Ink & Sigil

by Kevin Hearne

  The strength and agility sigils wore off about the time that my wounds began to close up, and I felt drained and unsure if I could actually get to my feet. I struggled at it, however, using my cane to help, and once I was mobile I limped and moaned my way to the bathroom, where I closed the damn window. We did not want another pack of dugs or anything else coming in.

  The interior of the bathroom door was shredded to splinters. It would have to be replaced, but it would hold for now. I took some multivitamins to aid my healing the old pharmaceutical way and drank plenty of water to replace my fluids, carefully not looking in the mirror, because I was scared of what I’d see. Then I exited and closed the door firmly, renewing the ward’s seal.

  There was so much else to do—sweeping and sponging and mopping and calling Nadia to come and help—but I sat down on the couch next to Buck, or rather half-crashed there, for a short rest, since I could afford one now.

  My hands began trembling after about twenty seconds and tears sprang up in my eyes, immediately stinging the wounds on my cheek. We had come so close to losing that one. And though what I’d told Buck earlier was true—we’d likely see no more barghests after this—I worried about what Clíodhna would send next.

  To calm myself, I began inhaling deep lungfuls of air and exhaling slowly. I focused on my breathing, internalized the truth that I had utter control over my reaction to this crisis, and knew that I would heal and set things right.

  I fell asleep soon afterward, blood-soaked skin and clothing and all, and dreamt of the most delightful French toast with sliced bananas, my mind trying to find a happy place while my body tried to deal with its trauma.

  Usually my Saturdays went better than this.

  “Hey, MacBharrais,” Buck said.

  [What?]

  We were sprawled on the couch, trying not to move while our bodies tried to heal, and watching Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet from 1996, since we were feeling so tragic. It was not my favorite way to spend a Sunday morning, my face on fire and wanting waffles yet not wishing to move, but I supposed I was fortunate merely to be there and not enjoying it, instead of being in chunks and coursing through the mystic bowels of a barghest.

  “How come ye’re the guy? I mean the sigil agent. Why does the goddess at the top of the Irish pantheon have an ol’ Scottish man working for her?”

  [I wasn’t always old.]

  “But you’ve always been Scottish.”

  [True, but being Irish isn’t a prerequisite. A sharp memory and the ability to keep secrets are more important. And besides, the Scots have their own grand portion of the Fae too. Witness this fine hobgoblin here named Buck Foi.]

  “Still, why is it you slingin’ sigils for Brighid and not some earnest freckled dude in Dublin?”

  [My master was Irish, and he picked me to be his apprentice. That’s pretty much it. The sigil agents in the United States aren’t Irish either. One’s from El Salvador and the other is African-American. The agents in Taiwan and Melbourne are also not Irish.]

  “So why’d he pick you?”

  [He ran across me hunting for gall nuts to make ink. That was his first clue that I might have the aptitude and disposition to be a sigil agent. I learned later that he was in Scotland pursuing a hobgoblin like you who’d pulled off some rather large heists.]

  “Heists, ye say? I like him already.”

  [Her.]

  “Her? Ye wouldnae be talkin’ of Holga Thunderpoot, now, would ye?”

  [That’s the one.]

  “Ah, Holga! A heroine of the hobgoblins. He didnae ever catch her, though, did he?”

  [Naw. He found me instead. Not sure what happened to her in the end.]

  Buck’s expression turned dark. “I do. When Fand had her little rebellion against Brighid a while back—I assume ye heard about that—Holga was one of many who died on that field outside of Manannan Mac Lir’s castle.”

  [I’m sorry. Was she a relation?]

  “Naw, just a heroine, like I said. I always wanted tae pull off a heist like hers someday. A few bottles here and a few sausages there are all very fine, but she’d steal entire barrels of master distillers’ reserve, barrels that were old enough tae vote, ye ken? Then she bottled it under her own label, Hobgoblin Heist, and she gave it away in the Fae Court. Had a bottle myself once, and the label made me laugh. Under the name it said, The Very Finest of Purloined Highlands Whiskies, and then under that it said, Aged a Long Bloody Time, ha ha. For tasting notes, it said, Discuss Amongst Yourselves, but It’s Delicious Because I Fucking Stole It. And she was right.”

