Summer Knight: Book Four of the Dresden Files

by Jim Butcher

  I swallowed and held still and tried to think innocent thoughts.

  “They don’t like something about you, Dresden,” Morgan said. I thought I heard an almost eager undertone to his voice. “Maybe I should turn you away, just to be careful.”

  The other Warden stepped forward, one hand on a short, heavy rod worn on his belt. He murmured, “Could be the injury, if he’s hurt. Wizard blood can be pretty potent. Moody, too. Dog could be reacting to anger or fear, through the blood.”

  “Maybe,” Morgan said testily. “Or it could be contraband he’s trying to sneak in. Take off the bandage, Dresden.”

  “I don’t want to start bleeding again,” I said.

  “Fine. I’m denying you entrance, then, in accordance with—”

  “Dammit, Morgan,” I muttered. I all but tossed my staff at him. He caught it, and held it while I tore at the makeshift bandages I’d put on my hand. It hurt like hell, but I pulled them off and showed him the swollen and oozing wound.

  The Wardhound growled again and then appeared to lose interest, pacing back over to sit down beside its mate, suddenly inanimate again.

  I turned my eyes to Morgan and stared at him, hard. “Satisfied?” I asked him.

  For a second I thought he would meet my gaze. Then he shoved my staff back at me as he turned away. “You’re a disgrace, Dresden. Look at yourself. Because of you, good men and women have died. Today you will be called to answer for it.”

  I tied the bandage back on as best I could and gritted my teeth to keep from telling Morgan to take a long walk off a short cliff. Then I brushed past the Wardens and stalked into the theater.

  Morgan watched me go, then said to his partner, “Close the circle.” He followed me into the theater, shutting the door behind him, even as I felt the sudden, silent tension of the Wardens closing the circle around the building, shutting it off from any supernatural access.

  I hadn’t ever actually seen a meeting of the Council—not like this. The sheer variety of it all was staggering, and I stood staring for several moments, taking it in.

  The space was a dinner theater of only moderate size, lit by nothing more than a few candles on each table. The room wouldn’t have been crowded for a matinee, but as a gathering place for wizards it was positively swamped. The tables on the floor of the theater were almost completely filled with black-robed wizards, variously sporting stoles of blue, gold, and scarlet. Apprentices in their muddy-brown robes lurked at the fringes of the crowd, standing along the walls or crouching on the floor beside their mentors’ chairs.

  The variety of humanity represented in the theater was startling. Canted Oriental eyes, dark, rich skins of Africa, pale Europeans, men and women, ancient and young, long and short hair, beards long enough to tuck into belts, beards wispy enough to be stirred by a passing breeze. The theater buzzed in dozens of languages, of which I could identify only a fraction. Wizards laughed and scowled, smiled and stared blankly, sipped from flasks and soda cans and cups or sat with eyes closed in meditation. The scents of spices and perfumes and chemicals all blended together into something pervasive, always changing, and the auras of so many practitioners of the Art seemed to be feeling just as social, reaching out around the room to touch upon other auras, to echo or strike dissonance with their energies, tangible enough to feel without even trying. It was like walking through drifting cobwebs that were constantly brushing against my cheeks and eyelashes—not dangerous but disconcerting, each one wildly unique, utterly different from the next.

  The only thing the wizards had in common was that none of them looked as scruffy as me.

  A roped-off section at the far right of the hall held the envoys of various organizations of allies and supernatural interests, most of whom I had only a vague idea about. Wardens stood here and there where they could overlook the crowd, grey cloaks conspicuous amid the black and scattered brown ones—but somehow I doubted they were as obtrusive as my own faded blue-and-white flannel. I garnered offended looks from nearly everyone I walked past—mostly white-haired old wizard folk. One or two apprentices nearer my own age covered their mouths as I went past, hiding grins. I looked around for an open chair, but I didn’t spot one, until I saw Ebenezar wave at me from a table in the front row of the theater, nearest the stage. He nodded at the seat next to him. It was the only place available, and I joined him.

  On the theater stage stood seven podiums, and at six of them stood members of the Senior Council, in dark robes with purple stoles. Injun Joe Listens to Wind and Martha Liberty stood at two.

