Alistair Grim's Odditorium (10 page)

Suddenly a voice called out from below. “Hallo, hallo?”

“Ach!” Mack whispered, trembling. “It’s Nigel. If he finds out I’ve left the shop he’ll tell Mr. Grim, and then it’s the scrap heap for sure!”

“Stop your jabbering then,” I whispered back.

“Hallo?” Nigel called again. “You up there, lad?”

“Yes, sir,” I shouted. “Not quite finished yet, sir.”

“Change of plans,” Nigel said. “You need to come down at once. Master’s orders.”

From my position in the narrow flue, I couldn’t see below me, but I knew from the sound of Nigel’s voice that he’d stuck his head into the hearth.

“Quick, Grubb!” Mack whispered. “Help me climb up the chimney!”

“Nonsense,” I said. “Just close yourself and get inside my pocket.”

“Ya don’t understand, laddie! Nigel is Odditoria too!”

“What’s all the row, lad?” Nigel called.

“Coming, sir,” I said, shifting my weight. This caused some soot to fall, and I heard Nigel grumble below me in the hearth. Then I whispered to Mack, “Did you say Nigel is
Odditoria too?”

“Odditoria what’s got animus like me! He knows I’ve left the shop—I’ve got to make a break for it!”

Mack squirmed in my hand and I almost dropped him, when without thinking I tapped him on his XII. He crackled and sputtered, and then his eyes went black.

That’s good to know,
I said to myself, and slipped him back into my pocket.

I quickly shimmied down the flue and landed in the pile of strange red soot that had accumulated in the hearth. The soot didn’t burst into a dust cloud like normal soot; it had the feel of
river sand. However, when I looked up and saw Nigel, all thoughts of soot and sand disappeared from my head at once.

“Well, well,” he said. “You’re the Grubb from the trunk, eh?”

The man staring down at me was even taller than Mr. Smears and twice as wide. His bald, elongated head jutted forward from a pair of massive shoulders, and his arms hung limply at his sides as
if they were too long for his body. He was dressed entirely in black, with a pair of dark goggles wedged between his heavy brow and cheek. They covered his eyes and the top of his nose completely
and were fastened snug around his head by a thick leather strap.

An odd-looking bloke, I thought. But he doesn’t appear to be Odditoria, let alone powered by the animus like Mack.

“I asked you a question, lad,” Nigel said. “Something wrong with your hearing? Or is the sight of me a bit too much for your tongue?”

“Yes, sir,” I stammered. “I mean, no—I mean—yes, sir, I’m the Grubb from the trunk, and no, sir, my hearing is just fine, thank you very much.”

“Right-o, then,” Nigel said, extending his hand. “Nigel’s the name, no need to call me sir. Gentlemen’s shake if we’re going to be working
together.”

“Working together?”

“That’s right. Mr. Grim’s orders.”

Nigel’s big beefy hand swallowed mine past my wrist. He shook it twice, his grip gentle but firm, then he picked up a stack of papers from one of the covered tables.

“You see these handbills here?” he asked, sliding one off the top for me. “We’re to pass these out to people in the street. Public relations, Mr. Grim calls
it.”

I was able to recognize most of the words as Nigel read aloud:

“Right-o, then,” Nigel said, heading toward the lift. “Let’s be on our way—”

Presently a loud clanking noise rang out from the library—“Blast it!” cried Mr. Grim within—and Nigel and I rushed inside to find a pair of skinny black legs sticking out
from the fireplace.

“Everything all right, sir?” Nigel asked.

“Oh, it’s that blasted conductor coupling again,” said Mr. Grim, shimmying out of the flue and onto the hearth. He had dressed down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and in
his right hand he held a small wrench. “And of course, today of all wondrous days, the loose connection is in a place I can’t get to.”

Frustrated, Mr. Grim tossed the wrench onto one of the armchairs, and as he stood up and brushed off his pants, some of that same, sandy red soot sprinkled down upon his shoes.

“Anything I can do, sir?” Nigel asked.

“Not in time for the preview,” said Mr. Grim, raking back his hair. “In fact, unless the connection to the Eye of Mars is repaired, there’s not going to be any
preview.”

“Oh dear,” Nigel said. And as the men gazed up at the lion’s head above the mantel, I noticed that the red light had gone out from the big cat’s eyes.

So the lion’s name is Mars, I concluded. Mr. Grim snapped his fingers and startled me from my thoughts.

“Master Grubb,” he said. “Perhaps a lad of your experience is just what we need. Tell me, have you any knowledge of electromagnetic induction?”

“Er—uh—begging your pardon, sir?”

“Of course you don’t,” said Mr. Grim with a sigh. “Nevertheless, somewhere in that flue is a pair of pipes that need tightening. Under normal circumstances I would have
to disconnect the entire network of pipes below in order to reach the faulty connection. However, given the immediacy of today’s preview, there is simply no time for such an undertaking. Do
you understand me, lad?”

“I believe I do, sir. You want me to climb up into that flue and get the eyes of Mars glowing again.”

Mr. Grim looked confused, as if he hadn’t expected my reply, and I pointed to the lion’s head. “Mars,” I said. “His eyes have gone black.”

Mr. Grim and Nigel exchanged a look.

“But of course,” said Mr. Grim, smiling thinly. “The lion’s head, that’s it.”

I had the impression that he was hiding something, but him being Mr. Grim, I wasn’t about to press the matter. “Well, what do you say, lad?” he asked, offering me his wrench.
“You think you’re up for the job?”

“You can count on me, sir!” I cried, snatching the wrench from his hand. And in a flash I was up inside the flue.

