The Society of Thirteen (17 page)

Chapter 50

As far as Harry Clay was concerned, there were few walks as pleasurable as that from the stage to the dressing room, with the thunderous applause still ringing in his ears. The opening show had been a resounding success and yet Clay was not as happy as he should have been. He could not rid his head of the heckles during The Resurrection. This trick involved him being buried alive in a glass container, with volunteers from the audience spading on the soil themselves. However, after dramatically clawing his way out of the soil, several voices cried out that they had seen the hinge at the back of the glass cabinet. What alarmed Clay was that they were entirely correct. A small door allowed Clay to crawl out of the cabinet without spilling any tell-tale signs of dirt on the stage. The dissenters had been shouted down by other audience members and the rest of the evening had gone smoothly, but Clay still felt rattled by the experience. With so many other illusionists and escapologists working the theatres of London, it was madness to consider dropping one of his best tricks but the hecklers had compounded what he already knew. The Remarkable Harry Clay needed something more remarkable.

‘Good show tonight.' Fred handed him a towel.

‘Lively crowd,' responded Clay, using it to dry the sweat from his face.

‘Now, don't go dwelling on that heckling,' said Fred, adopting his serious tone. ‘It was nothing, and everyone else was on your side. It was probably one of your rivals, trying to stir things up.'

‘It was you who shouted him down, wasn't it?' Clay already knew the answer.

‘What does it matter if it was? As soon as I rallied them, the whole crowd were with you.'

Clay removed his shirt, hurled it into a laundry basket and threw the towel over his shoulders.

‘What do you think of my act? Honestly now, Fred?'

‘Honestly?' replied Fred. ‘I think you're the best thing on in the West End. I prefer the dancing girls, you know, but that aside  … '

‘I mean, really honestly.'

‘Well, I guess you could do with a little tightening up here and there,' admitted his old friend. ‘It'll happen naturally as you go through the run.'

‘It's not enough. I need a new trick.'

‘The whole show is new.'

‘Something different then.'

Fred considered this. ‘Maybe you should think about incorporating some modern equipment into the act. Vats and closets are all very well but what about something like that motorised car you saw demonstrated the other day?'

‘A motorised car? Incorporate it how?'

‘I don't know. You're trapped in it as it's heading towards a cliff's edge then you jump out at the last minute  …  you know, the sort of thing you normally do?'

‘The sort of thing I normally do,' Clay repeated flatly.

‘I ain't knocking it. It's kept us well enough all these years.'

Fred had known Clay long enough to understand that there was no point reminding him that he was at the beginning of the longest-ever run of a one-man show in London. Nor was it worth mentioning that they were on course to sell out every night and break the theatre's box-office records. Clay's moods were Clay's moods. ‘I'll get the cab to wait by the stage door,' said Fred, closing the door behind him.

Clay slumped down in his chair and stared at his own reflection, wondering how much longer he could do this, when there was a knock at the door.

‘I'm still here,' he called, assuming Fred had forgotten to mention something.

In the mirror he saw the door open and two boys step inside. Behind them were two more, unable to get into the small room. He recognised them as the bunch he'd seen caught up in Esther's mud tornado. Clay placed the towel down on the counter and, using it as a cover, discreetly picked up a nail file. It wasn't much but it was the sharpest thing to hand.

‘Can I help you?' he said.

‘You Harry Clay?' asked Hardy.

‘I was when I walked off that stage five minutes ago.'

‘Do something remarkable then,' said the other boy in the room. He was younger, with dirty blond hair and shallow blue eyes.

‘Yeah, do something magic,' said Hardy.

‘How about a spot of mind-reading?' Clay turned to face him, still clutching the nail file under the towel. ‘Now, let's see.' He raised his left hand to his temple and narrowed his eyes. ‘Name. I'm getting a strong name, a tough name  …  H  …  H  …  Hard  …  Hardly  …  No. Hardy.'

Hardy slowly clapped. ‘Very clever. Now my turn. You're a man with something to hide.' He whisked off the towel to reveal Clay's right hand, clutching the nail file. ‘What you going to do with that then?'

Clay attempted to stand up but Brewer pushed him back into his seat and held his knife up to Clay's throat.

‘Easy now, boys,' said Clay.

‘Brewer's mind ain't so easy to read, is it?' said Hardy. ‘That's on account of it not being so big and all. So let's stick with me. What am I thinking now?'

‘You mean apart from the sadistic pleasure you're getting from all this?' said Clay.

‘Yeah, apart from that.'

‘It's about the book,' said Clay. ‘And the orphans.'

Hardy nodded. ‘First, they get the coppers after them, then there was whatever happened on the beach. I reckon you're the man to give us some answers, Harry Clay.'

‘And you thought it best to come down and threaten me in order to get them?' said Clay.

‘Shall I cut him?' asked Brewer. ‘Show him we mean business.'

‘Oh, I have no doubt that you mean business,' said Clay. ‘And cutting me isn't going to get you anywhere.'

