They knew who I was, of course, and although they had been educated about the awesome authority of a Rook, and although the potential of my supernatural gifts was legend, I was sure that humiliating anecdotes of my youth had been handed down in the dormitory from student to student. I was slightly heartened, however, to see them quail a little under my gaze. Finally, having stood silently for a few minutes, I felt compelled to go over to the child who was regarding me with the widest eyes.
He was Martin Heyer, a nine-year-old whose touch could literally curdle one’s blood. He was a darling little thing with dirty blond hair and was wearing the child-size latex gloves the Checquy gives to youngsters who haven’t quite gained control of their touch-based powers. I had been forced to wear them for a few weeks at the beginning of my time at the Estate. I mentally reviewed Martin’s files and recalled that he enjoyed soccer and science and was being fast-tracked toward research. And apparently he had pneumonia.
“Hullo,” I said hesitantly. “My name is—”
“I know, you’re Rook Myfanwy,” he wheezed. “I had a dream about you last night.”
“Oh, yeah?” I asked. “What did you dream?”
“I dreamed that a member of the Court gave the order,” he whispered, “and then a man took your memories.” He stared at me in terror, and I stared back at him, completely stunned.
“What?” I whispered.
“You won’t know who you are,” he said, beginning to draw in deep shuddering breaths. His pupils were enormous, and his eyes were glassy as hell. I noticed with alarm that he was starting to turn faintly blue. My mobile rang, and I looked around. The other children, far from being concerned at their compatriot’s apparent impending respiratory failure, had turned their attention to their books, electronic music thingies, and handheld computer games. “I tried to tell you,” he whispered, “but you didn’t know who you were. You just stood there, with black eyes.”
A nurse approached. “Ooh, my darling, are we having some trouble?” she asked the gasping child. She easily unlooped a clear plastic mask from a stand by the bed and held it to his mouth. “All right, sweetie, big deep breaths.” His eyes were huge over the mask.
My phone was still ringing in my bag.
“This is Rook Thomas,” I said. My mind was whirling, and I was racking my memory, trying to recall if young Martin’s files had mentioned anything about propensities for future-telling.
The call was from the chief lawyer at the Rookery, and I received a briefing on a minor procedural issue. I replied to every statement by nodding absently, which must have unsettled him somewhat, since it was a telephone conversation.
But I was having a quiet freak-out. You see, I was beginning to entertain the possibility that young Martin and the homeless guy were onto something. In fact, I’d become quite convinced of it. Both of them seemed so intensely certain, and their predictions matched. Not to mention there was little chance that they’d collaborated.
I stumbled through the rest of the tour without really absorbing anything. While thunder crashed overhead, I was shown the new indoor target ranges and inspected the boundary guards. I was introduced to the new surgeons, and I picked up Eliza Gestalt. All these events were a distant blur. We got on the boat, and the trip back to the mainland was stormy and rough. Lightning forked overhead as night fell. It rained most of the way back to London, and we passed the time in complete silence.
“Everything that makes you who you are.” That’s what the homeless man had said to me, and that’s what kept repeating in my head. “Gone forever.”
Everything that makes me who I am. My memories. My personality. My soul. Gone forever. Obliterated. That’s worse than dying.
I asked the driver to stop and let me out before we got to the Rookery—we were in the East End. I got out, and the car drove away. That was when I lost it. Standing there on the dark street, I began to cry. For half an hour I stood there, weeping, weeping, weeping.
When I finally ran out of tears, I started walking. Something about the darkness and the streets appealed to me. My denial and sorrow were giving way to numbness. I wandered into the most disreputable pub I could find and then realized that I couldn’t think of the name of any cocktails. Finally, I asked the man to make me something that would kill the pain and not taste like arse. He eyed me thoughtfully and then produced a drink with an alarming number of layers. I accepted it dully, took a long sip through a bendy straw, and swung around to face the room, my legs dangling from the stool.
