Alan wasn’t so lucky. He sat and watched the shadows flicker for a long time. High up the chimney a single star—a blue jewel—winked down at him and he watched it track across his view until it was lost beyond the rim. Only then did he too close his eyes and finally the last few days caught up with him all at once.
He slept. There were no dreams.
19
Grainger woke first. Thin sunlight came in from high above and the brand was little more than a smoking stub on the sconce. The air tasted smoky and dry, but not unpleasantly so, and he felt remarkably little pain in his shoulder, considering he’d just slept on a cold stone floor. All things considered, he didn’t feel too bad.
“Good, you’re up,” the woman said. She stepped out from the shadows beyond the grate. “Give the young one a kick, would you. There’s someone waiting to see you both.”
“I’d suggest we have a wash and you let us use a lavvie first,” Grainger said. “Otherwise it might get a bit smelly.”
She laughed.
“Smell is the least of your worries. Now come on—get him up. Time’s a wasting.”
Waking Alan up proved far from easy. He had curled up on the floor and looked far too much like the frightened boy Grainger remembered all too well from the bad years after their father died. Grainger knelt by his side and shook his shoulder, harder than he wanted to. Alan came awake with a start, nearly knocking Grainger over.
“Time to get up, wee brother. It seems we’ve got an appointment.”
He helped Alan to his feet. While their backs were turned to the woman he showed Alan what he’d done with his keys; he had them in his hand, the longest key sticking through at the junction of index and forefinger when he made a fist. It was an old con’s trick—a weapon, should they need one.
He waited until he was sure Alan understood before turning round.
“Take us to your leader,” Grainger said, deadpan. It got a laugh from Alan, but the woman wasn’t joining in this morning.
She removed her pistol from its holster and with her other hand took a long key out of a pocket in her flak jacket.
“You’re going to stay back there, and when I open this door, you’ll come out one at a time, and we’ll take a little walk. If one of you so much as sneezes, I’ll shoot the other one. Understood?”
“Understood,” Grainger replied.
The cell door opened with a loud creak.
“Can’t you just, you know, close your eyes and make three wishes or something?”
She snorted—not a laugh, but it was as close as they were going to get to one.
“You’re not going back over—at least not yet. Now move. He’s waiting for you upstairs.”
* * *
“Upstairs” was just a short walk up to what had obviously once been the main hall of a much larger structure but now was little more than four tumbledown walls open to the elements. Only the remains of two large fireplaces and a single fragment of stained glass window were left to show for its former magnificence. The air was fresher up here, and for the first time Grainger smelled the tang of the sea—far off, but definitely there. Two ravens cawed at each other high in a ruined turret. The only other occupant was a tall, almost skeletally thin man. He had the air of an aristocrat going slowly to seed. His leather tunic was wrinkled, torn and patched in several places, but his boots and trousers—likewise in leather—were smooth and well maintained and his hair, although gray and wispy, especially over the slightly pointed ears, was precisely trimmed. He smelled slightly—Grainger noticed it from quite a distance—of cut flowers and honey masking a stronger, less pleasant odor beneath. His eyes were deep blue and they stared straight at Grainger’s face as he put out a hand to be shaken.
“Mr. Grainger. I’m sorry for all the subterfuge,” he said. He had the singsong accent of the Highlands, his brogue faint but noticeable.
Grainger ignored the outstretched hand.
“Subterfuge? Is that what we’re calling kidnapping and imprisonment of a police officer these days?”
The tall man laughed.
“You were hardly kidnapped. And you’re not a police officer anymore. But if you like, I can send you straight back there—right now—right this minute. How long do you think you can run for?”
“At least I’d have a roof over my head,” Grainger replied.
The tall man smiled.
“We seem to have got off on the wrong foot. I was otherwise engaged last night or I would have seen you sooner and saved you a night below. How can I make it up to you?”
“A wash, a shave, some breakfast and some coffee would do for starters, and after that, an explanation.”
That got another laugh.
“I can do some of that,” he said. “But first, there’s something you need to see.”
The tall man walked over to what used to be a window and motioned for Grainger and Alan to come up beside him. Grainger tensed, gripping the key tightly in his hand in case this was no more than another trick. But the tall man wasn’t paying attention to the brothers. His gaze was fixed out over the vista that fell away from their position.
They were in a high turret—Grainger guessed it to be one that he’d seen from down on the cliff edge on his first visit. He looked down—a vertiginous, sweeping drop—to a sea of grass, his gaze following a meandering track that led straight to a clifftop and a ruined building of high arches, its tumbled roof open to the sky. It was distant and almost lost in a heat haze, but it seemed to him that a stocky figure stood in the doorway.
“Galloway,” he whispered.
“I am afraid so,” the tall man replied. “And the Cobbe is not far off—it is never far off. That man is why I have had you brought here. I need your help in getting rid of him.”
