From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel

by Simon R. Green

  “I am starting to follow this,” I said. “But I really don’t think I like where it’s going.”

  “He let us down,” said Marcus. “He let us all down. So I tried to take the Eye back, for myself. Who had a better right? But he stopped me, kept the Eye for himself, and had them throw me out. Out into the cold.” He shuddered suddenly, and wrapped his arms around himself, as though to hold himself together. “But I fixed him. I fixed him . . . oh yes! I got the word out. On the one way the Eye could be taken from him, after he’d fused it to his chest. He thought he was untouchable, but I knew better!” He giggled suddenly—a high, nervous, disturbing sound. “I had my revenge! On him, and his whole precious Department! The life he built without me . . . That should have been mine. I wish I could have been here to see it when they came for him. When they all came crashing in, and it all came crashing down.” He glared at me suddenly. “He did die, didn’t he? Tell me the Regent died! I need to hear you say it. Tell me I didn’t make all of this happen for nothing . . .”

  “You’re responsible for all this destruction?” I said.

  He shrugged quickly. “I got the word out. To the Drood they don’t like to talk about. And he did what I couldn’t.”

  “Hundreds of good men and women died here!” I said.

  He shrugged again. “If you can’t hurt the one you hate, hurt the ones you can reach. Did he die with the others? Did the Regent die? Talk to me! I need to know!”

  “The Regent was my grandfather,” I said. “I found his dead body, right here in this office. He was a great man!”

  “To you, maybe.” Marcus was breathing hard now, his eyes wild. “But then, you’re just as bad as he was. Eddie Drood . . . I’ve read your file. All the lives you destroyed to get your own way. To serve your nasty little family. And you dare look down your nose at me? He probably gave you all the breaks I never had. The breaks that should have been mine!”

  “Why?” said Molly. “Why should the Regent have given you all these breaks?”

  “Because he was my grandfather too!” shouted Marcus, his face crimson. “Oh yes! The Grey Fox wasn’t the only one who left a trail of bastards behind him. I . . . am a bastard’s bastard. Never good enough for a torc, only a quarter Drood . . . And never good enough for dear old Grandpa. But I showed him . . .”

  “You’re really claiming you’re responsible for the Regent’s death?” said Molly. “For everything that happened here? Why would you say that when you must know people will be lining up to kill you for it?”

  “Because I want the world to know! I want them to know what he was really like, to his own grandson! I’m not afraid of anyone. I’m not afraid of you! Screw you! I fixed him, and I’ll fix you too! I didn’t just find Kayleigh’s Eye; I went back and found another Eye!” He ripped open his shirt, to reveal a glowing gem fused to his bare chest. “See? You can’t touch me!”

  Molly looked at the gem thoughtfully, then snapped her fingers loudly. The gem stopped glowing, and fell away from Marcus’ chest. It hit the floor with a dull thud.

  “Fake,” she said. “Not even a little bit convincing.”

  Marcus stumbled back a step, snarling and clawing at his chest. His eyes were wide and unblinking.

  “How did you get in here?” I said. “Past the policemen on duty?”

  “I have my ways!” said Marcus. “Special ways! Secret ways! You can’t stop me!”

  Molly ignored him, looking at me. “What are we going to do with him? Slap him down, drag him out of here, and hand him over to the authorities?”

  “I suppose so,” I said. “Even if he really did do everything he claims, he’s just too pathetic for anything else.”

  “I am not pathetic!” shouted Marcus, actually stamping one foot in his rage. “I am a Shadow! And I came here armed!”

  His right hand came forward, suddenly full of a heavy, glowing blade. It burned with a sick yellow flame. He swept the blade back and forth before him, grinning widely as it left crackling trails of unnatural energy on the air behind it. He laughed breathily.

  “This is the Devil’s Dagger! I found it! It can cut through anything, penetrate any defence. Even your amazing armour, Drood. I was going to use it on the Regent if he had survived . . . but you’ll do. Or your bitch!”

  He lunged forward, the glowing blade aimed right at Molly’s heart. I armoured up and put myself between him and Molly. And as the glowing blade shot forward, I punched my armoured fist through his chest, and out his back. He stopped dead, looked down, and made a small sound. And then all the light went out of his eyes, and he just hung there, dead, transfixed on my golden arm. I pulled it back, and he fell limply to the floor. Blood dripped thickly from my fist. The Devil’s Dagger was still in his hand, but it wasn’t glowing any longer. It didn’t look like much. Molly leaned over for a quick look.

  “Another fake,” she said. “No real threat, after all. Don’t feel bad, Eddie. You did what he wanted. He wanted to die.”

  “I know,” I said.

  * * *

  I looked at the Armourer, sitting opposite me. “And that is why I’m so determined never to kill again, Uncle Jack. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter what he might or might not have been responsible for. I wanted to kill him. I was looking for some excuse to kill the man who killed the Regent of Shadows before I even had the chance to get to know my grandfather properly. I killed Marcus Turner because I could. Because I wanted to. And I don’t think . . . I should be able to do that.”

  “Eddie . . .”

