by Emma Newman
He set off towards the Peonia’s residence when a flash of Lansdown Road appeared in his mind. The gargoyle was up high, watching a young man hurry up the hill carrying a large leather bag. It was rigid, flat-bottomed, and big enough to hold a baby temporarily. Max could see that it wasn’t tightly closed at the top and could only assume the baby was still alive. After a last glance at the singing woman he set off in pursuit. He had to get to that parasite, and make it clear to all of them that there was still someone watching over this city. Otherwise that stolen child would be only the first of many.
8
Sam raided the hotel minibar as some arsehole from the government talked on the news about how there wasn’t enough money to keep paying for all the beds in a hospital straight after a report about how they’d spent millions bombing people in some distant nation. He found the remote, flicked over to another channel with a programme about some superstar he’d never heard of looking for a wedding dress, and turned the TV off. Everything was fucked, and now he knew why. The most powerful people in the world didn’t give a shit about anything except money. And why was there no fucking lager in the fridge? He laughed at himself mirthlessly. As first-world problems went, that was pretty shitty.
There was a knock on the door. Assuming that Des had finished dinner and wanted to go through the diary with him, he went to the peephole and saw Mazzi on the other side of the door. He opened it and went back to the fridge without greeting her.
Mazzi entered, closed the door behind her, and put down her briefcase. “What the fuck was that?”
“I could ask you the same thing!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You let me stand there and look like some fucking nutjob.”
“You did that all by yourself, Sam.”
“Why didn’t you back me up? You know about the Fae. You talked to me about them! Why didn’t you support me?”
Mazzi shrugged off her black jacket, revealing a deep red silk blouse that rippled as she moved to the window. “Because I don’t know what I believe. Amir told me all sorts of stories, towards the end, and I…I don’t know what to think about it.”
“But Copper must have!” He watched her shake her head. “And you talked about the Sorcerers like you knew them!”
“I know some people commissioned some very particular pieces from Amir, that he called ‘sorcerers.’ He told me about iron and copper protecting people from the Fae, but I thought it was a metaphor!”
“Bullshit! You said it like it was true.”
She looked down into the street below. “You didn’t need any doubts, then. Amir had just killed himself and bled all over you! And then you started saying the same sort of things he mentioned to me and I…I don’t know. Maybe there is something more to it—”
“There is!” Sam yanked a bottle of wine from the minibar and looked for the bottle opener. “I’ve seen the Fae, I’ve crossed over to their world.” Her stare made him want to smash the bottle against the wall. “Christ! Don’t look at me like I’m some fucking lunatic. Why would I make shit like that up?”
“Fair point.”
Sam pulled the cork from the bottle. “Drink?”
Mazzi shook her head. “No. I have to go and meet a friend. Look, what you did down there was stupid. I’m not talking about the Fae part, I’m talking about the environmental stuff.”
Sam poured a large glass for himself. “I could have said a lot more. It’s important to me.”
“That’s the stupid part. They could see that.” She came over to him, stood close enough for him to smell her musky perfume. “These are the wrong people to make into enemies.”
He stepped away and took a large swig of the wine. “I’m pretty certain they’re the wrong sort of people to make into friends. Present company excluded.”
“Fine. I get it. You’re not one of us. Not yet.” Mazzi headed for the door after collecting her jacket and case, looking thoughtful. “What are you doing next Wednesday?”
“The diary knows, not me.”
“Clear the day. I’m going to help you.”
“To do what?”
“To understand what it is to be one of us. Amir thought he was doing the right thing by keeping you ignorant, but I don’t think it was. I’ll pick you up, okay? 10 a.m.”
Sam nodded and watched her go. Even after the glass was empty he didn’t feel any better. Was she telling the truth about Amir and what she knew about the Fae and the Sorcerers? Whatever game Mazzi was playing, it was clear that no one else in that room had known what he was talking about.
