At first Henry tried to keep up his end of the conversation, but quickly realised it wasn't necessary. He sat back and let his eyes close as Bernie's words flowed over him like smoke. He felt nervous, but not nearly as nervous as he'd thought he would. Maybe it was something to do with the early-morning light and empty roads. Nothing seemed quite real.
'There you go,' Bernie said as the car pulled in discreetly outside Mr Fogarty's house. He sat staring straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel, as Henry climbed out.
This time Mr Fogarty answered the door at once. He was dressed in a blue serge suit that had seen better days, but still somehow had the feel of Sunday best. Henry found himself wondering if he was planning to go to church. Pyrgus was standing behind him, a look of keen anticipation on his face.
'You need a pee or anything?' Fogarty asked.
'No,' Henry said.
'OK, boys, off you go. Keep your eyes peeled and your wits about you. Get straight back here afterwards. And good luck.'
'How are we getting to the school?' Henry asked.
Fogarty looked at him in surprise. 'Bernie's driving you. That's what he does.'
Henry glanced at Pyrgus, then back at Mr Fogarty. 'He, ah… I mean, he doesn't know what we're, you know… I mean, how are we going to explain the stuff… the stuff we bring back afterwards?'
'Of course he knows,' Fogarty said impatiently. 'What's the point of having a driver if he doesn't know the score?'
'But… but…' Henry protested. He looked at Pyrgus for support and got none. 'Won't he… like… you know, disapprove -?'
Fogarty actually cracked a smile. 'What you talking about, Henry? Bernie?' The smile disappeared. 'Bernie and me worked together.'
'Yes, but that was engineering!' Henry said. 'This is something different.'
Fogarty looked at him in bewilderment. 'I wasn't an engineer,' he said.
Henry just stared back at him. Mr Fogarty could make anything. It was about the first thing Henry'd learned about him. Mechanical stuff, electrical stuff -even as an old man he had magic hands. Henry had always assumed he'd been an engineer of some sort when he was younger. 'What were you?' he asked.
'Bank robber,' Fogarty told him without a second's hesitation.
'Bank… robber?' Henry echoed.
'Armed robber,' Fogarty said. 'Thought you knew.'
'No,' Henry said wonderingly. 'No…'
'Did time in fifty-eight, but apart from that it was a good life. Decent money and didn't do much harm to anybody.'
'Armed robbery?' Henry stuttered. 'Didn't do much harm -?'
'This was banks, Henry,' Fogarty told him. 'Put your savings in a bank and I nick them tomorrow, you still get your money back. Walk in day after and draw out every penny. So who's hurt?'
'The bank,' Henry said.
'Banks have more money than they know what to do with. Never missed the few quid I took from them. And I never hurt anybody,' Fogarty said soberly. He hesitated, then added, 'Except that guard, and he deserved it, cocky scrat. But he didn't die or anything. Couple of weeks in hospital and he was back on the job boasting to his mates.' He gave a little half-smile. 'Those were good days, Henry. Bernie was my driver. When he wasn't inside.'
'You mean Bernie drove your getaway car?' It was unbelievable.
'Great wheelman,' Fogarty said. 'You know what makes a great wheelman, Henry?'
'No,' Henry said. Although in the circumstances he thought he'd better find out.
'Anonymity,' Fogarty told him. 'Somebody doesn't draw attention to himself. Bernie gets himself an old, nondescript car – Ford usually, because of the reliability – never exceeds the speed limit, always signals when he's turning right, never gives the finger to another driver, quiet spoken, soul of tact. Coppers wouldn't pull him over in a fit. Mind you, he could put on a turn of speed when he had to. Used to have us bouncing like Streets of San Francisco sometimes. Used to jibe him about it afterwards, me and the boys.'
'What boys?' Henry asked quickly.
'Ran a gang,' said Mr Fogarty. He caught Henry's expression and added, "Course I've been retired for years. So's Bernie, come to that, though he's younger than me. But he's still the best man for this sort of job. Wouldn't trust you and Pyrgus to anybody else.'
