‘Why doesn’t he stop it?’
‘What? Time freeze the world and say, “No, this shall not be”? And what then, when these armies are frozen in place? How would that be better than Cronus, keeping armies suspended in living death? Time didn’t set evolution in process, you know. He doesn’t control the minds of humans. All he does is maintain them.’
‘Yet you say he deliberately made sure Magic conceived you. Why?’
‘To use me. Just because Time doesn’t affect human lives, he’s not above letting humans affect humans, or even immortals. He created me so that I could make some piece of history happen in a certain way. Why, I don’t know. What, I don’t know. But I’m sure that, when that history is supposed to be made, I’ll spot it. Time is not an entity who’d create a pawn and let it waste its life – his life – on a worthless cause.’
‘He doesn’t directly interfere?’
‘Good grief, no. Too dangerous. There are hundreds of Powers out there, hundreds of Incarnates. Not many Greater Powers, it has to be said, but the odds are that there’s always a bigger fish. And they’ve all got their invested interests and schemes. For Time to say directly to one Power, “This shall be so, because I command it” or, “I rule here, you shall go elsewhere” is to risk upsetting a system that is already… unstable, shall we say?’
‘How unstable?’
‘Well, the last time the Greater Powers had a really impressive argument, the dinosaurs got wiped out. So now Time always works through mortals. So he can just sit back and go, “Nah, I didn’t do nothing.”’
‘You’re afraid,’ she said softly.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Even speaking of it, your pulse is faster.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I was trained to spot these things, you know.’
Self-consciously he extracted his wrist from her grasp and sat back, not meeting her eyes. ‘I’m afraid,’ he agreed. ‘Time conquers all, but sometimes he has lessons to teach. I’m afraid he’s going to use me to teach that lesson for him.’
‘What do you mean?’
He rolled his head back on his shoulders wearily, as if beset by old aches and pains. ‘Think about it. You’ve read the New Testament, were brought up a good Christian. Lessons in it are taught by a man who died on the cross at Roman hands, or so the legend goes.’ She opened her mouth to ask a question, but he was already there. ‘Many people died on the cross, Annette. I know, I was there. But my point is, the symbolism of this death has sent shivers through history and rewritten the whole course of the world. Now Time sees, as well as the past, present and future, the pasts and presents which could be. So you see why I’m afraid. I’m afraid that to make a certain future happen instead of another, he is willing to let my death “repercuss” through the ages. Without consultation first, I might add.’
‘Why? For what possible purpose would he sacrifice you?’
‘I don’t know. This is all hypothetical, you understand. I can’t see the future. I can only study the past, and wonder if my father is going to let us go round and round in circles for ever, or if he is already teaching those lessons to shape those worlds, and I haven’t noticed.’
‘Time conquers all,’ she murmured. ‘Except Cronus.’
‘Except Cronus,’ Sam agreed. ‘It’s almost reassuring to know there’s something my father can’t cope with.’
His eyes had returned to black, the voices were all but gone. Is my fate inescapable? Father, I know you can hear me, because every thought I give takes Time, takes some of you. Have you seen my entire future, and don’t care? Are you going to let me die so that some reality comes to pass instead of another? And what possible interest could you have in fixing realities, unless you were afraid of things that lurked in other futures? What are you so afraid of, Father, that you would let my eyes burn so and fill my mind with the thoughts of mortals? Or don’t you care?
There was, as ever, no answer.
Sam remembered when the Moondance network had been founded.
Adamarus had been astonished. ‘Intervene? You? Us?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where? Why? How?’
‘Everywhere, in every way possible. Because what the mortals are doing is not only in violation of every human morality, but should even strike a few chords with the Fey. It takes a lot of evil to do that, so when chords are struck it’s only… moral’ – he savoured the word – ‘that we do something.’
‘You’re lecturing me on morals? You?’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the Bible, Torah or Koran, you know. I’m really a nice guy.’
It was Jehovah. At least Sam felt comforted by the blessing of blame. Jehovah did this to me, made my name a curse. Jehovah was the one who first coined the term ‘Satan’. Son of Belief, what did you do to me?
The music in his headphones was fading again – the in-flight entertainments were more trouble than they were worth. But now his head was almost free of the voices, and he could focus the full force of his resentment against Jehovah. Not hate, he reminded himself. To hate is to be what they want me to be, and I’ll never do that.
ELEVEN
Could-Be City
M
oscow is one of those could-be cities. It could be one of the greatest in the world, with its imperial architecture, and its strange old buildings mingling east and west. It could be beautiful, it could be regarded as the centre of the world, were it not for the burden of a crushing past, and a climate so harsh that much of Russia might as well have been wiped from the map. So many could-bes were buried here, in dark suburbs and litter-filled streets which, after resisting for so long, had yielded to the omnipresent American chain stores.
