To Hold the Bridge

by Garth Nix

  William spoke fiercely and reached out to grip Robin’s shoulders. She shuddered under his touch and half drew the arrow. He was so close, it would be so easy to punch the arrow up through his old ribs and into his heart. All the charms and protections every ironmaster wrapped themselves in would be as nothing to the sharp ivory point.

  Robin raised her elbow and began to draw the arrow out through the fold in the front of her tunic.

  ‘You are my granddaughter,’ whispered William. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, as if seeking an embrace. ‘Do what you will.’

  ‘Seek new beginnings,’ whispered Merewyn. Though her voice was nearly drowned by the sudden cawing of ravens overhead, it sounded to Robin like her sister was just behind her.

  But she wasn’t. There was only her old grandfather, his eyes still closed, his hands on her shoulders. There was the crowd beyond, a great mass of excited expectation, aware that they were witnesses to a great and strange event. The three grand-nephews, staring at her as if she were some strange creature. Aurillac, his stare that of an enemy, held in check only by temporary weakness.

  Robin remembered grabbing the horn from Merewyn. Remembered charging down the slope. Remembered the sound of Merewyn being struck by the iron knight.

  Knowing when not to attack … seeking new beginnings … Merewyn’s voice echoed in her head, as it would probably echo for as long as Robin lived.

  Slowly, she pushed the arrow back under her tunic, through her belt, and pulled her hand free.

  ‘I will never forgive you,’ she whispered. ‘But I will take your sword.’

  Then she spoke loud enough for the crowd to hear.

  ‘Give me the crown.’

  A cheer rippled through the mass of onlookers, though Robin wasn’t sure whether they were cheering her on or hoping to see a repeat of what had happened to Aurillac.

  William held the crown high, and Robin felt the magic within it. It was like a seed, a container of potent force waiting for the right conditions to burgeon forth.

  Robin bent her head and felt the rough touch of the holly leaves scrape through her hair. She tensed, waiting for the sharper stab of thorns, or for a sudden, shocking attack of nausea. But the crown sat comfortably on her near-shaven head, and her stomach was no more stricken with anxiety than it had been before.

  ‘The sword!’ someone shouted from the crowd, a cry that was taken up in seconds, to become a chant, several thousand voices all calling at once.

  ‘The sword! The sword!’

  Robin reached up to steady the crown and was startled to find her fingers touching flowers and green shoots rather than dried sticks and wizened berries. She was even more startled to find that the stubble on her scalp was no longer harsh and fuzzy. Her hair was growing back impossibly fast, and was already as long as the first two knuckles on her little finger.

  ‘The sword,’ said William. Robin couldn’t hear him, the chanting was so loud, but she knew what he was saying. She dropped her hands from her newfound hair and the flowering crown, flexed her fingers, and stepped up onto the stone.

  The sword radiated iron magic like a miniature sun. Robin felt the heat wash across her face and breathed hot air through her mouth. But she knew this was not real heat, and it would not burn her unless she feared it would.

  Without hesitation, she gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands, accepting the heat and the magic, letting them flow through her body, taking in the strength of the iron to add to her own.

  She felt no conflict from the crown, but rather an acceptance that this, too, was part of her. Her heritage was of both the green forest and the hot stone that lay deep beneath the earth, and they did not clash within her.

  The chant grew louder and more frenzied as Robin bent her knees and focused both her strength and her will upon the sword in the stone. She could feel how William had meshed blade and rock, but it was no easy matter to undo what he had done. But slowly she compelled sword and stone to separate, and with a screech like some tormented beast of legend, the weapon came free, an inch at a time.

  Sweat poured from Robin’s face and pain coursed through her lower back and forearms, but with one last outpouring of strength and determination, the stone gave up its prize. Robin whipped the sword around and held it aloft, too breathless to shout or even speak. Not that even her shouts would be heard above the noise of the crowd.

  William held up his hands for silence, the Ferramenta booming and clanging to punctuate his demand. As the crowd stilled, William turned to the stone and started to walk the few paces over to Robin.

  At that moment, Aurillac and his men suddenly charged, the Bastard himself leaping up on the stone, sweeping his great sword out of its scabbard as he jumped.