  “How’s Maggie settling in as the new Matriarch?” I said. Because although I was ready to talk to the Armourer about what I’d done, I wasn’t ready to hear him talk about it. He saw the look in my eyes, and went along with the change in subject.

  “She’s doing surprisingly well. I suppose bullying all those gardeners for years was actually special training for running the family. She’s showing a real aptitude for getting people to work together. Something about the position always seems to sober the person who assumes it. Much like your grandmother, Eddie. I’m told she was quite the bright young thing in her day. Always dancing and drinking and laughing . . . Yes, I know. Hard to imagine, isn’t it? The position, its duties and responsibilities, does take its toll.”

  “Being a Drood takes its toll,” I said.

  “Yes. It does,” said the Armourer. “But I still wouldn’t swap it for anything. No one else gets to lead the kind of life we do.”

  “Which is sometimes good, and sometimes bad,” I said.

  “But always glorious,” said the Armourer.

  We shared a smile.

  “Maxwell and Victoria, Uncle Jack?” I said. “Really? They’re your best bet for replacing you as Armourer?”

  “They both have first-class minds,” the Armourer said firmly. “Underneath . . . And they’re certainly a lot better at organising this place than I ever was. Look around you! We haven’t had a major fire or an unfortunate transformation in weeks . . . And at least they’ve got each other. That’s important. They won’t end up married to the place, and the job. Like I did.”

  “You’ve had a life, outside the Armoury,” I said. “Even though you weren’t supposed to. I know all about your little trips to the Nightside and what you got up to there.”

  “No, you don’t,” said the Armourer. “Or you wouldn’t be talking about it so casually. But, yes, I did get around . . . for all the good it did me.”

  He looked away from me, and his gaze fell upon a piece of discarded tech, lying on his work-bench. He scowled fiercely at it.

  “There! You see? Look at that! That’s what I’m talking about! Do you know what that is? Neither do I . . . I know I put the damned thing there, but I don’t have a single clue as to what it is or what it’s for. I must have known what it was when I put it there to work on, but now . . . I can’t remember. There’s so much I don’t
remember these days . . . And I just can’t seem to give a damn any longer. When the family Armourer doesn’t care, Eddie, it is definitely time to find a new Armourer.”

  “You’ve got years in you yet, Uncle Jack,” I said.

  “Perhaps. But not as Armourer. I’ve stretched myself too thin, boy, gone on too long. Extended my working life through questionable choices . . . There’s always a price to be paid for such decisions. And the longer you put off paying it . . .”

  I decided to change the subject again. If only because the Armourer looked seriously close to feeling sorry for himself.

  “There’s something important we need to talk about, Uncle Jack.”

  “Oh dear,” said the Armourer, fixing me with a steady gaze from under his bushy white eyebrows. “That sounds serious. Did I forget your birthday again? I’m sorry, but I’m not good with birthdays. I don’t even remember my own. Of course, at my age you don’t celebrate birthdays—you survive them.”

  I waited patiently for him to run down, and then pressed on. “This isn’t about me. It’s about Molly, and her parents, and what happened to them. We need to talk about what you know, Uncle Jack. About the family’s really secret agents. The ones who take on the kinds of missions the family can’t officially acknowledge. Because we might be ashamed of them.”

  “Sometimes that kind of thing can be necessary,” the Armourer said steadily. “I learned that the hard way, during the Cold War. You have to be prepared to make the hard, necessary choices. You do the things your enemy can’t or won’t do. It’s the only way you can stay ahead of them, and maintain the upper hand. And then, afterwards, you live with it. We’ve all made all kinds of sacrifices for the family. And the very secret agents . . . are a necessary evil. Your uncle James used to run them. After he died, I inherited them. They trusted me, inasmuch as they trust anyone. I only know what they want me to know. They pretty much run themselves, following basic policy set down . . . long ago. So the rest of us don’t have to know what they do in our name.”

  “Not even the Matriarch?”

  “Especially not the Matriarch. She can’t know what they do. She can’t ever know. So that if necessary, she can plausibly deny it. These agents are . . . a family within the family. I don’t even know how many of them there are. I’m just the contact point. They only put up with me because I supply them with what they need.”

  “The point is,” I said, “would they know about the Regent’s execution of Molly’s parents? Would they have been the ones who gave the Regent his orders?”

  The Armourer considered this for a long moment, and then shrugged tiredly.

  “You know as well as I do, Eddie . . . this family has secrets like a dog has fleas. Nothing personal, Scraps. Scraps? Where has that dog got to? I’ll see what I can do, Eddie. Ask a few questions . . .”

  “You don’t know anything yourself?”

  The Armourer glared at me. “Don’t you think I would have made it my business to know who made my father a murderer? I never knew anything about it—until you came back from Trammell Island and told me.”

  “You could ask them!”

  “It’s not as simple as that! There are departments within departments, and people who don’t even talk to themselves about what they know. All I can do is see if some of them will talk to me.”

  “If what they do is so shameful,” I said, “we shouldn’t be doing it. The last great secret I uncovered, about how the Heart made our old armour, almost destroyed the family.”

  “Exactly,” said the Armourer. “I’m not sure we could survive another upset like that. Some things have to stay secret. Because some things that may be necessary can never be forgiven.”

