The Milkweed Triptych 01 - Bitter Seeds

by Ian Tregillis

  He sought out one of the Roma prisoners, a particularly filthy wretch with olive-colored flesh like Klaus and Gretel. He tackled the man and kneeled on his chest. The bastard kept squirming, so Klaus grabbed his throat and put his weight on it.

  “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “I’ll make it quick.”

  In the end, the man still resisted. After glancing to ensure he had the dignitaries’ attention, Klaus reached into the man’s chest. He hooked the aorta with two fingers, feeling life pulsing from a fluttering heart. His victim flailed again when Klaus severed the artery.

  The final kill fell to Heike.

  Her breaths gave her away, diaphanous vapor clouds that materialized as they left her body. But her training took hold, and the traitorous exhalations came less and less frequently. Klaus’s own demonstration still had his chest heaving; it took no great leap of imagination to feel the fire in Heike’s lungs as she stalked the prisoner.

  The last puffs of her breath drifted away. His eyes darted back and forth as he turned, half-crouched and panting, in slow circles. A feral intensity limned his eyes with white. Clever beast: he watched the ground, trying to track her, but Reinhardt’s demonstration had annealed the earth, scorched it into a crude ceramic.

  His back arched, and his head tipped back. Slender Heike exhaled as she grappled with him. He wrestled with a hole in the mist, a ghost wreathed in her own breath. The outline of the knife moved toward his throat, but in his flailing, he caught her wrist. She struggled; he was stronger. He thrust out her arm and bent double, flipping her over his back.

  “Hoompf . . .” The impact knocked the wind from her lungs and jostled the plug from her battery harness. Heike reappeared, sprawled on her back at the prisoner’s feet. A hint of blue tinged her lips and cheeks, and the chill had stippled her naked body with gooseflesh.

  Reinhardt tensed, singeing the fine hairs on the back of Klaus’s neck and hands. Years of witnessing such unplanned reappearances during her training sessions had fueled his all-consuming obsession with Heike.

  The prisoner dashed for the forest on the far side of the complex.

  “Stop him!” von Westarp shrieked.

  There was little chance of the prisoner escaping; far less chance that he’d get word of what he’d seen to somebody who mattered. But that was beside the point.

  “Kill him now! He embarrasses me!”

  A furrow of flames rent the earth in pursuit of the fleeing prisoner, but then he turned the corner and disappeared out of sight behind the barracks.

  Ha! Klaus could cut straight through one of the laboratories to catch the prisoner, and then he would be von Westarp’s favorite.

  Obergruppenführer Greifelt cowered behind crossed forearms and screamed as Klaus charged through him. Klaus headed along a diagonal for the far end of the laboratory, to intercept the prisoner as he passed through the gap between the buildings on the long sprint across the clearing. He’d ghosted through the soundproofed walls and the polished steel surgical table in the operating theater before it occurred to him to check the gauge on his harness.

  The needle rested in the red.

  “Scheisse!” He skidded to a halt against the far wall of the theater. The bricks gouged his palms.

  By the time Klaus emerged outside, the prisoner had nearly entered the trees near the pump house. His path put him back in view of those assembled on the firing range. Apparently Reinhardt had depleted his battery, too, because the running man didn’t burst into flames. Not so the telekinetic imbecile. Buhler gesticulated at the escaping prisoner with one hand as he yanked on Kammler’s leash with the other. “Crush! Crush!”

  The prisoner slammed to a halt as though he’d hit a glass wall. His body folded up, bones crackling like china.

  But Kammler, in his simpleminded zeal, also crushed the pump house. The building disappeared in an implosion of splintered timbers and powdered brick. A plume of spring water erupted through the debris. Gretel unfurled her umbrella, looking amused. It rained on the Reichsbehörde.

  Himmler and Greifelt left soon after that, soggy and shaken. And though Doctor von Westarp kept his medal, he punished them all.

  Heike received the worst of his rage. Her screams emanated from the laboratory. They trailed off after a while, either because he’d made his point or because her vocal cords had given out.

  The doctor locked Reinhardt in the ice house.

