City of Time and Magic, page 7
He had no choice but to put up a fight. A sharp backward jab with his elbow found its mark in the solar plexus of the man behind him, causing him to gasp and fold forward, momentarily loosening his grip on his victim. Liam sprang to the side but there was not room to pass the heavier man who stood menacingly before him. The two sized each other up and then, suddenly, the stranger made his move, lunging forward. Liam ducked, diving beneath the man’s outstretched arms. He lost his hat in his haste, but was not quick enough to gain his freedom. The man grabbed him as he moved forward, taking hold of his jacket and yanking him back toward him. Now he swung a punch. Again Liam ducked, feeling the air disturbed by the man’s fist as it whistled past his left ear. He straightened up and saw his chance. His assailant was briefly off guard and off balance. Liam drew back his arm and put all his strength into the first proper punch he had ever thrown in his life. It was a lucky blow, catching the man on his jaw at such an angle that it not only sent him sprawling but knocked him out cold. Liam stared at the inert figure on the cobbles, stunned at what he had just done, horrified that he might actually have killed the man. The second stranger made as if to grab Liam, confirming the importance somebody had placed on him being taken, as the second thug was apparently prepared to leave his friend unconscious and wounded on the ground to do so. He had just taken hold of Liam again when there came a shout from behind them.
“Hey there! What are you about, ruffian! Be gone, I tell you. Leave him be!”
A stout figure had stepped out of a doorway. He was backlit by the lamplight from within, his rotund silhouette topped off by a particularly tall top hat, worn at a slight angle. Though short, he had a bearing, and when he raised his cane and spoke again his words carried a certain weight.
“Must I tell you again? I will not take kindly to repeating myself, damn your eyes! Nor will you relish the results of my bad humor, I give you fair warning, fair warning, I say. Now, begone!”
Much to Liam’s surprise, his assailant released him. Without hesitation he instead took hold of his friend, who was now groaning and stirring into consciousness, and helped him to his feet. The pair threw anxious glances at the new arrival to the party before turning wordlessly and disappearing down the street and away.
Liam caught his breath and picked up his hat, dusting it off on his trouser leg and replacing it on his head.
“Thank you, sir,” he called to the man in the doorway. “I am grateful for your timely assistance, and I bid you good night.” He touched the brim of his hat courteously and then made to leave.
“Hold! Hold, young man. Why the rush? Why the hurry? Do not be so quick to turn your back on poor old Albert Taverstock. Let us meet proper and shake hands, for God’s sake,” he said, moving across the cobbles on slightly bandy legs, his hand outstretched. Now that he was revealed in the borrowed lamplight of the narrow street, his personal style was unmistakable. Here was a man, however diminutive his stature, for whom the word “flamboyant” might have been invented. His collar was entirely obscured by the frothy silk confection of his turquoise neckwear. His cummerbund, also silk, was an equally bright blue. His jacket was deepest plumb and cutaway, with brass buttons, almost in the fashion of a big top ringmaster. His silver-topped cane was twisted like a barley sugar, and there was a kingfisher feather in the band of his hat. All would have been impressive, had they not a threadbare, worn, and weary look to them upon closer inspection.
Liam would far rather have simply left, but he felt obliged to thank the man properly. He liked to think he would have got rid of his attackers on his own, but he was not sure it was the truth. The new stranger’s intervention had seen them off, though, and that in itself was strange. They did not seem the types to scare easily, and this newcomer was short, stout, unarmed, and alone. What had made them back off so quickly, he wondered? Why had they wordlessly retreated at the sight of him? He shook the offered hand.
“Liam,” he said, adding, “from the north,” in an attempt to head off questions and yet not seem suspiciously unfriendly.
“Oh, the north, very fine. Fine indeed! I have been there myself on more than one occasion. Capital schools up there, as I recall. Are you, perhaps, a master? Is it from an academic establishment you gained your sporting prowess?”
