, so Esther lay down with her arms around Tom for warmth. Tom made no movement at all now, but at least his breathing seemed even and deep. Eventually Esther fell into a restless, shivering sleep in spite of the questions that buzzed around her mind. When she awoke from an intangible nightmare, she sat up to find Tom with his arms wrapped around his legs, gently rocking.

‘Tom?' she said. ‘What's happened to you?'

‘Where's Mondriat?' he said, ignoring the question.

‘Who?'

‘The magpie. Where did he go?'

‘You mean that disgusting bird? It flew off after we arrived.'

‘He was right. I need to find a mirror,' said Tom. ‘I can feel this stuff eating my insides.'

‘What stuff? I don't understand.'

‘I performed the Creation Spell and became Infected. Now the lifeblood wants to return to its source.'

Esther didn't understand what he was saying but she was certain of one thing; as incredible as it seemed, the hand that had rescued her had belonged to Tom.

Tom picked up the book and handed it to her. ‘You were right about this, Esther. It's a book of spells. I used it to perform my first one; but the river, that was my own Conjury,' replied Tom. ‘I did it myself.'

‘It was wonderful, Tom. It was like nothing I've ever seen, but how  … '

‘I can show you how.' Tom's eyes widened. ‘I'll show you how you can become like me. You can perform the Creation Spell then you'll see things as I see them.' As he spoke, it was as though his words filled him with renewed energy. ‘You see things better. I can't explain how strong I feel. I raised the water but if I'd wanted I could have done the same to every living thing in this stinking city.'

‘Tom, you're scaring me,' said Esther.

‘You don't need to be scared no more.' He took her hand in his. ‘You're cold,' he said. He moved his staff on the ground and Esther felt warmth spread from his fingers and fill her body.

He released her hand and she saw a wart rise up from the skin on his arm.

‘What is that?' asked Esther.

‘It's the lifeblood. It happens every time I perform a spell. Don't worry, Mondriat says it'll go down once I've done the Mirror Spell.'

‘Mondriat the magpie?'

‘He was a Conjuror once,' said Tom. ‘And he's right. I need to find a mirror. Then I'll be able to do whatever I want.'

It was early morning when Esther and Tom left the crypt and jumped onto the back of a bus that took them as far as Ludgate Circus, where swarms of smartly dressed businessmen were making a show of looking important and busy.

‘We need to be careful. We ain't so far from Hardy's patch here,' said Esther.

‘I ain't scared of Hardy no more,' said Tom. ‘My eyes are open now. These toffs who think they know it all, they haven't a clue about anything.' With a swirl of his staff and a wave of his hand he sent a gust of wind that caught several gentlemen by surprise and sent their top hats tumbling down the road. Tom laughed as they ran after them. ‘We've been on the bottom of the rung all this time; but not for much longer! Come on now, I'll fetch us some breakfast.'

‘We can use the money we made from Ringmore's robbery,' said Esther.

‘Not today.'

‘But I see no opportunities for thieving round here,' she said. ‘We should head Aldwych way.'

‘No. Today we'll eat a cooked breakfast. Stay here.' Tom crossed the busy road. For a moment, Esther lost him behind a passing coach. When he reappeared he was standing on the opposite side of the pavement in front of a fancy restaurant. It was the kind of city establishment with prices as inflated as its customers' bellies. A doorman in a gold-buttoned uniform stood outside, welcoming in those who could afford to eat there and turning away those who looked as if they could not.

Seeing Tom approach, he looked as impassable as a brick wall but Tom stopped in front of him and scratched his staff on the ground. On the other side of the road, Esther couldn't hear what he said but, to her surprise, the doorman instantly stood to one side and allowed Tom into the restaurant.

Esther scrambled up onto the window ledge of the bank she'd been standing outside to see what was happening inside the restaurant, but a weedy-voiced bank clerk quickly emerged and ordered her down. When Tom reappeared he was carrying a tray with two plates stacked high with food. He thanked the doorman politely and made his way across the road.

‘What did you do?' asked Esther, when he reached her.

‘I can make them do anything I want,' said Tom. ‘Anything.'

‘It doesn't seem to last that long by the looks of things though,' said Esther.

In front of the restaurant a commotion was brewing as an angry-looking maître d' came out, hauling a waiter by the collar and addressing the doorman. The doorman pointed to Tom.

‘Let's go,' said Esther.

‘Why?' said Tom. ‘I'll just do the same to him.'

‘No,' said Esther. ‘It's not good for you. Besides, we can't keep drawing attention to ourselves. It ain't just Hardy. Ringmore wants his book back too.'

‘What does it matter? I can make us disappear.' He smirked then added, with a glint in his eye, ‘Or I can make them disappear.'

‘Please,' said Esther. ‘Let's just go.'

