“I have four bands,” said Jack. “It is better than nothing. Far better.”
“Will you be able to scry out the nature of the shadow?” said Noah to Jack.
He gave a little shrug. “I’ll go down to London today. I won’t know until I’m down there.”
“Do you think Catling has them?” Harry said.
Jack looked about the room, considering his answer. “Grace said something to me just now…there are very few people who could touch the kingship bands. Catling is one, and the others are all in this room: Noah, Silvius, Ariadne, Grace herself. Does anyone here want to confess to stealing them? No? Then Catling has them. There is no one else who could take them.”
“Why would she take them?” said Noah.
Jack threw his hands up. “Who knows? I have no idea why she’d take them, then claim all this innocence and anger at ‘my loss’ of them.”
“Perhaps she just wants an excuse to act,” said Grace.
At that Weyland turned to Jack.
“Why the hell have you lost them, Jack? For all the gods’ sakes, this is my daughter’s life you’re playing with! Couldn’t you have managed to—”
“It’s not really Jack’s fault—” Noah began.
Weyland sent her a glance of simmering anger, and Noah looked away.
“You care for nothing but your own gratification,” Weyland went on, addressing Jack once more. “You do nothing but tear lives apart and—”
“Fine words from a man who personally tore apart Cornelia’s and my three sons when Troia Nova fell!” Jack snarled.
“You haven’t thought about them for three and a half thousand damned years,” Weyland shouted. “Don’t pretend to be feeling a loss now!”
“That’s enough!” Silvius roared, making both Weyland and Jack step back. “That’s enough,” he repeated more moderately. “Catling has played her cards well, eh? To have you two at each other’s throats? United you’re her doom. Separated by anger and jealousy you’re her triumph. Try to remember it.”
Jack and Weyland stared at Silvius, then looked to each other. They didn’t say anything, but both nodded, then looked away.
Noah, watching, sighed.
“Well, well,” said Catling. “That was very pretty, wasn’t it?”
Jack was in his bedroom in Copt Hall. He paused in the act of draping his jacket over a bedpost, and turned around.
Catling was standing in the door, leaning nonchalantly against its frame, her arms folded.
Jack raised his eyebrows. “Pretty?” He undid the cuffs of his shirt sleeves, then very slowly rolled them up to his elbows, exposing the lower of his armbands. “What was pretty?”
“What you did for Grace,” said Catling. “Dragging her away from the pain like that. Very pretty trick. I should have remembered Ariadne might tell you about that; she wouldn’t have had the power to drag Grace away from me, but you do.”
“I’ll do it again, Catling. If I need to.”
“You’ve become quite attached to Grace, haven’t you, Jack?”
He didn’t answer, turning to the side table where Malcolm had laid out a late-night whisky, and picking up the glass.
“Whatever you can do for Grace’s pain, Jack, you mustn’t forget that her fate is tied to mine. Grimacing in pain or smiling happily, she’ll go down with me if you think to unwind me.”
Jack sat down on the side of his bed, sipping at the whisky. “I haven’t forgotten it.”
“My, my,” said Catling, very softly, very threateningly. “You think you’re so clever, eh? Well, maybe you can rescue Grace from her pain—I’ve grown a little tired of that trick, anyway—but you can’t stop me from wounding you in other ways, Jack. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Don’t think you can—”
“Don’t think to harm me, Jack! If you do, if you try one more trick like that UXB outside my front door, then I’ll destroy you!”
“You can’t destroy me. You need me.”
Catling stared at him. “You have no idea what I can do to you, Jack.”
Then she vanished, and Jack was left sitting on the bed, whisky in hand, staring blankly at the now-empty doorway.
Eventually, he roused himself, drained the whisky and turned out the light, laying down atop the bed fully clothed.
He didn’t sleep all night.
Neither did Catling rest. Someone had the final two bands, and, having thought a little about it, Catling was beginning to think Jack had them, whatever he said.
He wasn’t wearing them at present, Catling would have felt that, but no doubt he’d secreted them away at some point, where he could snatch them and use them once he was ready to attack her.
Taken in that context, Jack’s little display of indignation and anger was rather amusing. Convince her he didn’t have the bands, and then strike when she least expected it.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have gone to Jack and threatened him, but the entire day had unsettled Catling just the littlest bit. Best to remind Jack of what she might do if truly riled.
And best for her, she thought, if she started to make some backup plans. Turn all that strength she was gaining from the Blitz to useful purpose. Make sure, absolutely certain, that when Jack and Noah moved they wouldn’t be able to snatch her.
Grace was the key.
Grace was the perfect backup plan.
Catling finally managed a small smile, relaxing as she considered her options and how she might use Grace to full effect.
She still didn’t like it that the imps had vanished, though.
Where could those dratted blackhearted creatures have got to?
EIGHT
London
Tuesday, 24th September 1940
Jack rose before first light, dressed, took coffee and toast in the kitchen, then drove down to London.
He parked in central London, in the ancient City, and then…walked.
Feeling. Feeling the City almost as if it were the first time he’d stepped foot in it. Feeling the City as if it were a stranger to him, and he to it; feeling it with the force and power of the four kingship bands of Troy that he wore.