At night, when the streets around Sam’s suburban hotel were deserted, and a bitter wind tore at the icicles hanging from the lips of buildings and disturbed little giddies of dirty snow, the darker, haunted Moscow came to life. He could almost hear its whispers of a bitter past, and thought of all those people – Napoleon, the Bolsheviks, the invading Germans, banned and angry ethnic minorities – who’d wanted to tear this ghost apart.
My life consists of one inescapable, seedy hotel, Sam thought as he staggered out of the ancient, unlicensed taxi that had been all he could get at the airport. The hotel was a run-down building lodged between an old café and a large grey housing estate.
‘Sebastian Teufel,’ he told the woman on reception. ‘I’ve booked.’
He was greeted with the usual Russian warmness, and wondered whether it sprung from genuine delight at seeing a foreigner, or at seeing a foreigner’s wallet. He’d barely remembered to exchange his euros at the airport; what would she have done if he’d tried paying in foreign currency? Probably accepted it with a smile.
The room seemed no different from the one in Paris he’d left only that morning, save that there was mould in one corner and the wallpaper was peeling even more freely. Somehow he managed to draw a ward on the door and window, and collapsed on the bed, not bothering to take off his boots.
How long Sam slept, he didn’t know. But by the time he heard a respectful knock on his door, full daylight was stealing through the thin curtain. From outside there came the crash of ice falling in the sunshine.
Groaning and feeling dirty, Sam struggled out of bed, taking half the sheets with him, and opened the door. ‘Yes?’ he snapped.
A slight creature stood there, wearing a large fur hat above tufts of hair so red they must surely be dyed. Seeing Sam he bowed respectfully low. The word that came first to Sam’s mind was ‘skateboarder’. He had the build of an athlete, but the wild red hair and intelligent eyes whispered of a different life entirely. After discarding skateboarder as a description, Sam found himself reminded of textbook pictures showing spiky-haired Celtic warriors charging to kill or, as was more often the case, be killed.
He waited for the man’s first words, curious to hear his diagnosis either proven or denied.
‘Your honour.’
‘What
?’ Sam was taken aback. ‘Your honour’ was neither the language of a skateboarder nor a Celtic warrior.
‘Your honour, I have been sent by Whisperer.’
Invited in, the man seemed to walk on nothing, and when Sam passed too near him in the cluttered room, there was an improbable sensation of heat radiating off his padded body. Heat, and the smell of… leaves? By the time Sam had turned on the tap, hit it until water began to flow, and stuck his head in the sink, realisation was dawning. The shock of the ice-cold water on his skin jerked everything into focus. That and the fact that all the time he was washing himself the man had just stood next to the bed, not even sitting down. Now Sam knew why.
‘You’re the jinn, right?’
The creature bowed again. ‘Indeed, your honour.’
‘Cut the honour crap. Right now I’m Sebastian, and would like to stay that way.’
The jinn seemed astonished at this informality. It had clearly expected someone, or something, more… Satanic. Sam, being as he was strong-willed and proud, quickly found himself annoyed at the diffidence shown by the jinn. At the same time he recognised, in the stiff way the creature bore itself, that here was a spirit that had probably had its own share of fights. Certainly it looked like a warrior – but a warlike Celt who’d decided against screaming defiance in favour of the temperament expected from the treasurer of a cricket club. The result was an unsettling combination which made Sam feel that behind this external conflict of warrior and clerk lurked the worst aspects of both.
‘What’s your name?’
‘I use the human name of Peter Zhukov, your – sir.’
‘Sir’ was an improvement on ‘your honour’, but Sam was in no mood for tolerance, especially towards a creature as confusing as the jinn. In Sam’s fatigued state, being confused made his annoyance even harder to suppress.
‘Have you anything to tell me?’
‘About the mortal you seek? Yes, sir.’
‘Well? And please, sit down.’
The jinn sat nervously on the edge of the bed as though it were some holy object. He was clutching a large bag, which he opened as though only just thinking of it. From it he produced a black overcoat of the long thick kind favoured by Russians. ‘I brought this for you, sir. It’s colder here than in Paris.’
Sam took the gift gratefully, feeling some of his animosity fade away. ‘How, uh, foresightful. Thank you… The mortal?’
‘He is here, sir.’
‘Here?’ Such unexpected news caught Sam off guard.
‘Yes, sir. In Moscow itself.’
‘How do you know?’
‘His pursuers are here, and have been for several days. Two valkyries have been recorded, one angel and two Firedancers. All of them are searching through the city.’
Sam raised a hand. ‘Do you mind if I’m sceptical?’ Ignoring Peter’s astonishment at such a query, he added, ‘If the valkyries, angel and Firedancers are working together, rather than trying to kill each other, why haven’t they found him?’
‘They’re not working together, sir. Yesterday there was an open confrontation between the Firedancers and the angel, and at least once the valkyries have almost come to blows with all of them. And there’s more, sir.’
