The Tomb of Valdemar Page 5

  She had already left Proxima 2 when the news came in. A massacre, somewhere in the shanty towns of Proxima City.

  Hundreds butchered, a wave of carnage. It seemed the perpetrators had gone on a random spree, hacking away, carving flesh to suit some arcane, unimaginable purpose.

  And then the perpetrators doing the same to themselves. No one knew who these people were, although the racial mix was surprising. Only the black clothing marked them out.

  Undoubtedly something in the water, said the news liars, a sign of the times. Something that made them crazy. It happens.

  She knew what made them crazy, she realised. It was Valdemar.

  Miranda Pelham had stopped at the next spaceport, jumped ship and gone right back to Proxima 2.

  There wasn’t much evidence; the barest of clues. It didn’t matter. Something had sparked in Miranda’s brain; a creative force had been awakened. She was going to write the true story of Valdemar the legend, and the bits she didn’t know, she would make up.

  And she did it too. Didn’t take long. Didn’t sell particularly well, though at least the book wasn’t banned by the high born. Not on most planets anyway. But only the uber-noble still lived on Earth, and whatever they got up to probably had nothing to do with writing.

  She made enough to never have to go to that university. To go and live on a nice planet with nice weather and get on with the writing she really wanted to do that no one wanted to publish.

  For thirty years, that had seemed to be it. Contented, mildly bored, comfortable.

  And then the highborn picked up on it all. What had that press thing said? What was it called? ‘Valdemar, Miranda’s mirror’ or something.

  ‘ Miranda Pelham, with her fables of ancient races and terrifying star gods, has tapped into a need amongst the children of the Elite. For the people who have everything, what is left but destruction? Pelham’s stories of the all-consuming Valdemar are just the type of nihilistic violent fantasies that tap into the paranoid fears of those at the highest social echelons of the empire, especially in such conflict-and conspiracy-driven times. The opportunity to destroy reality itself is something an adolescent could only sigh longingly for.

  With Valdemar, they now have a literal image to hold up for themselves. A mirror, in which all their doubts about themselves and their status are reflected. ’

  She had moved from comfortable to super-rich, from nobody to somebody. She even bought herself a share in an island on Earth. It seemed all over. Valdemar had made her, given her everything.

  And then, inevitably, it fell apart.

  First, civil war and the overthrow of the Elite. Second, Paul Neville.

  Miranda Pelham looks up as Kampp, the butler, opens the door of the airlock for them. ‘My dears,’ he says, a lithe, sparkly-eyed man, ‘How lovely.’

  Miranda wishes the Doctor and Romana well. Once they’ve met Neville, she’ll probably never see them again.

  With a bow, Kampp ushers them out and along through the eye-breaking contours of this palace of the Old Ones. The Doctor whistles, still trying to get that tune. Romana’s wincing reveals that she has not noticed how he is taking in everything as he walks. He looks first at Kampp’s back, his silver livery, the muscles concealed beneath the effeminate, affected demeanour.

  He sees the vast array of technology lying dormant: screens, power points, transmat-sensors. Sees the weird and unguessable aesthetics behind the curves; garish materials and colours that haven’t aged a day in a million years.

  Pelham feels the rough pull of gloved hands on her shoulders and is steered away by guards down a tributary corridor. If the Doctor sees that, he doesn’t let on.

  Kampp leads what is now a trio into a small shaft. The Doctor waits.

  ‘Going up?’ he quips.

  ‘Going up,’ Kampp replies.

  The Doctor shrugs to Romana. ‘Shouldn’t be too much trouble to get the lights on. Then we’d better be on our way, lots to do.’

  Kampp turns, his teeth white and apparently artificially sharpened. ‘Oh no, Doctor, Mr Neville wouldn’t hear of it. He is most anxious to meet you. Make yourselves at home.’

  ‘Very kind of you, Mr Kampp,’ Romana replies. The anti-grav kicks in, and they find themselves rising.

  ‘Very good,’ smiles the Doctor. ‘I’m almost impressed. And what do you do here, Mr Kampp? Apart from ferrying guests around of course. Run errands? Laundry?’

  If the barb strikes, Kampp does not let on. ‘I am Mr Neville’s high footman. A kind of ersatz administrator.’