And she was right about him being stupid. Not because of what he’d said; because of what he hadn’t said. He’d had the opportunity to really drive home what those bastards were doing to the Earth and he’d let himself be intimidated out of it by some stern faces and privilege.
Sam’s phone rang and the number displayed made him smile. “Cathy! God, it’s good to hear from you.”
• • •
Max’s leg was throbbing with pain by the time he reached the street the gargoyle was waiting on. It was hiding in a bush across the road from the large Victorian villa it had tracked the Peonia to, taking care to keep out of sight.
The house was detached and set back from the road, surrounded by a high wall. It wasn’t an anchor property that Max recognised, so he walked round to the side, checked that no one was watching, and got out the Peeper to check the house was reflected into the Nether. The new version of the tool looked quite similar to Ekstrand’s: a small telescope in two sections that could be twisted. Rupert’s was made of some sort of Bakelite, rather than brass, and felt much lighter. Max pressed one end against the brick of the garden wall and twisted the casing until a tiny green light flashed on the side. The Sorcerer seemed to have a fondness for little green lights.
Max peered through the lenses, seeing the Nether beyond the wall. Satisfied, he pulled an Opener from his pocket and stuck the pin of the door handle into the brickwork. After one last check to make sure no innocents were nearby, along with a check from the gargoyle’s position too, Max turned it.
The outline of a doorway burned its way into a rectangle until a new door appeared and Max stepped through. The Nether’s silver sky was now above him and he glanced back into the green and blue of Mundanus before pulling the Opener out and letting the door close and disappear behind him.
He took a couple of steps towards the house, knowing from the gargoyle that the Peonia had gone in through the back door and was unlikely to be looking out of the windows. There was no sound of cars or birdsong any more, but the silence was broken before he reached the house.
A horse-drawn carriage was coming down the Nether street and pulled up outside the gates. Max carried on. If the visitor was unaware of the crime in progress they would be a distraction that could give the Peonia the chance to get the baby into Exilium. If the visitor was the one taking delivery, Max would be ready.
Max heard the gate open as he reached the front door. A footman was holding the gate open as the passenger got out of the carriage. Disinterested, Max tried the handle of the front door. Like most reflected properties in the Nether, it was unlocked, so Max carried on inside and let the door close behind him. He didn’t want to knock and alert the Peonia to his arrival.
A baby was crying in a room off to the right from the entrance hall. A maid rushed out of it, pale-faced, only to run into Max and scream.
“Is there a mirror in that room?” he asked as sounds of servants hurrying from other parts of the house battled with the baby’s crying.
The girl shook her head and then squealed as the door-knocker was employed behind them.
“Whatever is the—” A butler froze at the far end of the hall. “Get out of his way!” he hissed at the maid who shrank back against a wall to let Max pass.
He’d made it to the room that contained the baby before the door was opened. “It’s the Master of Ceremonies!” he heard the maid squeak before he went i
n. Surely Lavandula wasn’t involved in something like this?
The room contained a large dining table and chairs. The leather bag was open on top of the table and, judging by the sound, the baby was still inside. Oliver Peonia was standing next to it, looking inside with an assortment of expressions ranging from horror to despair.
“Marie, it smells dreadful,” he said without looking up. “Have you found something…”
He stopped when he saw that it wasn’t the maid.
“Oh…dear…” he muttered, stepping away from the bag as if that could somehow distance himself from the crime, too.
Voices in the hallway pulled his eyes from Max to the door. “I insist,” a male voice, rather effete, rose above the butler’s protestations. Max recognised the Master of Ceremonies before he saw him, having spied on his conversation with Ekstrand weeks before the Sorcerer died.
“Oh dear, dear me.” Oliver took out a handkerchief and tried to wipe away the sweat on his face before Lavandula entered in a burst of perfume, powder, and pale blue silk.
“Oliver, my dear boy, I do hope I’m not interrupting something? Ah! Maximilian, of the Bath Chapter, a delight to see you again my dear chap, it’s been an age.”