It was creepy driving round town so early on a Sunday. Every shop was shut, every street was empty. Bernie's monologue, which had now moved on from cars to the way Americans ruined tea, made it all seem even more unreal.
Pyrgus looked a little edgy, as if he had a headache, but that may have been because he'd never ridden in a car before. ('Where are the horses?' he asked as he climbed in.) Henry was feeling zombie calm. The news of Mr Fogarty's former career had produced a sort of overload in his brain so that he sank back into a torpor bordering on peaceful.
They reached Henry's school a little later than they'd planned, but not much. The school itself was set back from the road behind a high wall. The main gates were shut.
'Drive round the corner,' Henry instructed. 'There's a pull-in where you can park.'
Bernie, who hadn't monologued for at least three minutes, did as he was told. When the car was parked, Henry said in a take-charge voice, 'We'll go over the back wall. It's quite low and there's trees – the kids do it all the time. I don't know how long it'll take to get into the school.'
'Doesn't matter,' Bernie said. 'I'll wait. Got Alan's list?'
Henry patted his pocket. 'Yes.' It wasn't all that long and the components were mercifully small, so he and Pyrgus should be able to carry them without much difficulty. Now the moment had arrived, it was as if somebody had thrown a switch in his stomach and the butterflies had gone. He hoped they'd stay away, at least until the job was done. Pyrgus looked relaxed as well, but then Henry suspected he was more used to this sort of thing. He seemed to have led a very exciting life in his own world.
'Don't rush,' Bernie advised. 'Rush things and you make mistakes. Good luck.' He turned and stared through the windscreen, his hands on the wheel, exactly as he'd done outside Mr Fogarty's house. But this time Henry noticed he left the engine running.
Henry and Pyrgus went over the wall easily. A solitary car drove past as they were dropping down the far side, but Henry was fairly sure the driver couldn't have seen them. They were now among the trees that verged the cricket pitch. Beyond it were two tennis courts and beyond those the back of the school itself, a rambling grey Victorian building with a jumble of roofs and chimneys that hadn't been used since central heating was installed sometime in the 1960s.
'Come on,' Henry said.
The physics lab was housed in an incongruous, low-slung, single-storey, wooden annexe to the west of the main buildings. It had been built in 1999, funded by a massive cash donation from a past pupil who'd made good in sausages. It was a self-contained unit, separate from the rest of the buildings, with its own entrance and a bank of windows set little more than shoulder height. For the first time it occurred to Henry that, from a burglar's viewpoint, it was a bit of a gift.
But not a complete gift. The stupidly optimistic bit of him had half hoped a window might have been left open, or even a door, but everything was locked tighter than a drum.
These are strange windows,' Pyrgus said, standing on tiptoe. 'I understand the windows in Mr Fogarty's house – they go up and down like the windows in my world. But – ' He stopped suddenly.
'What's the matter?' Henry asked.
Pyrgus shook his head. 'Just a stupid pain behind my eyes – it's nothing. Anyway, these windows seem to open outwards and they have large metal fastenings.'
'They're supposed to be burglar-proof,' Henry said.
'I don't think so,' Pyrgus said. He looked around until he found a brick half hidden in the grass behind them and used it to smash a hole in the nearest windowpane.
'You can't do that!' Henry exclaimed.
'Just did,' Pyrgus told him.
'But somebody may have heard!'
'We need to move fast then,' Pyrgus said. He pu
t his hand through the hole and, despite his unfamiliarity with the fittings, had the window open in a moment. A moment more and the two of them were standing in an empty classroom.
Somehow Henry'd had the idea burglary would be very difficult -it was such a big deal in the movies and the bad guys were usually caught in the act. But this one proved a doddle. He found every component on Mr Fogarty's list and even discovered two Harrods bags in a desk drawer to carry them. They were outside and heading back towards Bernie's car faster than he could ever have imagined possible.
