Chapter Five

“Reclaiming an incarnation is very dangerous and difficult, and should only be attempted before the hunters make it back to safety. Even so, it is often wiser to report it and await further orders and reinforcements.”

—A Handbook for the Recruit

“You will not.”

I wanted to sleep. The three-sided argument downstairs carried too well to permit it. I turned over, winced, and wished the door was a bit thicker.

“No stays, corsets or obscene great ruffles—the thought of it! You girls should be more sensible. Your vanity astounds me.”

“All I said,” said Justice, uncharacteristically sulky, “was I thought the fashion plates quite handsome.”

“You also said you would like to look as well as the girls there.”

I wondered what Ivan had done to put Madame into such an ugly mood—it wasn’t like her to take offense at such a small thing. I should probably go downstairs and settle things, but my sides hurt and the bandages felt wet and I had a headache. Besides, I didn’t want to cross Madame so early in the morning.

“Well, it’s only natural,” said a new voice. “Don’t blame her too much. She’s looking through my eyes, and I am a little vain, I fear.” She laughed, an uncommonly merry, bright sound.

“Indeed,” said Madame. “You girls should not be so concerned with your appearances. It is not something likely to do you much good. You have no need for husbands, in the first place, and many of those fripperies would simply get in your way.”

“Wouldn’t it be useful if we had to disguise ourselves at some—”

“You will have no need of them. They’re for young ladies who are courted. Not you.”

A long silence.

I felt for the two of them. Madame was being uncharacteristically sour. I stared at the ceiling another moment, then forced myself to my feet with a grumble. I waited for the room to cease spinning, then went in search of clothes.

Every time I bent, I suffered another fit of dizziness. It was most unpleasant. Eventually, I was presentable. I decided to forgo shaving, as ill-favored as I looked.

I lurched down the stairs, one hand white-knuckled on the banister, and made my way into the dining room.

“Good morning,” I said to the two young women seated at the table. The new incarnation looked up with interest in her brown eyes. Small and smiling, she looked about the same age as Justice, somewhere between twelve and fourteen. Her snub nose and dusting of freckles gave an initial impression she was much younger, but something in the set of her mouth gave the lie to that. She seemed unaffected by her imprisonment—there was nothing false in the cheerfulness of her voice as she said, “Good morning. Mister Lambert, I presume?”

“Indeed,” I said, pulling out a chair for myself and sitting heavily. “Truth, I presume?”

She nodded. “I wanted to say thank you, for last night.”

There was a sort of muffled sputter from Justice at this comment, quickly buried in a handkerchief. Truth gave her an irritated look.

“Only a cough,” said Justice, tucking the handkerchief away. “I’m glad you’re up and about. They said that—”

“Mister Lambert, what are you doing out of bed?”

I swallowed hard, seeing identical alarm in Truth and Justice’s faces. Madame’s temper had not improved.

“I…” I started, had to swallow again, “I wasn’t aware I was supposed to be in bed, Madame Eavers.”

“You are,” said Madame, putting a covered plate down on the end of the table. “You look like death warmed over, Mister Lambert. I should wonder you didn’t faint on the stairs and break your neck.”

I wondered that too but said, “Might I at least have my breakfast before I face the stairs again?”

Madame glared at me. I stared back, trying to look as innocent as I could.

“Well enough,” she said, turning away. “It’s only because I will have to call Mister Carlton or Mister Williams in to carry you back up. It would be unfair to wake them early because of your stupidity.”

“Thank you, Madame,” I called after her.

Later I wondered if it had been worth it. All I got for my breakfast was masses of porridge. Even Madame’s porridge is a delight, but with the smells of eggs and toast and cheese around me, it was rather a disappointment.

I’d hoped she was joking about having Harold or Ivan carry me back up to my bed. She wasn’t. Fortunately it was Harold, but it was humiliating all the same.

The next week or so passed very quietly, vexingly so. Harold, under the influence of the enormous manual on medicine he’d taken to reading, decided I ought to be confined to my bed, and it was only with the greatest persistence I persuaded him to allow me to sit in a chair rather than lounge about all day like an invalid.

