'Not just under the wall. To the travellers' camp. It stretches almost up
to the cathedral compound now, on both sides of the river. We wouldn't
need to dig far. And
.
. .' He paused in pride at his idea. '. . . the camp is
protected.
By
magic, or faith, or whatever you want to call it, but the point
is,
it's safe ground.
The
travellers could help us get food in through the
tunnel
.
.
.'
He
paused.
'After we've
managed to build bridges with them.
But they're good people .
.
.'
Miller
looked uneasy. 'You
know
how Gardener reacted.
Do
you think
our people will be able to deal with the pagans?'
'You were the one preaching about the Brotherhood of Man, Miller,
everybody working together. And oddly it dovetails with my philosophy,
too.
When
it comes down to survival, people will do whatever it takes to
keep living.'
Miller thought about this for a moment, then smiled.
'We
need to tell
someone. They should start on it straight away.'
Metallic crashing exploded from the kitchen as if someone had dropped
a pile of pans.
It
was punctuated by a terrified yell. Mallory and Miller
rushed upstairs and found the kitchen assistants clustered in one corner of
the room. Gibson loomed over them, scrubbing his fingers through his
tight grey curls. 'What's going on here? What's going on?' he said in a
flap.
One
of the chief chefs clambered to his feet from where he had been
sprawled on the stone flags. The way his features had been put together
suggested he didn't have much time for nonsense, but he was now ashen-
faced and his eyes darted around like a frightened animal's.
'It
brushed right past him,' said one of the assistants who had helped
him to his feet.
'What
in heaven's name brushed past him?'
Gibson
squealed.
The
assistant
glanced
at
two or
three others in the circle.
'You
saw it too,
right?' They nodded. The assistant was reticent
to
continue
until
Gibson
prompted him with
a rough shake of
his
shoulder.
'It was a ghost,'
he said,
obviously relieved that he'd
got
it
out.
'A
ghost of
a
churchman of some
kind
...
or a
monk
. . . hard
to
tell.
I mean, it
had
the
clothes on and
everything.'
'A ghost?' Gibson's expression suggested
that
everyone
in the room
was
malingering.
'We saw it!
All of us who
were
looking this
way .
. .'
'It was
the
face,'
the chef
muttered. His eyes ranged around
the kitchen
but
couldn't
fix on
anyone there.
'It
looked right
at me. The eyes .
.
.'He
turned
and
vomited down the side of
the
range, the
heat cooking it
instantly and filling the air
with
a repugnant
stink.
'It was old Bishop Ward,'
one
of the older assistants said. 'I
recognised
him
from
the painting
that used to hang in the library.'
The chef wiped his mouth
with
the back
of his hand.
'When
it looked
at
me, it felt as though my insides were being pulled right out through my
eyes,' he said.
'Did he say anything?' Miller asked.
'Not in so many words,' the chef replied shakily. 'But it felt as if it was
telling me about death
. .
. about all our deaths. About the end of the
world.'
The study of the bishop's palace had the sumptuous feel of a Victorian
gentleman's club: burnished leather high-backed chairs, books, dark
wood panelling, Persian carpet, stone fireplace. It was a world away from
the cold quarters the brethren endured. For many years it had been the
cathedral school, but it had recently been reclaimed as a haven for the
bishop from the privations experienced throughout the compound.
Mallory had spent a good half-hour convincing the ancillary staff to
allow him a few minutes with Julian, whom he then had to convince to
allow him in to see Cornelius. Julian looked tired and distracted, but he
was receptive to anything that might get them out of their current
predicament. He had told Mallory to wait and he would be granted an
audience once Cornelius was strong enough. That had been three hours
ago.
The opening of the door suggested that the time had finally come, but
it was only Blaine. Mallory instantly fell on the defensive. Blaine was
sphinxlike, didn't even acknowledge Mallory, but the moment the
ancillary left, his inscrutability vanished. 'What do you think you're
doing?' His voice was like stone. Mallory began to reply, but Blaine talked
over him. 'There's a chain of command here. You don't go bothering your
betters with your half-baked
ideas'
The word was a sneer. 'You come to
me, and then I can tell you how much bollocks it is. Don't waste your time
thinking - that's not what you're here for.' Implicit threat filled every
action. 'Your trouble, Mallory, is you think you're better than anyone
here. You're not. Nobody cares what you think.' Blaine took a step
forwards, and Mallory had a sudden image of a Belfast backstreet, broken
bottles and last orders.