The Dresden Files 4: Summer Knight

by Jim Butcher

  This veil was good, almost perfect, completely silent. Way better than I would be able to do anytime in the next couple of decades. I stared in abrupt shock as it fell and two people I hadn’t sensed at all simply flickered into existence in front of me.

  The first was a woman better than six feet tall. She wore her grey hair coiled in a net at the base of her neck. She had already put on her robes of office, black silk nearly the same color as her skin, and her purple stole echoed the gems at her throat. Her eyebrows were still dark, and she had one of them arched as she regarded Ebenezar, then me, with a completely unamused expression. When she spoke, her voice was a low, rich alto. "Lollygagging skunkwallows?"

  "Matty—" Ebenezar began, laughter still flavoring his words. "You know how I get when I’m talking about Council politics."

  "Don’t you ’Matty’ me, Ebenezar McCoy," she snapped. She looked past my old mentor to focus on me. "Wizard Dresden, I am less than amused with your lack of respect toward the White Council."

  I lifted my chin and glared down at the woman without meeting her eyes. It’s a tough trick to learn, but if you’re motivated enough you can do it. "That’s a coincidence. I’m not terribly amused with you spying on me."

  The black woman’s eyes flashed, but Ebenezar cut in before either of us could gather any more steam. "Harry Dresden," he said dryly, "Meet Martha Liberty."

  She shot him a look and said pointedly, "He’s arrogant, Ebenezar. Dangerous."

  I snorted. "That’s every wizard ever."

  Martha continued as if I hadn’t spoken. "Bitter. Angry. Obsessive."

  Ebenezar frowned. "Seems to me he has good reason to be. You and the rest of the Senior Council saw to that."

  Martha shook her head. "You know what he was meant to be. He’s too great a risk."

  I snapped my fingers twice and hooked a thumb at my own chest. "Hey, lady. He’s also right here."

  Her eyes flashed at me. "Look at him, Ebenezar. He’s a wreck. Look at the destruction he has caused."

  Ebenezar took two quick, angry steps toward Martha. "By challenging the Red Court when they were going to kill that young woman? No, Matty. Hoss didn’t cause what’s happened since. They did. I’ve read his report. He stood up to them when they damn well needed standing up to."

  Martha folded her arms, strong and brown against the front of her robes. "The Merlin says—"

  "I know what he says," Ebenezar muttered. "By now I don’t even need to hear him say it. And as usual, he’s half right, half wrong, and all gutless."

  Martha frowned at him for a long and silent moment. Then she looked at me and asked, "Do you remember me, Mister Dresden?"

  I shook my head. "They had a hood on me all through the trial, and I missed the meeting Warden Morgan called a couple years back. They were taking a bullet out of my hip."

  "I know. I never saw your face before today." She moved then, lifting a slender staff of some dark reddish wood, and walked toward me, the staff clicking with each step. I faced her, bracing myself, but she didn’t try to meet my gaze. She studied my features for a long moment and then said, very quietly, "You have your mother’s eyes."

  An old pain rolled through me. I barely managed more than a whisper in response. "I never knew her."

  "No. You didn’t." She lifted one wide, heavy hand and passed it through the air on either side of my head, as though smoothing my hair without touching it. Then she raked her eyes over me, staring intently at my bandaged hand. "You hurt. You’re in great pain."

  "It isn’t bad. It should heal in a few days."

  "I’m not talking about your hand, boy." She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Her voice came heavily, slowly, as though her lips were reluctant to let the words pass them. "Very well, Ebenezar. I will support you."

  She stepped back and away from me, back to the side of the second person who had appeared. I’d almost forgotten about him, and looking at him now I began to see why. He contained a quality of stillness I could all but feel around him—easy to sense but difficult to define. His features, his bearing, everything about him blended into his background, swallowed by that stillness, patient and quiet as a stone beneath moon and sun.

  He was of innocuous height, five eight, maybe five nine. His dark hair was plaited in a long braid, despite age that seamed his features like bronzed leather under a scarlet sun, warm and worn. His eyes, beneath silver brows, were dark, inscrutable, intense. Eagle feathers adorned his braid, a necklace of bits of bone circled his throat, and he had a beaded bracelet wrapped around one forearm, which poked out from beneath his black robe. One weathered hand gripped a simple, uncarved staff.

