The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [116]
In what seemed like mere seconds, the vehicle had disappeared.
Orphan and Irene were left alone outside Simpson's.
The other had been kidnapped. And in the last moment, when they both collided, he had passed him the Binder's egg. Orphan hid it in his clothes. Already he could feel it at the edges of his mind, like a long and sinuous whisper, like a crawling spider finding its way inside him.
"We need to get out of here before the police arrive," Irene said, and Orphan almost laughed: the last time he had seen her, Irene Adler was the police. He worried about his other self: how would he fare? He had seemed… damaged in some way. He had to save him, and he didn't know how. Perhaps Byron could help, and Irene. For the moment, he had no choice but to trust them. And so he followed Irene through the doors, and into Simpson's-in-the-Strand.
Rain, snow, or revolution: Simpson's remained open. At the entrance a liveried footman welcomed them gravely, cast a disapproving glance over Orphan's clothes, and said, "Formal wear only, sir."
"Can you get him some, Anton?" Irene said. "We're in a hurry."
"Certainly, madam," Anton said. He disappeared into the cloak room and returned with a brown jacket. Orphan gratefully put it on.
"The gentleman is waiting for you upstairs, madam," Anton said. He walked to the foot of the stairs and stood there, clearly waiting for them to follow him, which they did.
A piano was playing somewhere nearby, and with it came the smell of cigars, the clinking of ice in tall glasses. At the top of the stairs Anton stopped again and was about to speak, when Irene stopped him. "Please don't announce us, Anton."
"Very well, madam," Anton said. "Please follow straight through. The gentleman is in the banquet room. That's directly ahead, sir," he said, turning to Orphan.
Orphan muttered a "Thank you," and followed Irene through the grand, open doors into the dining room beyond. As he did, he passed the source of the music – a Babbage player piano, its keys moving without the aid of human hands.
From within Simpson's, the noise and threat of the outside world – its demonstrations, its bombs, its squalor and pain – were dimmed to a distant hum, like waves lapping gently against a sandy, tropical shore. The spacious room was half-full with prominent diners, drinking, talking, watching expectantly as the chef prepared to carve a giant piece of beef on a silver serving-trolley.
In the corner of the room, his back to the windows overlooking the Strand, sat the Mechanical Turk.
How did the Turk move? He was a machine, immobile, only the top half of him resembling a man's. Orphan wondered, but then remembered the Egyptian Hall was only one of the places the Turk had resided in. Did they disassemble him before every move? Was that, for an automaton, a form of sleep? Orphan didn't know.
Beside the Turk sat Lord Byron's simulacrum.
"Orphan," the Turk said. His voice sounded even more worn than it had the last time they had met, the scratches and pauses more pronounced than Orphan had remembered. "It is good to see you again."
"I wish I could say the same," Orphan said, and the Turk laughed. Byron, unspeaking, nodded a welcome. Orphan stood opposite them, feeling at a loss. He had not expected to see either one of them again.
But, of course, this was Simpson's, he thought. The place all were catered for, be they human or lizard or machine. Simpson's was famous: Orphan, of course,
had never been there.
In front of the Turk was his chess set. It was a part of him, Orphan thought. It was his body. He sat down, without being asked. The pieces were already arranged on the board, and he remembered the