After he graduated, various intelligence agencies (including the Checquy) tried to recruit him into their service, but Grantchester was not interested. All reports agreed that he was quite ambitious but did not hold any political ideologies to which anyone could appeal. Instead, Grantchester entered the world of money and profit.
His work with an investment firm proved that when he wasn’t shagging girls with long hair and short skirts, Grantchester had picked up a very good education. His employers sent him all over the world, where he made large amounts of money and lots of useful contacts. He was focused and driven, and worth several million by the time he was thirty. Though he was still popular with the ladies, at age thirty-two he married Caroline Marsh, who came from a very good family and moved in all the right circles.
At the age of thirty-three, Grantchester began experiencing stinging sensations at specific points on his skin. Naturally, he went to the best doctors in the country, whose thorough examination of him yielded some very interesting findings, which were passed along to us.
Conrad is able to manufacture a variety of chemical compounds inside his body and then vent them through his pores in the form of a fine mist. The properties of these compounds range from a deadly toxin to a nonlethal lachrymatory (tear gas) to a spray that has no effect at all. All of these gases, however, emerge as a dark cloud that blacks out the area it covers.
But in spite of his obvious suitability for the Checquy, Grantchester still proved to be extremely difficult to recruit. As I mentioned, he had been courted after he finished university, and he had developed a sort of immunity to government recruiters. He was already making a tremendous amount of money. It was going to be tough to buy him.
Eventually, however, the opportunity for adventure, intellectual stimulation, and genuine power persuaded him, and he joined us.
He also received a massive pay package.
Grantchester went through a few courses at the Estate, receiving some acclimatization to the world as it actually was, and then he was moved into our foreign affairs section. He traveled everywhere, demonstrating that not every supernatural problem needs to be solved with a cross, stake, or shotgun. Many of them can be solved with some discreet diplomatic maneuvering and a few minor concessions. Also some judicious wining and dining—it wasn’t just Grantchester’s language skills and business acumen that made him valuable. As it turned out, his handsome face and excellent manners proved useful as well.
He brokered a treaty with the Sirens of the Mediterranean Sea (some of the diplomacy even took place standing up), oversaw the tactful deposition of a dictator in Antarctica, and facilitated the installation of a tyrant in a small African nation. It was automatically assumed that he would rise to the Court, but everyone was fairly surprised when he was given the position of Rook rather than Chevalier.
As Rook, he did a great deal of consolidating and streamlining of the Checquy’s domestic finances. I’ve had the opportunity to review what the situation was like before he took it in hand, and it was a veritable Gordian knot of trusts, accounts, inheritances, discretionary funds, and properties. We weren’t exactly hemorrhaging money, but there was some gradual seepage. Grantchester tidied that up.
Grantchester has also proven very, very good at assigning people to the tasks they’re best suited for—he has an excellent understanding of others’ strengths and weaknesses. I suppose it’s a corporate thing. Anyway, he’s made several unorthodox promotions that many people questioned and that later turned out to be genius. His experiences in business also taught him how to be an effective headhunter. He brings in exceptionally skilled people from outside the Checquy.
He oversaw the design and reconstruction of the Rookery, which gives extra insight into the kind of mind he has: respectable on the outside and sneaky on the inside. Grantchester likes to be prepared, with all contingencies covered and everything organized into nice, methodical systems. He’s not much of a combat person, although he has no problem with ordering assassinations—but he does that only when all other negotiations have failed.
After eight years as a Rook, Grantchester made the jump to Bishop, giving him oversight of the entire organization. He examined the greater financial structure, which proved to be even more convoluted and leaky than the domestic ops. Grantchester rolled up his sleeves and made us profitable.
Personally, I respect the hell out of him. His administrative innovations revolutionized the organization, and he’s brilliantly businesslike about everything. I inherited his position and his bachelor pad (he wasn’t a bachelor when he built and decorated it, by the way). He is a shoo-in to lead the Checquy when Wattleman or Farrier shuffles off this coil (if they ever do), so I imagine I’ll be working under him for quite a while.
And did I mention how handsome he is?
In addition, it’s worth noting that he doesn’t limit his amorous activities to outside stakeholders and has slept with quite a few female Checquy employees. Not me, I hasten to add, which I have rather mixed feelings about. His conquests have always been very discreet, but I’ve uncovered a few liaisons in the course of my research that form the basis of my blackmail material. There have been no illegitimate children, but one girl, a very popular member of the Checquy, killed herself when he broke it off. Her suicide rocked the organization, but only I and Grantchester know that he was the reason.
15
Rook Thomas?” Ingrid carefully made her way into the office. Myfanwy looked up, startled, from the reports she was reading. Amazing, she thought, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her really freaked out before. The secretary was actually perspiring.
“Ingrid, are you all right? You look quite flushed. It’s not…” She trailed off in embarrassment. After all, Ingrid was of a certain age.
“No, it’s not that!” snapped Ingrid. “I just received notification that the Americans are coming!”
“All of them?” asked Myfanwy.
“You know, it’s not wise to be sarcastic with your executive assistant,” remarked Ingrid tightly. “And it isn’t the American people, it’s the American Bishops.”