Oliver bowed deeply, his eyes flitting between the most powerful man in Aquae Sulis and the large leather bag. “I…perhaps this isn’t…I don’t wish to be rude, but…”
“I just happened to be passing when my driver spotted Maximilian heading towards the house. I say, shouldn’t someone be doing something with that child, wherever it is? It is rather noisy.”
“The maid is getting something for it,” Oliver stammered. “Perhaps we could retire to the drawing room to…” He trailed off as Max headed towards the bag and looked inside.
The smell was pungent and the baby was red in the face but otherwise unharmed. Max turned to Oliver.
“You’re in possession of an illegally acquired child, an innocent you kidnapped from Royal Victoria Park less than one hour ago. Oliver Mascula-Peonia, in accordance with the Split Worlds Treaty and with the sanction of the Sorcerer Guardian of the Kingdom of Wessex, I’m taking you into custody.” He thought it best to keep his arrest speech the same as it always had been. If he said anything different, they’d know something had happened to Ekstrand.
Oliver’s flushed face suddenly took on a greenish tinge and he slapped his hand over his mouth.
“Maximilian,” Lavandula began in a voice normally reserved for those with emotions to sway. “I’m sure there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. Oliver is a good boy and there must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. Isn’t that so, Oliver?”
Oliver nodded and belched into his hand, now very pale.
“I have ample evidence to present to his Patroon and will press for his expulsion from Nether Society,” Max said.
“Oliver is a close friend of the Duke of Londinium.”
“That makes no difference to his guilt.”
“And the Duchess of Londinium is my favourite niece,” Lavandula continued. “It would be rather uncomfortable for me to have to explain that I didn’t intervene.”
“You don’t have the right to intervene, or to interfere,” Max said. “The Peonia has violated the terms of the Treaty and will be punished accordingly.”
The Peonia darted over to a large vase in the corner and vomited into it. Lavandula slipped a lace handkerchief from an inside pocket of his jacket and held it over his nose. “Perhaps it would be better to discuss this somewhere quieter that doesn’t contain anything…recently expelled.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Max took two steps towards Oliver before the young man vomited again.
“Look at the boy. Does this suggest a cold, calculating individual, capable of kidnapping? Or does his reaction speak of someone who has been terribly manipulated?”
“Irrelevant.”
Lavandula touched his arm though Max had no idea why—the Master of Ceremonies would know that he was immune to Charms, thanks to his dislocated soul. “You said you’re here with the sanction of the Sorcerer Guardian of Wessex. Ekkie and I have been friends for a long time and I need to speak with you about him.”
The maid entered after a brief knock on the door, carrying a bowl of water and some towels. “I’ve come to change the baby’s nappy,” she said with a timid glance that flickered across the three of them. She settled upon looking to Lavandula for permission to continue, who nodded to her.
“Now, you’ll surely want to take a clean, quiet baby away with you, so why not step outside with me whilst it’s seen to?” Lavandula continued. “Oliver gives his word that he and the baby won’t go anywhere, don’t you, dear boy?”
“Yes,” Oliver croaked. “I give my word.”
The mention of Ekstrand was a potential problem, so Max acquiesced. He also wanted to determine whether Lavandula was the one who put Oliver up to stealing the child. If the Peonia was desperate enough to attempt escape the gargoyle would warn him.
The staff cleared the hallway as the door was opened and Max knew they’d all been listening in. Lavandula suspected the same and steered him towards a drawing room.
“You may not know this,” he said once they were in private once more. “I have no idea what he chooses to share with you—but Ekkie and I have had a special understanding for quite some time now. We usually take tea together twice a month, always on a Monday, and should we need to inform each other of anything out of the ordinary we write to each other.” Lavandula took a step closer and lowered his voice even further. “Ekkie didn’t keep our last appointment and the Way he created so that I may visit him discreetly has been closed for over a fortnight. I’ve sent three letters enquiring about his health and have received no reply. We have taken tea together for over two hundred years and he has never missed an appointment in all that time.”
