The Neon Court (20 page)

“Well … yeah. It wasn’t a great start to your sorcerous career, but I’m thrilled to say I think we’re past the point where you accidentally summon shit like that, right?”

“Right.” Another silence. “So … did you think about having me … you know … popped?”

“Nope,” I lied, solid as a brick wall.

“You were always like, ‘hey, let’s try and break this spell without killing the caster’, right?”

“Yep.”

“But you’re willing to kill this Oda psycho-bitch?”

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”

“Why?”

“I owe her a few. I hate her and she hates me, that’s kinda in the job description, but she’s done me a few good turns and I’ve done the same.”

“I mean – why didn’t you join the ‘let’s kill Penny’ society when the membership was going cheap?”

I thought about it. “I guess I have an affinity for screw-ups,” I said at last. “I mean, so many people have gone around deciding without ever bothering to have a chat with me that I’m worth killing on the off chance, I figure, why join the club?”

Silence. Then, “How’s your eyes?”

“A bit better. How are you?”

“Fine. You know.” A long release of breath at my side. “Just fine.”

“Hey – you know it’s going to be OK, right? I mean, for every wandering nasty darkness out there there’s usually something shiny standing on the other side of the street having a kebab, right?”

“And you’re it?”

“What?”

“You’re the shiny thing having a kebab?”

“I was thinking more theologically … or maybe philosophically … anyway, point is, there’s enough dudes who are keen on the sun coming up that odds are, it’ll happen.”

Penny shuffled uneasily beside me. “You believe in God?” she asked.

“Nope. Why? Do you?”

“Sort of. I mean … I did the church thing as a kid, but it wasn’t really my thing. But you know, with all this magic and crap, I’m kinda like … there’s stuff there that I can’t get a cool answer for, and stuff out there that’s like … you know … kinda not meant to be understood and maybe there’s … something we gotta accept, just something bigger than we understand and maybe it’s … in a kinda non-beardy-guy kinda way … God. See?”

“I see.”

“If you’re laughing at me …”

“I’m not. Honest. I’m not.”

“You never get that ‘what’s it all about?’ thing”

“I’m very good at not thinking about it.”

“So no God, huh?” she asked dourly.

“We … find it hard to conceive of … of a
consciousness
whose power, intellect and capacity can be both infinite, and capable of caring,” we replied. “We find it hard to accept that there is an unknown thing set above us, to judge us, that we cannot judge in return. Such a concept is, it would appear to us, injustice incarnate, not redemption at all.”

“Guess you’ve thought about it a bit then,” sighed Penny. “Which is cool too, you know?”

I felt the steam from the coffee tickle the inside of my nose. “Penny,” I began, “I heard you talking to your aunt. About going away for a bit? It might be … there might be something in maybe getting out while
there’s … I mean, I’m grateful for the rescue and everything, and you really can look after yourself, but … there’s no reason for you to end up in a state like me.”

“Hey – I figured you might say something like that, you know?”

“Really?”

“Yep. And I’ve got my answer all worked out.”

“It isn’t ‘fuck it’ by any chance?” I asked weakly.

“Hey – not a total dumbo, are you?”

“Penny …” I began.

“Uh-uh! You know you’re gonna lose this fight, so the only reason that you’re trying to have it with me is so you can feel all good about yourself afterwards. So you know what, just shove it and fuck it and I’m staying, cool?”

I gave in, as was always going to happen. “Cool.”

“And you’re welcome, by the way, for my totally awesome, utterly kick-ass rescuing of your kicked ass.”

“Cheers. Although,” I added before she could interrupt, “there is one good reason to consider a trip out of the city.”

“Uh-huh?” Her voice dripped cynicism.

“To see how far this endless night has gone. I mean, without wanting to wax metamagical on you, are we dealing with an entire world plunged into darkness, or just the city? Is there some sort of barrier after which time resumes in its own quaint way, in which case where? Or are we shut off from the world, no in, no out, just a perpetual repeated night while the universe turns around us, London as a concept and a place forgotten? It’s the kind of question that’d tell us whether we’re dealing with merely a minor disaster or a serious Armageddon-gods-upon-the-earth catastrophe.”

“You sound like a guy with suspicions,” mused Penny. “You got an opinion?”

“It’s not my field. I’ve never seen anything like it. But I’m hoping it’s just a localised stitch in the universe, a blister of magic, rather than the world as we know it turned tits-up.”