There are American Bishops? wondered Myfanwy. There’s an American Checquy? This was probably explained somewhere in the purple binder, but over the past two days, she’d gotten so caught up in the work at hand that she hadn’t had much time to consult it. Overseeing all the details and making sure everything tied together well was absorbing. And whatever talent had resided in Thomas’s brain appeared to have stayed. Once or twice she’d forgotten that she wasn’t the same Myfanwy Thomas everyone assumed she was. She was no longer worried that each thing she said or did would clash with everyone’s mental image of what Rook Thomas would say or do. And she’d learned that betraying a bit of ignorance wouldn’t automatically reveal her secret. She was finally coming to appreciate the power that came with being a member of the Court.
“Okay, so the American Bishops are coming,” Myfanwy said. “I’m guessing they’re here to bother Conrad and Alrich. All the old diplomats getting together for snifters of brandy, sitting ’round the fireplace, wheeling and dealing and deciding the fate of nations over nibbles, eh?” She cocked an eyebrow at Ingrid.
“No, Rook Thomas,” said Ingrid. “They’re here to see you.”
“Me?” she asked incredulously.
“You,” said Ingrid with finality. They stared at each other.
“Is this because I was sarcastic about the Americans coming over?” Myfanwy asked at last.
“No,” said Ingrid. “Although it certainly makes up for it.”
“Well, when are they coming?” asked Myfanwy.
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Forty-five minutes! Forty-fucking-five minutes!” Myfanwy stood up behind the desk and started frantically tidying. The dish of biscuits went into the drawer, and papers were hastily stacked. Then the stacks were knocked over. “You know, I could order a pizza and have more time to get ready for it.” She looked at her clothes critically. It wasn’t quite a
casual-Friday outfit, but she’d dressed for a day with no meetings. “Why do they want to talk to me?” she asked desperately.
“You wrote the report, Rook Thomas.”
“What report?”
“The report on the Grafters, the one you wrote after the Rooks and the Chevs met.”
“That was classified!” Myfanwy exclaimed. “That was for the eyes of the Checquy only!” She stacked the papers again.
“The Grafters are on the List, those subjects that initiate automatic alerts,” explained Ingrid. “Certain matters are automatically communicated throughout the community.”
“Well, okay, but if I had known that other people would be reading it, I would have…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know! I’d have used the spell-checker more!” Was it Myfanwy’s imagination or was Ingrid amused by all this? “Okay, so they’ll be here in forty-five minutes. Is there some sort of reception ceremony or anything?”
“The heads of the Checquy will be hosting a formal gathering to welcome our guests tomorrow evening. It’s supposed to give them time to get over their jet lag. But for today, according to long-standing tradition, I perform the sacred cancellation of your other appointments and make reservations at the hallowed temple of Italian food.” Myfanwy looked suspiciously at her secretary. Ingrid had been getting more and more smart-assed lately. Then she spoke in her mum voice. “Rook Thomas, you don’t need to panic. Go up to the residence, get yourself changed and ready, and I’ll let you know when they’re here.” Myfanwy nodded obediently, opened the door behind the portrait, and went up to the bachelor pad.
The Americans
The moment the English arrived in the New World, the Checquy was there too. The second person off the boat at Jamestown was a Checquy operative who spent most of his time cringing at the appalling things the other colonists were doing and quietly applauding as they succumbed to the subtle magical warfare tactics of the natives. He returned to England with a newfound penchant for corn and a fervent desire not to go back to the colonies. He convinced the Court that a more effective (and better funded) effort was going to be necessary to evaluate the supernatural potential of the continent. They took notice and dispatched several agents to the New World.
The most important of these was Richard Swansea, who faced the rather daunting task of being a secret paranormal agent for the government in the colony of Plymouth. His letters back to England make for fascinating reading, especially since the poor man did not subscribe to the religion of his neighbors.
Surrounded by sour-faced fanatics, Swansea was obliged to put on a brilliant performance; if his neighbors had discovered any of the records concealed in his house, he would have undoubtedly been hanged. Because of his public good works and seemingly burning piety, however, he was a local hero, regarded with a greater reverence than even the community elders. No man dressed more soberly or was quicker to condemn laxness on the part of others. The poor man must have been in hell.
Back in London, Richard Swansea had enjoyed a life of remarkable decadence. The child of a successful madam, Swansea grew up wandering freely between two worlds. Half his time was spent running wild on the streets and the other half becoming acquainted with the many upper-class customers of his mother’s… stable. One of these customers was a high-ranking member of the Checquy, so as soon as Swansea’s powers of chameleonic skin, body-part regeneration, and hypercontortionism manifested, at the age of twelve, he was snatched up.
During his training, Swansea amazed his teachers and earned the adoration of his fellow pupils. Upon his graduation, he became the most prominent operative in the organization. Swansea’s extensive contacts in polite society and his in-depth knowledge of the underworld allowed him to pull off some of the most remarkable operations of the time. Accordingly, when the opportunity arose to create the first major American Checquy outpost, the best Pawn was sent.