  ‘A kind of ersatz administrator, eh?’ The Doctor’s eyes are wide as he mouths the words. ‘Jack of all trades.’

  ‘I especially like medical work, Doctor,’ the butler goes on.

  ‘The kind that involves surgical instruments. You might say, it’s a hobby of mine. I am told I have a certain talent in this area. A... relish. I like to think I am doing good. Giving something back.’

  ‘You know, Mr Kampp, I believe you.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ asks Romana, once she has shuffled in closer to the Doctor.

  ‘The guests are waiting for you,’ sniffs Kampp, for once a note of... what is it?... disapproval in his voice. ‘They should keep you entertained whilst we await the master.’

  ‘The Master?’

  ‘Mr Neville.’

  A metal plate slides out beneath them and they feel the anti-grav lower them on to it. The lights are muted in the vast piazza that surrounds them.

  The Doctor’s first impression is of luxury, too much luxury.

  The air is thick with perfume and incense, the decor stuffed with exotic rugs and hangings and bowls and pictures, so much so it is impossible to gauge any details clearly.

  ‘This way,’ says Kampp.

  There is laughter, there is movement and suddenly they all leap up in front of the trio, delighted grins on their faces.

  They are dressed as animals.

  ‘Surpriiiise!’ they all scream at once.

  Chapter Four

  From his makeshift control centre, Paul Neville, once the son of the mightiest planet-owners in the empire, is watching.

  The palace is warm and the cloak he insists on wearing makes him even warmer. He likes the discomfort.

  The screens unroll the pictures of the Doctor and Romana’s entrance. Those children who think they are his guests welcome them in their way.

  He feels a moment of unease. Surely it isn’t possible that Hopkins has found him. He had been so careful, severed every link, right down to the pilot who had ferried them here, to Ashkellia. That pilot and his ship were now part of the atmosphere of this fearsome planet; pieces of them anyway.

  He doesn’t need a starship now; he isn’t going anywhere. Is it possible he has overlooked some factor, some clue as to his trail? No. Impossible. He has thought of everything.

  He watches as Kampp slips away in grey monochrome to report to him, no doubt anxious to get on with the questioning of Pelham. What happened down there? He had barely been able to keep himself still when they found the tomb. At last, after all those years. He has to know, has to know what occurred. And where these strangers have popped up from.

  For a moment, Neville allows himself to think of the future.

  Of the moment when, once again, the Dark One will return to this universe. When he himself will become one with his master. He thinks of the feeling of the cold vacuum of space rushing over him, of planets blotted out by his hand, Hopkins and his ilk screaming for ever, of the end of everything. His work, his lifetime’s work. Yes, oh yes.

  ‘Magus?’ asks Kampp, fully aware of the folly of approaching him at the wrong moment. Neville unfolds his fists, balled inside his voluminous cloak.

  ‘If it’s... inconvenient...’ Kampp purrs.

  Neville swivels round in his padded chair. He hopes his eyes glitter beneath his hood.

  ‘Who are they?’ he demands.

  Kampp shakes his head, hands clasped languidly behind his back.
‘I don’t know. Pelham picked them up down there.

  The other two, including our man, are apparently dead.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was just on my way to ask Pelham.’ Kampp stifles a yawn. ‘She seems... upset.’

  ‘I have to know! Every detail, no matter how trivial. Can you do it?’

  Kampp licks his lips. ‘Oh yes, I can do it,’ he says calmly.

  His eyes flick towards the screens. ‘And them? Could they be the Protectorate? It would be interesting to ask them.’

  Neville considers. ‘We shall find that out. Let them reveal themselves. I want them watched. If it is Hopkins, they must not be allowed to contact him.’

  ‘As you wish, Magus.’

  ‘Go now, my servant. Find out what happened. Talk to Pelham.’

  Kampp clicks his heels and bows, ‘Mmm,’ he says.

  As for Romana, well, once the shock is over, she realises she is enjoying herself. She is relieved that these strange young people dressed up in their animal heads are actually pleased to see them. Nice to see the Doctor proved wrong for a change, no need for all that paranoia he carries around with him.

  It seems that these people are guests at a masque, a dance.