“My…?” For a moment Liam was at a loss and then he remembered the single lucky punch that had floored his attacker. “It’s not really what I’d call prowess.”
“Come, come, false modesty is unflattering. I know skill when I see it. I know talent. Yes. You have the physique under those … garments.” Here he paused to indicate Liam’s drab outfit, which was in every way the opposite to his own.
“Well, again, thank you, Mr. Taverstock. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I am expected home.” He continued to do his best to speak in a way he hoped did not sound jarringly modern.
As if the thought of losing his new acquaintance caused the man physical pain he clutched at his heart. “But you will not go now that we are friends! No, no. Say you will at least take a cup of ale with me. Here—” he gestured at the building he had stepped from. “It is a lowly establishment, but the beer is above tolerable, I will vouch for it. And besides, Mister … Mister Liam”—here he lowered his voice and tapped the side of his short, broad nose—“there is something inside I guarantee will be of interest to a fellow such as yourself. I guarantee it! Now, I will not be gainsaid. Come, come, this way.” He turned and waddled back to the doorway in full expectation that he would be followed.
Liam considered simply heading off in the opposite direction, but the man had helped him, and a beer was tempting. And, after all, had he not wanted to see something of this time and this place while he had the chance? On top of which, his would-be abductors could very well be lying in wait for him around the corner. It seemed sensible to delay heading down any more dark streets on his own for a while.
He had expected to be led into some sort of tavern, but instead found himself in a small room, empty save for two large men who appeared to be there to guard the inner door. Having just been assaulted by a pair of strangers out to do him harm, he balked, stopping at the entrance. Mr. Taverstock sought to reassure him.
“No need for alarm, my young friend. No need, no need. You are safe here. My lads are to protect us, indeed, and our enterprises, as you will see. Come, come.”
Again he beckoned. The two men stepped aside, one pushing open the second door. Cautiously, Liam stepped through it. He followed Taverstock along a passageway so narrow that the portly man almost stoppered it like a cork. There were gas lamps upon the walls, so that the way was well lit, revealing no decoration or furnishings. As they neared the end of the corridor, there came strange sounds from up ahead. Sounds of shouting and cheering. The other thing that reached him was a stink, easily recognizable as a pungent blend of sweat and alcohol, with high notes of urine. When the final door was opened a great roar of the assembled crowd prevented him asking any questions. Before he had time to try to make sense of it, they emerged into a large space, as huge as it was unexpected. This was no inn, nor a domestic residence. The building might once have been a warehouse for goods traveling through the dock. Now, it was something else entirely. Interior walls had been removed to create a large space, which was, at that moment, almost filled to capacity with men. They stood facing the center, in which was placed a roughly shaped ring with straw bales as its boundary. This was not raised in any way, but had a layer of scuffed sawdust in it, which Liam realized, with a lurching stomach, was there to soak up the blood. Two men in white knee breeches, bare-chested and bare-fisted, slugged it out. By the way they were staggering and flinging wild, largely unsuccessful blows at each other, he decided the boxing match must have been going on for some time already. They were ill-matched. One fighter was tall and his reach long, but he did not look strong, and was clearly in a weakened state. His face bore evidence that his opponent had landed several effective blows, his lip being split and blood flowing freely from his nose. The other man, though shorter, was muscular, fierce, and dangerous. It struck Liam as odd that he had not yet flattened his skinny adversary. The two danced around each other, feet dragging slightly through the sullied sawdust, fists held in front of their faces, eyes not for a moment leaving those of the other. Through it all a loud bearded man, more master of ceremonies than referee, or perhaps more choreographer of a macabre and violent dance, exhorted the men to fight on, and challenged the rabble to up their wagers. Among the crowd notes were thrust into outstretched hands, palms were spat upon, dubious words given, and bets placed, all fortunes standing or falling on the pain of the pugilists.
