Nightingale lament n-3 Page 17

  The Cavendishes looked at each other, sighed qui­etly, then moved forward to indulge the Jonah. They stood over Dead Boy and studied his stubbornly exist­ing body with thoughtful frowns.

  "We could always feed him into a furnace," said Mr. Cavendish.

  "Indeed we could," said Mrs. Cavendish. "I always enjoy it so much more when they're still alive to appreciate what's happening."

  "But I think a more immediate end is called for here," said the man. "Major players like Dead Boy have a habit of escaping their fates, if given the slight­est chance."

  "And we haven't existed this long by taking unnec­essary chances with our enemies, Mr. Cavendish."

  "Quite right, my dear."

  They both drew handguns from hidden holsters and shot Dead Boy in the heart and in the forehead. He jerked convulsively, pink-and-grey brains spraying out the back of his head. And then he lay back and was per­fectly still, and his eyes looked at nothing at all. The Cavendishes turned to face me, and I gave them my best sneer.

  "Your guns don't have bullets in them any more, you bastards."

  The Cavendishes pulled the triggers anyway a few times, but nothing happened. They shrugged pretty much in unison and went back to stand behind their Jonah.

  "We've always believed in delegation," said the man.

  "You wanted him, dear Billy," said the woman. "He's all yours."

  The Jonah stepped forward, smiling his cocky smile like he had all the time in the world and wouldn't have rushed this for anything. "Still got a few tricks left up your sleeve, eh, John? But then, tricks are all you ever really had. Your precious gift for finding things was never a real power, not like mine. There's nothing you can do to stop me killing you and taking Rossignol back where she belongs. How shall I kill you, John? Let me count the ways . . . The cancers that lie in wait, needing only a nudge to swell and prosper. The arthri­tis that lurks in every joint, the bacteria and viruses to boil in your blood. . . Perhaps all of them at once might be amusing. You might even explode like Dead Boy! Or maybe ... I'll find that one-in-a-million chance where you were born horribly deformed and helpless, and leave you like that. So everyone can see what happens to anyone foolish enough to cross the Jonah."

  He could do it. He had the power. And all I had was a gift I didn't dare use again. Now my enemies knew exactly where I was, if I opened my mind to use my gift, they'd attack my mind directly. They'd take control of my mind and my soul in a second, then . . . there are worse things than death, in the Nightside. But with­out my gift, I didn't have anything strong enough to stop the Jonah and save Rossignol. All I had . . . was myself. I smiled suddenly, and the Jonah's grin fal­tered.

  "Billy, Billy," I said, calm and easy and utterly con­descending, "you never did understand the true nature of magic. It's not based in the power we wield or the gifts we inherit. In the end, it all comes down to will and intent. And the mind and soul behind them."

  I locked eyes with the Jonah, and he stood very still. The whole world narrowed down to just the two of us, eye to eye, will to will. All we were, brought out onto the brightly lit mental stage, peeling back the layers to show who and what we were at the core. And for all his power, and despite everything he'd done, Billy Lathem looked away first. He actually staggered back a few steps, breathing hard, his face pale and sweaty.

  "Who the hell are you?" he whispered. "What are you? You're not human . . ."

  "More human than you, you little prick," said Rossignol. She stepped past me, and when the Jonah looked at her, she sang right into his face. Her voice was strong and true and potent, and she aimed it like a weapon right at him. I fell quickly backwards, clap­ping my hands to my ears. Beyond the Jonah, the Cavendishes were retreating, too, and protecting their ears. Rossignol sang, face to face with the Jonah - a sad, sad song of love lost and lovers gone, and all the secret betrayals of the heart. She sang directly at him, and he couldn't look away, couldn't back away, like a mouse hypnotized by a snake, like a fish on a hook. She held him where he was, with a merciless song of viola­tion and isolation and the corruption of talent. Every­thing that had been done to her, she threw back at him. And the more she sang, the more it was the story of his life, too. Of poor little Billy Lathem, who might have been a Power and a Domination like his father, but had never been anything more than a hired thug.

