For Heaven's Eyes Only (15 page)

“Is there anyone you could talk to who might know what Dusk is up to?”

“I don’t think they’d tell me, even if they knew,” Roger said carefully.

“Even though you’re half Drood?”

“Especially because I’m half Drood. Besides, consider the source. Hell always lies.”

“Except when a truth can hurt you more,” said Harry.

“What did happen on your recent trip to Hell?” I asked Roger. “Did anything come of that?”

“Not really,” said Roger. “I had to call it off and come back in a hurry when everything started kicking off here with the Accelerated Men attack.”

“I think we’ve spent quite long enough talking about Hell,” said the Sarjeant. “It’s time to move on to more immediate business. Our immediate top priority is the Supernatural Arms Faire, currently being held in the mountains above Pakistan.”

“What?” I said. “What’s that got to do with us?”

“It’s still mostly called the Supernatural Arms Faire, even though most of the weapons on display these days tend towards superscience,” said the Armourer. “I go every year; never miss it. Last year they were giving away Shock and Awe in the goodie bags! It’s a very old affair, Eddie; goes all the way back to Roman times. Or at least, that’s when it first appears in an official report. Enthusiasts such as myself did take to calling it Harmageddon back in the eighties, but it never really caught on. Everybody who’s anybody who’s involved in weapons of mass destruction goes there to see what’s new and nasty. The Internet’s made a lot of things more readily accessible, but there’s still nothing quite like the joy of browsing.”

“What has this got to do with me?” I said. “And why do I know I’m really not going to like the answer?”

“Must be turning psychic,” the Armourer said cheerfully. “Now pipe down and pay attention, or there’ll be a short, sharp visit from the slap fairy. You need to know this. All the world’s most talented weapons makers turn up at the fair every year to show off their latest creations. And take orders for the coming year. We can often figure out what the bad guys are planning by studying their shopping lists. The location of the Supernatural Arms Faire changes every year, attendance strictly by invitation only. But it does keep coming back to the mountains over Pakistan, if only because they’re far enough from anywhere civilised that if something should go
bang!
unexpectedly, it won’t do too much damage. Do I really need to tell you that they’ve never even heard of Health and Safety? And the organisers do like to keep the fair as far as possible from the world’s prying eyes.”

“What organisers?” I said. “Who’s behind the fair?”

“The Gun Shops of Usher,” said the Sarjeant. “Very old firm. Older than us.” He fixed me with a cold stare. “We’re sending you in this year to observe and take notes, because you’re the most experienced field agent we’ve got left. Who isn’t busy with something else.”

“Why does it always have to be me?” I said plaintively. “Why can’t I ever get a case that involves loafing about at the seaside?”

“I could go,” said Harry.

“No, you couldn’t,” I said quickly. “I need you here, taking care of the day-to-day business. So I don’t have to.”

“Every man to what he does best, Harry,” said the Sarjeant.

“If you only knew what he does best . . .” murmured Roger.

“Not now, dear,” said Harry.

“How am I to get in, even as Shaman Bond, if I don’t have an invitation?” I said craftily, to show I had been paying attention.

“I visit the fair every year,” the Armourer said cheerfully. “I have a long-standing invitation to attend, because I have established a cover as a weapons enthusiast and retired nerd. You can get in on my ticket. Take Molly; I’m allowed a plus-one. Ah, I always have a great time wandering round the stalls, quietly sneering at new inventions I created or overcame years ago. And I always bring back a few good ideas. . . . Steal from the best, and call it research!”

“Do they know you’re a Drood?” said Molly.

“Of course not! They’d shut everything down and leg it for the horizon. Or try to kill me. Probably both. No, they think I’m another of those very keen trainspotter types who always turn up at affairs like these. Making endless notes, jotting down serial numbers . . . and exclaiming over unexpected obsolete makes, and proudly comparing their to-see lists. The fair security people could keep us out if they really wanted to, but the weapons makers like to have us around so they can show off in front of us and feel like stars. They’d miss us if we weren’t there. But this time it has to be you, Eddie. I’m too busy. You can go in as Shaman Bond, and no one need know you’re a Drood. I’ll give you the coordinates, and you can drop in through the Merlin Glass. In and out, no problem.”

