(no subject)
V.
The other passengers paid no attention to him as he picked his way carefully down the isle, though his sharp eyes shifted restlessly beneath his hat brim, taking everything in. The normalcy of the car and its occupants was almost disappointing, given the fantastical circumstances under which he’d arrived. Men in derby hats talked quietly, gesticulating with familiarly creased, middle-class hands; women absent-mindedly minded chattering children, who occasionally spilled out into the aisles or knelt on their seat cushions to press their noses against the smudged glass.
Eventually, the detective located an unoccupied seat in the middle of the car and settled himself in it. He slanted his hat strategically so he could study the people sitting around him while appearing to gaze out the window. The small gold watch nestled in the palm of his hand remained there, and his long fingers continued to map out the simple contours of its surface - a nervous tick to replace the absent tock.
His attitude did not change when the shrill call of the station master’s whistle finally announced their imminent departure, though a careful observer would’ve noted a new line of tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Whatever he thought of this excursion, there was no going back now.
The rhythmic clack and hiss of the locomotive tangled with the general chatter of its passengers, a tapestry of sound whose individual threads were soon lost to general distortion; but Holmes was making an effort to concentrate on the conversation taking place in the seat directly before his, and it ran something like this:
“The South Bend, yeah? Supposed to be a whole pack of ‘em camped up that ways. Cato said there was a scuffle last week, said the bastards made off with a whole engine.”
“I ain’t heard nothing ‘bout that.”
“Well, s’not like they’re gonna publish the story or nothing, is it? You think this lot woulda climbed aboard if they knew that -“
The second speaker quite obviously didn’t think they would have, and he jostled his companion roughly before he could finish his statement. “Shut it, Dee, will ya? Boss’ll pitch us out for sure if we get these hens all worked up,” he hissed. It was obvious that he was trying to speak quietly, and it’s possible he even thought he’d succeeded; but the problem with extremely large men is that they often have extremely large voices, and he was certainly a large man. Holmes’ eyes narrowed speculatively and he shifted a little in his seat, altering position so that he could use the window opposite the strangers as a sort of mirror.
At first it seemed the glass performed that function too well, for the passengers seated before him were almost identical in appearance. Giant, broad-shouldered men with matching blue-grey eyes and five o’clock shadows, they both wore their disheveled blonde hair relatively short, the untidy locks sticking out in a haphazard fashion and licking occasionally at the scruffy edges of their strong, square jaws. Their clothes were all that dispelled the illusion of double-vision. Both wore long dusters soiled and creased with use. The one closest to the window’s - ‘Dee,’ as he’d been addressed by the other - wore a dark, chocolate brown; the other’s was a lighter, buttery tan. They wore their coats unbuttoned, revealing equally rumpled linen shirts (one white, one blue); Dee wore a red scarf knotted around his thick neck. His twin had a pair of brass goggles on his head.
What Holmes found most interesting about them, however, were the strange weapons they held in their hands.
They possessed a matching set of rifles, though rifles of a sort Holmes had never before seen. The stocks appeared to be made of wood, dark and stained with the patina of hard, regular use - in this aspect, at least, the detective was on familiar ground. But the strange profusion of brass work, copper plating, and gears proved more problematic. It wasn’t apparent what weapons such as those would use for ammunition, or even if they’d fire at all. They were gun-shaped and held in sun-worn, calloused hands that looked entirely capable of shooting to kill, but their bizarre composition made him question his initial assessment of their function. And they were not the only strange devices the men carried. The left sleeve of Dee’s dark coat bunched up around his forearm, the cuff unable to accommodate the leather band he wore around his wrist or the metal contraption it held in place. It, too, might have been a gun - the object contained four slim metal barrels and some kind of key-shaped crank on one end - but it’s peculiar design likewise made it difficult to say for sure. The handle of what might have been a pistol was visible through the opening of the second man’s coat, resting in a shoulder harness.
Holmes glanced around the carriage again carefully, but none of the other passengers appeared to be armed.
“Who was workin’ that horse, anyway?” the second speaker was asking his companion, the shadowy image of his reflection scowling in disapproval.
“Some flash-shot,” Dee scoffed. “’Member that lot that blew into Term last month? One of them. Thought chasin’ the Gang was just like banging ‘round bucket heads.”
“He was a bucket head, little piss-ant. That crew the lot that was roughin’ the Flowers, too?”
“Mmhm.”
The other cracked his knuckles menacingly. “Bucket heads oughta learn to keep to their side of the bloody line.”
They were both quiet for a stretch, perhaps considering this. Holmes took advantage of their lapse to shift his attention to the scenery flashing past outside and was instantly surprised by two independent factors: the first was the unprecedented speed of the train, which galloped down the stretch of track so quickly the customary click-clack had blurred into one continuous hum; the second was that he didn’t recognize the countryside.
The only thing he could be certain of was that, in a ridiculously short span of time, they’d managed to leave London far behind them.
“Boss says if they lose another horse, he’s gonna make us double-up. Already talked to Rose ‘bout it.”
“We ain’t lost a pony yet, Dum.”
Dum shrugged. “Just a precaution. You wanna get stuck workin’ with a bucket head?”
Dee declined comment on this. “Wish t’Suites I knew who they was sellin’ the herd off to.”
“Part of the Game, ‘s my guess. Don’t protest too hotly; keeps us employed, don’t it?”
They fell quiet again. Holmes crossed his arms over his chest and slouched lower in his seat, affecting sleep as he attempted to get a clear glimpse in his window of the person seated behind him. The light wouldn’t work to his favor, though; he thought it might have been a woman in a white fur coat, working diligently on the knitting in her lap, but the glass’ reflection was oddly distorting. At times her head of tight, white curls almost merged with the collar of her jacket, and the two needles in her hands took on the appearance of six or eight. After a few moments, he gave up the exercise as futile.
The passenger sitting across from him was a young girl with straight brown hair. She was alone and kept her hands clenched tightly in her lap, blank green eyes gazing at the back of the seat in front of her. She seemed anxious and tense, and Holmes absently wondered if this was her first time traveling alone. She was well-dressed but pale, with a black cloth armband encircling her right forearm. It put Holmes in mind of the sort men wore to signify mourning -- an odd device for a girl of her age.
As is often the case with long distance travel, the relaxed chatter of the train’s passengers slowly thinned and trickled before finally giving way completely to the metallic hum of their forward progression. Children abandoned their limited explorations in favor of the comfort of their mothers' laps or shoulders; heads tilted sideways to prop against the windows. Even the rigid girl across from Holmes eventually slumped into the ‘v’ her seat made with the wall of the car, relaxing the death-grip her fingers had maintained around each other. Only the two blonde men in front of Holmes remained alert, their calm gazes taking in everything without comment.
Perhaps three hours passed, or maybe it was only thirty minutes. The detective, who normally had a decent mental grasp on such things, would have been at a complete loss to say for sure. The silent watch in his hand was certainly no indicator. The colors outside had begun to edge towards the darker end of the spectrum, but whether they owed the change to a persistent cloudbank or a drastic shift in the position of the sun, he couldn’t say for sure. The train had made no additional stops; no one had gotten on or off.
Suddenly, for no reason Holmes could discern, there was a rigid tension in the air.
The dozing passengers obliviously slept on, but Dee, placing one hand on the back of the seat in front of him, pushed himself to his feet and leaned closer to the window. Holmes sat up a little straighter and attempted to follow the direction of the man’s gaze, but he saw nothing apart from flat grassland.
“Three,” Dee said quietly to his companion.
“Scouts,” Dum surmised.
“South Bend’s dead ahead.”
Holmes still couldn't see anything, but Dum reached for his rifle and Dee fumbled with the latches on the window, struggling a moment to manipulate the slender tabs with his thick fingers. When he had the window down, he likewise grabbed his weapon and braced the oddly-shaped barrel on the sill. Dum stepped out into the isle and turned to face Holmes.
“’Scuse me a minute,” he murmured, and the detective obligingly drew up his thin legs to accommodate him as the gunmen carefully maneuvered towards the window. Holmes watched curiously as he, too, fumbled with the catch on the top pane and situated his own weapon in an identical manner to his partner’s.
The two men both thumbed back the strange copper hammers and rested their fingers against the curl of their triggers. And then they froze in that position, unmoving and silent as the train clattered on.
Dum’s blocky form completely cut off Holmes’ field of vision, and so he found himself concentrating on the slant of the man’s massive shoulders instead, searching for some clue as to what they were about to face off against. But both men were impressively stoic. The detective turned the watch in his hand restlessly and waited.
“There,” Dee finally said into the silence. His voice vibrated with warning and expectation, but neither of the two men moved.
“See ‘em,” Dum muttered. “Six.”
“Eight.”
“Eleven.”
“Fourteen.”
“Bloody hell, they’re circling!”
Holmes flattened himself against his seat just in time to clear Dum’s path as the man pushed himself away from the wall and moved quickly into the opposite row. The little girl was awake now, looking up at him in terror as he fumbled open her window and resumed his previous position. He ignored her completely. “Twenty-two over here - it’s the whole bloody pack!” he snarled in warning.
