them both with clear intent. “Was it one of the Shar’s men? Or Atticus and his tin-skins?”
“It was I,” said a voice, as Mr Fox’s informant appeared from behind him and walked slowly into the room.
There was a swagger to the way he walked, and a jolliness to the twitch of his moustache. He was wearing his signature striped trousers, a worn military jacket with broken braiding and tassels, and a severely beaten top hat. Aside from some deep shadows under his eyes, a clear sign that he’d had little sleep, he was the same wax-moustached Ringmaster as ever.
“Bene?” was all Ned could manage.
“Hello, pup,” said Benissimo with a smile.
Which promptly fell away when he saw the look on the face of Olivia Armstrong, who then proceeded to pummel the man’s arm. Ned and his father watched in awe, Terry’s ball of glass having landed on the floor with a clunk as his wife administered Mr Fox’s informant with swift and painful justice.
“Months, we looked, all of us!”
Whack!
“And all that time you were here with these men, these revolting men in grey?!”
Whack!
“Livvy, if you could just let me explain!” said Benissimo, who did little more than raise his arms in a useless and rather timid defence.
“Explain why you abandoned us?! Explain this!”
Whack!
“Madam, the man can heal, but he still feels pain – please refrain from hitting him,” tried Mr Fox.
Olivia Armstrong, nun and agent, stopped. Her eyes turned to Mr Fox.
“How did you do it?” she shouted. “How did you turn the greatest leader of all time into an informant?”
What was quite clear was that Ned’s mum had absolutely no interest in Mr Fox’s answer, nor for that matter did Ned’s dad, or the enlarging shadow that was Gorrn as he inflated to fill the rear of the room. The Armstrongs were about to blow when Benissimo decided to tell them what, exactly, was what.
“Livvy, you’ve got this all wrong. Mr Fox works for me.”
He looked down at the roasted pork that Sar-adin had so carefully prepared. It was, as always, just the way he liked it, its skin glazed to a perfect crackle, boiling fat oozing from its sides, and on a different day, in a different mood, he would have devoured it all till his chest was awash with grease and dripping. But Barbarossa had a different hunger and it would not be fed through his gut. Atticus Fife sat beside him drinking from a goblet of fine red wine. For some strange reason the man did not show fear in his company – if anything, he seemed to consider himself an equal.
Barbarossa supposed he had been a little vague about the arrangements between them. Perhaps Atticus believed himself to be important to him? A partner, even? He had been the second-in-command to the great Madame Oublier after all – the Circus of Marvels’ Prime, their one-time leader. Not that he’d done her any good. In fact, the tin-skin had betrayed her and the poison that had ended her life could not have done so without him. Well, Barba wouldn’t let the same happen to him. The man clearly needed some chivvying up, which was just as well, as Barbarossa was in the mood for a little “chivvying”.
“Walk with me, Atticus.”
Barbarossa led him away from the great hall down a set of spiral steps. Behind them Sar-adin followed quietly. The Central Intelligence had done exactly as ordered. He had built them a fortress that could not be taken. But something still troubled the butcher, even now. Until the Darkening King returned to his full power, they could, conceivably, still be undone no matter how many tin soldiers he had, or fanged and wicked creatures fought for him. Barbarossa did not like “odds”. So close to his prize, only certainties would do.
“The fair-folk will come, Atticus, and they will try to stop us.”
“What remains of them, yes.”
“And what does remain of them?”
“The pinstripes who still answer to me have heard word of a growing force in St Albertsburg.”
Barbarossa grimaced but continued leading the way.
“A growing force … Do you know how a force grows, Atticus?”
“We have banned all flights between the Veil, Barba, and my men are—”
Barba raised a hand and the tin-skin quietened.
“A force grows when there is hope. It is your job to remove that hope, Atticus.”
Barbarossa stopped by a heavy steel door and Sar-adin pulled out a set of keys.
“I am treading a fine line as it is, Barba. My men are beginning to suspect.”
Sar-adin opened the door to reveal a dimly lit cell. There were no windows, only a withered figure chained to the wall.
“This, Atticus, is Sur-jan. Once he swore to fight for me, yet only this morning he met with the Armstrongs. You promised me that you would take away the fair-folk’s hope and yet it grows.”
Atticus’s face dropped. The Demon looked to be in terrible pain. As cruel and as heartless as their kind was, he felt for it, knowing that whatever Barbarossa had done to the beast to reduce it so must have been unspeakable.
“Do you see hope in my captive’s eyes, Atticus?”
“I-I …”
“You will feed them lies upon lies. You will confuse and befuddle them, till they cannot tell friend from foe, till they cower in their beds calling for their mothers. You will feed them and feed them, till all their hope, strength and vigour is swallowed whole.”
“I will redouble my efforts.”
“No, Atticus, you will push them till you have nothing left to push with.”
And with that, Sar-adin shoved the tin-skin into the cell and locked the door.
“Barba?! Barbarossa, what is the meaning of this?”
“By the time they reach my forest, their spirits will already be broken. You will do the breaking, Atticus. You gave me your oath that you would. Your cellmate gave me such an oath once. A night with him should do plenty to remind you of what is at stake.”
Barbarossa turned his back and retraced his steps, even as Atticus pounded on the door.
“Tell me, Sar-adin, how much longer?” growled Barbarossa.
“He grows stronger.”
“But when will he rise, Sar-adin – WHEN?”
“Weeks.”
“And the boy, his parents? I fear while they walk free that the fair-folk will continue to have hope.”
“Sur-jan did not tell them about the stone.”