The wickwire watch, p.7
The Wickwire Watch, page 7
Ink leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’ll be needin’ another fifty for the end.”
Spindler spewed out a half-snort, half-chuckle. “What?”
“I’ve been good for the money so far, haven’t I?”
“So?”
“So I ain’t even got to the best part yet.”
Spindler glared hard at the boy. This Inkwell knew how to play his hand. He knew any respectable newspaperman would never be able to let a tantalizing phrase like that go unexplained. With a shake of his head, he reached into his back pocket for the rest of the banknotes and tossed them across the table. Ink swept them up, stuffed them into his pocket, then began the tale of the screaming shadow in the water and the mysterious man who had intervened.
When the story was finished, Spindler rose from his chair and began to pace the room, smoothing down his mustache. “That’s a bloody odd thing to happen so close to Bash’s place, so soon after his death. I wonder if the events are connected somehow. Do you think you could take me back to the spot where it happened?”
“Oooh,” Ink replied, getting up from the table. “Tempting. Quite tempting. But I think I’ve had my share of terror and panic today, thank you very much.”
He donned his hat and moved around the table towards the door. Spindler stopped him. “You’d get more money. I’ll give you another twenty once we get there.”
“Not a chance.”
“Twenty-five.”
“No.”
“Thirty! That’s all I can spare and still afford to eat for the rest of the week.”
“Eat all you like ‘cause I ain’t doing one more blasted thing for you,” Ink said. “You nearly got me mixed up in some very dark stuff and I don’t like a bit of it.”
“I think you’re already mixed up in it, Mr. Featherfield,” Spindler replied. “You know it, too. I can see it in your eyes. You’ve been affected. I think it’s a bit late for backing out now.”
“I’ve been startled. That’s all,” Ink shot back. “And I’ve had enough of you and this stinking town. I’ve done your little errand. Now I’m off! I’ve had enough of cops, and magic people, and ground-up corpses, and men who drown themselves in lakes—”
“But don’t you care?”
“Care?”
“Yes, care! Be bothered with! Have concern for! Damiras didn’t end nine years ago, you know! That battle is still being fought! The Colonists keep killing! And you may regard it all as bothersome noise but you can’t live your whole life keeping out of the way!”
“Watch me!” Ink cried. “Just you watch me! And when you’re old and feeble I’ll come back here and tell you all about it! Then you can write a book about me! Inkwell Featherfield . . . The Man Who Kept Out of the Way!”
Thud.
Something bumped against the front door. Ink turned his head, then let out a small gasp of shock, feeling a brief sensation of pain. He put his hand to his right cheek and felt something wet. His fingers came away with a thin streak of blood. Spindler frowned at the sight of it.
Before either could say a word, the thud came again. Dumbfounded, they watched as a huge crack appeared in the door. It split the wood from frame to floor right through the center, then branched out in a series of smaller fractures. The sound was like ice breaking on a frozen pond. The cracks grew, widening and lengthening until at last the entire door burst into pieces. Spindler shouted in alarm and raised his arms as splinters of wood flew in every direction. Ink didn’t move, but stood staring at the three people who had rushed into the room.
Chapter 8
On the Run Again
One of the strangers was a tall, light-haired man who glanced around the room with a fierce gaze. The second was a lanky young man sporting a shock of tousled red hair and a scraggly patch of beard. He raised a lantern to his eye and stared into the high flame flickering inside the glass. The third person was a golden-haired woman who appeared to be no more than a year or two past twenty, barely out of the frocks and ribbons of girlhood. She beckoned to them with an urgent panic.
“Hurry!”
“Hurry?” Spindler echoed. “Hurry where? You’ve broken my door!”
“There’s no time for explanation!” said the older man, waving towards the hall. “We have to move!”
The red-head lowered the lantern and glanced at Ink with a look of dread. “You’re gonna get a lot more than a scratch if you wait any longer! Let’s go!”
He sprang forward, grabbed Ink by the arm, and pulled him out of the flat. The woman did the same to Spindler, who was too bewildered to protest. The light-haired stranger led the way through the hall and down a flight of stairs.
“As soon as we’re out, run as fast as you can!” he called back. “We’ll explain later, but you’ve got to trust us!”
Neither Spindler nor Ink bothered to argue, for just as the group approached the front door of the building, they heard a horrifying scream from the floor above. Spindler halted and glanced back, feeling as though his heart might stop for fear.
“Go!” the woman cried, pushing him forward.
They took off down the street, dodging people left and right. Spindler bumped into a man carrying an armload of parcels and yelled out an apology as he ran by. Ink held onto his hat as they turned a sharp corner into a narrow alleyway. They hung a quick right soon after and sprinted past a baffled gaggle of schoolchildren and an alarmed priest.
“Where are we going?” Ink shouted.
“Away from here!” the woman answered. “Out of the town!”
The light-haired man at the head of their party swerved off the path and cut across a field, leading them down a hill. Ink seemed to have no trouble keeping up, having no doubt relied on his legs for quick getaways many times before. Spindler, however, was not accustomed to long-distance sprinting and held a hand to his aching side.
