All is Fair (32 page)

Rupert blew a loud raspberry. “Oh, blah, blah, blah. Yes, you’re not happy and it’s all most irregular and all of that arse.” He flicked the fingers of his right hand and a silver yo-yo dropped from it to bounce straight back up again. “Do you have a yo-yo?” he asked when he saw Will watching it.

“I did when I was a child.”

“Could you do tricks?” Rupert caught the string on the forefinger of his left hand. “This one is called ‘Round the World’.” The yo-yo did a circle around his head and segued perfectly into the next bounce. “This one’s called ‘Walking the Dog’,” he said before Will could get a word in. He crouched and the yo-yo rolled along the rug before being jerked back up the string. “But this one is my favourite. It’s called ‘You’re fucked’.”

Faster than his eye could track it, Rupert jerked the yo-yo towards the floor in front of Will’s feet. Then he was falling through a hole that had opened in the floor, and landing with a loud thud in an empty room. He toppled, a terrible bright pain shooting through his right ankle. There was no door, no window, just a box-like space dimly lit by the light coming through the hole above him.

“You’ve no right to do this!” he shouted up at the opening.

Rupert was peering down at him, the hateful grin filling his face. “I absolutely do, Dukey boy. It’s my domain. Ekstrand isn’t going to help you now.”

“But I haven’t done anything!”

Margritte came to Rupert’s side. “Neither did Bartholomew,” she said and the hole closed, plunging Will into absolute darkness.

22

Max watched Catherine carefully as they walked out of the asylum. She paused when she was about to unlock the car, turning to look towards the trees edging the estate.

“Which way do we go?”

Max pointed to the drive, only metres away and in plain view. “The way we came in.”

Catherine’s eyes skimmed over it, like she hadn’t even seen it. “Which way to get to the driveway?”

Max’s suspicion was confirmed; none of the inmates tried to escape because there was a Charm to obfuscate the way out. “I’ll drive,” he said.

“There’s the road!” she said once they were a mile or so away from the house. “Oh. That’s why they don’t escape, isn’t it?”

Max nodded. The people at the asylum seemed to be treated well. At least they were clean, well dressed and well fed. Max hadn’t built up any firm expectations but wouldn’t have been surprised to find a Bedlam-like institution considering how out of pace with Mundanus the rest of Society was. The agency wasn’t behind the times, even if their clients were.

When Max had said Derne knew he was there, he was introduced to the manager, a round-faced man who tried his best to understand why Max was there but was none the wiser by the time the tour was over.

The security was incredibly low-key, consisting of nothing more than a few burly orderlies who would be capable of throwing someone over their shoulder and carrying them back in the event of attempted escape. The manager said – several times – that no one had ever tried and that the residents were very happy.

As Max had suspected, some of the inmates had been placed there when life in the Nether had got too much for them. The latest arrival was a man called Archie, formerly of the Wisteria line, who’d been unable to control his cravings for fresh air and blue sky. He’d been found in a mundane hospital by his brother after suffering a nervous breakdown.

“He’s very happy here,” the manager had said cheerily. “It’s everything he wanted and the family don’t have anything to worry about. They couldn’t afford the Charms to put him right, you see.”

“What about the ones who haven’t had a nervous breakdown?” Max asked.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you mean.”

“The ones put here because they have controversial opinions.”

“They have just the same problems, Mr Arbiter. They’re unable to cope with the demands of Nether Society and say the most outlandish things as part of their madness. Raging against accepted behaviour is simply a cry for help.”

“A cry for help?” Catherine said when Max reported it to her. “Bollocks. I don’t know what to do. It seems wrong to just go home and do nothing about it.”

“The Patroons know, and some of the people there were placed by their families,” Max said. “You would upset a lot of powerful people if you challenged it.”

She nodded, chewing her thumbnail. She was silent for almost an hour, staring out of the window. “And all of that stuff you told me about the Agency breeding perfect staff and the way they treat them… like slaves. It isn’t right. But it’s all so big. I don’t know what to do about it all. I just know it’s wrong.”

There was a thud in the boot and she twisted to look into the back of the car. “Did we just hit something?”