“You realise that means it’s your problem, and yours alone, right? I mean, if all of London is trapped in darkness, and you’re the protector of London …”

“Yeah. Figured that part.”

“You OK with that?”

“Kinda lumbered with it, whatever happens.”

“You know,” she added with a thoughtful lilt in her voice, “for all you’re the Midnight Mayor, I haven’t really seen you do anything … you know … totally shit-your-pants awesome.”

“You should see my pet dragon,” I replied coyly.

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah.”

“So … why’d you not summon this pet dragon when Oda was like, using you as a piece of loo paper?”

“It’s complicated.”

“That’s your answer for everything you can’t answer properly,” she sighed. “Some mystic fucking protector you are. Hey – you don’t … you know …
like
her, do you?”

“No,” I sighed. “I don’t
like
her. There’s not much there to like …”

“But?” sprang in Penny like a cat onto a ball of string.

“But … she asked for my help. She asked and I said ‘sure’ and she said ‘kill me’ and I said no and now there’s something in her eyes and a hole in her heart and … and it’s my fault that she cast that bloody bollocks bloody spell and all she’s got is the whole psycho hating-magic bollocks and then she cast a spell and … anyway. I did that. I’m not going to cry myself to sleep at night about it, but there it is. It happened. Whoops.” I heard footsteps approaching and nudged Penny. “Who is it?”

“Dees,” she replied without bothering to lower her voice. Then, not to me, “Hi.”

“Mr Mayor,” Dees answered without bothering to stop for good manners, “we have to go now.”

“Go where?”

“The British Library.”

“Why?” I asked as Penny took the coffee cup from my hands and helped me up. “What’s there?”

“Academic answers.”

“Seriously?” asked Penny. “About magic and shit?”

“The British Library,” replied Dees primly, “
is
a repository of learning and culture.”

“Yeah … but …”

“Appointments can sometimes be necessary,” Dees conceded. “I have a car waiting.”

The car smelt of leather. Penny and I piled into the back seats, Dees into the front. I heard Sinclair’s voice, muffled through the window outside, though couldn’t make out the words. He didn’t bother to say goodbye. Dees spoke to a silent creature in the driving seat: “British Library, goods entrance, please.”

Penny leant over and whispered to me, “The driver’s wearing a hat.”

“Try not to let it freak you out,” I replied, fumbling numbly for my seat belt. “How’s the day looking?”

“Still night,” admitted Penny, a note of worry entering her voice. “But that’s cool, you know, I mean … it can still be night for a while longer, without you being right, right?”

“Right. Just let me know when it becomes wrong. How long have I been wearing these bloody bandage things?”

“Few hours.”

“How long till I can … ?”

“Few hours.”

“Thanks,” I sighed. “Didn’t Dr Seah give us a prescription information leaflet or something?”

“Yeah, but I never bother reading that shit. It’ll only be full of side effects and stuff.”

“I think,” I began cautiously, “I
think
that might be the …”

A mobile phone rang. I fumbled at my pocket instinctively, but it wasn’t mine. I heard the snap of plastic being flicked up and Dees’ quiet voice in the front. “Dees,” she barked, every bit the busy independent financial adviser in the middle of a meeting. “Yes. When? How many? I see.”

She talked for less than a minute, voice darkening with every word. When done, I heard the phone snap shut. Leather creaked as she adjusted her position. “The Neon Court has informed our ambassador that a Tribe warband just attacked one of their clubs in Brixton, injuring seven people including five civilians and causing structural damage.”

“They got proof?” I groaned, letting my head roll back over the seat.

“I don’t believe they’d risk making such an inflammatory accusation
without it, forged or otherwise. They are demanding an immediate response from the Aldermen and Midnight Mayor regarding our position and the treaty.”

“Terrific. I’m hoping they don’t know I can’t see right now?”

“I haven’t passed on that information, no.”

“Good. That’s something. Can we buy any more time?”

“Perhaps a few more hours, but that will be it. If we fail to commit …”

“It’ll get pissy?” I asked. “Yeah. Fine. Buy us whatever time you can; let’s see if we can’t get something on this whole Oda crap sorted before, say, going to war with two of the biggest lots of wankers in the city.”

