by Derek Landy
Valkyrie raised an eyebrow. “She knows Argeddion?”
“Knows him?” Tipstaff said. “From what she says, she used to date him.”
reta Dapple was old. Valkyrie was used to old people – Skulduggery was somewhere over 400, after all – but very rarely did she meet someone who looked old. Greta had white hair, tied in a bun. She was small and frail and it was like she’d been left out in the sun too long. She sat in the interview room with her hands folded across her purse, and smiled at them when they entered.
“Miss Dapple,” Skulduggery said, “thank you for coming in. We were told you know a man named Argeddion – is this true?”
“Yes, it is,” Greta said, “although he was Walden D’Essai when I first met him. Lovely man. Had the kindest eyes I ever did see. We fell in love one summer. The kind of love you have to hold on to. But I didn’t, because I was young and I didn’t know any better. I’ve never regretted anything so much.”
“Walden D’Essai,” Skulduggery murmured. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of him.”
“I’m not surprised, Detective – aren’t the people you do hear of mostly criminals or terrorists or troublemakers? Walden was none of those things. He was a pacifist. He was so gentle, he’d never hurt another living thing. That’s what I loved about him most. He believed in the goodness of people. That’s probably what got him killed.”
Valkyrie frowned. “He’s dead?”
“Of course he is. Isn’t that why you want to talk to people who knew him? To solve his murder?”
“That’s exactly it,” Skulduggery said. “We just want justice. Tell us what you know.”
“Magic was never that strong with me,” said Greta. “I’ll be two hundred years old this week and I look one hundred. My magic has never been strong enough to slow my ageing to any great degree. Not that I have any cause to complain. I’ve lived twice as long as I should have, and I’m grateful for it. But Walden was strong, and he loved magic. Not in a bad way, though. He didn’t get like some people get – it wasn’t the power he loved. It was simply the magic. He said it was the most beautiful thing in existence. Well, actually, he said that I was the most beautiful thing in existence, but magic came a close second.” She chuckled and Valkyrie smiled.
“When we weren’t together,” Greta continued, “he was studying. Reading. Researching. He went on vision quests, looking for answers. He wanted to find the source of magic – where it came from, how it worked. He wanted to know why Ireland was a Cradle of Magic, and Australia and Africa. He wanted to know if there were any other Cradles that we didn’t know about. Oh, the things he discovered. The secrets he learned.”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “Did he happen to tell you any of these secrets?”
Greta laughed. “A few. But it’s not my place to repeat them. These answers came to him after years of searching – you’ll forgive me if I don’t cheapen his achievements by simply blurting them out.”
“Annoying,” Skulduggery said, “but completely understandable. Go on.”
“Thank you. One of Walden’s overriding beliefs was that our true names are not actually the source of our magic, but rather they are directly connected to the source – it is through them that magic flows.”
“Flows from where?”
“He was never that specific, I’m afraid. He talked about the source as a place, but didn’t explain how it fitted into his theory. I suppose he would have, if I had asked, if I had even pretended to understand the things he got excited about. But as I said, I was young, and my mind was elsewhere.
“He became obsessed with learning his own true name. He poured all his energies into it. Vision quest after vision quest. He withdrew from the world. Withdrew from me. I know now that I should have fought him, that I should have refused to let him go, but... I didn’t. He grew more distant and I left. I don’t think he even noticed I was gone for the first few weeks.”
“Argeddion was Walden’s true name,” Skulduggery said slowly, and Valkyrie’s mouth went dry. Argeddion was like her – a sorcerer who knew his own true name. The most dangerous thing imaginable.
Greta nodded. “A year after I left him, he got in touch. He told me he’d finally discovered it, that he was now Argeddion, and that all the answers were within his reach. But something else had changed, apart from what he called himself. He wasn’t the obsessed man that I’d walked out on. He had a new name, but he was his old self again. Full of wonder and joy. I was so happy to see that his gentleness had returned, but I was also nervous. Only a handful of people had ever discovered their true names. I didn’t know what would happen, what he’d become. I wasn’t... You must understand, I wasn’t scared of him, but I was scared of what it might mean.”