‘There’s a surprise.’
‘Someone is shielding the mortal. We can’t see or find them, but we know they’re there.’
‘How?’
‘A few of us tried scrying the mortal in anticipation of your arrival. We ran up hard against a blank, sir.’
So. Andrew has friends as well as enemies. ‘Who else is watching for Andrew, besides archangels and the like?’
‘A small witches’ coven, some mercenary spirits of our own.’
‘Witches? What kind? There are so many.’
‘They won’t know anything, sir. No one ever tells mortals why they’re watching, just who to watch for.’
Sam was silent a long while, digesting the jinn’s words. The creature waited, sitting upright on the edge of the bed and radiating alertness and duty.
Sam said, ‘Whisperer told me many of our sources are being blocked. How is that?’
‘There have been raids on the mortal cover offices of local spirits known to be loyal to the Moondance network. Those who do not use cover have been openly attacked. Never hurt, just repulsed from the area round Moscow. There is a tight cordon of mercenaries about. The mercenaries are here to keep us out, while the Heavenly scouts look for the Historian. In the meantime someone is shielding him from harm.’
Sam looked thoughtful. ‘In Tibet the abbot told me Andrew had known I was coming. And that he’d advised the abbot to help me.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’m wondering about the nature of this shield. Whether it might let me pass, for friendship’s sake.’
‘It seemed a very good shield, sir.’
‘I’m a very good magician,’ Sam replied. Not correcting, but stating the truth.
Someone knows I’m not just trying to find Andrew. They know I’m on the trail and getting closer – in the right city, even.
‘What will you do, sir?’
‘Right now? Have a shower and a very big breakfast.’
This whole business is a walled city, with the answer somewhere inside. Through Freya’s death, Odin’s enmity, Andrew’s flight and the abbot’s revelation I can see clearly the size and shape of the walls. But until I find the Historian all gates are barred to me.
Breakfast consisted of ‘authentic European cuisine’ – greasy eggs and bacon on a plate where two red stains marked what had once been grilled tomatoes. Looking at it, Sam reflected that he hadn’t come to Russia to eat what he could get in any of his European homes.
As he ate he considered the pressing question of Freya’s security methods. How had they failed? They must have been tight, judging by how she’d so secluded Andrew, her prime researcher. Even Sam, on Earth so much longer than the other Princes, had failed to recognise that she, one of his sisters, must be on to something.
All those backup systems. How long had Freya known she’d turn to Sam for help, if necessary? How long had Sam been the unwitting accomplice, the one relied on to find the answers and go to the right places? Is everyone, my father, my sister, fated to use me as their unwitting pawn? Even Jehovah used me to his advantage, with his half-mortal youth, and I naïvely helped him on his way.
Sitting opposite him Peter watched without a word while Sam breakfasted. All the jinn had was a cup of coffee. If Sam correctly remembered the feeding habits of most jinn, they had more… unusual tastes than human catering could supply.
Perhaps it was the confident way Sam pushed back his plate and stretched his fingers to their furthest extent. Whatever it was that prompted Peter, the jinn suddenly looked up and said, ‘You’ve decided what to do, sir?’ It wasn’t really a question.
‘I have. If Freya’s plan was tight enough to wheel me in so effectively, then I’ll bet she’s still reaching from the grave to clear my way. I’m going to scry for him.’
Sam had to confess that Peter was a good worker. There was many a sly glance out of the corner of the jinn’s eye as he scrutinised Sam’s face. And whenever Sam turned quickly enough to catch his look, or appeared even slightly annoyed, Peter would immediately bow as though the fault were his.
His competence spoke volumes as they returned to Sam’s room. Without a word Peter went to the washbasin, put in the plug and turned on the tap. Here was someone, diffident or not, who understood scrying. Briskly he filled the basin with ice-cold water, pulling the threadbare curtains shut and hanging his coat over them so that the room was lit only by the single yellow bulb in the centre of the ceiling.
For his part, the jinn looked on respectfully as Sam set to work, turning off the light so that the room was plunged into near-darkness behind the makeshift blackout, and going to the sink with the casualness of a master about an everyday task. Outside, the roar of traffic seemed suddenly louder. In the street a couple were fighting
noisily. A pair of cats hissed at each other in backyard rivalry. A baby was yowling. By night a half-asleep child might fashion any kind of story from such neighbourhood music.
Sam heard none of it as he lowered his hands, palms down, a few inches above the surface of the water. How squalid, Peter thought, to be performing such magic in these conditions. A Prince of Heaven should be casting his spells over marble pools, in temples brilliant with candlelight. Everything here seemed an insult to the greatness of a Waywalker: the improvised blind wedged over the sagging curtain rail, the pink plastic basin, the plywood wardrobe. Peter wanted to exclaim that, no, they could do better than this – anywhere but this sad, noisy little room.
Waywalkers: Number 1 in Series Page 13
