A Little Knowledge (36 page)

He pulled out his phone and called her. “Cathy, Dame Iris has just taken all the people from the asylum with her. They wanted to go, and I didn’t think I could stop them. Look…she said you’re going to have a baby. Are you? Are you sure you’re okay? I can be with you in just a couple of hours, just say the word. You don’t have to stay there, even if you’re pregnant, okay? Just…just call me and let me know you’re all right.”

Sam paced the room a few times and then decided to shower. It could be days before she picked up her messages.

Cleaned up and back into his jeans and an old fleece, he felt much better. No voicemail or texts. He sighed. Should he just go down there and see her?

The sound of a car on the drive drew him to the window of his bedroom and he saw a taxi parking up. Beatrice.

He raced down the stairs and opened the door, eager to greet her personally. The woman he assumed was Beatrice was paying the driver, so he slipped on his shoes to go and help with her bags.

She shuffled along the seat and tried to open her door but the driver was saying something and she looked confused. Through the closed doors, Sam could only hear a muffled voice, but it was enough to tell the driver was angry about something. He walked round and knocked on the window.

The driver opened it. “Look at this!” he said, thrusting a sheet of paper at Sam. “Tell this silly cow that it ain’t money!”

Sam looked at the calligraphy saying something about a promise to pay the bearer…and realised it was a huge banknote from a very long time ago. He only recognised it because of a documentary he’d accidentally watched once when he had the flu and couldn’t be bothered to change the channel.

Sam pulled out his wallet and gave the driver a fifty. “Here you go, mate. She’s got a weird sense of humour. Keep the change.”

“Cheers,” the man said gruffly, and unlocked the doors.

Beatrice got out, pulling a carpetbag with her from the back seat. She had dark blonde hair coiled multiple times at the back of her head and pinned into place with some sort of decorative net that he’d never in his life seen a woman wear. She looked about forty and was wearing a loose white dress, the sort of floaty thing that Leanne used to wear as a student. In the summer. The woman looked absolutely freezing.

“Do you have any bags in the boot?” Sam asked, and she looked down at his shoes, confused. “Is that your only bag?” he asked, pointing at the one she held.

“Oh. Yes. Should I have more?”

He shook his head and she looked relieved. Sam gestured towards the house, closing her car door for her, and the taxi drove off.

Beatrice wore flimsy silk slippers and was staring down at the gravel rather than heading inside. He could see her wriggling her feet, making the stones crunch beneath them.

“Let’s go inside,” he said. “It’s bloody cold out here.”

She followed him in and when Sam shut the door he could hear her teeth chattering. He steered her towards the living room, which already had a fire blazing in it, thanks to Mrs Morrison. Beatrice went to the heat gratefully.

“It’s winter,” she said.

“Yes,” Sam said, wondering if the Sorcerer had ever let her into Mundanus before.

“I forgot,” she said. “I’m Beatrice. Oh! My credentials, yes.”

Beatrice fumbled with the clasp on the carpetbag, her numb fingers clumsy with cold. She was wearing several rings, some with jewels, some plain, and when she bent over a long necklace that had been tucked beneath her dress fell down to brush the bag. He wasn’t sure what it was made of, but it didn’t look metallic. She tucked it away again and the bag’s clasp sprang open.

She rummaged and then pulled out a small drawstring bag that looked like it was made of silk. She presented it to him on both palms, like an offering made at an altar.

He took it, surprised by how heavy it was, opened the bag, and found a disc of iron inside that he knew was pure and had been made by the first Lord Iron, even before he took it out. It was a couple of centimetres thick and ten centimetres in diameter.

Sam eased it from the bag and let it sit on his palm for a few moments, revelling in how it made him feel…connected in some inexplicable way, to something so much more than himself. It had a shield embossed on the surface, with three curved swords arranged in a column, like scimitars, but somehow he knew they weren’t. As he tried to work out why he felt that way, the knowledge came to him as if he’d known all along: they were seaxes, the weapon of choice of the East Saxons. And he knew that the first Lord Iron had made some of those and they had slaughtered men and their blood had fed the earth.

