Daemons Are Forever sh-2

by Simon R. Green

  The Sarjeant-at-Arms was tall and broad, with muscles in places where you and I don’t even have places. And though he affected the stark black-and-white formal uniform of a Victorian butler, it never fooled anyone for a moment. The man was a thug and a bully and proud of it, and therefore perfectly suited to his job. He had that stiff-backed, steely-eyed military look that promises you blood, sweat, and tears in the future, and every bit of it yours. His impassive face always seemed as though it had been carved out of stone, but now it looked like someone had been at it with a chisel. The last time we went head-to-head, Molly hit him with a plague of rats, and now one side of his face was a mass of scars and his left ear was missing. I gave him a stern look.

  “I thought I told you to get your face fixed. The cosmetic sorcerers could put you right in an afternoon, and you know it.”

  “I like the scars,” the Sarjeant said calmly. “They add character. And they’re very good for intimidating people.”

  “What about the ear?”

  “Pardon?”

  I scowled at him. “Where the hell were you when we got ambushed by that mob?”

  “Right,” said Molly. “Taking it easy in your cubicle, were you, with the latest issue of Big and Busty and the door locked?”

  The Sarjeant ignored her, his cold gaze fixed on mine. “About time you got back, boy. Whole place has been going down the crapper since you left. Family discipline is falling apart, without the old certainties to keep them in line. They need you here, setting an example. Not gallivanting about back in the world, on personal business.”

  “You know, just once it would be nice to hear Welcome home when I come through the door,” I said wistfully. “So stop bugging me, Sarjeant, or I’ll have Molly turn you into a small steaming pile of something. You’re not telling me that angry mob just happened…They couldn’t have got near the front door without your cooperation.”

  “Wanted you to see how bad things had got,” the Sarjeant said calmly. “I’d have stepped in, if things started getting ugly.”

  “I only put up with you so you can keep the pests off my back,” I said flatly. “It’s bad enough I just got attacked outside my old flat by a whole bunch of MI5 goons, without being ambushed by my own family the moment I walk through the door. You let this happen again, and I will slam you against the nearest wall until your eyes change colour! Do I make myself clear?”

  Give the man his due; even though no one had dared to speak to him like that in decades, and even though he knew I meant every word of it, he didn’t flinch one bit.

  “I needed to see who would act, instead of just talk,” he said. “Now they’ve identified themselves as troublemakers, I can go after them, and there will be spankings. Don’t try to teach me my job, boy. You might run the family now, but I run the Hall. Now what was that about you being attacked by MI5? No one attacks us and gets away with it.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “They didn’t. But they knew exactly where and when to find me, which means someone in the family must have ratted me out to the prime minister. So make yourself useful and find out who.”

  His cold eyes brightened at the thought of authorised violence. “Any restrictions on my methods?”

  “I want answers, not bodies,” I said. “Otherwise, anything goes. Make them cry, make them talk. The family can’t afford to be divided right now.”

  “Hardcore, Eddie,” said Molly. “What’s next; loyalty oaths and public executions?”

  The Sarjeant-at-Arms inclined his head slightly to me. “Welcome home, sir. Welcome back to the family.”

  “Get my Inner Circle together,” I said. “And have them wait for me in the Sanctity. We have urgent new business to discuss. I’ll be along as soon as I can. I have to talk to the Matriarch first. How is she?”

  “Still in mourning,” said the Sarjeant.

  “Alistair isn’t dead,” I said.

  “Might as well be.”

  The Sarjeant bowed stiffly to me, ignored Molly, turned on his heel, and strode off into the labyrinthine depths of the Hall. He was never going to warm to me, and I wouldn’t have known what to do if he had.

  “You’re really getting into this leadership thing, aren’t you?” said Molly. “Barking orders and handing out beatings. I guess breeding will out. You’re every inch a Drood, Eddie.”

  I shrugged apologetically. “I swear I used to be so much calmer and easygoing, before I came back to the Hall. There’s just something about having to deal with my family that makes me want to spit and curse and throw things. Preferably explosives. But I have to be seen to be in charge, Molly; I have to be hard on the family and make it toe the new line, or they’ll turn on each other, and the family will devour itself. I’ve taken away everything they depended on; now it’s up to me to give them something else to live for. A new cause to follow.” I sighed tiredly. “I hate all this, Molly. Not least because I have a horrible suspicion I’m not up to the job. But I have to do it… because there’s no one else.”

  Molly put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I could always turn more people into things…”

  “Could you turn them into reasonable people?”

  “Be real, darling. I’m a witch, not a miracle worker.”

  We both managed a small smile. “I don’t like what I have to do,” I said. “I don’t like what I’m becoming. But I have to fight for every inch of progress. It’s not me; it’s them. My family could have Mother Teresa drinking straight from the bottle and calling for the return of hanging in a week. Look, I’ve got to go and see the Matriarch, and you can’t come with me. It’s going to be difficult enough for me to get in to see her. So, you pop along to the Sanctity and keep the others amused till I can get there.”