There was a grassy bank on the inside of the wall, which made it even easier to climb. Henry reached the top of the bank first, pulled himself up on the wall, then dropped back down again at once, dragging Pyrgus with him.
'What's the matter?' Pyrgus asked.
'There's a copper talking to Bernie.' Henry pulled himself up and peered cautiously over the top of the wall again. A patrol car was parked behind Bernie's famous Ford and a policeman was engaged in conversation with him at the driver's window. From this distance, Henry couldn't hear what was being said, but, as he watched, the policeman stepped back, Bernie gave him a cheery wave and drove away. The policeman climbed back into the police car, which pulled away as well.
'What's happening?' Pyrgus asked.
'Bernie's gone,' said Henry.
'How do we get back to Mr Fogarty with the stuff?'
Henry thought about it for a moment. Then he said, 'We walk.'
Seventeen
The Situation Room was a modified cavern deep in bedrock underneath the palace. It was safe from attack – even magical attack – because the surrounding granite was unusually high in quartz, but the trip down took nearly twenty minutes, even using the suspensor shafts. Apatura Iris hid his impatience. It was important for the Purple Emperor to maintain the appearance of calm at all times, whether he felt it or not.
In fact, he felt anything but calm. There was still no word about Pyrgus, nothing to show whether he was alive or dead. The House Iris portal had yet to give up its secrets. Machine parts still lay strewn about the chapel. Technician priests still worked round the clock to try to find out where Pyrgus might be. So far with no result. Apatura had abused them all roundly this morning, but he was aware it was no more than a token show. The men were all as anxious to find out what had happened as he was. They had never lost anyone in a portal before. They took the disappearance of their Crown Prince as a personal affront. If anyone could get him back, it was these men.
The only question was whether they could get him back in time.
The Purple Emperor had spent hours with the Senior Medical Priest learning everything there was to know about triptium. The action of the substance could be stopped, but only if caught in time. The treatment was a painful injection and full recovery might take days, but it was preferable to having your head explode.
How long did Pyrgus have before that happened? How long? How long? It was the only thing Apatura could think about at a time when he should certainly have been thinking about a dozen other things. The realm was edging steadily towards the most dangerous crisis in its history and its Emperor had to force himself to pay attention.
Which was probably what Hairstreak had planned. Apatura had no doubt at all Lord Hairstreak was behind this whole affair, although as yet he had no way of proving it. Nor was he sure – yet – of Hairstreak's motivation, but what had happened had his stamp all over it. There was no doubt at all now that the House Iris portal had been sabotaged, no doubt the only reason it had been sabotaged was to make sure Pyrgus died. How exactly that would benefit Hairstreak Apatura had still to discover, but the convoluted planning by someone who could reach into the palace itself meant this was no amateur operation. It required the sort of resources only Hairstreak could muster.
It also required traitors in the palace.
Without traitors, no one could have done what had been done to the House Iris multi-portal. The Chief Portal Engineer now knew exactly what had happened, even if he was still not in a position to say where Pyrgus might have gone. The sabotage required subtlety and a deft hand. So someone who knew what needed to be done had to be smuggled into the palace and protected from discovery while he carrried out the job. Then all signs of his work had to be hidden.
But that was only half the operation. The other half, the more important half, was ensuring Pyrgus was poisoned. And poisoned at exactly the right time he could be spirited away beyond help. This meant access to stores, knowledge of vaccination procedures and, again, split-second timing, since the medical priest who administered the injection might have selected any one of a dozen ampules. In fact the whole thing was carried out with such sophistication that Apatura was far from certain any outsiders were involved at all, except in the planning. Surely it would make more sense to suspect the whole thing was an inside job?
That was certainly the way Palace Security were thinking. Apatura knew they were working on the theory no outside agent was involved. Apatura himself wasn't quite so sure, although he was certainly leaning in the same direction. What worried him was the level of treachery. Whoever was involved would have had to move freely throughout the palace, including the most secure areas. That meant someone at a high level. Apatura didn't want to think the palace harboured a high-level traitor.