Taking advantage of his absence, Holmes slid closer to his own window and peered expectantly through the glass. This time, he could see something - though what he saw was up for interpretation. The world outside had ceased edging towards darkness and had, instead, become darkness altogether. Within that inky landscape a swarm of shadowy figures moved quickly, stretching out across the ground and keeping pace with the train. At times, they appeared to be men dressed in long black coats and slouched black hats, riding black horses; but then again, horse and man sometimes appeared one creature altogether, loping along like an enormous black wolf, or a panther, or something that was a little of both and completely neither. The harder he tried to concentrate on their distorted forms, the more difficult they were to observe.
“Who’s leading them?” Dee called over his shoulder.
“Nobody.”
“Fuck,” Dee muttered, bracing one knee on the seat and locking himself into position. “Alright. Let ‘em know we’re here.”
The terse quiet of the car was shattered by a sudden wild-cat snarl of sound, and one of the dark shapes outside went down; the noise was repeated on the opposite side of the train, assumedly with similar results.
So they were guns, then.
“Backing?” Dum asked tersely.
“Nope.”
They fired again.
“Now?”
“Nope.”
And then a new sound added its voice to the general chaos - something coming from outside, not unlike the rifle shots but somehow infinitely more unpleasant. It couldn’t compare, though, to the piercing screech which immediately followed it. Holmes reflexively clamped his hands down over his ears, a white hot stab of light flashing painfully behind his eyes. It was a banshee wail, the sound of a finger nail on a chalkboard magnified a billion times over, and it hurt. The gunmen, rather than covering their ears, each removed one hand from their weapons and used it to brace themselves against the wall of the car. A second later, the train jumped.
There was no other way to explain it. Like a wild animal bucking forward to avoid a whiplash, the vehicle had gathered itself together and lunged, its cars rocking precariously with the instability. Holmes, entirely unprepared for the movement, was thrown hard against the wall. Wincing with the pain, he gripped the back of the seat in front of him and held on tightly as the car regained its balance. All the passengers were awake now, and some of the children had begun to cry despite the distracted soothing of their anxious mothers.
“Still on track!” Dum shouted triumphantly.
“River’s just ahead.”
“Last shot?”
“Nobody’s in my sights.” He sounded grimly satisfied with the report. They both fired, almost simultaneously; the magnified explosion of their combined blasts was almost as painful as the mysterious shrieking noise had been.
“Hit?”
“No; bastard swerved!”
“River in half a league.”
They both drew their guns back into the car, hastily reloading with cartridges they pulled from the recesses of their coats. Then they resumed position.
“… Ain’t backing off, Dee,” Dum warned. Dee frowned at the news and sighted along his barrel.
“Almost there.”
“Still ain’t backing.”
“Shit. What’re they thinking?!”
“Incoming!”
The foreign gun report came again, and Holmes braced himself for that inhuman scream of pain. It was louder this time, metallic teeth dragging viciously down his spine. The agony of the sound ripped his breathing into ragged gasps, and he closed his eyes reflexively as the train lunged again. This time it hopped sideways, spilling half of its passengers into the aisle. Dum absently dropped an arm to pin the frightened girl where she was, glancing down at her as she whimpered in terror. He noted her black armband and cursed, but the sound was drowned out by the sharp screech of metal as the train’s wheels tottered dangerously against the rails. They were now moving forward at an impossible speed, and Holmes braced himself again, certain they’d tip - but somehow, the car righted itself.
“River!” Dee warned above the confusion of scared voices.
“Don’t let up! There’s a P-O-N onboard - they ain’t after the bloody train!”
Holmes strained to see past the blurred shapes in the darkness and could indeed just make out a massive body of water glittering in the half-light ahead. What he couldn’t see was a bridge.
It all happened rather quickly: one of the women in the car screamed; Dee and Dum fired their guns, and then fired again; and Holmes felt the train gathering beneath him, like a great animal preparing to make a massive leap …
… which, coincidently, is exactly what it was.
“Last shot!” Dee called. They both sighted and fired, and then leaned back into the car to latch on to whatever handholds they could find.
With a massive bound, the train leapt over the river.
It was a jump the locomotive had made many times before, but the attack had thrown off its balance and it almost didn’t clear the opposite shore. The caboose splashed noisily through blessedly shallow water while the train struggled up the steep bank, squealing and grunting like a pig as it pushed forward. Finally they succeeded, the manic pace of earlier resolving itself into a more regular trot as they chugged forward in the darkness.
“Bloody Game,” Dee groused, reloading his gun. Dum cast a glowering look at the frightened girl before putting up her window and moving to retake his seat. Around them, the other passengers were still sorting themselves out, agitated and scared, but the gunmen ignored them.
“Careless; didn’t see her sittin’ there.”
“She’s movin’ the right way, though. That’s why we didn’t notice. Only one movin’ the wrong way is him.” Dum turned his head and made eye-contact with a very startled detective. “You with her?” he demanded, jerking a thumb at the child.
“No,” Holmes responded quietly. He noticed with interest that Dee was looking at his sleeves, perhaps in search of an armband. The absence of one seemed to increase his suspicion rather than alleviate it.
“He ain’t playin’,” he warned his companion. To Holmes, he said, “What you doin’ here, then? Your sort ain’t really supposed to be here, you know.”
Holmes blinked, rapidly sorting out his options. “… Is it customary for you to interrogate other passengers?” he asked coolly after a brief pause, settling back in his seat. The gunmen glanced at each other and he waited, tense and expectant; there were a couple of ways this could go, and some of them didn’t end entirely well for him.
But then Dum grinned. “Arrogant as hell, you lot, always,” he chuckled. “Few times that ya ain’t scared witless, anyways. … We protect the train from stuff that’s outside, not in. Can’t ride the train ‘less you’re supposed to. So that’s alright.”
Holmes visibly relaxed, as a gesture of goodwill. “You’ve encountered others of … my ‘lot,’ then?” he asked cautiously.
“Sometimes,” Dee shrugged. “Not in a while, though. Mostly, it’s ones like her.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the girl.
“I’m looking for someone,” Holmes ventured after a moment of consideration. “Someone ‘like her,’ I believe. A little girl, about her age.” The companions exchanged looks again, a strange flicker of surprise and consideration crossing each identical face.
“Don’t recall that ever happenin’ before,” Dum mused. Dee nodded slowly. “What side brung you? Or brung her?”
“… I’m not entirely sure I understand what you mean by ‘side.’ She was kidnapped. I do not know by whom. That is what I’ve come to discover.” He reached into his coat pocket and showed them the photograph he withdrew.
The look on their faces was difficult to explain. Holmes felt a hopeful lurch in the pit of his stomach and leaned forward in anticipation. “How’d she end up here again?” Dum breathed in confusion, but Dee quickly elbowed him into silence.
“Not now,” he hissed, casting a meaningful glance around the car. No one appeared to be paying them the least bit of attention, but that wasn’t enough to reassure him. “We’ll discuss this when we get to Term’, Mr …?”
“Holmes,” the detective supplied. “Sherlock Holmes.” The name didn’t register on the gunmen’s faces, and for that Holmes was relieved.
“Right. I’m Tweedle Dee, and this is m’brother. Tweedle Dum.” Holmes shook each of their hands in turn, his own completely enveloped by both enormous paws. “We work the Two and Three routes, keepin’ the train hunters off. But we’ll have some time when we get to Term, whilst they doctor the horse and refuel.”
“Term?” Holmes asked curiously.
“’Termination.’ Final stop. Only stop.” He grinned.
“There are only two stations on the entire route?”
“Sure.” Dee shrugged again. “Where you git on, and where you git off. Only two places you got to be worryin’ about.”
Holmes nodded; it seemed the safest answer. “And how long before we arrive at Termination?”
Dee glanced out the window. “Not long.”
He was right. After fifteen minutes - or five, or fifty - Holmes felt the train begin to slow. The rough, shadowy outlines of buildings began to appear outside his window, blocky shapes that gradually became more clustered as they eased to a stop. The Tweedle brothers gathered their guns, and Holmes - after a final, speculative glance at the little girl - followed them off the train.
It was hard to make any detailed observations about Termination in the dark, for the clouds hid the moon and shadows smeared the buildings into the night that surrounded them. From what Holmes could gather, however, it had much in common with the frontier towns so stereotypical of the American west: one main street, simple, uniformly constructed wooden buildings, and few people. The majority of the train’s passengers shuffled off towards the only hotel, but the Tweedles led him past the building with an easy familiarity that disregarded the darkness entirely. Eventually they ended up on the outskirts of the settlement, as far from the station as the town extended, and the trio ducked inside the last building in the row.
The interior was well-lit by a series of burning gas lights, revealing a décor that was gaudy and comfortably Victorian. Along the left hand wall stood a crescent shaped bar, the shelves behind it well stocked with bottles containing liquids in every imaginable color. The back wall hosted a small stage with an upright piano angled along one corner; small, circular tables dotted the remaining floor space. The room wasn’t crowded but it wasn’t empty, small groups of patrons sharing bottles around the tables or laughing drunkenly along the bar. A group of young, brightly dressed women drifted about the premises like butterflies.
Dee headed towards an abandoned table near the back with the unerring directness of a regular costumer, and once they were seated he gestured for the closest of the women to come closer still. “Hullo, love,” she purred to him, though she shared her smile in equal proportions with the entire trio.
