Nathan pulled the back door closed behind them but didn’t run the risk of dropping the latch: the sound it made was too distinctive, even among a host of other noises. The latch on the drawing room door had almost been a risk too far. And then they had lurked in the kitchen, peering out only when Bartlemy and Annie were sufficiently engrossed not to notice. Hoover, loyally, hadn’t barked or even thumped his tail. Now, they crept through the garden and into the woods, too stunned by what they had seen to be wary of the darkness or any potential danger. When they reached the road, the shadows slunk after them, but they were carrying their modern talismans of iron and the ripple in the night was content merely to follow.
‘He’s a wizard,’ Hazel said when they were some distance from the house. ‘A real wizard. Your uncle Barty. Or maybe a warlock.’
‘He can’t be a warlock. He’s too fat. Whoever heard of a fat warlock?’
‘He’s a w-wizard,’ Hazel repeated, her tongue falling over the words as if they constituted a verbal obstacle race.
‘Your great-grandmother was a witch,’ Nathan pointed out.
‘Yes, but … not like that. Just charms, and whispered curses; small-time stuff. Not like that …’
‘Anyhow, you don’t believe in magic.’
‘Do I have a choice?’ Hazel muttered.
They walked on for a while without speaking. Behind them, the shadows played at grandmother’s footsteps on the empty road, falling silent when Nathan looked back. ‘They’re there,’ he said. ‘The gnomons.’ They felt the fear reaching out for them, but it could not take hold on their minds: they had too many other things to trouble them. They walked a little faster; that was all.
When they were clear of the trees Hazel said: ‘What was all that about Michael’s wife, and your mum recognizing that spirit thing?’ She still didn’t want to discuss her own encounter with the head in the basin.
‘Mum’s not telling me everything,’ Nathan said, disquieted. But then, he wasn’t telling her everything either.
‘They never do,’ Hazel said wisely. ‘My mum never tells me anything.’
‘Your mum hasn’t been running into malignant water-demons,’ Nathan retorted.
‘She might of. I told you, she never tells me –’
But Nathan wasn’t attending. ‘Why didn’t she tell me? Does she still think I need protecting? I can look after myself in other worlds …’
‘That’s why you’ve got that weird sunburn,’ Hazel remarked dampingly.
‘All right – I make mistakes. To tell you the truth, the whole business scares the life out of me. But there’s no point in anyone trying to protect me ’cos they can’t. I’ve gone beyond that. She should at least trust me.’
Hazel didn’t know what to say to that, but Nathan didn’t seem to require an answer: he was too busy brooding. They had walked some distance further when she said, abruptly: ‘What’s that?’
‘What’s what?’
‘That.’
The wood had finished but they were still a fair way from the first houses. There was a sudden scuffling in the hedgerow, a shaking of grasses, a twitching of briars. Something was in there, hidden by the leaf-tangle and the matted stems. Something bigger than a gnomon and far more solid. The grasses parted: for an instant, a face peeped out, barely visible in the darkness; but they knew who it must be.
‘The prisoner!’ Hazel hissed in a savage whisper. ‘He’s spying on us.’
‘He’s spying on someone,’ Nathan amended. He moved towards the hedgerow with a purposeful air, though he himself had no idea what his purpose might be. The face vanished. The leaf-tangle quivered once, and was still.
Nathan said: ‘That’s got rid of that,’ as if he had merely been intent on frightening the creature, but privately he was worried. It should have run away, not stayed in the vicinity of its long imprisonment, watching people it didn’t even know. And … why had it been imprisoned, and by whom? For that matter, when? No answers were likely to materialize in the near future, and he turned back to Hazel, eager now to get home and suddenly hungry. It seemed a long time since the pizza they had eaten earlier.
Hazel went back to her own home late, and Annie returned even later, when Nathan was in bed with a book. They said goodnight, but nothing more. Annie was very tired but lay sleepless for a long while, going over the events of the evening in her thought. Nathan tumbled immediately into oblivion, plagued by the more normal kind of dream, waking periodically in the small dark hours as though his subconscious mind needed to check on him, afraid of where he might go.
The following week the inquest on Effie Carlow finally took place, bringing in a verdict of Accidental Death, and Inspector Pobjoy was assigned to another case.
‘I know you’re keen on this business of the old lady,’ said the Assistant Chief Constable, ‘but from the sound of it you’re never going to be able to prove anything, even if her relatives did give her a push. If we managed to get a conviction on circumstantial evidence, some clever lawyer would come along and overturn it ten minutes later.’
