“I remember Hadrian,” said Molly, frowning. “He was a close friend of my parents, and a tutor to me. He wasn’t like that! He was a freedom fighter, a constant defender of noble causes. He was a good man!”
But her frown deepened even as she was speaking, as though she was troubled by conflicting, newly surfacing, memories.
“Yes, well,” said the Regent, entirely unmoved, “that was then; this is now. The current leadership of this new White Horse Faction are on their way to Monkton Manse to debate their future, and the nature of future tactics. I am concerned that they’ve invited this Hadrian Coll, this Trickster Man, to be a part of their debate. Whatever happens on Trammell Island, hidden from the eyes of the world, will decide what direction the next generation will take. It’s up to you . . . to help guide them in the right direction. You are authorised to take whatever action may be necessary to deal with the Faction in general, and Hadrian Coll in particular.” He looked steadily at Molly. “Coll was a very violent man, back in the day. And he was very definitely present when your parents died.”
“Of course he was there,” said Molly. “He was their friend. He wouldn’t abandon them.”
“He claims to have reformed,” said the Regent. “That he’s no longer the man he used to be. And, that he doesn’t want the White Horse Faction to be what it used to be. Which is all very nice and as it should be. But, has he really embraced non-violence? Or is he still the dangerous Trickster Man, ready to say whatever it takes to have influence over the next generation of Faction leaders?”
“I’ll find out,” said Molly. “He wouldn’t lie to me.”
“Someone’s coming,” I said. “Talk to you later, Grandfather.”
I shut down the laptop, whipped out the golden filaments, and made both my armour and the laptop disappear. I turned quickly to face the open front door, Molly standing stiffly at my side. I wanted to put a hand to the collar at my throat. The golden torc isn’t normally visible to the everyday eye. Normally, you have to possess the Sight, or at the very least be the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son (exceedingly rare in these days of family planning), just to be able to detect the torc’s presence. But Monkton Manse didn’t feel like a normal place, with normal conditions. If they found out I was a Drood . . . this whole situation would deteriorate faster than an argument about who didn’t have a starter in a row over a restaurant bill.
And I needed this to go well, for Molly’s sake. So she could get to the truth, at last, and put it behind her.
Footsteps approached the open door from outside, and then suddenly there they were. The three leaders of the next generation of the new White Horse Faction, standing together in the doorway, staring blankly at Molly and me.
* * *
They stood very still, clearly under the impression that they’d been the first to arrive on the Island. Certainly not expecting anyone to have got to the house ahead of them. They appeared alarmed, then suspicious, and finally distinctly annoyed. They looked Molly and me over, taking their time. I gave them my best confident, charming, and in no way dangerous smile, and Molly . . . did her best. It wasn’t that she lacked in people skills; it was mostly that she just couldn’t be bothered. The three next-generation leaders glanced at each other, exchanged a quick flurry of smiles, raised eyebrows and shrugs, and then turned back to present Molly and me with a united front. Doing their best to look as though they were in charge, and full of authority. But their lack of experience was against them; neither of them had progressed very far into their twenties, and there was no overlooking the way they stood very close together, for mutual support.
The young woman suddenly stepped forward. “Hi,” she said, just a bit ungraciously. “I’m Stephanie Troy. I know who both of you are, of course. We’re happy to have you here with us on this auspicious occasion. The rebirth and regeneration of the White Horse Faction! It’s an honour to meet you, Molly Metcalf.”
Troy barely gave me a second look, but then, that was how it should be. Shaman Bond has a history with most supernatural organisations, usually as a supplier of information, but no reputation at all for getting personally involved in dangerous action. Unlike the infamous Molly Metcalf . . .
Stephanie Troy was tall and fashionably slender, and positively blazed with nervous energy. She had short-cropped honey blonde hair, flashing eyes, and a tightly pursed mouth. She wore a smart grey suit with sensible shoes, minimal makeup, and no jewellery. I was pretty sure she would consider such things distracting, and frivolous. This was a woman who had given herself to a cause, and everything and everyone else would always come second to that.
