The Eighth Court (12 page)

Downstairs, Alex and Angela were talking. “Did Alex find you?” said Blackbird. “She was looking for you.”

“I haven’t seen her,” I said.

“Never mind, come and see this.” She indicated one of the journals, which was open on the desk. The journal was open at a series of entries, but there was a loose leaf of paper between the pages.

“Where did this come from?” I asked. Unlike the heavy parchment of the journal, it was written on paper that was so thin it was translucent. The hand was scratchy and the ink was faded in places.

For the manor and the land appertaining to Grey’s Court, a red rose, presented in full splendour on midsummer’s eve by Robert and Lettice Knollys or their successors in title in full escort and regalia at the foot of the altar of All Hallows of the Keep, unless there be a white rose at midday on the eve of the winter solstice, at the same place, whereupon the manor shall pass to the key-holder in perpetuity.

“It was tucked between the pages of this journal,” said Blackbird. “We found it when we were going through them.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure,” said Blackbird. “It’s not a contract, or a deed of any kind. We’re not even sure what it relates to.”

“They’re not serious, are they? A manor house in exchange for a rose?”

“It’s not beyond precedent,” said Blackbird. “In law, a contract must have a consideration, something given and received in order for it to be valid. If you wanted to give something away then you could make the consideration something trivial, like a rose,”

“So it’s a gift?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“If this is just a copy of another document,” said Angela, “then this may all have been resolved years ago. It’s just a piece of paper with mild historical value.”

“But if this is the only reference to it,” said Blackbird, “then it’s possible that somewhere there is the contract that this relates to, and by invoking the conditions of that contract we could benefit from it.”

“Surely someone must have tried this before?” I said.

“Except for one thing,” said Blackbird. “Where would you get a white rose in the middle of winter? This was found in pages dating back five hundred years,” said Blackbird, “and at that time there would be no way of producing a pure white rose on the eve of the winter solstice unless you had an awful lot of money.”

“Could you do it?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Blackbird. “With magic, it’s a trivial transformation.”

“Then perhaps that’s its purpose. It’s been left here against some future need.”

“Why leave it there, though?” she asked. “The only people who have access to these documents are the clerks and the Remembrancers.”

Angela closed the journal carefully. “There are no other inserts. I’ve been through the other journals. Of course, there are others still in the restricted archive, but they could be hard to access.”

“The only way is to try it; present the rose on the solstice eve. Very shortly it will be the shortest day. It’s now or never.” I went to the dresser and lifted down the sword.

“What are you intending to do with that?” asked Blackbird.

“It’s only a precaution,” I said.

“Not every problem is solved with a sword,” said Blackbird. “We may need subtler skills if we are to make this work for us. Besides, I have another task for you. Without Claire to act as intermediary, even if we find the knights they have no reason to trust us. If we had a token of good faith to offer, though, then perhaps we could establish lines of communication. I want you to recover the horseshoes so that we can return them as a gesture of good faith. Take one of the drivers – you can tell them it’s court business. Bring back the horseshoes – the one from the National Archive that Claire had with her, and the one in her flat, if they’re still there.”

“I won’t be able to touch them,” I pointed out.

“I’m not asking you to. Take a holdall or something of that nature, and some heavy gloves. I’m sure the gardeners have something you could use. You’ll only have to hold them for a moment, and with gloves it shouldn’t be too bad.

Alex pushed through the door into the room. “Dad, I need to talk to you.”

“Can it wait?” I asked her. “Now is not a good time.”

“There was someone at the house,” she said, without preamble.

“What house?” said Blackbird.

“At Mum’s. A man came to the door, about six foot tall, sandy hair, greying at the temples. Looks like he’s had his nose broken – more than once, probably.”

“Sam Veldon,” I said. Blackbird also appeared to recognise the description. “What did he want?”

“He was looking for you, and he asked after Claire.” Alex watched the exchange of looks between me, Angela and Blackbird. “What?”

“Claire’s dead, Alex. Someone slit her throat,” said Blackbird.

“Oh,” said Alex in a small voice.

“We can’t have this,” I said. “I can’t just have people turning up at Katherine’s. What does Sam think we’re doing, running a consultancy?”

“It’s attracting the wrong sort of attention,” agreed Blackbird.

“He said he had something for you,” said Alex.

“It’s not like Sam to volunteer,” I said. “Did he say what it was?”

“He just said it was something you need,” said Alex.

“Did he say where he’d be? How to contact him?”

“No,” said Alex. “He just asked Mum to pass on the message. He seemed to think she’d know where you were. It’s what I came back to tell you.”