* * *
The woman—the tall man called her Alexandra—showed Grainger and Alan to a room in an adjoining turret. It was no more salubrious than the cell had been, being little more than four stone walls and a hearth that hadn’t seen a fire in decades, but there were two beds with straw bolsters, and a large ewer of cold water with which to wash.
“And a lavvie?” Grainger asked.
She laughed.
“You can use the window like everybody else.”
Grainger walked over to do his business. There was something refreshing about pissing from this great height—almost liberating. The woman laughed from behind him.
“I like to see a man that takes pleasure in the simple things in life.”
She stood in the doorway, hand near the pistol on her hip. It was obvious—to Grainger at least—that the brothers’ status as prisoners was still up for debate.
“And breakfast?” Alan asked. “A BLT and some coffee would go down a treat.”
“I think Simon has other ideas on the food front,” she replied.
Grainger let Alan wash first.
“This Simon,” Grainger asked. “He’s a big man around here?”
“He’s like you,” she answered. “He’s a copper—or at least the closest thing they have to one. Now hurry things up—there’s shit you need to know, and he wants to tell you—before your ignorance gets you killed.”
There were two sets of clothes laid out on the bed—cotton shirt, leather tunic, trousers and boots for each of them, but neither Grainger nor Alan looked twice at them.
The woman raised an eyebrow.
“You might be here for a while. It would be best to blend in.”
“Like you?” Grainger said, and got a laugh from her, the first of the morning.
“I’m a tourist,” she said. “I get the feeling that you two are more along the line of immigrants.”
That gave Grainger plenty to think about as she led them, not back to the hall, but down a winding staircase into much darker, colder parts of the structure. Finally they reached a room that opened out into a long balcony overlooking the same scene as before but from a lower vantage. The tall man—Simon—sat at a long table piled with bread, cheeses and
fruit.
“You asked for breakfast? This is the best we can do here. I could have Alexandra fetch something from your side, but it is a risky time for all of us. Will this do?”
The two men didn’t need to be asked twice. Simon ate an apple, the woman a piece of cheese, but between them Alan and Grainger polished off most of what was laid on the table, all washed down by water more crisp and clear than either had ever tasted.
Finally Grainger sat back and lit up a smoke. Simon followed his cue and took a short pipe from a pouch and, after several puffs, got it lit.
“Golden Virginia,” he said contentedly. “One of the few things from your side I’d find it hard to give up.”
“And it’s nice to see that we share some of the same bad habits,” Grainger replied. “But you didn’t bring us here just so we could blow smoke at each other.”
“To business then,” Simon said. “But you may not like my proposition.”
20
Alan nibbled on a piece of hard cheese.
He’d let John do most of the talking this morning so far—the whole experience was proving too overwhelming for him to do much else but try and process it as they went along. It felt too much like being an extra in a big-budget movie, one where the director wasn’t telling anyone what was going on, why they were doing what they were doing, or what might happen next.
He contented himself with eating—the food tasted real enough—and listening.
The tall man—somehow Simon didn’t seem like a proper name for someone so otherworldly—had leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face, obviously intent on making his point to Grainger in strong terms.
“We are old,” he began. “We were old long before our side and yours even discovered each others’ existence. But we knew, even way back then, that you would be our undoing, for there are so many of you, and so few of us. When you began making regular forays over here, we knew we had to do something to protect ourselves. In a ritual of high magic the likes of which will probably never be seen again, we brought a protector—a gatekeeper—into being; our Cobbe, which for millennia kept our border secure.”
“Secure, is that what you call it?” John said, and Alan saw that his brother was close to anger. Simon didn’t know it yet, but one false word now and he’d be in a world of trouble.
“Yes, secure. Back then there was only the one thin spot to police, and the Cobbe was kept tightly under control. We built the arched temple, and kept a close watch, with the Cobbe being just strong enough to keep us safe—but no stronger.
“But there was a flaw—in order to do its job, the Cobbe had been given a rudimentary intelligence. And anything smart enough to think for itself, even in a small way, can be corrupted. We didn’t think of it—that was your side’s idea. People over there started to worship the bird, then to provide offerings. It is just smart enough to take pleasure in the attention, and just dumb enough not to see the cost in human misery over on your side—or if it does, it does not care. It has grown strong on the souls of your children, and for that I am truly sorry.”
Alan put up a hand, feeling like a child back at school trying to get a teacher’s attention.
“I have a question—actually, I have several, but just one for now,” he said. “Why do people come through? What is there here for them?”
Simon sighed and took a long puff on his pipe before answering.
“Most of them seem to call themselves magicians—although they know precious little of that art—and are looking for power. To your side, this is a magical land—the realm of Faerie, Elfheim—a place of dreams and wonder. I believe that is something you have mostly lost over there—and many of those that come over want it back—and are willing to pay any price.”
“So there is a way to take…power if you want to call it that…back through?”
