The Thief's Apprentice Read online

  “He’s young,” said Mr. Binns. “He doesn’t know we decide such things. We who have the power in this world.”

  Thomasina Binns looked back at me as though I were something she had found on her shoe. “Scant, it was cruel of you to bring a child here. You must have understood that our friends in the East would pay very well for a sweet, angel-faced young servant boy.”

  “Master Oliver is under my protection.”

  “For all the use that is!” snapped Mr. Binns.

  His wife sneered. “You are still failing to understand your situation. Valkyrie!”

  Like an iceberg on a dark sea, the Valkyrie loomed behind us. “Madam?”

  “Bring the boy to me.”

  In a single motion, Mr. Scant pushed me behind him and raised the claw, three blades pointed at the Valkyrie’s eyes and throat. She hesitated, but Mr. Binns laughed and gave a little delighted clap.

  “And there it is, the famous claw!” From within his jacket, he produced an ornate dueling pistol. His wife drew out a matching one from somewhere behind her back, and the two of them gave each other a soppy sort of look as they cocked the hammers.

  “I want it,” Mr. Binns said, leveling his weapon.

  “Very splendid pistols,” Mr. Scant said. “Made by Mr. Joseph Egg himself, by the look of it. Why would you need my lowly claw when you have such fine weapons?”

  “New toys are always the most desirable,” said Mr. Binns.

  “Particularly when they belong to someone else,” added his wife. “Now take it off and hand it over.”

  Though I was certain Mr. Scant would fight, he made no move. Then, to my dismay, he undid the strap at his wrist and tossed the claw to Mr. Binns.

  “What are you doing?” I cried, but Mr. Scant’s face may as well have been made of the same Portland stone as the walls.

  With a look of satisfaction, Mr. Binns picked up the discarded claw—gingerly, as one might pick up a scorpion. When it became apparent the claw would deliver no hidden sting, he grinned like a maniac and pulled it on, handing his pistol to his wife. He marveled at the device for a few moments, cycling his fingers once or twice to see how the digits moved, then lowered one finger until it fixed on me.

  “Now,” he said. “Bring m—”

  But that was as far as he got, because Mr. Scant bellowed, “Now!”

  Dr. Mikolaitis pulled on a cord, and with a great flash of light, one side of the basket fell away while a plume of smoke gushed out. A moment later, a number of small fireworks screeched in every direction like mad bats, while Dr. Mikolaitis and Mr. Scant dashed forward, slinging knives at the pistols Mrs. Binns was pointing at them. Dr. Mikolaitis’ knife hit the gun in her left hand squarely, but Mr. Scant’s hit her on her right hand itself. She let out a terrible scream, firing the pistol into the air.

  “Bad show!” I heard Dr. Mikolaitis shout.

  “I’m hopeless with those things and you know it!” Mr. Scant snapped back. He turned to deal with the Valkyrie, swinging his claw up to catch her cleaver before it split his skull—not the claw worn by Mr. Binns but the one made of scraps from the ruins of the Ice House.

  Someone was pulling my shoulder. I looked back to see Mr. Gaunt yelling something, and though I could not make out the words, he clearly wanted us to leave. This seemed like a good idea.

  Mr. Scant may not have liked knives, but he was in his element with a claw, even one made of charred engine parts and ruined laboratory equipment. He once more deflected one of the Valkyrie’s cleavers, forcing her back, then ran up the harpoon stuck fast into the basket and vaulted over the giant woman’s shoulder. On the way down, he kicked the back of her leg so hard that she collapsed. Dr. Mikolaitis kept the other men in cloaks at bay with his knives, while Mrs. Gaunt sprinted toward the door. She went at an incredible speed despite her skirts, with her fingers straight like an athlete’s and her long-suffering handbag swinging wildly from her shoulder.

  Mr. Binns had recovered one of the guns his wife had dropped and attempted to shoot Dr. Mikolaitis, but the throwing knife had jammed something inside the barrel. Dr. Mikolaitis jumped up to kick Mr. Binns square in the jaw, while Mr. Scant jumped back to prevent the Valkyrie grabbing his ankle. As Mr. Binns went sprawling, he knocked over a candelabra and one of the mystical drapes caught fire.