A minute later they broke through a line of trees bordering a farm, then made straight for a large barn a few hundred feet away. As soon they came to a stop behind it, Spindler stooped over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard.
“Take a look, Evering,” the older man said to the red-haired one.
Evering rushed to the edge of the barn and peered around the corner. The others watched as he raised the flame once more to his eye and surveyed the terrain.
“Nothing,” he said at last. “I think we’ve got clear of it.”
“Thank God we were just in time,” the woman said, brushing her hair from her face.
“In time for what?” Spindler asked. “What do you mean by all this? Who are you?”
The older man knelt in front of Ink and gently took his chin in his hand, looking over the wound on his cheek. “Lucky. Very lucky. And that’s saying something, considering I don’t even believe in luck.” He withdrew a small vial of liquid from his pocket and poured a few drops onto a handkerchief. “Here. Hold this to the wound.”
Ink frowned at the handkerchief in suspicion.
“It’s just something to help it heal a bit quicker,” the man assured him.
Ink took it and pressed it against his jaw. “What happened? What did this to me?”
“Simon,” the woman said, “maybe you shouldn’t frighten him. He’s just a boy.”
Ink bristled, then glared hard at the man in front of him. “Frighten me.”
Simon glanced at the young man called Evering, who nodded. After a moment’s hesitation, he met Ink’s eyes again. “It’s difficult to explain,” he began, “and twice as hard to understand. But you were attacked by something called a Spektor.”
“A what?” Spindler said.
“They’re nearly impossible to see, unless they want to be seen,” Simon continued. “But no less real in this world than in the one to which they truly belong.”
Spindler scoffed. “A ghost? You’re talking to us about ghosts? Are you serious?”
“Far worse than ghosts,” Evering replied. “Spektors are the souls of the dead allowed back to this side of things. They can get inside you. Inside your head—”
“But it’s very rare for them to physically attack anyone,” Simon said, his steady gaze still on Ink. “Which is why you’re such a great wonder. In all of history, Spektors have never set upon someone so young as you.”
“Wait a minute,” Spindler interrupted. “You’re saying an evil spirit is after him? You actually expect us to believe that?”
“We never expect anyone to believe it,” the woman answered. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
“Who are you?” Spindler asked. “Some kind of . . . evil spirit rescue patrol?”
“Just ordinary folk who spotted someone in trouble,” Simon answered. He looked back at Ink. “But we don’t have a lot of time to stay here talking. For some reason the Spektors are following you. Seeking you out. And if the one back in that room doesn’t find you again, another will. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Then I’ll just keep running,” Ink said. “I’m always on the move. If what you’re saying is true, I won’t let ‘em get close to me again!”
“Running won’t be enough,” Evering replied. “No matter where you go, they’ll follow. If you escape down one road, there’ll be three more waiting for you at the other end. That’s why you have to come with us.”
Ink frowned. “What?”
“There’s only one place in this world where no Spektor will dare go,” Simon answered. “And we can take you there. You’ll be safe. But we have to leave now.”
“Where is this place?” Spindler asked.
“I’m afraid we can’t tell you that.”
Spindler scoffed, sneering with a mixture of anger and disgust. “What are you trying to do? Take advantage of this boy by frightening him out of his wits? Get him to trust you before you kidnap him? Is that the trick?”
“We’re not kidnapping you,” Simon said to Ink, rising to his feet. “We won’t force you to go with us. It must be your choice. But you’d do well to go on a little faith after what you saw at the lake earlier this morning.”
A look of wonder crossed Ink’s face.
“How do you know about that?” Spindler demanded.
“There’s no time to explain everything!” Evering said.
Spindler wheeled on him. “Look, kid, if you don’t start playing straight I’ll knock the red right out of that hair! You’re already in the wrong for breaking into my flat, but to feed us this ridiculous drivel about spirits and secret safe havens? Come on, Ink. We’ve got a police report to write up. And you lot had better clear off while you still can!”
“I don’t need you to save me, Spindler!”
Spindler stared at the boy, stunned. Ink straightened his hat and glanced at the strangers.
“Now I don’t know if what these people are saying is all on the level, but I aim to find out. If they are right, I don’t fancy being a target for something I can’t see. I can afford a few days to hang around in this safe place of theirs. And if they’re liars, I’ll slip through their fingers easy as ice. I’ve done it before. Been taking care of myself for a long time now. So don’t trouble yourself, all right? Just go back to your cozy little life and forget all about me. Should be easy enough.”
Spindler didn’t answer. It was all happening too fast.
Simon stepped towards him. “I know it’s hard, but try to put your mind at ease. We’ll take good care of him. As for you, don’t return to the flat for another few days. We’re sure it wasn’t after you but that doesn’t mean . . .” He paused, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Just take a little holiday.” He looked back at the others. “Let’s go.”
He turned and headed back towards the tree line, sweeping his gaze in every direction as he went. The woman followed quickly behind, while Evering kept pace beside Ink. Spindler watched as they walked away, confounded. Ink wasn’t his son, not his nephew or his neighbor. They weren’t even friends, really. He had no influence or powers of persuasion to talk him out of this. Besides, it was three against one, so there was no hope of taking the boy back by force. All in all, there was nothing more he could do.
