by Mike Shevdon
Still, I resented the intrusion.
I placed all my belongings back inside my bag and used a warding to seal the zip, so that it would jam if anyone tried to open it. I left it in plain sight on the bed. The warding was simple but effective. Now if she wanted to look inside it she would have to risk damaging the zip trying to wrench it open. I didn't think her nosiness extended to damaging her guests' luggage. If anyone seriously wanted to look inside they could slit the bag, in which case they would find the clothing and other personal items, but the damage would be obvious. I didn't think anyone would steal my change of clothes.
I would take the sword with me, partly to prevent it being discovered and partly because Garvin would expect me to. His words echoed in my head. "The Warders come armed, Dogstar. Always." I felt momentarily guilty about having left the weapon in the church earlier. No one knew and there was no harm done, but somehow Garvin's disappointment didn't need a witness.
Walking around with a sword, though, wasn't exactly in the spirit of the discretion he had advised. Of course, I could turn all eyes away from me so that no one would notice me or the sword, but that would mean no one would see me, not even anyone whose attention I wanted. What I needed was a way to carry the sword without anyone noticing it.
As long as it was with me I could use my glamour to make it appear to be whatever I wanted: a violin case, a pool cue, a baseball bat. Things that were the same size and shape would be easier, but I could make it appear as anything. None of that would blend in easily for a journalist, though, and the idea was not to raise suspicion.
I settled on an umbrella. The day might be fine, but this was England and even at midsummer the weather could change radically at any time. An umbrella was about the right size and would not cause comment. It also meant I could carry it rather than having it swinging from my hip. I could even shelter under it, if it rained.
Blackbird had done her best to explain that while glamour could not change the nature of a thing, it affected more than the appearance. She had changed a beaker of water into brandy and invited me to drink it. It smelled and tasted like brandy and I had felt the burn in my throat as I swallowed it. The alcohol found its way into my bloodstream and I could feel it warming my blood. Within moments, though, the effect was gone.
"As long as it's brandy, it's the same, but as your body absorbs it, it loses its form and returns to being water again. Your body absorbs the water and you become sober."
Holding the sword, I focused my power until I held a long black umbrella. Was it an umbrella or a sword? Did it matter as long as I stayed dry? I shook my head, still not understanding the difference.
I locked the door behind me and went to find the landlady to ask for a front door key, explaining that I didn't know what time I would be back. She wished me a good day and I left, climbing the long hill from the harbour to the backstreets where the gardens blended back into the hillside. I wrapped myself in misdirection, using my glamour to turn curious eyes away and allowing me to leave the town unnoticed. I found the Way-point and consulted my codex.
From here there was only one place I could go: the step out to the churchyard where the monolith stood among the gravestones would take me in the right direction and after that I would have to turn south. The codex showed a little sketch of the monolith with the church behind it, making me wonder who had drawn it. I followed the references through the codex until I had a plan of how to reach Hull. It was a circuitous route, but there didn't seem to be a better way and it was only four short hops.
I stepped on to the node and felt beneath me for the Way. In a second, I was somewhere else. The churchyard was silent and empty, the rising sun striping the shadow of the standing stone across the graves like an ancient sundial. I felt down into the rock below me and found the branch in the node, leading away in the direction I wanted. The next node found me unexpectedly in a room full of people. There were brooms sweeping and sounds of banging. My arrival swirled dust up into people's eyes, my misdirection turning them away as I barely registered the clamour, stepping again, using my momentum to skip across the node, heading in vaguely the same direction.
I arrived in pitch darkness and stayed quiet in case there were anyone in the dark with me. I listened for a few moments but the only breathing I could hear was my own. I cursed myself for leaving behind the torch I had been given. Garvin's words about preparation echoed in my head. Then a memory surfaced: I had once seen Raffmir conjure a cold light like foxfire from thin air, but after several unsuccessful tries I vvvvvcame to the conclusion that there must be a trick to it. The room stayed resolutely black.
I called the only light I knew how to make. Gallowfyre spilled out of me, rippling and shifting around me like moonlight through treetops. This was the gift of the wraithkin, a dappled light that illuminated only dimly but would allow me to absorb the life essence of other beings, which was its true purpose. Using it as illumination was like using a finely crafted sword to chop wood. It confirmed that I was alone, though. This was underground, as many of the Way-points were. Blackbird had told me that they were often found closer to the earth. The space was arrayed in long arched compartments, like a wine cellar, each identical to the next. Walking around, I saw no remnant of occupation and no sign of wine. Whoever used this space had cleared it bare. Something about the arrangement felt claustrophobic, even though it was empty.
I pulled out my codex but the shifting light was tricky to read by. Following the links, I found the description of the cellar and was relieved to discover I was in the right place. The next step would take me into the edges of Hull. Returning to the spot where I had arrived, I let the Way carry me from that bare utility to a more familiar musty smell of damp stone and old books. Thin shafts of light sliced through the dust created by my arrival, allowing me to find the external doorway.