  At the center podium stood the Merlin of the White Council, a tall man, broad of shoulder and blue of eye, with hair falling past his shoulders in shining, pale waves and a flowing silver beard. The Merlin spoke in a rolling basso voice, Latin phrases gliding as smoothly from his mouth as from any Roman senator’s.

  “. . . et, quae cum ita sint, censeo iam nos dimittere rees cottidianas et de magna re gravi deliberare—id est, illud bellum contra comitatum rubrum.” And given the circumstances, I move to dispense with the usual formalities in order to discuss the most pertinent issue before us—the war with the Red Court. “Consensum habemus?” All in favor?

  There was a general murmur of consent from the wizards in the room. I didn’t feel any need to add to it. I tried to slip unnoticed into the seat beside Ebenezar, but the Merlin’s bright blue eyes spotted me and grew shades colder.

  The Merlin spoke, and though I knew he spoke perfectly intelligible English, he addressed me in Latin, quick and liquid—but his own perfect command of the speech worked against him. He was easy to understand. “Ahhh, Magus Dresdenus. Prudenter ades nobis dum de bello quod inceperis diceamus. Ex omni parte ratio tua pro hoc comitatu nobis placet.” Ah, Wizard Dresden. How thoughtful of you to join us in discussions of the war you started. It is good to know that you have such respect for this Council.

  He delivered that last while giving my battered old bathrobe a pointed look, making sure that anyone in the room who hadn’t noticed would now. Jerk. He let silence fall afterward and it was left to me to answer him. Also in Latin. Big fat jerk.

  Still, it was my first Council meeting as a full wizard, and he was the Merlin, after all. And I did look pretty bad. Plus, Ebenezar shot me a warning glance. I swallowed a hot answer and took a stab at diplomacy.

  “Uh,” I said, “ego sum miser, Magus Merlinus. Dolor diei longi me tenet. Opus es mihi altera, uh, vestiplicia.” Sorry, Merlin. It’s been a very long day. I meant to have my other robe.

  Or that’s what I tried to say. I must have conjugated something wrong, because when I finished, the Merlin blinked at me, expression mild. “Quod est?”

  Ebenezar winced and asked me in a whisper, “Hoss? You sure you don’t want me to translate for you?”

  I waved a hand at him. “I can do it.” I scowled as I tried to put together the right words, and spoke again. “Excusationem vobis pro vestitu meo atque etiam tarditate facio.” Please excuse my lateness and appearance.

  The Merlin regarded me with passionless, distant features, evidently well content to let my mouth run. Ebenezar put his hand over his eyes.

  “What?” I demanded of him in a fierce whisper.

  Ebenezar squinted up at me. “Well. First you said, ‘I am a sorry excuse, Merlin, a sad long day held me. I need me a different laundress.” ’

  I blinked. “What?”

  “That’s what the Merlin said. Then you said ‘Excuses to you for my being dressed and I also make lately.” ’

  I felt my face heat up. Most of the room was still staring at me as though I was some sort of raving lunatic, and it dawned on me that many of the wizards in the room probably did not speak English. As far as they were concerned, I probably sounded like one.

  “Goddamned correspondence course. Maybe you should translate for me,” I said.

  Ebenezar’s eyes sparkled, but he nodded with a grave expression. “Happy to.”

  I slipped into my seat while Ebenezar stood up and made an
apology for me, his Latin terse and precise, his voice carrying easily throughout the hall. I saw the gathered wizards’ expressions grow more or less mollified as he spoke.

  The Merlin nodded and continued in his textbook-perfect Latin. “Thank you, Wizard McCoy, for your assistance. The first order of business in addressing the crisis before us is to restore the Senior Council to its full membership. As some of you have doubtless learned by now, Senior Council member Pietrovich was killed in an attack by the Red Court two days past.”

  A gasp and a low murmur ran through the theater.

  The Merlin allowed a moment to pass. “Past conflicts with the Red Court have not moved with this kind of alacrity, and this may indicate a shift in their usual strategy. As a result, we need to be able to react quickly to further developments—which will require the leadership provided by a full membership on the Senior Council.”

  The Merlin continued speaking, but I leaned over to Ebenezar. “Let me guess,” I whispered. “He wants to fill the opening on the Senior Council so that he’ll be able to control the vote?”

