For Heaven's Eyes Only

by Simon R. Green

  “Peter . . .” said Ammonia.

  “I’m telling them what they need to know, old thing.” Peter smiled conspiratorially at Molly and me. “I see you’ve noticed all the fittings and furnishings are terribly up-to-date. Have to be. Ammonia can pick up traces, echoes, from all the people who used to own old things. People imprint on everything, you see. She had to run a full-scale telepathic exorcism on the cottage before we could move in, wiping the stone tape recording clean, as it were. And all the furniture has to be replaced regularly, every twelve months, because they soak up memories. We hold a nice little bonfire for the old stuff, out back. Because you can never tell what another telepath might pick up from it. For a telepath like Ammonia, peace of mind is everything. Everything. Isn’t that right, old girl?”

  “Yes,” said Ammonia.

  “And she has to be a vegetarian,” said Peter. “Because she can hear the dying screams and last terrified emotions of even the smallest piece of meat. Someone once told me that a plant screams when it’s plucked from the ground, but apparently that’s not true. Certainly not root vegetables, because we eat enough of the things. I haven’t had a sausage in years. Can’t even pig out when she’s away. You always know, don’t you, dear?”

  “Does she always let you do all the talking?” said Molly.

  “Mostly,” said Peter, entirely unperturbed. “It’s what I’m for. She has no small talk, poor old thing. And she doesn’t trust anyone. All the time we’ve been sitting here, chatting so cosily, she’s been trying to break through your shields, to see if she can. It’s not that she wants to know things; she can’t help herself. Have I distracted them enough now, old dear? Jolly good . . . I’ll be quiet. Got some serious liver damage to be getting on with. . . .”

  “I’ve heard of both of you,” Ammonia Vom Acht said flatly, and my eyes snapped back to her. Edwin Drood and Molly Metcalf. The Drood who thinks he’s better than other Droods. Who thinks he’s the first Drood to develop a conscience. But you’re far from the first to try to redeem your family, Eddie. Power corrupts; always has, and always will. Those torcs of yours make you more powerful than people were ever meant to be.

  “And you, Molly. The loudest and least of the infamous Metcalf sisters. Is there anything more obvious and pathetic than another young rebel without a cause? Who rejects everything so she doesn’t have to commit to anything? And yes, Molly, I know my reputation, too. Is there ever anyone more rejected than the one who tells the truths that no one wants to hear?”

  “Well,” I said brightly. “That’s told us! But I don’t think I’ll take any of it too seriously. You tell the truth, Ammonia, only as you see it. ‘ “What is truth?” said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer. . . . ’ ”

  “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” said Ammonia.

  “No,” I said. “Somewhat to my surprise . . .”

  “I can’t stand people who aren’t afraid of me,” said Ammonia.

  “It’s true,” said Peter, staring sadly into his drink. “She can’t.”

  “I’m not hiring you to like me,” I said to Ammonia, meeting her gaze steadily. “I’m hiring you to break into our Librarian’s head and see if you can put him right. An other-dimensional entity assaulted his mind some years back, and it’s still scrambled. You think you can fix that?”

  “I do love a challenge,” said Ammonia.

  “It’s true,” said Peter. “She does. She really does. . . . Oh. Sorry, dear. Sorry, everyone. I’ve had too much to drink. Or not nearly enough. It’s so hard to tell. . . . But you will help them, won’t you, old thing? You can do this for them. You can do anything.”

  Ammonia ignored him, all her attention fixed on me. “If I can put William Drood right, repair what damage has been done and put his personality back together again . . . will the family agree to pay my price?”

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “I want your Armourer to make something for me,” said Ammonia. “I want a crown like the one Molly is wearing right now. Only much stronger. I want something strong enough to keep the whole world out, so I don’t have to. So I can rest.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “Could I try yours?” Ammonia said to Molly. “Just for a moment, to see what it feels like?”

  “No, Molly,” I said immediately. Molly’s hands were already rising to the crown on her head, but when I spoke she snatched them back down again. I smiled at Ammonia. “You’re very . . . persuasive in person, Ammonia. But try anything like that again and the deal is off. Forever.”

  “What?” said Molly. “What happened there?”

