Bitter Seeds mt-1

by Ian Tregillis

  He did find one survivor. It was a young man, no older than twenty, wearing the uniform of the Leibstandarte Schutzstaffel Adolf Hitler, the elite Waffen-SS unit spawned from Hitler's original bodyguard regiment. This didn't surprise Marsh; an operation like the REGP would have required a standing population of mundane soldiers who could keep their mouths shut. The boy had been thrown against a brick wall, part of which fell on him. His breath came in gasps, and his chest gurgled when he exhaled.

  Marsh crouched in front of him. The boy looked at him with a dazed expression. After taking a moment to recognize Marsh's uniform, he attempted a salute despite the compound fracture in his free arm.

  Elite, indeed, thought Marsh.

  “At ease. What happened here?”

  The dying soldier struggled to explain, pausing frequently to shudder or cough. “Communists ... attacked. Tanks ... bombers ...”

  The Soviets had bombed their own troops? Unlikely. The boy was understandably confused about what had happened. It was clear, based on what Marsh found in the debris, that the RAF bombers had arrived before the last of the Soviets had pulled out. But to somebody in the middle of the chaos, it could have seemed that the Soviets were dropping bombs.

  Marsh didn't correct the misconception. His interests lay elsewhere. “Was the facility evacuated? Did our people get away before the Communists attacked?”

  “ ... loading trucks when ... came through ... trees.” The look in the boy's eyes became distant, unfocused.

  Marsh jostled him. “Hey! Stay with me. The medics are coming,” he lied. The boy coughed explosively. Marsh ignored the warm spray of blood that speckled his face. “Did anybody get away?”

  “I ... don't ...” Again, the slide into that unfocused stare.

  Marsh shook him again, as hard as he dared. “Gretel! What happened to Gretel?” But the boy shuddered, and then said nothing more.

  “Damn it.” Marsh wiped the blood from his face.

  Most of the Reichsbehorde staff might have died in the bombing, or been killed by the Soviets. Even Gretel. Perhaps she'd seen it coming, but it was inescapable.

  He kneeled next to the dead soldier, weakened by despair. He and Liv would carry the sorrow of Agnes's death for the rest of their lives. And now he carried another sorrow, too. It was the shame of his inability to avenge her, to punish the people who had killed her. He'd tried, and failed, twice. What kind of a father was he? The kind that couldn't do a goddamned thing for his daughter. He hadn't even been there when she was born: he'd been with that raven-haired demon, Gretel.

  Marsh stood, sighing. The Jerries would arrive soon to assess the damage. He had to leave.

  I tried, Agnes. Lord as my witness, I tried.

  Marsh drove his stolen truck toward Denmark, and home. He didn't look back.

  It took most of a week to secure passage back to Britain for the stolen files. Marsh spent that time holed up with the crates in the secret oubliette beneath a Swedish fisherman's cottage. He passed those days thinking of Liv, sleeping, and reading the entire archive.

  The more he studied Gretel's psychological profile, the more certain he became that she hadn't perished in the bombing. He absorbed everything they'd written about her, scrutinized it, read between the lines: Gretel excelled at twisting everything that happened to her own personal benefit. If the Red Army had occupied the REGP, he could be confident she'd found a way to take advantage of that.

  The miserable bitch had gotten away with it. She'd killed his daughter, and then she got away with it.

  Marsh stayed with the crates throughout the journey, even riding in the cargo bed of the truck that carried them all the way from his landing site in the Scottish highlands to Westminster. The files went into the same vault that contained the Tarragona filmstrip, a cloven stone, a photograph of a farmhouse, and the charred pages of a medical report. Marsh also returned Gretel's battery to the vault. He wasn't sorry to be rid of it; the ache in his back wouldn't subside.

  Liv could fix that. But first he had to do something.

  Stephenson wasn't in his office. He wasn't in Milkweed's wing of the Admiralty building at all. But he was in the building, and in the middle of a meeting when Marsh barged in.