  The animal costumes are part of the fun. She has had worse introductions... well, one worse introduction to the universe outside Gallifrey.

  ‘Welcome, friends,’ beams one particularly handsome young man. Blond and muscular and tanned, his head-dress an ornate, delicate lion. He wears an expensive, tan, furred suit. Cut to a style not that dissimilar to her own. Actually, she is pleased she nearly got it right.

  ‘You’re just in time for the games,’ says the blond man. ‘If you’re hungry there’s plenty of food. And wine...’

  ‘Tenny...’ whines an insipid-looking girl. Her hair hangs in pre-Raphaelite locks over her smooth, perfect face. A spotless gold-and-white dove costume curls over her head. She is almost supernaturally beautiful. ‘Leave those boring people alone and dance with me.’

  ‘Charming,’ Romana sniffs. The Doctor just looks at the floor, as if waiting for this bit to be over.

  ‘Be right there!’ the lion called Tenny replies. He shrugs.

  ‘Welcome anyway. You are... ?’

  Romana goes through the motions. It turns out the boy bears the implausible title of His Righteously Noble Lord Stanislaus, heir to the Canus system. First name Tenniel.

  ‘And where are your parents?’ Romana asks. Tenniel laughs and bounds away to the girl. From somewhere, music begins and the couple start to dance. Romana and the Doctor exchange bemused glances.

  ‘Short attention spans, one supposes,’ says Romana.

  ‘Indicative of a highly-indulged upbringing and service-dependent culture.’

  ‘In other words, aristocrats,’ mutters the Doctor, clearly unimpressed. ‘The same wherever you go.’

  ‘Aren’t they odd, Juno?’ says one bovine young lady in unflattering yellow drapes and layers.

  ‘Don’t they look funny, Diana?’ says what must be her twin, her costume the same but in red.

  ‘I don’t know, Doctor,’ Romana tries. ‘They seem harmless enough.’

  The Doctor coughs, to get their attention. He coughs again.

  ‘Excuse me. You do realise of course that you are all in terrible danger and must leave immediately.’

  Nothing happens.

  He tries again, ‘I’m sorry to spoil the party but someone here is tampering with vast forces, probably... definitely, beyond your comprehension. You’re all in terrible danger.’

  Again, no one pays any attention. Romana watches, amused for some reason known only to herself.

  The Doctor bellows, ‘Oi!!’

  At last, the guests stop and look. They all bear the same serene, self-confident expressions on their faces. There are thirty of them, Romana sees, none over twenty. What kind of madhouse have they stumbled into?

  ‘Now,’ the Doctor continues, ‘I don’t know why you’re here and I’m sure it’s terribly inconvenient but you should really make preparations to leave.’

  ‘Leave?’ asks Tenniel.

  ‘Who does he think he is?’ snaps the young woman in his arms.

  ‘Yes, leave,’ says the Doctor gravely. ‘Young Miss Pelham has suffered a nasty accident down on the planet’s surface and until I complete my investigation, for your own safety you should all...’

  ‘Your investigation?’ says the young woman again. ‘Teeny, tell him.’

  ‘Look here.’ Tenniel is bashful, wanting to avoid confrontation. His voice is layered with the confidence of speech lessons. ‘I don’t know what all this is about but you’re rather ruining the occasion. This is Hermia’s birthday,’ he indicates his dancing partner. ‘If this is a joke, I’m afraid it’s not being received as one.’

  ‘A man, two men, are dead,’ says Romana coolly.

  This throws Tenniel briefly. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Really,’ says Hermia, ‘I’m sure Mr Neville has everything under control. He said there would be danger and hazards and things like that.’

  ‘As long as the danger and hazards and things like that happen to other people, that’s all right, is it?’ barks the Doctor, clearly unhappy about not being listened to.

  ‘I’m bored with you,’ the girl states baldly. ‘Go away.’

  ‘You’re not even interested, are you?’ Romana realises. ‘Do you even know what’s going on?’

  ‘They may be agents,’ says Hermia. ‘Mr Neville told us to be on our guard.’

  ‘Hermia,’ Tenniel sighs, ‘let’s not ruin the party. I’m sure they mean no harm.’