It was kind of interesting to watch normal people interacting. They sat and had conversations, speaking much more loudly than Checquy people did. They didn’t automatically scan the room for threats, and hardly any of them had taken seats that allowed good visuals of the entrances. They hadn’t all situated themselves in positions that would permit them to control important lines of fire. And I was willing to bet that none of them had ordered their alcoholic beverages in an effort to cope with the knowledge of impending obliteration.
I took a few more gulps and became aware that there were two blond Cockney girls down the bar from me, commenting freely on society in general and the patrons of the pub in particular. One was tall and thin, and one was built like a normal person. They were both leaning against the bar and surveying the room.
At the Estate, they teach us high-level observation and evaluation skills, but the intense analytical breakdown that these two girls were working up on the customers of the Eight Bells was astounding.
“The lad in blue is gay.”
“Gay and doesn’t know it.”
“The girl in the hat is from Eastern Europe.”
“And has only had access to good clothing stores for two days.”
“Okay, that short girl in the suit down the bar from us…”
“Is going to lose her memory, I know!” I shouted at them. “I’m aware. God!” I removed the bendy straw, threw back my head and drained my ridiculous drink, then stalked out of the place.
That’s how I found out that I was going to lose my memory and eventually acknowledged it was true. When I finally got home, as I was unlocking the door, I remembered something else the homeless man had said.
“Someone new will open the eyes that used to be yours.”
There would be someone new in my body. And little Martin had said that person wouldn’t know who she was. I hadn’t come to terms with any of it—that took a lot longer—but it was the thought of that person, of you, of someone even more alone than I was, that got me through that night and led me to write these letters to you.
The next morning I found out that little Martin had died in the night, from complications.
13
Myfanwy woke up in Thomas’s very comfortable bed. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was still early. Apparently, she was a morning person. At least she had a few minutes to snuggle back among the cushions and scheme before she needed to face the day.
The big problem is that I’ve got no idea how to impersonate Myfanwy Thomas. Nobody seems able to agree on what she was like. Painfully shy, yet bold in policy. Quiet and withdrawn, but she rises to the Court. And my taking the lead last night certainly seemed to throw the Court off balance. Am I in danger of blowing my cover? They can’t say that I’m not Myfanwy Thomas, because I am Myfanwy Thomas. They can do all the physical tests they like, and I’ll pass them. And if Rook Thomas starts behaving differently, well, she has the power to do as she likes, as long as she gets the job done.
So all I have to do is get the job done.
Myfanwy got out of bed and set out to explore. The previous night, after she’d left the meeting, the car had taken her to Thomas’s house. She’d entered it, deactivated the beeping alarm (good old 230500), and wandered blearily upstairs until she found a room with a bed. For all she knew, she might be in the guest room. Still, judging by the bedside table with its little dish filled with coins and receipts, this was probably Thomas’s room. Which meant that these were Thomas’s close
ts. She opened one and then the other, disappointed to find that the clothing kept at home was just as boring as the clothing in the flat and in her chambers at the main office.
In stark contrast to her wardrobe, Thomas’s house was lovely, beautifully designed and decorated and packed full of interesting things. Along the walls were tall bookcases crammed with books.
In the kitchen, she found a note on the counter.
Ms. Thomas,
I got the call from your secretary, so I won’t stay. I know you’re going out to dinner, but I’ve left a cold meal for you in the fridge, just in case, and changed Wolfgang’s litter tray. Unless I hear different, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.
Val
Okay, so I have a housekeeper, thought Myfanwy. She investigated the fridge and found a delicious-looking assortment of meats, cheeses, and vegetables. And she cooks! And I’ve got a cat! Named Wolfgang. After snagging a fistful of baby carrots, Myfanwy wandered through the house.
