Darkwells

by R. A Humphry

  Dinner and the evenings were elaborate affairs and Manu got used to dressing up in formal attire, even if it was just him and Henry. Expensive looking clothes had appeared in his room and they were tailored to fit.

  He asked Henry about it and he just shrugged. “Matron,” was his only remark, “she does what she pleases.”

  It was everything Manu had hoped for and more.

  #

  A few days before Christmas Watkins interrupted them in the Billiard room where Manu was enjoying a very rare spell of dominance. “Sorry Sir, but we have a visitor at the gate that wishes to speak to Lord Grenville.”

  Henry didn’t look up from his concentrated study of the table. “Tell him that Lord Grenville is not at home,” he replied as he picked up his cue.

  “Yes Sir, because that is true. He is asking after the late Lord Grenville,” Watkins replied, his face unreadable.

  Henry turned to him with interest. “Who is it?”

  “African gentleman, Sir. Came by foot from the station, his English is not great. He doesn’t look very able to stand much longer in the cold.”

  “Send the car,” Henry said. “Bring him to the drawing room.”

  Manu followed Henry as he strode into the library and started gathering up items. He watched, bemused, as Henry wrestled with a tall portrait and took it off its hook, setting it on the ground. Behind it was a long safe which Henry opened with a series of turns on the dial. From within he removed a battered looking staff with an ivory pommel and a pair of thin looking daggers.

  He turned and handed the daggers to Manu. “These were my father’s. They are old blades but should amplify your abilities.”

  “Henry, what…”

  “We don’t know who this is,” Henry said, running his hand down the worn staff with reverence, “it might be some vagabond who heard the name Grenville and is trying his luck,” Henry straightened, “or it could be the man who killed my father come to finish the job.”

  #

  The possible assassin didn’t look much of a threat. He was so emaciated that he was more bone and gristle than man. He was dressed in thin linen trousers and had no shoes. He was wearing a dirt crusted and threadbare woollen jumper and fingerless gloves. He was swaying as he stood and tried to bow as Henry entered the room which resulted in him almost toppling over. Watkins caught him and eased him into a chair, “easy, easy old fella,” Watkins said as he helped him down. The old man smiled gratefully at Watkins and then looked up at Henry and started to speak in a tribal language.

  Seeing the incomprehension on Henry’s face, Manu stepped in. “He is a Turkana, I think. He is saying a formal thank-you for your hospitality.”

  “You speak turkana?” Henry asked him incredulously.

  “Not much. My father dealt with them a little. I can try Swahili,” Manu suggested. Henry shrugged and nodded. Manu approached the old man and crouched down. “Samahani, Muzei. Unatoka wapi?”

  “Sorry Master Wardgrave,” Watkins cut in, “but let me take it from here. Your Swahili is terrible.”

  The two boys shared a look as Watkins interrogated the old man. A few minutes later and he reported back to them. “This is Mr Ewitan. He was a patrol leader for your grand-uncle during the emergency, back when the Grenvilles held large tracts of land in East Africa. He is asking for our help. He says that a year ago he was cursed by some evil men, and that he is now going to die. He says that the Grenvilles helped in the past. That they used to defend the land and the people from evil magic.”

  “Just a vagabond after all,” Henry said.

  “He said that your father helped the tribe. That your father had chased away the witch-doctors and made everything better. He walked here in the snow for over a day with no shoes.”

  “The man is clearly ill. He has just deluded himself into thinking he is cursed. Many of these ‘tribal magic’ cases are nothing more than psychosomatic,” Henry said.

  “Would that make any difference?” Manu asked. “What difference is there between the magic you do and the magic he believes in? If someone waves a stick over his head and he believes himself cursed, believes it to his marrow, and that belief makes him ill and he can’t eat and he dies, what difference is that to an actual curse? If he believes you have the power to help him and you don’t because you think it’s stupid, isn’t that a crime? What does it cost us? What harm can we do to humour him? To at least check?” Manu surprised himself with his passion. The sight of the old African had stirred repressed fears and emotions in him.