“No.”

“I don’t even know who’s in charge of the Agency, or where they’re based. Even if I did I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Another
thunk
, this time louder, as Max exited the motorway and headed into the outskirts of London.

“There’s something wrong with the car,” Catherine said and he shook his head.

“There isn’t.”

The back portion of the rear passenger seat was knocked into the foot-well and the gargoyle poked its head through the gap between car and boot.

“So you were in there.” Catherine stretched back and clasped the gargoyle’s paw.

“The whole bloody time.” It clambered onto the back seat; at least it had the sense to stretch itself along the width of the car to keep out of sight of the other drivers. “We need to talk.”

“We need to stay focused,” Max said. “You know what we have to do after we’ve taken Catherine home.”

“That’s exactly the reason why,” the gargoyle replied. “If we die without telling anyone about what the Agency is doing, nothing will put a stop to it.” It shuffled about so its head was closer to Catherine. “I need to tell you so I know that something will be done. Ekstrand doesn’t give a rat’s arse and he’s mental anyway.”

Catherine repositioned herself so she was facing the gargoyle more comfortably. “All right. I’m listening.” She looked at Max. “Are you OK?”

“He’s fine,” the gargoyle said. “Listen to me. The Agency headquarters is a place that only exists in the Nether without an anchor property and the only way it can make that is by keeping all these people in the basement like… like… machines.” It described everything Max had seen, as if it had been in that room with him.

“My God, is there anything these people aren’t doing?” Catherine said, and then asked questions about what they saw that day the Agency was taken over, which the gargoyle answered readily. Max focused on the road and the heavy traffic. The gargoyle was trusting her with sensitive information. Should he pull over and kick her out of the car? Why hadn’t he done that already?

“It’s because she needs to understand how bad this is,” the gargoyle said to him. “It’s because we know we need to do something.”

“But they’re not protected by the Treaty.”

“Did I miss something?” Catherine asked but the gargoyle was focused on Max.

“But they’re being screwed over like we were. Don’t you get it? We’re just the same as those poor bastards strapped in those chairs: we’re nothing but a tool, made for a specific purpose. We didn’t choose this, just like they didn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Catherine asked.

“This isn’t the right time,” Max replied.

“Why are you afraid of her knowing this?” the gargoyle asked. “You don’t really think it’s ever going to go back to the way it was, do you? Most of the Sorcerers are dead and the two that are left are trying to kill each other. Ekstrand is a fruitloop. We’re on our own. We’ve come this far without his orders, why not do the right thing whilst we’re being insubordinate?”

Max pulled over when he saw a parking space free at the rear of Catherine’s anchor property. Catherine was staring at him.

“You can’t show me the asylum and tell me all this stuff about the Agency and think I’ll just forget about it.”

“I don’t.”

“Then what are we going to do?”

“I have to speak to someone,” Max said, thinking of Faulkner’s Chapter Master. “I think he’ll lead us to the root of these problems.”

“And then will we do something?”

“I don’t know. I need to think about it.”

Catherine groaned. “I’m going.” She glanced at the gargoyle. “I hope you come back. And I hope you can convince him to get off his arse and commit to taking action.”

“I’ll do my best.” It grinned at her and she left.

They sat in silence for a few moments, then Max noticed the time on the dashboard clock. “We’d better get moving,” he said. “The Chapter Master will be at the park soon. And we’re already taking action,” he added, prompted by the gargoyle’s stare.

Sam pumped the bellows until the fire was hot enough and put in a length of iron. It was the first time he’d been in the forge since his predecessor’s suicide. He’d been apprehensive about coming in, fearing it would trigger unpleasant memories. It made him think about what happened but he no longer felt unsettled. He just wanted to beat the iron until he was ready to go back to Exilium.

The meeting with the Directors wasn’t a clear success or an obvious failure. He decided to feel good about starting the ball rolling at least and as time went on and he learned more about how it all worked he would make the changes he wanted. At least the PR guy was behind him. Instead, it was time to focus on the other benefits his new status accorded. Mazzi had said the Fae would fear him and he knew which one he wanted to terrify the most. But how to do it? How to get back to Exilium on his own terms, rather than at the summoning or permission of Lord Poppy? He wanted to take the Fae by surprise.