I could hear the city noises before I unbolted the door. Beyond, there was a small set of stone steps leading up to daylight. I closed the door behind me and climbed into the sound of traffic and seagulls. I had arrived.
A newsagent was the first call, for a street map. After that it was easy enough to make my way through the streets down towards the river and find the college. It took me longer than I'd thought and I began to wonder if I should have used the Way to travel further in towards the centre. Then I had to find the bit of the college where I needed to wait for Zaina. Looking around, it all seemed very modern. There were few old buildings and much new development.
At ten past four I arrived at the main college entrance. I waited by the glass doors, leaning against the wall, watching the young people leaving, clothed in every style. Greg had said that Zaina would know where Karen would be, but if she had left early and I had missed her then I would have to go to the cafe named on the slip of paper Greg had given me. The trouble was that I had no idea what Zaina looked like. The name sounded Middle Eastern, maybe? Lebanese would fit with the name of the place – the Cedars Cafe.
Two Asian girls turned my way.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for Zaina. Do you know if she's left yet?"
"Zaina who?" they asked in unison.
I shrugged. "I don't have a second name."
They shook their heads as they wandered away.
I tried again with a girl who might have been Middle Eastern. "Do you know where I can find Zaina?" She shook her head and continued walking.
The crowds were starting to thin and I was asking everyone as they left. No one knew Zaina, and there was no sign of Karen. I asked a tall guy with long shaggy hair in a leather jacket. He didn't recognise the name or the cafe. "Sorry, mate."
I was getting nowhere at the college. I wasn't even sure I had the right door or the right building. The flow of people had thinned considerably and I was running out of people to ask. I switched instead to asking for directions to the cafe, and after a couple of blank looks I got a set of directions. It was about a mile away and I had already walked a fair distance, but maybe I could get a drink and a s
it-down when I got there.
When I reached it, the cafe was on a side street not far from the main road and had a sign over the door with a stylised black and green cedar tree. It didn't look like much from the outside but when you got close you could tell it went back quite a way. The window advertised Lebanese delicacies like kibbeh and falafels in pitta. My mouth watered at the thought of food. The bacon sandwich had been a while ago.
Inside, the cafe smelled of spices and coffee. We were long past lunchtime but the lingering aroma had my stomach rumbling. There were tables all down one side and a counter at the back. I had not come here to eat, though. A tall man with dark eyes and residual stubble watched me as he busied himself behind the counter.
"Hi. I'm looking for Zaina. Is she around?"
He glanced up at me but continued cleaning out the remains of lunchtime sandwich fillings. "You a friend of hers?"
"Not really. I'm trying to find someone, a friend of a friend, you might say. I thought she might be able to help."
"She's not here." The lie was clear and plain in his voice.
"OK," I said. "She's not here for me, or she's just not here?"
He wiped his hands on the cloth he'd been using. "Who are you? What do you want with Zaina?"
"I'm only looking to talk with her for a few moments. It won't take long."
The man spoke in a rapid guttural tongue to two men at a nearby table. They stood up, pushing their chairs back noisily. One of the other men further down the cafe stood up as well. Suddenly the space seemed narrow and claustrophobic.
"I'm not looking for any trouble," I said, shifting my grip on the umbrella. "I just want to speak to her."
"Why can't you people leave her alone?" said the man.
He dropped the cloth and moved around the counter. I retreated, placing my back to the wall and trying to watch both sides at once. The umbrella stayed an umbrella. None of them were armed. There were four of them and one of me. It would be better if we could avoid conflict, but if there was a fight, the big guy from behind the counter would be the one who would start it.
"I don't want anyone to get hurt," I said, trying to calm everyone.
One of the two young men spoke. "You're the only one who's gonna get hurt. If I were you, I would leave while you still can."
"What is this? What's going on? Ahmed, who is that man?" The voice came from the doorway to the kitchen at the back of the cafe. It should have been Arabic-sounding, but the accent was pure Ravensby. I peeked past the big guy to see who spoke. The headscarf and the long dress did not look out of place, but the face was too pale for the Lebanon. Besides, I recognised her from the photo.
"Hello, Karen," I said.
EIGHT
Karen Hopkins bustled forward. "What are you doing? Ahmed? Who is this man?"
"He's just leaving," said Ahmed, meeting my eyes and nodding towards the door.
"How do you know my name?" she asked.
"I saw your mother this morning," I told her. "I was looking for Zaina, but now I've found you."
"Well, as you can see, I'm not lost. What do you want?"
"Look," I said, "I don't want any trouble. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes."
The young man looked angrily at me. He shook his head. "He was asking about you, poking his nose in."
"And so you threatened him." She walked up to him and straightened his clothes, her distaste for violence plain.
"I didn't threaten anyone. I just wanted him to leave us alone."
"Us"? This was an interesting development.
She turned to the men standing in the narrow aisle. "Please, sit. You're not helping."
They looked at Ahmed and he nodded. They slowly sat down again, watching me all the while as if I might suddenly sprout horns. I tried to look as relaxed and unthreatening as possible.
