The Hangman's Revolution (W.A.R.P. 2)

“Still,” said Riley, “what are they but a couple of gals with guns? Shouldn’t be too much of a headache.”

“I’m a gal with a gun,” Chevie pointed out. “And I would bet money on either of those two against our sleeping king downstairs.”

Riley whistled. “Well, that’s a new pair of boots altogether. I hope they don’t hitch their carriage to the Farley express, or we could be in real trouble.”

“You can count on it,” said Chevie. “If Colonel Box is somewhere in this time, then Vallicose and Witmeyer will find him.”

Riley stripped off his heavy cape and let it fall with a clang to the floor. “Seems to me that our best plan is to keep well out of this row. We can’t fight an army.”

Chevie’s face was suddenly solemn. “I can’t do that, Riley. Do you remember I told you that my dad was killed in an accident?”

“I remember, and that’s a pain this fellow here knows only too well.”

“In this new time stream, Dad doesn’t die in a motorcycle accident. A neighbor informs on him for writing songs in his spare time. He was executed by the Thundercats. They said he was a traitor.”

“And was he?”

Chevie shrugged. “I don’t know. I hope so. They got my best friend, too, just for taking the wrong turn in a hallway.”

Riley moved down on the divan so he could drape an arm around his friend. “No one should have those memories in their head. We must try to erase them, or at least make them not true. But there is a more immediate matter that must first be sorted.”

Much of Tibor Charismo’s guest wardrobe had survived the militia cannon, so Chevie and Riley were also able to change their outfits, which were extremely unsuitable for venturing out and about in Victorian London. Riley’s clothes had been shredded, except for his magician’s cloak, which, apart from a few tears and scratches, had held together pretty well. And in her workout gear/cadet jumpsuit combo, Chevron might as well have been wearing a sign that read lunatic trollop or words to that effect, many of which variations Riley had volunteered until Chevie told him to shut up or she would shoot him.

“I am merely offering the opinion that other coves what don’t know you like I do might possibly, and incorrectly, assume that you were a shameless hussy escaped from Bedlam, dressed as you was in vest and long johns.”

“Yeah? Well, some coves what don’t know you might think you were escaped from the mortuary that I’m about to send you to,” countered Chevie feebly.

Riley raised a finger. “That ain’t a good argument, pal. Firstly-wise, it don’t make a farthing of sense, and second, your pasts and your futures is all mixed up.”

“The story of my life,” said Chevie. “Yours, too.”

Chevie bowed to the pressure and covered up her figure with a silk smoking jacket.

“I’ll pick out something for outdoor wear later,” she said. “There’s a lot to choose from.”

It feels nice to have a choice, she decided. I should try to do more of it in the future.

That, Chevie supposed, would depend on the future.

Otto Malarkey roused himself shortly afterward and plodded around the lower floors shouting for his boots, which apparently Figary had spirited away while his master slept, the Irishman being little more than a damn thief—like the rest of his miscreant race, according to Malarkey, who bellowed this and similar insults with such volume that the entire square was made cognizant of his opinions on the subject of his manservant.

Eventually Otto tackled the stairs and stumbled into the drawing room, red in the face from shouting, but otherwise in reasonable order.

“Where are my blasted boots?” he demanded, in a passable American drawl.

Chevie shrugged. “I ain’t the boot lady, Otto. You ought to take better care of your stuff.”

It took Otto a moment to sort out his identities and figure out who he was supposed to be at this current moment. He was pretty definite that he was in the commodore’s home. So therefore, why were the Injun princess and the Ramlet sitting in his drawing room? Were they not part of Otto Malarkey’s life? And to rub salt in the wound, why was the girl giving him sauce? Could it be that she actually believed him to be the genteel Commodore Pierce, who sang shanties after dinner over cigars, always censoring the bawdy verses so as not to cause the ladies to blush behind their fans?

“I ain’t no commodore, missy,” he said, dropping the Yankee affectation. “So you would be wise not to cross swords with me.”

Figary entered through the drawing room’s mirrored second door, bearing Malarkey’s boots in his arms. The enormous high boots were half the size of the diminutive Irish butler.

