The Twelve Dragons of Albion

by Mark Hayden

  I can’t do very much with my magick, but you don’t need to do much to a cricket ball if it’s already doing the basics. After half a dozen balls of conventional leg spin, I unleashed a googly with enhanced spin.

  Ben stared at his missing leg stump. ‘Where did that come from?’ he asked, bemused.

  ‘That was an evil delivery,’ said Ross.

  ‘Oh, you know, we played a lot of cricket in Afghanistan. Very good spinners the Afghans.’

  While we were packing up, Ben gave me a membership form. ‘You’re already an honorary life-member, aren’t you, because of the ground?’

  I nodded.

  ‘You need to fill this in for the league, I’m afraid, and I’ll have to charge match fees. Sorry. You coming to the Inkwell later?’

  ‘Try and stop me.’

  To get it out of the way, I filled in the membership form at the kitchen table before going out to the pub. For some reason, the league wanted to know all sorts of information, and I had to read the damn thing carefully. Rival teams can –and do – go through players’ registration details with a fine toothed comb and don’t hesitate to report any irregularities or omissions.

  At the bottom of the form was a short declaration: To uphold the laws and spirit of the game and not to seek unfair advantage by whatever means.

  They meant drugs, or bribes, or something commonplace, but what about magick? Working for the Allfather, and dating Mina, had reinforced the importance of making and keeping an oath, so could I sign this and still use enhanced spin on my googly?

  ‘What’s the problem?’ said Thomas Clarke.

  I dropped the pen, banged my leg on the table and fell over, all in one well-executed moment of panic.

  ‘Can’t you ring the bloody front door bell?’ I said through gritted teeth. I rubbed my leg. ‘And what’s with the hair?’

  My Spectral guest had gone all King Charles with the curls, and sported a lumberjack shirt. He must know I’m sensitive about my bald patch.

  ‘The front door bell doesn’t work,’ he said, a little disappointed with his welcome.

  ‘The wire’s broken, that’s all. I’m sure you can summon enough magick to ting the bell. That way I’ll know it’s you. Sorry. It’s nice to see you, Grandfather.’

  ‘And you. Is there something wrong?’

  ‘Can I play cricket and use magick?’

  He looked horrified. ‘In God’s name, no! That would be terrible. Not that I’ve played cricket, but to use magick in the mundane world is to cross the line. You can never go back.’

  This was something I’d have to think about carefully, so I asked the question I’d wondered about since our last meeting. ‘Why is our well so important? You drowned in it, and that’s where the Allfather appeared to recruit me.’

  ‘It’s about the well that I came tonight,’ said Thomas. He frowned and became a little transparent. I crossed my fingers, hoping that he could hold it together long enough to have a proper conversation.

  ‘It’s getting harder,’ he said. ‘The effort it takes to materialise means that I can’t get at the memories I need to talk about.’

  ‘There’s a Catch-22 and no mistake,’ I said. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘You? No. What you need is a Necromancer.’

  ‘Oh. I killed the last one I came across.’

  Thomas raised his eyebrows. ‘Go on. You never said what happened when you went away, when you were touched by the Goddess. Why did you kill him?’

  ‘Her. Most Mages are women these days.’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘Mother Nature never ceases to surprise me.’

  ‘Me neither, but Debs Sayer wasn’t being very maternal when she tried to bind her own daughter to the spirit of Helen of Troy.’

  ‘Merciful God, Conrad! Helen? How can she be free? I…’

  Thomas faded, and was gone. I waited for a while, thinking about his reaction. The key phrase had been Helen of Troy. That was what had disturbed him, and it clearly had some personal significance that was lost in his fading memories. Perhaps I would try to find a more sympathetic Necromancer. Vicky might know one.

  I took the unsigned form to the pub and joined the rest of the team (the over-18s, anyway).

  When Ben saw me, he said, ‘Ross Miller was right. That was a truly evil googly you sent my way.’

  Don’t you just hate irony? I don’t think the message could have been clearer: play clean or not at all. I signed the form and handed it over. ‘I don’t think I’ll manage a ball like that again,’ I said. ‘I nearly dislocated my finger. Too risky.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Ben, clapping me on the shoulder. ‘Your bowling definitely has a place, though not on every wicket. Cheers.’

