Читать книгу Ned’s Circus of Marvels - Justin Fisher, Justin Fisher - Страница 16
ОглавлениеNed could feel the blood draining from his face.
“He told me he was an engineer before I was born, before Mum’s accident. But it doesn’t make any sense. He’s a Waddlesworth. We, I mean he, especially Dad, he doesn’t go in for this kind of thing. Telly, screwdrivers, jam sandwiches, that’s what Waddlesworths are good at. Dad was always saying it.”
“I dare say that’s what he’s tried to make you and everyone else believe and I dare say he’s come fair close to succeeding. But you see that’s just it – you’re not a Waddlesworth. Your father’s given name is Terrence Armstrong.”
Ned repeated the name in his head over and over again. Terrence Armstrong was somebody else. No one with a name like that would eat jam sandwiches in front of the telly wearing their favourite tank top and slippers. “I’m … Ned Armstrong?”
“Indeed you are, and if your box is what I think it is,” Benissimo continued, “then you and you alone hold the answer to finding the Medic.”
Ned wanted to scream. With every word, the Ringmaster was turning his life, even his name into a lie.
“Me? Look, whatever you think Dad is mixed up in, you’re wrong. He was an engineer but I don’t think he was the kind you’re talking about. He likes building stuff … though nowadays mostly he just sits there on his own looking at all the parts. Besides, if, if he were this ‘Engineer’ you’re looking for, he’d have been lying to me, for, like, a really long time and Dad would never …”
“Whrrr, dzt, ching.”
Ned stopped mid-sentence at the twitching of his mechanical mouse. It kicked its legs briefly, before shutting itself down again.
“… lie to me,” Ned finished lamely.
“All we know is that the last message between your father and Lucy’s guardians was intercepted at Battersea Power Station two days ago. That’s when he sent for us. The harsh reality is that events now rest on your rather small shoulders, which is as much a concern to me as it is a shock to you.”
Benissimo passed the Tinker Ned’s birthday present.
“Tinker, what do you make of this?”
The Tinker held the little cube up to the light and adjusted one of his lenses.
“Blimey. Well, boss, the work is unmistakable, a rarity these days. I didn’t think they made them any more.”
“They don’t. I think you’ll find it’s almost exactly twelve years old,” said Benissimo.
“Yes, right you are, sir. Well, the symbol’s a bit out of place but there’s no doubting it – it’s a blood-key.”
Their explanation of what a blood-key actually was came in the form of a pin being pushed into Ned’s forefinger.
“Ow!”
What proceeded next would have been strange had it happened before his birthday. A drop of Ned’s blood was placed on the cube, and the box began to unfold, its microscopic hinges twirling and twisting in the Tinker’s hand. Seconds later, it had reformed itself into the unmistakable shape of a key. Ned was speechless as the Tinker placed it in his hand.
“Take a look, sir. It’s yours, after all.”
“What is it?”
“Blood-keys were fashionable before your time, Mr Widdlewat— I mean, Mr Armstrong. They activate for one person and one person alone, or at least for their fresh blood, that is.”
Looking closely at the key’s edge, Ned saw it was marked with beautifully inscribed letters: ‘FIDGIT AND SONS, EST. 1066, CLASS A DEPOSIT BOX.’
“But … but that’s the company Dad works for. They make screws!”
“Among a great many other things. Fidgit and Sons is a shop. It’s in one of our oldest trading cities, hidden behind the Veil in the deserts of the Yemen. The men who are after your father have been after him since before you were born. I think he gave you the key for a reason, a way for us to unearth Lucy if he was … unable,” said Benissimo.
“He’s in really serious trouble, isn’t he?”
“Until we retrieve what’s in your deposit box, you both are.”
Ned’s breathing quickened. The name Armstrong kept turning over in his mind. If he wasn’t who he thought he was, was he even really human? Frantically he began searching the Tinker’s worktops. Finally exasperated, he grabbed hold of the minutian’s head and peered into one of his mirrored lenses.
“Young man! Unhand me this instant!” protested the Tinker.
“I’m me. Why am I still me? If Dad’s this Engineer character, then shouldn’t he have horns or something, and shouldn’t I be like him, you know, like everyone else in this freak show?”
“No, boy, you’re both quite human, and that will be the last time you use the word ‘freak show’ in my presence,” said Benissimo with a clear note of warning in his voice. “Being human does not however mean that your dad can’t have magic in his blood. Sometimes it happens that someone is just born with magical ability, like your dad, or given it. I was quite human myself once …” At that the Ringmaster paused for a moment, as if in thought. “And Kitty is completely so. Human, minutian, elven or troll, good, bad or somewhere in between, there are all kinds behind our beloved shroud. Now, please let go of the Tinker’s head. We have serious matters to discuss. Besides, I need it in one piece almost as much as I need yours.”
Ned unclasped his fingers and slumped back on to his stool.
“What is he? I mean, being an Engineer, what does that mean? Why is it so important?”
“Engineers can control atoms with their minds. With strong enough focus, air can turn to fire, wood to metal, and water to stone. But it doesn’t end there. The creations can be shaped to any variety of complex structures. The possibilities are endless. It’s a hard concept to grasp, especially for a josser who is new to our ways, but his skills together with the Medic’s are unique. Add one to the other, and their combined purpose is to mend, to rebuild and heal. I need to make that happen. The Veil is failing and I need them to mend it.”
