The Rook: A Novel

by O'Malley, Daniel

  Not going to happen, thought Myfanwy weakly, and she was about to lock the woman’s legs and send her sprawling when she felt hands closing around her throat. The treacherous Retainer who had stabbed himself was powering through the pain, and although he hadn’t managed to remove the twisted knife from his thigh, he had dragged himself over and appeared quite capable of strangling her.

  Bugger! thought Myfanwy, and in a panic-filled moment, she froze him completely.

  With his hands still clasped tightly around her throat.

  Oh, brilliant.

  All right, don’t panic, she thought. You can still breathe a little. Now, how did you make that fat guy loosen his grip on the briefcase? She carefully followed the trails of his nervous system and found that it wasn’t at all standard issue. What in the hell? This makes no sense. If I make a mistake, I could end up strangling myself. Taking very, very shallow breaths, she laboriously began tracing out the nerves, careful not to make him tighten his grasp.

  While she gingerly loosened the man’s grip, Gubbins dived at a Gestalt twin and began to engage in horrendously contorted combat. The second twin joined in, and Myfanwy suddenly understood how Gestalt had risen to the post of Rook. In awe, she watched one mind coordinating two bodies in flawless martial arts. Then the third brother joined in with lightning-fast blows, all of them timed to strike simultaneously. Myfanwy could tell that Gubbins was hard-pressed, even as he bent his body into impossible positions. He backhanded a brother and received a fist to the stomach for his trouble. Flexing, now standing on one foot, now on two hands, Gubbins was a blur, striking out desperately at the bodies of his fellow Court member.

  Teddy Gestalt darted forward and grabbed the Chev by the lapels of his tuxedo. Gubbins locked his hands around his assailant’s wrist and elbow and twisted himself backward violently, rolling over his own spine and flinging Gestalt into the air. As Myfanwy watched, Alex Gestalt reached out without looking. The two brothers clasped hands, and, like a trapeze artist, Alex snatched Teddy out of the air. He spun and brought Teddy smoothly to the ground, then whipped him around and launched him back at Gubbins.

  The Chevalier lashed out low with a foot, and Teddy somersaulted over him, distracting Gubbins long enough for the other brothers to grab him and plant two fists in his stomach. The Chev crumpled, and the siblings reared back to strike him dead.

  Three fists struck simultaneously, like hammers pounding into flesh, pulping Gubbins’s skull.

  Behind them there was a roar as Alrich burst out of a crowd of attackers, shaking off a mist of blood. His kimono in shreds, gore streaking his arms, the Bishop looked like an avenging angel engaged in slaughter. He snarled and moved toward the melee, his long, tapering fingers hooking themselves into claws.

  Gestalt, in a stunning display of good sense, elected to run.

  In four separate directions.

  “They’re bolting!” shouted Shantay, who was still clutching Wattleman.

  “Like hell,” croaked Myfanwy. She was finally able to peel the man’s fingers off her throat, and she took her first full breath. Then she flung her thoughts out wildly, trying to ensnare all four of them. A migraine blossomed in her brain from the effort, but she held them. Four bodies stumbled, although she could feel a single intellect battering itself against her. She tightened the web and smiled a small smile of satisfaction. She had Gestalt. She had him and there was no way the Rook could escape—no body to slide into, no extra sibling to mobilize.

  But then, suddenly, the mind was gone, evaporating through her fingers. Mental activity in the brains faded.

  “What?” Myfanwy cried out, loosening her grip in shock. She swept the area frantically, but she couldn’t detect even the slightest trace of the traitorous Rook. The siblings’ knees were buckling, but then they straightened. Wherever Gestalt’s mind had gone, it was back now, and the bodies were escaping. Myfanwy wildly spun tendrils out of her psyche and, straining, snared one of the twins. She snapped her mind around him, and then she wrenched at his senses, warping his perception so that he ran straight into a wall, knocking himself out.

  Eat that, you prick.

