The Hangman's Revolution by Eoin Colfer

‘Do you think I should wear me fleece out on the town, Farley? Only it scratches me shoulders so, ’ ” Farley added a japing lurch to his impression, which was indeed reminiscent of the king with a few toddies in him.
    Riley watched all this and thought: I need to make my move while Farley is airing his grudges, otherwise he might remember I’m standing here.
    Riley must’ve thought too loud, because Farley swung the gun around. “You there, time traveler. Trot yourself down here with the rest of the bunch.”
    Riley knew that to leave the stage on Farley’s terms would mean death, so he spoke directly to Malarkey.
    “That’s a revolver, King Otto. Five bullets left.”
    Farley snorted. “Clever boy. Five bullets. One each.”
    But Otto had been shot before on numerous occasions; indeed there was a musket ball lodged in the meat of his thigh that he’d grown quite fond of rubbing when he was in vacant or pensive mood.
    “It takes more than one shot to kill a Malarkey, Judas,” he said, and his voice carried an undertone of menace, now that the surprise had passed.
    This notion did not appear to unduly worry Farley. In fact, he seemed glad the point was made.
    “I said we should have killed you straight away,” he said. “I wrote a report on the subject.”
    Malarkey did not fully understand this, but nevertheless he took it as a compliment. “Well, I does be a dangerous creature. Both mind and muscle rolled up in one person, as it were.”
    “Not you, you rouged cretin. The boy. He is too smart by half.”
    King Otto leaned forward in his seat, grasping the armrests, ready for action. “It don’t take much smarts to count to five, Farley. You ain’t gonna get all of us.”
    Riley, meanwhile, was feeling a shade guilty for mentioning the bullet count. Farley would be forced to plug the homicidal Rams before turning his barker to the harmless boy-magician.
    And it will take three shots to slow Inhumane, I’ll warrant.
    By that time Malarkey would be at the tattooist’s throat, handing Riley the second’s grace he needed to jump through the trapdoor.
    I’ll be gone in a twinkle. The white rabbit ain’t got nothing on me.
    But Farley was no dullard. Surely the bullet count would have occurred to him.
    Surely.
    Malarkey rose slowly from his chair, as did his remaining men.
    “I’m gonna stuff that Yankee barker down yer gullet, Mr. Farley. And after that, you’re bound for a swift burial in a flour sack. Less’n you have more bullets.”
    Farley laughed, three harsh barks, then reached his long artist’s fingers into his ink tote. When they emerged, they were wrapped around the butt of some strange-looking implement—F-shaped, with a thin string of light pointing from its nozzle.
    Riley recognized it from his jaunt up the Smarthole.
    Machine pistol. Machine pistol.
    “Oh, I have more bullets,” said Farley, and he pulled the trigger, spraying supersonic death across the stage and auditorium of the Orient Theatre.
     

Trying to trace the consequences of time travel is like a monkey with no thumbs trying to reassemble an exploded bomb, at night, wearing clown gloves.
    —Professor Charles Smart
    L ONDON , P RESENT D AY
    C hevie Savano found herself waking for the second time in a single morning, on this occasion suffering a headache that seemed too big for her skull to contain.
    Electric panic coursed through her limbs, but she fought to keep them from spasming.
    Play dead, she told herself. Buy some time.
    Strong fingers gripped her shoulders, and she knew the grip without having to look.
    Thundercats.
    The Traitor did this, she thought, hating that tiny malignant twist of flesh. The Traitor murdered me.
    It was true that Chevie wasn’t currently dead, but there could be no doubt that this status would be short-lived.
    Short-lived. Ha.
    You’ll have to update your status to Single and Deceased .
    The Traitor again. More jibber-jabber. Update her status? What did that even mean?
    So Chevie sat