  Klaus’s part in the debacle won him a day in the crate. Mewling apologies did no good. Von Westarp stripped him of his harness before kicking him inside the coffin-sized box. Steel bolts clanged into place. Klaus pounded on the lid. Claustrophobia turned the trickle of breathable air rank. He grappled with the urge to hyperventilate, meting out his breaths against the rhythm of his heart. The knowledge that he’d disappointed the doctor created a nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.

  Later that night, Pabst gave Gretel new bruises. “It is your duty!”—thud—“to warn us!”—slap—“of such problems!”

  Her laughter echoed through darkness and coffins.

  8 March 1939

  Soho, London, England

  Winter had receded in recent days, as though resting up for a big finale. But as a rule, the Hart and Hearth kept its fireplace stoked from October to April. Which was one reason Lord William Beauclerk found it a fine place for a proper tête-à-tête with old friends.

  Firelight shimmered on the polished oak beams and cast fluid shadows across the ridges and swirls of horse hair plaster in the ceiling. With an occasional pop that launched a whiff of pine into the room, the sound and smell of the fire melded with the fog of conversation and tobacco.

  Six o’clock, so the place was filling quickly with a solid cross section of the working class, just off work and stopping for a pint on the way home. Loudmouthed tradesmen, lorry drivers, a newspaper vendor with ink-stained fingers. Also a few artists and playwrights. And a lovely pair of shopgirls at the next table. The frumpier one had her back to Will; her companion wore an embroidered cloche over a bob of auburn hair and a dusting of freckles on milk-pale skin.

  The Hart had a cozy little snug. He made a mental note to invite the bird for a private drink later. Working-class women, he’d found, could be less reserved with their affections than those from other stations in life. Another factor in Will’s fondness for the Hart. Although his brother had become a bit of a prig lately, prone to worrying about bastards turning up on the doorstep.

  Aubrey could go on at length about what was proper and improper and the responsibilities that came with Will’s station in life. To hear him tell it, Will would destroy the country by having it off with a shopgirl. Will had little patience for Aubrey’s obsession with noblesse oblige.

  He preferred the company in places like this, though he sometimes felt conspicuous. Somewhere along the line he’d taken to wearing a bowler, almost as a form of camouflage. But his shirt cost more than some of these people earned in a week. Thus he’d learned over the years to twist his vowels, leaving behind burrs and clipped syllables in order to emulate the regional accent of the Midlands. Will had grown up listening to how the staff at Bestwood spoke.

  The door opened. A cold draft followed Marsh into the pub, tousling close-cropped hair the color of wet sand. A forest-green cable-knit turtleneck and gray corduroys covered his solid build. Marsh wasn’t exactly short, or blocky, either, though he sometimes came across as such. It was an illusion created by the way he carried himself, and a face more suited to a boxer than a scholar. But he reminded Will of nothing so much as a coiled spring. Not in the sense of being high-strung or nervous: quite the opposite. But Will had always sensed something inside the man, tightly controlled but powerful.

  Marsh ordered at the bar, then leaned against the brass rail while waiting for his pint. When Marsh entered a room, he studied it as though it were a puzzle to be solved. He’d had that mannerism forever—the peculiar way his eyes moved, absorbing every detail. He did it now, examining the pub and the lounge wi
th caramel-colored eyes.

  But Will had taken a table in the corner of a dark, smoky pub. He lifted his head. “Pip.” Will had christened Marsh with that nickname during their first year at university together.

  Marsh didn’t hear him. Will stood, repeating, “Pip! Over here.” He lifted his hand to wave, but rapped his knuckles on a stag head in the process. “Oh, sodding.” Tea slopped out of its cup when he bumped the table. “Hell.”

  Will sucked on his knuckles. The shopgirls tittered.

  The commotion drew Marsh’s attention. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile. He approached Will’s table.

  “Good to see you, Will.” They clasped hands. Marsh had a brawler’s hands: thick fingers with round puckered knuckles and a solid grip. Will’s hands were more slender. Their handshake creased the thin white scars that spiderwebbed Will’s palm. Not painful, but unpleasant.

