Gregory Grey and the Fugitive in Helika

by Stanzin

CHAPTER 16

  The Scrying

  ‘Gregory! Look!’ Johanna squealed, flying into his room, clutching something.

  ‘Wazzat?’ Gregory said, jolting up. He’d fallen asleep with the picture of his family clutched in his hand.

  ‘You’re gonna be a Hero!’ She thrust the package into his face.

  It seemed to be an important looking letter. The rich red envelope was of hard velvet. Gregory undid the golden thread. A white card, with elaborate golden lettering fell out:

  The Office Of The Throne Of Domremy

  Recognises

  Gregory Grey

  In His Successful And Selfless Defence

  Of

  The Citizens Of Reflective Kingdom Of Domremy,

  And With The Full Backing Of The Throne

  Extends An Invitation To Him

  To The Title Of Hero Of Domremy

  In Public Ceremony,

  On The 22nd Of August 1909

  ‘That’s only nine days from now!’ Gregory yelped.

  ‘Yes, on the last day of the Peoplesmeet,’ Uncle Quincy said, coming out of the room. ‘See the colored patches on the bottom?’

  Sure enough, there was a large green square and a large red square at the bottom of the parchment.

  ‘The green one is to accept, the red one is to decline the offer.’

  ‘Oh,’ Gregory said, absently. Still not entirely awake, he brushed his finger over the red square. The card chimed a low tone. The words dissolved into a new message:

  DECLINE THE APPOINTMENT?

  YESNO

  Keep your selected option pressed for five seconds to confirm

  ‘Argh!’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Johanna cried.

  ‘Careful!’ said Uncle Quincy. ‘The card’s enchanted.’

  ‘How was I supposed to know?’ Gregory carefully kept his finger on the ‘NO’ till the card melted back into the original message. He stared at the card, his finger hovering just above the green ‘Accept’ button.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Johanna urged.

  But Gregory drew his finger away. ‘I’d like some breakfast.’ He’d floated the card halfway back to his desk before he realised it, and promptly dropped it in surprise.

  Then he started, mouth falling open in surprise – he’d used magic! He’d used it flawlessly!

  Johanna protested, bewildered, and more than a little annoyed, but Uncle Quincy seemed to understand. ‘Don’t pester him. It’s a big thing.’

  ‘Why would you even think about saying no?’ Johanna asked, ignoring her father.

  ‘Maybe it’s just fun to watch you wind yourself up,’ Gregory teased. That wasn’t it of course, but it shut Johanna up as she huffed her way through breakfast, glowering between bites of her pancake.

  Nine days. Gregory had not expected it to happen so quickly. No, that wasn’t it. He hadn’t even been thinking about it. It had been an undefined and foggy future, and now that future had rushed up to him very, very suddenly. His thoughts moved slowly, as if cautious and ready for him to overreact.

  But Johanna was not the only one confused by his delay. Later that morning, Mango flew up to the Wing, where Gregory stared moodily at the distant massif of the mountains: Murder, Monk and Virgin. Her fat lip, like Gregory’s puffy eyes, had practically vanished. Magical healing was wonderful stuff. A mound of dominoes lay piled to the left of Gregory’s beanbag. His family’s photo album lay on the right.

  ‘Why haven’t you accepted yet?’

  ‘How’d you know I haven’t?’

  She thrust a newspaper under his nose and jabbed a finger at what looked to be a bulletin of names. ‘When you accept, your name appears, like mine has. Yours is stilled blacked over.’

  ‘I’ve got time.’

  ‘What are you even waiting for?’

  Gregory didn’t answer. Instead, he said, ‘Watch this.’

  A single domino rose from the pile next to him, and hovered in front of his face. Another joined it, then another, till a dozen lay suspended in the air. He rearranged the lot into a smiling face, though his own was perfectly blank.

  Mango gasped, wonder and jealousy in equal amounts in her voice, ‘How are you doing that? Even I can’t do that!’

  ‘I don’t know. I just woke up this morning, and could.’

  ‘These things don’t just happen!’

  ‘They don’t? I wouldn’t know. It’s a little embarrassing how ridiculously relieved I feel now.’

  The moments passed as Gregory made the domino tiles dance in looping, hypnotic patterns.