Greta was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was sad. “I wasn’t the only person to feel that way. Somehow, they heard about what was happening, and they came to my door asking questions.”
Valkyrie frowned. “They?”
“Sorcerers. There were four of them, three men and a woman, but I only remember one name, the leader’s – Tyren Lament. The woman was a Sensitive. Lament said she’d had a vision of the future or some such rubbish. I’ll tell you honestly, I’ve never trusted those people.”
“But this Sensitive,” Skulduggery said, “she saw a future where Walden had done something wrong?”
Greta looked flustered. “She saw nonsense, that’s what she saw. Walden D’Essai was a pacifist. He’d lost his mother to violence at an early age and it affected him deeply – he couldn’t stand to inflict pain on anyone. But this Sensitive, this psychic, had a little nightmare where there’s violence and death and suffering and Walden is apparently the cause of it all. After they’d left, I called Walden, told him they were looking for him. He told me not to worry, he’d explain everything and they’d understand that he wasn’t a threat. That was the last time I ever spoke to him.”
“You think they killed him?”
“I do. Can you arrest them?”
“Tyren Lament disappeared thirty years ago,” Skulduggery said. “If Walden is dead, it sounds like he wasn’t the only one to die that day.”
“If they died,” said Greta, “it was their own doing. Walden would never raise a finger to hurt anyone.”
“Maybe not directly,” Skulduggery said, “but we’ve been dealing with a lot of unexplained phenomena where people have been hurt and killed – and someone called Argeddion would seem to be behind it.”
“Wait. You think my Walden is alive? No. I’m sorry, but no. If Walden were still alive, he’d have contacted me long before now. He’s dead. I know he is.”
“And theoretically that would be enough to keep him down,” Skulduggery said, “but in our line of work death is seldom an obstacle.”
The Council of Elders had never convened faster. They dropped whatever it was they were doing and immediately met Skulduggery and Valkyrie in the throne room. Ravel and Mist wore their traditional robes, but Ghastly was fresh out of the shower and sat there with his shirtsleeves rolled up. Skulduggery filled them in on what Greta Dapple had told them.
“So you think Argeddion is still alive,” said Ravel, “just hiding somewhere, and has unimaginable power from discovering his true name, which allows him to enter people’s dreams and give them magical abilities?”
“In a nutshell,” said Skulduggery.
“Well, now I’m conflicted. On the one hand, it sounds like things are progressing quickly, which is wonderful news. On the other, it means that there’s a sorcerer out there who could kill us all with a wave of his hand – which dampens my mood somewhat. I’m assuming that Ghastly has already broken with protocol and told you about the Supreme Council and their deadline?”
“He has,” said Skulduggery.
“Then let’s focus on the positive. A quick solution is what we need to get them off our backs. Whatever you need from us, just ask.”
“That’s why we’re here, actually,” said Skulduggery. “We
need to know about Tyren Lament.”
Ravel nodded. “All right, then. Good.”
Skulduggery waited. “So?”
“So what?”
“So what can you tell us about him?”
Ravel laughed. “Me? I knew him as well as you did, which wasn’t very well. Why don’t you look up his file?”
“We did. His files are missing.”
“Missing? Then why would you think I’d know anything?”
“Because you’re the Grand Mage,” Skulduggery said. “You have access to the Elders’ Journals.”
“Oh,” said Ravel. “Oh, yeah.”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “You have read them, haven’t you? One of the requirements for taking a seat on the Council is you have to read the Journals of those who have gone before.”
“I was getting around to it,” Ravel said, a little defensively. “I was about to start, but... Listen, being an Elder is not an easy job. I rarely sleep, did you know that? I go to bed late, I get up early. Every day I’m in meetings or briefings or I’m doing this or that. I would love the opportunity to take a few afternoons off and read those Journals, I really would. The chance to learn from the wisdom of past Elders... It would be an honour, and I’m looking forward to it.”
