The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [33]
Orphan was about to speak, but Mycroft suddenly roared, silencing him. "I will not let him die!" When he raised his eyes they seemed to hold a silent plea. "The best doctors have examined him," he said, almost plaintively. "The specialists in matters of life itself: Jekyll, Narbondo, Mabuse, Moreau, West… he has been treated with serums, with gland extracts, with electricity, with a spectrum of rays and with devices too arcane and tortuous and numerous to mention. Yet he remains as he is… dead to the world." He looked up at Orphan and said, "You and I are not so unlike. Both of us, after all, are seeking solution for death."
"Enough!" Orphan said. "Who are you? What are you? What do you want?" He felt rising anger and with it something akin to panic. He didn't care for this man, or about his brother.
"Again," Mycroft said, and his expression changed, became almost jovial. "You ask good questions. I hear you are one of our more promising young poets? Exactitude and directness are good qualities for a poet."
Orphan began to rise from his chair. Mycroft merely shook his head. "Don't," he advised. He clicked his fingers and beside him, the silent butler materialised like condensation on a glass of dark beer.
Orphan looked out of the window. The ground was far below. He sat back down.
The butler departed.
He was playing a game with him, Orphan thought. But what sort of game? It was a strange exchange of questions and half-answers, of things implied but not said – what did the fat man want from him? He had referred to himself as someone in government – well, that was clear enough. But whose interest did he represent? And what did he want from him?
It was a strange interrogation, he thought. Almost as if it was he who needed to find out the answers from Mycroft, and not the other way around. Or perhaps, not find them as much as decipher them on his own. He said, "At the cockpit."
"Yes?"
"You weren't watching the fight."
"No."
"Were you there for me?"
"What do you think?"
"No."
Mycroft nodded. "Very good," he said.
"You work for the government, but you are not in government. You have the power to commandeer a black airship, and you consider yourself a clearing house for information. So you must be in Intelligence."
Mycroft inched his head. "That seems obvious," he said. "But do go on."
"Which means that you are a loyal servant of Les Lézards."
"I serve Britannia," Mycroft said, a little stiff.
Orphan nodded thoughtfully. "That's what puzzled me," he said. "There seem to be so many factions at play here that I am quite lost. You claim to serve the empire, but show reticence with regards to Les Lézards." He smiled; he felt his mouth turning in a grimace. "You were watching Jack."
"Jack…" Mycroft mused. He, too, smiled. His expression, too, was ugly. "Your friend, Jack. Yes. An interesting specimen. But of course, he was not alone, was he, Orphan? He and that European troublemaker, Marx, and that beautiful, determined woman, Isabella Beeton… Yes. I was watching them quite carefully. And I was watching you, too. Will you join them?"
The sudden question took Orphan by surprise. "Is that what concerns you?" he asked. "You think they represent a threat to the empire?"
Mycroft shrugged. "There are a hundred different factions and organisations and secret societies in this city at any given time, all conspiring the downfall of the lizards, or of the government, or even of my own department. Do they represent a threat? Possibly. Quite possibly."
He fell into a brooding silence. Orphan glanced again out of the window. They were passing over the palace now, and the great, greenish pyramid rose out of the capital's ancient ground like a tombstone catching the starlight. He watched the Royal Gardens for a long moment, the silvery pools of water over which the shadow of the blimp passed almost unnoticed. He said, "What do you want from me?"
Mycroft, too, looked out of the window. At last, turning his eyes back to Orphan, he said,