by Carl Sargent
“This is the problem.” he explained to the freshly shaved and dressed Serrin. “The printouts go on forever. I can get a trillion tons of data dumped down in an hour, but it still takes me a lifetime to read and evaluate it, even with Simon’s filtering.”
“Serrin smiled. Another of your frames?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have the parameters to guide him as well as I’d like.” Michael said. “I need your brain in there, Serrin. There has to be a way to do that.”
“You leave my brain out of this. I’m very attached to it.” Serrin was feeling unusually chipper right now, it was partly the excellent breakfast, partly the sheer relief that his wife had been returned to him safely and partly anticipation of the audience he was hoping to get, He’d talked with a Scottish druid friend who’d spoken of the old elf they were due to visit with near-reverence and Serrin was both intrigued and a little awestruck In a cynical world, the latter was a nice feeling to have.
Michael pointed to the stack of material, the printers still dumping out text and pictures. Even a reader knowing what he was looking for Would take days to find what he needed in the mass of data–and they didn’t have days.
“I guess we can start reading this in the car.” Serrin said, idly picking up a stack of chromalins disgorged from the optical printer. He leafed through them idly. “What’s this, a rogue’s gallery?”
“Known or suspected members of the Priory of Sion, and known NOJ agents in London, then England, then Britain, then France.” Michael said. “Not that we could get all of them. Many will be unknown, many I couldn’t get mug shots for.”
“Don’t see a face I recognize here. Oh, good holiday snaps.” Serrin chuckled as he dropped the stack and picked up another.
“Various locations of possible significance.” Michael muttered. “You see what I mean? It takes forever to discover what we’re looking–Serrin what’s wrong?”
Serrin had suddenly gone even paler than usual and clutched the chromalin in his hands like a drowning man hanging on to a length of wood to keep himself afloat. Michael stopped in his tracks and went over to have a look.
“That’s her.” Serrin said in a whisper. “In every detail.”
“Good Lord.” Michael said. “What the–”
“You downloaded it.” Serrjn said, staring at him. “You tell me.”
Michael checked the codes and was rattled when he found the source of the picture.
“It’s a statue.” he said.
“Obviously.” Serrin said impatiently
“In the chapel building at Rennes-le-Château.”
“Go on.”
“Rennes-le-Château is just up the road from Clermont-Ferrand. It’s sacred to the Priory of Sion–well, sort of. It’s a tiny little village. You want more details? The demon over the chapel door and the warning written in Latin?”
“A demon on a chapel?”
“You got it.” Michael said. “This is no ordinary house of the Lord, not according to this.” He handed over the relevant pages.
“I think you’re going to have some background to take to Herr Hessler, Serrin.”
11
“I had no idea this was here” Geraint said as he followed Streak through the narrow, hot tunnels.
“Course you ain’t.” Streak said reasonably. “It’s people like me who have maps of such places. I could take you out in Bayswater if you wanted. Well, more or less. Will South Ken do? It’s where the Westwind’s waiting, so it’s probably a good move.”
They didn’t argue. Serrin had done his best to protect them from magical surveillance with extended masking, and at last they found themselves ascending steps, waltzing past a security inspector Streak seemed to know personally, and into the underground garage. The sleek dark blue Westwind was to all appearances merely a slightly bulkier version of the standard model, but something about that bulkiness implied that it had certain extras they might not necessarily want to think about just at the present moment. It was certainly armored, which was reassuring.
“I still think you’d look great kitted out as mellows.” Streak snickered.
“Don’t push your luck.” Serrin called out from the back. “Just drive us to the M-way and out of here.”
“And watch out for any tailing taxis.” Michael called Out.
They were almost high this morning. Of the five, not one could be called a “shadowrunner.” Serrin had been, some time back, but those days were recalled ambivalently. Good friends had been made and lasting associations formed, but he’d been rootless and left with a minced leg as a permanent memory of life in the shadows. Married now, and settled, he had no desire to return to his old ways especially with a wife who, though a survivor, had no experience of such things and was far from her country of origin. Michael’s work was strictly decking, almost always carried out from the high security of a Manhattan apartment in the city he had come to call home, and Geraint was a politician and businessman. Streak was the only one looking out for himself among the dangers of the street most days, but even he was an ex-military man.
They had an excitement about them, now they were on the move, which a team of seasoned runners might have buried under a veneer of experience and routine. And after the invasion of the apartment and the ambush in the cab, they felt almost like animals escaping from a trap, On the road as they headed west to the orbital and the huge freeway beyond, a simple sense of freedom lifted their spirits.
“Nice system here.” Streak said approvingly. “Constant camera op scans following vehicles, checks ID, checks for following vehicles, analyzes their motion patterns, all kinds of stuff. If they’re gonna follow us, they’ll have to use a convoy of the buggers.”
“Where’d you get this?” Geraint asked.
Streak smirked. “Never you mind. You just paid the bill.”
“I paid actually.” Michael said. “It’ll be on the corp’s tab. We’ll have to get something concrete today, Serrin. They need another update and report before they’ll give me any more money.”