  Ebenezar nodded. “He’ll have three votes for sure, then, and most times four.”

  “What are we going to do about it?”

  “You aren’t going to do anything. Not yet.” He looked intently at me. “Keep your temper, Hoss. I mean it. The Merlin will have three plans to take you down.”

  I shook my head. “What? How do you know that?”

  “He always does things that way,” Ebenezar muttered. His eyes glittered with something ugly. “A plan, a backup plan, and an ace in the hole. I’ll shoot down the first one, and I’ll help you with the second. The third is all yours, though.”

  “What do you mean? What plan?”

  “Hush, Hoss. I’m paying attention.”

  A balding wizard with bristling white eyebrows and a bushy blue beard, his scalp covered in flowing blue tattoos, leaned forward from the far side of the table and glared at me. “Shhhhh.”

  Ebenezar nodded at the man, and we both turned back to face the stage.

  “And it is for this reason,” the Merlin continued, “that I now ask Klaus Schneider, as a long-standing senior wizard of impeccable reputation, to take on the responsibility of membership in the Senior Council. All in favor?”

  Martha glanced at Ebenezar and murmured, “A moment, honored Merlin. I believe protocol requires that we open the floor to debate.”

  The Merlin sighed. “Under normal circumstances, Wizard Liberty, of course. But we have little time for the niceties of our usual procedures. Time is of the essence. So, all in—”

  Injun Joe interrupted. “Wizard Schneider is a fine enchanter, and he has a reputation for skill and honesty. But he is young for such a responsibility. There are wizards present who are his senior in experience and the Art. They deserve the consideration of the Council.”

  The Merlin shot Injun Joe a frown. “Thank you for your perspective, Wizard Listens to Wind. But though your commentary is welcome, it was not asked for. There is no one present senior to Wizard Schneider who has not already declined a seat upon the Senior Council, and rather than run through meaningless nominations and repeated declinations, I had intended—”

  Ebenezar cut in, sotto voce but loud enough for the Merlin to hear him, in English. “You had intended to shove your favorite down everyone’s throats while they were too worried to notice.”

  The Merlin fell abruptly quiet, his eyes falling on Ebenezar in a sudden, pointed silence. He spoke in a low voice, his English carrying a rich British accent. “Go back to your mountain, Ebenezar. Back to your sheep. You are not welcome here, and never have been.”

  Ebenezar looked up at the Merlin with a toothy smile, Scots creeping back into his vowels. “Aye, Alfred, laddie, I know.” He switched back to Latin and raised his voice again. “Every member of the Council has a right to speak his mind on these matters. You all know how important the appointment of one Senior Council member is. How many of you believe this matter too serious to leave to a consensus? Speak now.”

  The theater rumbled with a general “Aye,” to which I added my own voice. Ebenezar looked around the room and then raised an eyebrow at the Merlin.

  I could see frustration not quite hidden on the old man’s face. I could almost taste his desire to slam his fist down on the podium, but he controlled himself and nodded. “Very well. Then, in accordance with procedure, we will offer the position to the senior-most wizards present.” He looked to one side, where a slim-faced, prim-looking wizard sat with a quill, a bottle of ink, and pages and pages of parchment. “Wizard Peabody, will you consult the registry?”

  Peabody reached under his table and came out with a bulging satchel. He muttered something to himself and rubbed some ink onto his nose with one finger, then he opened the satchel, which held what looked like a couple of reams of parchment. His eyes glazed over slightly, and he reached into the papers seemingly at random. He drew out a single page, put it on the desk before him, nodded in satisfaction, then read in a reedy voice, “Wizard Montjoy.”

  “Research trip in the Yucatán,” Martha Liberty said.

  Peabody nodded. “Wizard Gomez.”

  “Still sleeping off that potion,” provided a grey-cloaked Warden standing by the wall.

  Peabody nodded. “Wizard Luciozzi.”

  “Sabbatical,” said the blue-bearded and tattooed wizard behind me. Ebenezar frowned, and one of his cheeks twitched in a nervous tic.

  It went on like that for close to a quarter hour. Some of the more interesting reasons for absence included “He got real married,” “Living under the polar ice cap,” and “Pyramid sitting,” whatever that was.

