Manx Page 4

  Then someone did show – but she wasn't who he'd expected. Not that he'd known who – or what – to expect. But if he'd had to guess he would have assumed it would be a witch or a wizard. Maybe riding a broom stick and waving a wand around. And undoubtedly dressed in black. This woman was none of those things. Instead she was riding a unicorn, holding a silver sword in her hands that flashed like the sun, and waving it at her enemies. And wherever she pointed it, they perished. They burst into light and then turned to ash in the street.

  “Bloody hell!” He swore under his breath as he watched her ride up the street, levelling the demon horde in front of her, wondering just who she was. A paladin? A white witch? Maybe one of the fae? The story books were filled with tales of strange magical beings and silver clad knights. But he doubted any of them were accurate.

  Regardless of what she was, she was bringing the enemy to their knees. That was all that mattered. That she destroyed them before Winstone was destroyed. And she seemed to be doing that. None of the enemy could stand against her. And as she advanced on them, she soon disappeared from view.

  Which left him standing there at the window, wondering if he had lost his wits. First they had demons and their beasts. Now they had silver knights and unicorns? None of this was possible! Where was the reason and the logic?

  “Gaudy little monkey, ain't she?”

  Manx turned to see the white and tabby marked cat had joined him in front of the window, except that unlike him she had made herself comfortable on the sill. Apparently she wasn't afraid of what was on the other side of the glass. At least not any more.

  “But maybe the black horsie will trample her properly.”

  Manx stared at the cat in surprise. “I'd have thought you would be pleased,” he eventually told the cat. “She's driving away the hell-hounds.”

  “But too late. My home is still ashes. And my servants probably the same.”

  “They're not servants,” he pointed out knowing immediately who she meant, though he also knew that most cats were under the same misapprehension. “They're your owners. They look after you because they want to.” But they probably wouldn't want to if they knew what their cat really thought of them.

  “Weak minded fools! No one owns me! They care for me because I let them!” Her voice grew louder with anger. “Now who's going to feed me?! Who's going to serve me?!”

  “You?” Manx suggested.

  “Were you dropped on your head?!” The cat stared at him. And then suddenly her eyes widened a little until she looked her most adorable and her voice became almost pleasing. “But you know if you wanted you could have that honour!”

  “I could also eat my own shite!” He snorted at her. “Maybe you should go and see if your old owners are still alive.”

  “Bastard!” The cat retorted all thoughts of civility apparently gone. “You have no idea what an honour I just offered you! And don't call them owners!”

  “Go annoy someone else kitty!” Manx turned his attention back to the street and the madness. “I have enough to deal with!”

  “Fine!” She jumped down from the sill. “But don't be surprised if one day soon you find your shoes filled with muck or my claws at your throat!”

  Then, still grumbling, she wandered off to bother the other people in the library, mewling pitifully, perhaps hoping that one of them would take her in.

  Which left him standing there, confused and wondering what was happening in the city, but mostly hoping it might be over. Whatever it was.

  He stood there for a long time. Long enough to see normal people in the streets, having come out from wherever they'd been hiding. They looked frightened. But they were still out in the open. Which had to mean it was over. Hopefully.

  It was then that he called to the others hiding among the shelves, to tell them what was happening. None of them he noticed, had dared to go near the windows. But when he told them that it was over they risked leaving their hiding places, and soon there wasn't enough room left at the window for him.

  But that was alright he decided as he found himself a seat at the check out counter. He'd been standing long enough. He felt tired, unusually so. As if he'd been out running. And for some reason he couldn't seem to think properly. His thoughts were running in circles as he tried to work out what had happened and what he was supposed to do now. But he simply didn't know.

  He couldn't leave the library unattended. But he needed to go back and check on his home to see if it was still standing. Doing that though would entail going outside to where all those creatures had been. What if they weren't all gone?!

  “Don't pout!” A familiar voice addressed him. A white and tabby cat being held in the arms of a little girl not that much larger than her. “It makes you look even more stupid than you are!”

  “And besides, things are looking up. I already have a new family of servants to take me home and feed me. You should be happy!”

  “Oh I'm ecstatic!” he muttered under his breath, just loudly enough that she could hear him and no one else.

  “As you should be.” She stared at him, completely serious. “Now if you hear a man yelling in the next hour or so, don't trouble your tiny little brain worrying about it. The father's a bully and he needs to be taught a lesson!”

  “A lesson?” He paled a little. That didn't sound good.

  “I'm sure the man has slippers!”

  Manx' mouth fell open. He would have told the cat not to be an idiot, but the little girl holding the furry little monster, chose that moment to step through the double doors and out into the street, along with what he assumed were her family. And in time others began to do the same. People were going home. Hoping he guessed, that their homes were still there. And he was being left alone.

