Guns and Guano: Epiphany Club, #1

By Andrew Knighton

Dirk Dynamo is enjoying a life of learning with the Epiphany Club. Joining an expedition to find the Great Library of Alexandria, he finds himself on the island of Hakon, where colonial life is not what it seems. With monsters in the jungle, conspiracies in the mansion and ninjas dogging his trail, can Dirk and his friends find the first clue to the Library before they meet a deadly fate?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Knighton
• Release date: Feb 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386788546

Andrew Knighton

Andrew Knighton is a freelance writer and an author of science fiction, fantasy, and steampunk stories. He lives in Yorkshire with his cat, his computer, and a big pile of books.

Book preview

Prologue: Paris in the Spring

DIRK DYNAMO SAT OUTSIDE a small café, watching the people of Paris go by. He didn’t usually let himself sit idle like this. Life was short, and his time could be better spent improving himself. But he had to admit that, when he was forced to wait, there was a certain pleasure to these peaceful moments. Sure, the crowds might conceal men who wanted him dead. And sure, he was scanning them for signs of trouble, not simply letting the moment wash over him. But still, it was the most relaxed he’d been all week.

He smiled as a waitress appeared and refilled his cup. Coffee had been a rare treat during the Civil War, so now he made the most of it whenever he could. Just because he still wore his old blue trousers didn’t mean he had to live like a soldier.

Thank you, ma’am. He pulled a couple of coins from the leather jacket on the back of his chair. The waitress’s eyes widened as she saw what the coat concealed. The custom-built Gravemaker was a hefty revolver by anyone’s standards, powerful enough to stop a charging bison and worth many times more than Dirk’s well worn clothes. But if it shocked the girl then she didn’t show it.

Can I get you anything else, monsieur? She smiled at Dirk and tucked back a strand of hair, her gaze flitting across his muscular body.

No thank you, ma’am, he replied. There was a time and place for chatting up waitresses, and this wasn’t it.

As if on queue, Sir Timothy Blaze-Simms emerged from the crowd, clutching a briefcase to his narrow chest. He peered around him through wire-rimmed spectacles, as if this were some strange new world and not the familiar rendezvous they had agreed the day before.

Dirk leaned back, hand inching towards his holster. If their opponents were going to make a move, then it would come now.

What ho, Dynamo! Blaze-Simms sank into a wrought-iron seat.

Tim, Dirk said with a nod. You oversleep?

I’m afraid so, Blaze-Simms replied. Am I terribly late?

You’re buttoned up wrong.

The Englishman looked down at a tailcoat whose buttons were all through the wrong holes.

I say, good spot. He put the case down and started re-dressing himself. Was I followed?

Dirk nodded again, still watching the crowd. Four men had appeared discreetly around the street, all wearing nondescript grey suits. Theirs was the stillness not of calm but of expectation, their expressions as flat and dull as a thousand other hired thugs the world over. And just like a thousand hired thugs the world over, Dirk was going to have to deal with them.

Same guys who were tailing us last night. Dirk recognised one from the hotel lobby, another from the restaurant, a third from the street outside the museum. Of course, they were missing the four he’d tracked back to a cheap boarding house, and who were probably still struggling to escape their bonds.

So what now? Blaze-Simms nibbled at a croissant, dropping flakes of pastry down himself.

Now they pounce.

What makes you say that?

They change shifts every four hours. By now, these folks have realised that they ain’t gonna be relieved.

A shot rang out, raising dust from the ground by Dirk’s boot. The morning crowd turned into a whirl of screaming faces and running bodies, as innocent Parisians fled the sound of violence. Walking sticks and parasols were abandoned by their owners in the rush to get away. By the time the crowd cleared, all four grey-suited men had revolvers in their hands, the barrels pointing straight at Dirk.

Instinct took over and Dirk reached for his revolver. But that wasn’t the plan.

He eased his hand back around and layed it flat on the table, ignoring the tension that hummed through his body.

The Dane says hello, one of the men called out. And that you won’t be leaving Paris with those blueprints.

Oh bother. Blaze-Simms put down his half-eaten croissant.

You got the Gauss Generator? Dirk murmured.

Blaze-Simms flung his case onto the table and flipped the lid. There was a high-pitched hum, followed a split second later by the sharp retort of gunshots. Suddenly the table was surrounded by bullets, hanging motionless in a crackling halo of light.

Dirk stared at the sparks dancing in the air. Whatever his faults, Blaze-Simms never failed to impress.

Better act quickly, the Englishman said. I don’t know how long it can-

Dirk vaulted the table and slammed into the first gunman with both feet. As they crashed to the ground he rolled and rose into a punch, knocking out the next guy.