  The Retainers were also running, and the other siblings got lost in the crowd. Lost, that is, until Alrich launched himself impossibly across the room, scattering people like skittles. The Bishop snagged a brother by the shoulder, swung him up, around, and then down, crashing him onto the floor with tremendous force. The other twin stumbled over a dead secretary but made it to the door. He and Eliza vanished, and the treacherous Retainers—the few Alrich hadn’t shredded—blocked the passageway, preventing anyone from chasing the fleeing Rook.

  Myfanwy cut the Retainers’ legs out from under them, and Alrich looked out the door.

  “They’re gone,” he reported grimly.

  “Damn it!” spat Myfanwy, slumping to the ground. She sighed heavily. “Can somebody get this man off me, please?”

  Well, Bishop Morales is safely back in Miami,” said Shantay, folding up her mobile phone. “Our superiors inform me that I’m supposed to fly back to the States tomorrow and report your decisions of tonight.” She sank down on the couch next to Myfanwy, kicking her shoes off. A waiter approached discreetly. “I’ll have a gin-gin mule,” said the American Bishop. The waiter bowed politely and looked to Myfanwy.

  “Yeah, me too,” said Myfanwy, trying to ignore the doctor who was tending to her ankles. Immediately after the chaos, she had wondered whether the heads of the Checquy should repair to a secure location. Perhaps the Prime Minister should be informed? Her suggestions had been brushed aside by Farrier “until we’ve decided what we want to say,” and instead, the entire party had migrated into an adjacent receiving room, which resembled the ballroom except for a conspicuous lack of corpses and blood. Now there were ten people from the original dinner party, and four doctors tending to them.

  Only three loyal Retainers had survived the battle. Ingrid and one of Gubbins’s secretaries were standing uncomfortably against the wall, despite repeated invitations from various members of the Court to sit down. Lady Farrier was seated next to Wattleman’s bodyguard, a tall redheaded man, each of them sporting a black eye. They held identical cocktails in their hands and looked identically pissed off.

  “I simply cannot believe that more than twenty-five people were killed at an official Checquy function!” seethed Wattleman. The old man had shaken off a bullet to the head and seemed somewhat irritated that others in the party hadn’t done the same. “There hasn’t been a slaughter of this magnitude on Checquy soil since… since…” He looked to Myfanwy for help.

  What, am I also the historian here? she thought in irritation. She searched her memory for any relevant information and came up with nothing.

  “It’s been ages, sir,” she said firmly.

  “Exactly!” he exclaimed. “Ages! And to do it when we’re entertaining such distinguished guests!” Myfanwy was fascinated that it wasn’t so much the attempted assassination of members of the Court that was filling him with rage but more the fact that Gestalt and his people had broken the laws of decorum by doing it during a drinks reception. And in front of the Americans.

  “Yes, they seemed surprisingly unconcerned with obeying the laws of hospitality, and of this kingdom,” said Eckhart scornfully. In the middle of the battle, Myfanwy had seen him grab a metal drinks tray, melt it in his hands, and form it into poniards. Now he was briskly winding the metal into bracers around his wrists. “After all, that’s why Thomas accused Gestalt of treason.”

  “Yes,” said Bishop Grantchester quietly from an overstuffed couch. He sat, his tuxedo unrumpled, and looked dangerously calm as he took sips from a martini. “That is an interesting point. We must follow protocol here. Rook Thomas, what were your grounds for that accusation?”

  “My grounds?” echoed Myfanwy incredulously. “What, you think that I accused an innocent man? And that this innocent man led a spontaneous mutiny in the middle of cocktail hour? With weapons that they all just happe
ned to be carrying? Yes, I have proof of Gestalt’s treachery, but if we’re going to be sticking to protocol, I don’t think tradition calls for one of the heads of the organization to be eating sausage hors d’oeuvres while I report!” As she finished her rant, she realized that she was shouting, and that everyone was looking at her.

  “It looks as if Rook Thomas grew some teeth to go with that dress,” said Bishop Alrich dryly.

  “What remains of it, anyway,” said Farrier primly. “Still, they both make good points. Rook Thomas, you are not on trial here. Nevertheless, we would all like to know exactly what Gestalt has been up to, aside from subverting my secretaries and humiliating us in front of our guests.”