“Oh, I think the world and its mother is well aware that you ain’t no commodore. In spite of your non-commodore-ness, Missus Figary’s boy here decided to polish up your precious boots for you as a little pick-Jack-up when you awoke. And this is the thanks I get: invectives and accusations.”

Malarkey grabbed the boots without a word of thanks. “Invective and accusation is the way of it with me, just as drunken impudence is the way with Missus Figary’s only boy, Michael.”

Otto sat on a filigreed chair with a velvet cushion and legs in the shape of cornucopias, tugging his boots on over his knees and smiling at the footwear as though each boot was a beloved hound at his feet.

“There we go, lads,” he said. “All’s right with the world, eh? So long as we are not parted.” Once the boots were settled, Otto gazed sharply at Michael Figary. “And now to matters of import. How does my hair look on this day? They say anxiety affects the follicles.”

Figary rolled his eyes. “The hair is magnificent, so it is, Commodore, truly. And now would it be too much trouble to request a little of God’s own truth? Missus Figary’s boy would like to know who it is that employs him.”

“So he would,” said Riley, for sport, earning a withering glance from Figary.

“I owe you that, I suppose, though I know you will not get a jot of pleasure from it,” said Otto. “God’s truth, I will miss being the commodore. It was good old sport playing the toff.” Malarkey rubbed his flanks. “Let me begin with the boots. They belonged to my mentor, Reverend John Pine. His favorite pair. He was the smuggler king and gave me my first taste of organized crime. He left me the boots, and I used them to kick a path for my brothers and me to the top of the Battering Rams. And now I am king of the bunch.”

Figary’s hand rose to cover the horrified O of his mouth. “Well, carry me out and bury me decent, I am working for the king of knaves; Otto Malarkey, is it? The big costermonger himself.”

Otto shook out his locks. “You have me, Figary. What would Missus Figary think of her boy Michael now? Working as a butler for the high king of low life?”

Figary looked to the heavens as though he could feel the disapproving glare of his dear departed mother.

“I didn’t know, Mammy. I never did,” he said, then returned his attention to Malarkey. “Do you have any idea how many novenas I will have to say for forgiveness? I’ll be praying until Christmas.”

The butler crossed the room to a walnut drinks trolley and poured himself a large tumbler of brandy, which he tossed back in two gulps.

“You are a lucky man that I am generally an inebriated coward, for if I ever faced you sober and found my courage, then you would be in for a thrashing, so you would.”

“I have no doubt, Michael,” said Malarkey.

“Would you care to tell us what’s going on, Otto?” asked Chevie. “Why the leprechaun keeps referring to you as Commodore might be a good place to start.”

“Leprechaun, is it?” said Figary, red dots of fury rising on his cheeks. “So this is the class of visitors I can expect from now on? Urchins and waywards? Having the pick of our finest togs too, I see. Perhaps we should send carriages to the tenement hovels? Just ferry them in to pick us dry.”

/>

“I have allowed some latitude because of the circumstances,” growled Malarkey. “But you will not insult my guests, Mr. Figary, is that understood?”

Figary searched the pockets of his tweed jacket until he located a small leather-bound notebook with a pencil in the spine. He took it out, licked the pencil, and wrote a note to himself.

“‘Otto Malarkey, the ex-smuggler and current crime boss, is an enthusiastic supporter of murder and theft but takes a dim view of people insulting his guests, so he does.’” He shut the notebook with a defiant snap. “Oh, I understand you, sir. You can be sure of that. And if you’ll excuse me, I shall repair to my room in order to compose my letter of resignation.” He executed his trademark sarcastic bow and strode toward the door.

“I will not be maneuvered, sir,” Malarkey called after him. “This little jape only works the once on Otto Malarkey.”

Figary did not offer a rejoinder. The only sound from without was the clatter-jig of the butler’s hard shoes climbing the stairs to his room.

Otto stood and bellowed. “Off with you then, you peacock! I am King Otto, and I will bend the knee to no damn Irish gin-soak!”