The Rook: A Novel

by O'Malley, Daniel

  “What about the tests that Crisp and the others performed?”

  “I preferred to verify for myself,” I said carefully. “The prospect of Sir Henry Wattleman, VC-Enshrouded Co-head of the Checquy, posing vital questions to an ordinary waterfowl and receiving nothing but some crap on the table does not appeal to me. I don’t think it would do either of our careers much good.”

  Gestalt grimaced and I continued, keeping my tone level and uninterested.

  “I have asked three questions about this evening. The duck’s answers should be confirmed by the time we are supposed to reveal it to the Court. If it has been proven wrong, then we shall simply say so, and exchange humiliation for embarrassment.”

  “Hmm,” said Gestalt thoughtfully. “Perhaps that is not a bad idea. In fact, maybe I should also—” Whatever Gestalt was going to say was cut off when a meek-looking aide appeared and whispered that the members of the Court were going to be arriving early. “Never mind,” he said, and I was relieved that he hadn’t thought to ask what questions I had posed to the duck. “How long do we have?”

  “The first car is on its way now,” said the aide cautiously, wary of Gestalt’s infamous temper.

  “Now?” we repeated in aghast unison. The aide looked surprised and decided to include me in the conversation.

  “Yes, and Sir Henry just called to let us know that he is bringing a special visitor.”

  “A special visitor?” we again said in unison.

  “Yes, an important visitor who is to be seated to Sir Henry’s right at the dinner table,” said the aide, wilting under our fixed stares. Gestalt and I turned to each other.

  “An important visitor?” he said to me. “The duck didn’t mention this?”

  “What? No!” I said. “I didn’t waste a prophetic-duck question on the possibility of unexpected dinner guests. Do you even know how the duck works?”

  “No,” said Gestalt. “And I don’t care. But a special visitor… presumably one who is not in the Checquy—”

  “Who is to be seated at the table next to Wattleman,” I said. “And—”

  “Who has been invited to a secret unveiling,” said Gestalt.

  “The secret unveiling of a major supernatural find that could influence the future of the nation,” I said.

  “Prime Minister?” asked Gestalt.

  “Or royalty,” I suggested.

  “Fuck!” we said together, and we bolted, leaving behind us a team of scientists who had been privy to our dialogue and were now rushing back into the soundproof room to groom the duck and get it ready for its big performance. When important personages are brought into an equation, everything gets more complicated. Everything needed to be perfect.

  At the very least, Gestalt and I wanted to be there to greet whoever it was with a proper show of respect.

  United by desperation, we sprinted through the corridors of the Rookery, Gestalt pulling me by the hand. We knocked several Retainers out of our way, sent stacks of paper flying. Gestalt and I ricocheted off someone made out of concrete, and I lost a shoe.

  “No time!” shouted Gestalt. He tugged on my hand and we kept running. “Leave it!” he said. I kicked off the other shoe.

  “You,” I yelled at a woman ahead of us. “Call Ingrid, and let her know that someone important is coming to dinner and will be sitting next to Sir Henry.” She was nodding frantically as we passed her.

  “Out of the way!” shrieked Gestalt as we rounded a corner and came upon a group of secretaries. They moved back just in time.

  “No siblings?” I gasped out. Maybe one of them could meet the guests.

  “They’re all in the field,” Gestalt said, panting. It was, I admit, slightly encouraging to see that Gestalt was also out of breath. “Hold the lift!” We paused in front of the doors. It was crammed full. “Everybody out,” Gestalt wheezed. The staff stampeded out in the face of his authority, or possibly in the face of the fact that I looked about ready to have a heart attack. We tumbled into the lift and Gestalt pressed the override button, allowing us to go directly to our floor. I leaned against the wall as we descended. I looked at the mirrored wall, and my heart sank.

  “My hair looks like shit,” I said. “I’m in my least impressive suit, have no shoes, and we may have the ruler of the nation coming for dinner—oh God! Will dinner be ready?” I fumbled for my phone and then realized I’d left it in my office. “Do you have a phone?” Gestalt was leaning over, his hands propped on his knees, but he shook his head nonetheless. “Can your other bodies put a call through to the kitchens? Or to Ingrid?”