Brewer looked at Hardy, who gave him the signal to back off.

‘I know you,' said Clay. ‘I know your type. I could have been like you but I decided to make something of my life.'

‘He thinks he's better than us,' said Brewer.

‘Of course I'm better than you,' said Clay. ‘Don't you want to be better than you? Look at you. Threatening and stealing. Where do you think this ends? Always the same place. At the end of a rope. That's where.'

‘So what?' said Hardy. ‘We can't all make rabbits appear out of hats.'

Clay touched the point in his neck where the knife had been pressed. He examined his finger and saw a spot of blood where the blade had pierced his skin. He sucked the blood off and looked at Brewer. ‘How old are you?'

‘What's it to you?' he replied.

‘How old?'

‘I'll be fourteen in May. Why?'

‘And you grew up in the same orphanage as the others?'

Brewer raised his knife again. ‘What's this about?'

Clay smiled. ‘How would you feel if I were to offer you an opportunity to make some money? How would you feel if I offered you a way out?'

Brewer glanced at Hardy.

‘What kind of money?' asked Hardy.

‘Real money,' said Clay. ‘Money you couldn't even dream of.'

‘We're listening,' said Hardy, ‘but I'm warning you now: try and get one over on me and my boys, and you'll find yourself in a situation you won't be escaping from so easily.'

Chapter 51

Sitting up a tree in Brunswick Square, Tom was amusing himself by manipulating one of the tree branches and using it to pluck the purses, wallets and handkerchiefs from pockets of passers-by.

‘Is this really what you choose to do with your power?' said Mondriat, landing on the branch beside him.

‘I can do what I want,' replied Tom, sulkily.

‘And I want to help you do that.'

‘Why? Why did you make me do the Creation Spell?' said Tom. ‘Why do you want to be my familiar? What do you want?'

‘I only want to witness –' began Mondriat.

‘Yes, I know. You want to witness the beauty of Conjury. Whatever you say. I still don't trust you.'

‘Quite right. Trust is folly.'

‘So you're saying I'm right not to trust you?'

‘You should never let anyone have your complete trust, but I promise I mean you no harm, Tom.'

‘Prove it,' said Tom.

‘How can I prove it?'

‘Show me your face, your human face. Take me to your mirror.'

Mondriat flapped his wings and hopped agitatedly up and down. ‘You would have me make myself vulnerable to you?'

‘Yes. Show me it and I'll know that you trust me and so I'll trust you.'

‘Oh, very well,' said the magpie. ‘If that is what it will take, come on.'

Mondriat fluttered to the ground. Tom jumped down after him and followed the bird through the square, his new black cloak billowing behind him.

‘Quite the Conjuror you look too,' sniggered Mondriat.

Tom ignored him. He liked it. It matched his black stick. He had visited a tailor after splitting with Esther. It hadn't taken much effort to persuade him to make a black cloak for him. Tom enjoyed the way it moved as he walked and the way it made him feel larger when it caught the wind.

Mondriat led him to the British Museum, a splendid old building. The old Tom would have been intimidated by such a place, but the new Tom merely considered how he could have reduced it to dust with the wave of his hand if he so desired.

‘The doormen are not overly keen on allowing birds in, so if you wouldn't mind making us both invisible,' said Mondriat.

Mondriat hopped onto his shoulder. Tom moved his staff then swished his cloak around him and vanished from sight.

‘Very stylishly done,' said Mondriat. ‘Inside now, please.'

Tom followed an elderly couple inside. ‘Up there,' said Mondriat.

Tom walked up the grand staircase, until Mondriat told him to stop in front of a grand mirror.

‘This is it?' asked Tom.

‘You tell me,' said Mondriat.

Tom wafted away the invisibility spell and watched as his reflection reappeared in the mirror. Mondriat was on his shoulder but the mirror showed a man standing beside him. He turned to look at Mondriat then back at his reflection. He had brown hair, a well-trimmed beard, hazel eyes and a wide smile.

‘This is what you looked like?' said Tom.

‘I know. A handsome devil.'

‘This was always your mirror?'

‘My father made it,' said Mondriat. ‘He was a Venetian mirror-maker. He made this one just before he died. Beautiful, isn't it? It became a part of the collection donated to this museum.'

‘So how does it work?' asked Tom. ‘How would I steal your Conjury?'

The fear was evident in Mondriat's reflected face. ‘Now, why would you want to know such a thing?'

‘What's the matter? You don't trust me?' said Tom.

‘Can I, Tom? Can I trust you?' asked Mondriat.

‘That's why it's called trust,' said Tom. ‘You don't know.'

Mondriat sighed. ‘Smashing the mirror would kill me, but you would lose the power. To draw it out you need to hold a second mirror opposite this one. You could coax the True Reflection out and intercept it as it moved.' He looked nervously at Tom. ‘Is that what you want to do?'

‘Maybe,' said Tom. ‘Certainly, if you get on my nerves.'

‘But not now,' said Mondriat.