“Wolfgang?” There was no mewing or pitter-patter of little feet. She checked the doors for a cat flap and found none. Oh God, it better be a cat. If she has some sort of bizarre hairy thing wandering around… “Wolfgang?” There was a flicker of movement through a doorway, and Myfanwy found herself staring at a rabbit with extremely long droopy ears.
“Oh! I have a bunny!” Myfanwy knelt down and reached out a hand. Wolfgang continued to look at her but submitted to a tentative stroking and accepted a carrot. “How are you, Wolfgang?” Receiving no answer, she settled her mind that he was not a supernatural rabbit and turned her thoughts to what needed to be done.
Obviously, the issue of the Grafters had to be addressed—especially if they sent over any more operatives. Wattleman had seemed irate at just one Grafter’s stepping on British soil. Any more, and he’d be spitting bullets. But the normal day-to-day operation of the Rookery could not go on hold, and Myfanwy had to learn all she could about her job. She still had no idea who in the Court had ordered the attack on Thomas.
Myfanwy returned to the bedroom to get dressed. The Rooks and the Chevaliers would be meeting, and she wanted to know who she’d be dealing with. They’d seemed all right the previous evening, although no one is really at his best when he learns of an impending invasion. She’d quite liked Heretic Gubbins, although she suffered from an almost overwhelming urge to get out an eyebrow pencil and make some corrections on his eyebrowless face, and she was impressed by the massive number of cigarettes Eckhart had managed to consume. Grantchester, she was willing to admit, was pretty damn attractive, even if he was a couple of decades older than her, and the image of the pimped-out residence seemed to hover behind him. Gestalt was disconcerting. And what was the deal with that Alrich? He was gorgeous to look at, but his presence gave her a funny feeling in her stomach—and not in a good way. It was time to get back to the purple binder.
Major Joshua Eckhart, Chevalier
Was born to a nothing family in York. Now, keep in mind that I’m not in any real position to judge, since as far as I can recall, my family was in no way special. But my parents were decent people, and we ate dinner together, and I loved them. I feel relatively safe in asserting that there is no way little Joshie Eckhart loved his parents. They seem to have been two of the nastiest people ever born in Great Britain, and I regard it as a miracle that after meeting, they elected to marry and have a child rather than kill each other. Of course, their killing each other would have done the rest of the world a favor, so I suppose it’s in keeping with the typical conduct of Mr. and Mrs. Eckhart that in this regard they screwed humanity over.
You know, I learn a lot of depressing facts in this job, but very little gets me as down as knowing that Chevalier Eckhart’s parents are not dead but are in fact still living together in York and receiving a discreet Checquy stipend. Their one redeeming feature is that they had only one child, and he was taken away from them.
Eckhart Senior, Joshua’s father, engaged in any number of stereotypical criminal activities. Let’s not, however, ascribe any talent or glamour to Mr. Eckhart. We are not talking about some lithe cat burglar, or even a deft little pickpocket. His career was limited to the least sophisticated crimes. If it didn’t require any skill or morals, he was willing to do it. In fact, it was pretty much the only thing he was willing to do. He was a stupid, violent man who enjoyed breaking things such as windows, bottles, and his six-year-old son’s jaw.
Mrs. Eckhart was little better. The only reason she didn’t set about delivering vicious beatings for money was that she lacked the appropriate strength; that, and the fact that she rarely emerged from the bottle long enough to do anything except acquire the next bottle.
The reports from the social worker who went to the Eckhart household read like Stephen King writing for House & Garden. The woman who was inspecting the place used many more exclamation points than is normal in a government report and sustained bites from both a bulldog and Joshua himself. As a result of his negligent upbringing, the boy was filthy, malnourished, and feral. He slept under his bed and stole food from those around him, and his knowledge of the English language was based in great part on the conversations he heard between his parents. To this day, he retains a massive vocabulary of obscenities, although he doesn’t generally use any of them.
Joshua was taken into the government system, and he flourished. The poor kid never actually left the orphanage but was fortunate enough to be placed in the care of good people. For the first time in his life, Joshua was loved and valued. He proved to be both intelligent and personable—at least, once they got him to stop biting people.