  “I see,” Molly said sweetly, and very dangerously. “I’m your court jester now, am I?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m still getting the hang of this being in a relationship thing. I meant, of course, take charge of things till I can get there. We are, after all, equal partners.”

  “Well,” said Molly. “I might settle for that. But only because I’m so fond of you.”

  I went striding through the long corridors and hallways, the great circular meeting places and wide airy chambers, heading for the Matriarch’s private rooms in the west wing. People stopped what they were doing to watch me pass, and I smiled at those who smiled at me, and glared at everyone else to make sure they kept their distance. I wasn’t in the mood to answer any more questions, particularly since I didn’t have a whole lot of answers. Centuries-old wood panelling gleamed on every side with a comfortable patina of age and beeswax, and paintings by famous names hung on every wall. Everywhere I looked there were statues and busts and ornaments of great worth and antiquity; the accumulated tribute of the Droods. Presented to us by the governments of the world because they were so grateful to us, and not at all because they were scared of us.

  The whole wing had that calm assurance that comes from seeing generation after generation pass through its rooms and corridors. That slightly smug calm that says I will be here long after you are gone. From earliest childhood it’s drilled into every Drood child that we are only here to serve the family in its never-ending fight against evil. Soldiers in a war that never ends. Our motto: Anything, for the family. And I believed it. We had a holy cause and a holy duty, and our foes were dark and terrible indeed. Even after all the lies I uncovered in the dark and secret heart of the family; I still believe. The Droods have to go on, because humanity couldn’t survive without us. I just had to get the family back to what it used to be; to what it was originally meant to be.

  The shamans of our tribe; standing between the people and the forces that threaten them. Fighting for them, dying for them. The protectors, not rulers, of humanity.

  The Matriarch had the very best quarters in the Hall, of course. A whole suite of rooms just for herself and her husband, on the top floor of the west wing. A whole suite, even though most of us had to make do with one room, and t
he youngest members lived in communal rooms and dormitories. In a place as crowded and packed to the seams as the Hall, the only real luxury is space. The Hall is big, but the family is even bigger.

  As the new leader of the family, I could have thrown the Matriarch out and taken the suite for myself and Molly, but I didn’t have the heart. Not after what I’d done to the Matriarch’s husband, Alistair.

  I could feel my heart beating faster as I approached the Matriarch’s door, and my breathing tightened in my chest. I’d only ever been here once before, back when I was just twelve years old. I’d been summoned by the Matriarch herself for a personal interview; an unheard-of thing. The Sarjeant-at-Arms took me there, a large hand ever ready to smack me around the head if I dawdled. I was half out of my mind with worry. What had I done wrong this time? All kinds of things came to mind, but nothing bad enough to warrant the Matriarch’s personal attention. The Sarjeant knocked on her door, opened it, and pushed me in. And there she was, Martha Drood, sitting bolt upright on a chair, fixing me with her unrelenting gaze.

  She had my latest schooling report in her hand, and she was very disappointed in me. Apparently it was full of comments like Must Try Harder, Could Do Better, and, most damning of all, Intelligent, but Lacks Discipline. Even at twelve, my character was pretty much set. The Matriarch scolded me in her coldest voice, while I stood sulking and stubborn before her. It wasn’t my fault if I asked questions the teachers couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer. I wouldn’t be told, you see. I’d do anything if I was asked, but I wouldn’t do a damned thing I was told if I couldn’t see a good reason for it. And a family built on duty and responsibility could never accept an attitude like that. They’d tried beating respect into me, and when that didn’t work, they sent word to the Matriarch, who now condemned me as lazy and uncooperative, and told me I’d come to a bad end.

  I think she was mostly angry because we were so closely related, and my failures reflected badly on her. More was expected of me, because of that. Even at twelve I was old enough to feel that was distinctly unfair, but I didn’t have the capacity to put it into words. So I just stood sullenly before her, and said nothing. Even when she tried to question me. In the end she threw me out, back to the tender mercies of the teachers and the Sarjeant-at-Arms. I think she was resentful at having to take time away from more important business, just to deal with me. I never was important to her, and then she wondered why she was never important to me.

  I stopped before the suite’s door, took a deep breath, pushed it open, and walked in without knocking. Start as you mean to go on, or they’ll walk all over you. The luxuriously furnished antechamber was full of people, all of them suddenly silent and staring at me with cold and unfriendly faces. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who wanted to see the Matriarch, now that she’d retreated into seclusion to nurse her injured Alistair. No one in the antechamber looked at all pleased to see me, but I was getting used to that. I just scowled right back at them and strode forward like I intended to trample underfoot anyone who didn’t get out of the way fast enough. Usually that works, but this time no one budged an inch. They just stood their ground, blocking the way between me and the door to the Matriarch’s bedroom, on the other side of the antechamber. Openly defying me to get past them. Some were her friends, some were her allies; most were just determined to deny me anything they could. They’d all been people of power and position, before I overturned the applecart. I stopped. It was either that or resort to throwing punches and head-butting, and I wasn’t quite ready to do that yet. Not just yet.