  Marsh recognized the lamps, the end tables, the smell of leather and tobacco. Daylight made the room much smaller than he'd remembered from his first visit. Back then when Stephenson had taken him here—Marsh's first trip to the Admiralty, back in '39, when the old man still held his position as the head of SIS's T-section—the room had been cavernous, draped in shadows.

  He entered on a tumult of voices raised in heated discussion. He recognized some of those, too. The same voices had said that Milkweed was a fool's errand.

  Perhaps they were right.

  Stephenson was seated at a wide oval inlaid table with six other men. Some wore suits, some uniforms. The discussion stopped immediately.

  The old man's eyes might have revealed a hint of relief in seeing Marsh had weathered his mission. But he voiced nothing of the sort, not even a “welcome back,” which told Marsh something about the nature of this meeting.

  “Commander! If you please,” said Stephenson with a gesture encompassing the other men at the table. “This is not a good time.”

  “We need to speak. Immediately.”

  “It will have to wait.” With a dismissive wave, Stephenson added, “Find me tomorrow.”

  “Oh, you'll want to hear this,” Marsh said quietly.

  Several of the meeting participants turned to study the brash interloper who didn't know his place and didn't acknowledge when he was excused. One of the military men draped an arm across the back of his chair in order to crane his neck and see the source of the disruption. He was a big man, with thick caterpillar eyebrows perched over dark eyes and a wide, flat nose.

  Marsh recognized his uniform. He'd seen several variations of it on dead Soviets at the Reichsbehorde.

  Ah.

  Stephenson sighed. “I believe most of you gentlemen are already acquainted with Commander Marsh. General-Lieutenant Malinovsky, may I please introduce Lieutenant-Commander Raybould Marsh of His Majesty's Royal Navy.” Then he looked at Marsh. “Commander, please meet General-Lieutenant Rodion Malinovsky, who is here on behalf of our new allies.” The old man's gaze hardened into flint as he said allies.

  Malinovsky nodded politely. In thickly accented English, he said, “Commander.” His voice was a deep baritone.

  Marsh returned the nod. “Welcome, General-Lieutenant.” Then he nodded to Stephenson, too, saying, “Tomorrow, then.”

  “Yes.”

  Marsh started to leave, but he stopped himself. He stopped himself because she'd killed his daughter. She'd killed his daughter, and now she was getting away with it. He turned back to Malinovsky.

  “Where is she?”

  Was there a pause, the slightest hesitation, before the Soviet officer cocked his head, frowning? “I, I do not understand your question, Commander.”

  Marsh locked eyes with him, stepping closer. “Where. Is. She.”

  The Soviet officer blinked, turning to address the rest of the table. “My friends, please. Who is this 'she'?”

  “I truly couldn't say,” Stephenson said. The flint in his gaze had been knapped into arrowheads, all aimed at Marsh. “I must apologize. Commander Marsh has been under great stress of late.”

  Marsh gripped the back of Malinovsky's chair and heaved. In one quick motion, the chair and occupant slid away from the table and tipped over backwards before there was a chance to react.

  Stephenson leaped from his seat. “Raybould! Have you lost your bloody mind?”

  Marsh ignored him. He loomed over the Soviet officer. Quietly, he asked, “Where is she?”

  Surprise and anger played over Malinovsky's face. He said nothing.

  Stephenson skirted the table and grabbed Marsh while the others helped Malinovsky to his feet amidst a cascade of profuse apologies. The old man's single hand had a strong grip, which he
clamped on Marsh's forearm to pull him from the room. His voice was like the first rumble of thunder from an advancing storm. “With me. Now.”

  He waited until they stood alone in the corridor, the door closed solidly behind them. Then he rounded on Marsh.

  “What the hell has gotten in to you?” he demanded, his tone a shouted whisper. “Have you any idea whom you've just humiliated? Have you any idea the damage you've done?”

  “They have her.” Marsh paced, pointing back toward the meeting room. “They fucking have her.”

  “They have who?”

  “You know damn well who!” This came out as a shout. “The girl.” He pointed to his head, pantomiming wires and braids. “Gretel.”

  “My God. You're still obsessed with her. You have to let it go, son.”