"I won't keep you long," I said. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions."
"Did my mother put you up to this?"
"No, but I did talk to her. She wants you to call her."
"She said that? Really?"
"She said you'd only have to pick up the phone. You could even reverse the charge."
"Right. That sounds more like her."
"Don't you want to talk with her? You could just let her know you're OK. She's bound to be worried about you."
"She said that as well, did she?" She watched my expression. "I thought not."
I was missing something here. I looked at her again. The headscarf and the long skirt were almost ethnic dress, not so much a fashion statement as a cultural statement.
"I'm sorry, I was only asking about Zaina and your boyfriend here got heavy with me."
"He's not my boyfriend."
Her voice was like her mother's but she had picked up some of his accent. "Whatever you say."
"He's my husband."
It suddenly came into focus. "Of course, you're Zaina. Greg Makepeace told me, 'If you find Zaina, you'll find Karen.'" I mentally kicked myself for being so dim.
"Mum's vicar?" she said. "He came to the cafe one day. We talked for a while. He brought me some things from home, personal things. What's he got to do with this?"
"So your mother knows you're here too?" I said.
"Who are you?" Ahmed said. "Why is this any of your business?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm called Neal Dawson. I'm looking into the disappearance of a number of young women from Ravensby. I thought Karen was one of them."
"Do I look like I'm missing?" she asked.
"No, I guess not."
"Then you can cross me off your list." She guided her husband gently towards the counter, turning her back to me.
"Does your father know where you are?"
"I do not discuss my personal affairs in public like a soap opera." She moved towards the door into the back of the cafe.
"Your sister?"
She stopped and turned back.
"Why can't you let it alone?" she said.
"I have my reasons."
She looked up at her husband and he looked back at me. Then she came forward again and pointed at the table next to the window, away from the other customers. "Sit there." She instructed.
I moved slowly past the men who had stood to help Ahmed. They watched me with cold disapproval. Karen spoke with Ahmed behind the counter in low tones until he turned away and picked up his cloth, sulkily continuing to clean out the counter. Then she disappeared into the back for a moment, reappearing with a white cotton apron tied around her waist to serve the men who sat near the counter with hot tea and sweet sticky pastries. When she had spoken to them for a moment she came and placed a glass cup with steaming liquid with a spoon in it on my table.
"Mint tea," she said. "It makes you look more like a customer and less like a bouncer."
I thanked her and she turned back to the older gentleman. She addressed him in a mixture of English and what must have been Arabic. After talking with him for a moment she went back behind the counter, removed the apron and brought her own mint tea to sit opposite me.
"It's normally busier than this," she said, sliding into the seat.
"That must be good for business," I replied.
"We get by." She glanced towards her husband.
"Was that Arabic you were speaking?"
"I'm not very fluent," she said modestly, "but our customers appreciate the attempt."
"It must be hard for someone with your background."
"I need to learn it anyway, in order to study the Qur'an."
"Is that what you're studying at college?"
"No. I converted. It's part of the faith to understand the words of the prophet."
"To Islam?"
"No, Buddhist. Of course to Islam. I converted so that we could get married."
I looked over at the man behind the counter. He was trying to talk to one of the young men and watch us at the same time.
"Jealous type, is he?"
"Jealous? Ahmed? Don't be daft." The way sh
e said Ahmed was soft, like a sigh.
"He hasn't taken his eyes off you since you sat down."
"He thinks you're going to steal me away, take me back to my family." She looked up. "Are you?"
Her eyes were grey, at odds with the Muslim dress and Arab cafe, but they held my gaze, waiting for an answer.
"No. I'm not here to take you back."
"Did Mum hire you?"
"Hire me?"
"You're a private detective, aren't you? That's what people like you do, isn't it? Dig around in other people's business."
It was my turn to laugh. "A detective, me?"
"What then? You're not church and you're not a copper either. They've been and gone. The police won't interfere now that I'm eighteen and the vicar only came to check up on me for Mum. You're not a fisherman and you move like a fighter. Ex-military? Private security?" It was her turn to watch me.
"I have done some security work," I admitted. I liked this girl. She had spirit and intelligence. She knew what she wanted and it sounded as if she was working hard to get it. The contrast between her and the soft resignation of her mother was stark.
"I saw your mother this morning."
"What did she say?"
"Very little. I asked her whether she'd given up hope and she told me she hadn't."
Karen looked back towards the counter.
"She said if you wanted to come back then all you had to do was pick up the phone."
She stirred the mint tea slowly. "Was my sister there?"
"Shelley? Yes."
"She should be at school. What was she doing at home?"
"She said she was ill."
Karen looked up from her tea.
"She didn't look ill," I said. "She looked like she'd blagged a day off."
"She should be at school," she repeated. "But maybe my parents think education is not such a good thing any more, when you can have ideas, friends of your own, people from outside." She looked again at Ahmed. "What did my dad say?"