  The Cavendishes huddled together for comfort, as far away as they could get. I had my hands pressed so tightly to my ears I thought my skull would collapse under the pressure, and still the edges of the song ripped and tore at me, till my heart felt it would tear loose in my chest. Tears were running down my face. And Billy Lathem, forced to face the truth at last, whispered, Daddy, I only wanted you to be proud of me. . . and disappeared. Air rushed in to fill the space his body had occupied, as Billy turned his power on himself and selected the one chance where he was never born.

  Rossignol stopped singing, though the power of her voice still seemed to reverberate on the air. She swayed suddenly on her feet, then collapsed. I grabbed her be­fore she hit the floor, but caught off-balance, her weight carried both of us down. I sat on the stage, holding her in my arms, and only then realised she was dying. Her breathing was slowing, and 1 could feel her heart counting down to zero. Only the Jonah's will had kept her from death's door, and with him gone her long-delayed destiny was finally catching up with her. Vitality drained out of her, as though someone had opened a tap. I held her to me fiercely, as though I could stop it going through sheer force of will, but that trick never works twice.

  "I promised I'd save you," I said numbly.

  "You promised me the truth," said Rossignol, with pale lips that hardly moved. "I'll have to settle for that. Not even the great and mighty John Taylor can keep all his promises."

  And just like that, she was gone. She stopped talk­ing, she stopped breathing, and all the life went out of her. I still held her in my arms, rocking her quietly, still trying to comfort her.

  "Oh dear," said Mr. Cavendish. "What a pity. Now we'll have to start all over again, with someone else."

  "Never mind, Mr. Cavendish," said the woman. "Third time lucky."

  I looked up at them, and there was murder in my eyes. They started pushing bullets into their guns, but their hands were trembling. And then we all looked round, startled, as Dead Boy spoke. It was just a whis­per, with most of his lungs gone, but it was still and quite clear in the quiet.

  "It's not over yet," he said, staring blindly up at the ceiling. "Rossignol is dead, but not actually departed. Not yet. There's still time, John. Still time to save her, if you've got the will and the courage."

  "How is it you're still with us?" I said, too numb to be properly surprised. "Half of your insides are scattered across the stage. They blew your brains out, for God's sake!"

  He chuckled briefly. An eerie, ghostly sound. "My body's been dead for years. It doesn't really need its internal organs any more. They don't serve any purpose. This body is just a shape I inhabit. A habit of living. Like eating and drinking and all the other things I do to help me pretend I'm still alive. You can still rescue Rossignol, John. I can use your life force to power a magic, to send both of us after her. Into the dark lands, the borderlands we pass through between this life and the next. When I died and came back, the door was left open a crack for me. I can go after her, but only a liv­ing soul can bring her back again. I won't lie to you, John. You could die, doing this. We could all go through that final door and never return. But if you're willing to try, if you're willing to give up all your re­maining years in one last gamble, I promise you, we have a chance."

  "You can really do this?" I said.

  "I told you," said Dead Boy. "I know all there is to know about death."

  "Ah, hell," I said. "I never let a client down yet."

  "An attitude like that will get you killed," said Dead Boy.

  "What if the Cavendishes attack us while we're gone? Destroy our bodies, so there's nothing left to come back to?"

 
; "We'll be back the same moment we left. Or we won't be back at all."

  "Do it," I said.

  Dead Boy did it, and we both died.

  Powered by all the remaining years of my life, Dead Boy and I went into the dark together, and for the first time I discovered there is a darkness even darker than the Nightside. A night that never ends, that never knew stars or a moon. The coldest cell, the longest fall. It was the absence of everything, except for me and Dead Boy. I was just a presence, without form or shape, a scream without a mouth to limit it, but I calmed some­what as I sensed Dead Boy's presence. We spoke with­out voices, heard though there was no sound.

  There's nothing here. Nothing ...

  Actually there is, John, but you're still too close to life to be able to appreciate it. Think yourself lucky.

  Where's Ross?

  Think of the darkness as a tunnel, leading us to a light. A way out. This way...

  Yes. . . How can there be a direction when there's nothing. . .

