The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [106]
He was first attacked as he made his way west, past Whitechapel. The streets were deserted, which he found strange, and there were very few lights in the windows. It was as if the city had been abandoned, and yet there was a certain hushed expectancy about the place, a tension underneath the stillness. It set him on edge.
The attack came near Spitalfields Market. Orphan crossed the deserted street, his attention focused on the distant light of the Babbage Tower, a beacon through the fog. He only noticed the man as he came directly at him out of the fog, a drawn blade glinting dully, and he ducked, instinctively, and kicked out, the way he had once seen Aramis do.
Luck, not skill, made the kick connect, and he heard his assailant grunt with pain. Orphan reached for his gun, a departing present from Verne, fumbled with it–
The knife came at him again, and he pulled the trigger.
The man fell. Orphan saw his face then; and had to hold himself from taking a step back.
It was a punk de Lézard.
He had last seen one in Nantes, but he could not forget that moment: lizard boys, Verne had called them. But what was one doing here?
The punk's face was a tattoo of green bands, his ears pinned back against his skull, and his head was round, a polished dome with only a strip of spiked hair at the centre. The man, wounded, hissed at him, and he saw that his tongue had been crudely modified, stretched and pared in the middle, so that it was forked and elongated, in bad imitation of a lizard's.
The man tried to rise. The blade was in his hand. It was bloodied, Orphan saw. He had hurt – perhaps killed – at least once before that night.
The man lunged at him.
Orphan shot him again.
The lizard boy sank back. The knife, finally, fell from his hand.
Who was he? Orphan thought. The man was a killer. And again – a lizard boy? Here?
He put the gun back in its holster. He felt hot and clammy under the heavy coat he was no longer used to wearing.
What had happened to the city?
After a moment, he picked his way again, more cautiously this time. He was not even sure where he was going. And then – find Tom, he thought. Get back to the Nell Gwynne. Tom would know what was happening. He always did.
He was passing through Farringdon, the old city walls on his left, when he first saw sign of people. They were marching in the street outside the courts, a group of them, all silent, wearing heavy coats against the chill, women and men who could have been anyone, clerks or magistrates, carpenters or cooks, yet here they were, in the small hours of the night, marching outside the courts, and there was a burning effigy held high above their heads.
Orphan watched the silent procession. The effigy was giant-sized, and lizardine. It could have been the Queen herself, or it could have been a stand-in for all of lizardkind. It was burning too fiercely by now to be able to tell.
What was happening to the city? He drew deep into the shadows and watched the marchers go past. Behind the effigy of the lizard another group came, cowled in black, another effigy held high.
This one didn't burn.
He stared at it, horrified. It was in the image of a man. The man was dressed in rich robes. He held a sceptre in his hand.
He wore a crown, and he had no face.
As the cowled figures moved past the one in the lead turned her head and for a moment the light of the fire fell on her face. Her eyes looked into the shadows and seemed to gaze directly at Orphan. He felt the force of her scrutiny like a physical thing, and shock as he recognised her.
It was Isabella Beeton.
Did she see him? He couldn't tell. Her head turned again and she marched ahead, and the effigy of the King followed her.
Wherever Isabella Beeton was, Orphan thought, conspiracy was never far behind. And yet he almost