  I chuckled at that, which led to a mild coughing fit, and the coughing hurt. But I typed, [She sounds like a legendary hob. Why don’t you honor her and yourself at the same time?]

  “How d’ye mean?”

  [You could create Buck Foi’s Best Boosted Spirits and include a little homage to Holga Thunderpoot on the label. We can easily print them in my shop.]

  “Are ye serious now?”

  I shrugged. [Hobgoblins are going to steal. If you decide to steal and then give away the stolen goods in a sort of Robin Hood scenario, and you make sure to never take so much that the distiller can’t recover or bear the loss, well, it’s almost virtuous, isn’t it?]

  “I like the way ye rationalize theft, boss.”

  While I was typing a reply, we heard three soft knocks on the front door, followed by a rustle of paper. Buck looked at me with wide, panicked eyes.

  “Ye’re gonnay make me go look, aren’t ye?”

  [Somebody has to move their arse off this couch.]

  “Can we play Cock, Vapor, Knickers for it?”

  I frowned. [You mean Rock, Paper, Scissors?]

  Buck scoffed. “Naw, that’s boring, that is.”

  [Yours sounds a bit too exciting. I can’t play whatever that is in my condition.]

  “Gahh. Whatevers, MacBharrais. I see where this is headed. I’ll go. Wauugggh!”

  He went, but not without a dramatic series of groans and grunts that highlighted what great personal pains he was enduring for my sake.

  “There’s a sealed note slipped under the door here,” he called eventually. “I’ll bring it over. Don’t move now, ol’ man. Wouldnae want tae get yer mustache bent out of shape. Just wait.”

  The moaning and groaning resumed, and I typed, [Thanks, Buck. My mustache is perfectly bent at the moment, just like yer maw.]

  “Heh! Ow. Don’t make me laugh.”

  After a marathon session of pained grunting, he crawled back up on the couch with me and handed over the note. It bore Brighid’s seal, so I opened it immediately.

  Mr. MacBharrais:

  Flidais traced the scrap you provided to the airport. Whoever gave Gordie that ink recipe flew into or out of Glasgow, or both. The scrap has now been destroyed.

  Brighid

  That was strange. I had fully expected that trail to lead to one of the Old Ways in Glasgow. I would have put money, in fact, on the Kelvingrove Park one, near Gordie’s flat. My thinking had been that Clíodhna had sent one of her bean sídhe over with the information. But an airport meant someone human—most likely human, anyway—was getting directly involved in the business with Gordie and Clíodhna. The only other person involved that we knew of was the mysterious Bastille. If it was him, where was he located that he needed to fly into Glasgow?

  I had an idea to pursue, but it would mean moving. I felt like shite and there were plenty of reasons to stay half-sunk into the cushions of my couch. A long, soft time watching Shakespeare was precisely what I needed and probably all I had the energy for. But I also had a mystery to solve and some justice to serve. I couldn’t do any of that without moving.

  The grunting and moaning that ensued as I tried to rise from the couch outraged Buck no end.

  “Oh, now ye move, after ye make me go tae the
door and back? If ye were gonnay get up anyway, ye could have gone tae the door yerself!”

  I waved him off and waddled stiffly to my coat, knees protesting the entire way. I retrieved the flash drive Saxon Codpiece had given me Thursday with Gordie’s phone information and passwords on it and then plugged it into my laptop, once I’d fetched that and returned to the couch. I should have looked into this earlier, but what with Brighid’s visit taking up my entire day on Friday and then getting attacked yesterday, I’d had no opportunity.

  “What are ye daein’ now? We were watching Claudius sugar o’er the devil himself, and what could be more important than that? We were gonnay have a rare moment of introspection, I could feel it.”