“What about your Mum?” I said. “You’ve left her on her own?”

“Oh, you know Mum,” said Alex. “She’ll be all right.”

“I’m not happy about Sam sneaking round the house. Maybe you should go back and stay with her, just in case.”

“I told her I’m staying here, now,” said Alex. “She’s not expecting me back.”

There was a hint of evasion in that sentence, but then so much of what Alex said was veiled in half-truths.

“As regards the rose, this will either work or it won’t,” said Blackbird, “but it’s too tempting not to give it a try. It could solve a lot of our problems, assuming the manor still exists and hasn’t been developed into a housing estate in the intervening years. Even so, I don’t want Garvin knowing about this, or the horseshoes” said Blackbird. “Not until we’re sure where his loyalties lie.”

“I could come with you,” Alex suggested.

“I think it would be better if you stayed here,” I told her.

“I could watch your back. I wouldn’t get in the way. You need someone, and you can’t take one of the Warders or they’ll tell Garvin,” she pointed out.

“Look,” I said to Alex. “It’ll be a long car drive and there’ll be nothing to do. I’m only going to collect the horseshoes and bring them back here. I won’t need anyone to watch my back because nothing’s going to happen,” I said, kissing her forehead. “Blackbird and Angela are going to test a theory. You could do me a really big favour and go and look after your little brother.”

“Oh Dad!”

“What? Lesley’s looked after him for most of the day. She could do with a break, and besides, he really likes you.”

“He pulls my hair,” she protested, “when he’s not throwing up all over me.”

“He’s not pulling it, he’s playing with it.” I told her. “He doesn’t mean any harm. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just keep the pair of you out of trouble until I get back.”

I left Alex complaining to Blackbird, much good it would do her, and took my sword and headed for the stables to find a driver to take me back into London.

“
Why do you always wait for me to speak first?”

“Because I want to hear what you have to say?” whispered the voice.

There was a pause. “Why did you have to kill her? You already had the safe.”

“It was necessary. There will be no more ceremonies.”

“She was human. It was a very public place. There will be questions. All this invites a level of scrutiny I would rather avoid.”

“Deal with it.”

“I am dealing with it, but you keep making it harder.”

“That’s your part of the bargain,” the whisperer said.

“Not as I recall.”

“It’s all the same,” said the whisper. “Has the ultimatum been delivered?”

“Yes.”

“Have they agreed?”

“She’s trying to buy time.”

“That must not happen.”

“I’m doing what I can to prevent it, but Barthia is inclined to support them. You could apply a little leverage from your end?”

“I’ll see what can be done.”

“And what about the other part of the bargain? When are you going to deliver on that?”

“Everything comes to those who wait,” said the whisperer.

“Seems like there’s a lot of waiting and not much delivery.”

“You want me to do it now?”

“No. But it has to be soon. He won’t last.”

“The more she draws it out, the longer it will be,” said the whisperer.

“Then do something.” The shadow detached itself and withdrew.

“Steady, now,” whispered the voice.

Blackbird and Angela left Alex shortly after her Dad. “Fine,” Alex said to herself. “I’ll hold the fort. Leave it to me.”

She went back towards her room, intending to grab the music player she’d acquired in a manner that didn’t bear examination, especially from her father. The baby would try and pull the earphones out, if she let him, but as long as he didn’t suck them it was probably OK. If she let her hair wind around his stubby little fingers that usually kept him amused until he fell asleep.

“Hey, Alex.” Sparky was leaning against the wall outside his room, the slanting lines of the setting sun cutting through his doorway beside him sending slanting lines of light across the corridor.

“Hey you,” said Alex, “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he said, tucking his hands behind his back and lounging back against the wall, “but that could change.”

“Why’s that?” she asked, pausing.

“We could do something? Maybe go into town, find one of those clubs you like?”

“You said you don’t dance,” she said.

“You do,” he said, “I could learn. You could teach me.”

Alex laughed. “It’s not something you learn. You can either do it or you can’t.”

“OK, then maybe I do dance after all. Maybe I just haven’t tried.”

Alex sighed. “Not tonight, OK? I have to go and look after the baby. Dad’s gone out on an errand, and Blackbird’s off doing Blackbird stuff. You know what she’s like.”

“Yeah. She’s cool, though. I like her,” said Sparky.

“You fancy her, you mean,” said Alex, and then looked away when Sparky blushed. Blimey, she thought. He really does have the hots for her.

“So what about tomorrow?” he asked, covering his embarrassment. “We could make a night of it.”

Alex looked back at him. She kinda liked him, but not in that way. He was OK. They’d been through stuff together, and come out closer, but he was always trying to make it into something else. Why couldn’t he just accept things the way they were?