  That was good enough for me. I’ll save what little magick I have for enemies of the King’s Peace, and the batsmen of Winchcombe, Fiddington and Oxenton can sleep easy in their beds.

  On Sunday, I went for a long walk around the village, and spent a long time at the well at the bottom of our garden. Since being touched by the Goddess, I could feel the magick radiating from its watery depths, when before it had just been a well to me. The magick was faint, and old, and its flavour too subtle to identify, but it was there. I shrugged, and added it to my inbox, along with the question of Vicky’s behaviour in Club Justine.

  She and Desirée had gone there wearing Glamours, illusions to make look them even more attractive than they already are. Vicky described it as a game, to see what they could get from the punters. Cricket is a game, too, and if using enhanced spin was crossing the line, what did that say about Vicky and her friend?

  Vicky was waiting for me outside Hannah’s office on Monday morning. There was no sign of Tennille. Vicky gave me a big grin and shuffled along the sofa. ‘Take the weight off your feet, Uncle Conrad.’

  I flopped down next to her. ‘That would be Take the weight off your feet, sir.’

  ‘Howay man, we’re both captains. I don’t have to call you sir because you’re older or nothing, do I? Not that I would anyway.’

  ‘Oh, no, Captain Robson, you call me sir because I’m a squadron leader and I outrank you. According to regulations, squadron leader is equivalent to major in the army.’

  ‘How did you swing that? You must be on a packet, and you’ll get combat allowance.’

  ‘I swung it by doing my time on the front line. Or above it. Hannah appointed me on a resumed commission, so I keep my old rank.’

  She punched my arm and said, ‘You lucky bastard. Again.’

  Vicky is a Geordie, in case you hadn’t guessed, and is perpetually short of money, mostly because she insists on renting beyond her means. Like most female Mages, she wears her hair very long, and when it’s pulled back, it emphasises her slightly heavy jaw and pointy nose. Hers is a striking face, and one that can look very attractive when she smiles. When she’s down, she could model for a Victorian workhouse picture.

  I’m the last person to pass judgement on women’s fashions, but you have a right to know what her wardrobe is like. I think she spends too much money on the wrong things, as if she’s trying to express herself in a language she doesn’t quite understand. Today it was variations on black and white, with high waisted trousers that I’d last seen on an old Bananarama poster, and a very loose white blouse under a fitted jacket.

  Before we could catch up properly, the door opened and Tennille appeared. We both stood up.

  ‘The Constable will see you now. Just you Mr Clarke,’ said Tennille with something approaching a frown. ‘How is it you can upset her without even being here?’

  Oops. What now?

  I slipped into the Constable’s office and stood to attention at a respectful distance. At our second meeting she’d had a copy of my RAF records, covered with black redactions. She now had the unexpurgated version, and was shaking her head at it.

  ‘You cannot be serious, Clarke.’

  I kept my peace.

  Hannah looked up. ‘How can you apply f
or a job in law enforcement when you’ve confessed to money laundering on an industrial scale, grand theft and murder?’

  I was going to keep on keeping my peace until I realised that she wasn’t being rhetorical.

  ‘I didn’t confess to anything, ma’am, I simply provided details of certain activities. I haven’t murdered anyone: they were all trying to kill me and I got in first.’

  ‘All? There’s only one here.’

  Double oops. I examined the ceiling.

  ‘Unbelievable. And then there’s this.’ She held up a chit of some sort.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘You dragged Vicky to see one of your partners in crime at a prison. Are you trying to corrupt her already?’

  Oh. I had hoped that I could keep Mina below the radar, or whatever the magickal equivalent of radar is. Below the threshold of the Sympathetic Echo, or something like that. Again, the Constable wanted an answer.

  ‘Captain Robson is her own woman, ma’am, as is Ms Desai. I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise either of them, and on that I give my word.’

  ‘You’d better bloody well not.’ She waved at the contents of my file. ‘Does Vicky know any of this?’

