“Archivist?” The voice was familiar.
“Mr. Skimpole? Is that you?”
More graceless sound and fury. Strange. This one was usually so quiet, practically feline in his stealth. “It’s me.”
“You have someone with you?”
“My son,” the voice admitted.
The Archivist was annoyed. “You know the rules. Visitors not admitted under any circumstances. I might also add that it’s very late and that you haven’t made an appointment.”
“I need your help.”
Something was different about his voice. There was a hoarse quality to it, a strained sound and a huskiness which had never been there before.
“My apologies. I may have put your life in danger even coming here.”
“You’re not making sense, Mr. Skimpole.”
“The Directorate is in danger. Dedlock and I… We’re targets. Someone’s put a killer on our trail. An assassin they call the Mongoose.”
The old woman tried not to smile.
“Worst of all, I’m… I’m not feeling my best. I should have seen you yesterday. But I was so very tired.”
“How can I help?” the Archivist asked finally, sensing the true seriousness of the situation.
“Desperate measures, I fear. I need to contact them.”
“Who?”
“I shan’t speak their names here, but you know who I mean.”
“I suppose I do.”
“I need the Directory.”
“Things are really that bad?”
“Worse.”
The Archivist tried to warn him. “You’re not the first to have made this mistake, Mr. Skimpole. Those creatures… They say they are for hire. Offer their services as mercenaries or killers or solvers of problems. But you won’t be able to control them. And you’ll never be able to afford their fee.”
“I’ve heard they carry out certain worthy tasks for free.”
“Oh, Skimpole. Nothing is for free. And the cost of hiring them is always far too great.”
“I’m begging you.”
“They’re impossibly dangerous, Mr. Skimpole. They’re agents of chaos and destruction. No man has ever employed them and escaped unscathed.”
Someone coughed. The child.
“Please,” Skimpole pleaded. “My son is not well.”
The old woman sighed. “Come with me.” She moved away into the permanent dusk of the Stacks. “I keep it locked up. It’s on the Home Office’s forbidden list, you know. A black book. I my opinion, even here it’s dangerous.” She reached a glass-fronted cabinet, unlocked it with the key she kept hung about her neck and took out a slim, leather-bound book. “I had hoped never to touch this again.”
Skimpole grabbed it from her eagerly. “I’m grateful.”
“All you need is there. But be careful. They will lie and do their best to trick you. Whatever you wish to ask of them, they will twist it to their advantage.”
But her warning fell on deaf ears. The albino and his son hurried away, stumbled noisily up the steps and out of the Stacks. As the Archivist locked the cabinet she felt an icy pang of certainty that she had just spoken to Mr. Skimpole for the last time.
Vast, grand and marble-floored, the foyer of Love, Love, Love and Love was approximately the size and shape of a ballroom filled with echoes and empty space. An elaborate design was set into the center of the floor — Moon and the Somnambulist lacked the perspective to appreciate it, but had they viewed it from a better vantage point, from the ubiquitous, hypothetical bird’s eye, they would have recognized the pattern immediately: styled in marble and stone, a black five-petaled flower. On the far side of the room, otherwise deserted and devoid of the whirling masses for which it had been intended, a small, dark pinprick of a man sat upright behind his desk.
The receptionist looked up as they walked in and gave them only the briefest of glances before dismissing them with that uninterested sneer which typifies his breed. Moon and the Somnambulist walked toward him, the tap-tap of their shoes ringing out accusingly like gunfire. The receptionist tutted audibly.
“My name is Edward Moon.”
“Really?” the man asked, polite — scrupulously so — but somehow managing to convey an utter contempt for anyone who had ever stood on the wrong side of his desk.
“I wish to see a member of your staff.”
“Oh?” The incredulity of the man’s tone suggested that Moon had asked for an audience at the Vatican. “Does sir have an appointment?”
“I do not.”
“Then I’m afraid I am quite unable to help you.”
“It’s my sister-”
“Here at Love, sir, one needs an appointment even to visit one’s sister.” All this delivered in the same infuriatingly cool, automaton tone — impossibly bland but with just the barest hint of amusement.
Moon persisted. “Can I make an appointment?”
“Of course, sir.” With a crisp flourish, the man produced a sheet of foolscap. “If sir would be so kind as to complete this form… I should add that no one will be available to see you until next Wednesday at the earliest.” He leant forward as if about to confide some great secret. “This is our busiest time of the year.”
Moon was beginning to sound agitated. “I need to see her today. Her name is Charlotte Moon.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. We’ve no one here of that name.”
“I know she works here, man. Don’t be obstructive.”
“I assure you, sir, I have never heard the name before in my life and I am intimately acquainted with all nine hundred and ninety-eight of my colleagues. Beside, as you may be aware, here at Love, Love, Love and Love we have dispensed with the cumbersome necessity of surnames. Here we all share the same glorious appellation. I myself am Love two hundred and forty-five. Though I permit my closest intimates to call me 245.”
“My sister is Love nine hundred and ninety-nine.”
The receptionist smiled. “Sir must be mistaken. Love nine hundred and ninety-nine is a writer of sentimental dramas for the stage, formerly known as “Squib’ Wilson.”
“Were you born this aggravating or did you learn it here?”
“I like to think a little of both.”
“Where’s my sister? I’m quite prepared to beat it out of you.”
Love 245 looked pained. “There’s no need for sir to lower himself to threats. I have only to call for attention and a dozen of my colleagues will leap to my aid. You’ll be charged and prosecuted for trespass and threatening an employee. Consequently, we’ll be quite within our legal rights to take punitive action. The last man who asked the wrong questions at my desk spent nine months in a mental hospital. Even now he’s convinced his mother’s Labrador plots to kill him.”
“I wish to see my sister.”
“Sir must be mistaken. Sir’s sister is not here.”
“Is she downstairs, is that it? In those catacombs you’ve got down there?”
The receptionist looked at the Somnambulist. “Is your friend quite well?”
The giant glared back.
“One hesitates to suggest such a thing, of course, but one has to ask — has sir been drinking?”
With an enormous effort of will, Moon swallowed his rage and turned back toward the door. “I shall return,” he called out as he walked away. “I swear I’ll uncover what’s going on here.”
“Goodbye, sir. So sorry I wasn’t able to be more helpful.”
As Moon and the Somnambulist reached the exit, a man walked in from the street, shoving past them in his haste to reach reception. Shiny and smart, a briefcase clutched in one hand, he resembled a black beetle forced
