by Gavin Smith
‘This is not a fitting welcome,’ the ship’s master managed in the Goddodin tongue.
‘We speak the language of Carthage,’ Fachtna said. The ship’s master looked thoughtful. His guard, bronze axe at the ready, was studying Teardrop with suspicion.
‘And what would a northern barbarian know of the might and splendour of Carthage?’ the master asked.
‘Enough to recognise its tongue shouted across these waters.’
‘You speak it well.’ The ship’s master looked at Teardrop then back to Fachtna. ‘Did your demon whisper it? Pour it into your ear like honey?’
Britha was confused. ‘We don’t pour honey in ears.’ She was surprised to find herself apparently speaking Carthaginian. ‘We eat it.’
‘And I am no demon,’ Teardrop said.
‘A sorcerer then?’ the brown-skinned guard asked. Teardrop gazed at the man but said nothing. The guard met Teardrop’s look and held it.
‘My friend asked you a question,’ the ship’s master said.
‘I heard,’ Teardrop told him.
‘Who is he to ask it?’ Britha demanded.
‘Where I come from the women let the men speak,’ the Carthaginian answered.
‘Where I come from it is courteous to introduce yourself, and where I come from we geld men for discourtesy. Since we’re closer to where I come from than where you come from, which one of my ways would you like to respect?’ Britha asked. Fachtna was staring at her with a raised eyebrow.
The Carthaginian gave it some thought; the guard shifted, ready to strike.
‘The introduction, I think!’ he finally said, his face splitting into a wide grin.
‘Good choice,’ Fachtna muttered.
Men, Britha thought, shaking her head. Just another pissing contest. Still, at least she seemed to have won.
‘People call me Hanno, or Hanno of Carthage if there are more than one of my name here. My friend here has the honour of being Kush – once a slave, then a gladiator and now a close friend who keeps me safe from my enemies, though I have few of those.’
‘Must you always mention me being a slave once?’ Kush asked, sounding less than happy.
‘It is a great thing to rise from being a slave to a free man!’ Hanno cried.
Kush leaned in towards Britha, Fachtna and Teardrop. It was all Britha could do to stop herself from pulling away from him. ‘I was not a slave for very long, you understand?’ The three of them nodded. ‘And it is an ill thing to keep a slave.’
‘Oh, I agree,’ Fachtna said. Britha couldn’t help but glance down at the white-clad kneelers all around them. Hanno was looking a little uncomfortable.
‘I am Fachtna, a Gael of the line of Mael Duin.’ He stepped forward and grasped Hanno by the arm. The Carthaginian reciprocated. Fachtna turned to Kush but the bodyguard would not relinquish his hold on his axe.
‘He means no offence but he likes always to be ready to use it,’ Hanno said.
Fachtna shrugged, choosing not to take offence, for which both Britha and Teardrop were relieved.
‘I am Teardrop on Fire of the Croatan.’ He moved towards Hanno, offering his hand. Hanno looked to Kush, not taking the proffered arm immediately. Kush studied Teardrop and then Fachtna in turn.
‘I think we walk with gods and demons,’ he finally said.
‘My friend has the nose for this,’ Hanno said.
‘And we will treat you as you treat us,’ Britha told them. Hanno glanced at Kush again, who nodded. Hanno took Teardrop’s arm.
‘And I am Britha, ban draoi of the Cirig,’ Britha said, offering her arm. Hanno regarded it coolly but took it.
‘I do not know this word, ban draoi.’ Hanno admitted.
‘She is priestess, blessed by their gods or touched by their demons,’ Kush said.
Britha turned on him. ‘My power is my own and we do not make ourselves slaves to men or gods,’ she told him angrily.
‘You speak her language?’ Teardrop asked, hoping to ease the tension.
‘Anyone can see what she is for the looking,’ Kush told them. Teardrop was looking at him with interest.
‘You are not with these cravens who cower behind their wall?’ Hanno asked, turning towards the fort. ‘Without even so much the offer of a drink!’ His voice echoed around the harbour.