The filter had been repaired. That proved to be a simple job. The Chief Portal Engineer had also assured him the portal itself could be made safely operative within a matter of hours. But that was only after they discovered where Pyrgus had gone. Until then, the machinery had to stay dismantled for the ongoing analysis. It was a hideous frustration and one Apatura could ill afford when he needed a clear head to deal with all the other problems.
Two uniformed guards snapped to attention as he stepped from the shaft and shrugged off his harness. They fell in step beside him as he moved off along the starkly lit passageway. At other times he would have waved them back – he had never much liked the formalities of his office – but now even that small effort seemed beyond him. Besides, he might even need their protection. If his own son could be poisoned underneath his nose, who knew what else might happen in the palace?
Two more guards opened the door of the Situation Room at his approach and Apatura stepped inside, already dreading what he might be about to see.
The Situation Room, like so much of the palace these days, was a buzz of activity. The banks of crystal globes had been linked directly to the spy cameras of the Imperial Espionage Service so that all pictures were updated on a second-by-second basis. In the centre of the room was the huge operations table, with the entire landscape of the realm available, in three dimensions, when the proper chant was voiced. Just now, only a segment of the land was visible, recognisable by the indigo marking flags of Night Faerie. Young women moved briskly between the globes and the table, constantly rearranging the display. Three of Apatura's top military commanders were already in the room. So was Gatekeeper Tithonus.
The military men came to attention as he entered and Tithonus hurried across to greet him. 'What news?' Apatura asked.
Tithonus frowned. 'I fear the situation looks increasingly grave.'
‘Is an attack imminent?'
'Possibly.' Tithonus dropped his voice. 'Any news of Pyrgus, Majesty?'
The Emperor shook his head. He walked over to the crystal globes. They were all displaying different viewpoints on what appeared to be a mass rally of Night Faerie troops. Apatura selected a low-level aerial view and forced his body to relax. In a moment he felt the familiar sensation as the globe drew him in.
He was looking down on a vast stadium packed with a cheering throng. Black-uniformed troops marched in tight formation to create a torchlit serpent winding its way into the stadium to the insistent beat of drums. The lead contingents bore the insignia of House Hairstreak, but others following wore uniforms of various other Night Houses. Most were members of the old Nightside Alliance, but, in a worrying development, some additional Houses appeared
to have joined them. Lord Hairstreak, it seemed, was growing in popularity.
The update from the Imperial Espionage Service gave the scene a jerky, unreal quality, but, even so, Apatura watched with growing unease. The marching soldiers looked like grim-faced robots and their discipline was impressive, as doubtless it was meant to be. They split into several streams and wizards marching with each one changed the colour of their torches so that they became a rainbow throng. The colours spun and danced as the men marched, then, with breathtaking speed, became a living insignia of House Hairstreak. The drumbeats reached a crescendo as spotlights picked out a single figure on the rostrum.
The soldiers halted, the drumming ceased, the vast crowd fell completely silent. After a moment the figure spoke, his words carried by amplification spells throughout the stadium. 'Behold,' he said, 'the might of Night Faerie. May our enemies beware!'
Apatura thought briefly it must be Black Hairstreak himself, but now he realised it was Hamearis, the Duke of Burgundy, Hairstreak's closest ally. He looked more impressive in public than Hairstreak and was an infinitely better speaker, which was probably why he was addressing the crowd now. But there was another possibility. Hamearis had been to the forefront of the negotiations lately. His appearance on the rostrum may have been designed to send a signal: take me seriously or else!
Apatura had not the slightest doubt this rally was meant to be seen by himself and as many of his people as cared to watch. There had been no public announcement, but nor had there been the slightest attempt at secrecy. A few relatively simple spells would have discovered most of the Espionage Service cameras, a few more put them out of action. Yet not one had been touched. The conclusion was obvious.
Apatura withdrew. 'Very impressive,' he said drily. 'Now, where is the real action?'
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