I know where the gold is buried. If you want to work for me, then bully and do as yer bid. If not, then off back to the Old Nichol with your bones and smoke some wallpaper for yerself.”
Bob whistled. “Harsh, Riley. Harsh and cold. But them are good traits in a master and will keep the others from getting out of line. Also, the Great Savano. That has a real ring to it.”
“Thank you, Bob.” Riley paused. “Others? I can’t feed the entire rookery.”
“I know, but I have three brothers that need looking after. We come as a set, you see. All or none.”
“Who could split a fellow from his brothers?” said Riley. “That would be uncommon cruel. You should fetch them at once, and we will rendezvous at the Orient to draw up our plans. Can any of your brothers juggle?”
“Juggle?” said Bob, already crossing the road. “Why, Mr. Riley, they juggles each other.”
And he was off down an alley, making a direct line for the rookery, to break the news that the Winkles were saved from Old Nichol.
Riley walked on alone, casting furtive glances over his shoulder whenever a chill breeze cooled his forehead.
Garrick is gone, he told himself. Lost in the wormhole.
Lost in the wormhole? Could that be any more than a dream?
Chevie was no dream.
A beautiful maiden from an exotic land come to free him from the tyrant Garrick. It read like a dream and would make a capital novel.
The only thing missing is a dinosaur come back to life.
Riley walked on, realizing that it would be a long time before he could fully enjoy the sun on his face and ignore the chill.
Every stone kicked in an alley, every creak of wood on the stairway— I will hear and see Garrick everywhere.
But there would be a friend close by, and his brothers, and in time maybe his own brother.
Ginger Tom, he thought, I am coming, and oh, boy, do I have a tale to tell you.
Riley lifted the hem of his velvet cloak out of the city mud and gazed up at the triple span of the Holborn Viaduct, the city’s most impressive feat of modern architecture.
Home once more, he thought. Home to a new life.
Riley stepped around a toppled fruit cart and in seconds was lost in the morning throng of everyday folk doing their daily job of staying alive in London town.
Epilogue
The Battering Rams’ resident tattoo artist, Farley, trailed behind Riley through Holborn, his face hidden by a silken hood of a kind favored by Arab mercenaries. Riley might not have recognized the tattooist even without the hood, had he caught sight of him. Farley did not seem nearly so decrepit as he had in the Hidey-Hole. His back was ramrod straight, and his sure-footed stride was that of a man in early middle age.
Pedestrians gave Farley a wide berth on the footpath for two reasons. For one, something red glittered from the shadows under his hood like the night eye of a wolf, and for another—if a second reason was needed to avoid a gent with a wolf’s eye— this man was obviously a lunatic and destined for a bed in one of Her Majesty’s asylums, for he was speaking into his closed fist as though there was a fairy living in there listening to every word.
So people stepped aside and cast quick, sidelong glances at Farley.
Talking to oneself is the first sign of madness, they thought. And there ain’t no predicting when a madman will spring into sudden violence.
What the Victorian pedestrians could not have possibly known was that Farley was speaking into a microphone strapped to the back of his wrist rather than to a fairy. And the wolf’s eye glowing from the shadowy recesses of his eye socket was, in fact, a monocular infrared scope with a visible-lightblocking filter. Simply put, to Farley, anyone who had been in a time tunnel and whose atoms had been coated in its particular radiation would sparkle gently, as though coated with gold dust. It was a very handy way to keep an eye on someone without getting too close.
“Rosie, patch me through to the colonel,” he said into the microphone, his accent still English, as it had been in the Rams’ Hidey-Hole. Farley had been in character so long that he rarely came out of it.
“You sure?” said a voice in his earpiece, male in spite of the name. “He’s having a massage. You know what he’s like.”
Farley did indeed know