  Robin ducked under his first blow, Aurillac’s swordpoint skittering off the stone in a spray of sparks. She parried the next, but the blow was so strong William’s sword was smashed out of her hand, and her fingers were suddenly numbed and useless.

  Three arrows bounced off the Bastard, repelled by his charms, as he struck again. Robin jumped backward off the stone, landed well, and backed away, the crowd receding like the tide.

  A sweeping glance showed Robin that William, his bowmen, and the Ferramenta were wreaking bloody havoc among Aurillac’s men and this stupid battle would not last more than a few minutes.

  But that was all the Bastard would need to kill her.

  He jumped from the stone and charged toward her as Robin tried to pull out the black arrow with her left hand. She tensed, ready to try and dodge, the arrow still stuck in her clothes. But as Aurillac raised his sword, he was suddenly struck from behind by a huge lump of snarling brown fur that was either a dog or a small bear, that had jumped from the fringes of the crowd straight on his back.

  At the same time, more than a dozen unarmed men – townsfolk or simple peasants – charged in front of Robin. One fell beneath Aurillac’s sword, but the others fell on him as the bear brought the Bastard bellowing down. More men and women surged from the crowd to form a human shield-ring around Robin.

  All were shouting the same thing.

  ‘Ingland! Ingland! Ingland!’

  Then Robin was being lifted up, onto the shoulders of the taller men of those about her. Aurillac lay dead nearby, or good as dead, as eight or nine people hacked at him with small knives, hatchets, and even their hands. The bear that had felled him sat up on its haunches, the crowd giving it space as it licked its paw and muzzle clean of blood.

  Robin looked at the bear and it met her gaze with a human understanding.

  ‘I thank you, Jack,’ said Robin softly.

  The bear got up and stood on his hind legs. Then he slowly sank to one knee and bowed his head. All around him, the people followed suit. It was like the wind pressing down a field of corn, as heads suddenly lowered and men, women, and children all sank to one knee. The peasants and townsfolk were first, but then the Norman men-at-arms followed suit, and then the knights and lords and ladies, into the bloodied mud where Aurillac’s followers lay dead or wounded.

  Only William still stood. Even the men who carried Robin had sunk to their knees, so she was seated on their shoulders. Her hair had grown long and now framed her face, and the holly flowers of her crown had grown and spread too, to make a mantle that fell down her back like a rich, royal cloak.

  William walked to her. Halfway, he held out his hand, and his sword flew into it. He reversed it to hold the blade. Then he proffered the hilt to Robin, and she took it in her left hand, and held it high.

  So the Princess Robin came into the inheritance she had never sought; amid blood, but not of her choosing; welcomed by a grandfather she had always feared and hated; hailed by the Normans she looked like and the Inglish who she felt were her true people.

  Overhead, two ravens cawed once in disgust and flew northeast, biting and snapping at each other as they flew. As they fled, a one-eyed man coughed and died where he lay on the ground between two of Aurillac’s dead men, the a
rrow that had chance-hit him buried deep in his chest.

  A Wink and a Nod

  The Curious Case of the Moondawn Daffodils Murder

  AS EXPERIENCED BY SIR MAGNUS HOLMES AND ALMOST-DOCTOR SUSAN SHRIKE

  HOLMES IS HERE, INSPECTOR,’ ANNOUNCED the Sergeant, peering around the door of Inspector Lestrade’s office, which was currently occupied by the newly promoted Inspector McIntyre, as Lestrade was on his holiday. ‘In a manner of speaking, that is.’

  McIntyre, aware of the susceptibility of the newly promoted to pranks from those less fortunate, chose to play a straight bat.

  ‘What do you mean, in a manner of speaking?’ he asked calmly, placing the file he had been reading slowly down upon Lestrade’s desk. ‘Is he, or is he not, present in the antechamber?’

  ‘Well, he is present,’ said the Sergeant, whose name was Cumber and whose intellect was not particularly finely honed. ‘Only it isn’t Mr. Sherlock Holmes, as was invited.’

  McIntyre set both his hands flat on the table, as they trembled with visible tension.

  ‘You don’t mean to say that Mr. Mycroft Holmes has come to see me!’

