Gregory Grey and the Fugitive in Helika

by Stanzin

CHAPTER 19

  Bonding Over Burglary

  Minutes before midnight, only a few hours after Gregory had left the Mushroom and returned to the Apple, he lay in his bed, fully dressed underneath the covers, leg shaking in anticipation.

  Precisely at midnight, a butterfly fluttered in through his window and said - ‘Jump out.’

  Gregory threw off the covers, rushed to his window and clambered out onto the narrow carpet waiting there in the night sky, hundreds off feet off the ground.

  Even Vincent’s normally perfectly controlled expression flickered when he saw his fellow adventurer’s outfit.

  Gregory, who had received a number of such powerful items, had decided this was an excellent time to make good use of them. On his hands were the fire-resistant Wolly-leather gloves gifted by the Director; on his feet, the boots to let him jump down from greater heights; an insect-repellent brooch pinned to his collar; a spy-glass strapped onto his belt; the warm-cool switcher cloak around his shoulders; in his pocket, the bronze shielding amulet he had learnt was called an Aegis; and in his jacket, he carried the invaluable Index.

  ‘What?’ Gregory demanded of Vincent, catching his expression.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all,’ Vincent said with a straight face. ‘I suppose it’s good that you like to be prepared.’

  ‘Gotta be prepared, no matter what,’ agreed Gregory.

  ‘Right. Now, on this little night-time adventure of ours, there is a simple rule – you do exactly as I say, when I say it, without hesitation or question. If I say stop breathing, you stop breathing. If I say scream, you scream. If I say stab me, you stab me. If say wet your pants, you wet your…’

  ‘I got it.’

  There was no moon. They passed Little Finger below. Gregory had never flown over its entire length before. A small river, coursing out of a valley, drained into it; they flew up the valley. It was surprisingly dark here; Domremy City usually sparkled in kaleidoscopic colors during the night. He saw lights from tiny carriages moving along the road. Little patches of ground were lit up here and there away from the road, in what Gregory figured were little hamlets.

  They were headed to the address given in the missing persons notice that showed Gregory’s younger face – the offices of the Schuyler Inc. Vincent had said there was no point in waiting; whatever there was to be learned from the place, it was best learned quickly.

  The ride over might have been entirely silent, but for the noise in Gregory’s head, where his brain was telling him he was an idiot, and entirely incapable of making decisions consistent with his own thoughts.

  For example, having decided only hours before to not trust Vincent Grey, why, for all that was good and holy on the planet, was he entrusting that very man with his life and safety on a mission into a prison… a prison very likely designed for Gregory himself?

  Gregory had wrestled with that question the whole night, his stomach flip-flopping unpleasantly through dinner, torn between a raging desire to go on an adventure with his father and staying safe. He’d finally convinced himself that not trusting Vincent’s words was not the same as not trusting Vincent – after all, whatever his reasons or designs, surely Vincent was (for the moment at least) focused on keeping Gregory safe?

  Finally, Gregory had decided he would go with Vincent… with one measure in place – he would leave Uncle Quincy a timed letter on his table, a letter which, once the clock struck seven in the morning and Gregory had not returned to disable it, would flutter its way over to Uncle Quincy at breakfast. Its contents were short:

  Dear Uncle,

  I found an address that I absolutely must check out right now. It very likely can tell me a lot about mine and my mum and dad’s disappearance. This letter will find you if I’m not back by breakfast, it means someone unfriendly has captured me. This is the address:

  Schuyler Inc., Gimmel, Domremy City.

  Sorry. I know I’m in trouble,

  With love,

  Gregory.

  It wasn’t enough by far, but it had been enough to let Gregory cajole himself into the adventure.

  They arrived. The innocuous little hamlet didn’t even have its own light. Vincent cast a spell, and faded out of sight. Gregory held up his hand to his face – he saw nothing.

  Cool.

  The house looked ridiculously commonplace, nothing like what an enemy lair should look like. Vincent prodded and worked gently at its wards – Gregory could barely sense the magic.

  ‘Into the spider’s parlour we go. You’re up, Greg,’ Vincent said.

  Gregory turned the front door’s handle; it swung open without any obvious ceremony.

  There was nothing extraordinary inside the hall, just doors leading into rooms beyond, and many portraits of cats.