  “You know a lot of Drood secrets,” I said. “And if you had taken your crown off, only for a second . . .”

  “You sneaky cow,” Molly said to Ammonia.

  “You have no idea what it’s like, never to be trusted even for a moment,” said Ammonia. “What makes you think I care about your stupid little secrets?”

  “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?” I said.

  Ammonia made us both wait outside in the garden while she said her good-byes to her husband. Or perhaps she wanted to lock up all the drinks cabinets before she left. Though Peter had the look of a man who would gnaw through a wooden cabinet to get to his favourite tipple. Molly and I wandered back up the garden path, stopping to smell the roses along the way. It really was a very peaceful setting.

  “You know you can’t go back with us,” I said to Molly. “This is private, and very personal, Drood business.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” said Molly, in that special, casual tone of voice she uses only when she wants me to know that I’ll have to do something really special to make up for it later. “I’ll make my own way back. See you again, lover.”

  She snapped her fingers and was gone. I sighed. She was going to go off and sulk now. She hated not being included in things. And it was going to take more than a double-layer box of Thorntons dark chocolate assortment to win her round this time.

  Ammonia finally came out of the cottage, slamming the front door shut behind her. She stomped over to me, looked round her garden as though she wasn’t sure she would ever see it again, then looked at me standing on my own, and sniffed loudly.

  “Let’s do this, if we’re going to. I don’t like to leave Peter on his own for too long. Get a move on, Drood; you’re the one with the Merlin Glass.”

  I removed the mirror from its pocket dimension, but before I could even activate it, Ammonia stepped back sharply, as though I’d tried to shove a poisonous snake in her face. I looked quickly at the Merlin Glass, but for the moment it still looked like an ordinary hand mirror.

  “There’s something in there!” said Ammonia, glaring into the Glass. “Something, or someone. I can’t see it, but it can see me. I can tell. It’s looking at me right now.”

  I looked into the Glass, but all I could see was my own somewhat puzzled reflection. I shook the Glass a few times, on general principle, but the reflection stayed the same. I looked at Ammonia.

  “Friendly . . . or unfriendly?”

  Ammonia shrugged. “I could find out for you. But that would cost extra.”

  “Then it can wait,” I said. “Let’s see what you can do with the Librarian first.”

  I shook the Merlin Glass out to full size and opened a doorway directly to the Old Library. Ammonia peered interestedly at the new view on the other side of the mirror. Rows and rows of bookshelves, under a pleasant golden glow, stretching away in all directions for as far as the eye could follow. I went through the Glass first, to reassure Ammonia, but she didn’t hold back a moment in following me through. I shut down the Glass and put it away, turned to Ammonia and found the most dangerous telepath in the world was trembling visibly.

  “It’s the memories,” she said. “Every book in this place still carries the traces of everyone who ever read it. It’s like millions of voices, all shouting in my head at once. It’s taking everything I’ve got to keep them out. Your Old Librar
y is a lot older than you realise. It doesn’t belong to your family. Droods didn’t put the Library together; you inherited it. And then you brought it here with you from the Hall before this, and the Hall before that.”

  “Okay,” I said, “you’re getting into family business and family secrets you don’t need to know about. Look away, Ammonia.”

  She wasn’t even listening to me, her gaze fixed on something only she could see. “So many have passed through this place, and left footprints in the sands of Time. Not all of them were human. Gods and monsters have walked these dusty ways in search of lost and forbidden knowledge.”

  “Okay,” I said, “you’re pushing it now. I don’t need the dramatics.”

  Ammonia shrugged easily. “All part of the service. All part of what you’re paying for. I’m fine now. I’ve got your Library’s measure. It’s really quite pleasant, now that I’ve shut out the books. I can work here. Well away from your family, I’m happy to say, off in the Hall proper.”

  I looked at her. “How do you know we’re not actually in the Hall?” “Because it’s my job to know things like that. This is some kind of pocket dimension. The Hall itself is . . . that way.”

  And she pointed up and to the left with complete certainty. Given that the Old Library is only lightly connected to the real world, I decided not to push the point. She might be right.