  ‘There’s an acceptance window! If you let it pass, you’re going to embarrass the throne. The whole city must be watching and waiting.’

  Gregory merely shot her a pointed look, as if to remind her that he wasn’t stupid. ‘Let’s walk.’

  They coursed the long ramparts of Garuda’s West Wing. The day was beautiful and clear, and the mountains to the south, unclouded, didn’t look as forbidding as they usually did, only massive. Gregory’s dominoes swirled in circles a few feet above their heads.

  ‘Have you thought of a boon yet?’ Mango asked.

  ‘I’d forgotten about that. Have you?’

  ‘I’ve got an idea… but I might defer it.’

  ‘You can do that?’

  ‘Of course! You can ask for the boon whenever you want. It doesn’t have to be when you get knighted… though it’s traditional.’

  ‘That… makes things simpler. I’ve got no idea what I’d ask for.’

  A few more minutes pass in silence, and the high white towers of the Hanging Palace draw nearer.

  ‘Are you alright, Greg?’

  I don’t know, Mango, Gregory thought. I’ve just discovered my father’s identity, unleashed crazy thaumic strength after being convinced I was Mundane in my bones, been officially appointed to knighthood, and replaced my two dead friends with a bunch of cool new ones. Wow, what am I even complaining about? What am I complaining about? I’ve got things made so hard that I’d have to outright murder someone to mess things up. It’s…

  ‘It’s all a bit much, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Muchness… I suppose,’ Mango said gravely. ‘There is that.’

  He looked at her, trying to figure out if she was being sarcastic, but she looked completely serious, and he remembered, that she too had just lost someone close… that she too had refused to let herself openly grieve and cry.

  They continued to walk, saying nothing, until the precarious towers of the Hanging Palace soared high above their head. From the spire of each tower, an orange flag still flew, rippling peacefully in the breeze.

  ‘How do you think Eavesmother does it?’ Gregory asked. ‘How does she stay so… how does she look so unconcerned, with her daughter almost certainly dead in another country?’

  ‘You don’t get elected to the throne for wearing your feelings on your sleeves.’

  ‘I suppose not. You think she’s alive?’

  ‘The Princess? I hope so. She was nice.’

  On an impulse, Gregory told her about his grand venture to rescue the Princess, in another lifetime.

  ‘You didn’t!’ Mango said, delighted.

  ‘We did. We’re pretty sure a rat chewed through the sack. If I’d rescued the princess then, maybe she wouldn’t be lost in a different country.’

  ‘’Course she would’ve, and the only difference is that you’ve have been caught and hung! You got off easy!’

  Gregory laughed. ‘Probably.’

  ‘No probably about it!’

  At the Palace’s high and slender gates, they turned back north up the Wing.

  ‘Do you really hate the Helikans as much as you say you do?’

  Mango looked at him suspiciously, but there was no criticism on his face.

  ‘What’s not to hate? They…’

  ‘I know what all you’ve said,’ Gregory said quickly before she could repeat her standard tirade, ‘What I mean is, do you really think every Helikan ther
e is so despicable? For all you know, some of them could agree with you.’

  ‘That country’s a religious dictatorship,’ Mango snorted. ‘For a Helikan to think differently, they’d at least have to know they have the option.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘They don’t have the option, Greg! You do fine there so long you do as you’re told… and everyone does as they’re told. It’s useless to think of Helika as made of millions of people… because… because they aren’t people. They’re sheep, being shepherded along by the Emperor and his lot. When you talk about Helika, you’re only really talking about Emperor and the Shamanate. No one else matters enough! And since the whole country would go to arms if they Emperor told them to… there’s no thinking going on. There’s no reasoning. We’ve tried and failed! If the Emperor told them to wipe us off the map, the whole country would die trying and there’s no point pretending otherwise. We can’t be complacent! We can’t give the slightest quarter! Helika’s got a fifty times more people than we do… if we show a single moment of weakness, we couldn’t recover!’

  Mango took a deep breath and calmed herself. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘If I become Hero… then I’d have to talk about Helika just as you do, won’t I? I’d be part of Domremy, which means… what’s the word – moderate? It’ll mean I can’t be moderate about stuff like this.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be.’

  ‘But this is only one thing… there’s probably a lot more things I’d have to say, and ways I’d have to act, even if I don’t agree with them.’

