‘What rewards?’ said Perth.
Hughie made a vague gesture. The silver rings on his arms made a pleasant little clinking sound. Perth, who knew how to estimate the value of a silver ring without even measuring it, felt a pleasant shiver run from his fingertips to his money-belt.
‘Anything ye like,’ said Hughie. ‘Gold, glam, your heart’s desire …’
‘My heart’s very demanding.’
‘And the Auld Man’s verra obliging,’ said Hughie. ‘As long as ye’re verra discreet.’
Once more Perth gave the matter some thought. Should he tell Maddy about this? Certainly she would want to know. But what did he really owe her? Clearly she too was after this prize that gave a man his heart’s desire – why else would she have sent him here without even telling him what it was?
He considered Maddy Smith. He liked the girl. He really did. But friendship, in his experience, was rarely a sound investment, whereas money in the hand … well, that was something he understood. And much as Perth regretted having to deceive a friend, the thought of obtaining his heart’s desire was enough to lull his conscience. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to get hurt, after all.
He summoned the rune Bjarkán again and looked through the penthouse window. Through the curtains he saw the four-post bed, a velvet coverlet, a plinth, the filaments of runelight that marked the occupant’s movements, and a ball of something blue that glowed …
‘Is that it?’
Hughie nodded. ‘Aye.’
And now he could almost hear it too: a faint, small voice at the back of his mind that whispered his name – Perth, Perth …
‘It talks!’ he said.
‘It does more than that. But first ye have to set it free.’
‘Set it free?’ Perth said. ‘Why? Is it a prisoner?’
‘Aye, friend,’ said Hughie. ‘A slave.’
For a moment Perth considered the job. It didn’t look too difficult. The obvious entry-point was the balcony; the greatest risk, the fifteen feet of open space between the target and the bed. The best time was during the small hours: the girl would be asleep, and he would make his escape across the roof. It all seemed quite straightforward; an easy little burglary. Of course, the climb wasn’t easy, and he would have to be very quiet …
‘Well?’ said Hughie. ‘Do ye have a plan?’
Perth smiled. ‘I always do.’
THAT NIGHT, UP in the penthouse, Maggie was forming plans of her own. She waited till Adam had fallen asleep, then she quietly slipped out of bed. The Old Man was dark on his shadowy plinth; she guessed that he too was sleeping.
Good, thought Maggie. Let him sleep. This time her quarry was elsewhere. And thanks to Odin’s ravens she knew just where to find them. On the road to World’s End, somewhere south of Rhydian, Lucky’s Pocket Pan-daemonium Circus was preparing its final performance.
She cast the rune Bjarkán – Dream – and let her consciousness slip away. This time she knew just what she was looking for; and her mind drifted easily into Dream, skimming its waters delicately, like a sea-bird hunting for fish.
It was so much easier now than before; Maggie almost surprised herself. The Rider of Carnage needs no Horse to dip into the world of Dream. All she needed was to know exactly how far the Firefolk had come; the rest of her needs could be summoned into being just as easily as the snake that had almost killed Loki on Red Horse Hill.
Ah. There.
There it was. The Pocket Pan-daemonium Circus, travelling down the World’s End road. Maggie moved in eagerly, taking in every detail.
So, she thought. This is my family. She almost smiled at the thought of it – the Queen of the Pigs, the Strong Man, the Wolf Boys, the Human Nightingale – as a child may smile at a character from a familiar story, well loved, well remembered … until she remembered why she was here.
A voice in her head spoke dryly. And why’s that, Maggie? it said. Think you can stop them? Is that it?
Maggie opened her eyes. ‘Who’s there?’
The Old Man, on his plinth in the dark, flickered with something like irony.
‘What are you saying?’ Maggie hissed. ‘That no one can stop the Firefolk?’
Oh, they can be stopped, said the Old Man. But that won’t stop Tribulation. The Rider of Carnage will ride, it says. It doesn’t say: ‘After the wedding the Rider of Carnage will hold a champagne reception, followed by country dancing and bridey cake.’
‘What?’ said Maggie, wholly confused.
