Jonathan Barnes - The Somnambulist

“Courage, Mr. Love. What changes did they make in the firm? This McDonald, this Reverend Tan?”

“Those are not their real names, are they?” Love asked, rather sadly.

“Aliases, I’m sure of it. But tell me — what happened to Love, Love, Love and Love?”

“From the start, they went against their word. They fired most of my staff and brought in their own men — and women, if you can credit it. Oh, they were a queer lot and no mistake. Peculiar creatures, all of them. Some looked like they’d been plucked straight from the gutter. Knowing Tan, I wouldn’t even put that past him. Then they started building. Underground. Lodgings, they said, for the staff. By the time I left, most of them were living there. Names, too. They began to frown on names , of all things, starting insisting everyone take a number. Sinister. Sinister and most unchristian. I only wish I might have stopped it.”

“I have an associate on the inside at the firm and it would seem that since your departure matters have got very much worse.”

“Worse?”

“The place sounds more like a commune than a business. They’ve all been numbered. Branded like cattle. They seem to be waiting for something. Like an army before a battle, so I hear. Tell me, Mr. Love — what are they planning?”

Love seemed exhausted by the effort of talking for so long and the drink had finally begun to work upon him. He slumped back, confused. “I’m not entirely certain. Once, in his cups, Tan made insinuations about his real plans. The old man would not have approved. You can take my word on that. I may not have done as he wished but I would never go so far as the church. Something terrible is afoot. But tell me, who is this ally of yours inside the firm?”

“My sister.”

“Your sister?” Appalled, Love struggled to his feet only to lose his balance and collapse onto the ground. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

“Explain.”

Love shook his head. “How could you send your own sister in there? You’ll have to get her out immediately. She’s in terrible danger.”

“Danger?”

“They have a way of… turning you. They’re extremely persuasive. She’s not safe. You must fetch her at once.”

“Are you sure?”

“Ho now, gentlemen. I shall wait for you here.”

Moon stood up and gestured for the Somnambulist to join him. “We’ll come back.”

“Please go. I couldn’t bear it if something awful happened.” Love’s speech had become slurred and when he’d finished speaking he rolled slowly onto his back, like a turtle, close to passing out.

Moon and the Somnambulist left him there, and at something approaching a run they headed back toward the old city and the black gates of Love.

The Archivist was filing a series of reports on the notorious Finchley Cannibal of 1864 and thinking about retiring early for the night when she was disturbed by a sudden sound: the telltale clump and clatter of visitors feeling their way into the gloom of the Stacks.

“Archivist?” The voice was familiar.

“Mr. Skimpole? Is that you?”

More graceless sound and fury. Strange. This one was usually so quiet, practically feline in his stealth. “It’s me.”

“You have someone with you?”

“My son,” the voice admitted.

The Archivist was annoyed. “You know the rules. Visitors not admitted under any circumstances. I might also add that it’s very late and that you haven’t made an appointment.”

“I need your help.”

Something was different about his voice. There was a hoarse quality to it, a strained sound and a huskiness which had never been there before.

“My apologies. I may have put your life in danger even coming here.”

“You’re not making sense, Mr. Skimpole.”

“The Directorate is in danger. Dedlock and I… We’re targets. Someone’s put a killer on our trail. An assassin they call the Mongoose.”

The old woman tried not to smile.

“Worst of all, I’m… I’m not feeling my best. I should have seen you yesterday. But I was so very tired.”

“How can I help?” the Archivist asked finally, sensing the true seriousness of the situation.

“Desperate measures, I fear. I need to contact them.”

“Who?”

“I shan’t speak their names here, but you know who I mean.”

“I suppose I do.”

“I need the Directory.”

“Things are really that bad?”

“Worse.”

The Archivist tried to warn him. “You’re not the first to have made this mistake, Mr. Skimpole. Those creatures… They say they are for hire. Offer their services as mercenaries or killers or solvers of problems. But you won’t be able to control them. And you’ll never be able to afford their fee.”

“I’ve heard they carry out certain worthy tasks for free.”

“Oh, Skimpole. Nothing is for free. And the cost of hiring them is always far too great.”

“I’m begging you.”

“They’re impossibly dangerous, Mr. Skimpole. They’re agents of chaos and destruction. No man has ever employed them and escaped unscathed.”

Someone coughed. The child.

“Please,” Skimpole pleaded. “My son is not well.”

The old woman sighed. “Come with me.” She moved away into the permanent dusk of the Stacks. “I keep it locked up. It’s on the Home Office’s forbidden list, you know. A black book. I my opinion, even here it’s dangerous.” She reached a glass-fronted cabinet, unlocked it with the key she kept hung about her neck and took out a slim, leather-bound book. “I had hoped never to touch this again.”

Skimpole grabbed it from her eagerly. “I’m grateful.”

“All you need is there. But be careful. They will lie and do their best to trick you. Whatever you wish to ask of them, they will twist it to their advantage.”

But her warning fell on deaf ears. The albino and his son hurried away, stumbled noisily up the steps and out of the Stacks. As the Archivist locked the cabinet she felt an icy pang of certainty that she had just spoken to Mr. Skimpole for the last time.

Vast, grand and marble-floored, the foyer of Love, Love, Love and Love was approximately the size and shape of a ballroom filled with echoes and empty space. An elaborate design was set into the center of the floor — Moon and the Somnambulist lacked the perspective to appreciate it, but had they viewed it from a better vantage point, from the ubiquitous, hypothetical bird’s eye, they would have recognized the pattern immediately: styled in marble and stone, a black five-petaled flower. On the far side of the room, otherwise deserted and devoid of the whirling masses for which it had been intended, a small, dark pinprick of a man sat upright behind his desk.

The receptionist looked up as they walked in and gave them only the briefest of glances before dismissing them with that uninterested sneer which typifies his breed. Moon and the Somnambulist walked toward him, the tap-tap of their shoes ringing out accusingly like gunfire. The receptionist tutted audibly.

“My name is Edward Moon.”

“Really?” the man asked, polite — scrupulously so — but somehow managing to convey an utter contempt for anyone who had ever stood on the wrong side of his desk.

“I wish to see a member of your staff.”

“Oh?” The incredulity of the man’s tone suggested that Moon had asked for an audience at the Vatican. “Does sir have an appointment?”

“I do not.”

“Then I’m afraid I am quite unable to help you.”

“It’s my sister-”

“Here at Love, sir, one needs an appointment even to visit one’s sister.” All this delivered in the same infuriatingly cool, automaton tone — impossibly bland but with just the barest hint of amusement.