‘The girl knows more than she’s saying,’ Pobjoy insisted. ‘She hinted Mrs Carlow was killed in the attic and dumped in the river later. If I had a forensic team to go over the place with a fine-tooth comb …’
‘Sorry. We can’t spare any more resources on this one. The robbery at Haverleigh Hall is a bigger priority. They took half a million in Georgian silver and antique jewellery, and a load of paintings including a Constable and a dubious Titian. Probably a commission, and from the way they knocked out the alarm system they’re very professional.’
‘Sir Richard Wykeham, isn’t it?’ said Pobjoy. ‘Knighted two years ago for services to the country – that is, getting very rich. Arms, wasn’t it?’
‘I see you’ve already done your homework,’ the ACC said dryly. ‘Wykeham’s an important man. I personally don’t like him – don’t know anyone who does – but he has a lot of influence. With a capital I.’
‘Which makes him much more important than some nameless old lady from an obscure village who had nothing,’ Pobjoy commented.
‘You know the realities,’ the ACC said. ‘It’s not as though you’re getting anywhere. Even if you get a statement out of the girl pointing the finger at one of her parents, the evidence of minors never holds up well in court. Look at the Damilola Taylor fiasco. And I can’t really see any kid being prepared to convict her mum or dad.’
Pobjoy nearly said: ‘Your boys not yet in their teens, sir?’ but refrained.
‘Get onto the Haverleigh Hall case,’ the ACC concluded. ‘We won’t get Sir Richard’s stuff back for him but at least we can nab the boys who did it, preferably before they clean out anyone else. Yes, I know you want to stick with your potential murder but you’ll have to drop it. Money talks, we both know that.’
‘Does its evidence stand up in court?’ Pobjoy inquired.
‘Oh yes,’ sighed the ACC. ‘Usually wearing a wig and gown.’
Since Hazel and George hadn’t broken up yet, the beginning of the holidays found Nathan left much to his own devices. He caught the bus into Chizzledown and went to see Eric, who was still working for Rowena Thorn. They walked to the foot of the down which gave the village its name and picnicked on sandwiches provided by Annie. On the slope above them was a huge symbol carved into the chalk, less famous than the horses and giants seen elsewhere since it was simply a pattern and no one knew what it was meant to signify. It consisted of a line bisected by an arc and set within a circle. ‘In my world,’ Eric said unexpectedly, ‘is ancient symbol of great magic.’
‘What does it mean?’ Nathan demanded excitedly.
Eric achieved one of his magnificent shrugs. ‘Who knows? Is deep mystery.’
Nathan’s brief excitement waned. ‘It could be a coincidence,’ he said. What with Star Wars, and the force, and the spellpower of poetry, he felt that almost everything meant something special to Eric.
‘What is – coincidence?’ the exile asked.
When that had been explained, with difficulty and at length, Nathan told him about his latest dream: the cave, the desert, the monster, the unsuccessful tomb raiders and the wild xaurians. Eric was both enthused and disturbed. ‘Is right place,’ he decided. ‘Must be. Sangreal, sword, crown hide there. You not see?’
‘It was pitch-dark in the cave,’ Nathan said. ‘I couldn’t see anything. Do you know who the raiders were?’
Eric hesitated. ‘Maybe just thieves,’ he said at last. ‘But – maybe not. There is a group – you would say, revolters? – they say Grandir will do nothing to save us, let all die except few who are chosen, keep spell of first Grandir till end. Revolters might try to steal treasures, to do spell.’
Nathan said: ‘Could they?’
‘No. Nobody can do spell. Secret is lost. But maybe they guess. Is illegal, but I think many will try, if they have opportunity.’
Nathan mmmed an affirmation. ‘What have they got to lose?’
‘Law is strict,’ Eric offered. ‘Many put in prison.’
Nathan gave him another sandwich, and they moved on to the subject of the xaurians. ‘Their skin very tough,’ Eric explained. ‘Protect against sundeath. Also special lid over eye, always closed but – invisible …’
‘Transparent?’ Nathan deduced.
‘They see through it. Transparent. I will remember.’ He always did, Nathan noticed. Any new word had to be committed to memory only once. ‘Long ago, men catch wild xaurians, change genes, make them bigger, stronger, but to obey. Some wild ones still there, though many die. Not lots of animals for them to hunt now.’