  “And murdering a member of the Court,” said Eckhart. “Or have you forgotten that my brother Chevalier is lying dead in the next room?” No one spoke for a moment, their thoughts on Gubbins’s battered body, which was currently covered with a blood-spattered tablecloth.

  Myfanwy had to think fast. She needed to bring them up to speed, but there were certain things she simply couldn’t risk sharing. So she recounted everything that had happened in Bath and mentioned that an attack had been made on her a week before, which had led to the black eyes. She couldn’t say for certain that the two events were related, but it did seem suspicious.

  She also very pointedly avoided mentioning anything about her memory loss.

  “And you think it was Gestalt?” exclaimed Wattleman. “Members of my own Court are trying to have each other murdered?”

  “And succeeding,” pointed out Alrich grimly. “Gubbins is dead, and almost all the Retainers in that room were either killed or treacherous. Or both.” The Bishop was sadly examining his shredded clothes but had not bothered to wash away any of the blood that covered him. Nor had he accepted a drink.

  “Yes! What about that?” said Farrier. “I am highly concerned with the number of Retainers who proved eager and willing to stab me. God, that any was willing to do it—well, it is distressing. But so many! Perhaps the remaining Retainers should be escorted out?”

  “Lady Farrier, the fact that these people were willing to put themselves in harm’s way to protect us should serve as proof of their loyalty,” said Myfanwy forcefully. She had no intention of letting anyone take Ingrid away from her. The two of them had found Anthony lying facedown, dead from over twenty stab wounds, his absurd purple tartan stained almost black from all the blood that had been inside him. They’d had a little weep together and had held hands when the party changed rooms.

  “I suppose,” said Farrier dubiously. “They have been searched for weapons, of course?”

  “It’s kind of a moot point now,” said Alrich. “And besides, some of them were storing their weapons internally. I saw at least three Retainers pull knives from pouches in their skin, and I felt a couple of their blows. No normal person would be able to strike with such force.” Myfanwy thought briefly of mentioning her strangler’s peculiarly modified musculature but decided to keep it to herself—she wasn’t keen on drawing anybody’s attention to her new willingness to use her abilities.

  “But surely you screen your Retainers very closely?” Shantay broke in. “The Croatoan’s policy was modeled on yours. No Retainers are powered.”

  “Of course we screen them!” snapped Eckhart. “Inside and out. It’s as thorough an examination as we can make it.”

  “And that’s pretty damn thorough,” muttered the bodyguard with the black eye.

  “Then that must mean later modifications,” said Shantay excitedly. “Deliberate changes to their bodies. But no one can make those sort of modifications. No one except…” She trailed off in horror.

  “The Grafters,” finished Myfanwy. “We have been infiltrated by the Grafters.”

  There was a horrified pause, during which everyone eyed one another speculatively. Does every member of the Court expect every other member of the Court to pull a bazooka out of an orifice? thought Myfanwy.

  “If the Checquy has been compromised, then any Retainer could be a traitor,” said Farrier in an observation that was simultaneously paranoid and obvious. The woman shot anxious looks at Ingrid and the other Retainers.

  “Perhaps we should have them all killed,” said Myfanwy flippantly. There was another thoughtful silence, and, much to her horror, Eckhart actually seemed to be considering it. “Oh, for Christ’s sake! I was kidding!”

  “It might actually be necessary,” said Grantchester slowly. “We can’t afford to have traitors among us.”

  “We can’t go around killing the Retainers!” exclaimed Wattleman. “The organization would collapse!”

  “In addition to any incidental qualms one might have about murdering the staff,” Myfanwy muttered to Shantay. She felt as if her parents were embarrassing her in front of her best friend. “Anyway,” she said more loudly, “we can’t just assume this infiltration is restricted to the Retainers. After all, Gestalt was a traitor. Any powered individual could be working for the Grafters. Any one of us could.”

  “But not another member of the Court, surely,” said Wattleman weakly.

  “It’s impossible to be certain what has happened to this organization,” said Grantchester. The air around him shaded itself. Apparently, when he was stressed, his control over his abilities slipped. Curious, Myfanwy gently reached out and read his sensations. Inside the Bishop’s body, it felt as though ice water were roiling just beneath his skin, seeping out of his pores. “Who knows how deep this infection goes?” The question hung in the air.