“But what am I supposed to do there?” I said. “What is so important that an experienced field agent has to attend the Supernatural Arms Faire?”

“Because there are rumours, very serious rumours, that someone has come up with a high-tech equivalent to Drood armour,” said the Sarjeant. “And that they will be showing off the prototype at this year’s fair.”

“And we can’t have that,” said the Armourer. “Of course, people have been promising Drood-type armour for years, but no one’s ever been able to deliver.”

“Several normally trustworthy sources were very sure that this year, someone might have something,” the Sarjeant said firmly. “And, Eddie, if they have, you are to grab the prototype and bring it back with you, so the Armourer can hack it open and see what makes it tick. Before one of us has to go head-to-head with it in the field.”

“Who’s supposed to be behind this new armour?” I said.

“If you find out, bring them back, too,” said the Armourer.

“All right,” I said reluctantly. “But after I come back, I want to talk a lot more about Dusk and his proposed Great Sacrifice.”

“Of course,” said the Armourer. “We should have more definite information on the conspiracy by then.”

I sighed heavily. “First the Loathly Ones, then the Invisibles and the Accelerated Men, and now a brand-new Satanist conspiracy. How many conspiracies are there?”

“How long is a superstring?” said William.

We all looked at him, but he had nothing else to say.

“Any more business?” the Sarjeant-at-Arms said finally. “No . . . very well. Meeting adjourned. I’ll look into who’s properly next in line to be Matriarch; Armourer, I want a full report on whatever you discover about the secret departments; and Harry, I want a fully thought-out position paper from you on how we’re going to run the next election. We need some new ideas; the last election was really a shoo-in for the Matriarch. I’d like to see more of a fight this time. William . . . why don’t you go and have a nice lie-down, and see what else you can remember? And then write it all down. Before you forget it again.”

“Good idea,” said William. “I’ll get Rafe to help me.”

“Rafe is gone,” I said carefully. “You have a new assistant Librarian—Ioreth. Remember?”

“Oh. Yes,” said William. “I’d better write that down.”

 

The council broke up, everyone going their separate way with a certain amount of relief. The Sarjeant called in his security people to escort William back to the Old Library, and to put out the chair Roger Morningstar had been sitting on. I used the Merlin Glass to transport Molly and me straight to my room on the upper floor. Molly put her hands on my shoulders and started to say something, but I placed a fingertip on her lips and shook my head urgently. I leaned in close, so I could whisper in her ear.

“Molly, I need you to put up all your best privacy spells right now. I need protections so strong that no one will be able to overhear what I have to tell you. Do it now.”

“Who are you worried will listen in?” said Molly, as she stepped back and struck a series of mystical poses, her hands moving so quickly they left shimmering trails on the air.

“Everyone.”

“Including your own family?”

“Especially them.”

Molly made a final gesture and the whole room shuddered. The floor seemed to drop away an inch or so beneath my feet, and then steadied. There was a faint but very real tension on the air. Molly nodded briskly.

“Done and done. You can talk freely, Eddie. Gaea herself couldn’t overhear us now. What’s so important?”

I took both her hands in mine and had her sit down on the edge of the bed, facing me. “Remember when I was trapped in Limbo, and Walker was interrogating me, trying to make me give up all my secrets?”

“Of course,” said Molly. “We still need to figure out who was really behind that. Could it have been Dusk, do you suppose?”

“I did consider raising the subject with him,” I said. “But it never seemed the right time. I’d hate to think he was actually that powerful. . . . The point is, Walker said something to me right at the end. I said, ‘If this is where the dead people go, why aren’t my parents here?’ And he said, ‘What ever makes you think they’re dead?’”

Molly’s eyes widened, and then she squeezed my hands reassuringly. “Eddie . . . it would be wonderful if there were hope. But it probably wasn’t Walker. You can’t trust anything you see or hear in Limbo.”

“It started me thinking,” I said. “I never did see the bodies of my parents. . . .”

