Lavie Tidhar - Bookman (Angry Robot)

"Lizards from another planet have usurped the British monarchy and rule the empire; automatons are calling for equal rights; dirigibles ply the London skies; and a cast of famous Victorians work for or against the lizards. The Bookman is a delight, crammed with gorgeous period detail, seat-of-the-pants adventure and fabulous set-pieces."
- The Guardian

"Simply the best book I've read in a long time, and I read a lot of books. If you're worried that steampunk has turned into a mere fashion aesthetic, then you'd better read this one. It's a stunningly imaginative remix of history, technology, literature, and Victorian adventure that's impossible to put down. Buy it."
- James P. Blaylock

" The Bookman is without a doubt the most enjoyable, fascinating and captivating book I have read in a long time. A very exciting and captivating read."
- Dailysteampunk.com

"Literary figures emerge from the swirling fog, automatons patrol the streets, space probes head for Mars and giant lizards rule over Victorian England. A potent and atmospheric steampunk adventure."
- Chris Wooding

The Tel Aviv Dossier (with Nir Yaniv)

HebrewPunk (stories)

A Dick & Jane Primer for Adults (editor)
The Apex Book of World SF (editor)

www.angryrobotbooks.com
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Originally published in the UK by Angry Robot 2010

Copyright 2010 by Lavie Tidhar
Cover art by David Frankland @ Artist Partners
Book design by Argh! Nottingham
eBook set by ePub Services dot Net

All rights reserved

Angry Robot is a registered trademark and the Angry Robot icon a trademark of Angry Robot Ltd.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-85766-035-0

I must frankly own, that if I had known, beforehand, that this book would have cost me the labour which it has, I should never have been courageous enough to commence it.

Isabella Beeton, Mrs. Beeton's Book of Household Management

ONE

Orphan

Under Waterloo Bridge Gilgamesh slept
wrapped in darkness and the weak light of stars
his breath feeble in the fog:

He dreamt of Ur, and of fish,
slow-roasting on an open fire,
and the scent of spring

L.T., "The Epic of Gilgamesh"

Orphan came down to see the old man by the Thames. The old man sat alone on the embankment under Waterloo Bridge, wrapped in a horse blanket, beside a small fire, a rod extending from his gloved hands into the dark waters of the river below. Orphan came stealthily, but the old man's blind eyes nevertheless followed his progress. Orphan sat down beside Gilgamesh on the hard stone floor and warmed his hands on the fire. In the distance, whale song rose around the setting sun.

For a while there was silence. Then, "Did you catch anything?" Orphan asked.

Gilgamesh sighed and shook his head. His long hair was matted into grey locks that made a dry rustling sound as they moved. "Change is unsparing," he said enigmatically.

Orphan echoed his sigh. "But did you catch anything?"

"If I had," Gilgamesh said reasonably, "it would have been roasting on the fire by now."

"I brought bread," Orphan said, and he reached into his bag and brought out, like a magician, a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, both wrapped in newspaper, which he put down carefully on the ground beside them.

"Red?" Gilgamesh said.

Instead of an answer Orphan uncorked the wine, allowing its aroma to escape into the cold air above the Thames.

"Ahh"

Gilgamesh's brown fingers broke a piece of the bread and shoved it into his mouth, and he followed it by taking a swig of wine from the open bottle. "Chteau des Rves," he said appreciatively, "now where would a young lad like you find a bottle like that?"

"I stole it," Orphan said.

The old man turned his blind eyes on Orphan and slowly nodded. "Yes," he said, "but where did you steal it, young Orphan?"

Orphan shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. "From Mr. Eliot's Wine Merchants on Gloucester Road. Why?"

"It's a long way to come, with a bottle of red wine," Gilgamesh said, as if reciting a half-forgotten poem. "As much as I appreciate the visit, I doubt you came all this way on a social call. So," the blind eyes held Orphan in their gaze, "what is it you want?"

Orphan smiled at that. "Tonight," he said, "is the night, I think."

"Indeed?" The eyes turned, the hands checked the anchored fishing-rod, returned to the bread. "Lucy?"

Orphan smiled. "Lucy," he said.

"You will ask her?"

"I will."

Gilgamesh smiled, but his face looked old and, for a moment, wistful. "But you are both so young"

"I love her." It was said simply, with the honesty only the young possess. Gilgamesh rose, and surprised Orphan by hugging him. The old man felt frail in Orphan's arms. "Let's drink. For the two of you."

They drank, sharing the bottle, Orphan grinning inanely.

"Read me the paper," Gilgamesh said. They sat together, looking at the Thames.

Obligingly, Orphan reached for the stained newspaper. He scanned the small print, the ink already running, searching for an item of news to interest Gilgamesh. "Here," he said at last. He cleared his throat and read the title, which was: "TERRORIST GANG STRIKES AGAIN!"

"Go on," Gilgamesh said, spraying him with crumbs of bread.

"'Last night,'" read Orphan, "' notorious terrorist organisation known as the Persons from Porlock struck again at the very heart of the capital. Their target this time was none other than the famed playwright Oscar Wilde, who was engaged, by his own words, in a work of composition of the highest order when he heard an insistent knock on the door, followed by shouts from outside. Rising to see what the commotion was about having, for reasons of his own, dismissed all his servants for the night Wilde was confronted by several men dressed as clowns who shouted fragmented lines from Lear's A Book of Non sense at him, enclosed him in a circle and danced around him until his mind, so he himself says, had been set awhirl with chaos. The Persons departed as suddenly as they had come, evading the police force that was already on its way to the scene. In his statement, a confused Wilde said the title of his new play was to be called The Importance of Being Something , but for the life of him he could no longer recall what that something was. "How long will this campaign of terror continue?" Wilde asked, and called for the Prime Minister's resignation. "This cannot go on," he said; "this is a violation of everything our country stands for." Prime Minister Moriarty's Office was not available for comment.'"