  Stop asking questions, John. You really wouldn't like the answers. Now follow me.

  You've been this way before.

  Part of me is always here.

  Is that supposed to make me feel better? You're a real spooky person, you know that?

  You have no idea, John. This way. . .

  And we were falling in a whole new direction. It did help to think of the darkness as a tunnel, leading some­where. We were definitely approaching something, though with no landmarks it was impossible to judge our speed or progress. I should have been scared, terri­fied, but already my emotions were fading away, as though they didn't belong there. Even my thoughts were growing fuzzy round the edges. But then I began to feel there was something ahead of me, something special, calling me. A speck of light appeared, beautiful and brilliant, all the colours of the rainbow in a single sharp moment of light. It grew unhurriedly, a great and glorious incandescence, yet still warm and comforting, like the golden beam from a lighthouse, bringing ships safely home through the long lonely nights. And then there was another presence with us, and it was Rossignol.

  Are you angels?

  Hardly, Ross. I don't think they're talking to me any more. This is John, with Dead Boy. We've come to take you home.

  But I can hear music. Wonderful music. All the songs I ever wanted to sing.

  For her it was music, for me it was light. Like the warm glow from a window, the friendly light of home after a long hard journey. Or perhaps the last light of the day, when all work is over, all responsibilities put aside, and we can all rest at last. Day is done. Welcome home, at last.

  Oh John, I don't think I want to go back.

  I know, Ross. I feel it, too. It's like. . . we've been playing a game, and now the game's over, and it's time to go back where we belong . . .

  There was a sense of taking her hand in mine, and we moved towards the light and the music. But Dead Boy had been there before. Kindly, remorselessly, he took us both by the hand and pulled us away, back to life and bodies and all the worries of the world.

  I sat up sharply, dragging air deep into my lungs as though I'd been underwater for ages. The lesser light of the world crashed in around me. I'd never felt so clearly, starkly alive. My skin tingled with a hundred sensations, the world was full of sound, and Ross was right there beside me. She threw herself into my arms, and for a long moment we hugged each other like we'd never let go. But eventually we did and got to our feet again. We were back in the real world, with all its own demands and priorities. Dead Boy was standing before us, complete and intact again, resplendent in his un­damaged finery. The only difference was the neat bul­let hole in his forehead.

  "Told you I know all there is to know about death," he said smugly. "Oh, I used some of your life energy to repair the damage the Jonah did to my body, John. Knew you wouldn't mind. Trust me, you won't miss it."

  I glared at him. "Next time, ask."

  Dead Boy raised an eyebrow. "I hope very much there isn't going to be a next time."

  "Just how much of my life force did we use up on this stunt anyway?"

  "Surprisingly little. It seems there is more to you than meets the eye, John. Mind you, there would have to be."

  "You were dead!" said Mr. Cavendish, just a little shrilly. He sounded like he might be going to cry. "You were all dead, and now you're alive again! It just isn't fair!"

  "That's the trouble with the Nightside," Mrs. Cavendish said sulkily. "You can't rely on people staying dead. Next time, do remember to bring some ther­mite bombs with us."

  "Quite right, Mrs. Cavendish. Still, they all look de­cidedly weakened by whatever unnatural thing it was they just did, so I think it's back to the old reliable bul­let in the head. Lots of them, this time."

  "Exactly, Mr. Cavendish. If we can't have Rossignol, no-one can."

  They aimed their reloaded guns at her. I moved to put myself between her and the guns, but that was all I could do. My time in the dark had taken everything else out of me, for the moment. I looked at Dead Boy, who shrugged.

  "Sorry, I'm running on empty, too. Rossignol, any chance of a song?"

  "Darling, right now I couldn't even squeak out a note. There must be something we can do!"

  "Oh, shut up and die," said Mrs. Cavendish.