“I never saw the bodies of mine,” said Molly. “They were killed by your family, fighting alongside the White Horse Faction, and the Droods never gave us anything to bury. There often aren’t bodies in our business, Eddie. You know that. I’d like to believe my parents could be alive, too. . . . But you have to let go. You have to move on.”

“But what if my parents are still alive?” I said. “In hiding, perhaps? Or even being held captive somewhere? I don’t like to think they would have left me here, all these years, if they were still alive. I like to think they would have rescued me from the family. But if they are still out there . . . and my family has been lying to me all this time . . .”

“We’ll look into it,” said Molly. “Find you the truth about what really happened to your mother and father. But do you really believe your family could have hidden this from you all these years?”

“Of course,” I said. “There are far too many secrets in my family.”

T
he knock on my door came far too early in the morning. I was awake and up and about, but only just.

I’d been up barely half an hour, forced out of an extremely comfortable bed by a raucous alarm clock and Molly’s relentlessly good-natured presence. It was still dark when I looked out the window. The Hall grounds swept away before me like some strange night country. It reminded me of the view I’d seen from the windows in the Winter Hall, in Limbo, and I shuddered despite myself. No full moon here to light the grounds, though; the family never leaves such things to chance. Two long lines of electric lights lined the long driveway up to the Hall, and floating, shimmering spheres drifted silently across the great lawns in regular patterns. Balls of plasma energy, generated by some machine deep in the basements of the Hall, designed by the previous Armourer. Before that it was all paper lanterns and will-o’-the-wisps generated by a magical stone, by long tradition. The previous Matriarch put a stop to all that, in the name of efficiency. Some of the older Droods were heard to grumble that they preferred the old lights, that they were warmer and more comforting. But no one paid any attention. We’ve always been a very practical family.

There were guards out there in the dark, even if I couldn’t see them. There are always guards on the grounds. We all take a turn from the time we’re sixteen. It’s one of the things you look forward to, growing up in the Hall. The first time you’re designated a sector and sent out into the night is a great feeling. It means you’re an adult at last, with an adult’s responsibilities. Protecting the family while they sleep. I can still remember how that felt: making my rounds in the quiet of the early morning, the grass damp with dew under my feet, head snapping round at every unexpected sound.

And I could remember lying in my bed, tucked up tight and toasty warm, half-awake in the dog hours of the morning, part of me feeling sorry for the poor bastards out in the cold, and part of me happy to be able to relax, to feel safe and protected. Of course, the vast majority of the Hall’s defences are mechanical and magical in nature, everything from force shields to robot guns in their bunkers under the lawns, to the gryphons in the woods and the undine in the lake; but there always has to be the human element to be the last line of defence. Because protective systems can be sabotaged—from without and within.

We’re a very practical family.

When the knock on my door came, I’d barely finished shaving. All Droods do that the old-fashioned way, with lots of shaving cream and a straight razor. It teaches us to have steady hands and nerves. I wasn’t even dressed yet, bumbling around the room in my jockeys and one sock, looking for the other sock, and waiting for Molly to get out of the adjoining bathroom. I hadn’t yet progressed from grunting noises to actual words. I am not a morning person. Molly, on the other hand, had already been up for an hour, and had worked her way through a full British fryup breakfast of sausages, beans, bacon, eggs and fried bread, sent up from the kitchens through the dumbwaiter. She did offer me some, but my stomach never wants to know about food till at least eleven o’clock. I had a big mug of hot black coffee, to jump-start my heart, and forced down some All-Bran with milk. (The mug bore the legend
Worship Me Like the Goddess I Am
. Molly gave it to me.) The heavy breakfast smell still lingered in the room, and I allowed myself to sniff it now and again.

Molly was on the toilet, dress hiked up and knickers round her ankles, reading the latest
Heat
magazine. God knows where she found it, certainly not in my room. I knew she was doing this because she insisted on having the bathroom door wide-open. Because, she said, she liked being able to always see me. Now, I enjoy her company, and I’m not the most inhibited of people, but there are still some things I feel should remain private. When I finally got to use the toilet, I was quietly determined that the door was going to stay shut, even if I had to barricade it from the inside.