Doctor Who_ The Death of Art Part 24

The knife gleamed golden in his hand. Blisters raised themselves on his palm. The Doctor saw Dominic's eyes blaze. His power was now only a candle to the torrent of flame that the presence of the Quoth had banked up in him, but he could still burn. The Grandmaster threw the knife with a flick of the wrist from his ruined right hand. Dominic screamed as the molten metal splashed across his face. The Grandmaster flexed his left hand. Another knife popped into view. Five steps too far away, the Doctor said a rude word in ancient Betelgeusian. Ma.s.s from nowhere. In and around the chair, Quoth that he had promised to help were being tormented into restructuring s.p.a.ce and time. The Grandmaster was picking up Montague's tricks. Any more of that and nineteenth-century Paris would be history.

Four steps. Roz had dropped the cube, and had the 262 Grandmaster's left hand clasped firmly in both of hers. She had the leverage but he was winning.

Three steps. Then the Doctor let the Grandmaster share a Time Lord gift. Augmented by the TARDIS telepathic circuits, still set to maximum, the incomprehensible pattern language of the Quoth - the sounds of colours, and the shapes of s.p.a.ce, the smell of old coach stations and the feel of velvet and oil paints on the tongue - flooded into the Grandmaster's mind. The Doctor had had time to get used to it; he had not. 'Omnibus, artichoke, heliotrope,' he hissed.

'Beware the burning giraffes of Pimlico.' A noise like a broken clock came from his throat.

Two steps. The Doctor saw that the Grandmaster must have prepared his victims by more than the application of the Quoth power. Deep hypnosis, involute programming, the whole bag of Mesmer's tricks. Half his moves seemed to be hardwired into his cerebellum; against an ordinary adversary he did not need his conscious mind. The Doctor imagined a set of images moving through a surgically isolated part of the man's brain. The target was an old black woman; a basic baritsu throw keyed into his muscles. Grab, twist, break her back. Then the man.

One step. Roz chopped him in the throat. He fell, choking.

She kicked him in the side of the head as he fell. The Doctor caught him, and jabbed two fingers into the ganglion at the base of his skull. The Grandmaster's limbs twitched randomly. The Doctor raised his hat and mopped his brow with his paisley handkerchief, before absent-mindedly putting it back in a different pocket. He looked at Roz. 'Well done.'

'No suggestions that tea and biscuits would have calmed him down?'

'Not this time.'

'I should think not.'

The Doctor affected a look of puzzlement. ' H m m ? '

'Look at us, Doctor. It's a b.l.o.o.d.y battlefield.'

'Ah, but I ' m going to wheel in the oldest and most successful of happy endings. The G.o.d from the Machine.' The Doctor took the cube. His face dropped. 'The chair's broken.

263.

It must have happened when the Grandmaster grabbed for it. The Quoth were still in conflict; unable to maintain its molecular structure.'

' S o ? '

'It was part of the pattern of Ilbridge House; part of the psionic resonator. With it intact I could have asked the Quoth to put everything back as it was. To heal the people they had infested. They could have done it easily with the chair's resonance to artificially support them while they laboured.'

'Will anything else do the j o b ? '

'Only a fresh source of psionic e n e r g y '

'Emil?'

'Wrung dry.'

'The Family?'

'Too far away, even via the link.'

Roz was sounding desperate. 'You?'

The Doctor shook his head. 'Impossible. I have too many defences. The Quoth would be too busy fighting them to act quickly enough.'

'There's only one solution then, isn't there?'

'As you said, it's a battlefield.'

'What do I d o ? '

By four o'clock in the morning, the uniformed gendarmes had set up barricades around the gardens of the Palais Bourbon and were directing the trickle of traffic away from them, with the stoic disinterest of men who felt that by rights they ought to still be asleep. A smudged cloud of smoke hung against the backdrop of the sky, and jet-black crystals fell like snowflakes along the left bank of the Seine.

The Doctor had found a white wrought-iron table, knocked into a flower bed. Back-tracking the devastation, Roz saw a table-shaped hole punched through one of the long windows of the Palais. Just a part of the cartoon destruction. The gla.s.s was not even cracked around the shape. The Doctor set the table upright, and talked one of the gendarmes into fetching four chairs. Roz did not catch what he said; her head was still throbbing too badly. From behind her red and 264 burning eyes she watched the Doctor take a lace handkerchief from his jacket's breast pocket, and started unfolding. By the time the gendarme came back he had a whole table-cloth, embroidered with flat white historical soldiers. Roz ran her hand over one of them who was looking skywards, an arrow sticking out of his eye. He looked how she felt.

