For Heaven's Eyes Only sh-5

by Simon R. Green

  “All right,” I said. “What’s the big secret here? What does the Emmanuel do?”

  “He answers questions,” said William. “Truthfully. He knows everything there is to know about people, places and the true nature of reality. Which can be . . . very upsetting. Not to mention downright disturbing. We do have a book of his recorded sayings in the Old Library. It’s locked shut, in half a dozen different and very thorough ways, and on the front cover someone has stamped the words ‘Do Not Open Till Doomsday.’ I for one can take a hint.”

  “He can do . . . pretty much whatever he feels like doing,” said the Armourer. “I never met him, but Mother did. She said he was a man with no restraint and no limits. A man who would do absolutely anything in the name of the good. Which is why this family has only ever made contact with the Emmanuel when we were really deep in the shit, and going under for the third time. Apparently being around him can be . . . damaging.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Because he scares the crap out of us,” said William.

  “Of course,” said Roger. “Agents of the light, the ones who draw their power directly from the Most High, can be as cold-blooded, single-minded and dangerous to be around as any agent of the dark. Neither side really cares about people; it’s always the long view for them. Whatever’s best for Humanity as a whole, and God help the poor individual. Always ready to sacrifice today, in the name of tomorrow.”

  “Any way,” said the Sarjeant, “according to family records, we’ve only ever met the one man. And whether that is the Emmanuel or the representative of a larger organisation . . . we have no way of knowing. Certainly the family has always been very glad to see the back of him. Apparently, he has only to look at you and you want to blurt out every bad thing you’ve ever done, or thought of doing, and then throw yourself at his feet and beg for mercy. We had to be very careful about whom we let talk to him. Even the best of us came away from such meetings . . . disturbed.”

  “I have heard of the Emmanuel,” said Roger, and something in his voice made us all turn to look at him. “I’ve never met him. Don’t know anyone who has. But then, of course, we don’t move in the same circles. . . . He’s even more of an urban legend in the invisible world than the Droods. Often talked about, rarely encountered, best left strictly alone. Everyone knows someone who claims to know someone who’s met the Emmanuel; but when you try to pin them down . . . Where he comes from, nobody knows, but we’re all really glad when he goes back there. Extreme good can be just as scary, and just as dangerous, as extreme evil. All of my kind . . . the half-castes, the hellspawn and the Nephilim, and every possible combination of the natural and unnatural worlds, have good reason to stay well clear of such . . . archetypal forces. Neither good nor evil has any use for shades of grey. . . .”

  “On a somewhat connected matter,” I said, after we’d all taken some time out to consider Roger’s words, “I was told that this family has long-standing pacts with Heaven and Hell. Is that right?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Armourer, entirely casually. “Very old pacts with the Courts of the Holy and the Houses of Pain. What about them?”

  “Why?” I said. “And a whole side order of, How?”

  “You never did pay attention in history class, did you?” said the Sarjeant.

  “This is very old family history,” said the Armourer. “Going back to the really early days, when our armour was still new and we were still making a name for ourselves . . . And we needed all the help we could get. The details of how contact was made, and even exactly what we get out of it, are kept locked away in Very Secret, Need to Know, Move Along, Nothing to See Here files.”

  “I’m getting really tired of hearing that phrase, need-to-know,” I said. “I used to run this bloody family, and the sheer number of things it turns out I didn’t need to know is getting on my tits big-time. Who does know?”

  The Armourer and the Sarjeant-at-Arms looked at each other, their faces unreadable. Finally, the Sarjeant said reluctantly, “The Matriarch knew. And . . . one other.”

  “William,” said the Armourer. “As Librarian, he knew.”

  We all looked at William, and he looked back with surprisingly clear and thoughtful eyes. “The original contracts, or compacts, are still on file in the Old Library. They make very interesting reading. Which is why I’ve filed them away in such a manner that no one will ever be able to find them again without my help. Trust me on this, Eddie: You don’t need to know what’s in them. No one in the family does. It’s enough to know . . . that we have contacts, and perhaps even friends, in high and low places. And Jacob, of course.”