  Peabody finally read, with a glance up at the Merlin, “Wizard McCoy.” Ebenezar grunted and stood. Peabody read another half-dozen names before stating, “Wizard Schneider.”

  A small, round-cheeked man with a fringe of gauzy white down over his scalp and a round belly stretching his robes stood up and gave Ebenezar a brief nod. Then he looked up at the Merlin and said, in Latin with a heavy Germanic accent, “While I am grateful for the offer, honored Merlin, I must respectfully decline your nomination, in favor of Wizard McCoy. He will serve the Council more ably than I.”

  The Merlin looked as though someone had grated slices of lemon against his gums. “Very well,” he said. “Do any other senior wizards here wish to present themselves for consideration over Wizard McCoy?”

  I was betting no one would, especially given the looks on the faces of the wizards nearby. Ebenezar himself never moved his eyes from the Merlin. He just stood with his feet spread wide apart and planted, his eyes steady, confident. Silence fell over the hall.

  The Merlin looked around the hall, his lips pressed tightly together. Finally, he gave his head a very slight shake. “All in favor?”

  The room rumbled with a second, more affirmative “Aye.”

  “Very well,” the Merlin said, his upper lip twisting and giving the words an acid edge. “Wizard McCoy, take your place upon the Senior Council.”

  There was a murmur of what sounded a bit like relief from those in the hall. Ebenezar glanced back and winked at me. “One down. Two to go,” he murmured. “Stay sharp.” Then he hitched up his robes and stumped onto the stage, to the empty podium between Martha Liberty and Injun Joe. “Less talking, more doing,” he said, loudly enough to be heard by the whole hall. “There’s a war on.”

  “Precisely what I was thinking,” the Merlin said, and nodded to one side. “Let us address the war. Warden Morgan, would you please stand forward and give the Council the Wardens’ tactical assessment of the Red Court?”

  An oppressive silence settled over the room, so that I heard every sound of Morgan’s boots as he stepped up onto the stage. The Merlin moved aside, and Morgan placed a glittering gem or crystal of some kind upon the podium. Behind that, he set a candle, which he lit with a muttered incantation. Then he framed the candle with his hands and murmured again.

  Light streaked f
rom the candle into the crystal in a glowing stream and sprang up out of the crystal again in a large cone stretching up above the stage, several yards across at the top. Within the cone of light appeared a spinning globe of the Earth, its continents vaguely misshapen, like something drawn from a couple of centuries past.

  A murmur ran through the room, and Bluebeard, at my table, muttered in Latin, “Impressive.”

  “Bah,” I said in English. “He stole that from Return of the Jedi.”

  Bluebeard blinked at me, uncomprehending. I briefly debated trying to translate Star Wars into Latin and decided against it. See, I can have common sense, too.

  Morgan’s low voice rumbled out in Latin phrases, rough but understandable. Which meant he spoke it better than me. Jerk. “The flashing red spots on the map are the locations of known attacks of the Red Court and their allies. Most of them resulted in casualties of one form or another.” As he spoke, widely scattered motes of red color began to form on the globe like the glowing lights of a Christmas tree. “As you can see, most of the activity has taken place in Western Europe.”

  A mutter went through the room. The Old World was the domain of the Old School of wizardry—the “maintain secrecy and don’t attract attention” way of thinking. I guess they have a point, given the Inquisition and all. I don’t belong to the Old School. I have an ad in the Yellow Pages, under “Wizards.” Big shocker—I’m the only one there. I have to pay the bills somehow, don’t I?

  Morgan droned on dispassionately. “We have known for a long time that the main power center of the Red Court is somewhere in South America. Our sources there are under pressure, and it has become difficult to get any information out of the area. We have had advance warning of several attacks, and the Wardens have managed to intercede with minimal losses of life, with the exception of the attack at Archangel.” The globe paused in its spinning, and my eyes fastened on the glowing point of light on the northwest coast of Russia. “Though it is presumed that Wizard Pietrovich’s death curse took a heavy toll on his attackers, no one in his household survived the attack. We don’t know how they got past his defenses. It would appear that the Red Court may have access to information or aspects of the Art that they have not before had.”