It doesn’t matter, the Old Man said. What I mean is, we all have our part to play in this. Adam included, more’s the pity – though if you ask me, I don’t understand what you see in him anyway. A child of the Folk. That child of the Folk. That little, conniving, weaselling—
‘Stop it!’ she said. ‘Stop saying those things! I love him!’
The Old Man’s voice in her mind took on a terrible patience.
Maggie, you don’t love him. You don’t even know him. To start with, his name isn’t Goodwin. It’s Scattergood. Did he tell you that? Did he tell you that for the past three years he has sought to destroy your family? That he’d stop at nothing to see us laid low? That he doesn’t love you – and never did – and that this wedding was all his master’s idea?
Maggie was scornful. ‘How could my wedding be part of this?’
Not your wedding, the Old Man said. But the wedding gift …
And now, in her mind, Maggie saw another series of flickering images, like pictures in a scrapbook. Herself – a little older perhaps – her hair once more covered with a bergha. But not one of the white scarves worn by the maidens of World’s End. It was black – a widow’s scarf – and on her knee she was holding a child – a boy with the mark of the Firefolk.
For a moment Maggie could hardly breathe. ‘You can’t know that,’ she said. ‘Nobody could know that. I thought … but it’s too soon to be sure—’
The Old Man’s glow intensified. Don’t be foolish. You knew from the start. From the very moment you lay with him. You felt it. You knew because I knew. The child you bear – the fruit of the Oak – will determine the fate of the Æsir. His runemark – the gift – is the ultimate rune. The tenth rune of the New Script.
And now the Old Man recited the prophecy of the Seeress:
The Cradle fell an age ago, but Fire and Folk shall raise her
In just twelve days, at End of Worlds; a gift within the sepulchre.
But the key to the gate is a child of hate, a child of both and neither.
And nothing dreamed is ever lost, and nothing lost for ever.
‘Is that what this is all about?’ said Maggie, forgetting to lower her voice. ‘Are you suggesting that Adam knew this was going to happen? Perhaps you think he planned it this way, just to get hold of that ruinmark?’
The Old Man sighed. I don’t think. Remember, I’m an oracle. But whether your son will live to be a gift to the gods, or to their enemies – well, Maggie, that’s up to you.
For a long time Maggie stood silently next to the darkened stone Head. The runemark Ác at the nape of her neck flared like a patch of fever.
For a moment what the Old Man had said had almost made a kind of sense – the way that Adam had sought her out; the way his master had used her, first to recover the Red Horse and then to seek out the Old Man. And when she rebelled, it had played her, exploiting her new-found sympathies, threatening her new friend while Adam himself played on her loneliness, flattered and cajoled her, letting her think that he loved her …
But of course, the Old Man would say that.
Would he? But he can’t lie …
He wouldn’t have to lie, she thought. All he had to do was bend the truth to his purpose. This was Odin, after all – Odin the master manipulator. By predicting that the wedding would not take place, by playing on her fears and desires, by carefully feeding her scraps of the truth, taken out of context and from his own unique point of view, he’d hoped to erode her sympathies, to fill her with hope a
nd doubt and mistrust, and to finally swing her allegiance back towards the Æsir.
It all made perfect sense, she thought. The Old Man wanted her loyalty. He wanted her child – his great-grandson – to be a child of the Æsir. And his pride – his legendary pride – would not allow a child of the Folk to play any part in his dynasty. So Adam’s name wasn’t Goodwin? So what? A man can change his name, she thought, for any number of reasons. That didn’t make him a liar, or mean that he didn’t love her. He’d sworn to destroy the Æsir? So had Maggie herself, once. That didn’t make him dishonest, or throw any doubt upon their love. Quite the opposite, she thought. If, after all that, he could still love the child of his enemies, then didn’t that make Adam better than they were? Didn’t it make him more honourable?
And so she dismissed her dark thoughts, like a bad dream that seems real for a time, then fades away into nothingness. Love is not a candle that can be snuffed at the first breath of doubt, and Maggie was young and optimistic enough to believe that, if there had been deception, then it had come from the Whisperer, and not from her betrothed.