  ‘You’re afraid of… too much responsibility?’ Mango asked incredulously.

  Gregory shook his head. ‘More like… too much Hero of Domremy, not enough Gregory Grey. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Oh… I suppose. That makes sense.’

  ‘Yeah… anyway! The Peoplesmeet officially kicks off tomorrow. You’re coming, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but we’ve done most of the fun stuff, haven’t we?’

  ‘And more besides… but not nearly enough of the food. I’m going to pace myself tomorrow!’ Gregory said, patting his stomach.

  The time leading up to the Peoplesmeet was intense. Uncle Quincy was extremely busy – Gregory didn’t see him at all after breakfast Saturday morning. Johanna was on edge, trying out dress after dress, modelling each one for Gregory, and scolding him for his lack of fashion critical vocabulary. It didn’t help that he spent every waking moment trying to think up of ways to confront his father.

  The back of his mind had begun to chant as soon as he’d found out…

  he’s alive… Vincent Grey’s alive… he’s alive… he’s… alive… he’s alive…

  And his mother? Where was she?

  How was he going to confront the gypsy? Before the Scrying? After the Scrying? The questions rumbled in his head almost as loudly as Domremy rumbled about the situation in Helika.

  At King Nathaniel’s behest, an international panel of judges had been convened for the trials of the rioters of Helika. The papers reported that the most stringent investigation were going carried out into the cause of the riot, and each of the accused would be assigned its own private defence counsel. The mood in Domremy was tense and loud, but upbeat.

  An hour before the Peoplesmeet, at nine in the evening, Gregory and Johanna were dressed in their finest. He dressed in grey so dark it was black in the shadow. Johanna was anything but: she’d dressed up in a gown that had a red storm raging across it – a startling eye catcher.

  Uncle Quincy arrived already dressed in merry yellow, and they immediately set off, disappearing into the gently darkening sky, till they arrived at the Peoplesmeet. The air was thick with carpets, and it dawned on Gregory that carpets were cool, and that he wanted one of his own.

  However, the spectacle in the air was nothing compared to the spectacle stretched across the Arenas – Uncle Quincy, the gypsies, and the other participants had outdone themselves.

  Dazzling bursts of light played grandly across the fair. Everyone, especially the Merlot gypsies, were outfitted in clothes that were a spectacle all on their own. There were dancers, the outfits of whom changed colours from move to move such that it was a dance of both motion and light. Pyromasters conjured up blazing doodles larger than houses; serpents of luminescent water splashed over, around and through everyone and everything without wetting anything at all; colored jellyfish were enchanted to propel through the air; and firebirds cast a heatless flame on anyone they touched, such that everyone seemed to resemble living embers.

  When they landed, there was so much light it might have been day – the most colourful day there ever was.

  ‘Is it always like this?’ Gregory asked, awed. He looked around for a tall, stooped figure, a futile act – every gypsy was too fantastically outfitted to tell what shape or size any of them were.

  ‘No! This is the best I’ve ever seen!’ Johanna shouted and then shrieked as one of the jellyfish trailed over her face.

  ‘Stick together. Meet me for the dinner theatre, Table twenty three, at the Grand Odeon,’ Uncle Quincy said, trying to be stern, but he looked as eager as them to set roaming around the place. Gregory and Jo promised.

  They found Susannah and Mango at one of the performance stands, where an oiled up firedancer was unleashing his entire bag of pyromantic tricks. The girls looked rather dazed; they were so intent on the show that it wasn’t until Gregory carefully lifted their dropped jaws back up that they noticed he was even there.

  ‘Greg! Watch!’ Susannah hissed.

  ‘You’re watching hard enough for both of us,’ he teased, but nevertheless spent the next few minutes just as intently fixated on the performance.

  When it was over, the girls managed to look at once transported and crestfallen. Their handsome performer must have noticed them though, because he came over, and without a word, kissed both the stunned girls above the ear, and walked away.

  ‘Eep,’ Susannah squeaked.

  ‘Susannah! Your ear!’ Mango squealed.

  ‘Yours too!’

  For roses of gentle fire had bloomed exactly where the fire dancer had kissed them.

  Zach was already here too, but he’d set his mind on a different task. They spotted him just as his ferocious strike rang the high striker bell – a loud and triumphant sound.