  Despite that, Gregory knew from Vincent’s instruction, a Containment Ward had just been activated - it would present no problem to Vincent should they choose to break out. He knew also, that a signal had been sent somewhere that a young boy, mage, and old woman, non-mage, had entered the dwelling.

  Vincent blacked out the windows, and then conjured a gentle orb of light that followed them from room to room.

  The first door from the hall led to a spotless kitchen. The second door from the hall led to a living and dining room combo, also spotless. Upstairs, there were bedrooms. The first bedroom was plushy and carpeted. The second bedroom was scant; there was an uncomfortable looking bed, and there was a tall stool under a slender looking table, piled high with what looked like study books.

  ‘It all looks too… normal,’ whispered Gregory.

  Vincent nodded, and said, ‘It’s been a long time since someone lived here. There’s no dust, but the whole place smells… disused.’

  Vincent cast charms and enchantments on every room he covered – a trap for a spider, inside the spider’s own lair.

  ‘You said the poster sent a signal to this house,’ Gregory said. ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Well… let’s try something,’ Vincent said, and muttered another spell Gregory couldn’t even begin to make out. ‘Your would-be host has a basement.’

  They found the trapdoor under the kitchen table. Vincent dissipated the spells that held it shut, and performed a few more checks. ‘Nothing down there wants to kill us, at least as far as I can tell. Shall we?’

  The hidden basement was vastly more intriguing. The room was covered in strange white boxes of many shapes; big and squat, tall and slender, flat on the wall, and hanging down from the ceiling in strange harnesses. Every box had runes carved onto it – they were all made of runestone.

  ‘Your would-be host is a rich man… there’s enough runestone here to fund an army,’ Vincent said.

  ‘Can you read the runes?’

  ‘Some of the individual runes, yes. The runeflows here are unfamiliar to me… I have never seen the like.’

  ‘I have,’ Gregory said, much to his own surprise, but it was true – the runeflows were definitely familiar. ‘Can’t remember where though…’

  ‘Have you seen these blocky contraptions elsewhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah, well. Perhaps it will come to you in time… or we can ask your host when he gets here. Meanwhile, let’s find the receiver that your poster signalled.’

  They found it quickly enough: it was a runestone set into the wall. It didn’t respond to Vincent’s spells.

  ‘Like I thought, it’s been dormant for a while,’ Vincent said. ‘I don’t think your picking up the poster activated it – your host isn’t expecting you.’

  ‘That’s nice to know. Is there anything else in here?’

  Vincent cast the strange-sounding spell again. ‘There’s something behind that wall,’ he said, pointing to the only wall in the basement that wasn’t hidden behind runestone boxes.

  ‘How do we open it?’

  There was no obvious lever or button to the wall. Gregory felt it the stone all over with his fingers, and failing to find anything, resorted to the old
standby – he kicked the wall.

  The wall remained impassive to this admonishment.

  ‘Too bad,’ Vincent said. ‘With luck, your host may see this as an opportunity to redecorate. Stand back, Gregory.’

  Vincent drew a rune on the wall with precise and practiced flourishes. When he was done, he retreated to Gregory’s position. Gregory’s mana chimed ever so faintly; in front of him, with an immense crack and rumble, a rectangular section of the wall fell inward, leaving a gaping hole.

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Gregory peered hard at the hole, but could not see anything – the dust from the broken wall obscured the air. Vincent performed his checks again, and this time he looked wary.

  ‘There are people in there. I think they’re sleeping.’

  ‘How can anyone sleep through the noise that just made?’

  ‘If they are unable to wake… be alert now, and remember – if I tell you to-’

  ‘Wet my pants, I wet my pants – got it.’ Gregory could almost hear his heart pounded at the duo approached the hole, following the floating orb of light.

  There was more dust inside. Still, Gregory made out some strange pillars set up in a circle around the hidden room. He puffed at the dust and took a closer look one of them. It was made of runewood, but the carvings weren’t the ones he normally saw. They were elaborate and elegant, with many grand flourishes.

  He was tracing a long and intriguing looking line up the pillar when Vincent’s voice rang out.

  ‘Gregory! Leave the room!’

  The command came a second too late. The wispy and grey beard tickled his nose. Gregory jerked his head back and saw the dry and grey skin, the emaciated and wasted face, and the protuberant and desperate eyes.

  ‘Help me...’