  I pulled up the files and opened a log of recent calls, and one had a +1 prefix, which meant a call from the United States or Canada. It was from the 571 area code.

  Looking up the area code on the Internet took two seconds: 571 was a small, concentrated area of northern Virginia next to Washington, D.C. Plenty of federal workers lived in that area code. It was a stretch, but it fit with Saxon’s idea that someone in a government job was behind all this. And as far as I knew, Gordie didn’t know anybody in the States. No relatives there, no friends at all. Perhaps this was a legitimate clue.

  Calling that number would require an excess of caution. If it was attached to anyone involved in this trafficking business, it was probably a burner phone. They probably wouldn’t pick up and definitely wouldn’t return a voicemail—not that I would leave one. If they were connected to the government, as Codpiece hypothesized, they might have the ability to track any call made to them. A certain amount of skulduggery would be required, then. Some protective tradecraft. And all probably for nothing. But it needed to be done.

  [I’m going to go out for three or four hours,] I told Buck.

  “Just going downstairs, eh? At the rate you’re moving, you’d better allow five.”

  [Going to Edinburgh on an errand. I doubt you’ll see another attack so soon, but just in case, don’t let anybody in.]

  “Aye, nae worries on that score.”

  Groaning theatrically again for Buck’s benefit and because it made me feel better, I levered myself off the couch and shuffled to the bathroom to look at the damage to my face. The three slashes were red and puckered and angry with me but fully closed up, thanks to the Sigil of Knit Flesh. I gingerly applied some water and soap to it, wincing all the while, and patted dry with excessive care.

  Pulling out my phone, I Signaled Nadia. Can you let bartender Heather MacEwan at Gin71 know that three barghests attacked me at home last night? She doesn’t have a phone.

  Her reply came quickly, with some pepper and vinegar in it. What the hell, Al? That’s twice you’ve been jumped this week and didnae call me!

  Wasn’t time. I’m scratched but okay.

  Well, the polis came on Friday, like you said they would. I showed them the doctored footage, so you should be in the clear.

  Thanks, Nadia. You’re the best.

  I didn’t have the inks at home to draw healing sigils, but my study did contain the ink for a Sigil of Hale Revival, so I drew myself one of those. It didn’t heal anything, but it gave me some energy and the feeling that I was in great shape when I wasn’t. It would get me through the day, I hoped, and I could crash later.

  Since it was possible that we were dealing with a member of U.S. intelligence services, I left my phone behind so that there would be no digital record of me leaving my flat. I wore the derby hat with the Sigil of Swallowed Light on it to cover my trip to Edinburgh, leaving from Queen Street station. It was only a fifty-minute ride from Glasgow, and trains left regularly.

  Once in Waverley station in Edinburgh and confronted with its vast panoply of shops, it was a simple matter to find a store willing to sell me a burner phone and a debit card that I could load with cash to activate it. No one would ever be able to trace me, with my hat shutting down cameras; all they’d be able to establish was that the call originated from a cell-phone tower in Edinburgh.

  I charged the phone in a café and called the number in Virginia, fully expecting to get no answer. In all likelihood the phone had long been tossed into a river or lake or incinerator.

  A man surprised me by answering gruffly. “Hello.”

  “Ah, yes, I hope I have the correct number. I’m looking for a Mr. Bastille?” It was a calculated gamble. He could claim it was the wrong number or simply hang up. “I have some rather sad news. I’m calling regarding the death of Gordie Graham. Have ye heard already?”

  “Who is this?” That question, I realized, was why he’d answered the call. He wanted to know who had this number and probably how I’d gotten it.

  “I’m Peter, a friend of the family,” I lied. “Services will be in Edinburgh in two days. I don’t suppose you’ll be able tae make it?”

  “Edinburgh? Your accent’s from Glasgow.”

  Wow. Most Americans couldn’t tell English and Irish accents apart, let alone Scottish accents by city. This man had obviously spent some time in country. “Well spotted, Mr. Bastille, but my accent has nothing tae do with the memorial site. How did ye know Gordie?”

