Stefan Bachman - The Peculiar

Behind them, someone cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” a polite voice said.

Without loosening his grip on Bartholomew’s collar, the peddler whipped around. He snorted.

“Whada you want?”

“I want you to unhand the young man,” the voice said.

“You best start runnin’, mister. Run away, or I’ll finish you next.”

The man didn’t move. “Release him or I’ll shoot you dead.”

Bartholomew craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of his benefactor. He found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. It was a tiny silver gun with mother-of-pearl on its handle and rubies and opals all down its sides.

The peddler only spat. “You? You couldn’t shoot a kitten if it bit your nose.”

The man shot. A fine round pearl rolled lazily down the barrel of the gun and plopped out, falling to the cobblestones and bouncing away.

“Drat,” the man with the gun said. “Look, leave the boy alone, won’t you? You can have the pistol. It’s worth a great deal, I suppose. And I assure you there’s no more. My money is all in named bills so you’ll never be able to cash them, and I don’t even have a watch chain, so you needn’t bother robbing me.” He held out the bejewelled pistol. “Now do unhand the child.”

The man with the pancake face dropped Bartholomew unceremoniously to the cobbles. He snatched the pistol. “All right,” he said, squinting warily at the stranger. “But this ain’t no child. This is one o’ them changelings, it is, and it’s marked. It’s gonna be dead soon.”

Then he was gone, scrambling away down the alley.

Bartholomew got up off the ground and looked his rescuer over.

The man was a gentleman. His shoes gleamed black, and his collar was starched, and he smelled terribly clean, like soap and fresh-pumped water. He was rather tall, too, with broad shoulders and square features, and blond stubble pricked up along his jaw so that it looked like he hadn’t shaved in several days. His face wore an expression of mild inquiry. Bartholomew disliked him right away.

“Hello,” the gentleman said quietly. “Are you Child Number Ten?”

“ Mi Sathir? There is a problem.”

The lady in plum stood with her back to Mr. Lickerish. Her arms were at her sides, and her elegant fingers were moving ever so slightly, picking at the velvet of her skirts. Her lips remained motionless.

“ Mi Sathir, ” the voice said again. Mr. Lickerish did not look up. He was busy scribbling away on a scrap of paper with a curling black feather, fierce concentration etched into his fine-boned features.

The lady and the faery were in a beautiful room. Books lined the walls and lamps cast halos around them. A low humming filled the air. Two metal birds were perched on the desk where Mr. Lickerish sat, their eyes dark and keen. In one corner of the room, a chalk circle had been drawn carefully on the floorboards. One section of the circle looked newer than the rest, crisper and whiter, as if it’d had to be redrawn.

“A problem, Sathir .”

Mr. Lickerish threw down the quill. “Yes, there are many problems, Jack Box, and one of them is you, and one is Arthur Jelliby, and one is old Mr. Zerubbabel and his crooked, slow fingers. How long does it take to build another bird out of metal? He has the plans and the route and. . Speaking of which, did you kill him? Arthur Jelliby?”

“I did. He’s dead by now. Most likely strangled by his bedsheets because they did not like being put under sizzling irons and drowned in suds. You know, it’s almost a shame wasting the Malundis Lavriel spell so late at night. There’s no one about to appreciate it. Now, on a crowded street, in the heat of the day, the result can be quite spectacular but. . But I digress. We have a problem.” The lady in plum stepped aside, revealing a little girl curled up on the floor. The lady extended a jet-black toe from under her skirts and dug it into the child’s ribs. “Wake up, ugly thing. Wake up!”

Hettie raised her head sleepily. For half an instant her eyes were blank, as if she thought she was still at home, safe. Then she sat up. Her mouth pinched, and she glared at the lady and Mr. Lickerish, each in turn.

“Pull up your sleeves, half-blood. Show him.”

She did as she was told, but she didn’t stop glaring. The dirty fabric was rolled up, revealing a pattern of lines, red tendrils twisting around her thin white arms.

“Well?” the faery politician demanded. “What is it? She looks very nearly as wretched as the other nine.”

A tongue clicked in annoyance. It was not the lady’s tongue, not the tongue behind the vivid red lips. It was a long, rough, barbed tongue, scraping over teeth. “Read it,” the voice growled.

The faery politician leaned across the desk. He paused. One perfect eyebrow arched. “Eleven? Why is she marked eleven?”

“ That is the problem. I don’t know. I set up the spell just as you ordered, Skasrit Sylphii to brand each of the changelings as they traveled through the wings and to open their skin to the magic. This one ought to have been marked number ten.”

Mr. Lickerish snapped his fingers and settled back into his chair. “Well then. It counted incorrectly. Magic is only as clever as its user, and you are not nearly as clever as you suppose.”

“My magic is quite sound, Sathir . And at least I can still do such things. You know nothing of the old ways. You buy all your spells and potions like a regular spoilt toff.” The voice ought to have stopped there, but it went on, goading. “Or else you dispense with it altogether. Mechanics are so much more practical, after all. Clockwork birds and iron horses.” There was a snicker. “Just like a proper human .”

“Hold your tongue,” Mr. Lickerish spat. “I am the one who is going to save you. Save us all from this cage of a country. And you will do your part just as I do mine. Now,” he said, suddenly calm again. “If the spell is still functioning, what could have happened?”

“I see only one way: someone else came through the faery ring.”

The room went deathly still. Only the gentle humming could be heard, throbbing somewhere in the walls.

The lady’s fingers began to twitch, little jerks like a spider’s legs when it’s just been crushed.

“Someone,” the voice said again, “after number nine and before this one. The magic fades slowly. If someone stepped in by accident, I suppose it’s. . No. No, it couldn’t be. The sylphs would have devoured him in an instant, gnawed him to the bone. Oh, it makes no sense! Only a changeling would have been marked!”

Mr. Lickerish stared at the back of the lady’s head. His eyes were hard and black.

The voice went on, hurrying, stumbling. “It is the only way. The magic did not count incorrectly. The spell is quite sound. Eleven changelings have traveled to this room. Nine have met their deaths. One-this one, I assure you”-the lady’s hands were moving furiously now, scratching at the fabric like claws-“will be the means to a glorious end, and the other one is. .”-the hands went limp-“. . still about.”

“Still about,” the faery politician enunciated slowly. “Still about? A changeling slipped into my private chambers, saw needle-knows-what, and is now marching lively as firelight through England?” Mr. Lickerish picked up a china figurine and hurled it across the room. “Find it!” he screamed. “Find it at once and kill it.”

The lady in plum turned to face Mr. Lickerish. Her expression was blank, her lips slack. She slumped forward in a clumsy bow, and the voice said, “Yes, Mi Sathir. It will be the simplest thing in the world to track it down.”