He could sense Troy in the City. Sometimes he caught sight of a rampart out of the corner of his eye, and he turned to look, and would think for a moment he saw the walls of Troy rising behind one of London’s grim nineteenth-century warehouses.
Sometimes Jack heard the distant wail of an air raid siren, or caught the far-off drone of aircraft as the RAF drove back a Luftwaffe bomber raid, and heard as well the war cries of the Greeks, and the thud of horses’ hooves as the besiegers drove their war chariots against Troy’s walls yet one more time.
How had he missed this before? Ah, it was the kingship bands, Jack knew that, but still he was overcome with wonderment as he wandered the City. Had he done this, infused London with the ghostly presence of Troy, or had it been the Game, resurrecting once more its birthplace?
Was this his work, or Catling’s?
And what did it mean for London’s fate? Was it destined to die like Troy, be betrayed as Troy had once been—
By the Troy Game itself, Aeneas had said.
—or would London manage to escape its predecessor’s fate, and become master of its own destiny?
To none of these questions could Jack find an answer. All he could do was wander and absorb the greater understanding, the greater reality, of London. It amazed him, enthralled him, terrified him and comforted him, all in one.
The shadow hung heavier than ever over the city (had such a shadow hung over Troy? Was it a precursor to destruction?), and try as Jack might to garner a greater understanding of it, all he could manage was to gain a sense of the hugeness of it.
Damocles’ sword, he thought, had nothing on this.
Towards the evening, when he was worn out from wandering and the frustration of not being able, despite the bands, to scry out any understanding of the shadow, Jack sent a message to Grace.
Grace, are you free? Will yo
u meet me this evening at seven, on the corner of Knaresborough Place and Cromwell Road? I need to speak with you. Please, Grace.
He wasn’t sure if she would agree, but within moments he received a faint assent, and he smiled.
And the next moment froze in anger, as Catling once again stood before him. Jack had been moving through the empty backstreets of Covent Garden, heading to his car, and had almost reached the Austin.
She stood in the twilight some three or four paces down the street, in the centre of the road. She smiled once she realised Jack had seen her, and drew her hands out from behind her back.
She held one of the golden kingship bands of Troy in each hand.
Do you see these, Jack? Do you want them?
“Damn you,” Jack said, taking a step forward. “What is this? First you say you don’t have them, and now you tease me with them? Why the torment? Just give them to me, damn you! I am of little use to you without them!”
Catling’s form shimmered, as if it had lost strength at Jack’s anger, and the bands faded completely from view.
They’re in my dark heart, Jack. Waiting for you. All you need do is—
Jack made a grab for the bands, but Catling vanished the instant before he touched them. As Jack stumbled and almost fell, he heard, in the distance, the sound of the air raid sirens starting up.
The Luftwaffe back again.
Grace was waiting at the corner of Knaresborough Place and Cromwell Road in Kensington by the time Jack got there just after seven. She had on a dark coat, and a cap pulled down low over her brow, but the top of the coat was open enough for Jack to see that she wore a pretty frock underneath, and he smiled, pleased.
“Ariadne let you out for the night, then?” he said as he bent down and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.
He wondered when she would move on from Ariadne’s apartment, and his stomach gave a little flip as he imagined her arriving at Copt Hall one day, suitcase in hand.
Grace glanced back down Knaresborough Place to the white-stuccoed portico of Ariadne’s apartment building. “She and Silvius had enough to occupy them,” she said. “I doubt they realise I’ve gone. Jack, what have you discovered?”
Both her voice and face were a little strained, and, as Jack slipped his arm through hers, he gave it a slight squeeze of comfort.
“No more or less than I expected, Grace. Is there a teashop or cafe near here? It is cold and dark, and I fancy the reassurance of some light.”
Not the best thing to say, perhaps, if you wanted to comfort someone, but Jack thought Grace would better appreciate the truth than a mouthful of platitudes.
“The White Queen Cafe is just up Cromwell Road,” Grace said. “I believe Mrs Stanford keeps it open until ten, even through air raids—”
Both glanced up at that. Planes had been droning overhead for an hour or two now, but as yet no bombs had been heard in central London.
“—and I’ve heard the cake alone is worth a visit. Jack—”
“Wait,” he said, “let’s get a table and some tea, and then we can talk.” He paused, thinking as they walked on, then added, “Of shadows and bands and cold-faced women dressed in black.”
The White Queen Cafe was open but empty, and the proprietor, Mrs Stanford, perked up when the door opened and the man and woman came in.
“I thought I’d not see a soul tonight,” she said as she took their coats, then guided them to a table, not near the blacked-out windows, but towards the rear of the rooms where it would be safer in case a bomb
hit nearby. She glanced upwards, as if she could see the planes that flew so far overhead. “Now, what can I get you, Major? Miss?”
When Mrs Stanford returned with a tray of tea and slices of marmalade cake, she nodded to the radio that sat on a table close to the register. “The king is to give a speech tonight. Did you know? Ah, I’ll turn the radio on, low like, for you so you can listen.” She straightened up from their table, the empty tray now tucked under her arm. “And I’ll leave you two to it, shall I? Courting couple and all.” She winked, first at Jack then at Grace, then switched on the radio, and “left them to it”, as promised.