  As I watched, the fire quickly ate up the thin fabric, and spread to the cloak of one of the silent observers. The man commenced awkwardly trying to stamp the flames out without disrobing, while others around him tried to help. Just then, Mr. Scant appeared by my side, urging me to run, and moments later, we were at the door—then through it, starting down the steps. The flashes of the fireworks were nothing compared to the brightness of the day, and my eyes took a few seconds to adjust. This could be called a small blessing, I suppose: for a few peaceful moments, I couldn’t see the crowd of robed men with spears who had encircled the mausoleum. We were surrounded.

  XVII

  A Stern Talking-To

  Scant was not cowed by the sight of a few spears. He had a claw made of bits and pieces of scrap metal, and that was more than enough for him.

  “Make for the dirigible,” he said. “But do not get on board.”

  He led the charge, and I followed, trying to help his brother along as the ailing Mr. Gaunt wheezed and stumbled. Mrs. Gaunt had taken to shouting obscenities at anyone who approached, and Dr. Mikolaitis kept pace behind us, watching for the Valkyrie. The act of cutting through the circle wasn’t as difficult as I had expected, as the men fell over one another to keep away from Mr. Scant, only resuming their brave poses when we had already passed. Dr. Mikolaitis only had one knife left, but people still dived as he raised it toward them.

  The real threat came from the Valkyrie, who had appeared from the mausoleum and was in pursuit. As we closed in on the dirigible, Mr. Scant drew us in another direction, straight past the Indefatigable.

  “For pity’s sake, where are we going?” Mrs. Gaunt demanded.

  “Just wait,” said Mr. Scant.

  “Wait for what?”

  “For whom,” Mr. Scant said, before charging down three of the spear-bearing men. Grappling with them held Mr. Scant up for long enough that Dr. Mikolaitis was forced to contend with the Valkyrie. He drew out a bomb from somewhere in his waistcoat, lit the percussion fuse with his cigarette, and hurled it at her with a battle cry in his native tongue. The Valkyrie judged the length of the fuse and fearlessly kicked the bomb away, not even looking at it as it exploded. The distraction allowed us to get farther from her, but more hooded men were appearing from the trees and Mr. Gaunt had grown exhausted.

  “Heck . . .” I heard Dr. Mikolaitis breathe.

  “I know,” said Mr. Scant, holding out his hands to gather us behind him.

  “Reggie can’t go on!” wailed Mrs. Gaunt. “It’s the end!”

  Dr. Mikolaitis threw his last knife at the nearest group of men, hitting someone in the leg. Then he lit another cigarette and said, “Better get ready for a last stand.”

  I looked to Mr. Scant. “Last stand?”

  Mr. Gaunt laughed grimly. “Three men, one woman, a child, and a cat in a handbag,” he said, between labored breaths. “Don’t fancy our chances.”

  “Mr. Scant, there’s a plan, isn’t there?” I asked.

  “There’s a hope.”

  “I’ve fought my way out of worse,” Dr. Mikolaitis said, positioning himself between Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt and the Valkyrie. “My friend, it’s been a pleasure.”

  “As always, Mykolas,” said Mr. Scant.

  The Valkyrie hit her cleavers together hard enough that sparks flew out. Mr. Scant was not looking at her, however.

  “Ah, perhaps it won’t be necessary,” he said. “Can you hear that? It seems our timing wasn’t so bad after all.”

  I pricked up my ears. Under the percussion of the Valkyrie’s cleavers was the steady basso continuo of a motor engine.

  “He’s here!” said Mr. Scant.

  “Who’s
here?” his brother asked.

  “My employer. My friend. My master.”

  From the trail leading through the trees sped an emerald-green motorcar with a windshield and solid roof. I knew it at once: Father’s Hylas Green Knight, with a Diplexito engine. I called out to him in delight again and again.

  The motorcar careened in our direction, sending hooded men scattering, and then from the passenger-side window erupted the whiskers and jowls of my very own father. With a disgruntled look, he raised the old blunderbuss he kept behind his desk and took aim at the Valkyrie. She and the men around her dived for cover as the old gun’s report filled the sky. The car came to a halt only a few paces from where we stood.

  “Scant! What in the blazes is all this, and who are these bounders?” roared Father.

  “Lawless hoodlums, sir,” said Mr. Scant, already opening the back door and ushering us in. “You know the sort.”