  Hermia pouts and flops down on to a ridiculously padded chaise-longue. ‘The party’s already ruined.’ She points a finger at the Doctor. ‘You ruined it. I shall call the guard and have you executed.’

  ‘I assure you I’m only trying to help...’ The Doctor keeps a hold of his temper.

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  Romana feels very tempted to take this spoilt madam and drop her out of the airlock. She tries to remember her manners. ‘Perhaps if we could come back later, after the party?’

  ‘I don’t know...’ says Tenniel. ‘What would Mr Neville say?’

  There is a whine from the anti-grav shaft. Hurriedly, Tenniel nods and the music ceases.

  From the shaft a man emerges. His dark purple robes seem like a black hole in this multicoloured, muted light. He moves slowly and with a royal bearing. Something about him suggests concealed power, quiet authority. Jewelled ringed fingers are all that can be glimpsed in the shadows.

  As Romana watches, the hands lift and raise the hood from the head. The eyes are dark, black coins beneath thick grey eyebrows. The face is seamed, lined, wise; the effect heightened by the neat beard and cropped grey hair. He looks at the Doctor, then at her, and smiles.

  ‘Good evening. I am Paul Neville.’

  Leaving Romana at the party, much more her sort of thing than his, the Doctor allows this enigmatic hooded figure, who seems to be the only person who knows what is going on around here, to whisk him off on a tour of the palace.

  ‘The guided tour,’ says the Doctor, ‘Do I need a ticket?’

  Neville smiles. He is a charismatic, handsome man, the Doctor supposes. ‘So, I hear you are a doctor?’ he smiles beneath his stylish thatch of grey hair.

  ‘Purely honorary, I assure you. And you?’

  ‘A theurgist.’

  ‘Ah. And what’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘“Divinorum cultor et interpres”, a studious observer and expounder of divine things. I don’t suppose you would understand.’

  Oh really, the Doctor thinks. We’ll see, shall we? He twirls his scarf as they walk, talking as if to himself. ‘Oh, I think the principle is simple enough. To ascend before death through the created worlds to the condition of the angels.’

  Neville smiles. ‘Indeed, Doctor. As the philosophers once said, a theurgist’s objective is “to walk to the skies”.
’

  The Doctor returns the smile. The real question here is: who is interrogating whom?

  ‘I’ve always found theurgy a rather simplistic concept.’ And before Neville can react to this goading: ‘Still, I’m sure you’ll prove me wrong. How did you come to find Ashkellia?’

  He’s nearly got him, he can see it. Beneath the calm, impassive face, the eyes are hot with anger. ‘How did you?’

  Neville replies.

  ‘Oh, I’m always stumbling into places I shouldn’t.’

  ‘That could be very dangerous.’

  ‘Could it really? How?’

  Neville strides into a large open-plan room, somewhere near the apex of the palace. The Doctor sees a large bank of impressive-looking computer consoles and feels the hum of power beneath his feet. ‘Don’t tell me, the kitchen?’

  ‘The control room.’

  ‘It depends rather on what you want to cook up. Why is the power off? Fuse box, is it? I always carry a thirteen amp if that’s any help.’

  Neville is still, like a sun. The Doctor orbits him, looking the dormant machinery up and down. He tries to take in as much as he can. No chairs. Perhaps the race that built the consoles didn’t need any.

  ‘I was rather hoping you could tell me,’ Neville replies. ‘The best efforts of my combined technical team have been unable to solve that particular riddle.’

  The Doctor feels Neville’s unblinking gaze upon him. He realises the real power in this place lies with this man. He has met enough sociopathic megalomaniacs before to know one when he sniffs one. ‘These ancient alien races, they hide switches in the most unusual places. I suppose they were worried about burglars. Or squatters. Who are those peculiar children back there, anyway? Their lack of knowledge of the palace, of anything, astounds me.’

  Neville idly waves a hand, dismissing the guests entirely.

  ‘What they are, Doctor, is money. The last remnants of the old aristocracy. My own fortune was stripped and stolen by those Protectorate dogs and, alas, I am forced to pursue my vital academic archaeological studies under the patronage of these children. The sons and daughters of the Elite. There was nowhere for them to go, so their families decided to send them away with me. What they lack in intelligence they make up for in youth and beauty. They do not interfere.’