‘Why would the wild ones help men?’ Nathan asked.
‘Very intelligent,’ Eric suggested doubtfully. ‘Like dolphin here.’
Nathan wondered how he had heard about dolphins. ‘Is helping men a sign of intelligence?’ he said. Of course, dolphins had been known to rescue drowning sailors, so maybe it was a good analogy.
They finished their lunch, and Nathan made his way back to Eade. In the shop he found Michael, who asked him if he would like to come out on the boat one day – ‘Yes, please!’ – and then left him to his mother’s company. ‘What were you and Uncle Barty up to last night?’ Nathan inquired, as innocently as he could manage. He didn’t want to deceive her, nor did he want her to deceive him. He had felt guilty about sneaking out to spy on her the previous evening, but with the dreams increasingly taking over his life he thought he needed to know everything – especially those things adults didn’t want him to know.
‘Just supper,’ Annie said, equally ill-at-ease with deceit. ‘And talk.’
‘About me?’
‘No.’ After all, that was mostly true. ‘You are not the only subject of discussion in my life, you know. We talked of – money matters. The running of the shop. That sort of thing.’
‘You’ve never had private meetings about that before,’ said Nathan.
‘I expect we did. You just didn’t notice.’
She isn’t going to tell me, he thought. I need to know – but she won’t tell. Should I say I was there?
I wonder if I ought to tell him? Annie agonized. He’s involved in all this. But he’s so young, so young … I want to keep him out, keep him safe, at least until he’s older. The more he knows, the more he’ll want to know – until in the end he’ll ask about his father …
She said nothing.
So did he.
That night, he knew he would dream. Not the idle dreams of the roving mind but the dreams of the soul, dreams of the other world. This time, he was aware of things before the dream started – a stomach-churning sensation of falling, plunging into a tunnel of black whirling space. Clouds of dark matter spun around him, stars that seemed tiny (but somehow he knew they were huge) streamed past, shattering into firedust on the invisible shoals of Time. Every so often planets heaved into his orbit, bellying with oceans and continents, wreathed in weather-systems.
When he emerged from the tunnel there was a blinding light, a vast sun out dazzling the lesser stars. He shut his eyes. Then he was on solid ground, and he opened them, to find himself staring at the rim of a desk-top. The Grandir’s desk in the semicircular office. He was crouching behind it, conspicuously solid, while a few feet away the Grandir stood with his back to him, receiving a report from a figure in hologram form.
The holocast (he was sure that was the correct term) wore a curious flat-topped head-dress and its black mask had bubbles of yellow glass over the eye-slits, giving it an evil look. Its coverall outfit was also black, made of some sleek, glossy material rather like leather, with padded gauntlets banded with metal on the knuckles and what might have been a weapon strapped to the shoulder. Its stance was rigid, clearly military.
‘He came originally from Ingorut,’ the holocast was saying. ‘He gives his name as Derzhin Zamork, which checks out on the computer, but our records were scrambled after that last piece of sabotage and the genoprint could be faked. Since the continent was cut off, we have no way of checking.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said the Grandir. ‘His name is not important. He is a neo-salvationist: that’s all we need to know. What information has he given you about the organization?’
‘Not much, sir. These people work in cells, virtually isolated from other operatives, to protect the group in this very eventuality. He doesn’t even know who supplied him with data and gave him orders.’
‘Standard procedure.’ The tone was indifferent. ‘I would have done it that way myself, when I was young and imaginative. These people are moderately intelligent. Did you find the implant?’
There was a pause – a hesitation – as if the holocast had been taken by surprise. ‘I – yes, sir. It was on the spinal cord, at the base of the skull. But –’
The Grandir didn’t repeat the but to urge the holocast on. He merely waited.
‘We are unable to process it. Sir. It has been designed to activate only when surrounded by living tissue – his tissue. If we had a telepathic scanner –’
‘We do not. Such equipment is rare, as you well know. The last one was on Quorus: it was lost when the planet was cut off. What dosage of truth serum have you been using?’
‘Up to point seven, sir. His body seems to have a natural resistance, possibly induced by an activating spell.’ This time, the pause stretched out much longer. ‘Would you like to interrogate him yourself, sir?’
‘No. What about the woman?’
‘She has been – more difficult. Her resistance level is even higher, and there are the same problems with an implant. She wouldn’t even tell us her name, though we were able to obtain that from Zamork. He calls her Kwanji Ley. He says she was trained as a third level practor.’
