‘Now, Master Sherry,’ he called to the silversmith, while the townsfolk watched, stunned into silence by the recent battle of god-like creatures and the crater in their thoroughfare. ‘Ready the brew. Master Cryer, at your post.’
Godfrey Cryer stood at Chevie’s side, his hand poised by the Timekey, its lights blinking agitatedly now, waiting for activation.
‘I am at the ready, master,’ he said with a shake in his voice, which was due not to any anxiety but to zealousness, convinced as he was that the name of Godfrey Cryer was on the verge of immortalization. By this hour on the morrow his name would be on as many lips as Cromwell’s own.
‘Excellent, Constable,’ said Garrick. ‘Apply the tongs.’
Cryer was happy to oblige. The tongs in question were a pair of square-bit tongs, which were usually employed to grip horseshoes while the smith hammered them, but on this occasion they would be used to force apart the witch’s teeth while the silversmith did his pouring. There was a part of Cryer’s being that quailed at performing such a barbaric act on a mere strip of a girl, but this part was small and timid and easily subjugated by his righteousness and vanity.
And so he said, ‘Yes, master. The tongs, at once.’
As he lifted the heavy implement, which would surely crack the witch’s teeth, if not her jaw also, there were cries of shock and horror from the townsfolk who watched from their windows or doors. Even if there had been revolution in the square, the militia was easily a match for anyone who might decide to take issue with the proceedings. Cryer had instructed no fewer than three of the surliest soldiers to keep a direct eye on Jeronimo Woulfe, who had always and ever been the biggest splinter in Cryer’s thumb.
Cryer raised the heavy tongs, testing their action by opening and closing the flat flanges before the witch’s face.
‘Confess,’ he hissed. ‘Confess, witch, and at least heaven will claim you.’
Chevie knew that there was no point in trying to reason with this moron, but try she did.
‘Not heaven, Cryer,’ she said. ‘You are bringing hell down on us all.’
Her words made no impression on the constable, as she had known they would not. ‘A witch to the end,’ he said, pressing the tongs to her lips.
‘Ready the silver, smith,’ he called to Baldwin Sherry.
Sherry peered into the crucible, watching the last lumps of cutlery dissolve and the level of silver rise. As the smith worked, Garrick addressed the crowd, which was not congregated before the stage as was normal but scattered behind walls or piles of goods, as though there was any escaping what was about to happen.
‘Now, good people of Mandrake’s Groan, bear witness to what happens here today. The greatest feat ever performed will take place before your disbelieving eyes. This ain’t no common feat of magic, no trickery, no mere illusion. I, Albert Garrick, will change the world forever, here and now. And the name of this common-as-muck town will be scorched for evermore into the scrolls of history. So bring forth your children and your womenfolk and bear witness to the miracle of Albert Garrick.’
Slowly they came, shuffling out from houses and shops, taverns and even the almshouse. It was obvious that these good people did not wish to witness any miracles today, especially ones that involved giant slashes of fire in the sky and pouring molten silver down the gullets of young women, witches or no.
With them came Fairbrother Isles, stumbling forward as a militiaman prodded him with the barrel of his musket.
‘I have him,’ called the man, voice muffled through the face guard of his Roundhead helmet. ‘I have Isles, but not the familiar.’ They came forward, closer to the dais. ‘In with the pigs he was. Can you believe it, master?’
Garrick squinted at the pair. There was no aura about the FBI agent, as the wormhole had not changed him, but it was Isles right enough, carrying a small chest, his face bloodied and beaten, eyes downcast, and the fellow behind him all swagger and cocksure.
A pity not to have Riley, he thought. But the pot’s half full, as it were.
Still, prudence at all times.
‘Search the African,’ he commanded. ‘And bring that chest to me.’
The helmeted militiaman gave Isles a hefty boot to the rear end, sending him stumbling forward.
Another command from Garrick: ‘Watch the shadows. The familiar will be drawn to his mistress in these final moments. So ready your pikes.’
Four men of the militia pounced on Isles, pinning him firmly to the ground. He was a gent of considerable heft and it took the full weight of the four to hold him down. A further two were needed to tear the chest from his hands.
Isles howled when they took the box. ‘Noooo! No, you fools! That chest is the only chance for any of us. Don’t let him touch it. Don’t touch it, Garrick, you animal.’
The rift pulsed overhead. Ever lower. A sound like the pounding of the surf against a cliff face emanated from its raw scar of a mouth.
Silver, thought Garrick. Rift. Chest. Organize yourself, Alby. Juggle those balls.
‘Bring it here,’ he ordered. ‘Bring the chest.’ Then to Sherry: ‘And, you, be about your business. Pour the brew.’
‘No!’ repeated Isles, dust puffing from the corner of his mouth. ‘No. He will kill us all.’
‘Bring it to me!’ shouted Garrick, and then to Cryer, ‘Prise open the witch’s mouth.’
The militiaman who had captured Isles held back and bided his time, waiting for the perfect moment when all the crises would overlap.
The silversmith then lifted the crucible by its handles and walked slowly towards Chevie, careful not to spill a drop.
‘Good,’ said Garrick. ‘Good.’
That was under way, now for this chest.
The box was deposited at Garrick’s feet and even as he bent towards the simple clasp it occurred to him that there was no reason to open it.
And no reason not to.
But why take the risk when he was so close to banishing forever the hated tunnel?
Why indeed?
So he stayed there in a curious crooked posture, considering, until finally he decided. Destroy the wormhole and then consider the chest.
The Witchfinder was moving his fingers back from the clasp when suddenly he was under attack.
‘You shall not open that box, demon,’ said Riley, for of course it was he behind the Roundhead faceplate and he would have emerged from hiding sooner had not fiddling with his armour taken time. In his hand was a large revolver, not of this age, which commenced spitting bullets at Garrick. Four bullets he fired and each one struck home, catching Garrick in the shoulders, chest and knee.
The pain was excruciating and Garrick howled with rage and annoyance as he sank to the ground, wounded but not mortally so. Barely a trickle of blood issued from each wound and he had grown so powerful now that the pain faded within seconds.
‘Why do you persist in interfering, boy?’ he said, seething with rage. ‘After all I have done. I might have let you live.’
Riley, though, was not looking at Garrick but at Chevie.
‘I am sorry, Chevie,’ he said simply, and pointed the gun at her.
Chevie nodded. He had saved the last bullet for her and she was glad of it. A quick death at least.
But it was not to be, for Riley was felled by a gunshot that knocked him on his side and set his own gun skittering out of reach.
‘I am sorry, Chevie,’ he said, blood leaking from his mouth. ‘Forgive me.’
‘Riley!’ screamed Chevie, vainly struggling against her silver bonds. ‘Riley!’
‘Hah!’ said Cryer, waving the tongs in the air as though they were a trophy. ‘The familiar is vanquished.’
Chevie swung her head towards Cryer, attempting to butt or bite him, but the constable dropped the tongs and moved to help his master.
‘Witchfinder,’ he said, kneeling at Garrick’s side. ‘Praise God, you are alive.’
One of the bullets had worked its way up Garrick’s oesophagus and he