I can only imagine his frustration as he wandered about in his hat with a buckle and glumly toted his blunderbuss. A man who used to be a dandy, a favorite of the London whores, a gentleman who’d slithered through the dining rooms of society and the sewers beneath it with equal ease, condemned to a tedious backwater populated entirely by religious fanatics whose idea of fun was not having any.
If it had not been for his overwhelming loyalty to the Checquy, Swansea would have stood aside and welcomed any roving monsters into the town of Plymouth. Hell, he probably would have provided them with detailed maps and then cheered as they devoured the Pilgrims.
I gather that his only release was the extended expeditions he took into the wilderness, where he became good friends with the natives. He did his best to warn them of the dangers that his countrymen posed and urged the tribes to move away. The natives nodded kindly, showed him the secrets of their land, and ignored his warnings completely. He watched the outcome with sadness but without any real surprise.
For the next hundred and seven years, Swansea set about creating a resilient operation, one that maintained its close ties to the parent organization. This American Checquy, which became known as the Croatoan, spread out over the colonies. In many ways, the members faced an unimaginable challenge. Technically, they were charged with recording all supernatural entities and goings-on in the New World. If there was a threat, they were encouraged to suppress it and, if possible, ship it back alive to England for examination. They tried to follow this mandate, but resources and necessity often dictated that they simply terminate any menaces. Each colony was a tiny outpost; the entire enterprise was a thin archipelago spread out before an ocean of wilderness.
Every colony had its Croatoan office, but don’t think of the organization as more than it was. It lacked the massive population resources that the Checquy could draw on, so the Croatoan’s forces consisted of a mishmash of troops, any powered individual its members could get their hands on. Swansea approached the tribes for recruits and explained the situation; he had noticed that the natives had a far higher incidence of powered births. They politely declined. Apparently, they felt that thousands of years of experience had left them well equipped to deal with any danger their homeland could muster up. But they wished him the very best of luck.
Swansea faced major problems. The religious and independent nature of the colonies meant that the Croatoan could not rely on governmental authority to acquire children. If the colonists resented paying taxes on tea, they were going to be even less excited at the prospect of handing over their progeny. And no one knew better than Swansea the danger of bringing up the supernatural around Puritans. It set them to thinking about nooses. Thus, he was pushed to adopt extraordinary measures to build a force that could protect the populace.
Children were acquired. Those children whose families were willing to apprentice them to prominent local “tradesmen” became operatives with relatively little fuss. Children with less flexible parents were, well, seized. Swansea and his operatives snatched those likely children off the streets or silently grabbed them from their beds and sent them off to another colony. There, they were given new identities and taught the importance of the Checquy mission as embodied by the Croatoan. They received an education, learned a trade, and protected their community.
Adults were lured. Periodically, the Checquy would send out reinforcements, who were welcomed ecstatically. Otherwise, Swansea did what he could. In an ironic twist, sailors were press-ganged off their ships. Any adult manifesting powers had a better than average chance of being executed by the community (although it is worth noting that Swansea never found any manifestations, adult or child, in the village of Salem). In any case, the Croatoan rescued a number of these “witches” and reeducated them. Swansea’s charisma and dedication helped a great deal in converting these late bloomers. Slaves were rigorously screened and purchased. Upon their integration into the Croatoan, they were granted their freedom. Some operatives spoke out indignantly at the prospect of freeing slaves and letting them operate as equals. These protests died
down quickly when the general level of ability among the Africans outstripped that of most of the other operatives.
There were many threats to the colonies—in fact they rose with a terrifying regularity—and the Croatoan tried to meet them. When possible, colonies dispatched reinforcements to their stricken siblings. It was this unity that enabled the group to weather the revolution. Maybe it was also the fact that none of the members were obliged to pay taxes (a privilege that has never been extended to the Checquy in Britain, I might add. You wouldn’t believe how much I pay in taxes) and that visiting Checquy representatives treated them with profound respect. Still, they were realists, recognizing that their mission was as much about protecting the people as it was about being loyal to the throne.
During the Revolutionary War, the Croatoan operatives did not fight on either side. The massive carnage and chaos of the various battles excited some of the more exotic local wildlife, and teams were occupied with quelling the gigantic mollusks that liked to descend upon isolated farmsteads and feast on the families. By the time the war was over, the Croatoan had been decreased by half, with heavy casualties inflicted by the desperate operations and by incidental violence from the war.
At this point, the remaining Croatoan forces found themselves in an awkward situation. They were agents of a government that had been firmly invited to leave the country. If they revealed themselves to George, Ben, Thomas, and the rest of the gang, they might be told to bugger off. Or there was always the good old hanging. Jefferson and Franklin were supposed to be fairly open-minded, but some of the older Croatoan members were still wary of revealing themselves to anyone. However, the country was as much theirs as it was anyone else’s. And it was clear that no one in the new, still somewhat confused government was close to even comprehending the supernatural horrors that strutted across the nighttime landscape, let alone doing battle with them. Bewildered and exhausted, the remnants of the Croatoan continued to protect their neighbors and sent out politely desperate letters to the Checquy asking for instructions.
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