The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle) (33 page)

‘You brought him here? Did all this?’ Lyle’s voice was strained and quiet.

‘I waited a long time to do this. The priest was useful, and so, in your way, were you. You found he was here, told your masters, and they brought the blade. It is the ultimate power, Lyle.’

‘Can I just ask . . . quickly . . . are you Tseiqin?’

She hesitated, taken by surprise. Then smiled, and shook her head. ‘No. I
was
Tseiqin. They made me stone, and took my power. I had to
make
power again.’

Lyle’s eyes flew around the darkness, where now he was sure he could see darker shapes, and knew they couldn’t just be his imagination, because he didn’t have the imagination to see
that
. ‘Selene,’ he muttered wretchedly, ‘are you left-handed?’

She raised her left hand, marble white, stone cold, and smiled. ‘Yes, Horatio Lyle. I am.’

Lyle sighed, nodded sadly, and murmured, ‘Come on, then.’

‘Do you too want to die, Lyle?’

He smiled grimly at her, as the light winked out in his hand. ‘I wasn’t talking to you, miss.’

Under the darkness of Charing Cross Bridge, a horn sounded, once, a long, clear note. It bounced against the cold, still stones, echoed its way down the hard path of the Thames and twisted the fog into a new and interesting shape, then went out. A second later, another horn sounded further along the bridge, the dragging, almost sad note clinging to the air even after the call had ceased.

A silence. A deep, heavy silence that still remembered the sound which had come before, and was stirring itself from sleep to wakefulness, a new alertness that sat on the edge of its seat, drumming its fingers impatiently, a tiny little rhythm,
Hark, hark, the dogs do bark
. . .

A clacking sound on the air, out of place, slightly muffled in the night. A spark rising in the distance, growing larger faster, not just one spark as it grew larger, but many small sparks, and trailing tiny wisps of flame as it rose above Charing Cross Bridge, turned luxuriously, looked down at the river, and dived, sweeping down from the sky, bringing with it a ferocious cry, that had been studied at the feet of warriors and kings from the ages. ‘
Cooeee! Mister Lyyyle! We’re comin’ to rescue yoooou!’

And as Icarus dived, Tess bouncing up and down in the back seat waving her bottles of nitroglycerin with a reckless abandonment that made even the distracted Lyle wince, the shadows also moved behind it and below it. From under Charing Cross Bridge, hooves wrapped in cloth to muffle them on the snow and ice, rifles taking aim and breaths steaming in the air, came the cavalry.

The horsemen looked long and hard down the length of the river and, in the darkness, the stones of London seemed to look back. Icarus swept past them, briefly illuminating ten, a dozen, twenty, fifty faces in the fires of its passage, as, with a little whistling sound and a cry of ‘
Whoopeeee!’
Tess let the first bottle of nitroglycerin fall.

It struck, exploded in white and red and green tongues that lashed at the ships and shattered the ice behind Selene, twisting it up and out and under, shoving whole slabs deep into the dark dirty water of the Thames, which rushed up hungrily for the surface. As one man, the cavalry charged.

Sasso simply smiled, and waited. He knew that the dead would never die. Neither would the stones.

From underneath Westminster Bridge, hidden in the shadows, the gargoyles shifted their heavy masses from foot to foot, and rose up to meet the cavalry.

CHAPTER 26

It was the strangest cavalry charge in the already strange history of strategy. It began as a trot from under the shadows of the bridge, light after light being struck, a flame being passed down from man to man, illuminating shiny buttons and large rifles that caught the light in a way which suggested that here was a weapon loved not only for its appearance at the riders’ sides, but for its sheer, elegant, deadly mechanical efficiency. Overhead, Icarus spun slowly in the sky, Tess pushing out from its side bottles of oil which shattered and burnt, spilling pools of yellow light across the snow in uneven puddles, melting all around it and burning a hole through the ice, which bubbled and hissed as it was torn away.