I heard the little beep of Dees dialling. Then, “Hi, it’s me again. Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I’d like you to do. Then tell them he’s busy! Tell them that they’re little people in a big city, be as rude as you want to be, they still want us on their side, make it clear we couldn’t care either … yes, I know we do, but they don’t need to be reminded of that … well then get it sorted! No, I can’t right now. No, I won’t. No, don’t try. Thank you. Yes – thank you.”

She hung up. “A few hours,” she said. “That’s all I can get you.”

“Why did the Tribe do it?” asked Penny suddenly from the darkness. “I mean, if they did it, why’d the Tribe attack like this? They gotta know it’ll mean war?”

“Perhaps they don’t care,” suggested Dees coldly. “The Tribe are hardly renowned for their sturdy intellectual reasoning.”

“Yeah, but if the Tribe have been at peace with the Court for years, then why all this crap now?”

“Chosen ones,” I groaned. “I didn’t get a straight answer from O’Rourke, but he told the Court that there was a chosen one, and I guess it’d be fair to assume that the information has made its way into the hands of the Tribe too. If both sides believed it …” My voice trailed off. “Oh crap,” I muttered. “If both sides believe it, and both sides think that the other side has got their mitts on this ‘chosen one’ girl, then there’d be nothing to stop them from going sodding nuclear. I mean, that’s basically the point, isn’t it? Chosen one who can destroy one or the other side, might as well go out fighting rather than just wait for it to happen, might as well go apeshit all out now, consequences be damned. If I had bloody O’Rourke right here, right now …”

“We can collect him,” suggested Dees doubtfully. “If Oda is gone.”

“Might be worth doing.”

“I’ll make some calls,” she replied, and went back to her mobile phone.

The British Library sat like a swollen red-brick portaloo next to St Pancras station on the Euston Road, defiantly as square, unsympathetic and lumpen a bit of architecture as had ever shortened the horizon. That, at least, was how I remembered it. Some attempt at disguise had been made: the bricks were the same colour, if cleaner and newer, as the Gothic palace that was the station next door and, on the inside at least, the British Library managed to maintain a surprisingly airy, open atmosphere for an institution containing what looked like enough books to have pulped the Amazon forests. Two thousand miles of shelving had been bought during the building’s initial construction and then, British building being what it was, two thousand miles of shelving had promptly rusted as the roof wasn’t put on in time. But such experiences were, it was hoped, in the past, and now the library ran on a smooth computerised system of vaults and sub-levels and ordering slips and reading rooms and would, so the hope went, last until the end of civilisation, as a repository of learning for all.

It was raining when we pulled up at the back entrance, but the walk from the car to the door was only enough to acknowledge this fact, rather than get seriously wet. Smooth concrete underfoot and the smell of oil quickly became tile and the smell of cold, processed air. A voice said, “May I take your bags, please?” I felt a hand fall on the bag on my shoulder. “There’s no food or drink allowed in the reading room, sir,” went on the voice, tinted with an Indian accent, “only pencil for notes, although we do have laptop power points, and please, no casting of any magics which might damage the documents.”

I heard the low murmur of “Jesus. You guys really do have a bloody magical department?”

“Indeed,” came the smooth reply, “but only by appointment, and I’m afraid we keep most of the relevant archives in Basingstoke.”

“Why Basingstoke?” Penny asked. “I mean, it’s like every fucker goes, ‘Hey, what’s Basingstoke good for? I know! Long-term fucking storage!’”

We were led down an increasingly sloping ramp and through ever
colder air to a door that opened with a long, slow hiss. From that was a flight of wide tiled stairs, and a handrail that gave an electric shock at the first touch. The air grew colder still, goosebumps rising on my arms.

When we finally stopped, our guide said, “Now, the archivist is expecting you, but I would be grateful if you’d observe a few common courtesies. This is somewhat unorthodox even for this department …”

“Best behaviour,” promised Penny.

“We understand entirely,” added Dees, “and may I say, on behalf of the Aldermen, that we will be renewing our annual donations package towards this institution.”

A door was opened. We went inside. The door closed.

The room smelt of paper, that thick, dry, warm smell of a million million species of microscopic insect and dust mite breeding busily between crispy layers of ink and leather. I could hear a constant gentle hissing in the background, as of wheels on a railway track heard far off; then I heard the little intake of breath from Penny, too sharp and quick for her to hide, and whispered, “Where are we?”