Skulduggery nodded. “There are three hundred and forty-four Journals.”
Ravel blanched. “Seriously?”
“All big leather-bound books, a thousand pages long. Single-spaced.”
“Dear God.”
“It’s going to take more than a few afternoons to get through them.”
“So it would appear.” Ravel scowled. “OK, you caught me out, I haven’t read the dusty old diaries. Big deal. I’ll get to it. Ghastly, you’ve read them, what can you tell us about Lament?”
“Uh,” said Ghastly.
Skulduggery shook his head. “Oh, not you, too.”
“One of them is on my bedside table,” Ghastly said quickly. “I started it. I did. But my God it was boring. It was all ‘forsooth’ and ‘verily’ and ‘forthwith’. Did we really speak like that back then?”
“So no one has actually read the Journals,” Skulduggery said. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
Ravel and Ghastly both looked sheepish. Finally, Madame Mist spoke.
“I have read them.”
Ravel looked startled. “You have? You didn’t find them... boring?”
“I find many things boring,” Mist said in that quiet way of hers. “It does not mean I’m going to forsake my duty.”
“Well, good,” Skulduggery said, “at least someone here is doing what they’re supposed to. What can you tell us?”
Madame Mist observed him through her veil. “Nothing,” she said.
“Lament wasn’t mentioned?”
“He was mentioned, but I cannot tell you in what context. Only Elders are allowed to know what those Journals contain.”
“Well, we can tell Skulduggery and Valkyrie,” Ravel said.
“No. We can’t.”
Ghastly sat forward so as to look at Mist better. “Yes, we can. They’ve earned that right.”
“It is not for us to decide,” said Mist. “It is a rule.”
“We’re breaking the rule,” said Ravel. “Today that rule is broken. I’m Elder Mage, I decree it. The rule is no more. So tell them what the Journals said.”
“If we want to change the rules, we must vote on it. It need not be unanimous. A simple majority would suffice.”
“So you’re looking for a two-to-one majority,” sighed Ghastly, “when you know exactly how myself and Ravel are going to vote? What’s the point?”
“It is the rules, Elder Bespoke.”
“Fine. All in favour of telling Skulduggery and Valkyrie what the Journals say, raise your hand.” Ghastly and Ravel voted. “There. Two-to-one. We win. Now, if you would be so kind – what did the Journals say about Lament?”
“Tyren Lament was a detective under Meritorious,” Mist said, “specialising in science-magic.”
“That much I know,” said Skulduggery.
“There were others, but their names weren’t mentioned and a definitive number was never given. Lament and his colleagues were a specialist group, tasked with dealing with global threats in as quiet a manner as possible. Meritorious and the Elders spoke very highly of them, but provided few details as to their assignments. There were notes on some low-profile arrests at the beginning of Lament’s Sanctuary career, but even that tailed off.”
“What about Argeddion?” asked Valkyrie. “Was he ever mentioned?”
“No. Neither was the disappearance of Lament and his group.”
“So they vanish off the face of the earth,” Skulduggery said, “and none of the Elders even bother to make a note of it. It sounds like Lament and his friends were Black Ops, the same as our Dead Men, or Guild’s Exigency Mages, but in peacetime. The dirty jobs that have to be done. They went in to take down Argeddion and whatever happened has been wiped from official records. Meritorious covered it up.”
“Not the first time,” Ghastly murmured.
“But wouldn’t that mean Argeddion is dead?” asked Valkyrie. “If they went in and failed, Meritorious would have just sent someone else. He’d probably have sent you. But he didn’t.”
Skulduggery nodded. “Which would seem to indicate that it was mission accomplished.”
Ravel shifted in his chair. “So if everyone who knew about this mission is now dead, where does that leave us?”
“Maybe not everyone,” Skulduggery countered. “Lament may have been killed, maybe most of the others, but there’s no reason to think there wasn’t a survivor who reported back to Meritorious when it was done.”