  ‘YES!’ he roared, jumping around. And when he caught sight of Susannah, he whooped.

  ‘I did it! Hah!’ he jeered at her.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Susannah said with great poise, and then in a forlorn undertone to Gregory, ‘If I’d only paid the manager a little more, we could have had him doing this for the rest of his life.’

  ‘What do we do now,’ Mango asked, looking around.

  Zach seemed to spot something and got a roguish look on his face. ‘As dad likes to say, we irrigate. Come on.’

  A few minutes they were each holding a bottle of what was supposed to be spiced soda, but was far from sweet; instead it was flavourfully bitter.

  ‘Cheers!’ Zach said happily, clinking bottles with all four of them. ‘Drink up!’

  ‘Moonshine, Zach?’ Mango said, sniffing her own drink suspiciously.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said, taking a healthy swig from his own bottle. Mango shrugged, and they all copied him.

  As they passed a fiddler, he struck up a merry tune.

  ‘Dancing circle,’ yelled Jo, and the girls dragged the boys into the impromptu shuffle, running over their protests with manic enthusiasm. A gay crowd condensed out of nowhere. Usually, dancing terrified Gregory, but the atmosphere and his own impending plans for the night made him feel reckless and indomitable. He spun and stamped and hopped with the best of them, and when he started spinning, the circle cleared and hooted around him.

  ‘Go Greg!’ Johanna and Susannah shrieked.

  When the fast tune finally ended, the two disoriented boys and three gleeful girls did another full round of the carnival’s games
. Zach won Mango a stuffed whale; she punched him for it in thanks.

  They were supposed to have dinner during the show later, but that was before they knew that a fleet of flying saucers laden with finger food would assault them at every corner. The pork chops, chicken nuggets, cheese chips, honey-potato fritters, spiced mushrooms, and pickled veggies were constantly at reach, and before they knew it, they were full. It didn’t help that they were dragged into another three dancing circles.

  ‘It hurts,’ Gregory groaned soon, clutching his bloated stomach.

  ‘Aaaaarh,’ Zachary said in agreement.

  All in all, they’d had a rousingly splendid hour by the time they headed into the ancient Grand Odeon, where, it seemed, a play would be acted out. A grand pavilion made of the richest red velvet had been thrown over the bowl-shaped stone circle. Uncle Quincy, who’d snagged the party a table midway up the theatre’s slope, had also found Zach, Mango and Susannah’s parents. The adults all had a pink tinge to their cheeks, and were guffawing uproariously together. The table was strewn with bottles.

  Gregory nervously felt for the square token and Lesley’s blood frond in his pockets. When would the Funny Man’s signal come?

  Mr. Coffey noticed them first. ‘Our heroes return! Ahoy!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Ahoy!’ cried the women together.

  ‘Ahoy!’ Uncle Quincy roared louder than any of them.

  ‘Seats! And drinks! Real drinks!’ Mr. Zeppelin called, to the delight of the four friends. Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Sharada-Coffee made noises of protest, but the men overrode them.

  ‘They’re with us! No trouble at all!’ Uncle Quincy encouragingly. ‘Better here then heavens know where or when! Come on now, what’ll you all have?’

  A passing flying saucer must have heard them, because suddenly there were a score of very interestingly shaped bottles in front of them, and the empty bottles were cleared up.

  ‘Spiced rum, the drink for every weather and every occasion,’ Mr. Piper announced solemnly to the children.

  ‘No, that’s beer,’ Mrs. Zeppelin said.

  ‘Not a bit. Wine, that’s the stuff,’ Mrs. Coffey said.

  ‘It’s whatever you want it to be,’ Uncle Quincy said. ‘So figure it out quickly.’

  The four of them did their best. Johanna spat out her rum, coughing, and to everyone’s great surprise, cursing.

  ‘You’ve got the mouth of a sailor, if not the constitution,’ Mr. Coffey said, tilting his head at her with some respect.

  Johanna blushed and carefully didn’t look at her father, who was trying and failing badly to look stern.

  Gregory found himself agreeing with practically every drink except whiskey. Zach said he had a thing for rum. Mango found whiskey and declared it was the only one that mattered. Susannah, blanching with every swallow, told the others they were all crazy, and that every bitter drink was as disgusting as the last.

