The Road to Bedlam

by Mike Shevdon

  "What kind of journalism? None of that smutty stuff, celebrity muckraking and sensationalist claptrap?"

  "It's mostly human interest stories. I've had my name in some of the quality papers."

  She looked me over. "Better come in then." She stepped back and opened the door wide so that I could bring the bag inside.

  "It said 'No Vacancies' outside."

  "I only take recommended guests; a certain type of gentleman. You get such riff-raff otherwise. It drags the whole tone of the place down. The sign discourages passers-by."

  "Trade must be good if you can afford to turn away business."

  "We get by without taking in waifs and strays."

  Waifs and strays. I had once been described as a waif and stray. I looked around the well-appointed hall, white-painted and clean. The waxed wooden floorboards could be seen at the side of the patterned carpet runner. A dark wood mirrored sideboard had a number of daily papers on it, including those of the scurrilous press.

  She caught me eyeing the papers. "We keep those for guests – a selection of daily papers."

  "Very convenient," I said.

  "It's strictly no visitors, I'm afraid."

  "I'm not expecting any."

  "No women, or men."

  "So you do have a room for me?"

  She named a daily rate. "Breakfast is between seven and eight-thirty. If you're going to be out after ten, let me know and I'll let you have a key."

  "May I see the room?"

  I followed her up two flights of stairs to a short corridor with two numbered doors. "Number 21. No smoking in the rooms, I'm afraid. If you want to light up you'll have to do it outside on the fire escape."

  "That's OK, I don't."

  The room was small, but had its own toilet and shower, a small wardrobe and a matching chest of drawers. The single bed was tucked under the sloping ceiling.

  "How long will you be staying?"

  "A few nights, three or four, maybe a little longer. Is that OK?"

  "If you book for a week, the seventh night is free."

  "I think I'll be gone by then, thanks all the same." How long were the Seventh Court likely to stay? Until after the solstice, Garvin said.

  "If you come downstairs I'll take your credit card details."

  "I'd rather pay cash, if that's OK?"

  "Cash?" She looked wary at that. "If it's cash it has to be in advance. We've had problems before with gentlemen being called away urgently and forgetting to settle their bill."

  "I'd say that they weren't gentlemen, then, were they?" I paid her for the next three days from my wallet. "Obviously I'll settle up in advance if I intend to stay on."

  I half expected her to tuck the money into her bra where the VAT man wouldn't find it, but she simply smiled. "That's fine, Mr Dawson. We always welcome customers who pay promptly. I'll bring a receipt up for you."

  After she'd gone I went through the room carefully, finding only a Gideon bible in the bedside drawer and empty coat hangers in the wardrobe. I left my gear in my bag, not really wanting to move in. It was only temporary.

  I placed my hand on the mirror screwed to the wall over the chest.

  "Blackbird?"

  The curtains billowed in the draft from the window as the air in the room chilled slightly. A sound entered the room, thrumming an uneven rhythm.

  "Blackbird?"

  "Not now."

  "What's not now, darlin'?" Another voice, coarse and unschooled. It sounded enclosed; raised to be heard over the rumbling background noise. Where was she?

  "I was just thinking, there isn't so much traffic on the motorway now."

  "It's gonna get a lot busier as we get closer to London, you can be sure of that. You all right like that, darlin?"

  "I'm fine, thanks. My boyfriend's going to be so surprised when I get there, isn't he?"

  "He is if he don't know you're in that state." He laughed, but the humour leached out of it. "He does know, doesn't he?"

  "Yes, he knows. I'll be fine, don't worry."

  "Only you look like you're gonna drop it any minute."

  "There's weeks to go yet. Don't worry."

  "Is it your first?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "First ones are always late. You talk to my missus. Our first was three weeks late. I was beginin' to think he weren't coming."

  There was a knock on the door to my room and I dropped the connection with the mirror, the sound dying suddenly.

  "Yes, who is it?"

  "It's me, Mr Dawson. I brought up your receipt for you."

  I opened the door to find the landlady. She offered the receipt.

  "Strange," she said. "I thought I heard voices."

  "I like to have the radio on," I told her, avoiding the fact that I didn't have a radio with me. "It's company."

  "I like the radio myself. Is there a play on?"

  "I'm not sure what it was." I stayed with the truth. "I didn't hear enough to work out what was going on."

  "Oh, well. You mustn't let me interrupt then. I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow. Seven till eight-thirty."

  "Thanks for the receipt."

  "My pleasure, Mr Dawson. Enjoy your day."

  I closed the door, but had the feeling she lingered in the corridor. To make the point, I went into the tiny bathroom, quietly filled the small plastic cup there and used it to pour a long trickle of water into the toilet before flushing it noisily. The fire door down the hall thumped gently as she made her way back downstairs.