The wounds closed. Being confined to the house and forbidden my usual duties took its toll. My irritation with the house and everyone in it grew. One afternoon, I managed to vex all three of the other Guardians in the house to such a point that dinner was utterly silent, the incarnations trading knowing, annoyed glances over the bread. I said no more and went directly to bed.

I had nightmares. I am not, on the whole, overly prone to nightmares or dreams of any sort, but this time, they were bad. The dreams repeated the same situation, Gloria or some still worse monster coming for me. Sometimes Justice was there, and those were the worst—the mantis’s groping claws would find her, and the desperate strength of her grip on my hand never prevented her from being dragged into the darkness. The screams rang terribly, choking into a worse silence.

When I finally came awake in a twisted heap of blankets, I rose. There was no point to attempting to remain asleep—it would only lead to more nightmares. Wrapping my dressing gown around myself, I stepped out of my bedroom, leaving the door open behind me.

The house was still, Harold’s snoring aside. I decided I might as well make my rounds of the house again. It would make me feel as if I were doing something useful, at least, and so I padded downstairs to check the locks.

Everything was locked, as I had ascertained earlier that night. All the windows were firmly shut, and the wind howled outside. I spared a moment to wish I could go out and enjoy it, but that would mean opening the house, breaking the protective spells, and that would be absolutely idiotic.

I made my way upstairs, and ran into Ivan in the hall. He was in shirt and trousers, and I blinked at him, wondering what possessed him to get partially dressed in the middle of the night. “Ivan…?” I started.

Something thudded into my head, and Ivan and the moonlight went away.

* * * *

“Lord, Julian, what were you thinking?”

I hadn’t been aware my eyes were open, and Harold’s worried face swam into focus.

“What?” I croaked. My head hurt, and my wrists and ankles were sore. Harold and Ivan and Madame were all staring at me, and I discovered I was lying on my bed, still in my dressing gown.

“It was all I could do to persuade them not to kill you,” said Ivan, who sported an impressive knot on the side of his head. At this point, it was a rather festive combination of red and purple, with a hint of black thrown in near the center. “Fortunately, Madame heard my cries when I came round, and managed to untie us.”

I sat up, blinking at him. “What happened?”

“The house was invaded last night,” said Madame, sounding as irritated with Ivan as I was getting. “Six or seven hunters. They took Justice. I found you and Ivan tied up in the pantry a few minutes ago.”

“They took Justice?” It was a whisper.

“Yes. I can only suppose they didn’t know about Truth.” Ivan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Julian. There was nothing I could do.”

I sank my head on my hands. There had to have been something I could have done. The dreams seemed sickeningly appropriate now. I remembered what I knew of the marking process and felt even sicker. I swallowed, taking control of myself again.

“Who?”

“We don’t know,” replied Ivan. “Not government, because we’re still free. I’m sorry, Julian. They were gone before I came back to myself.”

I couldn’t sit still. The need to move, to do something, exploded up my limbs and I rose and began to pace. “How long?” I asked, in a voice that didn’t do anything to conceal my feelings.

“An hour—”

I turned on them. “An hour? You waited—” I shook my head, hard, cutting myself off. “You idiots,” I said, forcing a semblance of calm. “You probably waited too long.” I took a breath. “We have to try. Both of you, get your things.”

Harold nodded and went without complaint.

“Julian, this is idiocy. You can’t mean to attempt a rescue now.”

“We went after Truth, did we not?”

“For God’s sake, man, you’re wounded!”

“I’m healed, or well enough. We’ll do what we can.” I met Ivan’s eyes. He stared back, mouth setting with displeasure. Finally, he grumbled assent.

I turned to Madame Eavers. “Keep an eye on Truth. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

She nodded, and I went to get ready, running over what I would need. My sides made their objections clear, and I ignored them as best I could. There were things more important. Damn Ivan for using me as an excuse!

It took them a damned long time to get ready. Minutes passed, and each one gave the enemy more time to bear Justice away, more time to muddy the trail. I handed a little vial to Madame.