Chris was with the man who was in charge of the gendarmes, a lumpy man with sallow skin. He did not wear a uniform, only a long shapeless coat that looked heavy. It bulged noticeably at his left shoulder. Roz thought he probably had a bulky projectile weapon stuffed in there. Maybe another at his right hip. Chris waved when he saw Roz and the Doctor at the table, and turned to speak to the man in charge, who shrugged and nodded his head towards their table. Giving permission. H e ' d got Chris house-trained.

Roz clocked his eye movements. Low blink-rate, scary.

Cop eyes.

When the Doctor's tame gendarme arrived with the croissants and jam, the sallow man just looked at him until he pulled a chair out for him. Chris did not sit down until the cop had.

The croissants tasted of fat and salt. Roz would not have cared if they had been crawling across the plate. She was ravenous.

The man introduced himself as Inspector Anton Jarre of the Surete Generate. Chris handled the introductions for the Doctor and Roz. Roz had her mouth full. Food seemed to help.

Jarre stared at the Doctor intently.

The Doctor fished for a corner of the table-cloth.

'Oh dear, do I have a spot of soot on my nose?'

'No Doctor, you look fine. I am merely pleased to finally meet you properly.'

Roz caught Jarre's amused sideways glance at Chris as the inspector shook the Doctor's hand. Chris looked embarra.s.sed. What had he been up to?

'Perhaps you can explain what we have to thank for all this . . . ' Jarre searched for a phrase ' . . . irrational anarchy?'

265.

Roz recognized the bitter ironic tone of a professional. Perhaps Chris had even learnt something from this man.

The Doctor toyed with his croissant, which had gone hard and cold on his plate. 'A historical injustice: righted with as little damage as could be managed. Trust me, it could have been much, much worse.'

Jarre let his eyes roam the gardens ironically. 'Indeed!'

The gardens of the Palais Bourbon were a wreck. The black spirals had sliced perfect segments out of the Greek columns that lined the walks, had punched ornamental hedges through with exact circles, had decapitated statues and left fountains whose sprays spilled out as lop-sided, pathetic dribblings.

'It does need work,' the Doctor admitted. 'Could suit DIY enthusiast or amateur landscape gardener.' He stood up and grasped the end of the table-cloth. Oh no, this was going to be worse than his spoon-playing. Roz could see what was coming. She appropriated the Doctor's croissant before he could send it flying.

'Now, this trick needs the full cooperation of everyone,'

the Doctor said. 'I must ask for complete silence. Watch closely'

He pulled the table-cloth away in one smooth movement.

Plates fell to the gra.s.s, and a cup shattered against the iron leg of the white table. 'Voila!' the Doctor shouted.

Chris, and Jarre stared uncomprehendingly at his breakfast things. The Doctor made look-behind-you motions with his eyes. They turned back to the gardens. Roz was already emitting a low whistle of disbelief, around a mouthful of croissant.

The statues were intact, the gravel freshly raked out of its whirlpool disturbances, the plants healed and complete again.

'My little friends, the Quoth, have absolutely eidetic memories. It didn't take them long to put everything back how they found it.'

'Everything?' Jarre repeated.

'Almost. The human element is harder, I ' m afraid. The 266 politicians that Mayeur forced the Quoth to overlay with his own personality are in a nice mess. The Quoth could rebuild them as they found them, but they'd be younger and missing some memories. All the recent embarra.s.sing ones. And the Brotherhood are all past help, I fear.'

Chris felt Roz's hand come down on his shoulder. He glanced up and saw her make a come-with-me movement with her head. He felt an old nervousness in his spine, and got up and followed her.

They stopped by a fountain.

Roz spoke first: 'Where were you?'

'What?'

'When I needed back-up, where were you?'

'I, er, when, exactly?' Chris hedged.

'Did you get my message at all?'

'No.'

Roz s i g h e d 'Just try and be more alert next time I ' m going to die.'

Then she kissed him.