  In any case I wasn't about to contact Blackbird again. Not now, she said. I would try again later. Where was she? Garvin had said he would tell her that I'd gone, but he'd been insistent she would be safe at the courts where she could be guarded. Had something happened? Wherever she was, it clearly wasn't the courts. What had caused her to leave?

  The urge to return to the courts and find out what had happened was strong, but that would mean disobeying orders. Also, I assumed that once I had left they had closed the access to the Ways, sealing off the High Court while the negotiations with the Seventh Court were in progress. I comforted myself with the reassurance that Blackbird had looked after herself for many years before I knew her.

  Instead, I would try and find Karen. If I was going to Hull, I could hardly take all my things with me. I'd have to leave my bag but my instinct told me that as soon as I was safely gone the landlady would be back and my belongings would be gently searched, if only to confirm my identity. I slid out the sword and laid it on the chest. If I took the sword and the codex with me, there was nothing else incriminating in the bag.

  Still, I resented the intrusion.

  I placed all my belongings back inside my bag and used a warding to seal the zip, so that it would jam if anyone tried to open it. I left it in plain sight on the bed. The warding was simple but effective. Now if she wanted to look inside it she would have to risk damaging the zip trying to wrench it open. I didn't think her nosiness extended to damaging her guests' luggage. If anyone seriously wanted to look inside they could slit the bag, in which case they would find the clothing and other personal items, but the damage would be obvious. I didn't think anyone would steal my change of clothes.

  I would take the sword with me, partly to prevent it being discovered and partly because Garvin would expect me to. His words echoed in my head. "The Warders come armed, Dogstar. Always." I felt momentarily guilty about having left the weapon in the church earlier. No one knew and there was no harm done, but somehow Garvin's disappointment didn't need a witness.

  Walking around with a sword, though, wasn't exactly in the spirit of the discretion he had advised. Of course, I could turn all eyes away from me so that no one would notice me or the sword, but that would mean no one would see me, not even anyone whose attention I wanted. What I needed was a way to carry the sword without anyone noticing it.

  As long as it was with me I could use my glamour to make it appear to be whatever I wanted: a violin case, a pool cue, a baseball bat. Things
that were the same size and shape would be easier, but I could make it appear as anything. None of that would blend in easily for a journalist, though, and the idea was not to raise suspicion.

  I settled on an umbrella. The day might be fine, but this was England and even at midsummer the weather could change radically at any time. An umbrella was about the right size and would not cause comment. It also meant I could carry it rather than having it swinging from my hip. I could even shelter under it, if it rained.

  Blackbird had done her best to explain that while glamour could not change the nature of a thing, it affected more than the appearance. She had changed a beaker of water into brandy and invited me to drink it. It smelled and tasted like brandy and I had felt the burn in my throat as I swallowed it. The alcohol found its way into my bloodstream and I could feel it warming my blood. Within moments, though, the effect was gone.

  "As long as it's brandy, it's the same, but as your body absorbs it, it loses its form and returns to being water again. Your body absorbs the water and you become sober."

  Holding the sword, I focused my power until I held a long black umbrella. Was it an umbrella or a sword? Did it matter as long as I stayed dry? I shook my head, still not understanding the difference.

  I locked the door behind me and went to find the landlady to ask for a front door key, explaining that I didn't know what time I would be back. She wished me a good day and I left, climbing the long hill from the harbour to the backstreets where the gardens blended back into the hillside. I wrapped myself in misdirection, using my glamour to turn curious eyes away and allowing me to leave the town unnoticed. I found the Way-point and consulted my codex.

  From here there was only one place I could go: the step out to the churchyard where the monolith stood among the gravestones would take me in the right direction and after that I would have to turn south. The codex showed a little sketch of the monolith with the church behind it, making me wonder who had drawn it. I followed the references through the codex until I had a plan of how to reach Hull. It was a circuitous route, but there didn't seem to be a better way and it was only four short hops.

  I stepped on to the node and felt beneath me for the Way. In a second, I was somewhere else. The churchyard was silent and empty, the rising sun striping the shadow of the standing stone across the graves like an ancient sundial. I felt down into the rock below me and found the branch in the node, leading away in the direction I wanted. The next node found me unexpectedly in a room full of people. There were brooms sweeping and sounds of banging. My arrival swirled dust up into people's eyes, my misdirection turning them away as I barely registered the clamour, stepping again, using my momentum to skip across the node, heading in vaguely the same direction.

  I arrived in pitch darkness and stayed quiet in case there were anyone in the dark with me. I listened for a few moments but the only breathing I could hear was my own. I cursed myself for leaving behind the torch I had been given. Garvin's words about preparation echoed in my head. Then a memory surfaced: I had once seen Raffmir conjure a cold light like foxfire from thin air, but after several unsuccessful tries I vvvvvcame to the conclusion that there must be a trick to it. The room stayed resolutely black.