  "Hoss," Ebenezar said, "this here is Listens to Wind. But that’s always been too much of a mouthful for me, even for a genuine Illinois medicine man. I just call him Injun Joe."

  "How—" I began. Maybe some kind of irony could be found in the first part of asking how did he do, but something scratched at my foot and I left off the rest. I let out a yelp and jumped away from a flash of fur near my feet without stopping to see what it was. It had been that kind of day.

  I tripped over my own staff and fell down. I scrambled over on my back to put my legs between my face and whatever snarling thing might be coming for me, drawing back one foot to kick.

  I needn’t have bothered. A raccoon, and a fairly young one at that, stood up on its hind legs and chittered at me in annoyance, soft grey fur bristling wildly as though it had been fit for an animal several sizes larger. The raccoon gave me what I swore was an irritated look, eyes glittering within the dark mask of fur around them, then ran over to Injun Joe’s feet and neatly scaled the old man’s wooden staff. It swarmed up Injun Joe’s arm to perch on his shoulder, still chittering and squeaking.

  "Uh," I managed, "how do you do."

  The raccoon chirruped again, and Injun Joe tilted his head to one side, then nodded. "Good. But Little Brother is irritated with you. He thinks anyone with that much food should share it."

  I frowned, then I remembered the half-eaten stale candy bar in my pocket. "Oh, right." I pulled it out, broke it in half, and held it out to the raccoon. "Peace?"

  Little Brother let out a pleased squeak and darted back down Injun Joe’s arm and staff to my hand. He snatched the candy and then retired a few feet away to eat it.

  When I looked up, Injun Joe stood over me, offering his hand. "Little Brother thanks you. He likes you, too. How do you do, Wizard Dresden."

  I took his hand and got to my feet. "Thanks, uh, Listens to Wind."

  Ebenezar interjected, "Injun Joe."

  Injun Joe winked one grave eye at me. "The redneck hillbilly doesn’t read. Otherwise he’d know that he can’t call me that anymore. Now I’m Native American Joe."

  I wasn’t sure I was supposed to laugh, but I did. Injun Joe nodded, dark eyes sparkling. Then he murmured, "The one you knew as Tera West sends her respects."

  I blinked at him.

  Injun Joe turned to Ebenezar and nodded, then walked slowly back to Martha’s side.

  Ebenezar let out a satisfied grunt. "Fine. Now where is the Russian? We haven’t got all day."

  Martha’s expression became remote. Injun Joe’s face didn’t change, but he moved his eyes to the tall wizard beside him. No one spoke, and the silence grew thick enough to choke on.

  Ebenezar’s face went very pale, and he suddenly leaned hard on his staff. "Simon," he whispered. "Oh, no."

  I stepped up beside Ebenezar. "What happened?"

  Martha shook her head. "Simon Pietrovich. Senior Council member. Our vampire expert. He was killed less than two days ago. The whole compound in Archangel, Ebenezar. All of them. I’m sorry."

  Ebenezar shook his head slowly. His voice was a pale shadow of its usual self. "I’ve been to his tower. It was a fortress. How did they do it?"

  "The Wardens said that they couldn’t be sure, but it looked like someone let the killers in past the defenses. They didn’t get away unscathed. There were the remains of half a do
zen nobles of the Red Court. Many of their warriors. But they killed Simon and the rest."

  "Let them in?" Ebenezar breathed. "Treachery? But even if it was true, it would have to be someone who knew his defenses inside and out."

  Martha glanced at me, then back at Ebenezar. Something passed between them in that look, but I couldn’t tell what.

  "No," Ebenezar said. "That’s insane."

  "Master to student. You know what the Wardens will say."

  "It’s buffalo chips. It wouldn’t ever get past the Senior Council."

  "Eben," Martha said gently, "Joseph and I are only two votes now. Simon is gone."

  Ebenezar took a blue bandanna from the pocket of his overalls and rubbed it over his pate. "Damnation," he muttered. "Guts and damnation."

  I looked at Ebenezar and then at Martha. "What?" I asked. "What does this mean?"

  She said, "It means, Wizard Dresden, that the Merlin and others on the Council are preparing to bring allegations against you accusing you of precipitating the war with the Red Court and placing the responsibility for a number of deaths on your head. And because Joseph and I no longer have the support of Simon on the Senior Council, it means that we cannot block the Merlin from laying it to general vote."