Liam felt a tapping on his arm. Mister Taverstock sought to gain his attention by use of his silver-topped cane, as conversation was not possible. He indicated the makeshift bar at the far end of the room and led the way through the excitable melee, which parted as the Red Sea before Moses at the sight of him. When they reached the boards and crates the man was given two bottles of ale without having to request or pay for them. Liam was beginning to understand that he was in the company of someone important in these particular circles. He sniffed at the contents of the bottle, registered surprise at the sweetness of the beer, and drank. It was good, and washed away some of the dust and dirt of the place.
Mister Taverstock smiled, his cheeks reddened now by the heat of the room. He raised his voice to make himself heard, rendering it strangely high with a tendency to squeak on some vowels. “Did I not promise you quality ale? Quality, in all things, is my watchword. As you shall see. As you shall see.”
Liam found himself unable to take his eyes from the spectacle inside the ring. He had never thought watching two men beat each other made for entertainment, and nothing he could see now changed his mind. The tired fighters battled on, weary and bruised, driven by who knew what motivations to keep slinging blows beyond a sensible point of doing so. If one was knocked down he was exhorted with shouts and curses by the crowd to drag himself to his feet and back into the fight again. The combination of such male aggression and fortunes to be won or lost on the outcome of their combat charged the air so that he could almost taste the violence. At last, the lighter of the two men sustained a punch to the head that left him unable to continue. Amid tumultuous noise, the hand of the winner was raised by the referee. The favorite had prevailed. A popular win. The loser was carried from the room.
“Capital! Capital.” Mister Taverstock was delighted. “A reliable fighter, a crowd-pleaser. Money to be made here for the right man.” He turned and faced Liam. “How about you, my friend? Do you fancy your chances?”
“Me?”
“You are not large, ’tis true, but size is not always the main factor, no indeed not. And I witnessed your talent for myself. I know what I know, and I know what I saw.” He tapped the side of his nose again.
Liam thought of the way he had dropped the first of his assailants outside and how Mister Taverstock must have seen him do it. “A lucky punch, that’s all.”
“Come, come, a man’s talent may be his fortune, has he courage to use it.”
“I promise you, I am no boxer.”
“Money to be made, I said, and you would know the truth of it. Fellow such as yourself, unknown, a dark horse, not heavy-looking, no form. You have no reputation and that can work in your favor, do you see? Allow me to put you on the card is all you have to do. One good fight and your fortune made, with a talent such as yours, yes, such as yours.” The little man licked his lips, the thought of possible winnings on wagers clearly driving him on.
Liam finished his ale and placed the bottle back on the board. “I say again, I’m no fighter. Now, thank you for the ale, for your help, but I am expected, so I’ll say good night to you.” He touched the brim of his bowler once more, nodded at the man, and stepped away, relieved that he was allowed to do so and suddenly eager to be gone from the place. As he left the room he heard Mister Taverstock’s reedy voice.
“If you change your mind you come tell Albert Taverstock!” he called after him.
Outside a light but steady rain had set in. Liam checked the street to reassure himself that the kidnappers were not lying in wait, turned up his collar, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked briskly in the direction of Mistress Flyte’s house.
* * *
Xanthe had spent a pleasant hour in the company of the Balmoral family in their warm and welcoming home. Thomas was quieter in the presence of his father, but only because Erasmus had about him such a restless energy that he tended to speak before anyone else could do so. Elizabeth was the calmer of the couple, her voice softer, her words more thoughtfully chosen, and yet her husband deferred to her at once if she cut in to his chatter. Xanthe knew that because he was a Spinner he would be able to detect the presence of another. She was aware at moments of him watching her, studying her, almost, and yet he did not ask questions that might have told him anything beyond her cover story. They all accepted that she had come to London in search of work in the music halls, there being little employment in the small theater in the provincial town in the west country she claimed to have hailed from. She wondered how and when she would be able to talk to him on his own. It was important to tread carefully. After all, his wife might not know of his past, or the fact that he traveled through time. If she was to gain his trust and get him to help her find Lydia Flyte and Liam, she could not afford to cause trouble in his household or turn Elizabeth against her. Eventually, Thomas took himself off to bed and Erasmus took his cue from his wife, who suggested he do the same. It was clear to Xanthe that she wanted to speak to their visitor alone. When the men had gone, Elizabeth lit a candle on the mantelpiece, even though the house was fitted with gas lights. She dropped some dried petals into the wax, which spat briefly before settling to a pleasantly perfumed flame. She turned and smiled at Xanthe.
