by Emma Newman
“Do you want to listen to some music?”
“No.”
“Do you mind if I do?”
“No.”
She flipped between radio stations but was unable to find anything she liked so she switched it off again. “So…what’s it like being an Arbiter?”
“We need to take the next exit,” he said, looking down at the map again.
“Did you always want to be one?”
“Take the third exit off the roundabout.”
She changed lanes and followed a bright yellow car for a while. “How do you even become an Arbiter anyway?”
“There’s a crossroads coming up,” he said. “Turn right and then take the second left.”
She stayed silent for the rest of the trip. They ended up driving down a bumpy single-lane road that turned into a glorified track through fields populated with cows. Just as she was about to tell him he must have got it wrong they saw a set of wooden gates with a letterbox in one of the supporting posts. “Green Dale” was carved into the stone above it.
Cathy stopped the car in front of them and Max got out. The gates were unlocked, which surprised her. He got back in and she drove forwards slowly, avoiding potholes in the gravel-covered road.
“I have nothing to say about what it’s like to be an Arbiter,” he said out of the blue. “I was selected from a large group of potentials. I passed the tests.”
“Were they hard?”
“…Yes,” he finally replied.
She drove slowly, wanting to ask more but knowing it would have to wait for another time. There were landscaped gardens on either side of them with large, mature trees at the boundary. As they rounded the corner a huge house came into view, obscured from the road by the trees at the edge of the estate. It had an extensive terrace and Cathy could see people sitting on chairs with blankets over their laps.
“Park over there,” Max said, pointing to an empty parking area on the left. “I’ll go first and make sure there isn’t going to be a problem.”
“Can I look for the people I wanted to find?”
He nodded. “Keep me in sight if you can. I doubt they’ll do anything to the Duchess of Londinium, but it pays to be careful.”
“Don’t tell them who I am,” she said and they got out of the car.
He went ahead as she locked it. A nurse was already hurrying into the house from the terrace, probably to raise the alarm. As she got closer she could see several elderly men and women watching the new arrival with interest.
They were dressed like they were still in Society and it looked so odd to see the period clothing in Mundanus. A woman came out of the house to intercept Max on the steps up onto the terrace and a short exchange resulted in Max being shown in. He turned and gave her a curt nod and Cathy took that as a confirmation that she could go ahead. She only hoped she would find answers instead of more questions.
By the time Will had finished casting each Charm he felt invulnerable. No blade could cut him, if anything containing poison came near him the pendant resting on the skin over his heart would grow hot, and no Persuasion, Lust, Love or Hate Charms would have any effect on him, nor would any others created to alter his opinion. Tate had prepared the assortment for him and given a lengthy description of each one’s benefits, and instructions for either casting them or placing artefacts in different places on his body. He’d used several before and heard of all the rest but had never used them in concert. He’d sent a bottle of the finest champagne and an obscenely expensive box of chocolates in return.
He was dressed in a modern suit and wearing a long coat to protect him against the mundane wind and rain as he stood in a doorway across the street. He’d opted to arrive early and keep a low profile, blending in with the mundanes as much as possible. He was waiting for one of his footmen to return and assure him that all was well at the hotel he’d chosen for his meeting with Margritte. It was easy to hire a private room with no Nether reflection halfway between London and Oxford, something he hoped would show his willingness to accommodate her needs. He wasn’t going to tell her what really happened but he was happy to give her condolences if the conversation went well. Cathy was convinced it would be best for everyone and the decent thing to do. He hadn’t argued with her on that point.
Nevertheless, he wasn’t going to be complacent. He’d taken every precaution, preparing for the meeting as if it were with the head of a rival family rather than simply a grieving widow. Margritte was no fool and there was always the possibility she’d convinced the Tulipa Patroon to support her should she wish to humiliate him in some way. He’d denied their family true political power and that wouldn’t be forgotten for a very long time.
“It’s clear, your Grace,” the footman said. “No trace of any Charms and nobody has been in the room since it was cleaned early this morning. None of the guests in the lobby nor any of the staff on duty have been Charmed and all staff identities have been confirmed.”
“Excellent,” Will replied. “How are you bearing up?” He’d cast a Clear Sight Charm on the man that morning, giving him the ability to see anyone or anything that had been Charmed or Glamoured. Tate had sent it for him to use but Will didn’t want to suffer the side effect: severe depression for a few days once it had worn off.
“It’s…interesting, your Grace. I’m glad to be of service.”
“You’ll be on reduced duties for the next week, should no emergencies arise,” Will assured him. “I’ll wait in the meeting room. When Mrs Tulipa arrives check her whilst she’s being escorted and report to me should there be anything I need to know. You know what to look out for.”
“Yes, your Grace. I’ll escort you there now.”