‘They were attacked,’ Teardrop told them, ‘by black ships.’
Kush and Hanno exchanged another knowing glance.
‘You’ve seen them?’ Britha asked.
Hanno shook his head. ‘Kush here smelled them,’ the Carthaginian said.
‘There was something evil and unnatural on the seas in the south,’ the tall axeman said. ‘We wanted none of it.’
‘We are traders, that is all. We will fight to protect ourselves but . . .’
‘Only a fool picks a fight with demons,’ Kush finished and looked at Teardrop again.
‘Good luck getting them to come out to trade,’ Fachtna said as he nodded towards the fort.
Hanno spat. ‘I told you we came too far north. There is nothing up here but sharp rocks, cold seas and colder women.’ Britha stared at him. ‘See!’
‘We need passage south,’ Britha said.
‘Aye,’ Fachtna agreed.
Hanno turned to regard them with a calculating expression on his face.
‘Where the demons are?’ Kush demanded.
‘They will be moving faster than you and they are also heading south,’ Teardrop said.
‘The Will of Dagon is one of the fastest—’
‘We know,’ Britha said. She had met merchants before. They were always very proud of their ships.
‘They are demon ships,’ Kush said. ‘Their unnatural power will move faster than even the Will of Dagon.’
‘Take us as far south as your nerve will allow you,’ Britha said. Hanno glared at her. ‘My nerve, woman, was tried in battle when you were still an infant wriggling in your own shit, and not against the likes of the savages you have on your small cold island.’
‘Well argued,’ Britha said, smiling. ‘So you’ll have no problem taking us.’
‘If you can pay,’ he said, crossing his arms.
Britha cursed herself for not taking any of the Cirig’s gold. They had died on the red beach wearing their torcs, silver for the cateran and gold for the mormaer. She had not taken it because she had not earned it. Such gifts were for those who had proved themselves in battle as warriors. When they were defeated they belonged to the victors. The Cirig expected nothing less when they met enemies in battle. That said, these considerations seemed foolish in the face of practical requirements, but if they let their ways go, what was left of them? It was her job to keep, even enforce, their ways no matter how hard or inconvenient it was. She felt shame at wanting to barter away gold and silver bought with skill, strength and blood.
Britha had not noticed Teardrop staring at Fachtna. He sighed and took off a finely wrought silver torc wrapped around his left arm. It was in the style of the Goidel, not as chunky and chain-like as those worn by the Pecht.
‘I will cut off a piece of this for you,’ Fachtna told Hanno.
‘Then you will spoil it for us, as we will soon own all of it if you wish passage south,’ Hanno said.
‘That is a gift worthy of a mighty mormaer,’ Britha said angrily. ‘One that you have not earned with mere trade.’
‘So haughty, walk if you prefer. I’m sure your demons will wait.’
‘This is not a good way to behave,’ Britha told the merchant. ‘You are taking advantage of us.’ People just didn’t act like this; they asked a fair price for the service rendered. They did not steal from you just because they knew you needed what they had to offer.
‘Britha,’ Teardrop said softly. She lapsed into a fuming silence. Fachtna reluctantly gave Hanno the torc.
‘We would also like to seek passage,’ the old man from the kneelers said.
‘All seem to seek the demons this night,’ Hanno said as he turned to
the man. ‘But can you pay?’
18
Now
Du Bois was hungry. He was hungry because he had been on the go for the better part of three days and his body’s augmentations wouldn’t let him become tired, or indeed ever operate at anything other than heightened peak performance. He was sitting in the mess at Fort Southwick eating as much high-calorie food as he could, as quickly as possible. His body processed the food with near-total efficiency and turned it into energy.
Portsmouth had been locked down. Police and military blockaded the three bridges onto the island. Du Bois didn’t think it would help much and was largely of the opinion that it had been done to be seen to be done in what was being portrayed as a terrorist incident. He had, however, quietly circulated a picture of Natalie Luckwicke to those manning the blockades but he couldn’t imagine getting that lucky. The press were on to what they thought was a suspect, and Control had D-noticed the press to make sure that her picture didn’t get out.