  ‘No, ma’am. Nor will she.’

  ‘Good. Now what about this?’ She swapped the file for some more RAF papers. ‘You’ve got more chutzpah than my big brother, do you know that? I can’t believe you tricked me into appointing you as a major – and I have to pay a bloody fortune out of a small budget for you to get your pilot’s licence back.’

  ‘Wings, ma’am. I want my wings back. They’re much more than a pilot’s licence, and could be an important asset to the Watch.’

  ‘I’m only paying once. Understand? No annual renewals unless you fork out yourself.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And none of this will be processed unless you’re accepted into the Watch. You are very much on a warning for the next ten days, Clarke, and acceptance is not a formality.’

  She pressed a button summon Vicky, then shuffled all the papers off her desk and forced a smile.

  ‘Vicky, Conrad, I’m putting you two together because I think you might complement each other to the benefit of the Watch. Vicky, you’ve got your orders?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Vicky. She looked hurt, like a small child who’s being told off for something it didn’t do.

  ‘Then get on with it. And don’t let me down.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ I said quickly, and grabbed Vicky’s arm to steer her away before she said something she’d regret.

  ‘What was that all about?’ she demanded the second the doors closed behind us. Tennille was thankfully elsewhere.

  I pointed to the tray: it was set up with three cups and had most definitely not been used. ‘We’ve been sent to bed with no supper. Sorry, Vic, it was my fault. Nothing whatever to do with you. It will all blow over if I keep my head down for a bit. Let’s get a coffee somewhere else, and you can tell me what we’re up to.’

  We adjourned to the Costa Coffee outside the Tower of London, and Vicky told me that she’d given up smoking again. I took a nicotine minute outside, then we squeezed together in a corner.

  Away from Hannah’s waves of disapproval, Vicky perked up. ‘We’re off to the Invisible College,’ she said. ‘All Watch Captains must be registered, and that’s job number one.’

  ‘What is this Invisible College? Where is this Invisible College? And don’t tell me you can’t see it.’

  ‘You can’t. Even with your Talent for penetrating Glamours, you’ll need a token to see the place. As to what it is, that’s a long story. Where? The front entrance is in Frederick’s Place, near Cheapside. We’ll get a cab in a minute.’

  ‘We’ll walk,’ I said firmly. ‘It will do us both good, and you can tell me the long story. Before then, you can clear something up for me.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’

  ‘Yes. I know your father was a miner, and that you were sent to some sort of Mage-friendly boarding school, but how did you get from one to the other?’

  Vicky looked into her coffee. ‘Me Dad was a miner –a pitman, but that was years before I was born. I’ve got two brothers older than you, Conrad, from his first marriage. They split up when he got sacked after the strike.’

  The way she said sacked clearly struck a nerve. ‘He wasn’t made redundant?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘He was drunk on shift. Sacked. No payout, nothing. It took him years to get himself straight, apparently, but he did it, and he got married again. They weren’t expecting me, and I wasn’t expecting this Goth lass to tap us on the shoulder in Eldon Square one day and say, “Can I see your Mam and Dad about putting you in for a scholarship?”’

  ‘A Goth?’

  ‘Aye. Black hair, black nails, black lipstick, black dress: the full Monty. There’s quite a few in Newcastle.’

  ‘Right.’

  Vicky changed the subject. ‘How’s Mina?’ she asked, with a combination of genuine sympathy and prurient curiosity. Until Monday, Vicky had never been inside a prison.

  ‘She’s trying to come to terms with the magickal world,’ I said. ‘She can’t decide if your visit was a figment of her imagination or a practical joke. Unfortunately, I can’t get a visiting order to see her for another week.’

  ‘Poor lass.’

  ‘She’s been through worse. It’ll soon be the first anniversary of her husband’s murder.’ Before Vicky could ask any further questions, I drained my coffee. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘Do we have to walk? It might rain.’

  ‘Won’t kill you. You can borrow my woolly hat, if you like.’

  ‘Nah. You need it to cover your bald patch.’

  We trod the familiar route up to the Bank of England, and Vicky told me the story of the Invisible College.