  “What?” I said.

  “The ghost, Jacob,” William said patiently. “He knew. He wasn’t supposed to, but then, it’s hard to keep secrets from the dead.”

  “Could we use these . . . contacts?” I said. “To try to find out what’s happening with this new Satanist conspiracy, and what they’re up to?”

  “No,” said William.

  We all waited, but he had nothing more to say.

  “The family must be protected,” the Sarjeant said heavily. “Some things must stay secret.”

  “Like the source of our original armour?” I said. “Or the pact our ancestors made with the Heart? We did make some really bad decisions, back in the bad old days. That’s always been the trouble with this family. Too many secrets.”

  “I think you’re pushing this too far, Eddie,” said the Armourer.

  “Am I?” I said. “I don’t think I’m pushing this nearly far enough! What about those secret departments within departments that most of the family isn’t even supposed to know exist? You told me about them, William; have you remembered anything else?”

  “I don’t know!” said William. “Don’t push me! I know what I need to know, when I need to know it, and on good days that includes where to find the chemical toilet. I know some things . . . but I’m not entirely sure I trust them. There are . . . agents, yes, more secret than the field agents, sent out to do the kinds of things the family would rather not admit to, even to itself. Perhaps especially not to itself. But I don’t remember who they were, or are. Maybe I never knew. . . . Only the Matriarch knew everything.”

  “And she’s gone,” I said. “Which raises a very interesting question: Who’s running these special agents these days, and what exactly are they doing in the family’s name?”

  “Eddie has a point,” the Armourer said reluctantly. “We’ve let things run loose far too long. Admittedly, we have been a bit busy lately, but still . . . Someone has to take charge. Someone has to set overall policy of what is and is not acceptable, and make sure the family’s left hand knows what its right hand is doing.”

  “Once the family has elected a leader, they can take control,” said Harry.

  “Can we wait that long?” I said. “Are we supposed to let these secret departments run themselves, without anyone knowing what they’re doing?”

  “I know,” said William. “I’ve always known. Of course, I don’t always remember what I know. Or even if what I remember actually happened.”

  “I don’t care what he may or may not know; we are not putting him in charge of anything,” the Sarjeant said firmly. “No offence, Uncle William.”

  “Oh, hello, young Cedric,” said William. “Do you want an ice cream?”

  “Uncle Jack,” I said, looking firmly at the Armourer, “you’re the senior man here, with actual field agent experience. You’ll have to take charge. Dig up these secret departments and rein them in. Only till someone can take overall charge again.”

  “You do like to put me on the spot, don’t you, Eddie?” The Armourer scowled and drummed his fingertips on the table for a moment, but in the end he nodded shortly. “All right. There are people I can talk to. And they’ll talk to me, if they know what’s good for them.”

  “I should be involved in this,” said the Sarjeant. “It involves family security.”

  “Yes, it does, and no, you
shouldn’t,” said the Armourer. “You tend your own briar patch, Cedric.”

  “Hold it,” said Harry. “Don’t we get to discuss this? The Armourer gets to be in charge because he’s the oldest here?”

  “Because he has seniority, because he has actual field experience and because he knows who these special agents are. Don’t you, Uncle Jack?” I met his gaze steadily. “You have to know who they are, because you’re the one who supplies them with all the necessary weapons and gadgets before they go out on their missions. Right, Uncle Jack?”

  He smiled suddenly. “You always were smarter than you let anyone realise, Eddie. Yes, I know who they are. Now all I have to do is persuade them to tell me whom they work for; who gives them their orders and sends them out on their missions. As if I don’t have enough work on my plate . . . Engines big enough to drive the moon out of its orbit don’t build themselves, you know.”

  There was a pause.

  “I thought we’d agreed that you were going to table that one, for the time being,” I said tactfully.