  Henry sighed and surrendered and Watkins left then returned with Henry’s basin and a jug of lake water. “We’ll true-sight him in the mirror,” Henry said, industriously working away. “That will show us that he is just… good god!” A face emerged in the mirror. It was of Ewitan, but fit and hale and looking at least fifteen years younger.

  “What is it?” Manu asked, peering at the image in the mirror.

  “It is how he should look, if he wasn’t shrouded by a horrific curse. Watkins! Watkins, we need to get this man off the grounds. This curse is bloody dangerous.”

  “Henry!” Manu was outraged. “You can’t be serious!”

  “I am deadly serious. This is the magical equivalent of Ebola and I won’t have it here.”

  “You must help this man,” Manu said slapping a table with his hand. “It is your duty.”

  “I can’t be held responsible for the actions of others.”

  “Yes you can. Your father did not shirk his responsibility. You have it in your power.”

  “Oh, and look what it got my father! Fantastic idea! Let’s ignore the lessons of the past. If I involve myself Manu, I make myself a target,” Henry turned on his heel and shuffled towards the door.

  “You will do this,” Manu repeated, his voice a whisker from a shout. “Or your future won’t require a key.”

  #

  They got the details out of the old man in a slow and deliberate manner. Henry pulled together the rest after some research in his mirror and a few phone calls. Ewitan had been a leader in the Turkana Diaspora living in England who were becoming vocal opponents of an oil drilling survey team that were roaming their territories in Africa and had bought large concessions in the area, forcing the tribes off the best grazing lands. They had made a big noise in protests outside Westminster and caused so much trouble that the company had been forced to sell its interest.

  “Which is where Lord Kilburn comes in,” Henry said.

  “Who is Lord Kilburn?”

  “The Baron of who-cares-where. It matters not. The point is that he is a profiteering shark. He could be a poster boy for where my kind went wrong. Rather than any sort of meaningful pursuit he went straight for the City. That is bad enough but to make it worse the man is a practitioner, if of modest talent.”

  Once Lord Kilburn took over, the Turkana protests dwindled sharply. The leaders all melted back into their sink estates and behind their shop-counters and the drilling went on with the survey team reporting that they had a couple of solid strikes.

  “So you think this Kilburn cast the curse?” Manu asked.

  “No, not him. This is far too powerful for his ability. My snooping about tells me that he has surrounded himself with a few new African friends. You know how it goes. The very people who should be resisting Kilburn tooth and nail decide that they quite like living high on the hog instead and driving German cars. It is not too much of a stretch to suggest that they are a quorum for a ritual, which is how they have managed this.”

  “So what do we do? Can you counter it?”

  “Absolutely not, unless I wanted to turn Hawksworth into a smoking crater.”

  “So what do we do, then?”

  “We need to get the totem. A ritual like this needs a physical focus, an anchor for the vast energy poured into it. If we can find it, I can disperse it. In theory.”

  “How are we going to find it?”

  “I already have, my old chum. It’s in Lord Kilburn’s mansi
on in Buckinghamshire, on the second floor, inside a safe.”

  “I am guessing that we can’t just walk in?”

  “No, I would guess not. But it doesn’t matter. He is having a Christmas Eve ball. I think I was even invited. We can get to it then,” Henry said with what Manu thought was a smug, self satisfied sort of expression.

  Manu gripped his shoulder anyway, glad to his very bones that Henry had decided to do the right thing, the hard thing. When Henry Grenville put his mind to something, there was very little chance of failure. “What’s the catch?” he asked.

  “I’ve got to convince Heather to come.”