“We’ll get something.” Serrin assured him. “I’ve brought the treatise on elementals with me. At the very least, it’s an intro to get Hessler interested, and there’s no reason I shouldn’t give it to him if he is.”
“Mind if I smoke?” Geraint asked.
“The filtration system can handle that.” Streak told him. “It’s not the full EnviroSeal job, but it’s enough.”
“What else do we have here?” Michael asked as Geraint reached for the lighter next to the ignition.
“We got ECM. We got signature masking. We might or might not have a little weaponry carefully concealed about the place.” Streak said carefully.
“What?”
“Well, what’s a little SAM between mates?” The elf laughed, “Hell, you’ll be worried about the machine guns next.”
“If we’re stopped in this thing it’ll be five years apiece.” Michael said, exaggerating a genuine concern.
“No one’s going to stop us in this thing.” Streak said with real enthusiasm. “Drek, I hate these speed-trap camera systems. Putting the foot down in this monster is more fun than you can have with your clothes off, I tell ya.”
“I just hope no one’s decking into the camera downloads.” Michael said.
“The ECM should slot that up just fine.” Streak said. “But we can’t be a hundred per, which is why I ain’t burning up the rubber. Rakk it, can we take a detour through some wild land on the way back?”
“Just get us to Glastonbury, James.” Serrin said, “and hold the horses.”
* * *
“The hardest thing was finding somewhere safe to park Susan.” Streak said when they reached their destination, not long after noon. “I don’t want to park her out in the open.”
Kristen wasn’t listening. Glastonbury had impressed her from the first sight of the place; the dominating, imposing mound of the Tor, the small stone houses, old and weatherworn, which had mercifully resisted the temptation to become
tourist attractions, the quietness of the place. The number of visitors to the area was strictly limited, and even Geraint had needed to pull strings to get them in. There were no police roadblocks, or anything so heavy-handed. It was just that no accommodation would be found for a visitor without the relevant documents, no shops would serve him, that sort of thing. Glastonbury valued its peacefulness. Power hung about the place like mist on a spring-morning river, and Serrin began to sense it even while they were still kilometers away.
They stood in front of the pub as Streak drove off to stash the car, their travel bags left dumped on the ground by the curb. The place was picture-perfect with its thatched roof, and yet it didn’t have the look, so common in some parts of England, of having been deliberately crafted in that image to deceive gullible visitors. It had always looked this way. Michael signed them in and paid in full, in advance, with a service fee just a little above what might have been expected but below what would have been ostentatious. Flaunting excessive wealth would not have been in keeping with the town.
Their rooms were low-ceilinged, small but comfortable, and welcoming with the scent of fresh linen sheets and towels and a faint trace of lavender, which, for once, didn’t seem like the scent of maiden aunts. By the time Streak returned they were already in the restaurant-bar, having ordered pub food and sinking the first of their pints of warm, malty beer.
Michael broke the dark brown crust on the steaming pie with an eagerness quite unjustified after his mammoth breakfast–but since that had, after all, been the only meal he’d had in a day and a half, the steak and kidney was exactly what he needed. He thought of ordering a second one, and guessed that at least some of the others might be of the same mind, but not wanting to draw undue attention, he settled for a pudding instead.
Kristen was wriggling in her chair, trying to stifle her giggles behind her hands. He looked uncomprehendingly at her.
“That’s rude.” she said, and even on her brown face a blush was apparent.
“What?” He was still perplexed until he realized what was happening. “Ah, spotted dick. Yes, well, it’s a suet pudding with currants in it. Hopefully accompanied by a large amount of custard with satisfying lumps in it. Traditional English pudding.”
She looked doubtful and slightly embarrassed until the dish arrived, and lived up to Michael’s description of it, right down to the thick skin settling on the surface of the custard, which did, indeed, appear to act as a camouflage blanket for floury lumps lurking underneath.
“I had better go alone.” Serrin said eventually, having dispensed with such temptations. He had no liking for sweet foods, and was impatient to be away. “Will you be all right?”
“I think we might be.” Streak said, settling into a third pint. Serrin looked askance. “Don’t worry, term.” the other elf said pleasantly. “I can handle this stuff. Not something that can dull wired reflexes.”
“Very well.” Serrin said, getting up from the slightly uncomfortable wooden chair.
“When will you be back?” Kristen asked, fixing her eyes on his.
“I have no idea, Serrin said truthfully, checking that his small bag held the leather volume and the paperwork he’d done his best to assimilate during the journey.
“Look, let me come with you as far as the foot of the hill.” Streak said. “Sure you want to go on alone, but let’s not take any chances, right?”
“It’s not a bad idea.” Michael said.
Serrin thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Come on, let’s go. See you later, darling. Enjoy your, er, pudding, Michael”
“ 'Sgreat.” Michael managed to say through a mouthful of custard-lubricated heavy pudding. Kristen threatened to laugh again as the elves made for the low doorway, ducking their heads down to get outside.
