Across The Wall: A Tale of the Abhorsen and Other Stories. Garth Nix
Читать онлайн книгу.
thing is alive. Quiescent. Conserving its energies, so far from the Old Kingdom. It must be some Free Magic creature and it’s just waiting for a chance—
“Thank you, Professor Lackridge, but I find myself suddenly rather keen on a cup of tea,” blurted Nick. “Do you think we might come back and look at this specimen tomorrow?”
“I’m supposed to make Malthan touch the case,” said Lackridge. “Dorrance was most insistent upon it. Wants to see his reaction.”
Nick edged back and looked down the corridor. Malthan was crouched by the door.
“I think you’ve seen his reaction,” he said. “Anything more would simply be cruel and hardly scientific.”
“He’s only an Old Kingdom trader,” said Lackridge. “He’s not even strictly legal. Conditional visa. We can do whatever we like with him.”
“What!” exclaimed Nick.
“Within reason,” Lackridge added hastily. “I mean, nothing too drastic. Do him good.”
“I think he needs to get on a train north and go back to the Old Kingdom,” said Nick firmly. He liked Lackridge less and less with every passing minute, and the whole Department Thirteen set-up seemed very dubious. It was all very well for his Uncle Edward to talk about having extra-legal entities to do things the government could not, but the line had to be drawn somewhere and Nick didn’t think Dorrance or Lackridge knew where to draw it—or if they did, when not to step over it.
“I’ll just see how he is,” added Nick. An idea started to rise from the recesses of his mind as he walked down the corridor towards the crouched and shivering man pressed against the door. “Perhaps we can walk out together.”
“Mr Dorrance was most insistent—”
“I’m sure he won’t mind if you tell him that I insisted on escorting Malthan on his way.”
“But—”
“I am insisting, you know,” Nick cut in forcefully. “As it is, I shall have a few words to say about this place to my uncle.”
“If you’re going to be like that, I don’t think I have any choice,” said Lackridge petulantly. “We were assured that you would cooperate fully with our research.”
“I will cooperate, but I don’t think Malthan needs to do any more for Department Thirteen,” said Nick. He bent down and helped the Old Kingdom trader up. He was surprised by how much the smaller man was shaking. He seemed totally in the grip of panic, though he calmed a little when Nick took his arm above the elbow. “Now, please show us out. And you can organise someone to take Malthan to the railway station.”
“You don’t understand the importance of our work,” said Lackridge. “Or our methods. Observing the superstitious re-actions of northerners and our own people delivers legitimate and potentially useful information.”
This was clearly only a pro forma protest, because as Lackridge spoke, he unlocked the door and led them quickly through the corridors. After a few minutes, Nick found that he didn’t need to half carry Malthan any more, but could just point him in the right direction.
Eventually, after numerous turns and more doors that required laborious unlocking, they came to a double-width steel door with two spy holes. Lackridge knocked, and after a brief inspection, they were admitted to a guardroom inhabited by five policeman types. Four were sitting around a linoleum-topped table under a single suspended lightbulb, drinking tea and eating doorstop-size sandwiches. Hodgeman was the fifth, and clearly still on duty, as unlike the others he had not removed his coat.
“Sergeant Hodgeman,” Lackridge called out rather too loudly. “Please escort Mr Sayre upstairs and have one of your other officers take Malthan to Dorrance Halt and see he gets on the next northbound train.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Hodgeman. He hesitated for a moment, then with a curiously unpleasant emphasis, which Nick would have missed if he hadn’t been paying careful attention, he said, “Constable Ripton, you see to Malthan.”
“Just a moment,” said Nick. “I’ve had a thought. Malthan can take a message from me over to my uncle, the Chief Minister, at the Golden Sheaf. Then someone from his staff can take Malthan to the nearest station.”
“One of my men would happily take a message for you, sir,” said Sergeant Hodgeman. “And Dorrance Halt is much closer than the Golden Sheaf. That’s all of twenty miles away.”
“Thank you,” said Nick. “But I want the Chief Minister to hear Malthan directly about some matters relating to the Old Kingdom. That won’t be a problem, will it? Malthan, I’ll just write something out for you to take to Garran, my uncle’s principal secretary.”
Nick took out his notebook and gold propelling pencil and casually leaned against the wall. They all watched him, the five policeman with studied disinterest masking hostility, Lackridge with more open aggression and Malthan with the sad eyes of the doomed.
Nick began to whistle tunelessly through his teeth, pretending to be oblivious to the pent-up institutional aggression focused upon him. He wrote quickly, sighed and pretended to cross out what he’d written, then ripped out the page, palmed it and started to write again.
“Very hard to concentrate the mind in these underground chambers of yours,” Nick said to Lackridge. “I don’t know how you get anything done. Expect you’ve got cockroaches too…maybe rats…I mean, what’s that?”
He pointed with the pencil. Only Malthan and Lackridge turned to look. The policemen kept up their steady stare. Nick stared back, but he felt a slight fear begin to swim about his stomach. Surely they wouldn’t risk doing anything to Edward Sayre’s nephew? And yet…they were clearly planning to imprison Malthan at the least, or perhaps something worse. Nick wasn’t going to let that happen.
“Only a shadow, but I bet you do have rats. Stands to reason. Underground. Tea and biscuits about,” Nick said as he ripped out the second page. He folded it, wrote “Mr Thomas Garran” on the outside and handed it to Malthan, at the same time stepping across to shield his next action from everyone except Lackridge, whom he stumbled against.
“Oh, sorry!” he exclaimed, and in that moment of apparently lost balance, he slid the palmed first note into Malthan’s still open hand.
“I…ah…still not quite recovered from the events at Forwin Mill,” Nick mumbled, as Lackridge suppressed an oath and jumped back.
The policemen had stepped forward, apparently only to catch him if he fell. Sergeant Hodgeman had seen him stumble before. They were clearly suspicious but didn’t know what he had done. He hoped.
“Bit unsteady on my pins,” continued Nick. “Nothing to do with drink, unfortunately. That might make it seem worthwhile. Now I must get on upstairs and dress for dinner. Who’s taking Malthan over to the Golden Sheaf?”
“I am, sir. Constable Ripton.”
“Very good, Constable. I trust you’ll have a pleasant evening drive. I’ll telephone ahead to make sure that my uncle’s staff are expecting you and have dinner laid on.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Ripton woodenly. Again, if Nick hadn’t been paying careful attention, he might have missed the young constable flicking his eyes up and down and then twice towards Sergeant Hodgeman—a twitch Nick interpreted as a call for help from the junior police officer, looking for Hodgeman to tell him how to satisfy his immediate masters as well as insure himself against the interference of any greater authority.
“Get on with it then, Constable,” said Hodgeman, his words as ambiguous as his expression.
“Let’s all get upstairs,” Nick said with false cheer he dredged up from somewhere. “After you, Sergeant. Malthan, if you wouldn’t mind walking with me, I’ll see you to your car. Got a couple of questions about the Old Kingdom I’m sure you can answer.”