“Hey there, Rosie. Lily around?”
The beautiful redhead pouted theatrically, propping one delicate hand on her hip. The other traced invisible, meandering patterns on the scarred tabletop in front of Dee. “Aw, what’s this, now - you sayin’ I’m not good enough for ya anymore?” Long lashes fluttered over bright green eyes, painted lips pursed into a cute moue of disappointment. “Comin’ in here after all this time and askin’ after Lil’? I’m hurt, Dee.”
“Now hold on, Rosie, I ain’t askin’ for me - this gent needs to talk to her. He ain’t from around here,” he said meaningfully, inclining his head towards Holmes. Rosie’s eyes widened as understanding dawned, and Holmes nodded at her in polite greeting. He was trying to recall in what context he had encountered the name ‘Lily’ before.
“Ooooh,” the girl murmured, studying the newcomer with open curiosity. “Won’t do you no good to ask Lil’ for help with the Game,” she warned. “Lil’ hates when anyone so much as mentions it.”
“He ain’t playin’,” Dum cut in. “He’s here lookin’ for someone.”
Rosie’s eyes widened still further. “Alright. I’ll get her,” she relented quickly, and Holmes wondered at the sudden change in attitude. She’d slipped away amongst the tables before he could work it out, and Dum pushed himself to his feet.
“I’ll get us somethin’ to drink,” he announced to the table in general before heading towards the bar. Holmes turned an inquisitive look on his remaining companion, who surveyed the room carefully before he began to speak.
“Tiger-lily’s one of the Lost Ones,” he said eventually, in a low voice. His expression was grave, and he fiddled absently with the straps of his wrist cuff while he talked. “Listen - you gotta be careful who you talk to here, ‘specially about tellin’ people you’re from the other side. But Lil’s alright, she’ll help you. If she can, that is … she’s been here a long time.”
Holmes folded his hands before him on the table, studying the other man’s expression intently. “It’s obvious you’re taking some sort of risk by assisting me. Why chance it?”
Dee snorted. “Not all of us care so much for the Game. What they’re doin’, it ain’t right. Bringin’ the little ones here an’ all. Doesn’t sit so well with all of us. Dum an’ me, we’re just hired guns; low on the food chain, you know? But this effects everyone. It’s dangerous. ‘Specially for your lot.”
“Hullo, Dee. Rosie said you was lookin’ for me?”
Both men looked up at Tiger-lily, who stood at the edge of the table. She was strikingly beautiful, tall and elegant with sleek black hair piled high on the top of her small head. She wore a low-cut black and orange dress that matched the blossom tucked behind her ear, and her dark brown eyes were outlined with kohl.
“Hiya, Lil’. I want you to meet my friend -- Sherlock Holmes. You an’ him have some things in common. He could use your help.” He stood then, offering her his vacated seat. “Sit an’ talk a minute, alright? I’m gonna help Dum with the drinks.” She seemed hesitant at first, frowning after his retreating figure; but in the end, she took his abandoned chair.
“Can’t talk long, hon,” she told Holmes quietly. “Busy night tonight, and Grif gets himself all worked up when he thinks we ain’t pulling our weight.”
“I understand; I promise I won’t take up much of your time.” Holmes studied her carefully. He’d finally remembered who she was. “I’ve come here in search of someone, someone who’s been kidnapped from my side.” Her eyes narrowed and he reached once more for the photograph in his pocket. “This is not the first time she’s been here, and I have reason to believe you’ve encountered her before. Is her face familiar to you?” He slid the picture across the table towards her, and the healthy flush in her delicate cheeks drained away.
“Why would they take her again?” she murmured, mostly to herself. Abruptly, she recalled where they were and pushed the snapshot back in his direction. “Goodness, honey, put that away - if the wrong person saw it …”
“Can you help me?” he pressed as he returned the photograph to his pocket.
“I … I don’t know. I don’t know where she is. But if they’ve taken her for the Game, I might be able to help you figure out where to start lookin’.”
“Because you once played the Game yourself?”
She flushed a little and looked away, pinning her lower lip beneath a perfect row of straight, white teeth. “… Yes. Like Alice, I was taken. I was very young; I have so few memories of what life was like before. Too young to play, at first; they brought Alice here to take my place. She helped them win. Then they grew careless, and she got away.”
“Why do they require children for this Game? I’m afraid I do not understand how it all works.”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t really understand myself. The nobility here invented the Game hundreds of years ago, as a means of keepin’ themselves entertained. But eventually they grew bored and started changin’ the rules. It’s really complex now, and important - whoever wins the Game gets real powerful here in this world. As you can imagine, the players are willin’ to go to do just about anything to win. Kidnapping is a crime, and bringin’ outsiders across the border is strictly forbidden; but they break the laws, and no one has the power to punish them. They need children as part of this new, complex Game, ‘cause children can see both sides of the divide at the same time. They can exist on one side while viewing another. For some reason, that’s important.”
“Only children?”
“Well … yes. As we grow older, we start cuttin’ up the world into categories: ‘real’, ‘fiction.’ We lose the ability to see certain things, because we no longer have faith in their existence. That’s how I got trapped here. I grew up. I can’t see the other side now.” Her face twisted into a grimace of pain and frustration. “I wasn’t any use to them any more, so they sold me to Grif.”
“But you were younger than Alice. How can she still be of use to them if you no longer are?”
“Time works differently here. I’m an adult now.” She smiled bitterly, leaning back to mockingly display her decidedly mature profile. “But she’s still a child. For the moment.”
“How did she get away before?”
“No one knows. But she’s the only one who ever has.”
“I have reason to believe the White Rabbit may know where she is. Do you know how I can find him?”
“No. But he works for the nobility, I can tell you that much. And he brought her here the first time, or so the legend says.”
There was a sudden commotion near the door. Two men stood at the entrance - one tall and lanky, the other one short and fat - and at the sight of them, Tiger-lily became pale. “Serpents,” she hissed warningly to Holmes, regaining her feet and slipping off into the shadows. The detective glanced in the direction of the Tweedle brothers and noticed that they were eyeing the strangers warily from the bar. The rest of the room had subsided into a terse, uncomfortable silence.
The Serpents didn’t seem terribly bothered by this, perhaps because it wasn’t an irregular occurrence. They sauntered cockily over the bar and ordered their drinks, smirking confidently at anyone within range. The other patrons went back to whatever they’d been doing. Cautiously. The gunmen vacated their stools and returned to the table.
“Friends of yours?” Holmes asked dryly, accepting the drink they handed him. It was electric blue and smelled inexplicably of strawberries.
Dum snorted and Dee simply downed the contents of his tumbler-sized shot glass. “You talk to Lil’?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.
“Yes. She was quite informative.”
“She’s a good kid. You might wanna try -“
“Look out; Serpents found the bucket head,” Dum cut in suddenly, low and urgent. Both brothers turned towards the bar with the vibrating intensity of dogs scenting an oncoming fight.
The lean man and the fat man had opted to sit on either side of a third individual, who was doing his very best to ignore their presence. His chin was propped in the palm of one hand while his other maintained a nervous grip on his drink. Said drink appeared to be one in a procession of many; from time to time, for no discernible reason, he would slip sideways and fall off the stool, though he persistently continued to clamor back up onto it again every time he did. He had long, white-blonde hair that hung in a listless curtain about his drawn face, streaked in places with every color imaginable. His pale, watery-blue eyes never appeared to successfully focus on anything.
He was ignoring the Serpents’ jeering with an air of long-time habit.
“- C’mon, now; you haven’t forgotten how to sing already, have ya?” the fat man was saying, elbowing the blonde in the ribs hard enough to make him fall off his stool again. “Mark of chivalry an’ all that, innit?” he asked his grinning companion. “Singin’ all those pansy verses to the good ladies of the court.”
“Ain’t no ladies here, though,” the lean one sneered, watching the blonde pull himself back onto his stool. “Jus’ droopy ole’ flowers and washed-out has-beens.” The women who were within earshot became a bit tight-lipped at that, but no one challenged the observation. “So c’mon, Mr. Has-Been, sing us a song. Or are yer songs too good for the likes of us?” He nudged the blonde’s stool with the toe of his boot, forcing the other man to grasp at the edge of the counter.
“Alright,” the hassled drunk snapped at last, “You boys want a song? I’ll sing a song, just for you.” He pushed himself to his feet and wobbled unsteadily in the direction of the stage. The Serpents exchanged amused looks; the Tweedles shared a worried one. Everyone in the room was watching the blonde now, and everyone except the Serpents looked uneasy.
“Tom, maybe this ain’t such a good idea,” Rosie tried gently as he passed her, but the would-be musician paid her no mind. He stumbled drunkenly to the piano bench and lined his fingers up against the old, yellowed keys.
Then he launched into his song, and to Holmes’ surprise he really could sing. His voice, still beautiful despite being laced with bitterness and alcohol, carried easily across the room and his piano accompaniment was more than vaguely competent. The detective was even more startled when he recognized the words:
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
Everyone glanced uneasily at the Serpents, who were no longer smiling. Holmes observed the strange, wicked looking hammer stuck through the lanky man’s belt, and things began to click ominously into place. But the musician was undeterred:
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
(You could have heard a pin drop in the room; the audience scarcely dared to breathe. The Serpents were scowling, though they didn’t yet make a move to interrupt.)