She darted forward and grabbed Molly firmly by the hand. Molly suffered her hand to be shook, and nodded amiably enough.
“Hi!” I said. “I’m Shaman Bond! Happy to be here; glad to help out.”
“I know who you are,” said Troy, reluctantly releasing Molly’s hand. “Your reputation precedes you.” She didn’t make that sound like a good thing. And she didn’t offer to shake my hand.
“I’m Phil Adams,” said the shortest member of the next generation. He stepped forward, shyly and deferentially, and made a point of shaking my hand as well as Molly’s.
He was barely medium height, far more than medium weight, with a constant little smile and an evasive gaze, wearing a baggy shapeless jersey over grubby blue jeans that looked like they’d been through several wars. His heavy boots were held together with two different-coloured sets of shoe-laces, along with a certain amount of knotted string. He wore his long mousey-coloured hair in untidy dreadlocks, and sported a stubbly and not particularly successful beard. He had a calm, easy manner, but didn’t seem to want to look directly at anyone. I’d seen his kind before. More at home with animals than people, he loved Nature so much there wasn’t a lot left in him for people. He would almost certainly turn out to be the heart and soul of the group, but he’d always leave it to the other two to do the talking.
The last one to come forward announced himself loudly as Joe Morrison. He was a big one, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, wearing a hooded jacket of indeterminate colour over designer jeans and cowboy boots. Given the way he moved, and the way he held himself, I got the feeling he was probably ex-military. Or at the very least, ex-bouncer. He looked like he would have enjoyed saying No trainers! and Your name’s not on the list. He was dark and not particularly handsome, and gave every indication of knowing and not giving a damn. He nodded to Molly, clearly pleased to see her, but just as clearly not as impressed by her reputation as the others. He glanced at me, and sniffed loudly.
“I did my research, once I knew you two would be here,” he said. “Everyone knows Molly Metcalf is the real deal, but I couldn’t get anyone to agree on what you are, Shaman. Have you ever believed in anything, I mean really believed, in your whole crooked life?”
“I believe in getting paid,” I said easily. “And Molly is paying me really good money to watch her back, while she’s here. What do you believe in, Joe Morrison?”
“I believe in protecting Nature, and Mother Earth,” said Morrison. In a way that suggested that hadn’t always been the case. There’s nothing more fervent and more dogmatic than a recent convert.
For a while, we all just stood there in the hallway, and looked each other over. These three may be the next-generation leaders of the White Horse Faction, but Molly and I were the only ones with real reputations. We’d actually done things. In the end, Troy nodded briskly to Molly, and favoured her with a brief smile.
“We’re really glad you’ve come back to the White Horse Faction, Molly. Your parents left a hell of a legacy. We admire their commitment, and revere their contributions, even though we have chosen to follow a different path. I’m sure we’ll have lots to discuss. What we decide here, in this place, will change the world.”
And then she looked at me. I smiled calmly back at her.
“I know,” I said. “I’m just a dilettante in all this, and I’ll never be a true believer. But as long as
Molly is putting money in my pocket, you can depend on me.”
“To do what?” said Troy, bluntly. “What can you bring to the cause?”
“I can open doors for you,” I said. “I know people. I can make connections, get you whatever you need. For a very reasonable percentage, of course.”
“Parasite,” said Morrison. He gave Molly a hard look. “What’s he doing here? Is he your . . . significant other, these days?”
“Hardly,” I said smoothly. “Dear Molly’s just the boss lady. I am here . . . because this is a bad place. Which you’d know, if you’d done your research.”
“I wouldn’t have thought the infamous Molly Metcalf would need a bodyguard,” Adams said quietly, tugging reflectively at a dreadlock. “And didn’t I hear you were stepping out with a Drood these days, Molly?”