  “I’m doing it now,” he said.

  “And ask her to bring me a pair of shoes.”

  “Right, shoes,” he agreed from between his knees. “Come here.”

  “Why?” I said suspiciously. In the headlong sprint I had forgotten that I had, at most, a month. At most. Suddenly, I wondered if I was going to be attacked in a lift.

  “I’ll fix your hair,” he said, pulling a comb out of his inner coat pocket and holding it up.

  “Oh,” I said. He unbent and stood behind me, carefully rearranging my hair.

  “You’re good,” I said, eyes downcast. He smelled delicious. I remembered for a moment my crush on his brother, and felt my cheeks flush.

  “I have a female body,” he said briskly. “All right, you look fine.” Actually, though I hated to admit it, I looked quite good.

  “Thanks. And here, your tie is crooked.” I straightened it self-consciously, and smoothed his collar. It was while we were in this pose, with me up on tiptoes, him looking at me, and both of us flushed with running, that the doors opened. Ingrid was there. Anthony was there. Gestalt’s executive assistant and his bodyguard—a slim Chinese chick with lots of facial piercings—were there. Everyone was staring. “Stop that,” I said. “Ingrid, how long do we have? Ingrid!” She blinked and then snapped back to herself and handed me a new pair of shoes.

  “The first car is just pulling in now, Rook Thomas.”

  “And whose is it?”

  “Sir Henry, with his guest,” she said apologetically.

  “Damn it!” exclaimed Gestalt. We moved rapidly toward the entrance, though not running now. “Do we know who his guest is?” he asked over his shoulder to the retinue.

  “No, sir,” said his secretary.

  “How long has it been since a prime minister came to the Rookery—hell, since they visited any Checquy installation?” Gestalt wondered.

  “Thatcher came once, at the beginning of her career,” I remembered.

  “And royalty?”

  “Well, only the ruling monarch and the first in line are aware of our existence,” I said. “But the last two monarchs haven’t come more than the once required after they’ve been crowned. I’m certain of that.”

  “And they give us five minutes to prepare.” Gestalt seethed. He calmed himself as we arrived at the reception area, which was actually very nice for all that it was in the garage. There was a carpeted area for people to be disgorged onto from their cars, sliding stained-glass doors that led to the elevators, and Ingrid had assembled some impressively tall honor guards to line the area and greet the arriving guests. Gestalt and I bustled past the guards and hit our marks just as the garage door was opening and Wattleman’s car was pulling in. My attention was caught by several people shouting angrily by the car.

  “What the hell is that?” demanded Gestalt.

  Anthony rumbled some syllables in an indeterminate language.

  I nodded sagely. “What?”

  “We have protesters outside the building,” said Gestalt’s bodyguard with a musical chime of her lip piercings.

  “When did they start?” I asked as the car slowly drew closer to us.

  “Half an hour ago,” said Ingrid.

  “What ridiculous thing are they protesting?” asked Gestalt, clearly vexed by the inconvenience. “Are they complaining about the bank?”

  “No, they’re protesting the covert government ope
rations being run out of this office,” said the bodyguard.

  “What?” Gestalt and I exclaimed in horror.

  “I’m arranging a meeting with Security Chief Clovis,” said Ingrid calmly. “He’s said not to worry.”

  “It’s not going to look good,” I murmured as the car drew up in front of us. “Thank God the windows are tinted. Oh, and egg-proof.” The door opened and Sir Henry got out. All of us made the proper welcoming gestures while craning to see who the other person in the back of the car was.

  “Ah, I see you are all eager to meet our visitor,” said Sir Henry jovially. “And of course, it is a great honor for us all that he has deigned to visit us on this historic day. Roo—Miss Myfanwy Thomas, Mr….” He paused, obviously trying to figure out which first name belonged to which Gestalt sibling. I took pity on him and whispered it. “Ah, yes, Mr. Theodore”—he winked broadly—“Gestalt, may I present Rupert Henderson.”