  “Hello!” Ammonia said suddenly. “I’m picking up something . . . odd. There’s you and me, and your Librarian, and his assistant; but I’m also picking up another presence . . . definitely not human.”

  “That’s probably Ethel,” I said. “The other-dimensional entity who lives with us. She’s always looking in.”

  “The source of your family’s power, and your new armour,” said Ammonia. “I know all about Ethel. And it’s not her. I can sense her watching us from back in Drood Hall. Behind quite extraordinarily powerful shields. I have to wonder what it is she’s so desperate to hide from me . . . and you. I could find out; but that would cost you extra. But never mind about strange presences. That’s not why I’m here. Where’s the patient?”

  Ioreth appeared suddenly from out of the nearest stacks, glaring at Ammonia from what he probably believed was a safe distance. He was wearing a monk’s habit, with the hood pushed back to reveal a shaved head, on which was jammed a crown very similar to the one the Armourer had given Molly. Ioreth was doing his best to stand tall and proud, but couldn’t quite bring it off. He looked more like someone desperately in need of a toilet.

  “Hello! I’m Ioreth! I’m fine, thank you! I’m not thinking about anything. I’m definitely not thinking about that. Or that. I’m fine! Really.”

  “Ioreth, if you don’t calm the fuck down right now, I am going to hose you from head to foot with Ritalin,” I said. “You’ve had plenty of warning about this. And I know I’m going to regret asking, but why are you dressed like a monk?”

  “William says he finds it soothing,” said Ioreth. “You wouldn’t believe the number of outfits we had to go through to find one he could live with. I can tell you for a fact that he really doesn’t like sneakers. Or ties. Found that out the hard way. It was either this or a kilt, and this was less draughty. You haven’t seen my dignity, have you? I’m sure I left it around here somewhere. I’m fine! Thanks for asking.”

  “And why are you wearing one of the Armourer’s brand-new psychic protection units?” I asked, gesturing at his crown. “Your torc is all you need.”

  “The council insisted,” Ioreth said stiffly. “In your absence. The telepath cannot be allowed access to Drood secrets. Especially the kind you learn from reading the books in the Old Library. I know things even I don’t think I should know.”

  “Like I care,” said Ammonia. “I have enough secrets. I am stuffed full of secrets. I crap secrets and piss mysteries. And as for your blessed books . . .”

  She ran her fingertips roughly along the spines of the books nearest her, and I swear they winced back from her. Ioreth almost jumped out of his habit.

  “Don’t touch the books! Don’t touch anything in here! We have a large number of really dangerous books here in the Old Library, and by dangerous I mean violent, possessive and occasionally homicidal. This is not a petting zoo! I use special gloves to take some of these books off the shelves, and they’re knitted personally for me by cloistered nuns from the Salvation Army sisterhood. Gloves that are actually holier than I will ever be. And even then I cross my fingers for luck.”

  “You’re babbling, Ioreth,” I said.

  “I know! I’m fine, very fine; I’m really very nervous. I really don’t think this is a good idea, Eddie, and I especially don’t like the way that woman is looking at me; why is she looking at me like that? Eddie, make her stop looking at me like that! William . . . is not in a good mood. And yes, I know, he rarely is, but I would have to say that today he is even more not in a good mood than usual. He doesn’t like visitors, he doesn’t like telepaths, and he very definitely doesn’t like Ammonia Vom Acht, though of course who does—sorry, I said that out loud, didn’t I? Perhaps you could bring her back some other day, Eddie, when William’s feeling more . . . receptive.”

  “Neither of us is going to live that long,” I said. “It has to be now. It’s for his own good, Ioreth.”

  He sniffed. “That’s what they told Joan of Arc, poor girl. All right, follow me; I’ll take you to him. But try not to make any loud noises or sudden moves. I don’t want to have to get him down from the high stacks with the boat hook again.”

