The Dead Gentleman (18 page)

The Learner boy had help. The Gentleman could feel it—the increase of life, a slight tipping of the scales in the other direction. All he had to do was taste the air to know that the delicate balance between life and death here in this Hollow World, a balance he’d spent a considerable effort to weigh in his favor, had shifted.

He opened his cadaverous mouth and let the subterranean air drift in again, let it flow through his hollow-boned cheeks and across desiccated nasal passages.
A female
. It was a female helping the boy, which was disturbing news. Another Explorer, perhaps? He’d brought their pathetic Academy down on top of their heads. He’d filled its streets with blood while searching for his prize. Had someone escaped? Whoever she was, like Learner, she was not of this world.

The Gentleman reached for the rail of his ship, the
Charnel
House
, and scraped his bony fingertips across the dark, lacquered wood. The five ragged claw marks that he left there, deep-cut grooves in the banister, were the only outward signs of his displeasure. Today’s face, a clean skull bleached white by time and the elements, could show no emotion. His latest incarnation was less expressive than some of his others, and not as outwardly grotesque as the Freshly Hung Corpse or Rotted Man shapes that he sometimes wore, but the Skeleton in Black had a certain motivating effect on his minions. And being a creature of tastes, the Gentleman wouldn’t be caught dead wearing the same outfit two days in a row.

He tilted back the brim of his top hat and stared up at the molten core with empty eyes. A voice to his left spoke up.

“I wish we could do something about that bloody fireball. Leave it to you to trap Learner in a place where the sun never goes away. Not as bad as real daylight, of course, but I’m still lobster-red, not to mention it’s murder on the eyes.”

He turned to consider Archibald Macheath, First Mate of the
Charnel House
and the Gentleman’s bloody-minded lieutenant. What possessed the Gentleman to make the uncouth, complaining vampire his number one was something of a mystery. Perhaps it was because out of all the Gentleman’s groveling followers, Macheath was the single being who didn’t care about anything or anyone other than Macheath. That, and Macheath’s skill with a knife.

The slowly baking Macheath dabbed at his brow with a dingy white handkerchief. When it came away it was pink with bloody sweat. “You hear the boys brought down that lizard?” said Macheath. “Last one this side of the valley. Won’t be long now. Learner’s running out of places to hide.”

“You think so?” asked the Gentleman in a voice that sounded like wind through a hollow reed. The Skeleton in Black had no vocal cords.

“Sure. The beasties out there are getting desperate, and he’d make a nice bit of snack. If he dies he becomes your property anyway, so it’s a win-win. And I’ve been having the boys spread the word among the natives that if Learner’s caught and turned over to us, we’ll lift anchor and leave the Hollow World in peace. After all, we can always come back and clean it out later.”

The vampire grinned and showed a mouth of missing teeth. Vampires were useful, impervious to pain and nearly unkillable unless confronted with direct sunlight or a stake through the heart. They were tough creatures, but that also made them hard to discipline. Ever the problem solver, the Gentleman had found that pulling one of Macheath’s teeth every time he displeased him was an effective way of keeping the vampire in line. But poor Macheath had had a string of bad luck recently and was down to two single fangs.

Nevertheless, Macheath attended his master’s side like a beaten dog hoping for a scratch behind its ears, but the Gentleman didn’t feel in the mood for compliments. This new female presence was disturbing. Alone, Tommy Learner would surely have perished, but if he now had a companion …

“We have a new wrinkle. Someone is with Learner. Someone from the outside.”

“Eh? How’d he get here? We’ve got every known portal covered.”

“She might have discovered a new one, though it’s unlikely. But however she managed to get in, we can’t take the chance that Learner will use the same route to get out.”

The Gentleman surveyed the deck of the
Charnel House
. Everywhere, black-robed Grave Walkers tended to the masts, the rigging. Guards walked lookout patrols along the rails. All hands made a careful and obvious effort to steer clear of Macheath. He had a reputation for going on binges among the crew—or, more accurately, binging
on
the crew.

But, despite Macheath’s overindulgences, the Gentleman still had an army at his disposal. The ship’s hands numbered in the hundreds. On the ground, Grave Walkers rode their skeletal mounts in formation drills, eager for the hunt. And since landing here in the Hollow World, the Gentleman had been making special additions to his forces. They all came to serve the Gentleman in the end.

Just beyond one small range of hills was the verdant valley. Somewhere there was Tommy Learner, inching ever closer to escape. Somewhere there was the key to the Gentleman’s plan—a delicate bird of clockworks and gears who possessed a secret that, in the Gentleman’s hands, would spell the end of everything. He’d opened the throat of every Explorer in the Academy looking for it, only to find that it was
still
in the possession of that thieving boy. He’d been sure the Explorers had reclaimed it. So sure that he’d struck them with all his might, revealing his strength earlier than planned. There was no going back now. The warning would go up across a thousand worlds. The war had begun and he needed the artifact to win!

“There is no more time,” said the Gentleman, his voice carrying across the deck like the rattle of leaves in the wind. “We can no longer afford to wait him out. Pull up anchor and set sail for that ridge—tonight we invade the valley. Kill everything in our way!”

Macheath smiled as he called out the order, which was picked up and repeated throughout the troops. The
Charnel House
began to scurry with activity as the ship was made ready to sail. Coal fires were fed and billows of hot air and acrid smoke filled the giant airbag. Such a force took time to mobilize, time the Gentleman feared he would not have. What if this new companion knew the way out? What if she was here to help Tommy Learner escape?

“You said the Walkers made a new kill?” asked the Gentleman, outwardly calm amid the cacophony.

“Yes sir,” answered Macheath. “Biggest one yet. It’s stowed away, down in the bilge.”