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
The musician placidly removed his hands from the piano keys, letting them fall listlessly into his lap. Dum swore softly under his breath as the Serpents stood with slow deliberation and walked towards the stage.
“The Oysters?” Holmes asked in an undertone to his companions, watching the Walrus and the Carpenter stalk their way across the room.
“Children,” Dee explained quietly, “black market trade.”
“And the musician?”
“Thomas. Used to be a knight for the White side, ‘fore the White side was destroyed.”
The ex-knight continued to wait for the Serpent’s retribution, no expression on his face. Even though he wasn’t moving, he was still having difficulty staying on the piano bench.
Meanwhile, the Serpents had reached the stage.
(“They’re kidnappers, then?”
“They’re henchmen,” he said in a tone that also implied thieves/spies/murderers/kidnappers/gophers-)
“You think that’s funny?” the Carpenter menaced. He eased the hammer free of his belt while the Walrus looked on, leering. “You think we’re funny?”
“No,” Thomas responded flatly, his listless eyes trailing over the weapon. “I think you’re pathetic.”
(“Henchmen for whom?”)
The Carpenter lunged forward and fisted his fingers into the front of Thomas’ rumpled shirt, pulling him to his feet with enough violence to tip the piano bench over. The audience cringed reflexively as it crashed off the edge of the stage.
(“Whoever’s willin’ to hire ‘em.”)
Thomas’ blank gaze followed the trajectory of the hammer as it was lifted above their heads, but he didn’t appear frightened and he made no effort to struggle. “Washed up old has-been, calling us pathetic?” the Carpenter sneered. “Well, funny man; we’ll see if you’re still laughing after I smash out all your teeth.”
He drew back his arm in preparation to strike, the sleeve of his shirt riding up to reveal the snake tattoo on his thin, bony wrist.
(“And these two? Whom do they work for?”)
The Walrus began to cackle - a deep, ugly, choking sound - and some of the women in the room covered their eyes.
(“They’re the Unicorn’s men,” Dee said grimly.)
“Just a minute, now - what the hell’s going on here?”
The gathered assembly turned as one, refocusing on the man who had just clattered imperiously down the stairs. Tiger-lily walked a few paces behind him, looking defiant and satisfied.
“Stay outta this, Grif,” the Carpenter warned. He hadn’t released his captive, but he had lowered the hammer. The Walrus took a menacing step in his direction, but the older, grizzled man paid him no notice. As the proprietor of the establishment, he’d encountered their lot only too many times before.
“What’ve I told you about shedding blood in here? What do you think that does for my business - scaring customers, smashing up my things? Huh?”
“Frightened men drink more,” the Walrus put in with that same ugly chuckle, but a harsh look from Grif silenced him again.
“Oh, no. Not in here, you don’t. And not outside, neither, not this time. Thomas owes me money, and he’s going to help entertain my costumers until his debt is paid. After that, I don’t care what you do to him; but for now, he belongs to me.”
“He insulted us,” the Carpenter growled. “And an insult to us is an insult to the boss.” The threat implied in those words sent another thrill of tension through the room, but Grif remained unimpressed.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about you or your damned employer,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest and studying the two men with the contempt most people reserved for dead, unpleasant insects. “And if you’ve got a problem with that, you can take it up with my boss.”
That, at least, seemed to give the bullies pause. Holmes studied the feathery tufts of white hair on the man’s head and his cruel, curved beak of a nose as he mentally pushed another piece of the puzzle into place.
Grudgingly, the Carpenter released his hold on Thomas and shoved him backwards, hard enough to send the former knight stumbling into the piano. “You got lucky today, bucket head,” he snarled, jabbing the blade of his index finger hard against the other man’s sternum. “But one of these days, your luck’s gonna run out. And I’m gonna be there when it does.”
The Serpents glared menacingly at Grif - and at anyone else foolish enough to make eye contact with them - as they stomped their way out of the building.
Grif spat contemptuously on the hardwood floor. “Go back to what you were doing, folks,” he ordered firmly, and the room obediently subsided into a wave of nervous chatter and clinking glass. The proprietor took advantage of the moment to wheel angrily on his hapless employee, but his words of reprimand were drowned out in the general noise of the room.
“So there are people even the Unicorn fears,” Holmes mused.
“He ain’t got the crown yet, has he?” Dee appropriated the bottle his twin had brought to the table and refilled both their glasses. Holmes had yet to touch his.
“What of the Lion?”
“You’re awfully knowledgeable for an outsider,” Dum observed with a sideways glance for his smaller companion. “You haven’t told us who you’re workin’ for yet.”
“I’m a consulting detective; I’ve been hired by the girl’s parents to find her and, if possible, return her to her home.” For some reason, it seemed best to leave Carroll out of the equation, at least for now.
“That don’t explain how you got here, though, does it?”
Though he would never quite be able to explain why, Holmes’ instincts warned him that it wouldn’t be wise to mention the Cheshire Cat, either. The feline’s motives were at best unclear, and it was impossible to know at whose bidding he’d been sent to show Holmes the way. So instead, he retrieved the Rabbit’s watch from his pocket and placed it on the table for them to see.
“I’ve borrowed some time,” he tried, the Cat’s words tasting strange in his mouth, “from someone who has known Alice on both sides of the divide. That association was the only clue I had to go on.”
The brothers gawked at the watch for a moment, neither attempting to touch it. Then, slowly, Dee began to smile. “We’ve been underestimatin’ this one, Dum,” he said, eyes flashing in mirth. “How the hell did you get that? By the Suites, that rabbit never lets the watch out of his sight!”
Dum didn’t seem quite as amused. “Awfully clever,” he agreed quietly. “Bit like somethin’ a Serpent would do.” Dee’s smile faltered.
Holmes made an educated guess and quickly pushed up both his sleeves, presenting his bare wrists for inspection. “I am not a Serpent,” he said firmly. “As I’ve said, I’m a consulting detective. It’s a career pathway which has necessitated competency in a broad range of skills.”
Dee and Dum exchanged careful looks, and Holmes found himself - not for the first time - wishing it had been possible for Watson to accompany him on this journey. The doctor had always been much better at putting others at ease. It was something Holmes himself had never been quite able to master, regardless of whatever charms he might possess.
Dum sighed. “The Game’s too complicated for me now; too many players, too many sides. Maybe you is workin’ for the Lion, or the royals, or the Suites, or someone else we ain’t even heard of yet. And maybe you isn’t. We done our part. We can’t take you no further no matter why you’re here, so I guess there’s no harm in havin’ a drink or two, anyway.” He upended his glass demonstratively while Dee nodded his agreement. They looked resigned and tired: men who had been caught up for too long in a political struggle they didn’t want to know anything about.
“But the Fourth Square belongs to you, does it not? Surely you were part of it all at one time or another.”
Dum made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. “Nah. It’s the forest, not us; when the Game was just a game, it was about challengin’ yourself and that. The forest makes you forget things you need to be knowin’. Not easy, gettin’ through. It’s our family land, ‘s all.”
“I’m not certain yet where my search will lead me. It is possible I may have to pass through the forest myself.”
Dee shrugged. “As you like. We ain’t gonna stop you; anyone who’s crazy enough to try for it can, as they please. We can’t guide you, though, if that’s what you mean. We refuse to take a part in the Game. And anyway, no one else can show you the path. That’s up to you to find alone.”
Dum appeared to be mulling something over while his brother spoke, and at last he set his drink down firmly on the table, having arrived at a decision. “Only but one way to git through the third square, an’ that’s by train. And you can be damned sure the gang’ll be out again, causin’ trouble. Make certain you’re here tomorrow to catch the train; we’ll be on it. So we can guarantee you at least make it to the forest, anyway.”
Dee shot his brother a speculative look, but he didn’t contradict the promise.
“What time does the train depart?” Holmes asked automatically, glancing between them. They returned his look with blank incomprehension.
“When it’s Time to Go,” Dum replied.
_____________________________________________
Next Chapter >>
Oni's Note: Cato and Rose (who are briefly mentioned in this chapter, but who never actually appear in the story) got their names from two characters in Robert B. Parker's novel, Resolution. This is my metaphorical hat-tip to Parker, who indirectly gave me the idea for the Gang and the animal-train with a humorous quote from another book in that series, Brimstone: "'What the hell's that thing?' he said. / 'Eight-gauge shotgun,' I said. / 'You planning on hunting locomotives?' the conductor said. / 'Only if one attacks me,' I said."
The song that Thomas sings about the Walrus and the Carpenter comes directly from Through the Looking-Glass, And What Alice Found There, and belongs to Lewis Carroll. You an read it here. The willful misinterpretation is mine.
The other passengers paid no attention to him as he picked his way carefully down the isle, though his sharp eyes shifted restlessly beneath his hat brim, taking everything in. The normalcy of the car and its occupants was almost disappointing, given the fantastical circumstances under which he’d arrived. Men in derby hats talked quietly, gesticulating with familiarly creased, middle-class hands; women absent-mindedly minded chattering children, who occasionally spilled out into the aisles or knelt on their seat cushions to press their noses against the smudged glass.
