by Paul Dale
“Serving for two?” asked Penbury. While he would have welcomed Chidwick to share tea, his PPS always insisted upon keeping their relationship professional. For his part, Penbury considered Chidwick far more than an employee. He was a confidant. A friend. Chidwick enjoyed his greatest faith. One day he would have to insist they sit down over a scotch and talk about things other than business. Chidwick had been in his employ for decades and yet he knew so little about this most inscrutable of men.
“I thought on this occasion I may overstep my bounds, as there is someone unexpected here to see you, sir,” said Chidwick.
Now this was interesting. Of course, Chidwick had not overstepped any bounds; it was his way of being typically efficient. He was so in tune with Penbury that anything he did was undoubtedly correct and for the best.
“And who may that be?”
“There is a Lord Deathwing here to see you.”
Genuine surprise was not something a man of experience like Penbury was used to. He often thought his life dull for it. This, though, went a touch beyond surprise. He felt an almost physical jolt and half-imagined he was going to leap from his chair. He was amazed Chidwick seemed so calm and unruffled.
“You’d better fetch him out,” said Penbury.
Chidwick looked up and behind his employer. “He’s here now, sir.”
This time, Penbury did leap out of his chair, half-expecting to see a dragon bearing down on him, mouth wide and breathing flame. Instead, a large raven swooped down and landed on the edge of the table. With one eye, it regarded Penbury with seeming interest while the other looked over the contents of the table.
“Shoo,” said Penbury, waving an arm at the bird. It looked strangely familiar.
The bird jumped into the air, flapping once before transforming into a man.
“Lord Deathwing, sir,” said Chidwick. “Will there be anything else?”
Penbury had to mentally check his mouth was not open. Fortunately it was not and he hastily regained his composure. “No, thank you, Chidwick. That will be all. I’ll ring if I need anything.” He indicated the small silver bell he used for summoning his PPS when he needed more tea, or crumpets, on those occasions when the two cups and three crumpets was not enough. “Lord Deathwing. I would say I’ve never had the pleasure, but I think I have. Won’t you join me?”
Lord Deathwing was a slender man, but managed to give the impression of great strength under his well-cut clothes. He moved like sprung steel as he took his seat. His eyes never left Penbury and a hint of a smile played on his thin lips. Penbury had seen eyes like these before when he had entertained Lady Deathwing. What had happened to her as a result was now keenly at the front of his mind. Lord Deathwing could not be happy with his wife’s absence. In fact, it was surprising he had taken so long to show up. But show up he had, and it was unlikely it was for the tea and crumpets, no matter how good they were.
“Crumpet?” asked Penbury, taking a warm plate and proffering it to his guest.
The hint of a smile broadened. “I do like a bit of crumpet,” said Lord Deathwing.
“The blackberry is very good at this time of year,” said Penbury, pouring tea for them both. “That was you at Xanthos, wasn’t it?”
Deathwing’s mouth was full of crumpet but he finished chewing and swallowed before he answered. Penbury was glad to see, for a black-hearted dragon, he had good manners.
“Very good crumpet, Chancellor. Very good indeed. But then, it would be, wouldn’t it? If you can’t have the best crumpet then who can? Yes, that was me, of course. I was passing through and thought I’d drop in to see how things were going.”
“Apologies about the stone,” said Penbury.
Deathwing waved a hand dismissively while he washed down the crumpet with his tea. “Quite a display in the harbour, I thought,” he said, reaching for another crumpet. “May I?”
Penbury nodded. He may have to summon Chidwick for more crumpets at this rate. He didn’t mind if his guest had his fill, but he wasn’t going to go without himself. Who knew what was going to happen in the next half hour? If Deathwing were here to kill him, he was damned if he wasn’t going to go out with a full stomach. He took a second crumpet himself and began to butter it. He wasn’t one for idle chit-chat, but these were exceptional circumstances and he needed a few minutes to get a grip of himself.
“If you enjoy that kind of thing,” said Penbury. It had been a spectacle, but not one he thought ought to be repeated.