  ‘He didn’t mean literally invisible,’ she began. ‘In modern language, it would be virtual college – a society to promote knowledge and bring practitioners together.’

  ‘Start again. Who’s he?’

  ‘Oh. Robert Boyle. Have you heard of Boyle’s Law?’

  I had, and told her so.

  ‘Well, he was both an alchemist and a scientist; some would say he was the first scientist because he wrote The Sceptical Chymist. That’s why graduates of the Invisible College are known as Chymists. We do our magick slightly differently to other Mages and Witches.’

  ‘I’m with you so far.’

  ‘Robert Boyle was the founding Warden, and he decided it should actually have premises and rules and stuff. He called the building Salomon’s House, and it got a royal charter. We all have to swear an oath to the Queen. You used to have to be a member of the Church of England, too.’

  I thought of the Lunar Sisters. ‘I bet that wasn’t popular.’

  ‘No. There are Circles all over Britain that have their own apprentices and rules and stuff because they wouldn’t swear the oath or join the Church. One of the main roles of the Watch – you and me, in other words – is to keep an eye on the Circles.’

  ‘Mother Julia said something about Glastonbury.’

  ‘The Daughters of the Goddess. It’s the biggest Circle in Britain or Ireland, and lots of covens pledge allegiance. They’re quite strict and don’t give us much trouble.’

  ‘Just daughters? No sons?’

  ‘Not at Glastonbury and the affiliated Circles. Some of the others are mixed, and one or two are all male. I thought of joining a mixed circle in Northumberland after school, but it wasn’t for me.’

  We had gone up Cheapside, turned into Old Jewry and then into the short dead-end of Frederick’s Place. Nothing in this anonymous street looked remotely like a seat of occult power.

  ‘Hold me hand,’ said Vicky.

  I did, and felt a tingle (no, not that sort of tingle. Vicky is like a niece to me. That’s why she calls me Uncle Conrad). I blinked, and there it was. The plain wall next to the Mercers’ Company had become the baroque doorway of Salomon’s House. Vicky touched the
symbolic pickaxe on the chain around her neck, and an invisible hand opened the door.

  ‘After you,’ she said.

  I stepped over the threshold and into a world of power, privilege and politics. You could tell that just from the walls.

  The Receiving Room (as Vicky named it), is about five metres by seven, and covered with exquisitely ornamented dark oak panelling. All across the wood, small animals chased each other. Birds pecked at berries, skulls grinned and carved oak leaves sported acorns.

  Most spectacular of all was the painted ceiling, only it wasn’t painted. Grey clouds scudded across the sky, moving just like the ones outside, and the whole thing was lit by the sun. You could tell that it was a flat surface, but it was most definitely the piece of sky above us.

  ‘How?’ I asked, pointing upwards with a mystified expression on my face.

  ‘Don’t ask me. On a clear day, you can even see vapour trails. Clever, though.’

  I dragged my eyes away from the canopy above, and only then did I notice the portraits, almost in shadow, along the left hand wall. The first two, a woman and man wearing elaborate Tudor dress, were hanging upside down. I pointed to them and said, ‘Who?’

  Vicky indicated the inverted woman. ‘Mary Tudor, aka Bloody Mary, and next to her is her occult inquisitor, Don José da Logroño. He was a nasty piece of work. Between them, they tried to strangle free magick at birth.’

  ‘Don’t tell me: it’s a long story.’

  ‘How long have you got? Basically, before the Reformation, all magick used to be controlled by the Church in Rome. You either toed the line and joined a convent or you were killed. I’m no historian, but they reckon that the protestant churches didn’t have the centralised infrastructure to contain Mages, and that’s when free magick began. And that’s when we came in.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The King’s Watch. The first Peculier Constable was appointed to keep the King’s Peace – to stop magick from interfering with everyday life. As you know, James was obsessed with witches, and a lot of the Circles haven’t forgiven us for that.’

  A twinge in my ears reminded me of Mother Julia’s attempt to deafen me, or worse, before we reached an understanding. Memories are long in the world of magick. I noticed that there was no portrait of James here. ‘Who are the others?’