Will knew he was skating the fine line between caution and paranoia; even if she was wearing an artefact it was highly unlikely it would be able to affect him whilst so well protected. Better to be safe and home in time for dinner. He’d just finished reading The Time Machine and planned to discuss it with Cathy over a special meal he’d planned with the cook. She’d been working so hard to be everything he needed her to be; it was time to show her how much he appreciated it. And he wanted to see the smile the gift of the library had brought out again.
They crossed the street and the footman took him through to the meeting room after a brief exchange with the receptionist. Being back in a hotel made him yearn for the Grand Tour again, for that feeling of arriving somewhere new and knowing that fresh delights were soon to be discovered.
“This is the room, your Grace.”
There was only a small table and two comfortable chairs near the window. They’d followed his instructions precisely: no mirrors, only one door in and out and secure windows. The first was to reduce the opportunity to open a Way into Exilium, the latter two to provide better mundane security.
“Good. Tell the others to take their positions.”
Margritte arrived on time and Will was given a chance to compose himself as she was escorted to the room. His footman informed him she was wearing a simple Charm to keep her clothes clean and dry, one commonly used by those visiting Mundanus, but nothing else.
When she entered in her widow’s garb Will found it more unsettling than he’d anticipated. As they went through the motions of polite greetings he was forced to see the impact of his actions. She was evidently still in deep mourning; not only was she wearing black, she was pale and had lost weight. More than that; she’d lost the joy he hadn’t realised—until now—she’d radiated before.
His footmen followed her in and stood just inside the door. He felt safe.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet me,” she said. She was tense. So was he.
“Catherine told me you were keen to speak. It may be meaningless, given the circumstances, but I am very sad about what happened between our families.”
She stared at him, as if weighing the worth of his words. He hoped she would see his sincerity through grief’s veil. “Have you found the person who really tried to kill Catherin
e?”
Will breathed out and in again, wondering what he could say to ease her pain without condemning himself in the process. “I consider the matter behind us.”
“You have that luxury,” she said. “I, however, do not. William, I believed you to be a decent man, as did Bartholomew. Surely you cannot think it right to leave things as they are. We both know Bartholomew was innocent. Tell me you know that to be so. Explain to me how you were led to believe otherwise, so I can find some peace again.”
“There’s nothing I can say that will bring him back.”
“You can restore my family’s honour.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t. I feel wretched about what happened but there is nothing I can do to change the situation we find ourselves in.”
“I’ll ask you one last time.” She took a step towards him but most of the room was still between them. “Please tell the truth in the Court and clear his name. Let him be remembered as the man he was and let me mourn him in peace. He was not a murderer.”
Will kept his lips pressed together and shook his head.
“So be it,” she whispered and took a step back again.
There was a tremor in the air and his men had hands on their pistols in moments. Will reached for his sword, drawing it enough to break its Glamour, and felt a dampness on his chest. Thinking it was blood, he looked down to see a blue stain penetrating the cotton of his shirt in the place where the artefact had rested against his heart, as if the glass it was made of had turned to water.
The feeling of speed and sharp reflexes left him and he realised the Charms he’d so carefully prepared were failing. As Margritte watched he felt a sudden pressure on his ring finger. The wedding band—looking like oak once more—burst as if filled with too much air and his hand and fingers were filled with the sharp stab of hundreds of tiny splinters. The blade of his sword crumbled, one forged hundreds of years before, given to him when he came of age.
“Your Grace!” one of the men had time to shout before a tear in the air revealed another room, windowless and unfamiliar, through which stepped several suited men wearing bowler hats. They were followed by a scruffy mundane man who was grinning.
Before Will’s footmen could reach him they were cut off by the hatted men, all of whom had modern pistols trained on their faces.
“Who—”
“You are in the Kingdom of Mercia, under jurisdiction of the Oxford Chapter and in the domain of Rupert, Sorcerer Guardian of Mercia,” one of the hatted men announced.
“That’s me,” the scruffy man said.
“Any further action will be considered a breach of the Split Worlds treaty and you’ll be prosecuted accordingly.”
The unlikely Sorcerer looked at Margritte. “You OK, Maggie?”
She gave the slightest nod. “He won’t clear his name.”
“Well, we knew that would be the case, didn’t we?”
“This is none of your concern, Sorcerer,” Will said. “I am the Duke of Londinium and this is a private meeting with no risk to any innocents.”
“This is my domain,” Rupert said. “Everything that happens in Mercia is my concern. I don’t give a flying fuck that you’re the Duke of Londinium—that’s thirty miles away and you’re here, right now, not doing the decent thing.”
Will looked at Margritte, still reeling from the fact that a Sorcerer seemed to be involved in her private affairs. Cathy had mentioned she lived in Oxenford now, but nothing about a Sorcerer. “How is this to play out, Margritte? If you act against me, the entirety of the Iris family—including Lord Iris himself—will seek—”
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 c
hallenged 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.