  “Let it go?” Marsh abandoned the pretense of being quiet. He didn't care who heard him. “Let it go? She killed my daughter. I've seen the goddamned records.” He added an afterthought. “They're in your vault now. Sir.”

  That caught Stephenson by surprise. He faltered for a moment. “The ... Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Even if the Soviets have captured her—”

  “They did. I was there.”

  “—you seem incapable of grasping even the rudiments of this situation. Times are changing. It is imperative that we cultivate good relations with those people. And we absolutely cannot afford to act like hooligans. You've done more harm than you know.”

  “I'll do more than that,” said Marsh. He headed for the meeting room door, rolling up his sleeves.

  “No! You'll do nothing.” Stephenson blocked his way, shoving him back with a firm hand to the chest. “Beauclerk was right. You've gone round the bend.”

  He shook his head. “You're done.”

  “Not until I know why she—”

  “You've done your service to the country.” Stephenson's tone was firm, if a little sad. His hand felt heavy against Marsh's heartbeat. “But you've lost your objectivity. You're no longer fit for this work.” He shook his head. “You're out. Go home.”

  Long seconds ticked away while they stared each other down. Marsh swallowed down the rage, tamped down the urge to lash out. It left him feeling, for all the world, like a little boy caught stealing from a winter garden. He knocked Stephenson's arm away.

  Stephenson returned to the meeting room. The door latched shut behind him, followed by the snick of a lock sliding into place.

  Marsh went home. He didn't look back.

  epilogue

  That summer, the ravens of Albion returned to the Tower of London.

  Changing seasons brought longer days. Peaceful days. No more fire, no more rubble, no more shallow graves. The men and women of the island emerged from their shelters and rejoiced. The war was over. They had persevered.

  They rebuilt. Day by day, a brick at a time, they rebuilt their country and plastered over the scars of war. And the ravens, knowing the cycle of all things, returned to their old perches. Those still standing.

  At night, the cities and towns and villages and hamlets blazed with light. The nighttime world had become a wine-dark sea to the ravens, with nothing but darkness below and the stars and moon above. But no longer. Light and joy returned to the world.

  And the ravens, knowing the cycle of all things, returned to their old ways. They waited, and watched.

  This is what they saw:

  3 September 1941

  Bestwood-on-Trent, Nottinghamshire, England

  You're looking dreadfully chipper for this time of morning,” Aubrey T said from the doorway of the breakfast room. The window behind him framed a trimmed hedge and a flock of blackbirds.

  Will looked up from his breakfast. “Today is an important day.” He shivered. “Exciting, isn't it?”

  Aubrey arched an eyebrow. He seated himself at the head of the long table. He lifted Will's teacup, which was half-empty, and sniffed the contents. Sunlight poured through the stained-glass rosette window, shattering into little rainbows that danced around the room when Aubrey also inspected the teapot.

  It was the same ritual he'd performed every morning for the past two months. And every morning Will felt the shame a little less acutely than the day before.

  “I trust you find everything satisfactory?” he asked.

  Aubrey harrumphed. He opened the newspaper tucked neatly at his seat. The two brothers sat quietly, Will eating and Aubrey reading, while blackbirds screeched to each other in a shrubbery beneath the window.

  As a rule, Will avoided reading the papers. Too frequently they dampened the nation's celebratory mood by mentioning the hundreds of Britons killed by pro-German saboteurs during the war, or calling for renewed efforts to find and punish the fifth columnists who had derailed trains, sunken ships, burned hospitals. The rhetoric was dying down, but it would forever be a sore spot on the British psyche.

  The warlocks had returned to their secret, quiet little lives. They had gone into hiding.

  Will called for Mr. Pantaiges, the current steward of Bestwood. Aubrey listened while Will described his plans for the day to Mr. Pantaiges.

  Two hours later, Will stood panting in the glade where a natural spring gurgled up through cleft granite. He'd discarded his vest and rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. His shirt was ruined, torn by the thorny brush through which he'd hacked a path wide enough for a wheelbarrow.