  Injun Joe nodded, fingers absently resting on Little Brother’s fur. "Many of the Council are frightened, Hoss Dresden. Your enemies will use this opportunity to strike through them. Fear will drive them to vote against you."

  I shot Ebenezar a glance. My old mentor traded a long look with me, and I saw his eyes stir with uncertainty.

  "Hell’s bells," I whispered. "I’m in trouble."

  Chapter Five

  A heavy silence followed, until Ebenezar flexed the fingers of one hand and his knuckles popped. "Who is up for Simon’s place?"

  Martha shook her head. "I suspect the Merlin will want one of the Germans."

  Ebenezar growled. "I’ve got fifty years’ seniority on every mother’s son of them."

  "It won’t matter," Martha said. "There are too many Americans on the Senior Council already for the Merlin’s tastes."

  Injun Joe scratched Little Brother’s chest and said, "Typical. Only real American on the Senior Council is me. Not like the rest of you Johnny-come-latelies."

  Ebenezar gave Injun Joe a tired smile.

  Martha said, "The Merlin won’t be happy if you decide to press a claim now."

  Ebenezar snorted. "Aye. And I can’t tell you how that breaks my heart."

  Martha frowned, pressing her lips together. "We’d best get inside, Ebenezar. I’ll tell them to wait for you."

  "Fine," my old teacher said, his words clipped. "Go on in."

  Without a further word, Martha and Injun Joe departed, black robes whispering. Ebenezar slipped into his robe and put on his scarlet stole. Then he took up his staff again and strode determinedly toward the convention center. I kept pace silently, and worried.

  Ebenezar surprised me by speaking. "How’s your Latin coming, Hoss? You need me to translate?"

  I coughed. "No. I think I can manage."

  "All right. When we get inside, hang on to your temper. You’ve got a reputation as a hothead for some reason."

  I scowled at him. "I do not."

  "And for being stubborn and contrary."

  "I am not."

  Ebenezar’s worn smile appeared for a moment, but by then we had reached the building where the Council was to meet. I stopped walking, and Ebenezar paused, looking back at me.

  "I don’t want to go in with you," I said. "If this goes bad, maybe it’s better if you have some distance from me."

  Ebenezar frowned at me, and for a second I thought he was going to argue. Then he shook his head and went into the building. I gave him a couple of minutes, and then walked up the steps and went in.

  The building had the look of an old-time theater—high, arched ceilings, floors of polished stone laid with strips of carpet, and several sets of double doors leading into the theater itself. The air conditioning had probably been running full blast earlier, but now there was no sound of fan or vent and the building inside felt warmer than it probably should have. None of the lights were on. You couldn’t really expect even basic things like lights and air conditioning to keep running in a building full of wizards.

  All the doors leading into what was apparently an actual theater were closed except for one pair, and two men wearing dark Council robes, scarlet stoles, and the grey cloak of the Wardens stood before them.

  I didn’t recognize one of the men, but the other was Morgan. Morgan stood nearly as tall as I did, only with maybe another hundred pounds of solid, working-man muscle. He had a short beard, patchy with brown and grey, and he wore his hair in a long ponytail. His face was still narrow, sour, and he had a voice to match it. "Finally," he muttered upon seeing me. "I’ve been waiting for this, Dresden. Finally, you’re going to face justice."

  "I see someone had a nice big bowl of Fanatic-Os this morning," I said. "I know you don’t like it, Morgan, but I was cleared of all those charges. Thanks to you, actually."

  His sour face screwed up even more. "I only reported your actions to the Council. I did not think they would be so"—he spat the word like a curse—"lenient."

  I stopped in front of the two Wardens and held out my staff. Morgan’s partner lifted a crystal pendant from around his neck and ran the crystal over the staff and then over my head, temples, and down the front of my body. The crystal pulsed with a gentle glow of light as it passed over each chakra point. The second Warden nodded to Morgan, and I started to step past him and into the theater.

  He put out one broad hand to stop me. "No," he said. "Not yet. Get the dogs."

  The other Warden frowned, but that was all the protest he made. He turned and slipped into the theater, and a moment later emerged, leading a pair of Wardhounds behind him.

  In spite of myself, I swallowed and took a half step back from them. "Give me a break, Morgan. I’m not enspelled and I’m not toting in a bomb. I’m not the suicidal type."

  "Then you won’t mind a quick check," Morgan said. He gave me a humorless smile and stepped forward.