  The Armourer sniffed loudly. “Man’s allowed to have a hobby, isn’t he?”

  I looked at Roger. “We are about to change the subject. What do you know about the family’s pact with Hell?”

  “Not a thing,” said Roger. “Way above my pay scale.”

  “Is there anyone you could talk to who might know what Dusk is up to?”

  “I don’t think they’d tell me, even if they knew,” Roger said carefully.

  “Even though you’re half Drood?”

  “Especially because I’m half Drood. Besides, consider the source. Hell always lies.”

  “Except when a truth can hurt you more,” said Harry.

  “What did happen on your recent trip to Hell?” I asked Roger. “Did anything come of that?”

  “Not really,” said Roger. “I had to call it off and come back in a hurry when everything started kicking off here with the Accelerated Men attack.”

  “I think we’ve spent quite long enough talking about Hell,” said the Sarjeant. “It’s time to move on to more immediate business. Our immediate top priority is the Supernatural Arms Faire, currently being held in the mountains above Pakistan.”

  “What?” I said. “What’s that got to do with us?”

  “It’s still mostly called the Supernatural Arms Faire, even though most of the weapons on display these days tend towards superscience,” said the Armourer. “I go every year; never miss it. Last year they were giving away Shock and Awe in the goodie bags! It’s a very old affair, Eddie; goes all the way back to Roman times. Or at least, that’s when it first appears in an official report. Enthusiasts such as myself did take to calling it Harmageddon back in the eighties, but it never really caught on. Everybody who’s anybody who’s involved in weapons of mass destruction goes there to see what’s new and nasty. The Internet’s made a lot of things more readily accessible, but there’s still nothing quite like the joy of browsing.”

  “What has this got to do with me?” I said. “And why do I know I’m really not going to like the answer?”

  “Must be turning psychic,” the Armourer said cheerfully. “Now pipe down and pay attention, or there’ll be a short, sharp visit from the slap fairy. You need to know this. All the world’s most talented weapons makers turn up at the fair every year to show off their latest creations. And take orders for the coming year. We can often figure out what the bad guys are planning by studying their shopping lists. The location of the Supernatural Arms Faire changes every year, attendance strictly by invitation only. But it does keep coming back to the mountains over Pakistan, if only because they’re far enough from anywhere civilised that if something should go bang! unexpectedly, it won’t do too much damage. Do I really need to tell you that they’ve never even heard of Health and Safety? And the organisers do like to keep the fair as far as possible from the world’s prying eyes.”

  “What organisers?” I said. “Who’s behind the fair?”

  “The Gun Shops of Usher,” said the Sarjeant. “Very old firm. Older than us.” He fixed me with a cold stare. “We’re sending you in this year to observe and take notes, because you’re the most experienced field agent we’ve got left. Who isn’t busy with something else.”

  “Why does it always have to be me?” I said plaintively. “Why can’t I ever get a case that involves loafing about at the seaside?”

  “I could go,” said Harry.

  “No, you couldn’t,” I said quickly. “I need you here, taking care of the day-to-day business. So I don’t have to.”

  “Every man to what he does best, Harry,” said the Sarjeant.

  “If you only knew what he does best . . .” murmured Roger.

  “Not now, dear,” said Harry.

  “How am I to get in, even as Shaman Bond, if I don’t have an invitation?” I said craftily, to show I had been paying attention.

  “I visit the fair every year,” the Armourer said cheerfully. “I have a long-standing invitation to attend, because I have established a cover as a weapons enthusiast and retired nerd. You can get in on my ticket. Take Molly; I’m allowed a plus-one. Ah, I always have a great time wandering round the stalls, quietly sneering at new inventions I created or overcame years ago. And I always bring back a few good ideas. . . . Steal from the best, and call it research!”

  “Do they know you’re a Drood?” said Molly.