  “And you’n all, mate.”

  The other man cocked an eyebrow. Marsh rankled when people adopted a more common mode around him. At university, he’d worked to achieve a more refined diction of his own.

  “Apologies,” said Will, slipping back into his normal enunciations. He had, perhaps, laid it on a bit. “I’d forgotten. Force of habit, you know.”

  Marsh grinned. He nodded at the teapot and empty cup. “Buy you something stronger?”

  Will shook his head. “I’d settle for just a slice of lemon, honestly. You’d think there’s a war.” Will sighed theatrically. “Alas. I’ll soldier on.”

  “Still not drinking, eh? It’s comforting to know you still cling to your affectations.”

  “Your billfold can thank old granddad for my peculiarities.”

  “Every one? The mind reels.”

  Will laughed. “It does indeed.”

  “And how’s your brother?” asked Marsh, taking a seat.

  “His Grace has made something of a holy terror of himself in the House of Lords. Fancies himself a crusader these days.”

  “Socialist?” Marsh looked at him in mild alarm. “Hasn’t gone pink, has he?”

  “Oh, no. He’s not a Bolshie.” Will dismissed the concern, waving his long fingers in a languid circle. “Merely decided he’s the champion of the common man. Taken the plight of the Spaniards to heart, or some such.”

  At the mention of Spain, Marsh looked rather serious for a moment. “Good for him. Someone ought.”

  “A bit late, I fear. I’ll relay your greetings, yes?” A formality, of course.

  “Please do,” said Marsh. He sipped at his pint, eyes scanning the room behind Will.

  “Well then,” said Will, “to the matter at hand.”

  Marsh continued to stare past Will’s shoulder.

  “I said,” Will repeated, “to the matter at hand.”

  “What?” Marsh looked like he’d just been poleaxed.

  Will dangled one long arm over the back of his chair and chanced a look. Marsh’s attention had landed on the freckled coquette. Aha. “Delightful girl.”

  “Hmm?” Marsh tried to hide the flush in his cheeks by taking a long draw on his pint. “I suppose she is.”

  With casual disinterest, Will asked, “Shall I wave her over?”

  “No, no,” said Marsh, shaking his head. But then he fixed Will with a sly look. “You don’t fool me. I’ll wager you were planning to invite her to the snug for a private drink, weren’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir,” said Will in mock indignation. “Aubrey would have a proper fit.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s a charming little turtledove, make no mistake. But Aubrey has developed an alarming tendency to frown upon—ahem—dalliances.”

  Marsh opened his mouth slightly and tipped his head back. “Ah . . .”

  “He believes in the dignity of the working classes—plight of the working man and all that. But not in their breeding. Can’t wait for me to settle down with somebody perfectly dreadful as fits my station.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Yes.”

  “Next you’ll tell me he’s pushing you to join some perfectly respectable profession and give up the gadabout’s life. As also fits your station.”

  “I’d be a perfectly respectable captain right now if not for these flat feet. Centuries of inbreeding, you know.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Aubrey has made noise of endowing a charity. Perhaps I’ll join his crusade.”

  “Doesn’t sound like your line of work, Will.”

  “No. Still, what can we do? Now, you said you wanted to pick my brain about something. My brain, addled and inbred as ’tis, is at your disposal.”

  “Ah. Well, then, speaking of your grandfather—” Marsh lowered his voice. “—I have some questions about his hobby.”

  Will scooted his chair closer to the fire to ward off a sudden chill. He had unwillingly shared his grandfather’s “hobby” for over a decade before the wretched old warlock finally drank himself to death.

  “I . . . I don’t follow you, Pip.” An unconvincing deflection, and Will knew it.

  “Back at university, you read from a book . . .”

  “Ah.” Will sighed, knowing he couldn’t dodge the issue. “The Bodleian. I’d rather hoped you were too pissed to remember that night.”

  “I nearly was. I’d discounted it as a drunken memory.”

  “Better to leave it that way. It was years ago. Ancient history. Why bring it up now?”