“For Truth,” I told her, and she raised her eyebrows, recognizing it as a tracking spell. “Just in case.”

Harold and Ivan clattered down the stairs, Harold anxious, Ivan sullen.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” said Harold, as Ivan shook his head slightly. He likely resented being upstaged.

“Good.” I led the way out into the street. I stood there a moment, with a sudden, dreadful feeling of helplessness. I did not know which way they’d gone. Justice had no tracking spell on her. There were no witnesses. It was very early morning in a respectable neighborhood.

A scrap of white caught my eye. I went over to it. It looked like the cloth that Justice used to cover her eyes. The little creases at either end confirmed it. If one of us were a proper magician, we could make something of it. As it was, it was useless. It didn’t even tell us which way they’d gone, as they could have doubled back, placed it there, and gone any which way they pleased.

A hand descended on my shoulder, and I glared up at Ivan. If he dared tell me it was useless, and suggest we leave Justice in their clutches, I would kill him. It might get me marked traitor, but I’d rather that than follow the orders of a man who didn’t care for his charges.

“I think I know where they went,” he said. “We should be able to catch up with them.”

* * * *

“I hope this is worth the time.” I was trying hard not to breathe. No wind, of course. That would have only made things worse down here. I didn’t want to think about the state of my shoes. So much for daring escapades—no writer ever had his heroes trudging around the sewers.

“If they’re going where I think they are,” said Ivan, a handkerchief clamped over his nose and mouth in an affected manner, “we’ll be able to come up right in front of them.”

“How stunningly brilliant,” I remarked. “Pray tell how far that is.” We’d be lucky if they weren’t halfway to Calais by the time we got out of these damned sewers.

“Only a little more,” he told me. “Be a sport, Julian. The smell’s not that bad.”

“Speaks the man with the handkerchief over his nose.”

Ivan made a generally annoyed noise and kept going. I looked at Harold, who shrugged.

It was far too close in here. Moisture gleamed on the walls, and there was no light save what we carried. I had to stoop to make my way through the murky corridors, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. Despite the chilliness of the night, I was sweating. I tried not to imagine the lamp igniting a pocket of some sort of gas, the walls tumbling in on us, entombing us. I hated enclosed spaces.

Finally, the light revealed a series of steps leading up to the street above, and Ivan went up them, shoving the grate aside and hauling himself out. He then had the gall to offer me a hand. I ignored it, though various wounds protested at such mistreatment.

Harold scrambled out behind me, and we looked around. The rumble of carriage wheels sounded close by. I wiped my hand off. I’d put it in something moist while pulling myself out, and was glad the light wasn’t good enough for me to see exactly what.

“They’ll be transferring her in the next twenty or so minutes, I believe,” said Ivan.

How do you know that? I shook myself. The man was being helpful.

“At least, they should,” he added. “The timing would fit with their previous activities.” He nodded at the only lit house on the street, a tall, old structure that looked rather a lot like ours.

“So what do we do?” asked Harold.

Ivan started off down the street, away from the house. “We wait for the carriage to pass us,” he said, lengthening his stride as he spoke. “We need to be some distance from the house when we waylay them, so we don’t have a boil of hunters on our tails directly.”

As if we don’t have enough of a boil in the form of your person now. I hurried to keep up with him. He might be helpful now, but I was not inclined to forgive him his earlier reluctance.

Some minutes later, we ducked into a small alley and waited. It wasn’t long before we heard the approach of a carriage, a large one.

The carriage came into sight at an illegal speed. Ivan stepped out directly ahead of it, and fired his revolver into the air. I bit back a curse. The man had all but alerted the entire city to the whole thing. What was he thinking?

I pulled my own revolver out. The carriage stopped dead in the street and Ivan swaggered at it. We’d have to save his worthless hide again. Harold, by his expression, was thinking the same thing. We’d have to be fast—rattles and clanks and exclamations marked the waking of the people in the houses around us.

“Now I’ve only got the one gun,” Ivan was saying, “and there are four of you. So, who wants to be the idiot hero who gets himself killed first?”

The four men, all armed, actually looked sheepish. They dropped their weapons. Harold and I rushed forward.

