The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [117]
He swept the pieces off the board. They cascaded off the table onto the floor and rolled there. Heads turned, then went back to their meal. This was Simpson's, after all.
"My friend has just been kidnapped," Orphan said, standing. "I need to find him."
He thought about it. Was the other really his friend? He was him, and yet a different him, and–
He thought of that strange, metal egg, the Translation that was meant to do… what?
To hatch, he thought, and shivered. He was suddenly aware of just how cold and hungry he was. The smell of roast beef wafted through the banquet room, as overpowering as ether.
"Your… friend?" Byron said and then, turning to Irene and speaking sharply, "Where is the simulacrum? What happened?"
The simulacrum. Orphan wanted to shout. The other was real, as real as himself. Who could say what he must be feeling now, beside Orphan himself – fear, pain, the utter terror of captivity, of not knowing what your future holds, not knowing if you had a future?
Irene shrugged. She reached for a chair and sat down heavily. "The Bookman," she said, as if that, alone, explained everything.
The name hung heavy in the air, stalling conversation. Byron's eyes turned on Orphan, his face thoughtful. "Sit down," he said. "You are no good to anyone in your current state." He raised his hand and signalled to a waiter, who hurried over. "Bring us a bottle of Bordeaux, Philip. And a roast beef sandwich for the gentleman."
"Certainly, sir," Philip said, and he disappeared towards the unseen kitchens. At the doors, Anton was announcing new diners coming in. "Sir Hercules Robinson," the footman proclaimed, "and Mrs Isabella Beeton."
Orphan turned. Isabella had just come into the room. Their eyes met.
A shocked expression appeared on her face. For a moment, it seemed she would rush towards him, but then the man at her side took her arm, and her face relaxed, only her eyes remained trained on Orphan in a disconcerting gaze. It was as if she had never seen him before, but now found him of tremendous interest. It made him feel a little like a butterfly pinned to a naturalist's board.
"Come on, dear," said the man beside her, and they went and sat a little way away, against the wall and away from the windows.
Orphan stared at Sir Hercules.
The man was powerfully built, though running now a little to fat. In his sixties, he had kind eyes that seemed to look now about the room in benevolence. And yet they were offset, shockingly, by his head.
His head was a shaved, shining dome, and it was painted, or perhaps tattooed, with lizardine bands. Hooped earrings, like those some of the pirates Orphan had met sported, were pinned through the lobes of his ears. He carried himself comfortably, like a pugilist, though he was in fact the empire's best colonial administrator, and one of its greatest merchants.
Orphan knew him by name only. Hercules Robinson served as governor of the Hong Kong possession of the Lizardine Empire. He had successfully negotiated the Feejee treaty with King Cakobau, and the trade agreements with the Zulu nation in Africa. Later, he became a baron of trade (with a title from the Queen, it was rumoured, forthcoming), with interests in China and a small, yet sizeable stake in the Babbage Company. Though his royal connections were impeccable, he was a good friend of Marx, and Orphan heard him brag about it once in the bookshop.
Simpson's, Orphan thought. It was perhaps the only place in the city where all the plotters converged together, and dined as if nothing was going on outside, as if the city was not on the verge of collapse. He wondered where Isabella Beeton's real interests lay. He turned back to his companions, and saw Byron examining him keenly.
"The plot thickens…" the poet murmured, and a small smile rose on his face. "Or should I say 'plots'?"
"What is happening?" Orphan said. The automatons exchanged glances – for his benefit, no doubt.
"You can see, as you say, 'what is happening'," the Turk