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Seeing that I had made no move to touch it, Mr. Usher took the case off the shelf and offered it to me. Holding it didn’t seem to affect him at all. I still didn’t want to touch it. I leaned forward and pretended to examine the only marking on the lid of the case, a large letter C with a stylised crown inside it. The mark of the Collector, the only man ever to own the Speaking Gun and not use it. Because for him, ownership was everything.
“Open it,” I said, and Mr. Usher smiled broadly.
He lifted the lid of the black case, and there it was, nestling in its bed of black velvet. The smell hit me first, of mad dogs in heat and the sweat of horses being dragged screaming to the abattoir. The stench of spilled blood and guts. The Speaking Gun looked just as I remembered. It was made of meat, of flesh and skin and bone, of dark-veined gristle and shards of cartilage, all held together with long strips of pale skin. Slabs of bone made up the handle, surrounded by freckled skin, that had a hot and sweaty look. The trigger was a canine tooth, and the red meat of the barrel glistened wetly. It was a thing, the ultimate killing tool, and it was alive.
Chandra Singh leaned in close beside me for a better look, and I could sense his revulsion.
“Is that really it?” he said finally, his voice hushed and strangely respectful.
“Yes,” I said. “The gun created specifically to kill angels, from Above and Below.”
“Who would want such a thing?” said Chandra. “Who ordered it made?”
“I don’t think anyone really knows,” I said. I looked at Mr. Usher, but he had nothing to say. I looked back at the Gun, in its case. “I’ve heard Merlin Satanspawn’s name mentioned, but he gets the blame for most bad things, on general principles. Then there’s the Engineer, or the Howling Thing . . . There is a name marked on the Gun somewhere—of its original manufacturers, Abraxus Artificers.”
“Ah yes,” said Mr. Usher. “The old firm. The sons of Cain, solving problems since the Begi
“You know them?” I said.
“Not . . . as such, sir. I know my place.”
The Speaking Gun stirred in its black velvet. I could feel its rage and hate. It remembered me, and how I fought to use it rather than have it use me. I hoped it didn’t know that someday in its future, I would be the one to finally put an end to it.
“Close the lid,” I said, and Mr. Usher did so with an elegant flourish. I made myself take hold of the case and slipped it quickly into a pocket inside my coat, next to my heart. I could still hear it breathing. I looked at Chandra.
“Time to go,” I said.
“Quite definitely,” he said, sounding distinctly relieved. “This is no place for a holy man.”
“You’re not the first,” said Mr. Usher equitably. “And you won’t be the last.” He looked at me. “See you again, sir?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Suzie would love this place. Perhaps I’ll bring her here for her Christmas treat.”
We’d only just left the Gun Shop when my cell phone rang. It still plays the theme from the Twilight Zone. When I find a joke I like, I tend to stick with it. Walker’s voice sounded urgently in my ear.
“The Walking Man is on his way to the Adventurers Club. He’s coming for the new Authorities, and even my best people are barely slowing him down. Tell me you have something that will put him in his place.”
“I have something,” I said. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“How very typical of you, John,” said Walker.
He opened up a doorway with his Portable Timeslip and brought Chandra and me right to the Adventurers Club.
NINE
Last Man Standing
At the Adventurers Club, they’d done everything but drain the moat and pull up the drawbridge. Chandra and I arrived in a lobby packed full of heroes, adventurers, border-line rogues, and even a few quite definite villains. Someone had put out the call, and everyone had come ru
I’d never seen the place so full. They’d already pretty much drained the bar dry, and the barman had been reduced to pulling dubiously dusty bottles off the back of shelves he’d forgotten were even there. There were figures out of Myth and Legend that I’d never thought to see in the flesh, and some faces I knew for a fact had even less business being in the Adventurers Club than I did. Augusta Moon and Janissary Jane were there, of course, the spinster-aunt monster hunter and the veteran demon killer, right at the front of the crowd and spoiling for a fight. I saw Mistress Mayhem and Jacqueline Hyde, Bishop Beastly and Sister Igor, Dead Boy and the Mad Monk. Colourful figures all, in every sense of the word. Common cause can bring about the strangest of allies, especially in the Nightside.
And yet for all the size of the crowd, containing some of the most powerful people in the Nightside, it was still surprisingly quiet in the lobby. The atmosphere was tense but focussed, waiting for the true star to arrive. There was none of the usual boasting, or showing off of powers, no rousing speeches or pep talks. Everyone knew about the Walking Man—who he was, and what he represented, and what he could do. Beyond the usual cold professional preparedness, I could tell they were all, quietly and very secretly, scared out of their minds. Just like me.
But still, credit where credit was due, here they all were . . . the good and the bad and the rogues, ready to stand shoulder to shoulder and lay it all on the line, to defend the new Authorities. Impressed as I was, I had to wonder why.
“Why are all these people prepared to risk their lives and reputations for the sake of the new Authorities?” Chandra asked Walker, beating me to it. “I have been a member in good standing of this Club for many years, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone here say one good word about the Nightside, or the Authorities. We only come here to challenge our courage and our skills against it.”
“They believe in the new Authorities,” Walker said calmly. “Julien Advent has been doing the rounds, talking to people; and you know how persuasive he can be. Especially when you know he’s right. He is the greatest adventurer of all time, after all, and people respect that. And it does help that people want to believe what he’s saying. That the Nightside, and everyone in it, can be redeemed, with the new Authorities leading the way.”
I looked at him curiously. “Do you believe that?”
“I believe in duty and responsibility,” said Walker. “I leave hope and faith to people like Julien Advent.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” I said.
“No,” said Walker. “I didn’t.”
He led us through the crush of the crowd, through the lobby and the bar, to the stairs at the back of the room, and people fell back and gave way for him, where they wouldn’t have budged an inch for me, or even Chandra Singh. No-one messes with Walker. Familiar faces bowed briefly to him, nodded and smiled to Chandra, and gave me long, thoughtful looks.
“So, John, what did you find to set against the unstoppable Walking Man?” said Walker, as we made our way up the stairs to the back room where the new Authorities were waiting. “Something truly dangerous and appallingly destructive, I trust?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think that’s a fair description.”
“Then why are you so sure I’m not going to approve of it?”
“Because it’s the Speaking Gun.”
Walker stopped dead on the stairs, then turned and looked back at me. I’d never seen his face so cold, or his gaze so utterly bleak.
“Oh John,” he said. “What have you done?”