Harold ducked into the open door of the carriage, and found himself with the barrel of a gun pressed between his eyes. He backed up quickly, and the person holding the gun stepped out of the carriage. Someone above us bawled something about the police.

It was an incarnation. I had no idea of what, but she looked as if she were in an astonishingly bad mood. Harold, quite sensibly, dropped his piece and raised both empty hands. They were quite close to Ivan. Now I sincerely hoped I’d been incorrect in my estimation of his abilities—one misstep, and we’d be cleaning bits of Harold’s head out of the cobbles.

Ivan let out an annoyed sigh, turned, and hit her over the head. I thought the blow was rather too light to do much, but her eyes rolled up and she fell, the revolver going off into the air. Harold ducked as it did, gray under his whiskers. I turned an incredulous stare on Ivan. He’d gone back to holding the four others at gunpoint. Now there were whistles in the distance. Harold bent to reclaim his gun, remarkably composed for someone who’d just trusted his life to Ivan.

I stepped into the carriage. Justice was stretched out across one set of seats, unconscious. I tried not to look at the empty sockets where her eyes should have been, and picked her up. She was a great deal heavier than she looked. I wondered how we were going to get her back to the house, but the movement woke her. Her breath smelled foul, a sweet, sickly sort of scent—they must have drugged her.

I set her on her feet, letting her lean against me until she came back to herself, and looked to Ivan for his next brilliant idea. He’d caught the tiger by the tail, after all, and we now had four angry hunters at gunpoint. As well, we had the police descending on us, and the hunters in the house behind, too.

Ivan solved the problem in the only way he could, by grabbing one of the four by the lapels and putting the gun to his head. “Now you lot won’t follow us, understood? We’ll let your friend here go in ten minutes or so, but if you try chasing us before then, he’s dead. Got it?”

The man’s companions nodded and we retreated down the street with Ivan prodding the unfortunate every so often. Ten minutes was barely enough time for us to get out, and Ivan should have demanded something more like twenty.

The ten minutes were up too soon, and Ivan bashed our man over the head, again, I thought, rather too lightly to have any damage done. The fellow obligingly crumpled, and we broke into a run.

We heard the sound of horse hooves on the cobbles behind us. I turned to look—our pursuers had unhitched the horses from the cart. The others ran behind.

They’d catch up with us, especially with Justice in her drugged condition slowing us down. There was also my condition to think of. I hadn’t considered it before dashing off, but even moving at a fast walk was a bit much for me. We needed them to pay attention to something else, so we could get away. A plan sprang to mind. It was singularly idiotic, but was the best option, considering the circumstances.

“You three go. I’ll distract them.” I was grateful my nervousness didn’t show in my voice. I managed to project absolute confidence and certainty I wouldn’t be found dead in a gutter the next morning. They obeyed, though Justice looked back as if she knew what was going through my mind.

I spared a prayer and drew my truncheon. The air was unnaturally still. That bothered me the most. It felt dead. I shuddered.

I had to do something, but all the options that presented themselves were absurd. Throw myself under the horses’ hooves? Unlikely to succeed, and would only be a fleeting distraction, as would attacking. I wanted no more pain. I could neither stay here nor go forward—retreat was the only option left.

I turned tail and fled, hearing their shouts behind me. They weren’t shooting—that was good. Or very bad… That thought died under the thunder of hooves, mere feet behind me. I stumbled, turning to face them, and prayed for something to happen.

The wind rose abruptly around me, and the air filled with blowing debris. The horses panicked, rearing and shying, and their riders cursed. One bucked. Its rider went off, almost directly under the hooves of another.

That bought time—I dived into an alley, flicking a hand at a pile of leaves just before the wind picked them up and hurled them at the horses.

I grinned to myself in the darkness. One lot of problems solved. All this because of the wind. Marvelous luck. I slipped between buildings through a passage too narrow for horses, squeezed through another reek of chamber pots, and leaned up against a damp wall to catch my breath.

After a long rest in the dark, I staggered back to the house, hoping I wouldn’t be taken up as a drunk.