  “Well, look who’s here,” I said. “All the paid-up members of the Let’s Turn the Clock Back and Pretend Nothing’s Happened Society. It’s times like this that make we wonder if we haven’t been getting a little too slack over the rules governing inbreeding. Hands in the air, anyone who can count to eleven on their toes.”

  A woman of a certain age stepped forward to confront me. I didn’t know her, but I recognised the type.

  “How dare you?” she said, loudly. “After everything you’ve done to the family, and to Martha and Alistair…How dare you show your face here?”

  “That’s right, dear. You tell him,” said a man just behind her. Had to be the husband. He had that well-trained look. “Have you no shame, Edwin?”

  “Sorry, no,” I said. “I’m right out. I’ll have to send down to the shops for some more. Now get the hell out of my way or…”

  “Or what?” snapped the woman, folding her arms across her impressive chest. “You can’t bully us.”

  “Actually, I think you’ll find I can,” I said. “Remember, I have a torc and you don’t. But what I was going to say was: Get out of my way or I’ll call the Sarjeant-at-Arms to come in here, to take names, and kick heads in.”

  It was a bluff, but they didn’t know that. They all looked at the door behind me, as though expecting the Sarjeant to come crashing through at any moment, and you could just see the defiance leaking out of them.

  “Well!” said the woman of a certain age, but her heart wasn’t in it. Her husband was already hiding behind her. I strode forward, and the crowd parted before me like the Red Sea. I kept my back straight, my head up, and my gaze straight ahead. When you’re walking through a pack of dangerous animals you can’t show weakness for a moment, or they’ll go for your throat. I opened the door to the bedroom, stepped through, and closed the door quietly but firmly behind me.

  I sighed inwardly. It bothered me that they didn’t respect me the way they respected the Sarjeant-at-Arms. I was going to have to work on that.

  The Matriarch’s bedroom was surprisingly intimate and cheerful, for all its size. Comfortable furnishings, lots of light from the big window, flowers everywhere. Cards and messages of support stood propped up on every surface. There was a handful of people in the bedroom, there to give comfort and pay their respects. They hadn’t expected to see me, but none of them said anything. They looked to Martha for their lead, but she didn’t even acknowledge my presence.

  Alistair was sitting propped up by pillows in the great four-poster bed. He didn’t look good. Even now, weeks after what had happened, he was still swathed in bandages like a mummy. He had the blankets pulled up to his chest as though he were cold, though a blazing fire had the room hot as a sauna. The bandages I could see were spotted with blood and other fluids seeping through. His right arm was gone. The surgeons couldn’t save it, so they amputated it all the way back to the shoulder. His whole face was wrapped in gauze, with dark holes left for his eyes and mouth. I couldn’t see his eyes or his mouth.

  That’s what you get, for messing about with Hellfire. He should never have tried to use the Salem Special. That weapon never did anyone any good. And I might have been more sympathetic to his condition if I hadn’t known that this was what he’d intended to do to my Molly.

  Martha sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband, feeding Alistair soup from a bowl, one spoonful at a time. As though he was a child. I could remember her doing that for me, once, when I was very small and the doctors thought the fever was going to carry me off. She sat with me day and night, and fed me soup, and I survived. Maybe Alistair would be lucky too. Martha was dressed all in black, as though in mourning. Normally she was tall, proud, aristocratic, and intimidatingly composed. Now she seemed somehow…smaller, as though something important had broken inside her. I didn’t like to see her look that way. Her long gray hair, that she usually wore piled up on top of her head, was now allowed to fall just anywhere, hiding most of her face. But her hand was steady as she fed Alistair his soup, and the back she showed me so firmly was almost painfully straight.

  I had to talk to her, but I wasn’t ready yet. So I looked at the other people in the room. I recognised some of them as acknowledged or supposed supporters of the Zero Tolerance faction. Hardly surprising they’d be here. The only chance they had of regaining influence, if not control, over the family lay in persuading the Matriarch to endorse their cause. I nodded calmly to a few fa
miliar faces, and then stopped abruptly at one very familiar face.

  “Penny?” I said.

  “Eddie,” she said, in a calm, cool, and entirely neutral voice.

  “Good to see you again, Penny.”

  “Wish I could say the same, Eddie.”

  Which was par for the course. Penny had been my official contact in the family while I was still an agent in the field. I reported back to her after every mission, and she passed on any instructions or information the family thought I might need. I always liked Penny. She never let me get away with anything. Penny Drood was a tall cool blonde, in a tight white sweater over slim gray slacks. Cool blue eyes, pale pink lips, Penny was sweet and smart and sexy, and sophisticated as a very dry martini. She was about my age, but I didn’t remember her from my school days. There were a lot of us.

  Even after ten years as my contact, I couldn’t tell you whether she liked me or not. Penny never shared that kind of information with anyone.

  “All right, people!” I said loudly. “Nice of you to look in, but, gosh, look at the time, you must be going. Visiting hours are over until I’m through here. Hopefully you’re more intelligent than the crowd outside, so we can dispense with the usual threats and menaces…Good, good. Head for the door, single file, no pushing or shoving or there’ll be tears before bedtime.”