Separate Adam from his malignant passenger and everything could be started afresh. Adam, Maggie and their child: a perfect, unbroken circle of three. A family to replace what was lost; and now that she was going to be a mother, surely the wedding must go ahead—
Suddenly she heard a sound outside, on the balcony. Someone was trying – quietly – expertly – to open the bedroom windows.
Maggie summoned the rune Hagall, sharpened it to a point in her hand. She didn’t know who the intruder was, but he had come at a bad time. Maggie was a mother now. It didn’t matter that her child was barely a quickening. It didn’t matter that her son was the key to the fate of the Nine Worlds. Some fierce and primitive instinct had been awakened inside her.
She stepped into the shadows and waited.
IT WAS LONG after midnight when the lights in the penthouse finally dimmed. Someone was finding it hard to sleep, and Perth didn’t want to make his move before he was sure of being unobserved. It was cold up on the rooftop; even the leather tunic he wore was not enough to keep out the chill. Perth shivered; his fingers ached – he stuck them under his armpits.
So far the plan was straightforward enough. As soon as he was sure that Maggie and her young man were asleep, he would climb to the penthouse. Using a rope and crampon, he would swing himself onto the balcony; open the window in silence; creep over to the plinth; slip the Old Man into a satchel slung across his back; and make his escape the way he had come.
But as far as Perth was concerned, stealing the Old Man without getting caught was just the initial stage of it. The second, rather more dangerous part was getting away from Maddy; over the rooftops seemed the best bet, although Perth wasn’t sure how long he would have before she got impatient and realized the deception.
Finally the lights went out. He waited an hour longer. Then he climbed onto the balcony, opened the window (it was locked, but Perth had brought his tools) and stepped soundlessly into the room. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. Outside, the moon was full. A slow and regular breathing came from the vast canopied bed. He took a step towards the plinth, where he had seen the ball of blue light—
And stopped, frozen. A figure in white was standing beside the bed. A girl – cropped hair and big, dark eyes, holding a sliver of fire in her palm.
His first thought was astonishment at how like Maddy the girl was. He’d known they were sisters, of course, but even so, he found himself unprepared. But for the hair, which was cut very short, she was Maddy to the life: the same stubborn mouth, the same vivid face, the same look of fierce concentration …
She spun the fiery thing at Perth. Perth dropped; hit the floor. The weapon – some kind of mindbolt, he thought – went over his head and struck the wall. There was a crash and a flare of light; Perth sprang towards the plinth, forking Yr to protect himself. His hand was actually touching the thing that Maddy called the Old Man – and then something hit him in the back with dizzying, spectacular force, and he went down, seeing stars, onto the floor of the penthouse.
The Old Man fell with him, and narrowly missed crushing his skull as he hit the floor. As it was, it glanced off his shoulder and rolled to a halt beside him.
Perth swore and lashed out in pain; on his arm the runemark Perth lit an ominous rose-red. He saw the girl standing over him, one hand extended, holding the glam, the other clasped over her belly.
‘Put it down,’ said the girl.
Perth’s eyes flicked to the rune in her hand. It was Hagall, the Destroyer. No time to cast a protective glam; if she hit him, he was toast. Of course, that was true of the girl too: if she fired a mindbolt now she wouldn’t have time to protect herself. His glam might knock her down – but hers would probably pulverize him.
The thing was: did she know that?
He got up very slowly, still holding the rune in the palm of his hand. Perth and Hagall faced each other head to head, like hammers.
‘Drop the glammy,’ said the girl.
‘Why don’t you drop the glammy?’ said Perth.
‘Because this is Hagall, the Destroyer,’ she said. ‘If I decide to hit you with this, you’re going to have more than a headache.’
‘Well, this is Perth,’ retorted Perth, with rather more confidence than he felt. ‘Perth, the – er – the All Powerful. And if I hit you with that, then …’
Maggie looked sceptical. ‘Well?’ she said.
‘Well, it won’t be pretty,’ said Perth, edging towards the window.