Jack grinned. “Just remember, Grace, you were the one who suggested this place. Have you been here before?”
“No. I heard about it from…well, from someone recently. Can’t quite remember who…oh, never mind. They said Mrs Stanford’s marmalade cake was worth the visit, if nothing else. And they said it would be quiet. A good place for a talk.”
“Well,” said Jack, looking about the empty cafe, “I doubt it could get much quieter.”
As they fiddled with their tea, adding milk and sugar, and selecting a slice of marmalade cake, Jack surreptitiously studied Grace.
She was wearing a lovely soft grey dress which suited her colouring perfectly. It had three-quarterlength sleeves and, as Grace raised her teacup to her mouth, the diamond bands—hidden until now—suddenly twinkled into sight.
It warmed his heart; this was a far different woman to the one he had first met on coming home to London.
She coloured a little when she saw the expression in his eyes as he regarded her, so he put down his cup of tea, and brought matters from the personal to the more practical.
“I walked through London all day, Grace.”
“And?”
She leaned forward, eager for news, and Jack wished he had something better to tell her. “I can understand no more about this shadow, although the enormity of the thing, its sheer gravity, is more impressive than ever. Damn it, Grace, I wish I had better news for you, but I need those final two bands. Without them…”
Grace’s face fell, and Jack hurried on. “Grace, you haven’t been out much, out in London, since Ariadne took you under her wing, right?”
She shook her head slowly.
“Look,” Jack said, “I know it is a long shot, but can you try to sense more about it? You and I, we’re the only ones who can trace its pattern…and since you’ve been with Ariadne, you’ve opened yourself up to a great deal more power.”
He saw the surprise in her face, and he gave a little grimace. “Yes, I’m still worried about the imps, but there hasn’t been a murder in weeks.”
“Not since the night my father saw them.”
“No,” Jack said slowly. “Maybe they realised his presence and…”
“What?”
“A few nights later the Blitz started.”
“Jack?”
“Ah, I don’t know. There’s something there, but,” he smiled, “I am so distracted by your loveliness my mind refuses to work.” He allowed the moment to linger a little, then went on. “Keep safe. Don’t stay out after late afternoon. And take someone with you if possible.”
“All right, Jack.” She smiled, and it was a slow and lovely thing. “Maybe my two bands will help in understanding the shadow.”
In the kitchen the White Queen paused with her arms up to their elbows in the sink, then inclined her head very slightly towards the door through to the shop.
He smiled. “Thank you.”
They listened to the radio for a few minutes as they drank their tea. There was an amateur variety show on, and its abysmal offering was slowly driving Jack towards considering a murder of the radio set. There were moments when he truly yearned for a resurrection of some ancient Aegean entertainments.
“I saw Catling today,” he said, not wanting to tell Grace about Catling’s visit last night and her ominous message.
Grace stilled.
“She appeared to me in the streets, an hour or so ago, flaunting the two remaining bands before me, telling me they rested in her dark heart, and were mine only if I decided on a visit.”
Grace’s blue eyes had grown large and round. “Why? Why is she doing this? What does she want?”
“For me to visit her dark heart, I suppose.”
“And will you?”
Jack sighed, the fingers of one hand now rubbing at his forehead. “To be honest, Grace,
the thought terrifies me.” He tried a small smile and failed miserably. “I am not the Kingman I once was.”
“She will kill you if you go down there.”
“Not ‘kill’, precisely. She needs me alive. But something much, much nastier.”
At that moment both started, and Grace spilled tea out of her cup.
In the distance had come the faint muffled cruuuuuump of a bomb blast.
Then, a moment later, two others.
“It is going to be a bad night,” Mrs Stanford said, making both Grace and Jack jump again. She wiped her hands on her apron as she came through into the cafe, turned up the radio a little, then retreated back into the kitchen.
“What is Catling going to do?” Grace whispered once Mrs Stanford had gone.
Jack gave a despairing shake of his head. “It isn’t the first time Catling has spoken to me of her dark heart. After Noah and I made the Great Marriage, she appeared and told me the greatest marriage I could ever make was in her dark heart. She wants me there. Badly. Perhaps that’s why she took the bands. But why, why this pretence…one moment all innocence, and the next literally standing before me, bands in hand. Ah. I don’t understand her.”
The distant bomb blasts continued, now punctuating the night air with even regularity.
“Jack—”
Before Grace could continue, the voice of an announcer broke into the variety show.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a message from our king, George VI…”
Jack and Grace fell silent as the king spoke. It was surreal, Jack thought, as he visualised the self-effacing George sitting in front of a radio microphone somewhere in Buckingham Palace, talking of the sacrifice and honour and bravery of the British troops and the civilians at home, when all about him bombs toppled over and over lazily through the night sky, exploding somewhere in the city.
Mrs Stanford had come to the kitchen door to listen, and so Jack kept his voice quiet when he spoke to Grace.
“Do you ever see him…the king?”
“Rarely, Jack. He finds it difficult to get away from his palace and the court.”
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