'As it is,' the Doctor finished, ' I ' m afraid that they will start rationalizing their memories fairly quickly. A politician who wakes up to find he has, inadvertently and entirely without meaning to, framed a member of an unpopular minority is very unlikely to admit it.'

Jarre sighed. 'I understand about half of that, and that half I don't like. You're telling me that the battle to free Dreyfus and clear the Shadow Directory is not over.'

'Yes. I am, rather. There will always be such battles as long as there is human stupidity, I ' m afraid.'

'And will we triumph, Monsieur time-traveller?'

'As long as there is human ingenuity and bravery, triumph is always possible. Do you really want a fuller answer than that?'

'No, I suppose not. The Directory's experiences with precogs have shown us that the future is a steel trap. We will be careful how we plant our feet from now onwards.'

The Doctor fidgeted.

267.

'What are you going to report about me?' he asked, looking Jarre straight in the eyes.

'To the Prefecture and Military Intelligence? Nothing.'

'To the Gentlemen of the Directory in London. To the Chirurgeon Generale. To the Scarlet Letterbox. To whatever baroque monstrosity Duquesne was so afraid of.'

Jarre tried not to react. The Doctor was fis.h.i.+ng, looking for more information about the remains of the Directory. How much did he know already? For that matter, in all conscience, how much should it know about him? The purposes of the Directory had been diluted over the years, but even so the Gentlemen's instructions were clear. All irrational incidents to be reported in triplicate. The ending of the unearthly, and the outre. 'What do you suggest?' he asked.

'There's an epigram by John Owen. One of the minor poets, but a decent epigrammatist. "G.o.d and the doctor we alike adore, but only when in danger, not before; The danger o'er, both are alike requited. G.o.d is forgotten, and the Doctor slighted"!'

Jarre frowned. 'Self-pity, Doctor?'

'Good advice, Inspector. If the Directory knew too much about me, I might have to start taking an interest in them. I suspect neither of us wants that.'

'I'll do my best, Doctor.'

'As long as we understand each other, Inspector.'

Later, in the rue Morgue, Emil shook the Doctor's hand. 'We won't forget you. Nor your brave companions. All the Quoth from the rest of the Family are now in me awaiting, ah, your a.s.sistance.' He reached out and touched and side of Roz's head. She stood dead still.

'It is done,' Emil said.

'How's the artists' colony?' the Doctor asked. 'I allowed the police to believe they were all dead, but I think you have more chance of helping them recover.'

'We hope to heal all the Brotherhood in time. It will be difficult. Their bodies are normal now, but their minds?' He threw up his hands. 'Who's to say?'

268.

'Exactly.'

'Pardon?'

'Never mind. How are your father and mother?'

'Better. There's a certain hollowness in all our minds where the Quoth once dwelt, but we still have our little talents.' Emil's face lengthened and the colour of his eyes changed.

Chris looked startled.

'Subcutaneous muscle control and pigmentation dispersal,' the Doctor said. 'Bravo. I ' m glad you can put a brave face on things. How are the children?'

'Perfect.'

269.

Epilogue.In the Vortex The TARDIS hurtled towards the centre of Mutter's Spiral, moving through the Vortex like a galleon in strange seas. There were gravitational reefs deep in the galaxy's ma.s.s, intrusions of real-s.p.a.ce into the Vortex like jagged rocks or breakwaters. The Doctor steered with a sea-shanty on his hps, and the air of a windjammer captain. Roz avoided the console room whenever possible and waited for the mood to pa.s.s.

The Doctor seemed overly cheerful, even fay; as if some weight, some distant trouble, had been removed from his soul; and Chris wished he could share this rarest of the Time Lord's moods. His heart was not in it, however, not while Roz stomped round the s.h.i.+p with a temper like a thunder-head. He guessed she found the knowledge that the Quoth surrounded them, and moved within them, a strain. He felt it too. Though never vastly introspective, he was aware of a strange nervous irritation, like static on the back of his neck. He was bathing more than usual, and once he awoke with a start in the mock-Roman tepidarium with a wirebrush clenched in his left hand. The sooner the Quoth were gone the better he would like it. For the first time he felt something of Roz's automatic dislike for aliens. He was not sure if it made him ashamed for himself, or simply more in awe of her sense of justice. To feel like this, and still to have invited them into her body! It was hard to sympathize with a race of aliens smaller than the nucleus of an atom.

270.