Eventually, the detective located an unoccupied seat in the middle of the car and settled himself in it. He slanted his hat strategically so he could study the people sitting around him while appearing to gaze out the window. The small gold watch nestled in the palm of his hand remained there, and his long fingers continued to map out the simple contours of its surface - a nervous tick to replace the absent tock.
His attitude did not change when the shrill call of the station master’s whistle finally announced their imminent departure, though a careful observer would’ve noted a new line of tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Whatever he thought of this excursion, there was no going back now.
The rhythmic clack and hiss of the locomotive tangled with the general chatter of its passengers, a tapestry of sound whose individual threads were soon lost to general distortion; but Holmes was making an effort to concentrate on the conversation taking place in the seat directly before his, and it ran something like this:
“The South Bend, yeah? Supposed to be a whole pack of ‘em camped up that ways. Cato said there was a scuffle last week, said the bastards made off with a whole engine.”
“I ain’t heard nothing ‘bout that.”
“Well, s’not like they’re gonna publish the story or nothing, is it? You think this lot woulda climbed aboard if they knew that -“
The second speaker quite obviously didn’t think they would have, and he jostled his companion roughly before he could finish his statement. “Shut it, Dee, will ya? Boss’ll pitch us out for sure if we get these hens all worked up,” he hissed. It was obvious that he was trying to speak quietly, and it’s possible he even thought he’d succeeded; but the problem with extremely large men is that they often have extremely large voices, and he was certainly a large man. Holmes’ eyes narrowed speculatively and he shifted a little in his seat, altering position so that he could use the window opposite the strangers as a sort of mirror.
At first it seemed the glass performed that function too well, for the passengers seated before him were almost identical in appearance. Giant, broad-shouldered men with matching blue-grey eyes and five o’clock shadows, they both wore their disheveled blonde hair relatively short, the untidy locks sticking out in a haphazard fashion and licking occasionally at the scruffy edges of their strong, square jaws. Their clothes were all that dispelled the illusion of double-vision. Both wore long dusters soiled and creased with use. The one closest to the window’s - ‘Dee,’ as he’d been addressed by the other - wore a dark, chocolate brown; the other’s was a lighter, buttery tan. They wore their coats unbuttoned, revealing equally rumpled linen shirts (one white, one blue); Dee wore a red scarf knotted around his thick neck. His twin had a pair of brass goggles on his head.
What Holmes found most interesting about them, however, were the strange weapons they held in their hands.
They possessed a matching set of rifles, though rifles of a sort Holmes had never before seen. The stocks appeared to be made of wood, dark and stained with the patina of hard, regular use - in this aspect, at least, the detective was on familiar ground. But the strange profusion of brass work, copper plating, and gears proved more problematic. It wasn’t apparent what weapons such as those would use for ammunition, or even if they’d fire at all. They were gun-shaped and held in sun-worn, calloused hands that looked entirely capable of shooting to kill, but their bizarre composition made him question his initial assessment of their function. And they were not the only strange devices the men carried. The left sleeve of Dee’s dark coat bunched up around his forearm, the cuff unable to accommodate the leather band he wore around his wrist or the metal contraption it held in place. It, too, might have been a gun - the object contained four slim metal barrels and some kind of key-shaped crank on one end - but it’s peculiar design likewise made it difficult to say for sure. The handle of what might have been a pistol was visible through the opening of the second man’s coat, resting in a shoulder harness.
Holmes glanced around the carriage again carefully, but none of the other passengers appeared to be armed.
“Who was workin’ that horse, anyway?” the second speaker was asking his companion, the shadowy image of his reflection scowling in disapproval.
“Some flash-shot,” Dee scoffed. “’Member that lot that blew into Term last month? One of them. Thought chasin’ the Gang was just like banging ‘round bucket heads.”
“He was a bucket head, little piss-ant. That crew the lot that was roughin’ the Flowers, too?”
“Mmhm.”
The other cracked his knuckles menacingly. “Bucket heads oughta learn to keep to their side of the bloody line.”
They were both quiet for a stretch, perhaps considering this. Holmes took advantage of their lapse to shift his attention to the scenery flashing past outside and was instantly surprised by two independent factors: the first was the unprecedented speed of the train, which galloped down the stretch of track so quickly the customary click-clack had blurred into one continuous hum; the second was that he didn’t recognize the countryside.
The only thing he could be certain of was that, in a ridiculously short span of time, they’d managed to leave London far behind them.
“Boss says if they lose another horse, he’s gonna make us double-up. Already talked to Rose ‘bout it.”
“We ain’t lost a pony yet, Dum.”
Dum shrugged. “Just a precaution. You wanna get stuck workin’ with a bucket head?”
Dee declined comment on this. “Wish t’Suites I knew who they was sellin’ the herd off to.”
“Part of the Game, ‘s my guess. Don’t protest too hotly; keeps us employed, don’t it?”
They fell quiet again. Holmes crossed his arms over his chest and slouched lower in his seat, affecting sleep as he attempted to get a clear glimpse in his window of the person seated behind him. The light wouldn’t work to his favor, though; he thought it might have been a woman in a white fur coat, working diligently on the knitting in her lap, but the glass’ reflection was oddly distorting. At times her head of tight, white curls almost merged with the collar of her jacket, and the two needles in her hands took on the appearance of six or eight. After a few moments, he gave up the exercise as futile.
The passenger sitting across from him was a young girl with straight brown hair. She was alone and kept her hands clenched tightly in her lap, blank green eyes gazing at the back of the seat in front of her. She seemed anxious and tense, and Holmes absently wondered if this was her first time traveling alone. She was well-dressed but pale, with a black cloth armband encircling her right forearm. It put Holmes in mind of the sort men wore to signify mourning -- an odd device for a girl of her age.
As is often the case with long distance travel, the relaxed chatter of the train’s passengers slowly thinned and trickled before finally giving way completely to the metallic hum of their forward progression. Children abandoned their limited explorations in favor of the comfort of their mothers' laps or shoulders; heads tilted sideways to prop against the windows. Even the rigid girl across from Holmes eventually slumped into the ‘v’ her seat made with the wall of the car, relaxing the death-grip her fingers had maintained around each other. Only the two blonde men in front of Holmes remained alert, their calm gazes taking in everything without comment.
Perhaps three hours passed, or maybe it was only thirty minutes. The detective, who normally had a decent mental grasp on such things, would have been at a complete loss to say for sure. The silent watch in his hand was certainly no indicator. The colors outside had begun to edge towards the darker end of the spectrum, but whether they owed the change to a persistent cloudbank or a drastic shift in the position of the sun, he couldn’t say for sure. The train had made no additional stops; no one had gotten on or off.
Suddenly, for no reason Holmes could discern, there was a rigid tension in the air.
The dozing passengers obliviously slept on, but Dee, placing one hand on the back of the seat in front of him, pushed himself to his feet and leaned closer to the window. Holmes sat up a little straighter and attempted to follow the direction of the man’s gaze, but he saw nothing apart from flat grassland.
“Three,” Dee said quietly to his companion.
“Scouts,” Dum surmised.
“South Bend’s dead ahead.”
Holmes still couldn't see anything, but Dum reached for his rifle and Dee fumbled with the latches on the window, struggling a moment to manipulate the slender tabs with his thick fingers. When he had the window down, he likewise grabbed his weapon and braced the oddly-shaped barrel on the sill. Dum stepped out into the isle and turned to face Holmes.
“’Scuse me a minute,” he murmured, and the detective obligingly drew up his thin legs to accommodate him as the gunmen carefully maneuvered towards the window. Holmes watched curiously as he, too, fumbled with the catch on the top pane and situated his own weapon in an identical manner to his partner’s.
The two men both thumbed back the strange copper hammers and rested their fingers against the curl of their triggers. And then they froze in that position, unmoving and silent as the train clattered on.
Dum’s blocky form completely cut off Holmes’ field of vision, and so he found himself concentrating on the slant of the man’s massive shoulders instead, searching for some clue as to what they were about to face off against. But both men were impressively stoic. The detective turned the watch in his hand restlessly and waited.
“There,” Dee finally said into the silence. His voice vibrated with warning and expectation, but neither of the two men moved.
“See ‘em,” Dum muttered. “Six.”
“Eight.”
“Eleven.”
“Fourteen.”
“Bloody hell, they’re circling!”
Holmes flattened himself against his seat just in time to clear Dum’s path as the man pushed himself away from the wall and moved quickly into the opposite row. The little girl was awake now, looking up at him in terror as he fumbled open her window and resumed his previous position. He ignored her completely. “Twenty-two over here - it’s the whole bloody pack!” he snarled in warning.
Taking advantage of his absence, Holmes slid closer to his own window and peered expectantly through the glass. This time, he could see something - though what he saw was up for interpretation. The world outside had ceased edging towards darkness and had, instead, become darkness altogether. Within that inky landscape a swarm of shadowy figures moved quickly, stretching out across the ground and keeping pace with the train. At times, they appeared to be men dressed in long black coats and slouched black hats, riding black horses; but then again, horse and man sometimes appeared one creature altogether, loping along like an enormous black wolf, or a panther, or something that was a little of both and completely neither. The harder he tried to concentrate on their distorted forms, the more difficult they were to observe.