“Oh, by the way!” Ink cried out, looking back over his shoulder. “Don’t keep your money under that squeaky floorboard in your bedroom. Way too obvious.”
“How did you know . . .” Spindler began, but dropped it.
One by one, they disappeared into the woods. The moment the boy’s coattails melted into the shadows, Spindler woke from his stupor and cried out.
“Hey! Hey, wait!”
Without a second thought, he dashed across the field and hurtled into the woods not fifteen seconds after them. He slowed to a stop, glancing around in bewilderment. All was still and silent, the adjoining field clearly visible only a dozen feet away.
They were nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 9
Infirm in the Infirmary
“Ishy aw iet?”
The first sound Ink heard upon stirring awake were the words of a strange language.
“A henk ees omin oud ow.”
He couldn’t open his eyes, nor move his limbs. He was also so groggy and nauseous he didn’t even have the urge to panic over having lost consciousness. With every second that passed the strange speech began to morph into another language, the voices sharper and clearer.
“He’s all right,” a man’s voice said. “Let’s get to the infirmary. Grab his hat, Evering.”
Ink felt himself being lifted up and carried. Wherever they were, it was windy. The air rustled through his hair and clothes. Hollow moaning noises sounded in the distance, like the rush of wind in a cave. The footsteps around him suggested the ground below was wooden but it was a thinner, echoing noise, as though they walked on a seaside dock. Dripping water and the soft hiss of steam resounded nearby. He tried again to lift his eyelids but couldn’t.
After going up a long flight of stairs, a door creaked open, and the darkness around him lightened. They were outdoors. The trickle of water was far off, as was the sound of leaves fluttering in the breeze. They traveled a good while, each step now sounding as though cobblestone lay underfoot.
“I’ll get the door,” a woman’s voice said.
There was a pause in momentum, followed by a heavy door groaning open. Then it was three steps upward and he was under a roof again. The door closed behind.
“Riva, clear that stuff off the cot, will you?” the man said.
Ink heard a great deal of noise—papers being gathered, books clapping shut, chairs scraping along the floor—before he was set down on a soft surface. He felt a thin layer of linen beneath his fingertips.
“Bring some water,” the man’s voice came again. “And my smelling salts from the cupboard above the wash basin.”
Ink tried to speak, putting all his energy to the task. “Dun ned sim sets.”
“What’s he’s saying?” a younger man’s voice asked.
Ink felt fingers go around his wrist, pressing gently into the pulsing artery.
“Dun ned simlin sats,” he tried again, sounding stone drunk.
“Take it easy, now. Take deep breaths,” the man said.
Ink took the advice. After a while the pressure on his chest began to lift, and his head began to clear. A set of footsteps neared the bed.
“Eastern Calamor Spice?” the woman said. “That’s a new one. Where’d you get it?”
“Some apothecary shop near Yelton. Delia brought it up for me last spring.”
Ink clamped his hand down on the man’s arm and forced his eyes to open at last.
“Don’t . . . need . . . smelling salts.”
Simon handed the bottle back to the woman. After a few moments, Ink decided he was able to move, though upon being helped to a sitting position he felt a sudden sourness in his stomach which threatened to rise.
“Go slowly,” Simon said. “Don’t force yourself to recover faster than you can.”
The young man shook his head. “I didn’t think he’d be so affected as that.”
Ink fought the urge to collapse back onto the cot. More deep breaths and a few sips of water helped a little. “Where’m I?”
“You’re safe,” the woman answered. “There’s nothing to worry about now.”
“Wha . . . happ’n t’me?”
“You just need a bit of time to adjust,” Simon answered. “Sit here for another few minutes. Take some more water.”
Ink wasn’t sure why there should be a need to “adjust,” but his head wasn’t yet working properly. He concentrated on getting his eyes to fully open as he looked at his surroundings. He was in a large room shaped in a curious half-circle, with one straight wall on the far side where the door stood. He could just make out the shape of a narrow staircase in the dim hall beyond.
“Shall we go and tell the others?” he heard the woman ask.
Before anyone could answer, a flood of daylight suddenly poured into the hall, followed by a loud bang. Ink squinted as a stout, burly man with formidable muttonchop sideburns came tromping into the room. His sleeves were pushed up over his elbows and a streak of dark grease ran along his hairy right arm.
“Hey, Dad,” Evering said.
“Evering!” the man barked. “What the blazes were you doing down there? I heard it just now from Martin. Why didn’t you tell me you were going? And Riva, you went too?”
“Well, yes,” the young woman answered, “but—”
“For goodness sake, Simon!” the man said. “They’re just kids! Kids!”
Evering frowned. “Uh, Dad, I’m twenty-four.”
“You shut your trap,” the man said, then turned back to Simon. “You should’ve fetched me. Or Delia. Or Jeremy. That’s dangerous work, man! Too dangerous for them!”
“I’m sorry, Abner,” Simon answered, “but the situation came up suddenly and they were nearest by. I think you would’ve been proud to see how they handled things.”
“It’s not Simon’s fault, Dad,” Evering said, then turned towards Ink. “And it’s him who should get the worrying. He’s the one it was after.”