  He should go home too, he thought. But then who would look after the library? And as he told himself, if he went home or not, it wouldn't change what had happened to his home. It would either be burnt down or it wouldn't be. There was nothing he could do to change that. Mostly he stayed where he was though because he was simply too tired to move.

  In time he was alone in the building, sitting at the check out counter by the door with only his thoughts for company. And they weren't good company. Outside the city guards were taking charge of things, which mostly seemed to consist of yelling at people and pointing. And everything was at least quiet. Meanwhile the clock on the wall was heading for five. Another day done. And as the only librarian still there, he guessed, it was his duty to close it down for the night. Though he had to wonder – where was Mr. Merryweather? For all his failings the man never left early or arrived late.

  So he summoned his strength and began wandering the building, looking for anyone who might still be around and telling them that they had five minutes. And area by area he turned off the lights, to let them know the library was closing. But there was no one around save him. Everyone had run home.

  Then finally he went down to the basement and his workplace to gather his coat and close it down for the night. It had been a poor days work he thought.

  But as he reached the main entrance and stood there waiting for the clock to hit five so he could lock things up, he decided he hadn't done so badly. He was in the end the only staff member left. Where the others had gone to he didn't know. Maybe they'd run off when the demons had attacked. He just hoped they hadn't been hurt or killed.

  Then the clock struck five, he walked out of the library and locked the doors behind him. The day was finally over. But just as he set off a familiar voice accosted him.

  “Dolt! You're still here!”

  Manx looked around to see the cat sitting there among the bushes in the library gardens, looking less than happy.

  “And you,” he replied. “I thought you were off to your new home.”

  “They didn't want me. The father made the girl throw me away! Filthy monkeys!” She looked up at him doing her best to look pathetic and appealing. “Now I'm all alone! And hungry! And I miss my Ella!”

>   “It's what you deserve!” he told her harshly. Or as harshly as he could manage. But damn it! She did look sweet and helpless like that. Even when he knew she wasn't!

  “But it's going to get cold tonight – and I don't have a fire to sleep beside!” She turned up the charm another couple of notches. “You wouldn't leave a poor, helpless and adorable cat out in the cold, would you?”

  “You're evil!” He pointed out. “And you shouldn't have tried to teach the father a lesson!”

  “But I did warn you about the danger,” she replied, not even trying to deny the charge. “You owe me for that.”

  Manx tried to think, and when he did he knew she was right. She had warned him. It wasn't much and he hadn't listened, but she had warned him. So maybe she was right. He did owe her. And shite he wished she'd stop turning those huge green eyes on him!

  “Fine!” He finally relented. “But only until you find a better home!”

  That was as far as he got before he suddenly had a cat rubbing herself affectionately against his legs, and telling him he was a wonderful monkey. A moment after that she was on his shoulder, making herself comfortable around his neck. Apparently she didn't like walking.

  Manx sighed. This wasn't how he'd expected his day to go. “So what's your name?” he asked as they set off.

  “Well my last family called me Whitey. But my true name as best I can translate it into your primitive monkey tongue would be “She with the sharp claws who must be adored”.

  “Whitey it is then!”

  “That's very ill-mannered of you! I thought you were a better monkey face than that!”

  “You thought wrong!” He wasn't going to be told off by a cat! “Now this is only for a little while, and only as long as you behave yourself. There will be no more calling me monkey. Is that understood?!

  “But –,” the cat started to object. And then she lowered her voice a little. “I don't suppose that you have slippers?”

  “Don't even think about it fur ball!” he growled at her. “I could leave you here, you know! And you could find a new home. Or stay out here in the cold – while there's all these beasts in the streets.”

  Her answer was to purr loudly in his ear, which he assumed meant she had accepted his terms – or she was just trying to make him think she was a delightful pet and not a pest. Either way he was too tired to argue about it. Besides, he was more interested in finding out whether or not he had a home left to return to. As painful as it was to realise it, this could still end up being a very short living arrangement!

  Chapter Four

  Life in his little underground bunker was back to its usual calm the following day. In fact the entire library was back to life as normal. The only change from the day before was that a couple of their staff members were away because their homes had been damaged in the attack. And the boss was away because he'd hurt himself running away from a beast. Other than that nothing had changed.

  Or maybe everything had changed. His nice understandable world of science and reason with just one minor loose screw in it had just turned upside down. Now there was magic in the streets, silver knights were riding unicorns, hell beasts were everywhere, and nothing made sense.