He looked down at the anvil, breathing in the sense of potential. What would he make as he considered his plan? A spear to run Poppy through? A sword to threaten him with, like Cathy’s husband had wielded? He swore at the thought of her stuck with him, deluding herself into thinking she could do something about the way they lived. As soon as he was free of Poppy’s interference, he’d go and free her too.

He went to pull out the iron but found himself drawn back to the anvil. The floor had been scrubbed and he noticed a feature for the first time: the anvil was resting on a solid circle of iron set into the floor. At its edges he could see slivers of what looked like copper, running at intervals around it. He pulled the length of iron from the fire and abandoned it in the plunge bucket, steam accompanying the loud hiss of hot metal meeting cold water.

Grunting with effort, Sam pulled the anvil off the circle, certain that, without the “affinity” Mazzi had spoken of, he’d never have been able to budge it an inch. He crouched down and scraped the black grime from the groove between the circle and the flagstones and had a sudden sense of its base being deep in the earth, so deep that the forge had been built around and on top of it, rather than being set into the floor as a feature.

He pulled the abandoned rod of iron from the bucket, tossed it aside and threw the water over the circle, washing away the outline of dirt left by the anvil base. It was solid iron and close to the diameter of a postbox. He thought of the pillar in Exilium, the one Poppy couldn’t bear to be near. That had been a similar size and also had copper riveted to it. Then he noticed a haze in the air. He thought for a moment that it was steam from the cooling rod but that had already dissipated. He stared at the iron set into the floor and the haziness increased until it was as if a fog were forming in the air. He crouched down beside it as the tiny hairs on his arms and the back of his neck prickled, and reached towards the space above the circle. Where he thought his fingers would pass through the air, they instead brushed iron.

There was a terrific lurch in his stomach and he tipped forwards, his hands slapping against iron with copper bands riveted around it, familiar formulae etched into the metal. He was on his knees, palms still on the metal, and no longer saw the forge, only mists, as if the strange fog that had been rising now encompassed everything. Then he realised he wasn’t in the squat little building in Mundanus any more. He was in the Nether and the iron was stretching ahead of him now, like a path through the void.

Cathy pulled off her gloves and dumped them on the chair, feeling exhausted and yet as tightly wound as a nervous man’s watch. She felt as if she needed a release, like a long cry or the opportunity to scream at someone, but neither was forthcoming.

She was too full of terrible knowledge. How could she sit there in her library in front of the fire when so many people were being mistreated? Her efforts felt like they’d come to nothing; she’d found people who knew Rainer but they were either unwilling to help her or incapable of it. She knew about the atrocities committed by the Agency but felt powerless to act. Bennet had managed to curse her once already; if she moved against them she had no doubt he would see his threats through and she’d be hauled in front of Dame Iris and probably shipped off to the asylum herself. That Will knew her past would make no difference if the Irises were publicly humiliated.

Could she rely on Max to come back and form a plan with her? He was acting without the knowledge of the Sorcerer. Would he be able to take on the Agency without his Master’s blessing?

There was a knock on the door and Morgan entered with a note on a small silver tray. Cathy recognised Bennet’s handwriting before she touched it.

I am aware of the visits from a certain Arbiter and your recent contact with Charlotte Persificola-Viola. If you continue to pry into matters that are no concern of yours, I will contact Dame Iris and have a frank conversation with her about your previous interests.
 

“Morgan!” Cathy called him back from the doorway, planning to show him the evidence of blackmail, but by the time he’d crossed the room the ink was sliding from the page like mascara in the rain.

“Is there a reply, your Grace?”

“No,” she said, crumpling the paper in her fist. “No reply.”

Cathy went to the fire and threw the note onto it, then put both hands on the chimney breast, leaning over until she felt the warmth. She had decided to stay in the Nether with a head full of noble ideals but still felt powerless. Had she made the wrong choice? Was she deluding herself that anything could be done by one woman?