  ‘But if you’re going to all lose your minds, I don’t want to be the one feeling sorry for you,’ she said distastefully, taking another sip.

  She changed her mind very quickly when she got to cream liqueur.

  The lights dimmed. The pavilion hushed so quickly that Gregory absently wondered if someone had cast a quieting enchantment. At once the warm peace, that only just begun to descend on him, receded. He sat up straight and peered intently at the stage, which was now the only warmly lit spot in the room.

  There was a brilliant flash of light and smoke – the audience gasped – and when they could see properly again, there he was, the tall Funny Man, dressed in the most severe black. For a second, Gregory was frozen – had that been the signal? What was he doing on stage?

  The gasps of surprise died away, and the comic spoke, his voice booming, his head bowed down.

  ‘First they came for the Merchants, and I did not speak out – because I was not a Merchant. Then they came for the Ascetics, and I did not speak out – because I was not Ascetic. Then they came for the Reflectives, and I did not speak out – because I was not a Reflective. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.’

  No one in the audience was listening, perhaps, as intently as Gregory was. The Funny Man’s voice was low, but his enunciation clear such that he might have been speaking to Gregory personally.

  ‘Thus begins and ends the tale of Martin Niemoller, an intellectual of the Medieval Ages, who condemned his contemporaries for their inaction during the rise of the Observant militancy. Follow his sometimes futile, sometimes inspirational attempts to rouse his peers and colleagues to defiance of religious and nationalistic oppression. Mages of Domremy City, I present to you, The Merlot Minstrels.’

  The Funny Man walked off the stage.

  Gregory felt confused. Was he supposed to follow somehow?

  The play began. The daughter was heart-achingly beautiful, the merchant was ruthless and remote, and the child by parts both precocious and mature. There was music to accompany their speech, melodies played on strange instruments Gregory couldn’t even guess at.

  The performances and production were tremendous; it was many orders more lavish than the simple and spontaneous shows the gypsies enacted back in Pencier. Everyone at his table was leaning forward; Johanna was stock still on her father’s lap, and Zach was absently chewing on chips, but very quietly and slowly. It would have riveted Gregory too, had he not been hyper-alert, terrified that there would be a sign, and he would miss it.

  A movement caught his eye; for a moment, he thought he’d imagined it. Then he saw it again, a flutter of wings – a butterfly. The wispy creature settled on Gregory’s fist. No one noticed. He brought it up to his face slowly.

  ‘Excuse yourself,’ the butterfly said. ‘Claim an upset stomach and leave the tent. Follow where I fly.’

  Minutes later, Gregory had stumbled his way through and out of the darkened theatre, following the butterfly past dancing circles and tents, till the crowds thinned and then disappeared entirely, and he stood in an altar in a small clearing.

  The Funny Man was there, kneeling on the stone, his long hands drawing intricate runes in sweeping strokes. There was no moon tonight, and the runes glowed with their own light. There was a circle in the centre, on the edge of which the blood frond lay.

  ‘It’s nearly ready. Stand at the centre of the circle,’ the Funny Man told him.

  Gregory did as told. He’d seen some complicated runes, and was getting better at reading them, but this was far beyond anything he’d ever come across. It looked like a different language.

  ‘How does this work?’ he asked, watching the gypsy closely.

  ‘Scrying is, at its heart, a channel of communication,’ the gypsy said without a break in his work. ‘In every full cycle of communication, there is a message, a sender who gives the message a form, a medium through which the formed message is transferred, a receiver who can comprehend the form and react to it and finally, the feedback.’

  ‘For example, when you speak, your thought is the message; you are the sender, who changes thought into an impulse to speak; your language and words are the forms the message takes; the air through which your words are heard, is the medium that transfers your message; the listener is the receiver, who must be able to understand your language and words; and his response is the feedback.’

  ‘Alright,’ Gregory said. That sounded simple enough, if long winded.

  ‘Scrying then, is a mechanism that takes your impulse of speech and transfers it magically to another sender who’ll give it form, instead of you. In other words, when you wish to speak, your Will to do so is transferred into another’s body. You think the words, but it’s the receiver’s mouth that speaks, not yours. In feedback, the receivers thoughts are in turn spoken by you.’

  ‘What if there’s someone there? Can people on the other end recognise Scrying and cancel it some how?’