“Show me.”

Macheath led the way as the pair descended into the bowels of the vessel. The deeper they got, the fewer Grave Walkers they encountered; in the lower decks dwelt the things that would not or could not abide even the weak light of the Hollow World. The dark down here was thick with crouchers and ghouls and things that had yet to be named. They gathered about the Dead Gentleman as he strode along the planks, simpering and groveling for their master’s benediction, for his blessing upon their miserable existence.

Macheath struck out at them with his lash. “Get back, you lot! The Gentleman doesn’t need your grimy paws spoiling his fine attire.”

The throngs parted and the pair continued unmolested to their final destination. There, on the concave floor of the lowermost cargo hold, was a massive shape. The air here was rank with the smell of putrefying flesh. The Gentleman’s presence combined with the heat of the lava sun overhead had sped up the
decaying process. Macheath covered his nose with his bloody handkerchief. For one of the undead, he was unusually squeamish, or perhaps it was just habit.

“There he is,” said Macheath, his voice muffled by the sodden rag. “A real beaut, isn’t he?”

The Gentleman stepped forward and gently ran his hand across the shape’s hide. He loved the chill of death as a child loves the warm sun on her face. Rigor mortis had already come and gone, and in places the flesh had begun to split and crack as the decomposition caused gases and fluid to burst forth into the open.

“A terrible beauty, yes,” said the Gentleman. “But a beauty nonetheless.”

The Gentleman followed the curve of the beast’s neck all the way to its blocklike head. The lips had receded and the teeth were shut like the bars of a cage. The Gentleman leaned close and, from his own mouth, exhaled. The Skeleton in Black had no lungs to hold air, so what it was that he actually expelled was something else. It was shadow and frost, the quiet of the grave.

A convulsion racked the body of the dead beast. Something stirred deep inside as the parts that had given up were called upon to move again. Its massive heart began thumping once more—a fierce, staccato rhythm—but no blood flowed in those veins. The will of the Gentleman sustained it and that was all.

Macheath had backed up a number of steps, positioning himself securely on the other side of the bilge doorway. The lurking shadows and demons had retreated to their holes. The Gentleman’s bony face managed an expression almost like a smile—predators always knew when something fiercer had entered their territory, and this was fiercer by far.

“Find the female,” the Gentleman said. “Smell her out and kill her. Bring me Learner alive if you can, but I want her dead.”

Horrible jaws opened in the mockery of a roar, but no sound came out as the newly risen
thing
slouched its way out of the bilge in search of its prey.

“How’s the Captain?” asked Bernard, his whisper just barely audible over the hum of the ship’s engines.

I was staring at the blue-black waters of our familiar Atlantic Ocean as it passed the porthole outside, but my head was still back in the Hidden City.

“He’s sick, but he’ll be all right,” I lied. The Captain had indeed healed from the worst of the Grave Walkers’ beating, but he’d taken ill with something much worse. The time spent in that dank corpse pit had done something to his lungs. Every breath the man took now crackled like paper. In my time as a street scavenger, I’d seen enough sickness to know the difference between the ones who would get better and those who wouldn’t. The Captain was dying.

Thinking back, it might’ve been wrong to lie to Bernard. It was probably a violation of some Explorer’s Code of Conduct,
withholding information from a fellow Explorer and all. But Bernard was still reeling from the news that the Academy was destroyed and all the people there, dead. The boy had signed up to be an Explorer, not a soldier. He wasn’t prepared for a war. So I decided to spare him the truth of Captain Scott’s condition. While I could, anyway.

“Want to lend me a hand and put on a pot of tea?” I asked. With the Captain sick in bed, Bernard was a ball of nervous energy, shuffling from foot to foot, absently drumming his fingers on the brass safety rails. Putting his body to a task might do him some good.

“Sure. How do you take it? Lemon and sugar?”

“It’s not for me,” I said. “It’s for the Captain. And he likes it with a pour of milk.”

Bernard nodded. “Of course. Right. I’ll be just a minute.”

“Take your time. He’s dozing.”

I watched as Bernard hurried off to the canteen—the small kitchen/dining hall where we took our meals. I waited until Bernard was well out of earshot before opening the giant oval door to the Captain’s quarters.

Scott’s room reflected the best and the worst about the man. On the one hand, it was as neat and tidy a space as I’ve seen, especially considering the amount of stuff he had crammed in there. It served not just as the Captain’s sleeping quarters but also as a kind of museum of his various adventures. A generous library full of books from dozens of worlds sat on a glass-enclosed bookshelf. Bizarre relics rested on bolted-down pedestals (we were on a ship, after all). Carved idols, ancient weapons and odd devices were displayed everywhere. In one corner rested an original folio of Shakespeare’s plays, right next to a dusky glass globe that held a
miniature city, peopled with colored pinpoints of light that actually cooed at you when you approached. It was quite a thing.

On the other hand, it was impossible to look around that room and not recognize the Captain’s considerable ego—to not get the impression that you’d wandered into a museum dedicated to the life and times of Captain Jonathan Scott, designed and built by Captain Jonathan Scott, and starring Captain Jonathan Scott.

A life that was ending. Surrounded by his trophies and keepsakes lay the Captain in his canopied bed, covered in sheets of rich silks. His mustache was, as always, perfectly groomed, and he was wearing a ridiculously ornate nightcap patterned with the winged-cog symbol of the Explorers’ Society. But the man’s cheeks were sunken, and his once-ruddy nose had turned as pale as his linens—its fire all gone out.

Merlin perched on the bed’s headboard, his little face tilting this way and that. Scott was awake and watching me through drooping half slits.