  McIntyre was well aware of Mr. Mycroft Holmes’s importance within the government, and the range and power of his influence. He also knew that the elder Holmes never left his club, and he could not even begin to consider just how much more serious the case before him must be if Mycroft Holmes himself had come to consult upon it. Why, it was more than the mountain going to Mahomet, it was unprecedented, it was—

  The Sergeant broke into McIntyre’s slightly panicked thoughts.

  ‘No, it isn’t Mr. Mycroft Holmes. It’s a Sir Magnus Holmes.’

  ‘Sir Magnus Holmes …,’ muttered the Inspector. ‘I don’t believe I’ve even heard of the fellow.’

  ‘He has a woman with him,’ said the Sergeant darkly. ‘One of them modern women.’

  ‘What!?’ exploded McIntyre. ‘If this is all some sort of joke, Cumber, it’s gone too far.’

  ‘Not a joke,’ said Cumber. He paused for a moment to reflect, then added, ‘Least, not that I know of. Shall I send them in?’

  ‘No!’ roared McIntyre. He thumped his fist on the desk, making the file jump and his half-empty teacup rattle on its saucer, the tea inside almost slopping over the edge.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ replied Sergeant Cumber. He started to close the door, but just before it snapped shut, he added, ‘’E did say Mr. Sherlock sent him over, sir.’

  The door shut before McIntyre could answer. He sat there with his mouth open for an instant, then, with an explosion that this time did send his tea slopping over the saucer and onto the desk, he erupted out of his chair and stalked to the door. A big man, who had fought heavyweight for his uniformed division before joining Scotland Yard, he flung the door open with a weighty fist and was all set to bellow again when he saw that he was being stared at by a lady and a gentleman, and by Cumber, who clearly had not quite gathered the intellectual power to tell them to go away in a nice fashion suitable to their obvious gentility.

  McIntyre saw a relatively young man, perhaps twenty-eight or thirty, with a not very memorable face, short pale hair, and something on his upper lip and chin that could charitably be viewed as a Van Dyke beard. He was only of medium height, had a slight build, and was wearing a very well-cut gray morning suit, made somewhat eccentric by a curiously shaped and very heavy gold watchchain visible on his waistcoat, which was surmounted by a pearly white stiff-necked shirt with a dark red ascot tie, again made odd by the large and peculiar tiepin that was thrust through it, which had the appearance of being made of a bundle of small golden sticks and so looked rather raffish.

  The woman next to him was a very different matter. She was of a similar age, but where he was very much of average appearance, she was striking. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, her charms were subdued under her not very flattering black- and-white dress that was somewhat reminiscent of a uniform, though it was drawn in tightly at the waist and had an elegant ruffled neck of obviously very expensive lace. She also carried a small leather Gladstone bag, which was not at all a normal item of apparel for a lady of quality. McIntyre automatically noted she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  ‘Inspector McIntyre!’ called out the man. ‘We were just trying to impress on the good sergeant here that we had come to call upon you, at the express request of my cousin Sherlock.’

  ‘Mr. Sherlock Holmes?’ asked McIntyre warily. ‘He is your cousin?’

  ‘Second cousin, actually,’ said the man. ‘Something to do with our grandfathers, I can’t quite recall, but my father grew up with Sherlock, and when my grandfather gambled away the old place and my father had to turn to trade, Sherlock was one of the few who stood by him, or so father always said, though I don’t—’

  ‘And you are?’ asked McIntyre, cutting short what otherwise seemed likely to be a long discourse of Holmes family history.

  ‘Oh, I’m Sir Magnus Holmes,’ said the man happily. ‘Just plain Magnus Holmes till father dropped off the perch last year. He was made a baronet in ’87, services to the Worshipful Company of Tallow Chandlers … lucky for me, if they’d left it any later I’d have missed out inheriting. Makes it easier to get a decent table, don’t you know, and theater tickets—’

  ‘Indeed,’ said McIntyre. He looked at the door to the corridor, which had a glass window and thus might show the shadows of any observers, as he was beginning to wonder whether Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself was playing a trick upon him. Seeing nothing untoward, he glanced at the lady, who had maintained her station a pace or two away from Sir Magnus and was looking with detached interest at both the Inspector and the Baronet.