* * *
Streak left him at the approach road. The cottage was plainly visible, with only a few trees around it, and Serrin was almost surprised at the plainness of the place. He half-expected a small mansion shrouded in some form of mist, with spirits all over the place. Assensing the place, he found nothing around, not even a watcher. Nor even any obvious ward or barrier, but that might testify only to the old elf’s ability to disguise power.
Serrin paused along the short driveway. The obvious thing was to walk right up and tap with the brass door-knocker, but somehow it seemed wrong to do so. He was a little unnerved. He had the feeling of being naked, as if the old mage would see right through him even though Serrin had nothing to hide. Summoning his will, he covered the last few paces and knocked politely at the door with two short raps of the knocker.
It opened immediately, revealing a young, fresh-faced man with dark curly hair standing in the doorway. Behind him, the small hall showed simple carpets, a few brass and pottery ornaments, and an old grandfather clock ticking away sonorously, its giant pendulum swinging in its slow, steady rhythm.
“I hoped to make an appointment to see Herr Hessler.” Serrin said. “Forgive me, but the matter is pressing. I have what I hope may be a gift in return for some of his time.”
He had thought out the speech carefully. In response, the young man rubbed his chin and looked him over sharply.
“You’re trouble.” he announced.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, not you so much as your woman. Someone’s got it in for her.” the young man said, folding his arms across his chest.
“Oh, drek.” Serrin said, his prepared polite introduction abandoned in the face of such an unexpected revelation. What could this youth mean?
“I think my master might be interested in you.” the youth said. “But go back and bring your woman with you. She’s going to need more help then you do. Oh dear, there’s someone else too, isn’t there? Sorry, the emotional bond isn’t so strong between you and I couldn’t see him straight away. Someone’s got a sign on two people around you.
“Well, bring your woman anyway.” the youth said at length. “One should be enough.”
He’d been assensed already, Serrin realized, and it didn’t much surprise or annoy him, it being only what he’d expected. But it was disconcerting to be so vulnerable to someone so young. Then he realized that this wasn’t, of course, a youth at all.
“You are Merlin, I presume?” he said politely.
“You can call me that if you wish. He does.” The spirit grinned. “And I’ll call you Serrin. So I know your real name, but you don’t know mine.” The grin grew a little wider.
Serrin smiled in return. To know a spirit’s true name was power over it, and only Hessler would know that information.
“I’ll be back.” he said.
“Make it swift.” Merlin said, for the first time a truly serious expression settling over his face.
* * *
Serrin was halfway down the driveway, the door to the cottage closed behind him, when his senses dulled soddenly and he felt almost faint. A humming Sound came from behind him, and he turned slowly–unsure whether he really wanted to do so–to see a black cat sitting by a bush, purring gently.
That must be his cat he thought.
He got a distinct impression of resentfulness implanted in his feelings and corrected the error swiftly.
Sorry. You are his cat companion.
The purring seemed a little softer and the cat licked its paw, then used the back of it to wash its face. It looked wonderfully unconcerned while it was giving him the once-over.
An image came into his mind of four small dark kittens accompanying a larger tom cat. Black like them, the tom had white socks and a bib and a characteristic mane of hair and long white whiskers.
Skita! Suki’s cat, he thought. The tiny elven talismonger was among his few friends in London. This cat seemed to be saying it knew her cat. The image of one of the kittens grew and turned into the cat before him. The cat advanced and stood beside him, tail arched.
That’s Skita’s gesture, he thought with an inner smile. Spirits, are you Skita’s offspring?
&
nbsp; The cat purred more loudly. Serrin felt himself freed as if from some constraint, and on impulse took a small brown paper bag from his pocket. He had come prepared for this and fortunately the delivery had reached Geraint’s apartment just before they’d left.
He reached inside the paper bag and extracted the cloth mouse with its faint smell of catnip. He rubbed it vigorously to make the scent stronger, and laid it at the cat’s feet.
The cat took one look at the mouse, which seemed to return the look, as if wondering whether this was safe. Then the cat seized the mouse in its jaws, ripped at it with its front claws, and finally rolled over on its back, savaging the mouse with all four paws. After a few seconds of mayhem it flung the mouse aside and rolled back over, giving Serrin a sharp look that did its best to mask embarrassment at its indignity.
Serrin dutifully turned and walked off, leaving the cat to its intoxicatory pleasure unhindered by human voyeurism.
I have a friend here, I hope, he thought. The thought cheered him as he walked back to the town to find a wife who did not yet know she needed the protection he so fervently hoped Hessler would give.
12
She was apprehensive, and the trim, simple, picture-book quality of a springtime English garden did not reassure her. As Serrin led Kristen up to the cottage, the enigmatic cat was nowhere to be seen, having doubtless taken its prize away to a hiding place safe from prying human–or elven–eye’s.
“But why would he want to talk to me?” Kristen asked again.
“I told you, maybe he won’t want to talk, just to see you.” Serrin said carefully. “He may want to offer us some protection, that’s all.”
“But why didn’t he want to see Michael as well?” By now she’d had time to think about this. The point hadn’t occurred to her initially, gently mellowed as she’d been by English ale and surprised by the invitation.