by Mike Shevdon
"I don't understand the connection. Why should Kareesh say the same as this woman — and what's Deefnir got to do with it?"
"There's not enough in the file to tell us what's going on. They seemed to think she was a fantasist — they weren't sure she had any power at all."
"But she said the same thing as Kareesh."
"And she was touching you at the time. You're the link, Niall. You were there, both times."
"But not when Deefnir said it."
"But your son was there inside me. You thought it was the sun will rise, but maybe this woman was referring to your child."
"What does it mean?"
"I've told you before, Niall. Prophesy is fickle and uncertain. You can't rely on it. It could mean anything. Even those who see the future don't know what it means."
"I've got to find this woman."
"It won't be difficult. They've given her address. Apparently she's living there."
Turning to the back of the file, there was a photograph of her in a raincoat leaving the front door of a house. Below it was a street map of Tamworth, along with her address.
"Isn't she worried she'll be arrested?"
"What for? As far as I can see she hasn't done anything, except maybe witness things that no one else knows about. If they were going to pick her up they'd have done it by now, so I expect they're leaving her for you."
"I guess I'd better go and see if she's still there then."
On the back of the dresser was a wooden stand, holding the scabbarded blade that came with my job. I took it down and unsheathed the blade, checking the edge for nicks and straightness, then pushed it smoothly back into the scabbard.
"What are you planning to do?" she asked.
"I'm going to talk to her, and find out what she knows."
"You don't need a sword to talk to her," said Blackbird.
"As you pointed out earlier, I need to be ready for anything. Who knows what she's capable of?"
"You sound like Garvin."
"Yeah, well. Maybe it comes with the job," I said.
"To the man with a scythe, everything looks like grass."
"I thought it was hammers and nails?"
"A nail that's hammered is still a nail, with care it can be pulled and hammered flat and may be used again, but once the hay is cut, there's no re-planting it. Not every job needs a sword, Niall."
"Yeah, but there's never one handy when you need it, is there?" I walked to the door. "I'll be back later."
"Try not to get killed," she said.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." I closed the door behind me.
THREE
Angela's house looked like any other semi-detached built between the wars. It had bay windows and a small arched porch sheltering the front door. There were pins for the gate-hinges in the brick wall where the short driveway emerged into the road but unlike its neighbours, the iron gates which had originally fronted the other houses had been removed.
The house had skipped the fashion for whitewashed rendering and survived as plain brick. As I walked along the opposite side of the road I noted the net curtains hung for privacy, the shrubs in the front garden which had been recently pruned and the brass padlock on the side gate. It suggested cared-for and careful. There was no car on the front drive, but that was true of many of these houses in the middle of the day. It didn't tell me whether there was anyone home.
Strengthening my glamour, I diverted attention away as I reached the end of the street, then crossed to the other side. Reversing my course, I walked back towards the house. The gardens at the rear backed onto one another, providing a possible escape route for me, as well as for her. I wondered what Garvin would do in these circumstances, but then he rarely did anything this trivial and he didn't work alone. He'd have another Warder backing him up at least.
I began to wish I'd asked one of the other Warders to come with me and watch the back of the house; no amount of magic meant you could be in two places at one time. Still, this job didn't warrant a team. It shouldn't need more than one Warder for a lone woman with no history of violence. More than that would simply scare her, and scared people were irrational and dangerous — there was no reason to turn this into a fight.
Reaching the house again, I looked for signs of occupation. There were empty milk bottles on the step, but they could have been there for days. All the windows were shut, and given the heat of the day that would indicate that no one was home. Maybe I could let myself in and wait for Angela to return.
Movement at the upstairs window caught my eye — not empty then. There was a vague figure behind the net curtains. With my glamour concealing me I should not stand out, even for someone watchful. I continued walking until I reached the end of the street.
With the house occupied, it was more complicated. I couldn't guarantee it was Angela and I wasn't sure if there was more than one occupant. It increased the risk and added uncertainty. I could sneak around the back and try and see who was in, but I had no way of knowing whether she might have set wardings around the back of the house in case of unwanted visitors. The front was safer; anyone could approach the house from the front — milkman, postman, cold-callers. It made sense to stay where the traffic was.
I turned back on myself again, wondering if any of the houses opposite were unoccupied. I could let myself in to one of those and watch Angela's house from across the road. As I reached the house I noticed a change. In the front downstairs window of the house there was a white rectangle in the window. As I got closer I could see that a sheet of paper had been taped to the glass. On it was written, 'What are you waiting for?'
So much for stealth.
I brought the sword alongside my leg allowing my glamour to conceal it. If necessary I could draw it quickly. I turned into the drive.
As I reached the front door it opened. Angela's face appeared in the gap.
"Oh, thank goodness you're here," she said.
I glanced behind me, wondering if I was being followed by someone else. I was alone.
"You'd better come in, the kettle has just boiled," she added.
This was turning into a strange day.
