hey had stood waiting outside the Tinker’s lab for more than ten minutes. Benissimo had banged on the door hard, and Ned had shouted and shouted, but there had been no answer from the diminutive scientist.
Benissimo reached into his pocket and pulled out a rune.
“What’s that for?”
“This one packs quite the punch. I’m going to blow his ruddy door off.”
Ned had seen Benissimo use runes before. They were in essence like magical hand grenades and not to be used lightly.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked Ned doubtfully.
Thankfully they were saved by a young lab technician carrying a styrofoam cup.
“Mr B, sir. Might I suggest this?”
Benissimo’s eyes narrowed at the cup in her hands.
“He hasn’t slept, or eaten. The only time he comes out is for coffee. Just tell him you have some.”
And with that she passed them the cup and left them to it.
“Tinks, I know you’re in there,” shouted the Ringmaster, “and I know you know that I know you’re in there, but what you don’t know is that I have a cup of fresh coffee in my hands.” He pretended to smell its aroma. “Nicaraguan blend, if I’m not mistaken.”
There was a loud crash and a muffled yelp from the other side of the door, followed by the sound of tiny footsteps.
“Bene?”
“Tinks?”
“I take it you know how many explosives I usually have to hand?”
“Yes, Tinks, it’s well documented.”
“And the number of experimental weapons I’ve been working on?”
“Oh yes, and we all thank you for it, Tinks.”
“You had better not be lying.”
The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss and a barely recognisable Tinker grabbed at the coffee in Benissimo’s hands.
“Neptune’s trident, man, what on earth have you been doing down here?”
“Working?” offered Tinks.
To say that the Tinker’s lab was in a state of chaos would be like calling water wet. Where his worktops began and his tools ended was anyone’s guess. Reams of schematics covered the floor in ever thickening layers, and all of the mess – the bolts, the screwdrivers and screws, the ratchets, spanners and cutting tools – led to his central worktop, where what was left of his great-uncle Faisal’s head had been disassembled into parts. These, unlike the rest of the lab, had been carefully and precisely laid out. Littered over everything were piles and piles of empty styrofoam cups.
The Tinker was now muttering into his new cup, unshaven, bog-eyed and clearly quite unhinged.
“Tinks, how much coffee have you drunk exactly?”
“Ha-he! Not enough, never enough.” And as he said it, his eyes grew wild.
Amongst the carefully laid out machine parts, Ned spotted Whiskers. The Debussy Mark Twelve – part ticker and, as Ned had come to discover, part dog – was staring at a print on the table.
“Whiskers?! Hello, boy. How are you?”
Ned’s beloved dog-mouse did not look up. At Ned’s feet there was an almost imperceptible “Unt”. It was the first sound Ned’s familiar had uttered since leaving the Fey’s realm.
Gorrn was rippling very quietly on the floor and something was definitely wrong. Ned turned to the Tinker, who was looking shiftier than ever.
“Tinks, what’s going on?”
“I’ve been working on something. The code Faisal told us about – I’m close, really close.”
Benissimo had yet to be fully debriefed on their mission to Amsterdam. All he knew was that Tinks’s extraordinary great-uncle had told them of a code that could stop the Central Intelligence, shortly before Ned had turned him into a pile of disconnected parts.
“Gnome, sit down and speak clearly. I am in no mood for dithering.”
The Tinker did as he was told, his face calming just enough to get the words out.
“The tickers that laid waste to St Albertsburg –” and for a moment Tinks’s face turned to utter shame – “the tickers that were built in my fair city … there’s a way to stop them, maybe even turn them, the same way the Twelve’s eyes and ears were turned to work for your brother.”
Benissimo’s eyes narrowed and he leant in closer. “Go on.”
“Code. Ones and zeros. That’s what they listen to, besides their own programming. Ned will know from his time with the jossers that computers can be hacked. If we can hack the Central Intelligence, then we can control the orders that it gives.”
Benissimo was a man of swords and muskets, not lines of data.
“And this ‘hacking’ – can you do it?”
“I don’t know. There isn’t a lot of Central Intelligence lying about to try it on. In principle yes, but it … he … isn’t a normal computer. He thinks for himself, and essentially rewrites his code at will. Creating the right code, a code that can adapt to his mind as it changes, well … that’s what all the coffee is for.”
“Well, keep at it,” said the Ringmaster, then he took Ned’s case and handed it to the Tinker. “Tinks, this is the Heart Stone – get it under your lenses, would you.”
The minutian did as he was told, taking the Heart Stone out carefully and placing it under a set of microscopes.
As the Tinker inspected the stone, Benissimo began to pace the room. It was slow and brooding to start with, but grew faster and faster. He circled both the Tinker and Ned, till his feet were wading through paper like a truck through snow. If Ned hadn’t seen him like this a dozen times before, he’d have thought he was beginning to crack.
“Bene? You OK?”
The Ringmaster stopped dead in his tracks and grabbed Ned by the arms.
“My dear boy, our allies are broken in spirit and bone, and until you rudely interrupted me upstairs I thought that all was lost. But your spirit has given me hope, not for the first time, Ned Armstrong, and I’ve no doubt not for the last either.”
“Fascinating, utterly fascinating,” muttered the Tinker, then looked up and blinked at Ned and Benissimo.
“What is it, Tinks? What does it do?” urged Ned.
The Tinker paused, looked back to the Heart Stone, then to Benissimo and Ned. “I haven’t a clue.”
At which point Whiskers turned to them all, his tiny eyes blinking brightly, and said, “If I were you, I would worry less about the stone and more about getting your powers back.”
Ned’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish.
On the floor Gorrn billowed wildly.
“Tinks,” said Ned finally, “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY MOUSE?!”