“We’ll see,” she said, and then realised she’d used exactly the tone of voice her Dad used when he meant no, but didn’t want to argue with her. Sparky didn’t seem to pick up the hint, though.

“I’ll come by tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll bring some boosters, and we can head out.”

Alex eased past, “Yeah, maybe,” she said. Booster was a combination of energy drink, dark rum and dissolved caffeine tablets. Sparky swore by it, but Alex thought tasted like cough medicine. He was always trying to get her to drink it, claiming it would give her a lift.

“Tomorrow, then?” he called after her.

“We’ll see how we are,” she repeated.

She reached her room, grabbed her music player and left again, heading further down the hall to the spiral staircase, skipping lightly downwards so she could get back to the main house without having to pass Sparky again. He’d been waiting for her – she knew that. All that nonchalance outside his room was a put-up job.

He was probably just anxious for company, though. She knew how lonely this house could be, and most of the newcomers were older. Sparky was probably just missing people. For a half-second she thought back to the time they’d had together. They’d been a team, Sparky, Chipper, Eve and her. But then she remembered that Eve had tried to kill them all, and Chipper had died. Alex’d killed him, just like the others.

A body lying charred and steaming on the cold grass, its eyes staring out at nothing, the lips pulled back from the teeth in a rictus grin. The gorge-rising smell of burned meat mixes with the stench of sewer water, the choked-off screams echoing back from the tiles as they were dragged under. The swirling brown water in the tiny room, dragging them into the middle…

Staggering at the bottom of the stairs, she was blinded by the onslaught of images in her head, lowering herself to sit on the stairs, feeling for the steps with her fingers while she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to blot out the images. She cloaked herself in glamour, not wanting to be seen like this, trembling and sweating over a memory. Slowing her breathing, one breath at a time, she pushed the memories back down, telling herself that it was done with. It was over.

Using one hand to unclench the other, she massaged her fingers where they cramped and twitched. She couldn’t decide whether these attacks were getting better or worse. They were less frequent now, sure, but they were stronger too. She’d thought she was getting better, but maybe they were just getting more extreme. Breathing slowly, she forced herself to relax. She could hear her own heartbeat slowing as she made herself believe it would all be OK.

The calm of the house helped. The ground floor of this wing was deserted: a procession of rooms with dust-covered furniture and closed curtains leaving shadowed interiors. She let herself listen to the peace and the emptiness. As the light faded from the windows down the west side of the house, she welcomed its solitude, the sense of things long past, covered over and forgotten.

If she hadn’t been so still and quiet, she would probably never have seen him. The merest suggestion of a shadow crossed the hallway. If you looked directly, there was nothing to see and your eye was constantly drawn away to dusty paintings or the long-silent grandfather clock. It was only when she looked away that her impression of someone moving down the corridor returned. As quietly as she could, she crept after.

She had an idea who it was she was following. His sheer size gave him away, though how anyone that big could move so quietly always amazed her. She was never quite sure how much of that was glamour and how much was just Tate. There was something about the way he walked, as if every step were tested, each pace a measured distance.

She was deliberately looking away while following, trying to keep the sense of him in sight without actually looking at him. Her own glamour was drawn about her, damping her own clumsy footfalls and diverting attention away. They came to the steps down to the Way-nodes and she sensed his presence moving down into the basement room. She hesitated at the head of the steps. If he caught her following him he would be cross, she knew, but her curiosity burned to know why he cloaked himself so, within the bounds of the house. He was up to something, she was sure. How long before she was safe to descend? If she descended too soon then he might still be there and she would have to admit she’d been following him, but if she left it too long his trail would be cold and she would not be able to follow.

Curiosity overruled caution, and she went carefully downwards, trailing her fingers down the cold wall, alert to any sound from within. When she reached the basement room she pushed the door open slowly where it had been left slightly ajar, readying her excuses –
I thought I heard a noise
. No one would ever believe that.

The room looked empty. Even so, she spent a moment standing in the doorway, letting her senses absorb the atmosphere until she was sure he’d gone. The stones were arrayed on the floor. Mostly when the Warders went out they left someone watching the Way-node, but now it was empty. Why didn’t Tate want anyone to know where he was going? A sudden pang of jealousy pricked her. Was he going to meet some woman? Is that why he was being so furtive?

