Doctor Who_ The Infinity Doctors - Lance Parkin [13]
‘There is still time to call this off,’ one of the backbenchers insisted from behind the President.
The President’s current body was tiny; withered, his face was even more pale than his ivory robes or the white of his beard. He barely seemed to have the strength to stand and wear the ceremonial Sash of Rassilon at the same time. He didn’t turn to face the man who had addressed him. ‘I have consulted the Matrix,’ he said, indicating the metal circlet that hovered above his head like a halo. ‘This is to be a momentous day.’
There was more muttering.
A Council member stepped forwards, Lord Norval, who Larna had just been talking about to Hedin. ‘Lord President, as there is a delay here, perhaps we might use this opportunity to turn our attention to the temporal flicker in –’
‘Oh no you don’t,’ called another, taller, Dromeian Councillor as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
Larna realised that it was Castellan Voran, who had just arrived with his fat little assistant, Pendrel. ‘Before we worry about that, we really must look into the latest disturbances on Tyler’s Folly. Certain of the other higher powers are recommending that their people withdraw from the area. The planet is a major temporal nexus and the events there –’
‘Are of limited and local interest, Voran, as well you –’
The Castellan waved his hand dismissively. ‘And a temporal flicker isn’t? Unlike your little problem, Tyler’s Folly is actually on the agenda for the next Council Meeting.’
The President raised his hand. ‘Enough!’
The two Time Lords fell silent. The President nodded, grateful. ‘Magistrate? Where is the Doctor?’
The Magistrate moved forwards. He was a man of medium height, dressed in the thick black robes of office. His face was sallow, with a small, pointed beard, but that wasn’t what you remembered about him. You remembered his dark, burning eyes. The Magistrate was one of the President’s most trusted advisers, and the Doctor’s oldest friend.
‘I shall look for him, Excellency.’
The President shook his head. ‘I need you here.’ He asked one of the Cardinals to locate the Doctor and then turned out to the throng of Time Lords. ‘Open the gates of the Time Vortex.’
They hadn’t even tied him up.
He was in Low Town, Peltroc knew that even as he opened his eyes. The air was full of the smell of wet carpet and roast grockleroots, the sound of crowds outside bustling along cobbled alleyways. He was sitting on a chair, which in turn was sitting in the middle of a bare room, a first-floor one judging from what he could see out of the grimy window.
There wasn’t a carpet, the room was lit by a chemical lantern hung from the ceiling, and the only items of furniture were a battered, ancient wardrobe and a chest that looked as if it had once spent a century underwater. There was only one door.
Peltroc stood, flexing and stretching. There didn’t seem to be any lasting effects of being knocked out, not even grogginess. Whatever the masked figure had planned for him hadn’t been done yet. Every mind probe that Peltroc was aware of required the subject to be conscious.
Low Town was a shanty town that had grown up around the columns that kept the Capitol Dome level. Even on Gallifrey, there were the poor. Many people in Low Town came to the Capitol looking for work in the Guard, or the Civil Service. Perhaps some had tried to apply for the Academy.
Others might have left the life in the Capitol, disillusioned with the rule of the Time Lords. Peltroc sometimes felt that way, and he could see that this was a very different way to live from the disciplined, ordered world above, but he could see no benefit in coming down here. The truth was that people lived here because this was a halfway house with many of the advantages of the Capitol, such as energy sources, fresh water and the rule of law, but with none of the social obligations to the ‘Timeys’, no loomgeld or tithes. The authorities tolerated Low Town because it allowed them to monitor and control lawlessness, keeping it