  The parched whisper brushed Gregory’s face; his cry caught in his throat as he scooted backwards, falling as he exited the hole in the wall, coughing violently. Vincent followed only seconds after.

  ‘Breathe, boy!’

  ‘Algernon!’ Gregory coughed out. He fought down the urge to retch.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That man… in the… coffin,’ Gregory said, suddenly realising what the pillars had been. ‘His name’s… Algernon. He was at the Caverns… on the Voidmark. He is – was – a teacher.’

  ‘He went missing?’

  ‘He was taken!’

  Gregory drew a great shuddering breath, and then another, and then a third. Vincent pulled out a flask from somewhere and pressed it to Gregory’s lips. It was some sort of tea, cool and clean. It helped him continue.

  ‘Voidmark night – the creep that got me… it took Algernon! What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Steady, boy. Explain, quickly now.’

  Through shuddering breath and in trembling voice, Gregory told of the spectre that had stabbed him.

  ‘It absorbed him… I thought it ate him. It was huge… tall as two men, and two eyes like white lights… made me think of fairies.’

  ‘You thought he was dead?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘Everyone thought he was dead. It was the biggest spectre I’d seen that day! I thought it was going to suck me in too…’ And if it had, would Gregory have been in that room, tied up to runes, emaciated and dry? ‘This… this is necromancy, isn’t it? Real necromancy… not the kind everyone says Augusta Lovelace does?’

  Vincent nodded. He looked drawn, and his mouth was set in the thinnest line.

  ‘Unholy hells… how many of them are there?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘A dozen… at least. Perhaps more.’

  ‘What’s being done to them?’

  ‘There was a runeflow on the floor – an ancient Mesoamerican sacrificial pattern – Aztec, I think. From what I could make out, they’re being leeched.’

  Again, Gregory’s folk stories told him what that meant. ‘Their mana… no… their magical potential – their Will! Somebody’s feeding on their Will!’

  Bile rose in Gregory’s throat. ‘Who-’

  But Vincent put a finger to his lips, and looked up through the trapdoor. ‘I think,’ he said quietly, ‘That the feeder is here.’

  Every horror story Gregory remembered of the feeders and their demonic power rushed into his head. There was no fighting them – there was no pleading, or bargaining. They cared for nothing but consuming the vitality and of others.

  ‘We have to go – we have to go!’ Gregory shrieked as quietly as he could.

  ‘And miss out on your host’s hospitality? That would be rude.’

  Gregory looked at Vincent as if the older man had gone mad. Vincent was smiling his not-nice smile, but there was something else in it now. He looked hungry, like Mango had looked hungry before the fight at the arena.

  ‘You stay here,’ Vincent said, his voice soft. ‘I’m going to have a little chat.’

  The gypsy vanished up the trapdoor, which shut behind him. The orb of light gave scant comfort – the hole into the next room looked that much more sinister in it’s faint light. He pressed himself up against one of the white runestone blocks, and waited.

  A minute passed, then two, and Gregory heard nothing. The silence, and having nothing to do, was making him edgier than he could bear. So, carefully keeping an eye on the yawning hole in the wall, he examined the runestone again.

  He had definitely seen the patterns before. He traced them with his fingers, looking over each line, till he found, to his great surprise, that he could actually read one of them.

  It said, ‘Return’.

  ‘No – freaking – way,’ Gregory whispered to himself. ‘It’s an Index.’

  It was, for now he knew where he’d seen the runes before – they were neo-runecraft – streaming in strange commands over his own Index whenever he executed a command, before the ink resolved itself into readable words.

  The Index looked old… like a prototype. And the instant he thought that, Gregory knew whose house he was in.

  Remy, Mr. Coffey had said, had invented the Index… Remy, who’s last name was Schuyler.

  ‘What?’ Gregory said aloud.

  Why in the world would Remy Schuyler have been looking for Gregory for the last seven years? Had he been at Brightapple the night the village had been razed? Was that where he’d seen his face? Wouldn’t Remy been studying at the Caverns all those years ago?

  Gregory was so bewildered that, for a second, he forgot to be scared.

  He looked over the rest of the runestones. The Index had evolved, from these bulky old blocks, to the smooth runestone tablet tucked in his pocket. This bulkier Index looked like a more inelegant version of its formidable cousin construct at the Blood Bureau.

