The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [107]
Yet he didn't. He did not know what was going on. The city had changed, become a dangerous, unpredictable place. He was disturbed by the sight of this midnight march. A burning lizard…
But it was the other effigy that made his heart beat faster and his hands sweat. The crowned, human king.
He had to find shelter, and some information.
The second, successful attack on Orphan came in the early hours of the morning, as the sun began to rise, pale sunlight transforming the city streets into, somehow, more ordinary places from which the danger of night seemed to be lifted, if only a little.
He was on the Strand, curiously empty of people but for a lone beggar sleeping in the doorway of Gibbons' stamp shop, and had almost reached Bull Inn Court – and with it, or so he hoped, the safety of the Nell Gwynne – when he was struck from behind.
The pain blossomed in his head like a rapidly growing mushroom, suffocating him. He fell to the ground and lay there, numb. Hands riffled through his pockets, expertly, then the sound of feet, running away. He never saw his assailant.
After a while, the pain abated, and he groaned and began to move. As he began to cautiously rise he felt a presence beside him and instinctively lashed out.
"Sir!" said a rugged voice, and Orphan turned and saw that the beggar from the doorway was now standing beside him, stooped in his dirty rags. "I am but a humble beggar, coming to your lordship's aid!"
"A bit too late for that," Orphan said sourly. His head hurt, and his gun and his money were gone, though the beggar left him his mother's old book, which was no doubt not worth stealing. Books in this city were a penny a pound. The weight of words pressed down on the old streets, numerous millions of them, cranked out day or night by the printing presses and the men and women who churned them out, like so many factoryproduced trinkets.
Money and a gun – you knew were you were with them. But a book? What good was a book?
"Did you see who it was?" Orphan said.
The beggar shook his head dolefully. "A common thief," he said. "He'll be long gone by now."
"No doubt," Orphan said. He staggered up and felt his eyes water.
"Here," the beggar said. "Sit down a while." He helped Orphan to the doorway of the shop and sat him down; and, wearily folding himself beside him, extracted from a hidden pocket a small flask at the same time.
"Drink this," the beggar said. "It will help. Also, it will warm you up."
Orphan looked at the flask. Though worn and faded, it was monogrammed with the letters S.H., and he wondered how the beggar had got hold of it. Stolen, possibly, or just found in a rubbish tip. He eyed it with suspicion.
The beggar grinned, unstoppered the flask and handed it to Orphan. "Whiskey," he said. "It's a wonderful medicine."
Orphan drank; and the heat of the whiskey ran through his body like a series of controlled explosions. He coughed and felt his face go red and his eyes water. The beggar grinned and slapped him on the back. His face swam before Orphan's eyes, the sharp features and prominent nose, awakening a dim memory. "Do I know you?" he said. The beggar looked much livelier now, though that may simply have been a product of the drink.
"Wind, rain, and thunder," the beggar said, "remember, earthly man is but a substance that must yield to you. And I, as fits my nature, do obey you."
Orphan looked at him. There was something familiar about the face, glimpsed briefly, in the midst of night, in a cold place, behind a plate of glass…
Guy's Hospital. And a still, unmoving man frozen in a coffin, whose brother…
"Who are you?" Orphan said. He tried to stand, but felt his head swimming; his arms would no longer obey him.
"A friend," the beggar said, his voice soft and faraway. "A friend who can see what the sea has cast once more upon these shores. It is no magic, but logic only. Be careful, Orphan. This is a bad time to be a prince."
"What… what did you do