  The Wardhounds came with him. They weren’t actual dogs. I like dogs. They were statues made of some kind of dark grey-green stone, their shoulders as high as my own belt. They had the gaping mouth and too-big eyes of Chinese temple dogs, complete with curling beards and manes. Though they weren’t flesh, they moved with a kind of ponderous liquid grace, stone "muscles" shifting beneath the surface of their skins as if they had been living beings. Morgan touched each on the head and muttered something too vague for me to make out. Upon hearing it, both Wardhounds focused upon me and began to prowl in a circle around me, heads down, the floor quivering beneath their weight.

  I knew they’d been enchanted to detect any of countless threats that might attempt to approach a Council meeting. But they weren’t thinking beings—only devices programmed with a simple set of responses to predetermined stimuli. Though Wardhounds had saved lives often before, there had also been accidents—and I didn’t know if my run-in with Mab would leave a residual signature that might set the Wardhounds off.

  The dogs stopped, and one of them let out a growl that sounded soothingly akin to bedrock being ripped apart by a backhoe. I tensed and looked down at the dog standing to my right. Its lips had peeled back from gleaming, dark fangs, and its empty eyes were focused on my left hand—the one Mab had wounded by way of demonstration.

  I swallowed and held still and tried to think innocent thoughts.

  "They don’t like something about you, Dresden," Morgan said. I thought I heard an almost eager undertone to his voice. "Maybe I should turn you away, just to be careful."

  The other Warden stepped forward, one hand on a short, heavy rod worn on his belt. He murmured, "Could be the injury, if he’s hurt. Wizard blood can be pretty potent. Moody, too. Dog could be reacting to anger or fear, through the blood."

  "Maybe," Morgan said testily. "Or i
t could be contraband he’s trying to sneak in. Take off the bandage, Dresden."

  "I don’t want to start bleeding again," I said.

  "Fine. I’m denying you entrance, then, in accordance with—"

  "Dammit, Morgan," I muttered. I all but tossed my staff at him. He caught it, and held it while I tore at the makeshift bandages I’d put on my hand. It hurt like hell, but I pulled them off and showed him the swollen and oozing wound.

  The Wardhound growled again and then appeared to lose interest, pacing back over to sit down beside its mate, suddenly inanimate again.

  I turned my eyes to Morgan and stared at him, hard. "Satisfied?" I asked him.

  For a second I thought he would meet my gaze. Then he shoved my staff back at me as he turned away. "You’re a disgrace, Dresden. Look at yourself. Because of you, good men and women have died. Today you will be called to answer for it."

  I tied the bandage back on as best I could and gritted my teeth to keep from telling Morgan to take a long walk off a short cliff. Then I brushed past the Wardens and stalked into the theater.

  Morgan watched me go, then said to his partner, "Close the circle." He followed me into the theater, shutting the door behind him, even as I felt the sudden, silent tension of the Wardens closing the circle around the building, shutting it off from any supernatural access.

  I hadn’t ever actually seen a meeting of the Council—not like this. The sheer variety of it all was staggering, and I stood staring for several moments, taking it in.

  The space was a dinner theater of only moderate size, lit by nothing more than a few candles on each table. The room wouldn’t have been crowded for a matinee, but as a gathering place for wizards it was positively swamped. The tables on the floor of the theater were almost completely filled with black-robed wizards, variously sporting stoles of blue, gold, and scarlet. Apprentices in their muddy-brown robes lurked at the fringes of the crowd, standing along the walls or crouching on the floor beside their mentors’ chairs.

  The variety of humanity represented in the theater was startling. Canted Oriental eyes, dark, rich skins of Africa, pale Europeans, men and women, ancient and young, long and short hair, beards long enough to tuck into belts, beards wispy enough to be stirred by a passing breeze. The theater buzzed in dozens of languages, of which I could identify only a fraction. Wizards laughed and scowled, smiled and stared blankly, sipped from flasks and soda cans and cups or sat with eyes closed in meditation. The scents of spices and perfumes and chemicals all blended together into something pervasive, always changing, and the auras of so many practitioners of the Art seemed to be feeling just as social, reaching out around the room to touch upon other auras, to echo or strike dissonance with their energies, tangible enough to feel without even trying. It was like walking through drifting cobwebs that were constantly brushing against my cheeks and eyelashes—not dangerous but disconcerting, each one wildly unique, utterly different from the next.