Max considered potential responses. Telling Lavandula that the Sorcerer of Wessex was murdered would solve the problem of his curiosity, but would lead to too many new questions. He’d want to know who the replacement was and Rupert had made it very clear that he wanted to keep a low profile; otherwise, the Sorceress would probably come after him again. If Lavandula had any hint that things were in flux, without a reliable Bath Chapter, the innocents of Bath would be at terrible risk. Kidnappings would be just the start. If word got out that there was no one to hold them accountable to the Treaty, the parasites might even tell their patrons it was worth the risk to enter Mundanus via the Nether. Max, not the most imaginative of men, could only assume it would be chaos.
“Naturally I’m rather concerned about my sorcerous friend,” Lavandula continued. “If he is unwell I should dearly like to send a note, perhaps a gift—not that he would accept it, but the thought would be there. If he is going to be away for a prolonged period of time then we need to make alternative arrangements. I’m disappointed he didn’t feel the need to write to me before, if truth be told.”
Max didn’t want to be the one to make the policy decision on the fly. “I will pass on your message,” he said. It wasn’t a lie; he would just be passing the message on to another Sorcerer.
“I look forward to hearing from him soon. Now, regarding the Peonia boy. His family have fallen on hard times recently. Their standing in Aquae Sulis has suffered since the Rosa debacle, despite my nephew-in-law’s best efforts to protect them that night. Even though my sister publicly absolved them of guilt, they’ve been overlooked on many an invitation.” He leaned in close, conspiratorially holding the lace handkerchief to one side, as if they were standing together at the edge of a ballroom. “I understand the father has taken to drinking too much and the elder brother has washed his hands of them all. Doubtless Oliver acted out of desperation, perhaps hoping to elicit help directly from his patron if he brought her a gift.”
“The motive is irrelevant,” Max said. “He contravened the Treaty.”
“But minor contraventions happen all over Albion, and I’m sure that there ar
e a few that are overlooked in favour of maintaining good relationships in the long term. If Ekkie were here he would agree with me. The baby can be returned and no further harm need be done. I will personally ensure that Oliver doesn’t do anything in Mundanus that would contravene anything other than the laws of fashion and you can escape the bother of taking him to the Patroon—who is a terribly boring man—and be home in time for dinner. I’m sure you can appreciate that as the Master of Ceremonies I have a great capacity for discretion. Not a soul would know.”
“I don’t share your interpretation of the Treaty, Mr Angustifolia-Lavandula. Harm has already been done, and your discretion doesn’t change the fact that the Peonia has committed a crime.”
“But it makes no sense! If you won’t show mercy to the boy, then please, as a gesture of goodwill and in acknowledgement of the good relations between myself and Ekkie, won’t you allow me just a few minutes—in your presence—with the boy to uncover who pressured him into this act?” When Max didn’t immediately reply, Lavandula took a step closer. “Surely it is in your interests that I be informed about the villains in our midst? You won’t be able to convict them with only the Peonia boy’s word against them. Allow me to learn their identity so that I may be able to keep a close eye on their behaviour henceforth. I’m sure Ekkie would be so relieved to hear you and I are helping each other to keep the mundanes safe.”
Max suspected Lavandula had another agenda—probably more than one—but he was right; if someone else was using the Peonia, it would be hard to get enough evidence to present to the relevant Patroon without help. With Cathy living in Londinium, he no longer had an Aquae Sulis resident to help him.
“We’ll speak to him first,” Max agreed. “Together.”
Lavandula left with a smile on his face, used to being the man everyone else in the room followed, and went back to the one in which they’d left Oliver Peonia. The maid was holding the baby now, rocking it to sleep in a clean makeshift towel nappy. The original and the vase with its malodorous contents had both been removed from the room. The Peonia was sitting at the dining room table, head in his hands, a glass of water next to him. When he looked up to see Max and Lavandula coming back in, he stood, still deathly pale.