“Who’s leading them?” Dee called over his shoulder.
“Nobody.”
“Fuck,” Dee muttered, bracing one knee on the seat and locking himself into position. “Alright. Let ‘em know we’re here.”
The terse quiet of the car was shattered by a sudden wild-cat snarl of sound, and one of the dark shapes outside went down; the noise was repeated on the opposite side of the train, assumedly with similar results.
So they were guns, then.
“Backing?” Dum asked tersely.
“Nope.”
They fired again.
“Now?”
“Nope.”
And then a new sound added its voice to the general chaos - something coming from outside, not unlike the rifle shots but somehow infinitely more unpleasant. It couldn’t compare, though, to the piercing screech which immediately followed it. Holmes reflexively clamped his hands down over his ears, a white hot stab of light flashing painfully behind his eyes. It was a banshee wail, the sound of a finger nail on a chalkboard magnified a billion times over, and it hurt. The gunmen, rather than covering their ears, each removed one hand from their weapons and used it to brace themselves against the wall of the car. A second later, the train jumped.
There was no other way to explain it. Like a wild animal bucking forward to avoid a whiplash, the vehicle had gathered itself together and lunged, its cars rocking precariously with the instability. Holmes, entirely unprepared for the movement, was thrown hard against the wall. Wincing with the pain, he gripped the back of the seat in front of him and held on tightly as the car regained its balance. All the passengers were awake now, and some of the children had begun to cry despite the distracted soothing of their anxious mothers.
“Still on track!” Dum shouted triumphantly.
“River’s just ahead.”
“Last shot?”
“Nobody’s in my sights.” He sounded grimly satisfied with the report. They both fired, almost simultaneously; the magnified explosion of their combined blasts was almost as painful as the mysterious shrieking noise had been.
“Hit?”
“No; bastard swerved!”
“River in half a league.”
They both drew their guns back into the car, hastily reloading with cartridges they pulled from the recesses of their coats. Then they resumed position.
“… Ain’t backing off, Dee,” Dum warned. Dee frowned at the news and sighted along his barrel.
“Almost there.”
“Still ain’t backing.”
“Shit. What’re they thinking?!”
“Incoming!”
The foreign gun report came again, and Holmes braced himself for that inhuman scream of pain. It was louder this time, metallic teeth dragging viciously down his spine. The agony of the sound ripped his breathing into ragged gasps, and he closed his eyes reflexively as the train lunged again. This time it hopped sideways, spilling half of its passengers into the aisle. Dum absently dropped an arm to pin the frightened girl where she was, glancing down at her as she whimpered in terror. He noted her black armband and cursed, but the sound was drowned out by the sharp screech of metal as the train’s wheels tottered dangerously against the rails. They were now moving forward at an impossible speed, and Holmes braced himself again, certain they’d tip - but somehow, the car righted itself.
“River!” Dee warned above the confusion of scared voices.
“Don’t let up! There’s a P-O-N onboard - they ain’t after the bloody train!”
Holmes strained to see past the blurred shapes in the darkness and could indeed just make out a massive body of water glittering in the half-light ahead. What he couldn’t see was a bridge.
It all happened rather quickly: one of the women in the car screamed; Dee and Dum fired their guns, and then fired again; and Holmes felt the train gathering beneath him, like a great animal preparing to make a massive leap …
… which, coincidently, is exactly what it was.
“Last shot!” Dee called. They both sighted and fired, and then leaned back into the car to latch on to whatever handholds they could find.
With a massive bound, the train leapt over the river.
It was a jump the locomotive had made many times before, but the attack had thrown off its balance and it almost didn’t clear the opposite shore. The caboose splashed noisily through blessedly shallow water while the train struggled up the steep bank, squealing and grunting like a pig as it pushed forward. Finally they succeeded, the manic pace of earlier resolving itself into a more regular trot as they chugged forward in the darkness.
“Bloody Game,” Dee groused, reloading his gun. Dum cast a glowering look at the frightened girl before putting up her window and moving to retake his seat. Around them, the other passengers were still sorting themselves out, agitated and scared, but the gunmen ignored them.
“Careless; didn’t see her sittin’ there.”
“She’s movin’ the right way, though. That’s why we didn’t notice. Only one movin’ the wrong way is him.” Dum turned his head and made eye-contact with a very startled detective. “You with her?” he demanded, jerking a thumb at the child.
“No,” Holmes responded quietly. He noticed with interest that Dee was looking at his sleeves, perhaps in search of an armband. The absence of one seemed to increase his suspicion rather than alleviate it.
“He ain’t playin’,” he warned his companion. To Holmes, he said, “What you doin’ here, then? Your sort ain’t really supposed to be here, you know.”
Holmes blinked, rapidly sorting out his options. “… Is it customary for you to interrogate other passengers?” he asked coolly after a brief pause, settling back in his seat. The gunmen glanced at each other and he waited, tense and expectant; there were a couple of ways this could go, and some of them didn’t end entirely well for him.
But then Dum grinned. “Arrogant as hell, you lot, always,” he chuckled. “Few times that ya ain’t scared witless, anyways. … We protect the train from stuff that’s outside, not in. Can’t ride the train ‘less you’re supposed to. So that’s alright.”
Holmes visibly relaxed, as a gesture of goodwill. “You’ve encountered others of … my ‘lot,’ then?” he asked cautiously.
“Sometimes,” Dee shrugged. “Not in a while, though. Mostly, it’s ones like her.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the girl.
“I’m looking for someone,” Holmes ventured after a moment of consideration. “Someone ‘like her,’ I believe. A little girl, about her age.” The companions exchanged looks again, a strange flicker of surprise and consideration crossing each identical face.
“Don’t recall that ever happenin’ before,” Dum mused. Dee nodded slowly. “What side brung you? Or brung her?”
“… I’m not entirely sure I understand what you mean by ‘side.’ She was kidnapped. I do not know by whom. That is what I’ve come to discover.” He reached into his coat pocket and showed them the photograph he withdrew.
The look on their faces was difficult to explain. Holmes felt a hopeful lurch in the pit of his stomach and leaned forward in anticipation. “How’d she end up here again?” Dum breathed in confusion, but Dee quickly elbowed him into silence.
“Not now,” he hissed, casting a meaningful glance around the car. No one appeared to be paying them the least bit of attention, but that wasn’t enough to reassure him. “We’ll discuss this when we get to Term’, Mr …?”
“Holmes,” the detective supplied. “Sherlock Holmes.” The name didn’t register on the gunmen’s faces, and for that Holmes was relieved.
“Right. I’m Tweedle Dee, and this is m’brother. Tweedle Dum.” Holmes shook each of their hands in turn, his own completely enveloped by both enormous paws. “We work the Two and Three routes, keepin’ the train hunters off. But we’ll have some time when we get to Term, whilst they doctor the horse and refuel.”
“Term?” Holmes asked curiously.
“’Termination.’ Final stop. Only stop.” He grinned.
“There are only two stations on the entire route?”
“Sure.” Dee shrugged again. “Where you git on, and where you git off. Only two places you got to be worryin’ about.”
Holmes nodded; it seemed the safest answer. “And how long before we arrive at Termination?”
Dee glanced out the window. “Not long.”
He was right. After fifteen minutes - or five, or fifty - Holmes felt the train begin to slow. The rough, shadowy outlines of buildings began to appear outside his window, blocky shapes that gradually became more clustered as they eased to a stop. The Tweedle brothers gathered their guns, and Holmes - after a final, speculative glance at the little girl - followed them off the train.
It was hard to make any detailed observations about Termination in the dark, for the clouds hid the moon and shadows smeared the buildings into the night that surrounded them. From what Holmes could gather, however, it had much in common with the frontier towns so stereotypical of the American west: one main street, simple, uniformly constructed wooden buildings, and few people. The majority of the train’s passengers shuffled off towards the only hotel, but the Tweedles led him past the building with an easy familiarity that disregarded the darkness entirely. Eventually they ended up on the outskirts of the settlement, as far from the station as the town extended, and the trio ducked inside the last building in the row.
The interior was well-lit by a series of burning gas lights, revealing a décor that was gaudy and comfortably Victorian. Along the left hand wall stood a crescent shaped bar, the shelves behind it well stocked with bottles containing liquids in every imaginable color. The back wall hosted a small stage with an upright piano angled along one corner; small, circular tables dotted the remaining floor space. The room wasn’t crowded but it wasn’t empty, small groups of patrons sharing bottles around the tables or laughing drunkenly along the bar. A group of young, brightly dressed women drifted about the premises like butterflies.
Dee headed towards an abandoned table near the back with the unerring directness of a regular costumer, and once they were seated he gestured for the closest of the women to come closer still. “Hullo, love,” she purred to him, though she shared her smile in equal proportions with the entire trio.
“Hey there, Rosie. Lily around?”