  ‘Those being Scryed cannot do so themselves, but someone in the surrounding area might.’

  ‘If I whisper
it should still work, right?’

  ‘There’s no reason it shouldn’t.’

  Gregory was about to as another question, but then snapped his mouth shut – he’d been so focused on confronting the gypsy-maybe-father, who was now finishing off the last of the runes, that he’d given no thought on what he’d say to Lesley!

  ‘You may begin,’ the Funny Man said. ‘I’ll activate the spell now.’

  He’d have to wing it, Gregory thought grimly. Then another thought struck him. ‘Wait! How will I know if it’s working or something’s wrong?’

  The gypsy looked amused, an expression that was strangely gentle on his face. ‘If it’s working, then all will seem normal, and you’ll feel yourself speak, but in the receiver’s voice.’

  ‘And if it goes wrong?’

  ‘My Scrying-circles have never yet failed anyone. But if anything wrong happens at all, then it could be as harmless as nothing happening, or you could find yourself stuck with the receiver’s speech, and the receiver with yours. Or worse.’

  Gregory tried to imagine living with a strange girl’s speech and voice – it made him too nervous to laugh.

  ‘Do you still want to proceed?’

  ‘Yes.’ He really should have looked up the full risks of Scrying – he’d probably have found it through his Index, and he remembered something about people laughing uncontrollably as they came out of Scrying – but there was no way he was backing out now.

  ‘Then, we begin.’

  The gypsy said a word.

  At once Gregory knew that it had gone horribly, horribly wrong, just an instant before his mind and his thoughts, no, his very Will and purpose, rammed headfirst into a gigantic… something. The collision dazed him and everything he was, all his identity, just scattered away.

  What happened? He wondered. He remembered feeling like this before. His head had hit the underside of a table hard enough to nearly knock him out. What had he done then? Someone had told him to lay still.

  Lay still. That was good. Movement would be bad. If he lay still, thoughts would come back. He felt too weak to move anyway. What had he been doing?

  He wanted to talk. To someone. He’d been looking for someone. By magic. Scrying. He’d been trying to Scry the girl. The gypsy had said he never made a mistake, but he must have this time. Had Gregory managed to talk to her? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember having said anything at all, or heard. No, he hadn’t talked. The Scrying must have failed. It was dangerous – had it killed him? Was this death? He didn’t think so. Where was he?

  Gregory’s thoughts trickled back to him in this manner until he realised he was being watched, and restrained. Whatever it was that was holding him, it was a Will, of that Gregory was sure, but it didn’t seem to have a mind of it’s own. It was nevertheless, greater than he had ever dreamed Wills could be.

  Normal Wills couldn’t be like this. This felt… alien. Otherworldly.

  Soulless.

  A mountain of potential without any purpose.

  It was nothing he’d ever seen before, and yet it felt familiar – not in the way that the gypsy felt familiar, like a long forgotten friend – but like something he saw everyday, but had only now noticed… like flying on a Zeppelin the first time, and only then realising how vast the sky and ground were… and how lost and tiny he was in it.

  Note to self: Find out how it’s possible for someone’s will to be this strong? And how can I make mine as powerful?

  Gregory cast his thoughts at massive wall. ‘Whomever it is you are protecting, I wish to speak to them, and only speak. It’s important.’

  It didn’t seem feel like how Scrying should work, but he didn’t know what else to do.

  Who are you?

  He couldn’t make out where the question had come from – it had bloomed in his head out of nowhere.

  He really should have thought about what he was going to say.

  ‘I cannot tell you, Lesley. You are in Falstead Refugee Camp, and it’s not safe. If we meet, I’ll tell you everything.’

  It attacked him. He didn’t know it could do that, and it was the most terrifying sensation he’d ever felt, like a giant hand had swept him off a cliff.

  ‘Stop!’ he thought as hard as he could. It was like the ground had been rushing up at him as he fell and then it suddenly paused to reconsider. He was more shocked at the fact that the entity had listened.

  It, however, felt a lot more menacing now.

  How do you know my name? Where did you find my blood?

  A part of Gregory wanted to chide her for admitting her identity, just because Gregory has assumed it. He took the mental equivalent of a deep breath.

  ‘How’s this? We trade information: I am in Domremy City, and I know your area is under Emergency lockdown. I don’t suppose you get The Seraphic there. If you don’t want to answer something, I’ll ask something else that you won’t mind letting me know.’