  “I know the sort,” said Father.

  I sat sandwiched in the Green Knight between Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt, while to add another level to my already towering astonishment, Mrs. George turned from the driving seat to give me a wink. “Hello, Duck,” she said.

  Mr. Scant had dashed over to stand outside of the driver’s side door. Dr. Mikolaitis, meanwhile, clung to the back of the vehicle. Mr. Scant leaned in and said, “Drive, Mrs. George, drive!” Only a moment later, when we were in motion, did he ask, “Why is Mrs. George driving?”

  “You weren’t there to grab the wheel, were you, Scant?” Father answered. “And I wasn’t about to send for Williams just because of some harebrained message from a pigeon’s leg. So Mrs. George said she was capable and I said, ‘Why not?’”

  “Poop-poop!” said Mrs. George, bright-eyed. She didn’t even need to raise her voice to be heard over the engine. “You said it were an emergency, so we decided there weren’t no time to muck about.”

  “Too right!” said Father. “Turn us around and let’s get out of here. Now what’s all this hullabaloo about? Were they going to harm the boy? Boy! Are you quite all right?”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Hmm,” said Father. “Was he really in any danger?”

  I wondered if Father had expected a blubbering mess. “I certainly was!” I said.

  From his place outside the door, Mr. Scant replied, “No doubt about it, sir. The threats were very clear.”

  “Hmm. Well, can’t let the bounders get away with that, now, can we?” Father said, leaning out of the window to take another shot. When he reappeared, he gave me a nod and said, “You’re safe now, boy. Father’s here to fix everything.”

  “Thank you, Father,” I managed. This was about the kindest thing he had ever done for me, and yet I felt no joy from hearing it.

  “Erm . . . someone’s getting in our way up ahead,” said Mrs. George. As if to confirm, Dr. Mikolaitis banged on the roof. Mrs. George’s efforts to turn the motorcar had taken us closer to the mausoleum; we were now back where the Green Knight had first appeared. And there stood the Valkyrie, looking for all the world like a bull about to charge.

  “She’ll soon get out of the way, I think,” said Father.

  “She won’t,” I said. “You don’t know her, Father.”

  “Ramming speed, then.”

  “With this great lot of us, she doesn’t go much faster, sir!” said Mrs. George.

  “Give it everything she’s got.”

  “She might actually stop us, sir,” Mr. Scant remarked.

  “Nonsense! You really think so?”

  “I think that all might be lost if she does, sir.”

  “She’s strong as a gorilla!” I put in.

  “Son, there’s a Diplexito engine in this beauty! Not a one has been stopped by a gorilla before!” With that, Father squeezed the horn, and in a voice liable to drown it out, bellowed, “Full steam ahead!”

  “Lord have mercy!” cried Mrs. Gaunt. The small space I had grew smaller still as she squirmed about beside me, making the sign of the cross. As we moved closer and closer, the Valkyrie braced herself—and then jumped.

  With a great thump, she landed in front of the windscreen. “She jumped on the car, the blimmin’ loon!” Mrs. George yelled. “Look at this!”

  “Keep going!” Mr. Scant urged her.

  “We’re going! We’re going!”

  “I’ll get her off!” Father declared, leaning out of the window again. A moment later, he looked back to us, wide-eyed. “She got my arm! By God, that’s a grip like a vice. What are you, a lobster in skirts?”

  From my place in the back, I could hear Mr. Scant climb up onto the roof, but the Valkyrie now sat astride the front of the motorcar, brandishing a cleaver in the hand free of Father’s arm. “One false move and I chop off his arm!” she shouted up at Mr. Scant.

  “Hold on a minute . . .” Mrs. George said, squinting through the windscreen. “Right, I’ll sort this out.”

  “What are you doing?” Mr. Gaunt yelped, as Mrs. George brought the car to a stop. I shook my head as she opened the door, but to no avail. Father fumbled with his blunderbuss, one-handed, but there was no way he could reload it while in the Valkyrie’s grip.

  “I’ve had enough of this,” said Mrs. George, getting out of the car. “And when I say enough’s enough, it is enough.”

  “We’ll do something,” I said. “Don’t worry, Father.”

  Father nodded but started to breathe heavily through his whiskers as the Valkyrie raised her cleaver.