“Black powder guns on ships,” continued Lord Deathwing between mouthfuls. “Who would have thought it? Not the safest of prospects, as those orcs demonstrated. I’m no military expert, but they’ve a bit of work to do.”
Penbury spread a layer of blackcurrant jam on a crumpet so sodden with butter it oozed over the plate it was sitting on. The anticipation of warm butter running down his chin made his mouth water. He did so love afternoon tea. It was a shame he had to share it with a foe. Or was he? This whole situation didn’t feel right.
“I’m sure they’ll get there,” said Penbury. “Now, although these are tremendous crumpets, I’m sure a spot of tea is not your reason for being here. What can I do for you?”
Lord Deathwing managed a look of shocked surprise that any market square thespian would have been proud of. But it was an act, and the look was replaced with one of such reptilian intensity that Penbury almost choked on his crumpet. He took a swig of tea to wash it down.
“My wife, Chancellor.”
Of course, Penbury knew this was the reason, and he also knew Deathwing was not amused with his insouciant enquiry. What was a little curious was why Lord Deathwing couldn’t pluck the information from his mind. Unlike his encounter with Lady Deathwing, he’d had no time to prepare for this, and his thoughts had been unguarded and transparent. Perhaps it was a trait that varied amongst dragons. Or it could be a tactic on Lord Deathwing’s part to test him to see if what Penbury said and what he thought matched. Never being one to lie for the sake of it, Penbury thought best to continue in good faith.
“My apologies,” said Penbury. “Naturally you are concerned, and may I assure you, she is still alive.”
“I had expected nothing less. You’re not the kind of person who would dispose of an asset that held such value. Where is she?”
“Well looked after,” said Penbury, feeling the temperature rise between them. Then he noted Lord Deathwing’s hand next to the butter dish and the melted butter it held. “I’m a little confused though. It’s been three years since—”
“Since the old bint disappeared. Yes. But what’s three years? Time off, I’d say. But now I miss her and want her back.”
“Indeed, but you will appreciate I’m not the kind of man who will give up an asset without realising its value.”
“Touché. So we have the basis of a deal. I want my wife, and all I have to do is find a means of balancing the deal. Now, what could I possibly have that you would be interested in? Your life, perhaps? No. We both know that is a hollow threat. I haven’t been around for as long as I have, and it is a very long time, without being a dragon of discretion. I may have had my mishaps along the way, but such a flagrant assassination would gain me nothing. Besides, I like you. I like what you do. You’re ruthless, amoral to the greater degree, and a man of impeccable taste. All qualities to be admired. And who knows what the future brings? This could be the start of a blossoming business relationship in a world on the brink of turmoil, the like of which has not been seen for half a millennium. This next year, I anticipate, will be an annus horribilis. Sides will have to be chosen. So how else might the scale be balanced? I wonder …”
Penbury could see Lord Deathwing was enjoying himself. And to a certain extent, so was he. It wasn’t often he was monologued at by anyone, let alone a terror from a forgotten age. His life could, on occasion, get into a rut. Boring even. This was invigorating. In fact, he hadn’t felt so invigorated since his close call in Al-Frahzi, or at the dinner with Lady Deathwing. W
hich brought him to the current situation. Lord Deathwing’s short monologue had been artfully delivered. It opened up a number of potential avenues. Possibly, this was the first overture from Morden himself. He felt like he was being sounded out. It had not been something he had seriously considered. While the idea of essentially capitulating had occurred to him, the idea of entering into any kind of deal was one that seemed a non-starter. Dark Lords didn’t share power.
Then there was the intimation Morden would be making his move soon. War was coming. A Dark Lord would come forth with his host and spread darkness across the west, laying waste as he did, and bringing ruin to all who opposed him. Not good for business. Not good at all. And yet, Penbury’s mind was alive with sudden opportunities. There was also the bargaining chip Lord Deathwing clearly possessed and yet had not put on the table.
“I’m open to offers,” said Penbury, playing his cards so close to his chest they would have to be peeled off him.