She opened the door wider and allowed me into the dimly lit hallway. After the heat and brightness of the summer day outside, the cool of the tiled hall was welcome. Angela was careful to keep her distance.
"Shut the door, you'll let the heat in."
I pushed it closed behind me, wondering momentarily if I'd just entered a trap. My hand slid down to the hilt of my sword.
"Come through, I'm making tea, if that's OK?"
It didn't sound like much of a threat, so I followed her down the hall to the kitchen at the back. It would once have been small, but someone had put in a joist and opened it into the sitting room next door to make a kitchen-diner. There was a large French door looking out over a meticulously cultivated garden. After the dark of the hall it was light and airy, and still much cooler than outside.
"Is it?" she asked.
"What?"
"Is tea OK, or would you prefer something cold."
"A cold drink would be fine."
"I have some home-made lemonade if you would like?"
"Great. Thanks."
I watched as she opened the tall fridge and took a jug from the shelf.
"You knew I was coming?" I asked.
She glanced up, hesitantly, and smiled. "I thought you'd be here earlier." She poured the cloudy liquid into a glass and then added a spoon of sugar. "It's a little tart," she said.
"You know who I am?"
"I've known ever since I touched you in the isolation units under Porton Down. Take a seat." She gestured to the chairs around the dining table.
"I'd rather stand." I glanced at the chairs. "You knew I'd say that?"
She shook her head. "That's not how it works, but you already know that."
Placing the glass on the table beside me, she returned to the kettle and made herself a cup of tea.
"Lovely house," I said.
>
She smiled as she added milk to the tea, moving around the kitchen, watching me from the corner of her eye.
"Have you been here long?"
"I was born here. My mother had me in the bedroom upstairs. I was a home delivery."
"Is your mother here now?"
"She died."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"
"It was a long time ago. She was an old lady."
I watched her reaction. "How old?"
"She was in her nineties, so she had a good span. I think she held on for grandchildren. Not to be, I'm afraid."
"You're married?"
"No. There's just me if that's what you're worrying about. You won't be needing a sword."
"What makes you think there's a sword?" I thought I had concealed it. I had been practicing carrying it without anyone noticing.
"It's in your posture. You stand like a dancer, but you're not here to dance."
I tried to look more relaxed without relaxing. I didn't work. "So you live here alone?"
"Company would be nice, but it's difficult finding someone who…" She shook her head. "Touch isn't really…" She looked up. "It's very limiting. I'm sure you understand. Even animals seem to pick it up."
I sipped the lemonade, looking out of the window at the garden, realising that she must spend a lot of time there. Plants were so much less complicated than people. They were living things you could touch without sparking visions of other people's lives.
"You'll start to remember soon," she remarked.
"Remember what?"
"What I saw, in the rooms under Porton Down. I've given you the memory."
"You've given it to me? How?"
"It's in the lemonade."
I looked down into the translucent liquid, then put the glass back on the table, wondering what she had poisoned me with and how long I had.
"It's only a memory, not the full experience. I stirred it in with the sugar."
"Why?"
"Because I want you to understand what I saw. Think back, there's a memory that's not your own."
I thought back to the night Raffmir and I broke into Porton Down, to the people we had killed and those we had saved.
I remembered the rooms with glass walls reinforced with iron wire. I could see myself taking the key from the nurse's hand, the swish of the blade, the spatter of blood across the glass, the slowing ooze as the blood ran down the glass, black and glossy in the dim light.
Strangely I can see both sides of the glass.
I remember the sudden trepidation that the dark figures would kill me too, followed by the realisation that we were being set free. These were not my memories. I could see myself through another's eyes; a shadowed outline under the faded safety lights.
The key is turned; hope outweighs my fear while my heart pounds in my chest. I edge closer; the overwhelming urge to touch. My hand finds its way to his cheek. I am momentarily blinded, a piercing light — so much brightness — then darkness and an afterimage, a rising sun. The sun will rise, and they shall fall. I can hear myself saying it.
The image of the sunrise is burned into my retina. My logical mind says that it could be a sunset, but my power knows different. I stumble away down the corridor, away from the man. I can barely see. My eyes fill with a searing light that hasn't happened yet…
I blinked, vaguely disorientated by the foreign memory. I couldn't escape the feeling that something alien was planted there.
"How can I have your memory? Can you remove it?" I said.
"The memory? Now that would be interesting, wouldn't it? If I could make you forget things, how could you trust your mind? I could make you forget why you're here, where you came from, who you are." She shook her head, "No, I can't remove it."
"You could have just told me."
"Do you know what it means?" she asked.
"Some of it. The light could have been me. There was a helicopter spraying bullets onto the roof. I created the light to destroy it."
"I saw the aftermath when I left. What about the rest of it? The sun will rise and they shall fall. What does it mean?"
"I was hoping you were going to tell me," I said.
"Come with me." She went into the hall. "Come on, I won't bite."