  I waited, but he had nothing more to say. In the end, I just nodded and got ready to go.

  “Take the Bentley,” he said suddenly. “You always loved that old car. She’s yours.”

  “What?” I said. “You mean your Bentley? That classic old car?”

  “I never get the chance to take her out these days,” said the Armourer. “And she should be out in the world. She wasn’t made to sit around in a garage. She needs to be enjoyed, appreciated . . . But mind you, take good care of her! And then she’ll take good care of you.”

  “Well,” I said, “she’s got to be easier on the nerves than the Scarlet Lady. You know, the car the Regent gave me?”

  “Oh yes,” said the Armourer, “I know all about the Scarlet Lady. Including a few things she doesn’t know I know. You wouldn’t get me behind her wheel on a bet.”

  “Where did the Regent get her, anyway?”

  “Not sure anyone really knows. Way I heard it, she just turned up at Uncanny one day, they took her in and gave her a saucer of milk, and then found they couldn’t get rid of her.”

  “They adopted her?”

  “More like she adopted them.” The Armourer sat up straight suddenly, and glared at the piece of tech on his work-bench. “Yes! I remember now! Just a few touches, a bit of fine-tuning, and you’ll be ready to rock! Off you go, boy; I’ve got work to be getting on with . . .”

  I nodded good-bye and made to leave. Without looking up from what he was doing with the piece of tech, the Armourer raised his voice.

  “Remember, Eddie. Anything for the family. Because the family goes on, when we can’t.”

  * * *

  I was heading for the exit when Maxwell and Victoria emerged from a side aisle to intercept me. They both still seemed impossibly young, but something in the way they looked and the way they held themselves now put years on them. We moved quietly to one side, out of the Armourer’s line of sight, so we could talk together. Max was tall and dark and handsome, Vikki was tall and blonde and beautiful. Their lab coats were a pristine white. They looked like they should be starring in a Harlequin Romance. They nodded and smiled to me, diffidently. They hadn’t assumed the authority of the Armourer yet.

  “I gather he’s told you,” said Maxwell. “We’re going to be the Armourer.”

  “Both of us!” said Victoria. “We’re awfully proud, of course.”

  “Equals, working together,” said Maxwell. “Though Vikki’s the real genius, truth be told.”

  “Oh hush, Max! You’re putting yourself down again, and I won’t have it.”

  I couldn’t help noticing they were holding hands. Though they did seem unusually solemn, for them.

  “How did your uncle Jack seem to you?” Maxwell said carefully.

  “Did he . . . make sense?” said Victoria. “Most of the time?”

  “Why shouldn’t he?” I said.

  They looked unhappily at each other.

  “Well,” said Maxwell, “he isn’t always himself these days.”

  “He has good days, and bad days,” said Victoria. “Sometimes on the same day.”

  “How long has this been going on?” I said.

  “Oh, not long!” said Victoria. “It was all very sudden, wasn’t it, Max?”

  “Very sudden,” said Maxwell. “It was like . . . the last of his strength just ran out. And he’s been running on fumes ever since.”

  “Look after him,” I said.

  “Of course, of course!” said Maxwell.

  “As much as he’ll let us,” said Victoria.

  “There must be something you can do for him!” I said, more loudly than I’d intended.

  “If there was anything to do, we’d already be doing it,” Maxwell said steadily. “But there’s a limit to how often you can patch something . . .”

  “Your uncle has already done an awful lot to himself,” said Victoria.

  “And since he won’t talk about that, we can’t help,” said Maxwell. “If there was anything left to do, I think he’d already have done it.”

  “And in the end,” said Victoria, “we’re Armourers, not miracle-workers.”

  “When di
d all this start?” I said. “The . . . deterioration? He seemed fine just a few months ago!”

  Maxwell and Victoria looked at each other again, choosing their words carefully.

  “We’re pretty sure he’s been hiding it for a while now,” said Maxwell.

  “But he’s been having off days for some time,” said Victoria.

  “You just weren’t here to see them,” said Maxwell. “That’s why he asked us in. To carry some of the weight for him. His condition has deteriorated surprisingly quickly.”

  “It’s worse when he gets confused,” said Victoria, “and doesn’t realise how bad he’s got.”

  “He forgets who the Matriarch is,” said Maxwell. “Or he’ll ask for a lab assistant who hasn’t worked down here in years.”

  “Just the other day,” Victoria said quietly, “he asked for your uncle James . . .”

  “It’s always sad when the mind goes first,” said Maxwell. “When the man outlives the legend . . . And he is quite a lot older than he appears.”

  “He should have retired long ago,” said Victoria. “But he did things to himself so he could keep going. Out of a sense of duty.”

  “If he could be persuaded to retire . . . ,” I said, “do you think he might improve?”

  Maxwell and Victoria didn’t need to look at each other. They both looked at me with kind but implacable eyes.

  “Without knowing what he’s done to himself,” said Maxwell, “we can’t know how fast he’ll run down.”

  “But he can’t have long,” said Victoria. “I think he’s happier here. Keeping himself busy.”