Читать книгу The Darkening King - Justin Fisher, Justin Fisher - Страница 15

enissimo and Mr Fox led Ned and his family through the labyrinth that was the BBB’s headquarters. Now somewhat over the initial shock of seeing their old comrade-in-arms, they followed with a keen eye on their surroundings, Gorrn clinging to Ned’s shadow in silence.

“I still don’t get it, Bene. How on earth have Mr Fox and the BBB wound up working for you?” asked Ned’s dad.

“The BBB was set up decades ago. In many ways their purpose was not so different to the Twelve’s or its circus. Our role was to protect the Hidden – theirs was to protect the jossers. The BBB knew about us fair-folk, though very little, and what you don’t know is always frightening. They have been investigating us for years, trying to find out more. I simply set them straight – told them who the bad guys were and what sort of danger they posed to all living creatures, on both sides of the Veil.”

“And then what?” asked Ned.

“Well, I think their brains rather melted – they went berserk. Had it not been for our red-headed friend here, they would have had me shot.”

Mr Fox smiled.

“Not that shooting him would have worked. But you see, Mr Bear, my boss, well … he doesn’t like surprises. I do think he mellowed after that first heart attack, though,” Benissimo continued. “It turns out what you do know can be far more frightening than what you don’t. But in any case, it’s worked out rather well. Seeing as I became their topmost informant on all things to do with our kind, they have put me in charge.”

Mr Fox promptly stopped smiling.

“A temporary measure, till we sort things out.”

“But a measure nonetheless, Foxy.”

An unmarked door slid open as they approached.

“Which, as you can see, has its benefits. This, my friends, is ‘the Nest’.”

Ned and family walked through the door and out on to a balcony, one of more than a dozen that circled several floors all looking down over a large indoor training ground. Far below, hundreds of grey-tracksuited men were being barked at by a severe-looking Frenchman and a rotund, slightly ageing Italian who had great curling horns protruding from his head.

“Special Forces, don’t give me no-a rubbish. You couldn’t climb your-a way out of a can!”

Several deflated-looking operatives were struggling their way up an admittedly treacherous wall that the ancient half-satyr was playfully skipping across. To one side the Frenchman was demonstrating the easiest way to neutralise a nightmonger. The terrifying creature was a blur of blade-like fingers, but was soon made quite harmless when the instructor launched two weighted nets from a gas-powered machine that looked very much as though it had been designed on this side of the Veil.

“Couteau and Grandpa Tortellini!” exclaimed Ned with the first truly genuine smile he’d given in months.

“The greys are coming along nicely under their tutelage and Tinks has been having a whale of a time mixing our tech with theirs – fascinating results.”

“Tinks?!” grinned Ned. “Where is he?”

“Looking after your mouse, I should think. About half of the old troupe has joined us. The rest are still MIA, I’m afraid.”

“MIA?”

“Missing in action, Ned. You know as well as I do how bad things are out there.”

A horrible thought struck Ned: What about Lucy and George? If they were here, Lucy would have sensed him by now and George would have been hot on her heels, knocking down any number of walls or grey-suits to see his old ward. He didn’t need to ask – Benissimo spotted the look on his face immediately.

“George and Lucy are with the Viceroy. They’ve been delivering one of the old troupe, and I can’t tell you more than that, I’m afraid. Don’t worry – word’s been sent and I should think they’ll have threatened the nearest pilot by now and demanded passage back to the Nest.”

“Delivering one of the troupe? Who?”

“All I can tell you is that he’s a vital part of the plan – as are you, of course, Ned. And we have been trying to bring you in for a while now, as we have new intel that you need to hear. I needn’t mince my words, especially not with you three. The Darkening King is growing stronger by the day. George, Lucy, all of us are scrambling to work with our allies, and telling friend from foe has never been harder. Come on, let’s go to see the boffin – he’ll explain our situation in more detail.”

***

The boffin, known to Benissimo’s old troupe as “Tinks”, had been given a new laboratory to work in and it was to there that Benissimo and Mr Fox led the Armstrongs now. As Ned and his dad entered, they both went a little misty-eyed at what they saw. Ned and his father, both being Engineers – who had the power (when it was working, that is) to bend and manipulate atoms – had a different relationship with all things mechanical than most other people. Their powers hinged on understanding the structure of things, how they came together and worked, so that they could reimagine them into another form. And within these brightly lit walls were the most advanced examples of what modern-day science and technology had to offer, fused together with just a pinch or two of the Hidden’s own magic.

The lab was big enough to house an entire circus troupe along with its cars and lorries. It was also teeming with smartly dressed scientists in matching grey lab coats. They were all building and testing equipment, and all of the equipment was designed, from the ground up, to fight Darklings.

Traps, snares, laser-guided harpoons, listening devices, scanning equipment … and data. Lots and lots of data, pouring out of printers, to be pointed at and argued over incessantly by teams of bespectacled analysts. They weren’t all jossers, either. A good number of them were waist-height minutians, just like the Tinker, and no doubt, Ned guessed, refugees from the ill-fated city of Gearnish, now under the control of Barbarossa’s ghastly machine-mind, the Central Intelligence.

Ned gawped in wonder at a man clicking a device on his belt that made him turn invisible and visible again, with varying results. At one point his head disappeared while the rest of him stayed visible; at another he appeared to be floating off the ground with no legs. His dad, meanwhile, was mesmerised by an aged minutian who was talking to a flea. He wore a large trumpet-ended device on his ear, while the flea responded by hopping up and down on a minuscule sensor at its feet.

Everything had the touch of the Tinker to it, but the Tinker himself was nowhere to be seen.

“Where is he?” asked Ned’s mum, who, unlike her two “boys”, found the gadgets on display extraordinarily dull.

A contained explosion in a room off to the far corner was to be her clue. The closer they got, the less josser and more “Tinker” their surroundings became – reams of paper and blueprints stuck to the walls, shelves weighed down to breaking point, and a trail of spinning, whirring and bubbling devices on every single surface. Through a door they came to a great sprawling mess and at its centre was the genius who had made it.

“Well, bless my toolbox, if it isn’t the Armstrongs!”