I followed her upstairs, careful to keep the sword where I could draw it if I needed to. There was a landing at the top, a bathroom and two bedrooms. At the front of the house was a closed door. A small sign on the door said, Caution! Woman at Work.
She stood with her hand on the door. "I was a writer, you know? Freelance; mainly brochures and advertising copy, before all this."
"All what?" I asked.
"The facility at Porton Down. Did you know I volunteered? Initially they took volunteers. We were treated better than the other inmates, though that changed towards the end."
"I'm surprised you went, given that you must have known what would happen there."
"Oh I had a fair idea what they meant to do, but it was that or be taken there. It was going to happen anyway. Easier on me if I went willingly. It's all in here."
"What is?"
"See for yourself."
She pushed open the door and stepped back, leaving me room to come forward. It opened into a small room at the front that had been converted into a study. There was a desk and chair, a pile of books and notepads — an ancient looking computer and keyboard had been pushed to one side. A desk lamp stood on one corner angled down so it wouldn't dazzle.
The walls were covered in notes of every size, colour and shape. Every patch of wall-space had been tagged with stickynotes of different colours, pieces of ruled paper pinned to the wall, fragments torn from pads. I pushed the door open further. They were on every wall, as high as she could reach.
"What's it all for?" I asked.
"It starts on the wall behind the door," she said. "See for yourself."
I hesitated.
"It's OK," she said. "I won't lock you in there. There'd be no point."
I stepped into the room and pulled the door back from the wall, trying to discern what I was looking at. Some were scribbled notes, others inscribed in calligraphic letters. To begin with, most were notes on lined paper, carefully cut from the page, but as they progressed around the room they degraded to pages torn from books, scraps of newspaper, napkins, pieces of cereal packet.
There were random images scattered amongst the notes. Some were instant scribbles, like the moon and stars on a sticky-note, others carefully sketched, like an engraved medieval sun, shining down beneficently. Initially it was chaotic, but then themes started to emerge.
The phrase, the sun will rise, was scattered throughout, but as the notes became more frantic, the writing became less legible.
After that the fragments became more diverse with pieces I recognised. The words, Gauntlet Runner, written over a newspaper photograph surrounded by pictures of rabbits cut or torn from magazines — cartoon rabbits, rabbit symbols, photos of rabbits. In another there were dogs of all different shapes and sizes. One section had spikes, nails and all manner of pins and the distinctive curve of horseshoes.
"What's it all for?" I asked her, where she stood outside the door watching me scan around the room.
"I've written nothing except this since I came back," she said, "I can't pick up a pen without this coming out. I dream it, I find myself repeating it when I'm cooking, I end up humming it to myself. Nails, rabbits, stars, the rising sun. It's all I can think of since I touched you."
Her manner was becoming more anxious. Her tone was clipped and she pushed her hand through her hair. "It's in my head and I can't get rid of it, God knows I've tried. I need you to tell me what it means. I've been waiting for you to come so you can tell me what it means."
She was rubbing her hands together, dry-washing them.
"I don't know what it means."
She must have heard the slight hesitation in my voice. "But you suspect."
"I recognise some of it. I doesn't make
any sense, though."
"Tell me."
"I'm not sure it helps."
"Tell me!" She reached for me and my sword was in my hand. We faced each other, her outstretched hand close to the edge of the blade. She met my eyes.
"Are you going to use that on me?"
"If I have to."
"You can't imagine what it's like. It's driving me to the edge. If you can tell me what it means then maybe it will leave me alone. If you're here to kill me, then do it. It'll be a mercy."
"I'm not here to kill you."
"Then tell me what you know, or you might as well use that sword before I kill myself."
I glanced again at the walls. "A lot of it is about me, I think."
"What about you?"
"The rabbits — I'm called Rabbit by some, Dogstar by others…"
"Sirius — that's the dogstar isn't it? I have a picture of Orion on the wall there. Sirius is below it — look there."
"There's a ceremony with nails and horseshoes. It's an ancient ritual."
"I have nails — horseshoes too, what's it got to do with you?"
"I was involved with it, last year. It was going wrong but we fixed it."
"This is all about you…" her eyes tracked around the walls.
"I don't know what the rising sun means, but it's come up more than once — not just with you but with other people. Maybe whatever it means hasn't happened yet."
"Will you let me touch you?"
"No."
"Just for a moment. I swear I won't harm you."
"What for?"
"I just need to see… maybe I'll be able to say what it means. It could help you."
"It could make it worse," I said.
"I don't think so." She gave that nervous shake of the head again.
I watched her and realised how thin the veneer of sanity was, and how close she was to doing something stupid. I couldn't leave her like this, not when it was my fault.
"I have a proposal," I said.
We arrived at the High Court without warning, which might not have been the best idea. Amber was in the room where the Ways terminated, sword drawn as she realised I was not alone.
"Who's this?" she asked.
"A guest — my guest." I glanced at the sword, and she lowered the point minutely.