A hail of cutlery flew from the café, tinkling like a wind-chime factory in a hurricane. As it hit the glowing web around Blaze-Simms it stopped, sparks crackling from each knife and fork as they hung vibrating in the air. The inventor gulped as smoke trickled from his case.

Dirk caught the second attacker’s gun as it fell and swept a third man’s legs out with a low kick.  Still turning, he flung the pistol into the face of the last gunman. There was a crunch and the man sank to the ground, blood spurting from the ruin of his nose.

A halo of metal hung in the air, from butter knives to loose change to the thick disc of a manhole cover, all suspended in the glowing corona of the magnetic field. A steel bollard shook loose of its base and shot across the pavement trailing sparks. The aura flashed as it hit, then vanished. Cutlery clattered onto the cobbles and the bollard landed with a clang.

The case on the table burst into flames.

Dirk strolled back to the café, casually kicking one of the goons as he passed.  He sat back down next to Blaze-Simms, who was beating out the fire with a copy of the Times.

Mademoiselle? Dirk said, waving over the nervous-looking waitress. More coffee please, and some water for the fire.

Chapter 1: A Night at the Club

TO THE UNTRAINED OBSERVER, Manchester might look like nothing more than a mass of factories and tenements, a place of bustle, noise, and smoke. Here were the pounding pistons of British industry and the seething masses who operated them. Its grand public buildings, which gave such pride to the civic leaders, were surrounded by slums and draped in the constant pall of smog. No city had better embraced the soot-stained labour of the Victorian age.

But down one inconspicuous street, past the grimy bricks of the city centre, was a door to a very different world. Clean, sturdy and unremarkable, the door sat in a frame of smartly cut but unadorned stone. The boot scraper was worn and the bell pull forgettable. Only the finest architect would, after careful perusal, realise how deliberately mundane it all was.

Behind that door lay one of the most prestigious gentlemen’s clubs in the country. Its well-stocked bar and brightly lit games room played host to many of the finest scholars and adventurers in the whole British Empire. On this particular Tuesday in April, it also held Dirk Dynamo.

The library of the Epiphany Club was long and narrow, with walkways accessing the higher shelves. Beneath them, piles of papers were scattered across desks, the Club’s scholarly members having abandoned their research for tea. Thick velvet drapes creating a shroud of darkness at one end of the room, protecting the unique collection from the ageing effects of sunlight. Some of these books had survived centuries of use, and one of the Club’s tasks was to preserve them for centuries more.

At the other end of the library, Dirk sat by a crackling fire. Its glow played across a Persian rug and the gilded chair he sat in, his wide shadow dancing by the flickering of the flames. A book on Russian history lay open in his lap, and he read it with interest while weight-lifting a bust of Julius Caesar.

The door creaked open and Professor Barrow entered, beaming at Dirk from behind his half-moon glasses. The Club’s president was pushing seventy but healthily rotund, remnants of grey hair fringing the shining dome of his head. He smiled the smile of a well-travelled uncle, a smile that said he had seen many things but could think of none he would rather see than you.

Behind him came Blaze-Simms, his eyes never rising from the notebook in which he was scribbling away with a well-chewed stub of pencil.

Dirk set aside Caesar and the history of the Tsars, then rose to his feet.

Professor Barrow, he said. Good to see you, sir.

And you, Mr Dynamo. The professor shook his hand. It has been far too long.

Dirk! Blaze-Simms exclaimed, looking up in surprise. How marvellous!

Tim, the American replied. Ain’t seen you since Paris. How you doin’?

Remarkably well. Yesterday, I developed a machine that uses electrical resistance to fill canapés. And the day before that, I was working on a new gun that I think...

Perhaps you could tell us about it later, Sir Timothy? Barrow rested a hand gently but firmly on Blaze-Simms’s shoulder. Once we’re done with this other business.

A figure in a black tailcoat and white gloves emerged from the shadows.

Ah, Phillips, the Professor said. Could you please fetch us some tea?

Very good, sir, the butler replied, gliding out of the room.

Barrow lowered himself with a creak into a chair.

Damn things must be getting old, he said, glaring at the furniture.

You said something about business? Dynamo picked up the bust and flexing his arm once more. Some folks considered it obsessive, but he’d take every chance he could to better himself.

Mm? Barrow blinked uncertainly over the top of his glasses. Oh, yes, the mission. Well, it’s a treasure hunt, really. The committee decided to use you two again, after your success in Paris. If the Dane had got hold of the Blensberg Blueprints, no safe in the continent would have been, well, safe. But thanks to you, our mysterious friend is empty-handed again.

We still don’t know who he is? Dirk asked.

I’m afraid not. He’s been playing his games for almost twenty years, stealing treasures and inventions from under our noses. But whether he’s a collector or just a career criminal, we still have nothing on him but a codename.