  I called the only light I knew how to make. Gallowfyre spilled out of me, rippling and shifting around me like moonlight through treetops. This was the gift of the wraithkin, a dappled light that illuminated only dimly but would allow me to absorb the life essence of other beings, which was its true purpose. Using it as illumination was like using a finely crafted sword to chop wood. It confirmed that I was alone, though. This was underground, as many of the Way-points were. Blackbird had told me that they were often found closer to the earth. The space was arrayed in long arched compartments, like a wine cellar, each identical to the next. Walking around, I saw no remnant of occupation and no sign of wine. Whoever used this space had cleared it bare. Something about the arrangement felt claustrophobic, even though it was empty.

  I pulled out my codex but the shifting light was tricky to read by. Following the links, I found the description of the cellar and was relieved to discover I was in the right place. The next step would take me into the edges of Hull. Returning to the spot where I had arrived, I let the Way carry me from that bare utility to a more familiar musty smell of damp stone and old books. Thin shafts of light sliced through the dust created by my arrival, allowing me to find the external doorway.

  I could hear the city noises before I unbolted the door. Beyond, there was a small set of stone steps leading up to daylight. I closed the door behind me and climbed into the sound of traffic and seagulls. I had arrived.

  A newsagent was the first call, for a street map. After that it was easy enough to make my way through the streets down towards the river and find the college. It took me longer than I'd thought and I began to wonder if I should have used the Way to travel further in towards the centre. Then I had to find the bit of the college where I needed to wait for Zaina. Looking around, it all seemed very modern. There were few old buildings and much new development.

  At ten past four I arrived at the main college entrance. I waited by the glass doors, leaning against the wall, watching the young people leaving, clothed in every style. Greg had said that Zaina would know where Karen would be, but if she had left early and I had missed her then I would have to go to the café named on the slip of paper Greg had given me. The trouble was that I had no idea what Zaina looked like. The name sounded Middle Eastern, maybe? Lebanese would fit with the name of the place – the Cedars Café.

  Two Asian girls turned my way.

  "Excuse me, I'm looking for Zaina. Do you know if she's left yet?"

  "Zaina who?" they asked in unison.

  I shrugged. "I don't have a second name."

  They shook their heads as they wandered away.

  I tried again with a girl who might have been Middle Eastern. "Do you know where I can find Zaina?" She shook her head and continued walking.

  The crowds were starting to thin and I was asking everyone as they left. No one knew Zaina, and there was no sign of Karen. I asked a tall guy with long shaggy hair in a leather jacket. He didn't recognise the name or the café. "Sorry, mate."

  I was getting nowhere at the college. I wasn't even sure I had the right door or the right building. The flow of people had thinned considerably and I was running out of people to ask. I switched instead to asking for directions to the café, and after a couple of blank looks I got a set of directions. It was about a mile away and I had already walked a fair distance, but maybe I could get a drink and a sit-down when I got there.

  When I reached it, the café was on a side street not far from the main road and had a sign over the door with a stylised black and green cedar tree. It didn't look like much from the outside but when you got close you could tell it went back quite a way. The window advertised Lebanese delicacies like kibbeh and falafels in pitta. My mouth watered at the thought of food. The bacon sandwich had been a while ago.

  Inside, the café smelled of spices and coffee. We were long past lunchtime but the lingering aroma had my stomach rumbling. There were tables all down one side and a counter at the back. I had not come here to eat, though. A tall man with dark eyes and residual stubble watched me as he busied himself behind the counter.

  "Hi. I'm looking for Zaina. Is she around?"

  He glanced up at me but continued cleaning out the remains of lunchtime sandwich fillings. "You a friend of hers?"

  "Not really. I'm trying to find someone, a friend of a friend, you might say. I thought she might be able to help."

  "She's not here." The lie was clear and plain in his voice.

  "OK," I said. "She's not here for me, or she's just not here?"

  He wiped his hands on the cloth he'd been using. "Who are you? What do you want with Zaina?"

  "I'm only looking to talk with her for a few moments. It won't take long."

  The man spoke in a rapid guttural tongue to two men at a ne
arby table. They stood up, pushing their chairs back noisily. One of the other men further down the café stood up as well. Suddenly the space seemed narrow and claustrophobic.

  "I'm not looking for any trouble," I said, shifting my grip on the umbrella. "I just want to speak to her."

  "Why can't you people leave her alone?" said the man.

  He dropped the cloth and moved around the counter. I retreated, placing my back to the wall and trying to watch both sides at once. The umbrella stayed an umbrella. None of them were armed. There were four of them and one of me. It would be better if we could avoid conflict, but if there was a fight, the big guy from behind the counter would be the one who would start it.

  "I don't want anyone to get hurt," I said, trying to calm everyone.