  The exertion felt wonderful, like life was pumping through his body again. He relished the feel of sweat on his skin, the heave of his chest as he caught his breath, the rapid beating of his heart. Even the deep scratches on his hands and arms. Will imagined the sweat and blood wicking away any lingering traces of the poison in his body. Almost three months had passed since the phantom hunger had withered and died.

  Will listened to the whooshing updraft from the bonfire. The blackbirds had fallen silent; they watched from the distant crenellations of Bestwood. His grandfather's personal effects released an exhilarating heat as flames consumed the pile. The fire wouldn't destroy everything, but Will would bury the ashes and anything left intact. The glade smelled of cleansing fire.

  Mr. Pantaiges came crashing through the thicket, his wheelbarrow bouncing along the path of trimmings Will had left strewn through the surrounding copse. He set it down, close enough to the fire that Will could dump the contents into the fire: a walking stick, framed black-and-white photographs, and clothing.

  “The last of it, sir.”

  Will shook his head. “I want you to gather everything. Nothing is to be spared.”

  “I understand, sir. With apologies, I am quite certain these are the very last of His Grace's belongings, may he rest in peace. I've confirmed it personally, sir.”

  Will sifted through the contents of the wheelbarrow. “His papers, too, Mr. Pantaiges.” Especially his papers.

  “Ah,” said the majordomo. A moment of awkward hesitation passed before he continued. “I am afraid, sir, that the Admiralty men left nothing behind.”

  The fire lost its warmth. Will shivered under a frisson of cold. He steadied himself on a granite outcropping and eased himself into a sitting position.

  “What men, Mr. Pantaiges?” His voice was barely a whisper above the crackle of the bonfire and the faint booming of a distant surf.

  “The men from the Admiralty, sir. They requisitioned all of the late Duke's papers. For the war effort, they said. And His Grace, being very keen to do his part for the country, as I'm sure you know well, sir, was quite emphatic that we should pack up every last scrap of paper for them.”

  “I see.” Will fought to catch his breath. “And when did this happen?”

  “Many months ago, sir. This past winter.”

  “Do you remember anything else about these men? Their appearances, or how they might have spoken?”

  “No, sir. They seemed rather ordinary, if I may say so.” The majordomo paused. “There was one thing, sir. Struck me as a trifle odd at the time.”

  “Tell me.”

&nbs
p; “I remember they were very specific. They asked several times if His Grace had kept any notes on child rearing. Can you imagine that, sir?”

  An old memory floated unbidden into Will's mind, like a piece of flotsam carried on a rising tide. They'd been driving through the city, Pip at the wheel. Pip had asked about the lexicons, and Enochian, and how it all began. Will had tried to dodge the subject: I had this very same conversation yesterday. Can't you have the old man explain it to you? Will had tasted his first pint that afternoon.

  And he remembered another, more recent conversation with Marsh. Have you heard anything about some work going on downstairs? At the Admiralty.

  He stood. “That will be all, Mr. Pantaiges. Please tell my brother I've gone to London for the day.”

  The renovations had been so thorough that Will hardly recognized the space. The basement beneath Milkweed HQ had been rebuilt. Gone were the mildewed storerooms, the brick arches, the warren of corridors. They had been replaced with what appeared to be rows of bank vaults.

  A pair of the heaviest steel doors Will had ever seen sectioned off each corridor. Lush, deep-pile chenille carpeting covered every inch of the corridors themselves, floor to ceiling, including the widely spaced doorways lining each wall.

  The carpeting, he knew, was there to absorb sound. He knew it because of the placards, posted everywhere:

  SILENCE, PLEASE!

  CONVERSATION IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN AT ALL TIMES!

  ABSOLUTELY NO LANGUAGE PERMITTED ON THE PREMISES!

  But the insulation wasn't perfect. If Will strained enough, he could discern the wailing of hungry babies.

  He knew that if he waited, sooner or later the wet nurses would arrive, perhaps under armed escort, to enter the vaults. But he already knew what the vaults held.

  Newborns, not more than a few months old.

  War orphans.

  3 September 1941

  Walworth, London, England