  “I didn’t. You’ve got the wrong number.”

  He hung up on me. Well, that was a load of shite. He most certainly did know Gordie. What I didn’t know about him was quite a bit, however. I felt certain I had been talking to Bastille, but I still didn’t know his real name. I didn’t know if he was actually in Virginia either, only that his phone had been activated there and given that area code. But that bit where he recognized the difference between a Weegie and an Edinburgh accent was a solid clue. He had the generic western American accent that one heard on their television, so for him to spot the difference in Scottish accents meant he was either a student of linguistics or he’d spent significant time here. I was betting on the latter, since I had difficulty believing that linguistics specialists would be involved in a Fae-trafficking scheme. And someone had flown to Glasgow to give Gordie that recipe for Manannan’s ink, and most likely other inks as well.

  Though I supposed that if Saxon Codpiece was right—that Bastille was someone in the government and likely in the intelligence field—linguistics training might be part of their background.

  Still: I had enough information to attempt a search through my friendly neighborhood hacker. Even if Saxon couldn’t pinpoint who Bastille was, he’d most likely be able to narrow the field and give me a list of names to pursue.

  I tossed the phone into a bin and bought a ticket back to Glasgow. Let Bastille search for “Peter” if he wished. He’d find a single call made from a local cell-phone tower and glitchy cameras in Waverley station, if he was the sort of person who could access such information. Nothing that would lead back to me.

  Except my Glaswegian accent. Damn.

  It occurred to me that an extra dose of cautious paranoia might do me good. A smart man with access might start looking for security-camera glitches today between Edinburgh and Glasgow. If so, they could follow me back to my neighborhood by following the glitches. There was already a record of where I started if they traced backward from here, so it was key not to return there with my hat on, because that would give them a tight little area to search, and who knew what they would find if they did that?

  I sighed. Paranoia and tradecraft were exhausting. But I didn’t want to lead anyone back to my neighborhood, where they might eventually figure out who I was. I’d have to disappear—or, rather, reappear—anonymously somewhere else. Getting off the surveillance grid so that I could safely get back on it would take some time, however. The reliable way to do it was to get the hell out of the city.

  I bought a ticket to Stirling and kept the hat on; there were not only cameras in the station but on the train too. If I took it off, they would have me. In Stirling I went to the bus depot outside the train statio
n and took the first one going out to any village. I wound up going to Kippen, about nine miles west of Stirling. Once there, I walked out of the wee quaint place and kept walking until there was nothing but me, sheep, and the occasional grouse in a meadow. Finally confident that I was no longer under surveillance, I took off my hat and coat and draped the latter over the former. Then I stuck out my thumb and tried to look like I wouldn’t murder anyone. Normally that wouldn’t be an issue, but my scratched face was probably a red flag for many people. It took a dozen autos or so, but eventually a farmer in a fertilizer-scented lorry picked me up.

  “Where ye headed, then?” he asked, politely not asking what had happened to me.

  “The next town with a bus or train station, thank you.” I brushed some potato crisp crumbs from the seat before sitting down and closing the cab door. My savior was an older gentleman about my age, with burst capillaries on his cheeks and the bulb of his nose. He liked his gin and whisky more than the average man, I guessed. I’d wager a fiver that there was a bottle in the glove compartment.

  “Fancy coat like that, I’d have thought ye’d have yer own auto,” the man said, with an upward twist to his mouth to let me know he was teasing. “Maybe yer own driver.”

  “It is fancy, in’t it? Fancy enough that people feel safe picking me up for a lift. Don’t need an auto that way.”

  He chuckled. “Fair enough. I’m Hamish.”

  “Aloysius. Ye can call me Al.”

  “I’m a farmer that does some micro-distilling on the side.”

  “G’wan, now. Whisky or gin?”

  “Bit of both. Just a few barrels. But the whisky is aging, and I hope tae try some before I go tits up.”

  “That sounds grand. D’ye ever find yerself in a hurry tae do the things ye always wanted before the final hour?”