Ned looked up at the Ringmaster. He was torn between the loyalty a boy feels to his past and the almost certain knowledge that his past is not what he had thought it was. More precisely, that his father was not what he had thought he was. What had his life been like as an Engineer? What kinds of things had he seen and done? Why had he never told him? The questions hurt too much to want answers, at least not from anyone except his dad, and for that to happen, he was going to have to trust a man who clearly thought very little of him and join his troupe of oddities.
“So let’s just say I’m not mad. You, the Tinker and everything you’ve told me is all real.” Ned paused for a second to gather his thoughts. “If we go to this Fidgit and Sons place, and we find the girl, and she and Dad do whatever it is they’re supposed to do … then I get him back for good and life goes back to normal? Like, Grittlesby normal?”
Even as he said it, it surprised him. He wanted his father back just the way he was. Even if it meant being bored, even if it meant being fussed over and forced to stay in. He would do anything for that right now, anything at all.
“I can’t promise normal, but with enough wind behind us …” the Ringmaster sighed and looked him up and down yet again, “… and a great deal of luck, yes, you’ll get your dad back.”
“I’m going to ignore that look you just gave me, if you promise not to do it again.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
Ned gritted his teeth. “Fine. When can we go?”
Benissimo’s mouth turned towards what might have been a smile, though it ended up with just a hint of sadness.
“Perhaps you’re more like your father than it first appears … though while you’re with us, it’d be for the best if you kept him to yourself. Just a few of the troupe know who you really are – let’s keep it that way. Tell me, did the clowns see you?”
“I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”
“Well, ‘don’t think so’ will have to do. That said,” continued Benissimo, “it does not guarantee that prying ears or eyes won’t find out about you. There’s a rot in my circus, a spy or spies that are trying to hamper our progress. Until I root them out, you keep your head down, understood?”
“Understood.”
“For now we’ll say you’re a runaway. We get a lot of recruits that way and no one will pay someone like you much heed.”
Ned felt another flicker of anger. Why did the man dislike him so much?
“By ‘like me’ I guess you mean ordinary, right?”
“I had something else in mind, but ordinary will do.”
Ned had a pleasing vision of yanking Benissimo’s moustache, then setting it on fire with one of the Tinker’s gadgets.
“Tinker, a message to Oublier, if you will?”
“Right you are, boss!”
Ned seethed quietly as Benissimo’s head of R&D opened two windows at the back of the truck and picked up a large device shaped like a trumpet. Directing one end out of the window, he started to speak in a mixture of slow drawn out tones and revolting nasal snorts, all the while contorting his face and lips horribly.
“N e w … l e a d … f o u n d … F i d g i t … a n d … S o n s.”
A large gust blew up, swirling leaves into a pillar of spinning greenery, before launching itself over the forest’s canopy and away from the truck.
“What’s he doing?”
The Ringmaster gave Ned a withering glare. “Hush, boy, it’s an air-modulator. He’s harnessing the wind to send a message.”
“Who is he messaging?” whispered Ned in amazement, but they were too deep in concentration to hear him, or to reply.
The Tinker continued to work the machine, twisting dials and pressing its keys to change pitch. Finally something else happened. A dozen wind chimes, both crystal and wooden, started to sound on the truck’s roof. Outside a gust of wind was blowing in over the treetops. And then it came, in soft blowy whispers. A reply.
“H … U … R … R … Y .”
“Well, we’d better get to it then,” said Benissimo, “it’s time for tear down.” And taking Ned’s blood-key for safe-keeping, he charged out of the Tinker’s vehicle.
Ned followed closely behind, having no idea what he was talking about. But as Benissimo called for the troupe to gather round, he soon found out.
“All right everyone! Pull your tent pegs and fire up the engines …” he called. “We’re going home!”
***
Much further than the crow flies but only moments later, a meeting was held between a spy and his master. The master was holding an apple, which he cut carefully, his sharp knife making perfect incisions across its golden skin. He was a great dark hulk of a man, with a deep, unsmiling voice.
“Sister Clementine’s ‘ending’ was unfortunate. She was the closest we’ve come in years,” brooded the master.
“Yes … but now there is the boy,” whispered back his spy.
“A lucky turn of events. Tell me, does he know?”
“Not all of it, no. Bene has kept nearly everyone in the dark for fear of your watchful eyes.”
“And fear them he should!”
“How shall we proceed?” asked the spy from his shadow.
“Everything depends on the boy’s key. I believe it always has. Do you remember the tale of the Parnifer tree?”
“Vaguely.”
“You of all creatures should. In the story, the King’s son was taken by a terrible affliction and could not be woken. The King cried for a hundred days and a hundred nights, till his tears formed a river. By its banks, a tree sprang up from the ground.”
“The Parnifer tree.”
“Precisely. They say a single seed from the tree’s fruit could cure anything. The girl is like the seed. If she were to meet with the Engineer …”
The master put down his knife, before crushing the apple in his fist, its wet pulpy flesh oozing through his fingers.
“The seed, must, be, crushed. I’ll send the devil himself if I have to.” He gazed for a moment at the fruit falling from his hand. “In the meantime, we’ll be needing some leverage. With the boy’s spirit-knot and enough time, we could do extraordinary things. I’ll leave that up to you. Watch, observe, slow them down if you can. When the moment is right, we’ll make our move.”
And with a silent nod, the spy melted into the shadows and returned from where he came.