The beautiful redhead pouted theatrically, propping one delicate hand on her hip. The other traced invisible, meandering patterns on the scarred tabletop in front of Dee. “Aw, what’s this, now - you sayin’ I’m not good enough for ya anymore?” Long lashes fluttered over bright green eyes, painted lips pursed into a cute moue of disappointment. “Comin’ in here after all this time and askin’ after Lil’? I’m hurt, Dee.”
“Now hold on, Rosie, I ain’t askin’ for me - this gent needs to talk to her. He ain’t from around here,” he said meaningfully, inclining his head towards Holmes. Rosie’s eyes widened as understanding dawned, and Holmes nodded at her in polite greeting. He was trying to recall in what context he had encountered the name ‘Lily’ before.
“Ooooh,” the girl murmured, studying the newcomer with open curiosity. “Won’t do you no good to ask Lil’ for help with the Game,” she warned. “Lil’ hates when anyone so much as mentions it.”
“He ain’t playin’,” Dum cut in. “He’s here lookin’ for someone.”
Rosie’s eyes widened still further. “Alright. I’ll get her,” she relented quickly, and Holmes wondered at the sudden change in attitude. She’d slipped away amongst the tables before he could work it out, and Dum pushed himself to his feet.
“I’ll get us somethin’ to drink,” he announced to the table in general before heading towards the bar. Holmes turned an inquisitive look on his remaining companion, who surveyed the room carefully before he began to speak.
“Tiger-lily’s one of the Lost Ones,” he said eventually, in a low voice. His expression was grave, and he fiddled absently with the straps of his wrist cuff while he talked. “Listen - you gotta be careful who you talk to here, ‘specially about tellin’ people you’re from the other side. But Lil’s alright, she’ll help you. If she can, that is … she’s been here a long time.”
Holmes folded his hands before him on the table, studying the other man’s expression intently. “It’s obvious you’re taking some sort of risk by assisting me. Why chance it?”
Dee snorted. “Not all of us care so much for the Game. What they’re doin’, it ain’t right. Bringin’ the little ones here an’ all. Doesn’t sit so well with all of us. Dum an’ me, we’re just hired guns; low on the food chain, you know? But this effects everyone. It’s dangerous. ‘Specially for your lot.”
“Hullo, Dee. Rosie said you was lookin’ for me?”
Both men looked up at Tiger-lily, who stood at the edge of the table. She was strikingly beautiful, tall and elegant with sleek black hair piled high on the top of her small head. She wore a low-cut black and orange dress that matched the blossom tucked behind her ear, and her dark brown eyes were outlined with kohl.
“Hiya, Lil’. I want you to meet my friend -- Sherlock Holmes. You an’ him have some things in common. He could use your help.” He stood then, offering her his vacated seat. “Sit an’ talk a minute, alright? I’m gonna help Dum with the drinks.” She seemed hesitant at first, frowning after his retreating figure; but in the end, she took his abandoned chair.
“Can’t talk long, hon,” she told Holmes quietly. “Busy night tonight, and Grif gets himself all worked up when he thinks we ain’t pulling our weight.”
“I understand; I promise I won’t take up much of your time.” Holmes studied her carefully. He’d finally remembered who she was. “I’ve come here in search of someone, someone who’s been kidnapped from my side.” Her eyes narrowed and he reached once more for the photograph in his pocket. “This is not the first time she’s been here, and I have reason to believe you’ve encountered her before. Is her face familiar to you?” He slid the picture across the table towards her, and the healthy flush in her delicate cheeks drained away.
“Why would they take her again?” she murmured, mostly to herself. Abruptly, she recalled where they were and pushed the snapshot back in his direction. “Goodness, honey, put that away - if the wrong person saw it …”
“Can you help me?” he pressed as he returned the photograph to his pocket.
“I … I don’t know. I don’t know where she is. But if they’ve taken her for the Game, I might be able to help you figure out where to start lookin’.”
“Because you once played the Game yourself?”
She flushed a little and looked away, pinning her lower lip beneath a perfect row of straight, white teeth. “… Yes. Like Alice, I was taken. I was very young; I have so few memories of what life was like before. Too young to play, at first; they brought Alice here to take my place. She helped them win. Then they grew careless, and she got away.”
“Why do they require children for this Game? I’m afraid I do not understand how it all works.”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t really understand myself. The nobility here invented the Game hundreds of years ago, as a means of keepin’ themselves entertained. But eventually they grew bored and started changin’ the rules. It’s really complex now, and important - whoever wins the Game gets real powerful here in this world. As you can imagine, the players are willin’ to go to do just about anything to win. Kidnapping is a crime, and bringin’ outsiders across the border is strictly forbidden; but they break the laws, and no one has the power to punish them. They need children as part of this new, complex Game, ‘cause children can see both sides of the divide at the same time. They can exist on one side while viewing another. For some reason, that’s important.”
“Only children?”
“Well … yes. As we grow older, we start cuttin’ up the world into categories: ‘real’, ‘fiction.’ We lose the ability to see certain things, because we no longer have faith in their existence. That’s how I got trapped here. I grew up. I can’t see the other side now.” Her face twisted into a grimace of pain and frustration. “I wasn’t any use to them any more, so they sold me to Grif.”
“But you were younger than Alice. How can she still be of use to them if you no longer are?”
“Time works differently here. I’m an adult now.” She smiled bitterly, leaning back to mockingly display her decidedly mature profile. “But she’s still a child. For the moment.”
“How did she get away before?”
“No one knows. But she’s the only one who ever has.”
“I have reason to believe the White Rabbit may know where she is. Do you know how I can find him?”
“No. But he works for the nobility, I can tell you that much. And he brought her here the first time, or so the legend says.”
There was a sudden commotion near the door. Two men stood at the entrance - one tall and lanky, the other one short and fat - and at the sight of them, Tiger-lily became pale. “Serpents,” she hissed warningly to Holmes, regaining her feet and slipping off into the shadows. The detective glanced in the direction of the Tweedle brothers and noticed that they were eyeing the strangers warily from the bar. The rest of the room had subsided into a terse, uncomfortable silence.
The Serpents didn’t seem terribly bothered by this, perhaps because it wasn’t an irregular occurrence. They sauntered cockily over the bar and ordered their drinks, smirking confidently at anyone within range. The other patrons went back to whatever they’d been doing. Cautiously. The gunmen vacated their stools and returned to the table.
“Friends of yours?” Holmes asked dryly, accepting the drink they handed him. It was electric blue and smelled inexplicably of strawberries.
Dum snorted and Dee simply downed the contents of his tumbler-sized shot glass. “You talk to Lil’?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved hand.
“Yes. She was quite informative.”
“She’s a good kid. You might wanna try -“
“Look out; Serpents found the bucket head,” Dum cut in suddenly, low and urgent. Both brothers turned towards the bar with the vibrating intensity of dogs scenting an oncoming fight.
The lean man and the fat man had opted to sit on either side of a third individual, who was doing his very best to ignore their presence. His chin was propped in the palm of one hand while his other maintained a nervous grip on his drink. Said drink appeared to be one in a procession of many; from time to time, for no discernible reason, he would slip sideways and fall off the stool, though he persistently continued to clamor back up onto it again every time he did. He had long, white-blonde hair that hung in a listless curtain about his drawn face, streaked in places with every color imaginable. His pale, watery-blue eyes never appeared to successfully focus on anything.
He was ignoring the Serpents’ jeering with an air of long-time habit.
“- C’mon, now; you haven’t forgotten how to sing already, have ya?” the fat man was saying, elbowing the blonde in the ribs hard enough to make him fall off his stool again. “Mark of chivalry an’ all that, innit?” he asked his grinning companion. “Singin’ all those pansy verses to the good ladies of the court.”
“Ain’t no ladies here, though,” the lean one sneered, watching the blonde pull himself back onto his stool. “Jus’ droopy ole’ flowers and washed-out has-beens.” The women who were within earshot became a bit tight-lipped at that, but no one challenged the observation. “So c’mon, Mr. Has-Been, sing us a song. Or are yer songs too good for the likes of us?” He nudged the blonde’s stool with the toe of his boot, forcing the other man to grasp at the edge of the counter.
“Alright,” the hassled drunk snapped at last, “You boys want a song? I’ll sing a song, just for you.” He pushed himself to his feet and wobbled unsteadily in the direction of the stage. The Serpents exchanged amused looks; the Tweedles shared a worried one. Everyone in the room was watching the blonde now, and everyone except the Serpents looked uneasy.
“Tom, maybe this ain’t such a good idea,” Rosie tried gently as he passed her, but the would-be musician paid her no mind. He stumbled drunkenly to the piano bench and lined his fingers up against the old, yellowed keys.
Then he launched into his song, and to Holmes’ surprise he really could sing. His voice, still beautiful despite being laced with bitterness and alcohol, carried easily across the room and his piano accompaniment was more than vaguely competent. The detective was even more startled when he recognized the words:
The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright--
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead--
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
"If this were only cleared away,"
They said, "it would be grand!"
Everyone glanced uneasily at the Serpents, who were no longer smiling. Holmes observed the strange, wicked looking hammer stuck through the lanky man’s belt, and things began to click ominously into place. But the musician was undeterred:
"If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year.
Do you suppose," the Walrus said,
"That they could get it clear?"
"I doubt it," said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
"O Oysters, come and walk with us!"