  “Good choice,” the Valkyrie was saying, as she climbed down from the motorcar, keeping a tight grip on Father’s arm. “Now Claw, get in and drive us back to the lords and ladies, will you? It’ll be short an arm or two if you’re not careful.”

  But Mrs. George hadn’t stepped out of the driver’s seat to let Mr. Scant take her place. Instead, she set herself solidly in front of the much larger woman. Our dear cook was not tall, the top of her head not even level with the Valkyrie’s shoulders, but she was almost as thick about the arms.

  “I know you.”

  “I . . . What?” said the Valkyrie.

  “You’re Ethel’s girl Tilly, aren’tcha? I remember you rolling down the hill with the Davis boys when you was only little. I’m not wrong, am I? You’re the spitting image of your mam! How is Ethel these days? Not seen her since the vegetable contest at the Cuckoo Festival.”

  “Mam’s . . . doing all right.”

  “And look at you! Wearing that silly plate of armor under your apron! And is that one o’ yer pa’s cleavers?”

  “It’s my own.”

  “Oh! So you still working in the shop too?”

  “On and off . . .”

  “Well, if you’ve got a steady trade, what you doing with that lot? Come over here and let me have a proper look at you.”

  Color returned to Father’s face as the Valkyrie released him. Scarcely believing my ears, I chanced a look back at Mr. Scant and Dr. Mikolaitis, who were keeping the hooded men at bay. They had already laid two of the Society men on the ground, while the other four had drawn dueling sabers.

  Mrs. George continued to chide the Valkyrie. “And what are you thinking, jumping on our motorcar like that? I couldn’t see! I might’ve driven straight off a cliff, and it would’ve been you we landed on. Did you not think of that?”

  “No cliffs around here, Ma’am.”

  “Oh, you call me Mrs. George. Yer mam and pa, they’re good people. You know that, don’t you? I shouldn’t wonder they’d be very surprised to hear about you carrying on like this. Wouldn’t they?”

  “They would, M-M-Miss George.”

  “They would.”

  Behind us, Dr. Mikolaitis had picked up a dropped spear and swung it viciously at the Society men, and Mr. Scant knew just when to duck to avoid being hit. The haft knocked one man so hard he bashed into another and they both collapsed to the ground. One of the makeshift claw blades had fallen from Mr. Scant’s glove, and he used it to nail another Society thug to a tree by the hood of h
is cloak. The last attacker appeared undeterred, however, whirling his sword with expertise.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. George’s invective had reached its gentle climax. “Now you go on back home, and we’ll be doing the same. Send my best wishes to Ethel and Jimmy. No more of this nonsense, you hear? Or you’ll see the business end of my rolling pin!”

  With that, Mrs. George stepped back in the motorcar and set it in motion. The Valkyrie looked as though her brain had stopped functioning—she stood blinking at empty space. Though the last Society man had been capably dueling Mr. Scant, he failed to notice Dr. Mikolaitis sneak up behind him, and was quickly incapacitated. The moment they were sure we were safe, the two men ran back to jump onto the car.

  “We lost too much time,” Mr. Scant said, leaning inside. “We’ll be caught.”

  “Those men in cloaks?” Father asked.

  “Their masters. They have vehicles of their own.”

  “Lice incoming!” Dr. Mikolaitis cried from behind us.

  “Who the devil are you on about?” Father said.

  “Mrs. George, we need to stop!” shouted Mr. Scant.

  “But we’re only just getting up to speed!”

  “Stop now!”

  “Look out!” Mrs. Gaunt cried, pointing to something down the slope to our left. Both brothers reached as one for the wheel, Mr. Gaunt from beside me and Mr. Scant from outside the window. Just as they seized it, something smashed through a nearby tree with the force of a giant’s hammer. An immense and shadowy machine had rolled up the slope to the left of the road and burst out in front of us, like a great ship cresting a wave. The motorcar turned just in time to avoid it, but the terrible machine settled in front of us, entirely blocking the road home.

  Our motorcar shuddered to a halt. We had been on course to collide with a tree, stopping solely thanks to a sharp incline, but only Mrs. George seemed to care. All other eyes were fixed on the monstrosity that had almost rammed us, and the large, conspicuous gun mounted on top of it.

  XVIII

  Motorcar and Ironclad