The Manual of Detection: A Novel - By Jedediah Berry Page 0,86

face of one reflection was visible for a moment, Unwin thought he saw tears. Lamech noticed, too. “Travis,” he said, “we don’t have time for this.”

Sivart tore the cigar out of his mouth and threw it on the floor. “It could be important, Ed. Will you listen to me for once? Hoffmann was just a boy when his mother gave him to the carnival. And that monster Caligari taught him but never taught him enough. So Hoffmann thought he’d figure it out on his own. He sneaked into the old man’s mind one night, trying to learn his secrets. Caligari caught him and kept him there. Tortured him, wouldn’t let him wake up. Worst of all, he knew that Caligari had kept something from him, would always keep something from him. He would never share the secret that made him powerful.”

Lamech looked calm now, as though he had arrived at an understanding of some kind. “Sounds to me like Hoffmann needed a lesson, Travis. Sounds like he was getting ahead of himself.”

There were only two Sivarts now. They both turned away and threw their hands in the air. “What do you know? You haven’t seen what I’ve seen. Anyway, you better let me in on the plan. Who is it you’re recruiting? I hope he’s good.”

“Under the circumstances,” Lamech said, “it’s probably better that I not tell you.”

The Sivarts were quiet for a time. Then they stood straight, stretching to crack their necks. When they turned around, their eyes were closed and they were grinning. “What circumstances, exactly?”

“I know who you are,” Lamech said.

The Sivarts took a deep breath. There was a squelching sound as the face of the nearer loosened and crinkled around the edges. It slid off and fell to the floor, folding like an omelette where it landed.

Unwin stepped back. Down in the third archive, he heard himself whimper into the pillow.

The face that had been masked was squarish, dull, bored-looking. Enoch Hoffmann opened his eyes and rolled up his sleeves. The biloquist was wearing his pajamas now, blue with red trim.

The real Sivart fell back against a transparent wall, a marionette whose strings had been cut. He looked groggy, exhausted, invisibly bruised. Had his mind already turned to dust? No: he coughed and grimaced at Lamech, managing a little wave.

“I ought to strangle you,” Hoffmann said to the watcher. His regular voice was as Sivart had described it in his reports—high-pitched and whispery, barely a voice at all, empty of feeling even when it threatened.

“You’d have to wake up first,” Lamech said. “And you’re not going to do that, are you? Now that you’ve finally caught him, you can’t bear to let him go. You’re as much a prisoner as he is.”

The magician was ignoring him; his gaze was fixed on the spot where Unwin stood. Hoffmann came toward him, and Unwin felt as though his damp clothes had frozen solid. The corridors stretched, so that the magician seemed to approach from a great distance, with the inevitability of a nightmare. The look on his face was unreadable—it might as well have been carved into a block of wood. “Who is it you’ve brought with you?” he asked.

Unwin stepped aside at the last moment, and Hoffmann walked past him. He reached around a mirrored wall and came back clutching the wrist of the woman in the plaid coat. Hoffmann yanked her to her feet; she let out a cry and stumbled forward, her cap coming loose. She regained her balance, then stood straight and straightened her coat.

“Hey, kiddo,” Sivart said, getting to his feet.

Lamech put his hat back on. “Where did she come from?”

Sivart snorted. “She followed you, fancy-boots. Ed Lamech, meet Penelope Greenwood. She’s better at what you do than you are, knows everything you’re thinking, and can hurt your feelings without saying a word. Self-taught, too—a real wunderkind. Enoch, I believe you’re already acquainted.”

Hoffmann, for the first time since he made his presence known, appeared shaken. His lower lip was trembling as he gazed at the woman in the plaid coat.

“Dad,” she said to him, “we need to talk.”

Lamech was looking at Sivart. “Greenwood? She and Hoffmann? Travis, why didn’t you ever report this?”

Hoffmann gestured vaguely toward Lamech. The watcher put up his hands and started to speak, but whatever he said was lost as his hat grew to twice its size and swallowed his head. He tore at it with both hands, but the brim was stuck under his chin and his shouts