She stepped forwards onto the Way-node, suddenly decided, and felt for the Way. It rose beneath her and she was swept away. Sensing the recent passage, the trail through the watery depths was like expanding ripples. She followed in his wake, letting herself glide along after him, barely hesitating as she arced around node after node, only conscious of the trail she followed. She was almost lulled by it, and started when the trail suddenly ended and she found herself in a wooded clearing in the misty darkness. There was a moment of panic as she realised he might be waiting for her, armed with questions as to what she thought she was doing, but there was no one. There wasn’t the slightest sign of Tate or anyone else.

Moving off the Way-node, more from habit that any intent, she surveyed the clearing. A tree had fallen across one side of it, half-covered in dark moss. The smell of leaf mould and damp earth surrounded her, while the evening breeze hissed through the high branches above her.

She walked around the clearing slowly until she noticed the path leading out into the wood. He’d been here before then? Maybe there was someone he was meeting. She scrambled up the low bank and wove her way through the trees, her eyes on the ground as she followed the vague outline of a path through the darkening woods. The last remnants of fading daylight filtered down through the leaves and her eyes adjusted until she could see the outlines of trees. Even so, she was slapped in the face by wet leaves more times that she could count. Long strands of bramble snagged in her sweater and her trainers sank into the muddy ground until water seeped into her shoes and made her footsteps squelch.

Listening carefully, there was no sight or sound of Tate, but then she hadn’t expected any. If she followed the path, though, that would take her to him and she would see what he was up to. She turned back, looking for the path she had followed, trailing behind her, and seeing none. She shook her head.
Of course
it was there. She was simply seeing it from a different angle.

Walking back along the path she had just followed, she came to the broad trunk of a tree. Had she passed it on the left, or the right? She searched the ground for the signs of her passing, finding only rotting brown leaves, and moss between the stripped-bare shrubs and clumps of undergrowth.

Returning to the place she’d reached, she tried again, but she wasn’t sure how far she’d gone. Now that she looked, there seemed to be many paths, though none looked especially used or recently travelled. Nor could she find the path she’d walked. She hugged herself against the night-time chill, wishing that she’d brought warmer clothes. The wood suddenly seemed huge and random, with vague pathways going off in all directions only to end in impassable banks of shrubs or muddy hollows where her trainers sank into the leaves with sucking sounds. Childhood stories echoed in her head and she started at noises in the bushes and imagined large creatures shadowing her movements just beyond her field of view.

She stopped. This was ridiculous. She frowned at her shoes and in a moment they were dry. Likewise, the damp left her clothes, leaving her drier if not especially warmer. She calmed herself down and turned slowly around in a circle, looking for things she recognised. There was a gnarled tree trunk that she was sure she’d passed before. She made her way to that and surveyed her position again. There was nothing she recognised. She had no idea which direction she’d come from or where she was. Somewhere among the wretched trees was a clearing with a trunk laid half across it, and if she could find that, she could at least get home.

Walking in ever-widening circles, she looked for something she’d recognise. The trouble was, the paths she followed weren’t circular and they kept leading her in directions she didn’t want to go. Within a few minutes she’d lost sight of the gnarled trunk and she couldn’t find that again either. Right, she thought, a wood can only be so big, so if she kept walking in one direction she would reach the edge of it, and then she could find civilisation and go home. It might take her longer, but at least she wouldn’t be scratched to death, cold and standing in a wet wood.

She picked a direction where the trees appeared to be lighter and set off. She tramped through the brush, her clothes picking up the damp as fast as she could dry them again. She missed her footing jumping over a small stream and ended up half-kneeling in the stream bed. Her temper got worse and the wood went on and on. Was there no end to the trees? After what seemed like half the night, she staggered into a clearing. Her hopes lifted as she thought she recognised something, and then sank when it was the same gnarled trunk she’d left hours ago. There was even the bit of root that she’d scraped the mud off her trainers with, the mud still damp and fresh. All this time she’d been walking in a huge circle. She could have cried. She was tired, frustrated and fed up with sodding trees. Her hands and face were covered in scratches, her knees were bruised and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything to eat or drink.

She knew what she’d have to do. There was one person who could get her back to where she needed to be, and it would mean ’fessing up, but she was too exhausted to care. She would wear the consequences and damn the rest. She walked into the clearest space she could find and listed up her chin, ready to shout for help. Tate would be cross at being followed, but anything was better than this.

She emptied her lungs of air and then took a huge breath, lifting her chin to call out far into the woodland.

“Mmmp!” A hand clamped over her mouth and nose, pulling her back against a solid form that dragged her backwards through the undergrowth, clamping her hands to her sides. She squeaked, and kicked, her lungs full to bursting but unable to make more than the tiniest of sounds. They suddenly stopped, backed up to an old tree stump.

There was a whisper, close to her ear. “Not a sound, understand?”