Sam could feel his chest expand with a feeling of strength and pride, with a sense of his feet being rooted to the ground and an energy flowing between the earth and himself. He was aware of the huge iron slab at the centre of the house, the forge at the edge of the estate, and even, distantly, the sense of the others being out there too.

And it felt incredible. Sam wanted to roar and beat his chest like some rugby thug, to fuck ten women and then go and invade somewhere or at least go and start a fight with someone. If William Iris had walked in then, he felt like he could snap him in two and then take Cathy as his own and—

He put it back in the pouch and drew the string shut, closing his eyes and regaining his sense of self again. He gave the seal back to Beatrice, pushing away the desires that he knew were not his own.

“That’s…that’s the one,” he said.

Beatrice stared at him, in the same way she’d stared at the gravel. He almost expected her to come and prod him to see if he was real. “And so are you,” she said, and then bowed. “Well met, Lord Iron, master of the blood and star metal, brother to the binding metal and protector of the innocent. I am Beatrice, representative of the Sorcerer of Essex, King of the lands between the Lea and the Frisian Sea, the Stour and the Thames, keeper of Waltham Forest, holder of the secret of salt.”

“The secret of salt?”

Beatrice nodded.

Sam wanted to ask what it was, but had the feeling she could keep secrets well. “Okay, so we’re properly introduced. You said you have a commission?”

“Yes. For chains made of pure iron, four of them.”

“Can I ask what they’re for?”

She considered his question. “To imprison some Fae who will be problematic.”

“Will be? Aren’t they already?”

She looked down again. She seemed to need a long time to think of appropriate replies. Perhaps she was worried about revealing something her master would disapprove of. “Yes and no. Can you make them?”

He was certain he could make chains; he’d practised the skill. The pure iron aspect could be problematic without drawing attention to—he stopped his train of thought. That seal was made long before the high-tech furnaces his company owned even existed. Working the iron in the forge was all about removing just the right amount of impurities to maintain the strength of the metal. He’d need to practise, and he had the feeling it would take more than the forge skills Jim could teach him.

“I can make chains,” he said. “But I’ll level with you: I’m new to this so it might take a while to work out the purity aspect.”

She nodded. “Yes. I anticipated this.” She looked at his arms and shoulders. “You work the iron yourself, though, yes?”

“Yeah.”

She looked pleased. “This is very good. You’ll attune much faster. Your predecessor distanced himself from these things, but you, I feel, are different.”

“Amir didn’t like any of the esoteric stuff. Look, I know this is probably not the way this is done, but could you teach me about the history of the Elemental Court? About what all this stuff means?”

“Stuff…” she whispered. “You want knowledge?”

Perhaps English was her second language. “Yes. I met the rest of the Court and they don’t know anything. But I’ve done things, seen things, that they don’t think are even possible. I’d really appreciate some guidance, and I figure the Sorcerers are the only ones who know, but they’re a weird bunch and the only one I know just died and—”

“You knew one?”

He nodded.

“Which one?”

“Ekstrand, Sorcerer of…Wessex, I think it was.”

“He was a friend?”

“God, no, I couldn’t stand the guy.”

“Stand…could not stand. Oh, I see. Why not?”

“Because he didn’t give a shit about anyone except himself.”

The way she stared at him was unnerving. “And he died.”

“Yeah. And there’s no replacement, by the look of things, so if I could meet your master—”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “No one is my master.”

Sam winced. “Sorry. I mean…your boss. The one you work for—who sent you.”

“He is my brother. Not my master.”

It explained why she was trusted. “Sorry. Maybe your brother could—”

“He is not a man who likes others.” She put the seal back into the bag and then turned to face the fire, spreading her fingers in front of it as she stared into the flames. “I will help you,” she said finally. “I have knowledge of the Elemental Court and its place in the world. Mayhap I could live in this house, while you make the chains, and it will be a trade, my knowledge for your skill, yes?”

“Yes!” Sam said, loud with exuberance and relief. She jumped and looked at him fearfully. “Sorry. I’m just so glad. It’s been so frustrating.”

“You are very loud,” she said. “And you move so much.”

Sam stopped, put his hands in his pockets, and smiled. “Sorry. I guess your brother is one of those quiet types, then.”