  He waited.

  Deal. Me first. Where did you get my blood? And how badly did the quake damage Domremy?

  ‘The Blood Fronds, you must have seen them. The Blood Bureau is based in Domremy City – Domremy and Helika built it together. I had access to the Bureau and was able to remove your frond. The city did much better than most of the world, in terms of the quake. But I don’t know if you know about the spectres, but they killed many mages, thousands. The rest of the country is torn between wanting to rip Helika to shreds for what’s happening in Falstead, and mourning for the Princess, who everyone is pretty convinced is dead. There’s a Peoplesmeet going on now, that was kicked off by the news of the riot.’

  There was some silence at this, and Gregory was about to ask his own, when a thought struck him. Did he actually need to ask Lesley Greene anything at all anymore? Both his lines of investigation, the search for this girl and the search for his parents, were to answer the same question: what had happened to him all those years ago. If the gypsy was his father, then wouldn’t he answer all his questions anyway?

  That was assuming that the gypsy was his father (and there was still a chance – however slight, that he wasn’t), and that the gypsy was inclined to tell him the truth. The gypsy might lie, or Lesley Greene might. But it was unlikely that their lies would be identical. Either way, it was best to get both their stories, so that he’d at least have some points of comparison.

  He really, really, should have thought about the questions he’d ask Lesley Greene.

  Well, perhaps he could Scry her again in the future.

  Do you have something to ask?

  The question came suddenly, so Gregory asked the first thing that came to his head. ‘The camp executions have stopped, haven’t they?’

  An immense fury came through the channel. How do you know about that? Yes, a couple of days ago. I don’t know why.

  ‘I do. We found about that because the Blood Fronds of the Reflectives kept shrivelling up and dying on the hour. The King intervened and had an international justice panel set up. They’re drafting a whole set of laws just to deal with you guys, so the rest of the camp ought to be safe for now.’

  Do they know, then? Do they know what all has been happening here?

  ‘Yes. There were letters out of Falstead Refugee Camp some weeks ago… it got people very agitated.’

  There was a pause. Thank you. I cannot tell the others here, but that does help me.

  ‘Anytime.’ Yay, we’re friendly now.

  Why did you Scry me?

  ‘A little after the earthquake, when the Blood Frond first began its records of you, you were sick. What were you sick of?’

  Gregory thought there was a slightest hesitation in the answer. It’s not like they tell us anything here. I got sick, I got better. Why does it matter? People get sick all the time.

  ‘Not like you did. You lost your hair. You fever should have killed you ten times over. It didn’t. That wasn’t normal.’

  She was hostile again. What do you want to do? Take me to a hos
pital and take me apart? Become famous at the Royal Science Society for finding a new bug?

  ‘No. I’m asking you, because that happened to me. Some time ago, I fell sick, I lost all my hair, and no one knows why. You’re the only other person I know who had the same bug, if it was a bug.’

  There was a longer silence. It happened to you? She sounded entirely disbelieving.

  ‘Yes, I swear it did. Do you know why? What can you tell me?’

  Prove it did. Tell me what else happened when you were sick.

  ‘I had dreams. I don’t remember most of it. I dreamt that I was flying past thousands of stars, always running from something, always reaching for something. And then I found somewhere I was safe. But when I woke up, I couldn’t remember anything from before the dreams. Those dreams are my earliest memory.’

  There was more silence, and then…

  When was this?

  ‘I cannot tell you now, please. It would give away too much. But I’ll tell you it was years and years ago. Please, what can you tell me?’

  The response came slower.

  It would be stupid of me too, to say something now. I do have an idea about what could have happened to you, but I really shouldn’t tell you like this. You’re not ready. If we meet someday, and we might meet soon, if that international court thing works out the way I think it will, then I’ll find you and I’ll tell you, but I cannot now.

  Gregory tried to contain the wash of bitter disappointment. ‘What can you tell me?’

  I can tell you that I didn’t lose my memories. I know exactly why I fell sick. I can tell you that in my case, the sickness was my own doing. I can tell you that you’re not to talk to a single other person about this. I can tell you that if certain people find out about this, your life will get a whole lot more hairy.

  That was something at least. ‘You speak as if you’re in a book.’