“I rarely have the company of another woman in the house,” she said. “It is an agreeable novelty. You are not too tired to sit awhile longer?”
“Not at all.” She watched Elizabeth as she seated herself on the sofa opposite. There was something singular about her beyond her striking appearance. She felt an attraction to her she did not fully understand. It was nothing sexual; it was something altogether less easily explained. All she knew was that she liked being near her, liked listening to her speak, liked the way her wise eyes regarded her when she, in turn, listened. Her thoughts about this unusual woman were interrupted by the singing of the writing box, which had suddenly grown louder. In an unguarded moment, Xanthe turned to look at it, an action that did not go unnoticed by Elizabeth.
“You like the writing slope?
“I couldn’t help noticing it when I first came into the room. It’s very fine.”
“Please, take a closer look if it interests you.”
In truth, Xanthe neither wanted nor needed to get closer to the box. It had brought her to Erasmus; that was all it could do to help at the moment. In addition, its insistent song had become quite uncomfortable, shifting to a vibrating buzz, and stepping closer to it only made the noise louder. Not wanting to offend her host, however, and unable to think of a sensible reason for not accepting the offer, she went to the corner of the room and sat on the chair at the desk. The box looked less worn than in her own day, its brass inlay free from scratches and its walnut frame devoid of nicks or dents.
“Open it, if you like,” said Elizabeth.
She did so, lifting the lid and opening it fully so that the inside formed a leather-covered flat surface on which to write, which was set at a perfect angle to anyone sitting in front of it. Much to her surprise, as soon as it was open the box released the smell of lavender. The scent was so strong and so unexpected she giggled.
“Something amuses you?”
“Oh … I can smell lavender,” she said. “I suppose I wasn’t expecting such a feminine fragrance inside something belonging to a gentleman.”
“But this is my writing box,” Elizabeth told her.
“Yours?”
“Yes.” She got up and came to stand on the other side of the little desk. “Erasmus gave it to me. After he made me my … journal. He knows I love to record things in it every day and could see I would do so with more comfort had I a proper slope. You see?” She reached forward and picked up a beautiful book bound in green leather with gold lettering tooled on it. Before Xanthe could read the inscription, Elizabeth opened the journal and set it, with two blank pages facing upward, onto the leather of the box. “Just so. Very pleasant to work on.”
Xanthe was still trying to process this new information. The found thing did not belong to Erasmus. It had, nonetheless, brought her to him, but there was something odd about the fact that it wasn’t his. Why hadn’t she been called by something that was personal to him? It wasn’t as if this was some random piece of furniture or painting or curio that was simply in his house to attract her to the right place. The writing slope was a hugely personal item belonging to someone else. True, Erasmus had given it to his wife, but still that put it at a remove from him. The more she thought about it, and the more she looked at the tall, charismatic woman standing in front of her, the more certain she became that the treasure had been specifically drawing her to Elizabeth, not Erasmus. But why?
6
A little later, Elizabeth showed Xanthe to a small guest room at the back of the house. It was comfortably and prettily furnished. There was a brass bed with patchwork covers, warm, heavy curtains at the window, two thick rugs, a wardrobe, a washstand with bowl and water jug, and a small chair. A fire had been lit in the modest hearth and fresh flowers set on the bedside table. Gas lamps gave a warm glow. The whole effect was charming. After her host left her, she did not undress, however, but sat on the bed, attempting to make sense of what she had learned and plan her next move. She had got no further than repeating to herself that she had been called to Elizabeth and not Erasmus when there came a light knock on the door. Opening it, she found the man himself, his face serious.