Maggie’s eyes flickered. The hand at her belly moved protectively downwards.
‘You look a lot like your sister,’ said Perth.
‘Yes, I’ve been told that before,’ Maggie said. ‘Is she the one who sent you here?’
Perth nodded.
‘To kill me?’
‘No.’
She glanced at him through the rune Bjarkán. For a long time she said nothing. Bjarkán lit her face with a clear blue light; in her hand the rune Hagall shone with its lethal silvery glow. Finally she banished the runes and levelled her granite-gold gaze at Perth.
‘Go back to my sister,’ she said, ‘and tell her I’m not going to war. Tell her that when Tribulation comes, they’re going to be short of a Rider.’
‘You’re letting me go?’ Perth said.
Maggie nodded.
‘Just like that?’
She gave a rueful little smile. ‘Would you rather I knocked you about a bit first?’
‘Er, not particularly,’ said Perth.
‘Then just deliver the message,’ she said. ‘And if I ever see you again, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?’
It must be some kind of a trap, Perth thought. The girl must have known he was bluffing. With his shoulder still numb from the blow he’d received, he guessed there was one slam left in his glam, after which he was hers for the taking. And yet she had chosen to let him go …
‘Why?’ he said.
Maggie seemed about to reply. Then came a sound from the four-post bed. Maggie flinched. Perth summoned his glam. Adam had finally woken up.
‘What’s going on?’ he said.
Perth turned to run.
‘Maggie, stop him! He’s getting away!’
Perth’s foot struck against the Old Man’s head. Quickly he bent to scoop it up …
And at that, Adam grabbed the first thing that came to hand – which happened, ironically, to be a silver candlestick – and threw it as hard as he could at the intruder. It hit Perth on the side of the head. A glancing blow, but painful. He staggered; instinctively he discharged his mindbolt against the wall.
Runelight exploded onto the scene; through a haze of pain Perth recognized the fair young man from the marketplace. He flung another mindbolt – instinct taking over from fear – and a spray of red sparks like firecrackers scattered across the bedroom.
Adam shielded his face with his arm; Maggie cast Yr to protect the
m both; and, throwing the Old Man into the satchel that was slung around his shoulder, Perth closed his eyes and ran full-tilt at the little balcony.
He didn’t use the rope, but simply hurled himself into the night, arms wheeling, legs pumping; two hundred feet to the cobbles below and nothing but moonlight to cling to.
But Perth did not fall; a dozen feet down he caught hold of a loose piece of guttering, and, in spite of the pain in his shoulders and back, managed to haul himself up into a lead-lined gulley; from there onto a ridged roof, then down a slope, round a chimney-stack, and across the rooftops like a cat, the Old Man in the satchel bouncing against his hip as he ran, until at last he could run no more, and slid down a drainpipe into the back of an alley that ran alongside a drainage canal.
Here he stopped to catch his breath. That had been too close, he thought. If he’d known how the girl could throw her glam, he might have thought twice before breaking in. As it was, he’d been lucky, he told himself. He’d escaped with nothing but bruises; had managed to steal the Old Man and get clear of Maddy all at the same time.
He was feeling rather pleased with himself, and had almost decided to celebrate in one of the local taverns, when a voice at his back said: ‘Stop in the name of the Law!’ and a hand fell on his shoulder.
Perth froze. His glam was all gone; he had no strength to run or fight. He turned: two lawmen, with weighted sticks, were standing in the alley mouth. The third, with a hand on Perth’s shoulder, eyed the satchel suspiciously. Had they seen him on the roof? If so, he was in trouble. If not – and this seemed more likely – then maybe he could brazen it out. He tried for a smile.
‘Officers. How can I help?’
The lawman closest to him growled, ‘What’s in the bag?’
‘What? This?’ said Perth. He opened the satchel that hid the Old Man, taking care not to move too fast. Some lawmen had been known to be over-zealous with their nightsticks, and Perth had no intention of giving them the least excuse to use them. The Old Man in the satchel looked just like a lump of rock – a piece of volcanic glass, perhaps, or a block of cinder.
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