The cavalry trotted round the pools of fire as if a floor of ice were the most natural thing in the world, slung their rifles into a more comfortable position and, as if they’d all heard the same silent signal at the same moment, as one, began as one to canter.

In front of them, gliding out from under the shelter of Westminster Bridge, the gargoyles and angels and strange heraldic beasts, ranging from a proud griffin to a comically pudgy hippopotamus, drew up together and, because, as Lyle would have pointed out, the modern scientific revolution hadn’t really happened to their lord and master, they formed a line and charged, when all they really needed to do was wait.

Now the ice was creaking, thundering, hammered under the weight of stone that charged across it, and the walls were blackening with more beasts, round-cheeked cherubs flapping along on tiny wings; ancient, oversized generals on their huge stone horses, who’d galloped down from the Haymarket; or the stone dragon that held the shield which guarded the gates to Old London Town; all the creatures that were carved in the city - all the stonework that was alive and watching even
before
another mind gave them movement men could see, that formed part of the character of the city - flooded down on to the river, pouring across the ice in a thick tide that pushed aside the grey and white snow in a series of odd tracks and strange scratches, and made the ice underneath creak. When they charged, the ice behind them was shiny with meltwater, compressed under their combined weight into liquid, proving once again that heat and work did share the same common interests.

The two sides were racing for a head-on collision, and Lyle was caught in between, pulling himself over the side of a shuddering fishing boat and covering his head with his hands, diving down into the shadows as his heart pounded in his ears, his stomach turned in his throat and his ears tried to migrate to his feet. And still he couldn’t get the tune out of his head, the little voice that heard the hammering of the horses’ hooves and the thundering of a hundred stone talons, claws, paws, shoes, heels, and he thought,
Hark, hark, the dogs do bark,
a frantic thought that hammered through his mind and whispered,
The city is alive, it’s always been alive, always been alert and watching and wakeful and now it’s dying and I’ve only just begun to realize and it’s too late!

He cursed himself in darkness and fear as two armies rushed to meet, in the heart of the city, its main artery, the river that brought the world to the city, the city to the world, spread the songs and the rhymes that told the life of the city to other cities, with the thoughts that sang out in the night,
Hark, hark, the dogs do bark
. . .

Overhead, Tess looked down, saw two dark masses rushing together, like the place where two oceans meet, the centre of each rank charging ahead, the first flashes of the guns as a warning, then a whole volley as each rider raised his rifle to fire, took aim at whichever part of a moving stone wall looked more vulnerable than its neighbour, and fired. The shots bounced off the walls along the river, whined past the bridges and ricocheted upwards, even as Icarus dived downwards, Thomas kicking at lever after lever with his eyebrows dug so deep they almost touched his nose. And Tess thought,
London’s burning, London’s burning, Fetch the engines, fetch the engines
. . . and,
This
is my home! It ain’t much of a home, it ain’t pretty or nice and it doesn’t smell good, but it’s my home!

On Charing Cross Bridge, looking down at the river in flames, Feng Darin saw two dark waves rush together with an unstoppable force and hammer across the ice, the noise growing louder and louder, the ice creaking beneath them, the snow turning to slush, saw them accelerate to a black blur, caught occasionally in the burning pools of oil that ran across the river, saw them collide, heard the scream of horses, the flash of rifles, the rising smoke that blended with the fog, the shudder of grenades, the crack of stone. Looked up further and saw still, on the bridge, Sasso smiling, and wondered why.

Lyle peeked above the edge of his boat and saw the world in flames and smoke and felt, under him, the boat give a little shudder, felt it droop for a moment, shaking as the ice bent. He thought,
Oh dear, this isn’t going to end well
. . . took a deep breath, and swung himself over the side, into the middle of the fray.

And Lyle thought:
This is
my
city
. . .