  He scurried off down the nearest aisle, and Ammonia and I went after him. William wasn’t far. We found him standing straight backed and stiff necked, with his back to a display of Very Restricted Books. ALL PASSES MUST BE SHOWN, said a polite sign. AND A LIST OF YOUR NEXT OF KIN. William had clearly made an effort to improve his appearance, or perhaps Ioreth had, on his behalf. His grey hair and beard had been neatly trimmed, and he was wearing a brand-new and very clean dressing gown. He was still wearing his favourite white bunny slippers, which still disturbed me, for no good reason I could put my finger on. He looked a lot older than his years, and spiritually as well as physically tired. But he held himself well, and his face was calm, if a little distracted. He looked at Ammonia with his lost eyes, as though expecting the worst but holding up bravely nonetheless.

  “I’m not sure I want to be healed,” he said, speaking directly to Ammonia. “I think I prefer this me to the me I used to be. I’m not sure the old me was a very nice person.”

  “Lot of my patients say that,” Ammonia said briskly. “It’s avoidance and displacement at work. Like when your toothache disappears on the way to the dentist.”

  “But if I was a bad person . . .”

  “Of course you were!” said Ammonia. “You were a Drood!”

  “Ammonia,” I murmured. “Not really helping . . .”

  “William,” said Ioreth, standing protectively close to the Librarian, “if she can help, you might not be so frightened all the time. . . .”

  Ammonia moved forward to stand before William, and to his credit he didn’t flinch. She looked into his eyes.

  “Interesting. I’m getting . . . absolutely nothing from him. As though he were a psychic null, like my Peter. And it’s not only his torc protecting him. Someone has placed very powerful blocks inside this man’s mind.”

  “Can you break through them without damaging him?” I said.

  “Can you stop talking about him as though he wasn’t here!” said William.

  “No problem,” said Ammonia. “Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy. That’s why you hired me.” She looked back at William and gave him what she probably thought of as a reassuring smile. “I need you calm and relaxed. Sitting in your favourite chair, perhaps. Do you have a favourite chair?”

  “Of course,” said Ioreth. “I’ll go and get it, shall I? Yes. Don’t talk about me while I’m gone. I’m really very nervous.”

  He hurried off and quickly came back with a sagging overs
tuffed armchair so heavy he couldn’t pick it up, but had to push it along in front of him as fast as the squealing and protesting castors would allow. He pushed it into place, and then leaned on the back breathing heavily, to show how much effort he was making on our behalf. William sank into the chair and arranged himself until he was as comfortable as he was going to get. Ammonia was surprisingly patient with him, until it became clear he was never going to stop wriggling about.

  “Will you bloody well relax!” said Ammonia. “I am not the bloody dentist!”

  “Don’t like him either,” said William. “Is this going to hurt?”

  “Probably not physically,” said Ammonia.

  William started to get back up out of his chair, and Ioreth and I had to step forward and push him back into it. William subsided and scowled at Ammonia.

  “I demand a second opinion!”

  “All right,” said Ammonia. “You’re a Drood and I despise everything you stand for. Now shut up and let me concentrate.”

  I was expecting her to go into some kind of trance, or wave her hands about, or at least have her eyes light up; but there was nothing of the dramatic about what she did. She stood there before the Librarian, frowning thoughtfully, holding his gaze with hers. He stared back at her blankly, as though waiting for the real scanning to begin. Suddenly, I realised that the temperature in the Old Library was dropping. It’s mostly maintained at a little more than comfortably warm, for the sake of the books; but now it was growing distinctly chilly. As though something were sucking all the heat out of the Library. Even the light seemed dimmer than before. Shadows slowly filled the stacks around us, until we were all standing in the only real pool of light left. Everything was still and silent, the whole Library’s attention focused in one place. William’s face was entirely blank now, his gaze unblinking and far away.

  “I’m past the shields,” said Ammonia. Her voice was quite calm and matter-of-fact. She might have been talking about her shopping. “A lot of really nasty protections here . . . Nothing I couldn’t handle. I’m inside his head now. His thoughts are a mess. His memories have been heavily interfered with; whole chunks are missing, destroyed. Quite deliberately. There are things he discovered, truths he was never meant to know, that someone didn’t want him to ever be able to think about again. But there’s more to it than that. Whole sections of his mind have been placed off-limits; he doesn’t even know they’re there. More shields, more protections . . . high walls with barbed wire on the top . . . What are you trying to hide from me, William? Or what has someone been hiding from you all these years? What’s hiding inside your head?”