The Walrus did beseech.
"A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each."
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head--
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat--
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more--
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
(You could have heard a pin drop in the room; the audience scarcely dared to breathe. The Serpents were scowling, though they didn’t yet make a move to interrupt.)
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."
"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
"A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,
"Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed--
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed."
"But not on us!" the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
"After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!"
"The night is fine," the Walrus said.
"Do you admire the view?
"It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf--
I've had to ask you twice!"
"It seems a shame," the Walrus said,
"To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!"
The Carpenter said nothing but
"The butter's spread too thick!"
"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
"O Oysters," said the Carpenter,
"You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none--
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
The musician placidly removed his hands from the piano keys, letting them fall listlessly into his lap. Dum swore softly under his breath as the Serpents stood with slow deliberation and walked towards the stage.
“The Oysters?” Holmes asked in an undertone to his companions, watching the Walrus and the Carpenter stalk their way across the room.
“Children,” Dee explained quietly, “black market trade.”
“And the musician?”
“Thomas. Used to be a knight for the White side, ‘fore the White side was destroyed.”
The ex-knight continued to wait for the Serpent’s retribution, no expression on his face. Even though he wasn’t moving, he was still having difficulty staying on the piano bench.
Meanwhile, the Serpents had reached the stage.
(“They’re kidnappers, then?”
“They’re henchmen,” he said in a tone that also implied thieves/spies/murderers/kidnappers/gophers-)
“You think that’s funny?” the Carpenter menaced. He eased the hammer free of his belt while the Walrus looked on, leering. “You think we’re funny?”
“No,” Thomas responded flatly, his listless eyes trailing over the weapon. “I think you’re pathetic.”
(“Henchmen for whom?”)
The Carpenter lunged forward and fisted his fingers into the front of Thomas’ rumpled shirt, pulling him to his feet with enough violence to tip the piano bench over. The audience cringed reflexively as it crashed off the edge of the stage.
(“Whoever’s willin’ to hire ‘em.”)
Thomas’ blank gaze followed the trajectory of the hammer as it was lifted above their heads, but he didn’t appear frightened and he made no effort to struggle. “Washed up old has-been, calling us pathetic?” the Carpenter sneered. “Well, funny man; we’ll see if you’re still laughing after I smash out all your teeth.”
He drew back his arm in preparation to strike, the sleeve of his shirt riding up to reveal the snake tattoo on his thin, bony wrist.
(“And these two? Whom do they work for?”)
The Walrus began to cackle - a deep, ugly, choking sound - and some of the women in the room covered their eyes.
(“They’re the Unicorn’s men,” Dee said grimly.)
“Just a minute, now - what the hell’s going on here?”
The gathered assembly turned as one, refocusing on the man who had just clattered imperiously down the stairs. Tiger-lily walked a few paces behind him, looking defiant and satisfied.
“Stay outta this, Grif,” the Carpenter warned. He hadn’t released his captive, but he had lowered the hammer. The Walrus took a menacing step in his direction, but the older, grizzled man paid him no notice. As the proprietor of the establishment, he’d encountered their lot only too many times before.
“What’ve I told you about shedding blood in here? What do you think that does for my business - scaring customers, smashing up my things? Huh?”
“Frightened men drink more,” the Walrus put in with that same ugly chuckle, but a harsh look from Grif silenced him again.
“Oh, no. Not in here, you don’t. And not outside, neither, not this time. Thomas owes me money, and he’s going to help entertain my costumers until his debt is paid. After that, I don’t care what you do to him; but for now, he belongs to me.”
“He insulted us,” the Carpenter growled. “And an insult to us is an insult to the boss.” The threat implied in those words sent another thrill of tension through the room, but Grif remained unimpressed.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about you or your damned employer,” he said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest and studying the two men with the contempt most people reserved for dead, unpleasant insects. “And if you’ve got a problem with that, you can take it up with my boss.”
That, at least, seemed to give the bullies pause. Holmes studied the feathery tufts of white hair on the man’s head and his cruel, curved beak of a nose as he mentally pushed another piece of the puzzle into place.
Grudgingly, the Carpenter released his hold on Thomas and shoved him backwards, hard enough to send the former knight stumbling into the piano. “You got lucky today, bucket head,” he snarled, jabbing the blade of his index finger hard against the other man’s sternum. “But one of these days, your luck’s gonna run out. And I’m gonna be there when it does.”
The Serpents glared menacingly at Grif - and at anyone else foolish enough to make eye contact with them - as they stomped their way out of the building.
Grif spat contemptuously on the hardwood floor. “Go back to what you were doing, folks,” he ordered firmly, and the room obediently subsided into a wave of nervous chatter and clinking glass. The proprietor took advantage of the moment to wheel angrily on his hapless employee, but his words of reprimand were drowned out in the general noise of the room.
“So there are people even the Unicorn fears,” Holmes mused.
“He ain’t got the crown yet, has he?” Dee appropriated the bottle his twin had brought to the table and refilled both their glasses. Holmes had yet to touch his.
“What of the Lion?”
“You’re awfully knowledgeable for an outsider,” Dum observed with a sideways glance for his smaller companion. “You haven’t told us who you’re workin’ for yet.”
“I’m a consulting detective; I’ve been hired by the girl’s parents to find her and, if possible, return her to her home.” For some reason, it seemed best to leave Carroll out of the equation, at least for now.
“That don’t explain how you got here, though, does it?”
Though he would never quite be able to explain why, Holmes’ instincts warned him that it wouldn’t be wise to mention the Cheshire Cat, either. The feline’s motives were at best unclear, and it was impossible to know at whose bidding he’d been sent to show Holmes the way. So instead, he retrieved the Rabbit’s watch from his pocket and placed it on the table for them to see.
“I’ve borrowed some time,” he tried, the Cat’s words tasting strange in his mouth, “from someone who has known Alice on both sides of the divide. That association was the only clue I had to go on.”
The brothers gawked at the watch for a moment, neither attempting to touch it. Then, slowly, Dee began to smile. “We’ve been underestimatin’ this one, Dum,” he said, eyes flashing in mirth. “How the hell did you get that? By the Suites, that rabbit never lets the watch out of his sight!”
Dum didn’t seem quite as amused. “Awfully clever,” he agreed quietly. “Bit like somethin’ a Serpent would do.” Dee’s smile faltered.
Holmes made an educated guess and quickly pushed up both his sleeves, presenting his bare wrists for inspection. “I am not a Serpent,” he said firmly. “As I’ve said, I’m a consulting detective. It’s a career pathway which has necessitated competency in a broad range of skills.”
Dee and Dum exchanged careful looks, and Holmes found himself - not for the first time - wishing it had been possible for Watson to accompany him on this journey. The doctor had always been much better at putting others at ease. It was something Holmes himself had never been quite able to master, regardless of whatever charms he might possess.
Dum sighed. “The Game’s too complicated for me now; too many players, too many sides. Maybe you is workin’ for the Lion, or the royals, or the Suites, or someone else we ain’t even heard of yet. And maybe you isn’t. We done our part. We can’t take you no further no matter why you’re here, so I guess there’s no harm in havin’ a drink or two, anyway.” He upended his glass demonstratively while Dee nodded his agreement. They looked resigned and tired: men who had been caught up for too long in a political struggle they didn’t want to know anything about.
“But the Fourth Square belongs to you, does it not? Surely you were part of it all at one time or another.”
Dum made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. “Nah. It’s the forest, not us; when the Game was just a game, it was about challengin’ yourself and that. The forest makes you forget things you need to be knowin’. Not easy, gettin’ through. It’s our family land, ‘s all.”
“I’m not certain yet where my search will lead me. It is possible I may have to pass through the forest myself.”
Dee shrugged. “As you like. We ain’t gonna stop you; anyone who’s crazy enough to try for it can, as they please. We can’t guide you, though, if that’s what you mean. We refuse to take a part in the Game. And anyway, no one else can show you the path. That’s up to you to find alone.”
Dum appeared to be mulling something over while his brother spoke, and at last he set his drink down firmly on the table, having arrived at a decision. “Only but one way to git through the third square, an’ that’s by train. And you can be damned sure the gang’ll be out again, causin’ trouble. Make certain you’re here tomorrow to catch the train; we’ll be on it. So we can guarantee you at least make it to the forest, anyway.”
Dee shot his brother a speculative look, but he didn’t contradict the promise.
“What time does the train depart?” Holmes asked automatically, glancing between them. They returned his look with blank incomprehension.
“When it’s Time to Go,” Dum replied.
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Oni's Note: Cato and Rose (who are briefly mentioned in this chapter, but who never actually appear in the story) got their names from two characters in Robert B. Parker's novel, Resolution. This is my metaphorical hat-tip to Parker, who indirectly gave me the idea for the Gang and the animal-train with a humorous quote from another book in that series, Brimstone: "'What the hell's that thing?' he said. / 'Eight-gauge shotgun,' I said. / 'You planning on hunting locomotives?' the conductor said. / 'Only if one attacks me,' I said."
The song that Thomas sings about the Walrus and the Carpenter comes directly from Through the Looking-Glass, And What Alice Found There, and belongs to Lewis Carroll. You an read it here. The willful misinterpretation is mine.