Valkyrie looked at him. “So we need to find out who else was in Lament’s group. How do we do that?”
Skulduggery put his hat on. “In order to find a man’s friends, who are the best people to ask?”
Valkyrie smiled. “His enemies.”
ammer Lane Gaol was, to all outside appearances, a small house on the border of Laois and Offaly that stood with its front door open. There were a few dead trees out front, and a garage in the back, and plenty of mud all around. And inside was one of the last men arrested by Tyren Lament.
The Bentley splashed through puddles on the uneven road and pulled up. They got out, and Skulduggery didn’t bother with his façade as an old man wandered over.
“Hi there,” the old man said. “Lost, are you?”
“You really think we’re lost?” Skulduggery asked. “You really think we’re civilians just passing through, one of whom happens to be a skeleton?”
“Oh, yeah,” said the old man. “Yeah, that kind of gives the whole game away, doesn’t it? Suppose you’re wanting to visit the prison, then.”
“I suppose we are.”
“Stay right here, I’ll put the call through. What’d you say your names were?”
“Skulduggery Pleasant and Valkyrie Cain.”
“Pleasant and Cain,” said the old man, nodding. “And you have an appointment?”
“Yes, we do.”
“Be right back.”
He shuffled off into the garage, and Valkyrie looked at the little house with its open door. It shimmered slightly, like it was caught in a heat haze.
“Why’s it doing that?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Skulduggery said. “It could be some kind of projection, or it could be an energy shield of some description.”
“It’s a little small and, I don’t know, accessible to be a prison, isn’t it? Unless it’s a prison for really tiny criminals who aren’t too bright and who don’t really want to escape.”
“Just the regular-sized criminals, I’m afraid. And the house would merely be the entrance – the prison is underground.”
Valkyrie sighed. “Everything is underground. I’m sick of things being underground. Sanctuaries are underground, gaols are underground...” She faltered.
“Wow,”
said Skulduggery. “Two things that are underground. That’s a pretty exhaustive list.”
“Shut up. All I’m saying is, it’d be nice if there were a base or a headquarters of something that had big windows and a nice view and maybe even a little sunshine every now and then.”
The old man wandered back. “The warden is ready for you,” he said. “You ever been to Hammer Lane before? The only tricky bit is getting through that front door there. The important thing is not to touch the sides as you walk through. For slender people such as yourselves, this should pose no particular problem. But for other people… ” He shook his head, like he was remembering a personal tragedy.
“What happens if we touch the sides?” Valkyrie asked, but he was already walking away. She looked at Skulduggery, and motioned to the open door. “Age before beauty.”
“So kind,” he said, and walked through. He looked back at her. “Well? Are you coming?”
Valkyrie hesitated. The doorway shimmered. She licked her lips, then turned sideways and inched forward into the house.
Skulduggery stood watching her. “What are you doing?”
“Being careful,” she said under her breath.
“You walk through doorways every day and manage not to bounce off one side or the other.”
“Stop distracting me.”
“You could walk in with your hands on your hips and you still wouldn’t touch the sides.”
She took a deep breath and took the last step as a hop, then gasped in relief.
“You puzzle me,” Skulduggery said.
It was a one-room house. There was a tattered armchair and a tattered rug and peeling wallpaper. Something beeped, and the floor started to descend.
“Cool,” Valkyrie whispered.
They left the peeling wallpaper above them and descended through a brightly lit steel shaft, picking up speed as they went. Just as Valkyrie was beginning to enjoy the experience, it was over, and a door slid open to reveal a man in a suit and tie and a smile.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Delafonte Mien, I’m the warden here. Can I get you folks some lemonade?”
Their tour through Hammer Lane Gaol took them through gleaming corridors and steel doors. The main body of the prison was a vast cylinder, at the base of which was the mess hall and social area. There were five levels of cells built into the walls, each one with a circular perimeter walkway that was bordered with a clear material that sounded like glass when Valkyrie knocked on it. They were standing on the Observation Deck, the sixth and highest level, allowing them to overlook the whole structure.