  Despite everything, Gregory was quite impressed.

  A stray memory struck him then, and it made his heart leap – Mr. Coffey had said that Remy had mentioned coming up with the idea of rune linking blood soon after he’d begun working on the Index… and that he’d used his first Index to experiment with the runeflows!

  Gregory’s heart hammered – he was quite possibly looking at the very machine Remy had used to run his experiments – but that didn’t mean Remy couldn’t have used it for other things.

  Like…say… trying to hunt down Gregory, much in the same way Gregory had tried to hunt down his parents.

  For if there was anyone in the world, who could appreciate the Index’s sheer power in sorting through a bunch of information, and coming to answers so long you asked the right questions, it was Gregory.

  And maybe, just maybe, there were records of those searches, still written into this Index – searches that might just answer a very important question – why anyone had been looking for Gregory in the first place?

  Heart racing, Gregory looked over each of the white runestone blocks till he found what he was looking for – a tall squat runestone block with many thin sheets of runestone slid into its grooves – a Book of Memory!

  Gregory put his own Index on top of the Book of Memory.
r />   ‘What can you tell me?’ he whispered as he began to fiddle, his commands racing across the screen.

  That was when the lance of fire cut through the ceiling of the hidden basement – the stone hissed as it was consumed – and an explosion nearly deafened him. Gregory bit his tongue hard, and cursed.

  Through the gaping hole in the ceiling, he saw a silent duel fought between two men. He couldn’t make out any of it. He doubted he could have made out anything even if his face was pressed up against the fight.

  For the most part, the two men weren’t moving at all. The room around them had been demolished. An entire wall of the kitchen was gone; the stars in the sky silhouetted the fight. When they did move it was so fast their bodies ought to have been ripped apart.

  Flurries of spells, charms, jinxes and curses flew faster than Gregory could count; the air would sometimes scream; shapes and figures appeared only to dissolve away.

  There was a flash of light, and maybe the assailant hadn’t thought to Obscure his features, or perhaps Vincent had dispelled the blur, but Gregory saw Remy Schuyler’s thin face, contorted with rage.

  A sickly yellow beam sped at Gregory. He dodged, but it never reached him. There was some ward or barrier around the room, and the beam dissipated into nothingness – Vincent must set a ward before leaving.

  Gregory knew nothing of duelling, but Remy’s spellcasting scared him even so – he was powerful, very powerful; the very space in which he stood seemed to warp with his power… and Vincent was more powerful than even that. The older man’s lanky shape was distinct; his spells produced practically no color – a massive advantage; Schuyler couldn’t shield against spells he couldn’t see. And as far as Gregory could tell, Vincent wasn’t even relying on his spellwork all that much; Remy was spending a lot of effort fighting the enchantments Vincent had set up earlier.

  How in the world was a travelling gypsy giving a necromancer so much trouble?

  Schuyler must have gotten desperate, or sensed that Vincent had warded the basement, because he risked a moment to fire another spell – at Gregory. The massive bolt of black fire hit the barrier, fought it, and passed clean through, though much diminished.

  It would have struck Gregory, had he not dodged in reflex. As it passed him, the spell felt wrong… sick…

  Instead, it crashed into the Index, which gave a loud bang. The runestones cracked; something inside it’s body blew, adding another hole to the one the spell had made.

  Gregory scrambled to get his own Index off the Book of Memory.

  Vincent had been holding back, fighting to subdue… but the attack on his son seemed to have made him less careful. Remy shielded desperately against the onslaught.

  The air between the two men contracted strangely, and the stars themselves seemed to streak: the spell yanked Remy across the floor: into Vincent; who sidestepped neatly, and sunk his fist into the man’s guts.

  There was a noise from the ruined Index. A part of it fell away and a misshapen figure stumbled out of it, decayed, with massive and protuberant eyes, and limbs that looked brittle… but Gregory knew to be exceptionally strong.

  The duellers caught the spectre’s eyes; it shrieked, and dashed towards the ladder, climbing haphazardly… till its head struck Vincent’s ward; wailing, it fell to the floor.

  That’s when it saw Gregory.

  It looked surprised for a second, and then it’s wasted face twisted into snarl; it leaped.