“A rogue Drood,” said Molly. “And I didn’t bring him, because if I had . . . you wouldn’t have dared turn up. My Eddie has left his very scary family, but I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable in his presence. That’s why I hired Shaman. We’re old colleagues.”
Troy was already shaking her head. “Our invitation was just for you. We are here to decide the final direction of the White Horse Faction—and the future of the whole world.”
“Just the three of you?” I said, innocently.
“We represent hundreds of supporters,” Adams said quietly. “Hundreds of cells, with thousands of fellow travellers, spread out across every country in the world. All of them dedicated to give their all in defence of Mother Earth. We will dictate policy, and our armies will carry it out.”
“Armies?” said Molly. “I thought it was all about non-violence, these days.”
“We have to use language the rest of the world will understand,” said Morrison. “We’re at war with all those who would pollute our waters and poison the air. Just because we don’t believe in violence, doesn’t mean we’ll shy away from open confrontation. We have to save the world while there’s still time.”
“And this meeting will decide how we’re going to do it,” said Troy.
“Occupy!” said Morrison, smiling for the first time. “Stand in the way. Place ourselves between the bad guys and their evil ways. Make it impossible for them to screw up our poor planet any more.”
“In a totally non-threatening, non-violent way, of course,” said Adams.
I didn’t smile. I approved of their sentiments, and admired their courage, but in my experience, the nail that sticks up most is the first to get hammered down.
“Who knows?” said Troy, smiling frostily in my direction. “When you’ve seen all the evidence, and heard all the arguments, perhaps we’ll convert you, Shaman.”
“Non-violence is an excellent idea,” I said. “I just wish it worked more often. Is everyone in your new White Horse Faction equally dedicated to turning the other cheek? Only, a little bird did tell me a certain Hadrian Coll will be joining us. . . .”
The three next-generation leaders looked at each other quickly, and that glance was all I needed to see how they felt about Hadrian Coll, also known as Trickster Man. Troy looked excited, Adams looked disapproving, and Morison looked conflicted, like he thought they were all making a big mistake.
“He’s . . . on his way,” said Troy. She made an effort to appear upbeat. “You mustn’t be put off by his past reputation. He’s changed. It’s only because he’s heard how much we’ve changed the organisation, and its methods, that he’s agreed to come out from deep cover, to talk with us here.”
“He was a warrior, in defence of Mother Earth,” said Adams. “It took great courage for him to admit the old ways didn’t work.”
“He still needs to understand that he’s not in charge any more,” said Morrison.
“He was a good friend to my parents,” said Molly. “And a tutor to me. He helped make me everything I am today.”
All three of the next generation looked seriously uncomfortable, as they considered all the very definitely violent and destructive things the infamous Molly Metcalf had done in her time. They might revere her parents, and be impressed by her accomplishments, but none of them wanted anything to do with her idea of tactics. I could see in their faces they were all wondering whether they’d done the right thing in inviting her, after all.
“Well, it’s good to know I haven’t been forgotten,” said a new, cheerful voice. We all looked round sharply, and there he was in the open doorway, grinning easily at all of us. Hadrian Coll himself; the Trickster Man. The only surviving member of the original White Horse Faction.
He stood tall and proud, loud and cocky, hard worn and showing his middle age, but still possessed of a certain shop-soiled charisma. He looked like a retired businessman, dressed for a walking holiday, all casual and slouching. But you had to look at him for only a few moments to see that was just a mask, with the real and very dangerous persona peering out from behind it. Then, he looked a lot more like a mercenary soldier, dressed for a walking holiday. He had thinning white hair, bushy black eyebrows, and a heavy broken nose protruding from a blocky, hard-lined face. He smiled easily enough, but it never reached his eyes.
I’d seen his sort before drinking happily at the end of the bar, just waiting for trouble to break out, so he could join in and get his hands bloody. He’d never start anything, but you could always be sure he’d be the last one standing. And he wouldn’t care at all how many bystanders got hurt in the process. Now here he was, claiming to have retired and reformed. Ready to do non-violent penance for his bloody past.
I wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe Molly’s old tutor wasn’t what the Drood files said he was. But I didn’t.
Troy and Adams and Morrison just stood there, mouths open and wide-eyed, dazzled by the glare of Coll’s reputation. His legend. Molly squealed with delight, and ran forward to hug Coll fiercely. He wrapped his great arms around her and lifted her off her feet, so he could swing her around in a circle. They both laughed loudly, as he hugged her to him like a friendly old bear. He finally put her down and let her go, and turned to grin at all of us, one arm still draped companionably over Molly’s shoulders. Like she belonged to him. Molly’s face was flushed, and her eyes were shining. Coll nodded easily to the next generation.
“So, you’re my replacements. Good to see you all! Great to be here! Seems I’ve been away too long; the world’s grown even worse, while I turned my back. Well, no more of that! I have returned and all my knowledge and experience is at your disposal. My way didn’t work; I can only hope that yours will. Molly, my sweet, do the introductions, there’s a dear girl.”
He was probably the only one present who could have got away with calling her that. Molly ran through the names quickly, and Coll strode forward to shake each of the next generation firmly by the hand. He gave them all the same big smile, and lots of eye contact, and they all smiled and simpered, like a dazzled fan meeting their favourite movie star. They fell all over each other to say how proud they were to meet him, and how delighted they were he’d agreed to come out of retirement to be their spiritual mentor and advisor. Coll nodded easily to each of them. And then, finally, Molly introduced him to me.
I gave Coll my best harmless smile, playing the chancer con man act to the hilt; but I couldn’t tell whether he bought it or not. He crushed my hand in his, clapped me hard on the shoulder, and loudly said any friend of Molly was a friend of his.
“Shaman Bond! I know the name, of course,” he said. “You’ve been around, haven’t you? I’ve pitched up at every trouble spot there is in the last few years, and as often as not, your name was there before me. Never anything big, but always there, hanging around on the edge of the scene. A good man to know, they say, when you need a helping hand.”
“For a reasonable price,” I said.
He laughed. “Your reputation precedes you!”
“That was going to be my line,” I said.
“Ah,” he said sadly. “I’m not the man I was. And mostly, I’d have to say that is a goo
d thing.”
He turned abruptly, to face the next generation again and give them his full attention. “It’s been a long trip, getting here. Took a lot out of me. I could use a nice sit-down, and a spot of something to eat. I’m old now. I get tired. I have Nam flashbacks.”
“You were in Vietnam?” said Morrison.
“No,” said Coll. “That’s what makes the flashbacks so worrying . . .” He laughed again, a great roar of joyous sound, and everyone joined in. The next generation looked at him like he was the Second Coming. Molly looked at him adoringly. And I smiled until my cheeks ached.
Troy and Adams and Morrison led the way down the hall, chattering loudly, trying to make a big fuss of Coll, though he would have none of it. He was just there to advise and support them, he insisted. They were the important ones. Molly wandered after him, smiling just a bit foolishly, while I brought up the rear, thinking my own thoughts. I just couldn’t see it. This amiable old bear of a man wasn’t the tricksy, dangerous man I’d discovered in my research. Hadrian Coll had killed a lot of people, for any number of causes. He planted bombs in public places, arranged magical booby traps for important people, undermined whole governments for any number of organisations. And was never, ever, around when it came time to pay the butcher’s bill. Of course, the records covered only what he did, not why he did it. And I had enough blood on my own golden hands to know that appearances aren’t everything.
But, no one had seen hide nor hair of Hadrian Coll, the legendary Trickster Man, for almost ten years. No one knew where he’d been, or what he’d been doing. Why would he reappear now, to support a White Horse Faction that was nothing like the group he used to belong to? Did he feel the need to do penance, for the monster he used to be?
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