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

Riley worked the handkerchief. It was as Inhumane had guessed: simply folded, but not simply folded; the pattern of folds was as precise and complicated as an origami dragon, designed to conceal two wires shaped to cover his head and shoulders. Once the wires were perpendicular and the frame assembled, Riley draped the cloth neatly over himself. It assumed his shape and covered him completely. Riley stumbled stiff-legged this way and that, his arms stretched out before him, his eyes peeping through the gauze.

“See?” said Riley. “I am surrounded, confused, and blinded. I am being dipped, poked, jostled, and fleeced. Never again shall I cast my shadow across the Orient Theatre’s lobby. I shall away from here and take my gold with me.”

This bit of patter was to give him a chance to depress the trapdoor latch with his toe.

“Never shall I return here with my hard-earned chink, thinks old Johnny to himself. For I am a-dripping in nervous sweat and leered at by dodgy-looking coves with black teeth and murder in their beady eyes. And this is what happens to Johnny Punter when he hears Family members sniffing at his collar.”

Riley found the latch and pressed it. Now all that he needed to do was make a neat jump to the basement to demonstrate how Johnny Punter would disappear—and to actually disappear.

He wrapped the magician’s cloak around himself for the jump, pulling the folds tight to speed his passage through the tight wooden frame, when all of a sudden, and to the great surprise of all present, the usually serene Anton Farley seemed to take issue with his performance.

“No! No!” Farley said, jumping to his feet. “Enough of this tomfoolery. Back away from the trapdoor, or whatever you have there, boy. Come down here with these fools.”

Silence.

Stunned silence.

Was Farley issuing commands? Had he just referred to his fellow Rams as fools? And didn’t he sound more like a spoon-in-the-mouth toff now than a shiv-in-the-sock Ram?

Riddle upon mystery.

In situations like this, Malarkey, due to rank, would be deferred to for first reaction.

“Farley? Is it a brain fever that has seized you? Fools, you say? Fools, is it?”

Farley pulled a pistol of the revolver variety from his ink-sack, waving it casually as though it were an everyday item.

“Fools, cretins, idiots. Take yer pick.” The tattooist slapped his own forehead. “Listen to me. Yer pick. Take your pick. I have been undercover for so long…you have no idea. Sometimes I don’t know what day of the week it is.”

Pooley was sneaking a knife from his boot, so Farley shot him in the heart, barely pausing to draw a bead.

“No loss, that one,” said Farley. “No wailing outside Highgate for him.”

The gunshot echoed to the rafter, fading with each balcony until it became a whisper of its former self, and Pooley was dead where he sat, life leaving him with the wisp of smoke that drifted from the hole in his chest.

“A revolver,” said Malarkey, conversational in his surprise. “I never knew you were in possession of a revolver. American, is it?”

Inhumane began to sob, fat tears collecting in his deep eye sockets before spilling down his cheeks. “I don’t understand.”

For once, the giant imbecile was not alone in his state of mind. Only one person understood what was going on here, and he was the one with the bullets. Malarkey was struck to petrification, not on account of fear but from sheer disbelief. Otto Malarkey had been a war baby, born on the outskirts of the Balaclava battleground during the Crimean War. Gunfire and cannon shot were his lullaby. So it was not the thunderclap of Farley’s revolver that rooted Malarkey to his seat, it was the shock that the tattooist would first call him a fool and then shoot one of his soldiers.

“Farley, man, what are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” said Farley. “You’re dressed like Elton John in the court of Louis XV, and you’re asking me what I’m doing? You’ve got a powdered wig on, Otto.”

Malarkey pawed the wig from his crown. “I had an inkling this was ridiculous. Why do none of you coves tell me true when I asks yer opinions? And what is an Elton John, in the name of God?”

Farley ignored the question, instead speaking into his wrist as though a fairy were concealed within.

“I have them, Colonel. All together, the entire inner circle. And the boy, as a bonus. We won’t get another opportunity like this, sir.”

He waited a moment, cocking his head as though an unseen specter was whispering in his ear. And this attitude of speaking into his wrist and listening to the air rang a bell in Riley’s memory.

I have seen this before, he realized. Or rather, I will see it in the future. Did not Chevie’s comrades in the FBI communicate in this fashion?

Before he could fully untie the riddle-knot, Farley received his answer.