  Chapter Twenty: The Ball

  Henry stumbled back through the portal like a drowned rat. He was cold and miserable and disheartened and his clothes were ruined. He didn’t mind so much about his shirt and jacket but he hated buying new trousers. New trousers and new shoes. Matron would be chasing him around with her measuring tape until January, which was bad enough, but when she did pin him down the measurements would be of his waistline now, which was sadly inflated with all his festive gluttony and laziness. They would not fit when he returned to his natural form and he hated trousers that didn’t fit.

  Manu placed the large dark figure of his Rook back on the chessboard. “Check,” he said, his brow still furrowed in thought. “How did it go?”

  “Not well,” Henry replied shaking himself like a dog and stepping out of the puddle he had created. Manu glanced up and made a questioning face when he saw what a state he was in. “Raining?” he asked.

  “Fell in the canal,” Henry grumbled, pulling the rope for the bell harder than he intended.

  “Ah,” Manu said, chuckling to himself. “So I take it she liked your plan?”

  “Not as well as I hoped. I think she may have been hysterical. Woman problems I suppose. She said something about trying to make her ‘an accessory to theft’ and kept whining about the fact that the ball is on Christmas Eve and then she kept going on about only giving her two days notice and that she had nothing to wear.”

  “Didn’t you give her Milly’s dress?” Manu asked.

  Henry sat down and flicked off his soaked shoes. “I did,” Henry replied, wringing out his socks, “hence my little accident in the canal.” Henry noticed what a strain Manu put himself under to stop from losing control of his mirth and added points to his mental tally to his character for the attempt. “Long and short of it is that it looks like it’s just you and me.”

  “At least it makes it simpler,” Manu offered as Watkins arrived and assessed the damage. “Simple seems to be the theme of our plan.”

  Watkins departed and moments later Matron and a couple of her maids swarmed over Henry relieving him of his sodden clothes and putting him into a bathrobe. It was not dignified. Henry glared at Manu, daring him to comment, and was gratified when he saw his friend politely ignore the commotion and concentrate instead on the board.

  “It’s a good plan,” Henry insisted once the busybodies were done with him.

  “Gate-crash an exclusive party at a secure mansion, mingle with billionaire adults without arousing suspicion, and steal an important artefact, then run away.”

  “You make it sound so amateurish,” Henry complained. “Knight to Queen four.”

  Manu moved the heavy stone piece and kept his concentration on the chessboard, plotting his next move. Henry puffed out his cheeks and made his way to his desk, where he had been studying a set of spells he thought he would need. The plan was simple, yes, but the situation was very complex. He was worried about the security at the mansion. He was also concerned about the quorum of witchdoctors and the not insignificant presence of Lord Kilburn, despite his modest talent in the art. No practitioner would leave powerful artefacts like that without at least a few magical defences. It might turn out to be quite the lively night.

  #

  “Don’t you think they might frisk me?” Manu asked him as Henry tucked his father’s Warden daggers into the back of Manu’s cummerbund.

  “You’ll be fine, trust me.” He straightened Manu’s bow tie. Henry looked him over and nodded to himself. Manu would do fine. With his broad shoulders and height he looked a good deal older when in tails with a hat on. He would pass for eighteen or older until anyone looked hard at him, which Henry hoped they wouldn’t. He glanced up at the clock, noted that it was almost time and picked up the battered old staff he had extracted from the safe when Ewitan had first arrived. It was risky, he knew, taking out such a valuable heirloom on a crazy adventure like this, but he would need every advantage he could get. Lastly he picked up his little flip-book revision binder and tucked it into his inside pocket. He had written out a host of spells he thought might come in useful and wanted easy access to them. Who knew what he might forget in a panic.

  “Alright Manu, it is about time to…” Henry trailed off as he was interrupted by the distinctive crack of someone appearing into the room via portal. He whirled and pointed his staff at the intruder – and then dropped it. It was Heather. It was Heather and she looked exquisite. She was wearing a strapless, floating dress that was the turquoise of a mountain stream. Her hair was curled and loose about one shoulder, accentuating the long line of her neck. A small silk bow wrapped around her tiny waist and trailed loose behind her. She looked beautiful beyond Henry’s wildest imagining. She also looked furious.