Du Bois had come to the conclusion that Natalie had indirectly been the cause of what had happened in the nightclub and that somehow someone must have imbibed her blood. He wasn’t even sure where to start with that – drug dealers, blood clinics or just some mixed-up kids with syringes of blood, and if that was the case did it mean that Natalie was dead?
He knew the DAYP were in the city but was wondering if someone or something else was involved. Judging by the interrogation and mutilation of Arbogast, they were after the same thing as he was, though he hoped that they did not understand its significance. However, when he seeded the rats and the insects and set up AI monitoring of the imagery looking for traces of Natalie, he discovered that there were parts of the city that the rats just simply did not go, mostly in the southern part of Portsea Island towards the Solent. The seeded insects just disappeared when they went far enough south, as if they were encountering some kind of blood-screen. One problem at a time, du Bois decided, unless that was where she was hiding. A manual search of the seafront was rapidly becoming the only option. He would not like to be Control having to explain that to the Home Office. Their influence was incredibly strong but not total. The people of Portsmouth and Southsea were not going to like having their homes searched by soldiers and police regardless of the reason.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Du Bois looked up at the soldier. To his eyes he seemed far too young to be in uniform, though he himself had been much younger when he had first joined the order as a squire. ‘There’s a woman here to see you, sir.’
Du Bois wasn’t sure what irritated him more, the mere presence of his brother here while he was working, or the fact that he had ridden his motorcycle. He decided it was the riding of his motorbike. The 1949 C series Vincent Black Shadow gleamed black and silver in the sun. The bike, along with his piano, were the possessions he prized most, the two things that gave him genuine pleasure.
Alexander, though it was difficult to think of him with that name looking at his distinctly female body, was leaning against the bike wearing leathers. His jacket was lying over the bike, and the tight black strapped top was causing a number of the soldiers on guard at the gate to stare. Knowing his brother, he had been flirting with them before du Bois arrived.
Alexander was taller than him, his long hair dark where du Bois’s was light, finely featured, his cheekbones were V-shaped slashes that could either make him look like a goddess or completely wicked. They had the same blue eyes though. Alexander’s body was full and statuesque. He would not have been out of place on a catwalk.
Even as a child, Alexander had been effeminate; du Bois had to protect him. He remembered his lack of comprehension when he discovered that Alexander liked to dress up in female servants’ clothes. He remembered nightmarish times travelling across Europe, Alexander disguised as a woman, fear of his brother’s proclivities being discovered, du Bois down on his knees morning and night praying for forgiveness for himself and deliverance for Alexander.
He had sought a cure for him, so he would not be damned to hell; instead he had found the Circle. Their access to L- and S-tech meant that Alexander could be whatever he wanted. Alexander had finally become a woman in the early nineteenth century. Du Bois had tried to accept it, envious of the way his younger bother could embrace each new age, disapproving of how he could embrace the excesses of each age as well. During a particularly bad argument in Marrakesh in the 1970s, Alexander had screamed at him that he was a fully functioning hermaphrodite. It had been too much for him. Du Bois had fled the argument, the Red City and North Africa.
Fully functioning hermaphrodite or not, Alexander was female-identifying now and wanted to be regarded as a woman. In this age nobody seemed to care, and even du Bois with his background could not see the harm and felt that God had greater sins to judge than Alexander’s. His own, for example.
‘Malcolm!’ Alexander cried happily and threw herself into her brother’s arms for a hug. Du Bois returned the hug uncomfortably.
‘What are you doing here, Alexander?’ he whispered. He was not pleased that she had even been able to find him. Someone in the Circle must have told her. He didn’t like the security ramifications of that. It smacked of a loss of hope.
Du Bois had become the good servant; Alexander had reaped the rewards. His service had been on the condition that they look after Alexander. She had access to all the benefits and none of the drawbacks, as far as du Bois could see. She had thrown herself at immortal life with a strong appetite. Du Bois both admired and resented her for that.