  I’ve heard that before. Listen, whoever you are. You need to take care of yourself.

  That took him aback. ‘I’m safe enough.’

  The voice snapped back. I mean it! Don’t do anything stupid or dangerous. Keep out of trouble until we can meet.

  ‘You’re probably more in need of that advice than I am. Are you safe in the camp? What can you tell me about the riot?’

  I’m safe enough, for now. What do you want to know about the riot?

  ‘Is it true that the refugees killed hundreds of the guard and their families?’

  Yes.

  ‘Why did they do that? That’s what no one here can figure out. Most people just won’t believe it.’

  No here knows why, either but my running theory is that they somehow, by charm or poison, drove us insane. Everyone seemed to be losing their minds right before the riot. They triggered it when they said we’d have to pay for the antidote with we everything we owned in Helika.

  She was cold again.

  ‘They say there’s going to be a war.’

  There isn’t going to be a war, she said flatly. Helika can’t afford a war right now.

  ‘You sound very sure for someone locked in a camp.’

  Trust me. There won’t be a war. Not now, anyway.

  ‘How safe are you in the camp?’

  I don’t know. I think the Spooks are planning something. I don’t know what it is, but it can’t be anything good.

  ‘I meant is there any specific danger to you personally?’

  What? No. No, there isn’t. I’m actually safer than most others in the camp.

  ‘I’ll ask the same of you as you’ve asked of me. Come to no harm.’

  …Thank you. I must go.

  ‘Wait!’

  What?

  A question had come to Gregory out of the blue – he hadn’t even thought that the two might be linked.

  ‘Your magic! Since you fell sick, have you been able to cast properly?’

  There was a minute, where he thought the connection had been broken.

  You can’t?

  ‘My thaumic radius was ridiculously short, and my fine control non-existent. Now, I’m a little more powerful than I should be.’

  She replied slowly. That’s not supposed to happen. It didn’t happen to me.

  And just as Gregory thought that the two might not be related, she said, But I don’t know under what circumstances you fell ill. I lost neither my memory nor my magic, but I don’t know enough to say that it’s impossible. If I can, I will help you. But I can’t right now.

  And before Gregory could say anything else, she was gone.

  The world, carried on his senses, seemed to flood back into him. He was on his knees; he thought he’d been standing, and it disoriented him. With a jerk and a cry, he fell to his side.

  He heard a voice shout something, felt his own magic let another’s pass. The spell, whatever it was, felt warm inside of him. Then it was gone. At once someone seized him and glared into his face – it was the gypsy. He looked furious.

  ‘Boy, focus! Can you hear me? Can you speak?’

  Wherever the Scrying had taken him, it must have been muting whatever his body had felt during it. He felt like he’d run up a mountain and then jumped off. And he felt like he was going to laugh.

  ‘How many fingers do you see, boy?’

  Gregory focused. ‘Two. I think I’m going to laugh.’

  ‘Laugh all you want, but first, do you know where you are? Do you remember who I am?’

  The world was still swimming. Gregory opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t, as his lungs heaved with laughter, and his guffaws filled the quiet clearing. He curled up, clutching his aching sides.

  ‘Enough, boy! Answer me. Do you know where you are? Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Hah – yes – ha hah – hah – I’m at the Peoplesmeet,’ Gregory gasped out. ‘And you’re Vincent Grey.’

  The gypsy’s eyes widened. He stared down at Gregory, who stared back, his giggles suddenly gone. The gypsy tried to speak, and no words came out.

  After a few long moments, Gregory scooted away, got to his feet, and left the circle at a run, not looking back.

  ‘Tell no one!’ the man called from behind him.

  ‘I won’t.’

  He’d been right! He’d been right! He’d been right!

  Back in the theatre, no one had noticed him leave, and no one noticed him return. When the play was over, he joined the others in their gushing awe of the performance, and they mistook Gregory’s wild-eyed triumph for appreciation. And when they flew back, Johanna falling asleep on Gregory’s knee, he stared grimly out into the inky night, as if daring the shadows to challenge him. There was a roaring in his ears, getting louder.

  He was about to jump into bed when he spotted it on his desk – the white card with elaborate and golden lettering. For a long minute, Gregory stood staring down at it.

  Then he viciously stabbed his finger down on the Green acceptance square.