  ‘And Miss …’

  ‘Allow me to introduce Almost-Doctor Susan Shrike,’ declared Sir Magnus. ‘My … um … keeper.’

  McIntyre’s brow lowered, a frown compressing his rather bull-like features, now accentuated by the narrowing of his mighty nostrils.

  ‘I don’t appreciate having a May-game made of me—’ he began.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Inspector,’ interrupted Susan Shrike. Her voice was cool and commanding and both soothed and dominated all the menfolk in the room. ‘Magnus sometimes gets carried away. My name is Miss Susan Shrike, and I am almost a doctor, in that I am in the final year of my medical studies at the London School of Medicine for Women. I also am upon occasion employed to care for certain patients who are allowed excursions from Bethlem Royal Hosp—’ It was the Inspector’s turn to interrupt. He raised a finger to point at Magnus.

  ‘You mean … you mean to say he’s a lunatic from Bedlam!’

  ‘Well, I am getting better,’ said Magnus reasonably. ‘I wouldn’t be allowed out, otherwise, even with Almost-Doctor Susan.’

  ‘Sir Magnus is not at all dangerous,’ said Susan. ‘He has been at the hospital for a few months recovering himself after an unfortunate accident. He is now well enough to begin to resume everyday activities. My presence is merely a precaution insisted upon by his aunt.’

  Magnus grimaced.

  ‘Lady Meredith Foxton,’ he said in a stage whisper. ‘Ghastly woman. Specializes in making people miserable.’

  ‘Now then, Inspector,’ said Susan. ‘As I must have Sir Magnus back at the hospital before nightfall, perhaps you would be kind enough to tell us exactly what your problem is and we shall see if Sir Magnus can assist you.’

  ‘Sir Magnus, assist me?’ asked McIntyre. He was having difficulty comprehending what was going on and was wondering if perhaps he wasn’t better suited to a more lowly rank after all. If only Lestrade hadn’t gone on holiday!

  ‘I like to help,’ said Sir Magnus brightly. ‘Sherlock said you had a case that was right up my alley and that … let me see …’

  He strode to the fireplace and leaned one elbow on the mantelpiece, then turned his head back to look at the Inspector. Somehow his face had assumed an entirely different aspect, and he now looked far more hawklike and acute, with a hint of suppressed arrogan
ce.

  ‘Magnus, my boy,’ he drawled, in a voice that McIntyre recognized as a very good imitation of Sherlock’s. ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth – and the very highly improbable is I suspect exactly what Mr. McIntyre is facing. As this is very much more your area of expertise, I suggest that you answer the Inspector’s clarion call and leave me to my practice.’

  Magnus dropped his elbow, and the likeness with it.

  ‘Revolver practice, that was, not violin,’ he added in his own voice. ‘Shooting initials in the wall. And they say I’m mad.’

  ‘What is your area of expertise, Sir Magnus?’ asked McIntyre. He felt that this was perhaps a foolish question, but the truth of the matter was that he needed help, and if Sherlock Holmes really had said those words, which, after seeing that impression, he was inclined to believe, then perhaps this unlikely lunatic might be of some assistance.

  ‘I am a s … s … s …,’ Magnus started to say, stopping suddenly as Susan looked at him intently. ‘That is, I have made a study of the unusual, the arcane, and the occult. Also I make things. I am an inventor, and have a supple and surprising mind. Sherlock said that too, by the way. Mycroft says that I am a throwback to another era and should be burned at the stake, but he doesn’t mean it, not after that business with the … the … things that I’m not supposed to mention. Let’s go into your office, shall we, Inspector?’

  McIntyre surprised himself again by allowing Magnus to slide past him, and he held the door open for Susan Shrike, letting it swing shut behind him on Cumber’s inquisitive face.

  ‘Go and get my guests some tea,’ ordered McIntyre through the door.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ came the muffled response.

  ‘I trust he won’t have to wait for the tea,’ said Sir Magnus.

  ‘No, I shouldn’t think so,’ replied McIntyre, rather baffled by this new conversational sally. He returned behind his desk, and indicated the chairs on the other side. ‘Please, do sit down.’