Almost immediately I was met with a tangle of pipes that took up nearly the entire shaft. None of them felt loose, however, so I squeezed myself past them and, feeling around in the dark, came
upon a pair of pipes that rattled against each other.

“I think I’ve found them, sir,” I called down, and set to work with the wrench. There was little space for me to move, but after a few minutes of twisting and turning, the
pipes finally felt secure.

“I think that’s done it, sir,” I called again.

“Just a moment, please,” said Mr. Grim. I heard a muffled hiss and what sounded like the squeak of a cabinet door opening in the library. Mr. Grim mumbled something in a language I
did not understand, and then a low humming began and the pipes inside the flue grew warm.

“Ah, there we are,” said Mr. Grim, relieved. Another squeak, another hiss, and Mr. Grim ordered me back down into the library.

Again I squeezed my way past the tangle of pipes, and as I emerged from the fireplace, I discovered that the light had returned to the lion’s eyes.

“Job well done, Grubb!” Nigel said, patting me on the back.

Mr. Grim dashed across the room and flicked the switch on another one of those talkback contraptions beside the door. “Are you still in the kitchen, Mrs. Pinch?” he called. No reply.
“Good heavens, Mrs. Pinch, where are you?”

“Blind me!” the old woman said finally. Her voice sounded muffled, but the irritation in her tone was clear. “Heaven forbid I should drop what I’m doing just to talk to
you!”

“Are the ovens working again?” asked Mr. Grim, just as irritated.

“Why, yes they are,” she said. “And I don’t mind telling you that it’s about time. Blind me if I’m going to spend my day—”

Mr. Grim flicked the talkback switch, and Mrs. Pinch’s voice cut off.

“Splendid!” said Mr. Grim. “You have singlehandedly saved today’s preview, Master Grubb. I am forever in your debt.”

Mr. Grim gave a slight bow, and my heart swelled with pride. I was feeling quite clever, too. From what I had seen in the kitchen, I gathered that, in addition to Mr. Grim’s blue animus
energy, there was some kind of
red
energy pumping through the Odditorium’s pipes. Hadn’t I felt its warmth in the flue, as well as seen it burning bright in Mrs. Pinch’s
ovens?

Come to think of it,
I said to myself.
I’ll wager all that soot I’ve been scraping comes from the red energy too.

As to
how
all of it worked, well, I’m afraid I wasn’t clever enough to figure that out yet. And it certainly wasn’t my place to ask. I was just a chummy, and if there
was one thing I learned from Mr. Smears, it was when to keep my trap shut.

“Now if you’ll both excuse me,” said Mr. Grim, sitting down at his desk, “there is much more work to be done.”

“That there is, boss!” Nigel said, waving his stack of handbills. “Right-o, then. Come along, Grubb.”

Following Nigel back into the parlor, I caught sight of something that stopped me cold. There on the hearth was Mrs. Pinch’s broom, sweeping the soot into a bag all by itself!

“Good day to you, Broom,” Nigel said, saluting. “Looks like old Mars left a mess for you in the library, too.”

The broom parted its bristles and gave a slight curtsy, then carried on with its sweeping.

Nigel chuckled and said, “I wager you could’ve used a friend like Broom in your line of work, eh, Grubb?”

I just nodded, speechless, and followed Nigel into the lift. Not a word was spoken as we traveled down to the floor below, but I was struck by how gentle the big man was in his movements, as if
he was afraid he might break something.

We emerged into a small empty room about half the size of the parlor above, and as I followed Nigel to the door at the opposite end, I noticed for the first time not only how big his feet were,
but also how unusually light and bouncy his step was.

Nigel produced a large key ring from his pocket and unlocked the door.

“This is the gallery,” he said, waving me inside. “Stay close behind and watch your step. And don’t touch anything, Grubb, or you might get yourself squished.”

Nigel chuckled to himself and lead me through a dark and narrow maze of crowded wooden crates, some piled as high as the gallery’s ceiling. Scattered between the crates was a most
fantastical collection of objects: giant statues with animal heads, piles of shields and swords and helmets, a stack of oddly shaped brooms, and still another pile of colored glass balls as big as
my head. In the center of the room was an enormous black cauldron, and finally, standing upright against the wall on the opposite side of the gallery, a pair of ornately decorated coffins.

“Bow your head, Grubb,” Nigel said. “You’re in the presence of Egyptian royalty.”

“Begging your pardon, sir—I mean, Nigel?”

“Never mind,” the big man snickered. “I’ll explain it to you later.”

We’d come to another iron door, and as Nigel unlocked the bolt, my eyes fell upon the pair of samurai standing guard there. Each held a sword like the samurai behind Mr. Grim’s desk,
and in the dim light of the gallery, I could see their eyes glowed blue behind their scowling black face masks.

“Good day, gents,” Nigel said. The samurai did not respond, and we stepped out through the gallery door and onto a narrow landing.

As Nigel locked the door behind me, I peered over the balustrade. A pair of staircases curved down from either side of the landing to a grand reception hall below. Nigel chose the staircase on
the right, and as I followed him down, he said:

“Now listen up, Grubb. You’re to stick by me at all times. Most important, however, is to let me do the talking. If anyone speaks to you, you just say, ‘Direct all questions to
the man in the goggles.’ That’s me, you understand?”

“Yes, Nigel. Direct all questions to the man in the goggles.”

Nigel nodded and we crossed the hall to the front door. Glancing behind me, I spied a life-size portrait of Mr. Grim on the wall between the two staircases. He sat proudly in an
armchair—his face stoic, his black eyes piercing as in life—but in one hand he held a burning blue orb that glowed nearly as bright as the Odditorium’s sconce light.

“Now, you remember what I told you?” Nigel asked.

“Yes, Nigel. Direct all questions to the man in the goggles.”