‘That explains much. She could have learned the location of the cave by magic. The knowledge is shielded, but such spells can be unravelled. Very well. No further questioning is needed. They have been careful to know nothing of their manipulators. Place them in Deep Confinement.’
‘For how long?’ asked the holocast.
‘Indefinitely.’
It’s the two I saw in the desert, Nathan thought. That’s who they’re talking about. They escaped the monster but were arrested back in Arkatron.
The holocast was fading and he closed his eyes, willing himself to accompany it, focusing on his memory of the two raiders. For a few moments that seemed interminable, nothing happened. He heard the footsteps of the Grandir moving away, and opened his eyes again to see the ruler standing by the window, gazing out of the gap between two screens. In a second he’ll turn round, Nathan thought. He’ll come back to the desk. There’s no other cover here and I can’t get out. He’ll find me …
Darkness took him so swiftly he wasn’t aware of it. Yet once again the emerging was slow, though without the cosmic effects. He was struggling against a muffling blanket of oblivion, fighting for consciousness, for sensation, for self. Every time he thought he was waking another layer of sleep would engulf him, pressing him back down into the abyss. At last after a final effort he broke through the veil, thin as a shadow, and found himself in the light.
Not the dazzling light of the Eosian sun but a soft pallor which seemed at first to have no source, no boundaries, no form. Gradually his surroundings acquired definition, and he saw he was in a cylindrical room without windows or doors, the curving walls and circular floor all of a matt, creamy-white smoothness. The height of the chamber was more than twice its diameter, and the ceiling appeared to be made of opaque glass, with a broad pillar descending from the centre, glossy as marble, and black. He was sitting with his back to it. He heard a voice somewhere behind him, the voice of the yellow-eyed holocast. ‘You are now in Deep Confinement, in Pit S00437C. The period of your incarceration has not been determined. That is all.’
There was the sound of a step, the faint swoosh of a sliding door. The pillar lifted off the floor and retreated upwards, vanishing through an aperture in the glass ceiling, which then closed. Nathan turned round.
The woman was there, leaning against the wall, one leg bent, the other stretched out in front of her. His first thought was how relaxed she looked. She had risked mortal danger to obtain the secrets of the cave, had failed and all but died, and now she was thrown into prison for an unspecified term – yet she looked at ease. It was warm in the Pit and her sleeveless, coat-like garment hung open; she wore nothing else. Her body was lean and very muscular for a woman. It did not curve in and out like the women of his own world: her hips, as far as he could judge, were very straight and her breasts barely swelled from her chest. She could see him – in that space, there was nowhere to hide – but she appeared untroubled by either his presence or her near-nakedness. Her face was not beautiful, he was sure, even by the standards of Eos: it was all curves and angles, lines and bones, with a purple lustre in the eyes that reminded him of Eric, only his were far lighter, the colour of amethyst. It was a face that seemed to be designed for quickness of expression, for eagerness and fire, but now her inward dial was set for repose, and she studied him without a flicker of curiosity or a flutter of emotion.
She said: ‘I thought I would be alone here. I was told, you are always alone in the Pits. Forever alone: wasn’t that the idea? Are you an illusion they have sent me – a holocast – or the result of that last injection?’
‘No one sent me,’ he said. ‘I’m real. At least, I think I am. I’m real in my world; I might not be real here.’
She didn’t try to make sense of this. He realized later, thinking of what she must have endured, that she was beyond sense: the most she could manage was being calm. She was determined to have no hope, no fear, no weakness that her gaolers could take hold of.
‘You are very small,’ she said presently.
‘I’m thirteen. I haven’t finished growing.’
There was a long, long pause.
‘You’re a child? I thought – there were no more children. I have never seen a child. Why did they send you to me?’
‘I told you, no one sent me,’ he reiterated. This was his first conversation with anyone in his dreams, he thought, and she didn’t believe in him. Well, that was fair enough. ‘I dreamed myself here. It’s something I can do; I don’t know how or why. I come from another world.’
‘All the worlds are gone,’ she said. ‘Unvarhu-sag.’
‘No: I mean, another universe. Beyond the Gate.’ He didn’t know if this concept would have any meaning for her. ‘I saw you in the desert, when you escaped the lizard-monster. I was watching from the cave. What did you go to find there? Was it the Sangreal?’