  Gregory couldn’t remember deciding to move… and he thought no thoughts about the spell his body cast…

  Like his father had mere seconds ago, he sidestepped… the wordless spell exploded from him… a strange restraint on his magic seemed to break all at once; the entirety of Gregory’s thauma condensed around his fist… the same instant his fist drove through the grotesque head; the spell’s power shredded the creature, flung it back into the opposite wall; it dispersed into smoke before it hit the ground.

  ‘Woah.’ Vincent jumped into the room. The fight upstairs was over too. ‘What did you say they’ve been teaching you at the Caverns?’

  Gregory gaped at his own fist, which was bloody where the spectre’s teeth had sunk in… though the spectre hadn’t bitten him – it had been his fist that had pushed into it’s teeth. He was dazed, and dimly, he noted that the basement wall was cracked where the spectre had hit it.

  Vincent’s carpet flew into the room. ‘Let’s go.’

  Gregory didn’t move, so Vincent gently led him on the carpet. Seconds later, they were streaking out of the hamlet, up into the sky.

  ‘I don’t know how I did that,’ Gregory said. His voice was a little strange, but he marvelled he was coherent at all. ‘I think I’m going to…’ he slumped down on the carpet.

  It felt like a mage rush, but different. It wasn’t the fuzziness or sensory overload from the Blooding… it felt as if he was caught in a vast current, a current that flowed only through him…

  ‘You get him?’ Gregory heard himself ask.

  ‘No, but the night isn’t over yet,’ Vincent said grimly. ‘We’re chasing.’

  Gregory found the strength to look up and ahead. The mage rush must have been doing something to his sight – he could see a speck flying away down the valley, though he shouldn’t have been able to make out anything at all that moonless night.

  ‘He figured he wasn’t going to win,’ Vincent said. ‘Pulled a trick I hadn’t seen before. I’ve never seen a kid fight so well… courtesy of his snacks back at the cottage, I suppose. Still, I know his face now.’

  ‘H’s name’s… Schuyler. He works for the Blood Bureau. The blood part… of the blood census… wus his idea,’ Gregory slurred.

  Vincent whistled. ‘Bringing you along tonight is paying off very well.’

  ‘He conjured… a spectre… no accident. He… meant to do it. How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Gotta… get him. Whatever he’s plan’d… can’t be good.’

  ‘We’ll get him… there! Reinforcements!’

  Another speck… no, two specks… had swooped up from the ground to intercept the fleeing necromancer. Spellfire streamed through the air. The fighting slowed Remy down – Gregory and Vincent were catching up quickly.

  Before they could reach though, there was a spellburst from Remy’s carpet… somebody fell off one of the intercepting carpets and the other swooped down to catch them… but there was no point – the falling body was limp.

  Dazed though he was, Gregory thought he saw something leap from Remy’s carpet and onto the one breaking off from the fight.

  Vincent snarled out a curse: a silver bolt shot across the distance: it hit Remy; Gregory heard the scream… he saw the fleeing carpet falter… and then Vincent was on him.

  Blue fire began eating Remy’s carpet away from the edges: the necromancer fired a long stream of curses; most disintegrated against some ward around Vincent’s carpet: Vincent deflected the rest right back at Remy, who twisted violently, his flaming carpet lurching sideways.

  Vincent spiralled his own carpet down: the two carpets fell vertically, facing each other, their flyers duelling fiercely. Gregory’s stomach seemed to be floating inside him… and the ground was closing in alarmingly fast. Vincent seemed invincible, shrugging off whatever hits Remy scored against him, as if they were minor annoyances – Gregory knew they weren’t. The mage rush, if that was what was coursing through him, had heightened his magical senses. Every spell thrown so far had felt like a stone thrown into the current that was flowing through him, and the waves from the spells washed over him – and Remy’s spellwork was mind-numbingly powerful… the magical potential of more than a dozen harvested mages harvested through forbidden magic…

  In contrast, Gregory could barely sense what Vincent was doing. Remy wasn’t handling Vincent’s assault nearly as well either – for all that it seemed that Vincent was barely casting anything at all. Remy convulsed as green lightning crackled through his body… then h
is thighs snapped; Gregory saw white bone rip through cloth… Remy screamed.

  The necromancer broke away from the dive, finally putting out the blue fire eating at his carpet. It was too late though – the carpet was burnt away. Vincent chased him as he manoeuvred to a small clearing, halfway up a high hill…. he crashed clumsily into the ground.