“There are many paths to power,” Simon replied. “But yes, it can be, and has been done. The Cobbe has, in its corruption, allowed many foul deeds to be done. But they were not done in my people’s name. Not in my name.”
They all fell quiet, until John asked the question Alan knew was coming.
“That’s all well and good,” he said. “But you still haven’t really told us why we are here—and why us in particular?”
Simon stood and went over to the parapet, looking over the view towards the cliffs.
“Galloway is the worst to come through for many an age. His blackness fouls this place—he taints us all with the stench of despair and death.”
“Then kill him,” John said. “Sandy or Alexandra or whatever the fuck her name is can give you her gun. Just go down there and pop him in the head. Problem solved.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“No,” John replied. “It never is. What’s the problem this time?”
The woman took out her pistol, put it to Alan’s head and pulled the trigger.
“Bang!” she shouted. That was the only sound. Alan flinched, and remembered to breathe.
“It’s loaded?” John asked.
The woman nodded.
“It works just fine on our side. Not here though. Still, I got to march you out of the cell at gunpoint so it’s good for something,” she said, smiling.
“Okay then—a fucking big sword should do the trick, shouldn’t it?”
Simon smiled wanly.
“It has been tried. The Cobbe has Galloway under its protection, and it is too strong for us.”
“But not for me? Is that your big idea?”
“Not just you—all three of you. You three are different. You all made it here without any entreaties to the Cobbe, without any ritual. The bird does not control you, cannot send you back unless you wish to go. In simple terms—we cannot get to Galloway. But you can.”
“And if we kill Galloway, what then?”
“Then my people will attempt to get the Cobbe back under our control—and we are hoping you will also be able to help with that task.”
“And what’s in it for us?” Alan asked. “It seems to me that you get the rewards and we take the risks.”
“There is more at stake here than you know,” Simon said. “But I can offer you a home, a place where you do not have to spend your life hiding.”
Grainger looked up and frowned.
“You arranged this, didn’t you?” he said. “I don’t know how, but you engineered Ferguson’s death, you made sure there was a witness—you set us up.”
Simon did not seem in the least perturbed.
“Galloway killed Ferguson—I swear, that is no lie. But as for the rest—yes. I was desperate. I need your help. My people need your help.”
Alan stood, suddenly angry.
“You have a funny way of showing it. You’ve ruined my life—ruined John’s life. And for all we know you let old Ferguson get himself killed so that your plan could go ahead. I’ll be buggered if I’ll help the likes of you.”
Simon’s expression didn’t change. He puffed on the pipe, then looked at the woman.
“He’s telling the truth,” she said. “And yes, I lied earlier—I was the one who shopped you to the police. That’s water under the bridge now—they don’t even need my testimony anymore. They’ve got the prints on the whisky bottle at the scene, so yes, you are buggered if you go back.”
“And buggered if we don’t,” Alan said. He went and joined John at the parapet.
“Are you buying any of this, big brother?”
Grainger lit a smoke from the butt of the old one and flicked the stub away over the edge.
“We’re here—that’s about the only thing I know for sure; that and the fact that Galloway is scum and needs putting down. On that, at least, we can agree. Beyond that, we’ll have to wait and see.”
* * *
Alan was looking out over the view so he was the first to spot it. It came from the mountains to the north, a mere speck at first but becoming more distinct as it came closer, black wings outspread like an eagle, long neck straight forwar
d like a spear tip as it came fast against the wind.
Alan stepped back. Simon put a hand on his shoulder.
“It cannot reach us here. Watch and learn its ways. You may see something we do not.”
As before, it came to a landing on the open ground in front of what John had called the Cathedral. A figure—Galloway—walked forward to meet it, dwarfed by the size of the thing.
“It’s bigger than a fucking jumbo jet,” John said softly as it lowered its head. Even at that distance they clearly saw Galloway reach up and stroke it between the eyes.
“There’s obviously plenty you’re not telling us,” Alan said.
The tall man watched the bird for a long moment before replying.
“Believe me, you know anything that is pertinent. The rest is just history, the follies of weak men and a sorry tale of decline and fall. If we prevail, I’ll gladly tell it all over a smoke and a drink. But there is no time for that story now. As you can see, the bond between the Cobbe and the newcomer has grown strong—they feed off each other, and I fear the time is close when nothing will be able to stop them.”
“Stop them from what?”
Simon suddenly looked old—beaten almost.
“From taking complete control of this land. From corrupting that which was thought incorruptible—for killing any dreams of the future for my folk.”
He looked to John and Alan.
“I’m asking for your help—no, more than that, I’m begging for it. Will you give it?”
21
Grainger didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and shook the tall man’s hand.
“I wouldn’t be much of a copper if I just turned my back on a cry for help, now would I?”
Alan—as Grainger knew he would—also shook Simon’s hand, but with rather less enthusiasm.
The Exiled Page 11