  “Huh?” said Gestalt, and I would have snickered except that I was also trying to figure out who this person was. He was dressed in some sort of hessian muumuu, and his hair looked as if it could do with some styling by Gestalt. I was pretty sure he was neither the person who sat on the British throne nor the Prime Minister.

  “You may not know him by sight, but I am sure that his reputation has preceded him,” said Sir Henry proudly.

  “Absolutely,” said Ingrid smoothly while Gestalt and I tried to recover our poise.

  “Sir Henry, Mr. Hessian—I mean Henderson!” I began.

  “What?” barked Mr. Henderson loudly. “Speak up, girl!” I faltered and could feel my eyes filling. I ducked my head and blinked furiously.

  “You mustn’t shout at our Myfanwy, Master Henderson,” said Wattleman genially. “She’s got a soft voice”—patting me on the shoulder—“but she’s marvelous behind the desk.” As Gestalt led us to the lifts, I could hear Wattleman talking in what he thought was an undertone to Mr. Henderson. “Terribly shy girl. We try not to upset her—she goes to pieces.”

  “Always has,” added Gestalt quietly. Walking right behind them, I could feel my cheeks burning, and I sniffed surreptitiously. Ingrid discreetly handed me a handkerchief.

  Once we were settled in the reception room, we waited for the rest of the Court to arrive, which took a remarkably short time. Apparently, the other members had received the same vague message Gestalt and I had gotten, because each one appeared looking expectant and quickly tidied, only to find to their confusion that they were meeting a strange man dressed like the prophet of the god of compost.

  The others made small talk and I stood there awkwardly silent. When we were finally ushered into the dining room for a hastily cooked dinner, I discreetly asked Ingrid to see what she could find out about Rupert Henderson. She nodded and hurried away while the waiters served beverages. Under the pretense of pushing my chair in, Gestalt quietly asked me if I had received confirmation.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The duck! Have its predictions come true yet?” he asked frantically.

  “Oh, right.” I was suddenly filled with a spirit of pettiness. “I’ve only gotten the answer on one. I won’t have all the answers confirmed until the end of the dessert course.”

  “The dessert course?” Gestalt repeated, aghast.

  “Yes, and one of the questions relates to you,” I added sweetly. He paled. “But don’t let that bother you. After all, if it’s true, then you can’t help but fulfill the prophecy.” He walked unsteadily to his seat.

  Dinner tasted delicious, and I made a mental note to thank the chefs for coping so well with the altered schedule. Gestalt sweated profusely throughout the entire meal.

  Finally, just as we were finishing our raspberry bread-and-butter pudding with drunken fruit ice cream, Sir Henry rose.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, my colleagues and friends. Today is a great day—the culmination of years of effort, research, and tireless fieldwork. I hope that we can all take pride in this accomplishment. It speaks well of our organization that we can summon the strength and dedication to pursue a project for so long, and in the face of so much adversity.” I put my hands up to clap then awkwardly put them down when no one else applauded.

  “Of course, you all know of Rupert Henderson,” he continued as we smiled blankly. “His reputation is enough, I feel, to justify his presence here tonight. Without a doubt, his insights into the future and his knowledge on all matters prophetic warrant his active participation in this great event.”

  We all nodded thoughtfully, although we’d never heard of him before. Ingrid tiptoed behind my chair and placed a sheet of paper in front of me.

  Rook Thomas,

  There’s very little in the files. He was born in Brighton. He is forty-five. Vague murmurings about psychic ability, but nothing concrete enough to warrant his being drafted into the Estate. Nevertheless, he became popular among certain groups in the government and managed to impress some people high up in intelligence. We had no indications that Sir Henry knew him, although Henderson has been consulted several times by other members of Sir Henry’s club.

  I thanked her quietly and looked across the table as, with a whisper, Gestalt declined a waiter’s offer of coffee. That’ll do, I thought. I caught his eye and gave a significant nod. He froze, cast a worried glance at the waiter, and then looked back at me. I nodded again. He paled.