‘Alexia, I’ve told you.’ There was just the slightest flash of anger in her eyes as she released him from the hug, a reminder of countless arguments in the past. Even du Bois had eventually been forced to admit that she was happier as a woman.
‘What are you doing here, Alex?’
‘I brought your bike.’
‘You stole my bike and then I’m guessing you had it transported.’ There was no way du Bois could see his sister riding the bike all the way from their family home, a castle perched precariously on the edge of the stormy west coast of Scotland.
‘I know how bad it is,’ she said.
Du Bois just shook his head. He didn’t want to think about how she had found out. It was a cold but sunny day. The sky was bright blue and cloudless. A brisk wind caught Alexia’s long hair. Looking at the day, it all seemed so ridiculous, but he couldn’t help wonder how much longer they had.
‘Want to go to Brighton and get fucked up?’ Alexia asked brightly.
‘I really don’t,’ he answered.
‘Want to flagellate yourself and worry about the weight of the world on your shoulders?’ Alexia asked with mock seriousness. He had to laugh. It worried him how much her suggestion appealed. Actually he wanted to smoke, drink whisky and brood.
‘I’m working.’
‘Will it do any good or are you just going through the motions?’ she asked, concern in her voice. He had to think about that. He genuinely wasn’t sure. He was grasping at straws but anything was better than nothing. ‘We lived longer than we should have, much longer. We’ve seen and done extraordinary things – well, that was mostly me; you’ve been consistently maudlin, grumpy, too serious and sarcastic – and it’s all right to let go.’
‘I’m the sarcastic one?’ he asked, but the humour was gone and she was just looking at him with concern. ‘It’s not for us. You’re right – we’ve lived too long – but if there’s even the slightest—’
‘Okay fine. Is there anything that you can do at this moment?’
He thought about that. He had arrived at a dead end. Natalie was almost certainly dead. He had no idea how her blood was being circulated but it wouldn’t be enough anyway: they needed her, or at least a reasonable amount of her blood or a significant genetic sample. He shook his head reluctantly and then looked at his bike.
Across the South Downs, taking the bike as fast as it would go with the two of them, leaning low on the bends, du Bois was actually smiling. He heard the sou
nd of Alexia’s laughter snatched away by the wind.
They were somewhere north of Winchester, du Bois knew. They were on a hilltop outside an Iron Age fort. He had ignored the signs on the way. He could find out exactly where he was if he accessed his systems but he had decided to pretend to be human today. He was trying to remember what that was like.
Alexia had produced a picnic lunch from the bike’s saddlebags, and having eaten that they were now leaning against a tree as they sipped champagne, sitting in high grass looking at a small herd of sheep. Du Bois would neutralise the alcohol in his system before he got back on the bike. He knew that Alexia wouldn’t. The day was cold, though that didn’t bother them, and a school day, so the only other people they saw were the occasional dog walkers.
Most of lunch had been Alexia talking about things he either couldn’t relate to or was trying not to be judgemental about.
‘Have you been here before?’ she asked out of the blue. He had drifted off, not concentrating on what she was saying. He looked around as if seeing the place for the first time, trying to take it in.
‘I don’t think so. It’s difficult to be sure.’ They were quiet.
‘Thank you,’ she said after a while.
‘For what?’ du Bois asked, surprised.
‘For taking me to Outremer. I know what you did and what it meant.’
Du Bois thought back. He had taken her there because he had heard that the rules that governed Europe at the time were not as strict there. That you could reinvent yourself. That you could lose your past. Or at least Alexander could. They had been one step in front of the Church authorities that had wanted to burn Alexander as an abomination in the eyes of God. He wondered about a god that would do that, except that now he knew there was no god. Though somehow that had never stopped him praying.
‘Where are you staying?’ he finally asked. The thank you was sounding too much like a goodbye.
‘Brighton.’
That made sense to du Bois. Even he was aware that Brighton was a party town; the judgemental side of him wanted to call it decadent. Alexia liked it there and felt that she fitted in.