  Before he could move though, yet another carpet blossomed out of the night, bearing two figures, one of whom cast a bright silvery dome around Remy, who reacted with violent magic… but the prison held.

  ‘Got you!’ the newcomer whooped.

  Gregory looked away and threw up.

  ‘Nothing like a good night’s work,’ said the other newcomer gleefully, which Vincent cut short.

  ‘Ferris, go check on Aizawl and Rennick! They were hit, a few miles back. Marcus, guard the necromancer. I must take the boy home. I shan’t be long, but stay hidden.’

  The other gypsies, for that’s who they were, sobered up at once. One of them sped away into the night. The other cast a powerful concealment – he, and the silver prison with Remy in it, vanished from sight. Vincent flew off the hillside, in the opposite direction in which the other carpet had gone.

  ‘I’m taking you to the Mushroom. You’ll rest. I’ll be back before dawn, or someone else will, to take you home.’

  Gregory was in no state to argue. The world shimmered and shone around him, and its form was indistinct. Now that he noticed it – his skin, his fingers, his face and his lips – they tingled all over, pleasantly numb. Streams of light flowed across his vision, carried by that magical current… his mind and body freewheeled through the strange mage rush.

  It had, all things considered, been an excellent adventure.

  A shame though, that he hadn’t had a chance to put his magical vestments to proper use, apart from the cloak, which had kept him comfortably warm.

  He didn’t remember being put to bed, but when Vincent shook him awake, his head was clear again. It throbbed, but not unpleasantly.

  ‘You have him still?’ Gregory asked, sitting up with a jerk.

  Vincent was seated on the bed. ‘Yes.’

  Gregory pumped his fist in triumph, but then saw Vincent’s bleak look.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We lost two of our own.’

  Gregory felt sick. ‘Who were they?’

  ‘You may have seen them at the fair. One of them, Aizawl, was a fire-dancer.’

  Gregory remembered the young man who’d kissed roses of fire into Susannah and Mango’s hair. ‘And the other… Rennick?’

  ‘A puppet-master.’

  ‘What are you doing for them?’

  ‘The tribe was all the family they knew. There will be rites.’

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Yes. Gregory, it should not need to be said… but you’re not at fault for their deaths.’

  ‘I know.’

  He truly did know. He’d read enough of the stories where someone would take the blame for a loss on themselves, and he’d been frustrated at how silly those characters had been.

  ‘I hope catching Remy was worth it,’ Gregory said, trying very hard not to cry.

  Vincent nodded.

  Gregory couldn’t leave it at that. He cast his about in his mind, looking for something he could do or someway he could help.

  The answer came to him easily enough. He wouldn’t even have considered it in any other situation, but two men had given their lives in a chain of action that he’d set in motion – Gregory would honour that.

  So he pulled out the smooth grey runestone that he carried everywhere and presented it to Vincent.

  ‘What’s this?’ the older man asked, mystified.

  ‘It’s called an Index,’ Gregory said, and told Vincent everything he knew about how he got it, and what it could do. Vincent listened with unconcealed amazement.

  ‘It’s wonderful, brilliant even, but why are you showing it to me?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘This is secret!’ Gregory said. ‘In sometime, many people will have one of their own, but right now, only a handful know about it, and fewer actually possess one. This is secret!’

  ‘So?’

  Gregory’s eyes gleamed. ‘Remember that dumpy looking construct back in the basement?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was an Index, a really old one. It wouldn’t turn on, but I didn’t need it to. Its Book of Memories was all I needed. I’m almost certain I pulled off its entire contents into my own Index. If I show you how to use it, maybe you can find out something important?’

  Vincent’s eyes gleamed just like Gregory’s. He reverently took the proffered grey runestone, saying, ‘I’m sure I will.’

  ‘Turn it on,’ Gregory said. He guided his father through the Index’s commands. Vincent learned quickly – barely thirty minutes after he’d begun, he could navigate the Index’s information trees almost as well as Gregory himself.

  ‘Will you let me know what you find out?’ Gregory asked.

  ‘Of course. This you’ve earned for yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Vincent looked thoughtful. ‘You said Schuyler worked for the Blood Bureau?’

  ‘Yes. Mr. Coffey was the one behind the census, but Schuyler was the one who thought of creating a Bloodlink.’