Lord Deathwing dabbed his lips with a napkin, set it aside, and drummed his lips. Quite the dramatist, thought Penbury. It was clear Lord Deathwing was keen to show his hand and enjoying his slow rolling.
“What could I offer the man who has everything?” mused Lord Deathwing. “Certainly no material thing for a man of such wealth. Information? That can have value. No? How about like for like? A person, perhaps. Not someone you care about, as that is a list of one, namely yourself. So a person who someone else cares about? Someone Morden cares about? In the old days, it was common practice for a lord to hold rivals’ relatives as guests to ensure good behaviour. Hostage is such a tedious word, but it will suffice. Like for like then. One lady for another. My wife … for Morden’s. How does that sound?”
Lord Deathwing eased himself back in his chair, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. Penbury fought hard to maintain his stoic card face when inside was a raging tempest. The Dark Queen Griselda? Penbury prided himself on being surprised by little, but this was more than unexpected. It was inexplicable. And it could only mean one thing: Lord Deathwing was running his own game here. There was no chance Morden would give up his queen as a sign of faith to placate his father.
“Morden would give up his queen as my guest? I can’t imagine she’s too happy,” said Penbury.
Lord Deathwing’s mouth gave an involuntary twitch. It could be part of the act. Perhaps his amateur dramatics were not so amateurish after all.
“It’s complicated,” said Deathwing. “You know how newlyweds can be. Let’s just say, you’ll find her more than willing to be entertained by you, though it may be diplomatic if she not think she’s business collateral in this deal. I can see you’re intrigued.”
He was intrigued, but there was still the problem of Lady Deathwing and the habit she now had—one of Penbury’s own making. Lord Deathwing was not going to be happy when he found out his wife was a God’s Dust addict. Three years on the hateful stuff had taken its toll. These days she did little more than stare at the ceiling and had to be spoon fed. He would have to tread carefully.
“It is certainly the basis of a deal. I must be frank, though. In the interest of full and open disclosure, you may not find Lady Deathwing to be the woman you knew.”
“It has puzzled me how you managed to contain her. It’s not an easy thing, given our various talents. She’s far more … intuitive than I am. You would be an open book to her. So what trap did you spring? Some forgotten magic of some kind?”
Any hint of amusement had vanished from Lord Deathwing’s face. Penbury knew if the next few minutes didn’t go well, all Chidwick would find would be a pile of ash. Unfortunately, there didn’t seem to be a way to break the news gently.
“You’ve heard of God’s Dust?”
Lord Deathwing frowned. “Headfucker?”
“Yes, I believe that is the street name it goes by.” Lord Deathwing’s frown was deepening. “Well, the thing is, it’s powerful stuff. Very powerful, when ingested in sufficient quantity.”
Deathwing’s frown turned to open astonishment in a blink. “You drugged her? With Headfucker?! What? How? It’s not … how could … No. Impossible. She’s a dragon. She can—”
“Read minds. Yes. And I knew this and she was, I think, overconfident. Let’s say I got lucky. Anyway, there we have it. I can see you’re upset but, apart from her addiction, I assure you she’s healthy. For a drug addict. She doesn’t get out much. Or exercise. Her skin’s not what it was. And we have to feed her. Apart from that, she’s fine. Really …”
Penbury knew he was babbling, but these may be his last few seconds of life. He grabbed a crumpet and almost ate it in one go. If he were to die, he wanted to go out with a mouthful. He’d always wanted spriggle to be his last meal but, given the circumstances, crumpet would do. With butter-soaked crumpet filling his mouth, it occurred to Penbury that Lord Deathwing had been taken by surprise by the revelation concerning his wife. It suggested his mind was hidden from the dragon. Unlike the showdown with Lady Deathwing, Penbury was not prepared for this confrontation and so his thoughts were consciously unguarded, with images of Lady Deathwing in a drug-addled state very much at the forefront. Perhaps it was the female intuition Lord Deathwing had mentioned. Or perhaps it was a trait that came with marriage. Penbury knew enough married men who swore their wives knew their every thought. He had never been married so was not able to either confirm or repudiate such an unlikely ability. Anyway, it was immaterial, Lord Deathwing was obviously none too pleased to be told his wife was a junky.