“I know all that, sir. But I strongly suggest moving up our schedule. The FBI sent Savano, and they could send someone else. So either we move or we dismantle the wormhole landing plate in Half Moon Street.” He waited again, pacing in the aisle.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, then sighed with a relief that seemed to wipe ten years off his age. “You won’t regret it, sir.”

“Out of his noggin,” whispered Malarkey. “The man is talking to the air.”

Riley tugged the fitted sheet from his head. Farley was not out of his noggin. Farley was not who he pretended to be. He was acting like a new man. Gone was his deferential demeanor, his air of quiet compassion. Shoulders that had been hunched from long hours of needlework were now ramrod straight. His eyes were bright with new purpose.

No. Not new purpose—revealed purpose.

“You have no idea, King Otto,” Farley said, leveling the weapon specifically at Malarkey, “how long I have waited for this. All these years I have been listening to your delusional claptrap. Rabbiting on like you were the Chosen One. Well, today, you get to meet your god and find out just how chosen you are.” Farley dropped his voice down to his boots in a reasonable impersonation of King Otto. “‘Update me price list—there’s a decent cove, Farley.’ ‘Fetch me a pie from Old Lady Numpty—there’s a nice monkey, Farley.’ ‘Do you think I should wear me fleece out on the town, Farley? Only it scratches me shoulders so,’” Farley added a japing lurch to his impression, which was indeed reminiscent of the king with a few toddies in him.

Riley watched all this and thought: I need to make my move while Farley is airing his grudges, otherwise he might remember I’m standing here.

Riley must’ve thought too loud, because Farley swung the gun around. “You there, time traveler. Trot yourself down here with the rest of the bunch.”

Riley knew that to leave the stage on Farley’s terms would mean death, so he spoke directly to Malarkey.

“That’s a revolver, King Otto. Five bullets left.”

Farley snorted. “Clever boy. Five bullets. One each.”

But Otto had been shot before on numerous occasions; indeed there was a musket ball lodged in the meat of his thigh that he’d grown quite fond of rubbing when he was in vacant or pensive mood.

“It takes more than one shot to kill a Malarkey, Judas,” he said, and his voice carried an undertone of menace, now that the surprise had passed.

This notion did not appear to unduly worry Farley. In fact, he seemed glad the point was made.

“I said we should have killed you straight away,” he said. “I wrote a report on the subject.”

Malarkey did not fully understand this, but nevertheless he took it as a compliment. “Well, I does be a dangerous creature. Both mind and muscle rolled up in one person, as it were.”

“Not you, you rouged cretin. The boy. He is too smart by half.”

King Otto leaned forward in his seat, grasping the armrests, ready for action. “It don’t take much smarts to count to five, Farley. You ain’t gonna get all of us.?

??

Riley, meanwhile, was feeling a shade guilty for mentioning the bullet count. Farley would be forced to plug the homicidal Rams before turning his barker to the harmless boy-magician.

And it will take three shots to slow Inhumane, I’ll warrant.

By that time Malarkey would be at the tattooist’s throat, handing Riley the second’s grace he needed to jump through the trapdoor.

I’ll be gone in a twinkle. The white rabbit ain’t got nothing on me.

But Farley was no dullard. Surely the bullet count would have occurred to him.

Surely.

Malarkey rose slowly from his chair, as did his remaining men.

“I’m gonna stuff that Yankee barker down yer gullet, Mr. Farley. And after that, you’re bound for a swift burial in a flour sack. Less’n you have more bullets.”

Farley laughed, three harsh barks, then reached his long artist’s fingers into his ink tote. When they emerged, they were wrapped around the butt of some strange-looking implement—F-shaped, with a thin string of light pointing from its nozzle.

Riley recognized it from his jaunt up the Smarthole.

Machine pistol. Machine pistol.

“Oh, I have more bullets,” said Farley, and he pulled the trigger, spraying supersonic death across the stage and auditorium of the Orient Theatre.

Trying to trace the consequences of time travel is like a monkey with no thumbs trying to reassemble an exploded bomb, at night, wearing clown gloves.

—Professor Charles Smart

LONDON, PRESENT DAY

Chevie Savano found herself waking for the second time in a single morning, on this occasion suffering a headache that seemed too big for her skull to contain.