‘Not yet,' said Tom.

‘So we must trust each other. Now, please let me help you.'

‘Help me do what?'

‘Help you achieve everything you desire. Wealth, power, strength. This is what you seek. It is what everyone seeks. I can help you find the power to shape your own destiny.'

‘How?' asked Tom.

‘A Conjuror manipulates. He does not create. To achieve your goals you will need powerful allies. You will need to find those who can exchange your gifts for theirs.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘Good, then you can stop this pickpocketing tree nonsense. You need to stay out of sight. You must be as invisible as the air. Get rid of this cape while you're at it. Try to blend in rather than stand out.'

‘I'll do what you say,' said Tom. ‘But I'm keeping the cape.'

Chapter 52

Lord Ringmore was philosophical about the failure of the experiment with Sir Tyrrell's nephew. After all, the creation of a new Conjuror would only have further complicated matters. The goal was to entice the orphans back into his employment and, with Clay's new stage show, Hayman's novel and Sir Tyrrell's parliamentary work keeping the rest of them busy, it was down to him alone to achieve it. There was every possibility that the orphans had left London, but Lord Ringmore had a feeling that this was not the case. Tom and Esther had grown up in these streets. It was all they knew. Still, London was a large enough city to get lost in, even without the ability to turn invisible.

Sir Tyrrell had furnished Lord Ringmore with a letter of introduction to the metropolitan police, giving him unrestricted access to the Central London Police Station on Agar Street. It was whilst there that he caught wind of a number of reports about a pickpocket operating in Brunswick Square. Nothing strange in that, of course, except that some of the accounts appeared to suggest that the criminal responsible was invisible, while others claimed that it was the large weeping willow in the centre of the square that was plucking items with its branches. The duty officer found the whole thing most amusing, but Lord Ringmore had immediately caught a hansom cab there.

Taking a leaf out of Clay's book, Lord Ringmore had left his top hat, cape and walking stick at home, instead dressing in an anonymous dirt-brown overcoat with a cap pulled down to cover his face. In this disguise, he stood watching the square until he saw a boy drop out of a tree. It was Tom, even if his black cape and walking stick made Lord Ringmore feel as though he was looking at a miniature version of himself.

When the boy vanished from sight outside the British Library, Lord Ringmore's heart pounded. Having spent his life circumnavigating the globe in search of magic, here it was in his home city: real magic. When Tom reappeared he knew he could not risk losing him again so he stepped out in front of the boy and spoke. ‘Hello, Tom.'

‘What do you want?' replied the orphan.

‘To strike up a deal.'

On Tom's shoulder was a disgustingly mangy magpie, which squawked in a most peculiar manner. It seemed to Lord Ringmore that the boy was listening to its unintelligible utterances.

Tom looked at Lord Ringmore. ‘All right,' he said. ‘But not like last time. I got more to bargain with now.'

‘You most certainly have,' acknowledged Lord Ringmore.

He paid for a cab to transport all three of them to his house, where he led the boy and his strange, feathered companion inside. When Tom looked around the room, empty but for a single armchair, he said, ‘Don't expect me to say sorry.'

‘I expect no apologies,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘I daresay my possessions are worth a great deal more to whoever now holds them than they ever meant to me.'

‘What you thinking anyway, leaving a big house like this with no one home?' asked Tom. ‘You should have a housekeeper to watch the place when you're not in. Or a dog. Or something.'

‘I accept full culpability,' said Lord Ringmore.

‘You got the book though, did you?' said Tom.

Lord Ringmore nodded.

‘You know I could take it back if I wanted,' said Tom.

Another movement from Tom's staff and Lord Ringmore felt the book wrestle itself free of his inside pocket and fly across the room into the boy's hand. Lord Ringmore tapped the spot where the book had been. His heart was pounding harder than a military drummer. ‘How does it feel?' he asked. ‘I mean, to possess such power at your fingertips?'

‘You already know how it feels.' Tom shrugged. ‘Since I can remember, I've been told what to do, where to go, how to feel. Now, I can choose for myself. So don't ask me how it feels as though you can't imagine it because you've known that feeling your whole life.'

‘And what do you want now?' asked Lord Ringmore.

‘I want my share.'

‘Your share of what?'

‘Of everything.'

Lord Ringmore picked up a glass of wine from the mantelpiece. ‘You mean, you want money?'

‘Yeah money, of course money, but I want to be someone too.'

Lord Ringmore took a sip of wine. ‘Oh, I think we can arrange that easily enough,' he said. ‘After all, you're more someone than anyone I've ever met. But, tell me, can you not magic up everything you desire?'

‘Conjurers can only manipulate,' said Tom. ‘It is the unInfected like you who make.'

‘Then we can do great things together, you and I, Tom,' said Lord Ringmore. ‘You will have money, means and everything you desire, but I also have one request.'

‘Which is what?' asked Tom.

‘Oh, only eternity,' said Lord Ringmore, casually. ‘Only eternity.'