  “Well, there is one person who knows,” said Myfanwy thoughtfully.

  25

  Ingrid, do you realize that today is a Sunday?”

  “Yes, Rook Thomas.”

  “You and I are driving into the barren wastelands of southwestern Scotland to visit a prison on a Sunday morning,” said Myfanwy, staring out the limo window. The car was in the middle of a fairly large convoy of bodyguards to protect the Rook while she was in transit. There were two armored limousines, one of which contained her, Ingrid, and two honor guards, the other containing a septuagenarian Pawn with the ability to breathe cyanide and sweat tear gas. There were also four heavily armed men on motorcycles, a van of soldiers, and a satellite tracking them from many kilometers above.

  Myfanwy had been a trifle embarrassed at the prospect of traveling with a small army, but Joshua Eckhart and Security Chief Clovis had insisted, citing the need for heightened security. Both had assured her that these were men they trusted, partially because the guards were powered and had all gone through the Estate’s indoctrination process, but mostly because of the terrible threats Eckhart and Clovis had made to them if something should happen to Myfanwy.

  In fact, these were only a few of the security measures that had been implemented in the past two days for the protection of the Court. As soon as Clovis arrived at Apex House on the night of the attack, he’d proclaimed that they would not be permitted to return to their homes for the immediate future but would henceforth be residing in their secure apartments in the three headquarters. Panic buttons had been issued to everyone. The various Checquy facilities around the nation were placed in lockdown mode, and every member of the Court was now under the constant protection of two honor guards whenever outside his or her quarters. Even while the Court members were in their offices, there were always two guards standing outside each of their doors.

  “Yes, Rook Thomas.”

  “Hmm?” Myfanwy said absently.

  “Yes, you and I are driving into the barren wastes of southwestern Scotland to visit a prison on a Sunday morning. These are desperate times,” said Ingrid.

  “Yeah,” agreed Myfanwy. “Clovis said we haven’t been at this level of security since those creepy blond kids were wandering around in Winshire. He insists every Pawn and Retainer has to be accounted for. And that’s nothing compared to what the Americans are doing. In her last call, Shantay said something about shooting anyone who knows the capital of Belgium.”

&nb
sp; Since the American Bishop had flown back to Washington, D.C., the two of them had talked on the phone several times. Shantay was overseeing the protection details for high-ranking figures in America, and while she’d been joking about the capital of Belgium, a great many security arrangements had been put into place on both sides of the Atlantic. Myfanwy was painfully aware of this, since she’d had to sign off on several measures.

  A number of public figures had received discreet Checquy protectors, border security had been upped, and there was a heightened terrorism alert, presumably to the bewilderment of all human terrorists. Even as Myfanwy was driving to Scotland, Farrier and Grantchester were meeting with a secret council that included the Prime Minister, the Home Secretary, the Minister of Defense, the heads of MI5 and MI6, the ruler of the country, and the first in line to the throne. Myfanwy didn’t envy them the task of explaining the problem.

  She opened up the big purple binder and flipped through the pages to the entry on Gallows Keep Prison.

  Gallows Keep

  Was the ancestral manse of some obscure Scottish noble family who managed to piss off the king. Treason or something. So they were stripped of their lands and chattels and sold into slavery, and the place was handed over to the Checquy. They ignored it for a few decades until it was pointed out that they should probably do something with the king’s gift.

  It’s a dour-looking castle in the middle of nowhere, which makes it the perfect place for the Checquy to store some of its undesirables. Actually, the perfect place would be an island on a different planet. But this was a pretty good second choice.

  The reason it’s called Gallows Keep is that, prior to the establishment of the current facility, human-shaped enemies of the Checquy were usually stored at the end of a rope. As it is, we still stage a fair number of hangings. And beheadings. And stakings. And burnings. And immersions in vats of distillate of eel. Whatever means of execution are necessary, really. Gallows Keep is more of a temporary holding facility that’s used until the Checquy decides that the subject cannot be redeemed.