  Marsh fell quiet for a moment. A distant look danced across his eyes as he watched some private memory unfold. “Recently I saw something . . . strange.”

  Will shook his head. “The world is a strange place, Pip. I’m sorry, but I truly can’t help you. It’s better for everybody if you forget anything I might have said or done in my careless youth.”

  Marsh sipped at his pint. When Marsh spoke again, Will could feel that coiled spring pushing a new intensity into his voice. “I wouldn’t have brought this up if it wasn’t important.”

  Will knew he’d never get Marsh to drop the subject. He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting off a sudden weariness. When he opened his eyes, Marsh was studying the scars on his hand. Will poured himself another cup of tea as a distraction. “Very well. What do you want to know?”

  “That thing you can do. Is it dangerous?”

  The question was so absurd, so unexpected, that it caught Will by surprise. The dread and tension he’d felt came out in one loud, barking laugh. The shopgirls turned to stare at him before resuming their quiet conversation.

  “Dangerous? That’s your question? If you’re seeking a new hobby, Pip, you’re better off juggling rabid badgers on a street corner. You might even make a few quid.”

  But the jovial tone didn’t lighten Marsh’s countenance. He spoke again, more quietly. “That hobby . . . could it kill somebody? Hypothetically.”

  “Kill somebody?” Will thought back to his grandfather and his dimly remembered father. “Yes, hypothetically.”

  “Could that be done deliberately?”

  “I dislike the direction this conversation has taken.”

  “I’m not asking how. Just if.”

  “In the strictest sense? Yes, it’s possible. But nobody would ever do it. Regardless of the circumstances.” In response to Marsh’s quizzical expression, Will elaborated. “There are rules about this sort of thing. It’s rather complicated. Suffice it to say that invoking the Eidolons to kill a human being would be unwise to a degree I cannot express. Taboo does not begin to cover it.”

  Marsh’s fingertip spiraled through the beads of condensation on his glass, pulling them together into a single droplet that slithered down to the coaster. He pressed one hand to his jaw, cracked his knuckles, then did the same with the other hand. It meant he was thinking.

  “You must forgive my directness, Pip, but just what are you dancing around?”

  Marsh nursed his beer. He set it down, centering it on a little cork circle with great attention. Will conc
entrated to pull Marsh’s voice from the pub din.

  “You understand this can’t go beyond the two of us.”

  In spite of his better judgment, Will was intrigued. He agreed with a solemn dip of the head.

  “What would you say if you heard tell of a man bursting into flames? Spontaneously. No warning.”

  Will stared at him for a long moment. He refilled his cup. He took a long sip, thinking. The tea had gone tepid.

  “Fire, you say?”

  “Like a Roman candle.”

  Now this was fascinating. Macabre, but fascinating. Will felt like a character in a penny dreadful. “How extraordinary. This is the strange thing you witnessed?”

  Marsh said nothing, his face blank.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” said Will, “but it’s rather baroque, don’t you think? If I wanted someone dead, there are many easier ways to go about it.” He took a sip of cold tea before continuing. “Besides which, it’s irrelevant. The fact that we’re still here tells me it wasn’t done by a, ah, hobbyist.” Will disliked using the proper term, warlock, in casual conversation.

  Marsh looked intrigued by this, but Will didn’t elaborate. “That’s a no, then.”

  “If you’re asking whether I could be wrong, then yes. But that’s my opinion.” Will shrugged. “Such as it is.”

  A melancholy half smile creased Marsh’s face. “It’s top-drawer, Will. Cheers, mate.”

  “Very good, then.” Will tapped his teacup to Marsh’s pint. They drank in companionable silence.

  Marsh’s eyes fixed on the amber depths of his half-empty pint as though scrying. He doodled on the table in streaks of condensation and spilled tea. Will recognized the posture of a man grappling with an unsolved riddle.

  He’d had a bad tooth once. The ache swelled until it followed him everywhere, intruded on every facet of his waking life, ceaselessly demanded his attention until he solved the problem and had the accursed thing removed. Unanswered questions rankled Marsh in the same way.