Relaxing, Beatrice nodded and returned to the fire. “Yes. He is very quiet.”

• • •

Max had spent a lot of time watching buildings. Sometimes they were in the Nether, sometimes Mundanus, but the waiting was always the same.

Concerned that the puppet would get into the building via magical means, Max had chosen a spot in a multi-storey carpark across the street on the second floor to give him a good view of the main entrance and right inside the chief constable’s office. It was exposed with only a chest-high concrete barrier between him and the brutally cold, north-eastern wind.

Thankfully, the chief constable hadn’t closed his blinds, and Max suspected it was for a similar reason: he wanted to look down at the street to see if someone was on the way.

Amesbury was round the back, in case the puppet took a different route inside, and the gargoyle was in the Nether, watching—

No, it wasn’t. When Max focused on what the gargoyle was seeing, it wasn’t the Nether at all. It was the roof of Cambridge House, en route to the office.

They needed more Arbiters. The gargoyle was becoming less reliable by the day. Max couldn’t understand the gargoyle’s fascination with Kay. She was skilled and intelligent, but she was both of those things even when the gargoyle wasn’t there. Why did it need to spend so much time near her?

He checked his watch. It was two minutes to eight o’clock. The chief constable came to the window and looked down into the street. Max crouched, avoiding the man’s gaze as it swept briefly across the carpark. When he moved away from the window, Max stood again, his leg complaining.

There was a flash of Kay’s face, smiling. She was embracing the gargoyle and seemed pleased to see it. “Can you look something up on your computer?” it asked her, and she nodded. “Can you find anything out about Jane Shaw?”

His sister. Max could only recall her hair, a bright red, and how the freckles dotted her nose. She was older than he and told him off like their mother did when she wasn’t around.

“Did she live in Bath?”

“Yeah. She was…Max’s sister.”

Kay looked at him and reached over to stroke his ears. “Your sister too, if you think about it. Maybe more so than Max’s now.” The gargoyle didn’t reply. “So she had a brother called Max Shaw; that should make it—”

“No. He—I—we weren’t called Max then. That’s the name they gave the Arbiter, after dislocation.”

“What was Jane’s brother called?”

“Matthew.”

She smiled at him. “Then that’s what I’m going to call you. No one seems to call you anything. They only refer to you as ‘the gargoyle,’ and it seems a bit weird calling you Max.”

“Seems a bit weird calling me Matthew,” the gargoyle said. Max agreed.

“I think you’re more a Matt anyway,” Kay said. “How about only I call you that? Then you can see if you like it. Now, Jane Shaw…”

Max focused on the street when she starting typing. The gargoyle found it far more exciting to watch than he ever could.

A man was walking down the street, collar turned up, hands in his pockets. Max recognised him instantly. George Reticulata-Iris, head of the Aquae Sulis Irises and Cathy’s father-in-law. Interesting.

“Jane Shaw, maiden name, married in 1930 and became Jane Perry, died 1985. She had two children. You’re an uncle. They’re still alive, by the look of things. Hang on, this looks like something interesting…”

Max forced himself to concentrate on the view below rather than on what the gargoyle could see. George Iris looked up and down the street and then went into the police headquarters. Max shook his head. So brazen. The Irises had grown too powerful in Bath.

“There are benches in the park that people buy as memorials for loved ones,” Kay said, pulling him away again. “She bought one in memory of Matthew Shaw. It might still be in Victoria Park.”

There was a pull, one he hadn’t felt before, a desire to go to the gargoyle. Max shrugged it off. He had to see if the Iris went into the office. If he did, then that, coupled with the Iris magic detected on the journalist and outside the foundry on the night his father disappeared, was enough to justify an arrest. George Reticulata-Iris was over three hundred years old and had always lived in Aquae Sulis, so he could easily be responsible for all of the disappearances listed in the article, and the others Amesbury had uncovered.

Max nodded with satisfaction when he saw the chief constable open his office door and admit the Iris. They shook hands. He would collect Amesbury, see to the gargoyle, and then arrest George Iris in the Nether. If Max was right, this was the sort of arrest that would be called the breakthrough of his generation. If there had been a Chapter left to care about such things.