  The two of them approached us, guns extended, tak­ing their time, enjoying seeing their enemies helpless before them. They were going to shoot us all, and I had no magics left to stop them. But I've never relied on magic to get me through the many and varied dangers of the Nightside. I've always found using my wits and being downright sneaky much more reliable. So I waited till the Cavendishes were right in front of me, then I dug a good handful of pepper out of my hidden stash and threw it right into their smug, smiling faces They both screamed pitifully as the pepper ground into their eyes, and I slapped the guns out of their flailing hands and gave the two of them a good smack round the back of the head, just on general principles. Dead Boy kicked their feet out from under them, and they ended up sitting on the stage, huddled together and clawing frantically at their streaming eyes.

  "Condiments," I said easily. "Never leave home without them. And once the Authorities get here, I'll rub salt into your wounds as well."

  At which point, an unconscious combat magician came flying onto the stage from the wings, upside down and bleeding heavily. He'd barely hit the stage with a resounding thud before two more combat magi­cians were backing quickly onto the stage, retreating from an unseen foe. Zen magics spat and shimmered on the air before them, as their rapidly moving hands wove cat's cradles of defensive magics. But Julien Advent, the great Victorian Adventurer himself, was more than a match for them. He bounded onstage with mar­velous energy, dodging the thrown spells with prac­ticed skill, and proceeded to run rings around the bewildered combat magicians with breathtaking acro­batics and vicious fisticuffs. He moved almost too quickly to be seen, impossibly graceful, smiling all the time, smiting down the ungodly with magnificent ease.

  Being an editor for thirty years didn't seem to have slowed him down at all.

  He finally stood over three unconscious combat ma­gicians, not even breathing hard, the bastard. Dead Boy and Ross and I applauded him because, you had to, re­ally. Julien Advent actually was all the things they said he was. He shot me a quick grin as he took in the de­feated Cavendishes.

  "I see the cavalry probably wasn't needed after all. Good work, John. We were afraid we might be a little overdue."

  I'd only just started to process the word we and get the beginnings of a really bad feeling, when Walker strolled on from the wings, and all I could think was Oh shit. I'm really in trouble now.

  Walker strode over to consider the weeping, red-eyed Cavendishes, his face as always completely calm and utterly unreadable. Walker, in his neat city suit and bowler hat, representative of the Authorities, and quite possibly the most dangerous man in the Nightside. He had been given power over everyone and everything in the Nightside, and if you were wis
e, you didn't ask by whom. I would have run like hell, if I'd had any strength left.

  The Cavendishes became aware of Julien's pres­ence. They forced themselves up onto their feet and faced him defiantly. He studied their faces for a long moment, his smile gone, his eyes cold.

  "I've always known who you were," he said fi­nally. "The infamous Murder Masques, still villains, still unpunished. But I could never prove it, until now." He looked at me. "I knew if anyone could bring them down, it would be you, John. If only because you were too dumb to know it was impossible. So after you came to me, I contacted Walker, and we've been following you ever since. At a discreet distance, of course. We even stood in the wings and listened as the Cavendishes incriminated themselves with their gloating. It was all so very interesting I almost didn't hear the combat magicians until it was too late. I should have known the Cavendishes would bring backup."

  "I speak for the Authorities," Walker said to the Cavendishes. "And I say you're history."

  "It all began with them," said Julien. "They Timeslipped me because they wanted to seize my transformational potion, as their first big business venture. Typical, really. They couldn't just earn their money. They had to cheat. Little good it did them, because it was only after I was gone, slammed eighty years into the future in a moment, that they discovered there was no formula anywhere among my notes. I'd kept all the details in my head."

  He stopped then and looked directly at Mrs. Cavendish. She stood a little straighter, still knuckling tears from one eye. The legendary Victorian Adven­turer and his legendary lost love, the betrayed and the betrayer, face to face for the first time in over a century.

  "Irene..."

  "Julien."

  "You haven't changed at all."

  "Oh, don't look at me. I look awful."

  "I've always known it was you. Hidden behind your new names and identities."

  "Then why did you never come for me?"

  "Because even the greatest love will die, if you stick a sharp enough knife through its heart. I knew it was you, but I couldn't prove it. You and your husband were very well protected. And in the end, I just didn't care any more. It was all such a long time ago, and I never did believe in living in the past."