Thanks to the glowing endorsements Joshua received from his teachers and guardians, he secured a full scholarship to university and graduated with a degree in military history. From there, he proceeded into the army, where he soon distinguished himself as an excellent soldier. He was entrusted with many responsibilities, and by the time he was thirty-five, he was being sent all over the world on highly sensitive assignments. Thus, even before he entered the Checquy, Joshua Eckhart was well acquainted with the more subtle aspects of national security.
Unlike those of most members of the Checquy, Eckhart’s powers did not manifest until adulthood. During an assignment in Jakarta, he incurred the wrath of the city’s pickpocket population with his habit of grabbing a thief’s hands while they were in his pocket. He would then loudly point out the situation to those around him, causing much embarrassment for the hapless would-be pocket-picker. Apparently, he thought this was terribly funny. Eventually, they came after him with knives. In a normal world, he would have died from seven stab wounds.
I mean, he would have died from stab wounds if the knives had stabbed him. But they didn’t. Instead, those seven knives splashed off Joshua Eckhart’s body, the metal trickling down his shirt.
It is unknown who was more surprised, the thieves or Eckhart.
Rumors travel fast, and it was whispered on the streets of Jakarta that Joshua Eckhart was a witch. Three days later, an attempt was made to behead him with a pair of hedge clippers. The attackers failed miserably, and when they attempted to escape, they found their car folded up into a cube around them. The Checquy immediately approached Eckhart, offering to help him explore his new abilities. They also hinted at the rewards and satisfaction that could be found working in the more unorthodox sections of the government.
Eckhart was flown immediately to England and transported to the Estate. There, among the bizarre children of the United Kingdom, he tested the scope of his powers. He left two years before I arrived, but I hear the students adored him. There were few adult students at the Estate, and Eckhart was very kind to the children. The instructors are always careful to provide a nurturing environment, but they deliberately do not take the place of parents. Eckhart did not need to be so careful, and as a result, he was—and is—highly popular among the Pawns.
When he entered the Estate, Eckhart was already married and had his own children. In this, he was unusual. Ever
since the Checquy began a systematic acquisition of gifted children, there have been few powered operatives with families. We are trained so rigorously, and our dedication is focused so deliberately on our mission, that the children who come out of the Estate are not really equipped for personal lives.
I’ll admit, though I could confide this only to you, that I represent the extreme consequence of this. I’m just not comfortable with the idea of… intimacy. But even the most gregarious and outgoing of the Pawns have trouble with it. Dating is difficult even within the organization, especially since we are all brought up together. And that’s just as well, I suppose.
Myfanwy caught a hint of wistful regret as she read this.
This is why the Checquy is a force that is focused and dedicated, without any inconvenient attachments.
Still, Eckhart has his family and they are close. I was curious to see how he managed the whole training thing, but it turns out that he went home every weekend. As far as his wife and children were aware, he was working on some special government assignment. Which was largely true. Still, I can imagine it. In the mornings, Eckhart sat between a little girl made of steam and a set of siblings named Gestalt and learned about the secrets of the world he lived in. In the afternoon, with a team of scientists, teachers, and fighters, he carefully tested the boundaries of his abilities.
Eckhart can manipulate metal. Under his touch, it becomes fluid, malleable; it assumes any shape he desires. It isn’t magnetism. He can’t attract or repel it. He sculpts it, gathering it up in great glistening handfuls and molding it into new shapes. With his tutors, Eckhart developed entirely new techniques of fighting. The weapons he carries change their form to suit the situation, and bullets are no longer an issue. If it turns out that Eckhart is the traitor, you’ll want to bludgeon him with a cricket bat, assuming he doesn’t kill you first. There’s a heavy marble paperweight on your desk if it’s ever necessary.
The Rook: A Novel Page 17