  ‘A what link?’

  ‘Bloodlinks. The Index itself is Schuyler’s own idea. He created it, about eight years ago. The runecraft is all his own. Rune-linking the blood of a person to an Index was also his idea.’

  Gregory told Vincent everything he knew of the Blood Bureau, and how it worked. The gypsy’s face went from frowning, to thoughtful, to worried.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Gregory asked nervously.

  ‘I’m afraid.’ Vincent turned the smooth grey tablet over in his hands. ‘Do you know, in a war, what’s the greatest weapon in any force could possess?’

  That was easy. ‘Information,’ Gregory said. If you knew where your enemies were coming from, and what they were bringing, then your situation had to be hopeless for you to actually lose. It was the standard lesson of a thousand battle anecdotes.

  ‘You’re thinking of logistics,’ Vincent said. ‘Of the weak points of an attacking army or fleet. Come to think of it, some clever rune-work would probably let you know exactly where – shall we say, an Indexed person – is.’

  ‘They already do that… OH!’

  ‘They do? Then you understand.’

  ‘Yes.’ He couldn’t believe he’d been that slow to make the connection, that he hadn’t even thought about the ramifications of an entire population that could be tracked upon the instant.

  ‘Whoever it is that’s already been… Indexed… they are practically no threat now to anyone with access to the Blood Index. On that note, how big is the project already? Who is the Index tracking?’

  ‘It’s only in Helika. People who lost their homes to the quake – the refugees, about a few thousand of them.’

  Vincent frowned. ‘A few thousand? The quake left millions of Helikans homeless. Why have they Indexed so few?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think they’re mainly tracking the refugee camps in the north of Helika, but - hey! Don’t break it!’

  Vincent’s knuckles had whitened where they gripped the Index.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘The Blood Index. The census is a deception, a sleight of hand, cloaking the Index’s true purpose – the only purpose that makes sense.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I believe it’s a weapon, the newest weapon in the war.’

  ‘In your war? How’s that? And how your war is mixed up in my life?’

  Vincent was looking at him inscrutably again, weighing, Gregory knew, how much to say. ‘I came tonight only to find out why someone was interested in you – when they had no business for it. And now I think I know who it is, that’s looking for you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I
don’t know his name. I’ve hunted him, with your mother, for more than a decade. Seven years ago, I thought I had him.’

  ‘The night at Brightapple,’ Gregory said.

  ‘Yes. Always, I’ve tried to guess his moves. There is a certain pattern to his actions, and sometimes I can predict him. Sometimes, I’ve been lucky enough to spoil or delay his plans. Not always, though.’

  ‘Then, if he knows my face, I might have seen his too? Before losing my memory?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You said – at the watchtower – that Brightapple was razed to cover up a murder… was it the man you’ve been hunting?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And this is the man looking for me?’

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘Why? What do I have that he wants?’

  ‘I only have guesses. When I’m sure of them, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘How did Remy conjure that spectre?’

  ‘You can bet I’ll be asking him that…but now it’s time you were home.’

  Gregory had never flown over Domremy at dawn. It was beautiful. Sunlight fought mist for the ground, and the sun had just risen entirely when Vincent flew Gregory up to his window.

  As exhausted as he’d ever felt, Gregory got off the carpet.

  ‘You’re to be made Hero tomorrow evening, aren’t you?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘Yes. When are you holding the funeral?’

  ‘In a few days. I’ll let you know.’

  Gregory nodded. ‘See you around, I suppose.’ He staggered to the front door; he could almost hear his bed calling.

  ‘We’ve wished a million times that you could have been with us.’

  Vincent hadn’t left. He hovered on his carpet, looking wistful.

  ‘There are so many people we’ve met, and so many sights we’ve seen, that we wish we could have shared with you. There would have been dangers, like tonight, but I always wondered, if the trade off was worth it – keeping you out of harms way, at the price of becoming strangers to you. And even now, I’m not sure it was. ‘

  Before Gregory could reply, Vincent sped off.

  It was, Gregory thought, an apology of sorts.

  He sat down at his desk, notebook open and quill in hand, and wrote down the questions he thought needed answering, for all that his head felt too tired to ever think again.

  Then he changed, tore up the alert letter he’d written to Uncle Quincy, and let his bed swallow him up.