Noise and hooves and stone and claws and rifles were everywhere. Lyle ran almost bent double, focusing on the half-melted space behind the furthest horse, not caring who was friend or foe, just concentrating on that area of open space where he could run away from the pounding in his ears and the claws at his back. The yellow-whiteness beyond was eclipsed by a horse galloping across his path, the rider firing blindly over Lyle’s head, a cherub clinging to the rider’s shoulder, teeth buried deep through the cloth, tiny fat fingers at the cavalryman’s neck. Lyle heard a horse scream and saw it go down, twisting on to one side as a flock of small ornamental gargoyles set upon it. Looking back, he saw an angel drawing itself up, one arm lying at its side, blown off by what force Lyle didn’t know, a series of bullet marks in its side. As he watched, the angel, with a puzzled expression, picked up its own arm, thought about it, then brandished it as a club.

Lyle felt in his pocket, pulled out a hypodermic needle, the end corked, and flicked the cork aside. The angel looked at him sceptically, as if wondering what this little creature could possibly contemplate doing with a needle against a club at least half Lyle’s weight. It took a considered, lazy swipe at him. He ducked, and tried to scurry under the blow, but the angel spun with surprising grace, as if it was wearing skates on the slippery ice, and brought the club back round towards Lyle’s head. He threw himself down, the blow swinging close by, the wind of its passage tickling the back of his neck, and under his hands he felt the ice creak, twist, hum, buckle, and he saw, an inch from his nose, the tiniest little line slide across it, hair-thin; pause, as if considering its next move; then race a few more inches, exploring the new world that seemed to be opening up in front of it.

Lyle crawled after it, hoping no one would notice him, and a heavy stone foot landed on his ankle. He looked back and saw the angel, bringing up the stone arm again, and thought, for just a moment, he saw something else behind the angel’s eye, a glimpse of the intelligence that drove it, and remembered, ‘
I made him; made him love, made him worship me, made him lose everything he had, made him
want
to die, made him stone. He is mine
,’ and realized that he’d only found the weapon, not the hand that wielded it, realized how well Selene used people, including, perhaps, himself.

And for a second, professional pride and fear melted in Lyle, and combined into a new shade of emotion, and anger flared up inside him. He twisted under the foot that held him down, raised the hypodermic needle, putting it against the join in the knee of the angel, and pressed the plunger. Acid shot out, searing through stone, giving off a sweet acrid smell that made Lyle’s eyes water and dried his throat in a second. The foot that held him down fell lifeless off the angel, who, wearing a surprised expression, teetered for a second, and fell over, crashing into the ice next to Lyle. The crash sent cracks sprawling outwards, widening the hairline marks in the ice, until they were wide enough for Lyle’s fingers and he could see, down below, the black waters of the Thames.

He staggered to his feet and looked around, saw a gargoyle, claws raised over the prone figure of a man, raised a test tube and threw it blindly, half-saw it shatter in glass and flames against the stone of the gargoyle, and turned, looking back into the swell of the battle, which had spread like a disease as each line broke and rebuilt, horses and stone figures dancing round each other in a black stain across the white river. And still the stones hummed along the banks of the river and he could feel its vibration rising up through his shoes, and could see the black shapes of stones and statues still flooding in from Westminster Bridge, an endless supply of them, the carved memories of London’s history, and he saw
her
, caught for a moment in the light of the burning oil fires, as Icarus sailed overhead, a greenish tube of glass whistling down to shatter the ice, breaking it like the end of the world. He looked towards the safety of Charing Cross Bridge, still untouched, looked towards the battle and Westminster Bridge, felt the anger and the disappointment and the bitter sense of a world gone wrong, took a deep breath, and ran back into the fray.

 

Feng Darin was dancing. He fought and danced along the Embankment as the stones rippled under his feet and leered overhead; he danced and ducked and whirled and twirled, eyes vacantly focused on the distant shape of Lucan Sasso, Selene’s blade black in his hand. Feng Darin wasn’t turning this way or that as the night thickened around him with stone shapes, but spinning his way through the throng as if he were a ghost, trying to write his story through ripples in the fog. His feet hammered out a steady rhythm as he moved inexorably forward, and the rhythm whispered,
Hark, hark
. . .