  This was Redmond, the most advanced land in the entire world. The fifty or so cities were packed with science and technology. Skyships soared overhead. Steam wagons roamed the street. Electricity flowed through wires. And magic didn't exist. It was all ancient myth and legend. Except of course for the fact that he could talk to cats. But now nothing was as it should be.

  Manx didn't understand that. But he liked that he could return to his desks and his book mending and forget the events of the previous day as he buried himself in his work. He could pretend that nothing had changed.

  It hadn't been so easy wandering in to work in the morning though. Passing all the burnt out buildings and knowing what had burnt them down. The demon beasts had done a lot of damage to the city. At least the city was largely built of stone and brick and slate. None of it burned easily. That had saved things from becoming much worse.

  The night in his home hadn't been that much better. It had survived the attack, but now thanks to his soft heart and softer head, he had a house guest, and Whitey was not a good one. Why had he let her come home with him?! Once she'd made herself at home, she'd quickly decided she wasn't going to be thrown out. So she'd refused to stop complaining and demanded the very best food he had. Actually she also stole it from his plate when she could – though she didn't call it stealing. And she didn't say thank you either. It was her right to be fed! She was a cat after all! Worse she didn't sleep either, not during the proper hours for sleeping at least, which meant that she woke him up at all hours demanding to be let in and out of the house. What had he been thinking?!

  Still she was a long way away. And the worst of the nightmare was over. The fighting had ended. And while the newspapers, of which he had several with him, could tell him nothing of what had happened, no one he knew was dead or hurt. Manx tried to remember that as he sat at his station sewing pages back into an atlas. Mostly he tried to remember that he was safe here in his bunker of knowledge. His temple to Freda. No one could upset him here.

  Naturally the world had to disagree with him.

  The first he knew of it was when he heard footsteps on the stairs leading down to his basement. The heavy foot falls of men in boots, and lots of them. Then when he looked up from his desk to the distant stairway, he saw uniforms. Lots and lots of men in uniform, heading towards him.

  “Balls!” He swore quietly as he saw the city guards approaching him, wondering what new nightmare awaited him. And then he waited for them with a set of pages in one hand and a cotton threaded needle in the other, wondering why they were here. It seemed his world was being turned upside down again.

  “Maxwell Smythe of Clairmont,” the leader of the group addressed him when he reached Manx at his desks.

  “It's just Manx, Captain,” he replied calmly. But inside he was thinking – they knew his name. His proper name. This had to be bad! But on the other hand he realised as he saw the horrified look on the Captain's face, he hadn't been told everything. The man hadn't been told about his injuries.

  “But you are the son of Duke Wainthorpe of Clairmont?”

  “His fifth son,” Manx admitted. “What of it?”

  “Then you are to come with us to the Chief Magistrate.” The Captain did his best to stare Manx in the eyes and not look at his scars. He didn't completely succeed.

  “Fine.” Manx agreed to the demand immediately, knowing he had no choice. If the man had already known who he was before he'd come and brought his soldiers, it was clear that his station among the nobility counted for nothing. “I'll just grab my coat.”

  A minute later as he was still winding his scarf around his neck, he was being led out of the library in front of all the staff and their customers, trying not to turn red. He had done nothing wrong, he told himself. But did that matter?

  And then he was out in the street, walking along the footpath and trying not to stare at all the scorch marks. The bodies had been taken away. But there were blackened marks everywhere they had fallen – and he didn't know which of those marks belonged to the people who had died and which belonged to the monsters.

  It wasn't a long walk to the courthouse. It was only a few hundred yards further along the street. But if the physical distance was minor, the worry made it seem far greater. Being marched like a criminal along the street, with people staring at him, thinking he was some sort of brigand, was as bad as walking the street without his coverings. Especially when most of those staring probably thought he was being arrested for something to do with the previous day's attack. And it wasn't right. He'd done nothing wrong.

  Still he did his best to show no sign that he was nervous or guilty of anything. He kept his head held high and looked straight ahead making eye contact with no one. And he walked up the stairs to the courthouse as if he was a true nobleman inst
ead of a minor outcast child of one of the sham families with a bought title.

  Inside the courthouse he was ushered straight through the entrance hall, and then down the wide central corridor, past rows of offices and on to the double doors at the far end. Beyond them he knew, even though he had never been here before, was the High Court of the city. He knew it because the royal seal was embossed into the doors in polished gold. The same seal that was set out in the tiles he was walking on. The golden ram was everywhere.

  When he reached them another pair of city guards in their blue and white pulled the doors open for him and he was led into the courtroom. And his first thought when that happened, was to wonder if he was being tried for something. It looked like the court was in session. His next thought was that this was a far grander chamber than he'd expected.