  Yeah, it kinda sucks when you think your future is written for you, doesn’t it? I thought. I watched with mild amusement while he made a visible effort to turn his attention back to the speeches, in which Henderson was volubly thanking Sir Henry while touting himself as the greatest psychic ever.

  It was clear that Henderson didn’t know exactly what kind of organization the Checquy was. He seemed to be laboring under the (not entirely inaccurate) assumption that we were involved in military intelligence and had stumbled onto a relic of unsurpassed mystical value. He told us patronizingly that no matter what we might believe, there was more in the world than what we saw on the street. That mysterious forces were all around us, and our mundane assumptions vastly underestimated the supernatural power that existed in the world.

  Incredulous, I looked around. Bishop Alrich was regarding the “psychic expert” with a look of utter contempt and sipping from a glass of red. As I watched, the color of his hair deepened to a darker auburn. Chevalier Eckhart was absentmindedly braiding his cutlery into a plait. Lady Farrier looked as if she wanted to stab Henderson with her dessert fork. With the exception of Sir Henry, who looked as if the Sermon on the Mount had simply been the opening act for this speech, the entire Court looked ready to commit murder.

  “Thank you very much, Master Henderson,” said Sir Henry, clapping pointedly and jolting the rest of us into profoundly unenthusiastic applause. “Master Henderson has confirmed, through his native clairvoyance, that the acquisition is indeed the creature we have sought for so long.”

  “Well, thank God we pay Dr. Crisp several hundred thousand pounds a year,” I muttered under my breath. “Apparently, that’s just to mind the ducks and give us all checkups.” From the opposite end of the table, Alrich caught my eye and gave a slight commiserating smile. It was clear that he’d heard me.

  “Master Henderson has informed me that the revelations that will emerge from the creature will be of great significance and will need to be kept highly secret,” continued Sir Henry. “So Lady Farrier and I feel that only we, as the heads of the organization, should be present when Master Henderson draws the prophecy forth. We shall attend the process, and then confer as to what answers it is safe to share. Rest assured, your discretion is unquestioned, but you also understand that some secrets must be kept as secret as possible.” With a face like a thundercloud, Bishop Grantchester led the applause this time, little spurts of inky smoke popping out from his hands.

  “Well said,” he managed through gritted teeth. Wattleman looked on with his eyes shining as Henderson continued to expound on his powers. Apparently, only he coul
d draw out every nuance of the prophecy, through his natural talents and his studies. By the time Dr. Crisp entered from a side door, amnesia was actually looking like a pretty good option. The scientist came over to me, bent down, and spoke quietly.

  “Rook Thomas, the duck is ready in the next room. Now, I’ve been advised that not everyone in the Court will be witnessing its prophecies?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Just one in a series of delightful changes in plan. Here, let me introduce you to our new expert.” I cleared my throat, and, for a wonder, Henderson actually paused in his lecture. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I’ve been advised that the subject is ready for you. This is Dr. Crisp, our in-house expert on, well, essentially everything,” I said. “He’ll give you the details that they have already gleaned about the creature.” Dr. Crisp moved forward, smiling politely, and Henderson took his hand.

  “Thank you, Dr. Crisp. It is very pleasant to meet you, but I have quite a bit of experience in these things, and I’ve found it best not to clutter my impressions. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Well, research—” began Dr. Crisp, but Henderson was already ushering the heads into the room where the duck sat. I was slightly gratified to note, just before the door shut, that the duck looked supremely unawed at the sight of them.

  “I’m very sorry, Dr. Crisp,” I said in an undertone. “This has always been an important project for Sir Henry, and so we must respect his decisions.”

  “I quite understand,” said Dr. Crisp. “Do you know how long he has been working on this?”

  “I’m not quite certain,” I said.

  “Around forty years,” said Dr. Crisp.

  “Forty years?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forty years?”

  “Yes, that is how long the rumor of the duck has been going around the country.”

  “Dr. Crisp, I understand that the world is a strange place. I’ve just spent the better part of a half hour being told in an offensively patronizing manner how strange the world is. But you are telling me that this duck is older than me?”