The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [91]
"See?" Elizabeth said, "I told you so!"
"What did I tell you," the old woman murmured,
"about never using that expression?" She rocked on her feet, still holding his arm, and studied him attentively for a long moment. The watchers remained silent and unmoving. They made him think of mushrooms. "Nobody likes a knows-it-all."
Orphan couldn't see Elizabeth's face, but from the sound she made he suspected she had stuck out her tongue.
"Your mother," the old woman said, and her voice caught. Her fingers rose back to his face, and he discovered to his surprise that they were shaking now. "Who was she?"
He suddenly realised the absurdity of his situation, kneeling in the dirt deep underground, in a cavern stinking of mushrooms, and being interrogated about his genealogy.
"I don't know."
"You have the face of one of us," the woman said. "And you must have the blood…"
For the first time another voice interjected. "Mother, that is not possible."
The speaker then stepped forward. He was a short, balding man with a thin crown of hair ringing the top of his head. He peered anxiously at Orphan and shook his head. "He can't be one of us."
"The blood doesn't lie," the woman said, raising Orphan's arm, exposing the puncture marks for all to see. "Why is he not dead?"
"Perhaps the machines made a mistake," the man said, though his voice was suddenly uncertain. "A malfunction in the defence automation…"
The old woman snorted. "Malfunction!"
Another voice joined them. A woman, pale and tall, who stepped forward so that she, too, could peer into Orphan's face. He felt rather like an exhibit at the Egyptian Hall, put on display, an automaton whose only function was to be looked at, and talked over. "Perhaps Edward would like to go out and see if he could leave the island? After all, if the machines have failed…" She let her sentence trail off and smirked at the bald man, who seemed to shrink away from her as if frightened by her words.
"The machines haven't failed," the old woman said, and now her trembling had stopped, and something like wonder filled her eyes. "They have not failed in four hundred years, and they have certainly not failed now, with Moriarty's cannon and the lizards' plans so close to fruition!" She withdrew from Orphan and pulled herself as high as she could go. "Get up!"
As he did the circle of watchers closed on him, and he had to stop himself from bolting. What they did next surprised him: they came up to him, surrounding him, and began to feel him. Hands touched his hair, his face, his shoulders. Fingers examined the puncture marks on his arm, many of them, coming and going. All this was done in silence. Was that, he wondered, trying to stay still, not to startle these strange subterranean creatures, what it was like to be an automaton? To be subjected to curiosity, to comment, without regard?
"You say you never knew your mother?" the woman asked.
"No," Orphan said. "I mean, yes. I never knew her. Not even her name."
"Mary," someone said, wonder in his voice. It was the man with the crown of hair. "He must be Mary's son…"
The crowd gathered around Orphan began to whisper the name as if enthralled. "Mary?"
"Mary…"
"Mary!"
"Stop! Wait!" Orphan said, snapping. He pushed them away, and they cowered from him. "My father was a Vespuccian sailor. I never knew my mother, but I very much doubt she came from, well, here!" He waved his hand in the air, feeling the anger that all the tiredness and hunger and heat had brought, the confusion and the fear. His gesture seemed to encompass the dim light, the mushroom fields, the poor quality of the huts and clothes and the dirt under his feet. "This place is only a legend! A story people tell! It's not a place people come from!"
"But we do," the old woman said, and she smiled at him. Her teeth were white and even, startling in that old mouth. "Oh, stories are real, my boy. More real than you could ever imagine! Do they still tell stories of us, too, back in your empire? Do they whisper the tale of the last King and Queen