  “Of course not! They’d shut everything down and leg it for the horizon. Or try to kill me. Probably both. No, they think I’m another of those very keen trainspotter types who always turn up at affairs like these. Making endless notes, jotting down serial numbers . . . and exclaiming over unexpected obsolete makes, and proudly comparing their to-see lists. The fair security people could keep us out if they really wanted to, but the weapons makers like to have us around so they can show off in front of us and feel like stars. They’d miss us if we weren’t there. But this time it has to be you, Eddie. I’m too busy. You can go in as Shaman Bond, and no one need know you’re a Drood. I’ll give you the coordinates, and you can drop in through the Merlin Glass. In and out, no problem.”

  “But what am I supposed to do there?” I said. “What is so important that an experienced field agent has to attend the Supernatural Arms Faire?”

  “Because there are rumours, very serious rumours, that someone has come up with a high-tech equivalent to Drood armour,” said the Sarjeant. “And that they will be showing off the prototype at this year’s fair.”

  “And we can’t have that,” said the Armourer. “Of course, people have been promising Drood-type armour for years, but no one’s ever been able to deliver.”

  “Several normally trustworthy sources were very sure that this year, someone might have something,” the Sarjeant said firmly. “And, Eddie, if they have, you are to grab the prototype and bring it back with you, so the Armourer can hack it open and see what makes it tick. Before one of us has to go head-to-head with it in the field.”

  “Who’s supposed to be behind this new armour?” I said.

  “If you find out, bring them back, too,” said the Armourer.

  “All right,” I said reluctantly. “But after I come back, I want to talk a lot more about Dusk and his proposed Great Sacrifice.”

  “Of course,” said the Armourer. “We should have more definite information on the conspiracy by then.”

  I sighed heavily. “First the Loathly Ones, then the Invisibles and the Accelerated Men, and now a brand-new Satanist conspiracy. How many conspiracies are there?”

  “How long is a superstring?” said William.

  We all looked at him, but he had nothing else to say.

  “Any more business?” the Sarjeant-at-Arms said finally. “No . . . very well. Meeting adjourned. I’ll look into who’s properly next in line to be Matriarch; Armourer, I want a full report on whatever you discover about the secret departments; and Harry, I want a fully thought-out position paper from you on how we’re going to run the
next election. We need some new ideas; the last election was really a shoo-in for the Matriarch. I’d like to see more of a fight this time. William . . . why don’t you go and have a nice lie-down, and see what else you can remember? And then write it all down. Before you forget it again.”

  “Good idea,” said William. “I’ll get Rafe to help me.”

  “Rafe is gone,” I said carefully. “You have a new assistant Librarian—Ioreth. Remember?”

  “Oh. Yes,” said William. “I’d better write that down.”

  The council broke up, everyone going their separate way with a certain amount of relief. The Sarjeant called in his security people to escort William back to the Old Library, and to put out the chair Roger Morningstar had been sitting on. I used the Merlin Glass to transport Molly and me straight to my room on the upper floor. Molly put her hands on my shoulders and started to say something, but I placed a fingertip on her lips and shook my head urgently. I leaned in close, so I could whisper in her ear.

  “Molly, I need you to put up all your best privacy spells right now. I need protections so strong that no one will be able to overhear what I have to tell you. Do it now.”

  “Who are you worried will listen in?” said Molly, as she stepped back and struck a series of mystical poses, her hands moving so quickly they left shimmering trails on the air.

  “Everyone.”

  “Including your own family?”

  “Especially them.”

  Molly made a final gesture and the whole room shuddered. The floor seemed to drop away an inch or so beneath my feet, and then steadied. There was a faint but very real tension on the air. Molly nodded briskly.

  “Done and done. You can talk freely, Eddie. Gaea herself couldn’t overhear us now. What’s so important?”

  I took both her hands in mine and had her sit down on the edge of the bed, facing me. “Remember when I was trapped in Limbo, and Walker was interrogating me, trying to make me give up all my secrets?”