Lord Deathwing dabbed his lips with a napkin and set his teacup aside. “You should show me your gardens, Chancellor.”
Penbury was relieved to see Deathwing recovering his composure. He rang the silver bell to summon Chidwick, who arrived with the trolley to clear the table.
“We shall be walking the gardens now, Chidwick. We do not want to be disturbed.”
Chidwick nodded. By the time they had navigated their way off the veranda, the gardens had been cleared.
“We have the basis of a deal then,” said Lord Deathwing, stopping to admire a snapdragon. “You will deliver my wife and I will deliver Griselda.”
With a lifetime of deal-making behind him, Penbury had a nose for a good deal, and an even better one for huge risks. The latter also tended to result in the greater gains. This deal was certainly high risk but also one he did not think he had much choice in. He’d always thought getting at Morden through Griselda was a bad idea, and he hadn’t changed his mind, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Agreed. I don’t think I’ll trouble the lawyers with a contract for this one, though.”
The raised eyebrow from Deathwing suggested his attempt at humour was not appreciated.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Deathwing, and, in a single fluid movement, he transformed into a raven and was gone.
Penbury half-considered seeding crossbowmen around the estate with a shoot-ravens-on-sight policy. The thought was soon lost as the prospect of having a woman around the house sank in. A first time for everything.
Chapter 23 Hero Squad
It’s not so much survival of the fittest as the death of the incompetent.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
Ferg led them through the sewers in a seemingly random fashion, turning so frequently that Hal was completely lost. It had been half an hour since they had heard any signs of pursuit, which seemed to satisfy the orc enough for him to finally call a halt. None of them had anything to say while the three of them stood, hands on knees and hips, to catch their breaths. Even the normally outspoken Zara was quiet while she recovered. As Hal took deep breaths, he realised that the months they had spent travelling had made him the fittest he’d ever been. He was feeling tired but also pretty good. He was sure he must have lost a few pounds around the middle. His midriff certainly felt flatter than it had been when padded out with cakes from the bakery.
“What are you doing?” asked Zara.
Hal pulled his hand away fr
om his middle. “Nothing. Where are we, Ferg?”
The orc pulled out his map and stabbed a finger. “We should be here.” He indicated a section on the very fringes of the fortress. “It should be quieter than the last place we tried.”
“Yes,” said Zara. “What a genius plan that was. I wonder who thought it would be a good idea to come up there. Oh, that would be Hal. Because he’s always sneaking into Dark Lords’ fortresses. Does it all the time.”
“It was as good a place as any,” said Hal. “We were unlucky.”
“I don’t think luck had anything to do with it,” said Ferg in a tone more serious than Hal was used to. The orc was looking at him oddly.
“Thank you,” said Zara. “Even the orc thinks it was a dumb arse idea.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Ferg. “Something odd is going on here.”
“What do you mean?” said Hal. “Magic?”
“Ha! Magic? As if.” Zara’s scorn-laden voice bit into Hal.
“What happened back there?” asked the orc. “It was him, wasn’t it?”
An involuntary shudder ran through Hal. “Yes. It was him. I could feel something through the cover. I’m not sure why, but a part of me knew there was a dragon up there and I couldn’t help myself. I had to see. Then the cover was dragged away and I fell. I looked up and there he was, staring right at me. Or right through me. It was as though I wasn’t there.”
“It was dark?” suggested Zara, with more hope than belief.
“It was light enough,” said Hal. “It could only have been fifteen feet or so. I could see him clearly, or rather I could see his robe. He was hooded. I could feel his eyes staring right at me. I could feel him searching. But I’m certain he didn’t see me. Then he was gone and I heard him order an orc down the hole. The rest you know.”
“Told you,” said Ferg. “Strange things are going on. We need to be careful.”