The maître d' was now dragging the waiter and the doorman across the busy road. Tom followed Esther. In spite of the angry man's cries of ‘Stop thief!' it didn't take the orphans long to lose their pursuers. They knew these streets and alleyways as well as anyone.

Chapter 31

John Symmonds was beginning to have doubts about the Society of Thirteen. While the other members already had a fascination for supernaturalism, he had never expressed any such interest. Increasingly, he was coming to the conclusion that his time was being wasted. He had decided that the lines and shapes which filled the pages of the book were no language. If they were a code, it was one which was only intelligible to the creator.

Nor did Mr Symmonds appreciate being dragged south of the river to such a grim spot at such an early hour. A meeting held in a gentlemen's club was one thing, but the burnt-out shell of a Rotherhithe warehouse was hardly a civilised place to gather. The idea of asking Kiyaya to stay outside was a little preposterous too, since there was very little distinction between the interior and the exterior of the building but, as usual, Lord Ringmore was insistent, so Kiyaya stood on the other side of the non-existent door.

‘Much has happened since our last meeting and it is my duty to inform you that at present the book is not in our possession,' said Lord Ringmore.

‘Not in our possession?' echoed Mr Symmonds.

‘It was stolen from Ringmore's house during our last meeting,' said Clay.

‘Then why are we here?' Mr Symmonds demanded.

‘This place was home to the orphans who now have the book,' said Clay, ‘until it was set alight last night by a local gang. I've been searching for clues but, so far, nothing.'

‘All this for an incomprehensible book,' said Mr Symmonds, with a heavy sigh.

‘Not incomprehensible to everyone, it would seem,' said Clay.

‘What do you mean?' demanded Mr Symmonds. ‘It's unreadable.'

‘I have seen what it can do,' said Clay. ‘I have witnessed its power. I have seen magic, gentlemen. Real magic. The waters of the Thames itself rose up in the form of a giant hand.'

‘Is this true? The orphans have awoken its power?' said Mr G. Hayman.

‘Thirteen-year-old orphans,' said Sir Tyrrell, looking at her meaningfully.

‘Your investigations have revealed something?' said Lord Ringmore.

‘Not a complete picture,' said Mr G. Hayman, ‘but from what Sir Tyrrell and I were told by one of my interviewees it seems that your orphan messengers were ideally placed to realise the book's potential.'

‘Then it is imperative that we reclaim both it and them, using every resource available to us.' Lord Ringmore turned to Sir Tyrrell.

‘Ah, this again?' said Sir Tyrrell.

‘Now is the time,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘If we are to reclaim our book and quickly, we will need more help looking for these two thieving urchins. We need the police to find them.'

Sir Tyrrell coughed, but grumpily waved Mr G. Hayman away when she tried to pat him on the back. ‘I will not risk my parliamentary position by abusing my powers for this –'

‘It is not an abuse,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘What could be more important than the knowledge we seek?'

‘For goodness' sake. We're talking about a pair of orphans,' said Sir Tyrrell. ‘Do you not think this an overreaction?'

‘
I
do not,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘But what have the other members to say? After all, I see no reason why the Society of Thirteen shouldn't operate according to democratic principles.'

‘If you ask me,' said Clay, ‘this situation is far too delicate for the brutes in the police force. I'm with Sir Tyrrell.'

‘I am grateful for your support if not for your reasoning,' said Sir Tyrrell.

Lord Ringmore's annoyance was evident in the scowl on his face. ‘Sir Tyrrell and Mr Clay have made their opinions known,' he said. ‘I vote in favour of employing the eyes of the police to reclaim the book, which makes it two to one. So the decision lies with the remaining two Society members.'

‘I suppose Lord Ringmore's case makes sense,' said Mr Symmonds, although he sounded as if he really wasn't fussed either way. ‘If we are to get the book we may as well use the police.'

‘Two all, meaning the deciding vote lies with Mr Hayman,' said Lord Ringmore.

‘But  …  But  … ' blustered Sir Tyrrell.

‘But what?' Mr G. Hayman asked innocently. She looked at Sir Tyrrell, her eyes daring him to say what was on his mind: that she was a woman; what right had she to vote? Sir Tyrrell said nothing. Mr G. Hayman smiled then said, ‘We are close to our goal, but we need the book and we need the orphans. This is all that matters now. I vote in favour of Ringmore's plan.'

‘That's three against two,' said Lord Ringmore, clapping his hands triumphantly.

Sir Tyrrell exhaled in exasperation but conceded his loss with a non-verbal exclamation.

‘I will speak to the Chief Commissioner about a special operation,' conceded Sir Tyrrell. ‘But what am I to tell him?'

‘I will leave that up to your imagination,' said Lord Ringmore.

‘I wonder, do politicians have imaginations?' enquired Mr G. Hayman.

‘I assure you,' replied Sir Tyrrell, ‘that when it comes to the creation of believable yet fallacious stories, a politician is far more adept than any novelist.'