  “After the hours I have spent getting ready, the least you could say is ‘Hello’,” she huffed as she strode across the room.

  Manu, who was always so cool under pressure, leapt to his feet and offered a warm compliment about how pretty she looked, which annoyed Henry.

  “So,” Henry said clearing his voice, “you found a dress after all?”

  “A bit better than cousin Milly’s rags, isn’t it?”

  Henry could only nod, too stupid to say anything clever. “Where did you buy it?” he bumbled. “I can have you refunded,” he offered. This seemed to anger her further.

  “I made it you complete buffoon. God, the inbreeding problem in the aristocracy must be getting bad. I am a costume designer. This thing,” she said twirling her dress around, “cost me about twenty quid. It’s the cheapest rubbish you can imagine, but no-one will look too hard,” she said, beaming at the stunned Henry. “At least I hope not. So. When are you opening the portal?” she asked.

  Henry smiled, now it’s my turn. “Oh, I’m not going to do that. The quorum would sense it the moment I cast, and Kilburn will have warded the place against people dropping in. It is one of the first spells the Order teaches Adepts.” He watched as both Manu and Heather frowned.

  “But,” Heather began, biting her lip in thought, “we are on the other side of the country.” Right on cue, the noise started outside and his two friends rushed to the window.

  Henry sauntered up behind them. “That’s why I ordered the Helicopter.”

  “Henry! That’s outrageous!” Heather protested.

  “Oh rubbish. I’m the eccentric Lord Grenville; people expect me to do these sorts of things. Besides, there is no better way to gate crash a party than in a Helicopter. Trust me, we will walk straight in.”

  #

  Henry stopped his two companions in the ante-chamber before they made their way down to the helipad. “Look, this sort of event… it’s a bit obscene. To make us look convincing I need to give the two of you some accessories,” he said as Watkins emerged with several small black velvet-lined boxes. Henry reached into the first one and pulled out a sparkling necklace and matching set of earrings. Heather gasped. He smiled at her and handed them over.

  “Are they?”

  “Yes. No glass props to go with your costume this time I’m afraid.”

  “Henry, wow. These are… they are so beautiful.”

  “My mother never wore them; she said they didn’t suit her. But they will look perfect on you,” he tried not to stare too hard as she slipped the necklace on and started on the earrings. Tearing himself away he reached for ano
ther box and produced a gleaming watch which he gave to Manu. “It is a bit tacky, but these people expect it and will look for it,” he said as Manu nodded and slipped it on. Henry watched as he examined the A. Lange & Söhne label.

  “Never heard of it. Is it valuable?” Manu asked, trying to get used to the weight. Henry smirked. It amused him how natural Manu looked in all the trappings of wealth when compared to how ill at ease he obviously felt.

  “Yes,” Henry responded.

  “How much?”

  “It’s better you don’t know. These sorts of people… they care deeply about pathetic little status symbols like that but like to pretend that they don’t. The more relaxed about it you are, the more realistic it will seem.”

  “I’ll take that as ‘more than everything I own’, then,” Manu said, looking depressed.

  “One more thing before we go,” Henry said addressing the two of them. “And it shames me a little that I know this. When you are at the party, don’t drink the Bollinger. It is uncouth and we are not American rappers. Drink the Veuve Clicquot or the Perrier-Jouet. Otherwise they might think we are impostors.”

  #

  From the air the faux-castle mansion was even more vulgar than Henry had remembered during his investigations in the mirror. The party was in full swing. They could see long lines of flashy cars in canary yellow and blood red prancing down the driveway.

  Henry flicked on his microphone so the others could hear him over the head-sets. “So Manu, you’ve seen closing time on a Friday night outside the King Arthur. Now witness the same event amongst the privileged.”

  “I see less fighting and puking,” Heather observed as the helicopter started its descent.