‘Questions,’ she sighed. ‘I knew there would be questions. For an illusion, you know, you really are very good. The fine detail is quite perfect. I can’t imagine you’ll tell me how they do it?’
‘Nobody did it,’ he persisted. ‘I was just born, the normal way: I was born and I grew. Please try to believe me. Look, the cup isn’t in the cave: that’s a blind. It’s in my world. Someone put it there, probably for safekeeping, though we’re not sure. Why were you after it? If you’d managed to get it, what would you have done with it? If the cup is part of a spell to save your world, we need to know how it works. Please –’
She didn’t answer. Her mouth was very serious, a sombre line, but the trace of a smile lifted the corners. ‘If you are real,’ she said, ‘show me. Touch me.’
He hadn’t thought of that, and it was so simple. He came over to her, reached his hand out toward hers. ‘May I?’ It seemed important to ask, in this world of masks and coweralls, where he had never seen people touch one another. Eric, he recalled, was always diffident about physical contact.
Kwanji Ley nodded.
He laid his hand over hers. There was a quiver in her fingers – he felt it – like an electrical response. She said: ‘They cannot do this.’ And then: ‘They have scrambled my mind. It must be a spell. The Grandir is very powerful – more powerful than we had guessed. I have protection, but it isn’t strong enough. I am not strong enough …’ Her voice failed, dwindling to a whisper, terrible in one formerly so composed. He didn’t know if she was talking to herself or to him.
‘You are strong,’ he told her, horrified by the change in her. ‘I can see that. You’re very strong. There’s really nothing wrong with you: it’s me. I’m – I don’t know, a freak I suppose. I fall asleep, and dream, and I’m here. At first, I was just thought, invisible, but now I get more solid all the time. Please tell me about the cup. I’ll wake up soon, and then I’ll be gone, so –’
‘If you’re real,’ she said, ‘you can’t possibly go. We’re in Deep Confinement. There is no way out. Nobody has ever escaped from the Pits.’
‘You still don’t understand. For me, this is a dream. I’ll just – vanish …’
Suddenly, Kwanji seized his arm – her other hand brushed over his face, exploring his features like a blind woman. ‘You feel too solid to vanish,’ she said, ‘or my touch lies. You are no were creature: your eyes are human. Magic cannot do this. Who is controlling you?’
‘No one.’ He was vehement, desperate. He could feel the darkness rushing towards him, tingling in his feet, rising in his mind. At any moment, it would reclaim him.
‘I think you believe it,’ she said. ‘They have fooled you too. There is always someone in control …’
And then it was over. He had a last vision of her face, lips parting in astonishment, before it faded – broke up – and he was wrenched away, out of light, out of thought, out of that whole world …
He woke in his bed at home, cold with sweat, starting up to see the beginning of dawn lightening the curtains. He was saying her name – Kwanji – urging, pleading with the empty room.
‘The Grail is coming home,’ Bartlemy said. ‘On Saturday, to be precise. I gather our friend Julian Epstein is not happy. It will be transported in a sealed van, with guards –’
‘Armed?’ Nathan asked eagerly. They were sitting in the bookshop, Bartlemy and Annie on the available chairs, Nathan perched on the edge of the table.
‘I really don’t know,’ Bartlemy admitted. ‘They’re bringing it to Thornyhill, where the – er – principal disputants will foregather. Rowena Thorn, the Graf Von Humboldt, and Alex Birnbaum. Also myself and Eric.’
‘We should be there,’ Nathan said. ‘We’re as involved as they are.’
‘Yes, but they don’t know that, and I have no intention of attempting to tell them,’ Bartlemy said reasonably.
‘Why is Von Humboldt doing this?’ Annie asked. ‘What does he hope to gain?’
‘There are wheels within wheels,’ Bartlemy explained. ‘Rowena, I infer, has convinced him that under these conditions she can persuade Birnbaum to waive his claim. He has a great respect for the cup’s historical background, the Luck of the Thorns and so on. If he thinks he is ceding it to Rowena, he will be prepared to back down.’
‘It’s true,’ Annie said. ‘He might.’
‘You’ve seen more of him than we have. Anyway, Von Humboldt believes it’s worth a try. Rowena has allowed him to think that once Birnbaum is out of the running she will countenance a sale and a division of the spoils. He wants to avoid a long, messy, and expensive court case at any price.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Annie said. ‘But what is Rowena up to? She’d never agree to sell the cup – would she? She couldn’t – seriously – be planning …? No.’
‘Robbery?’ Bartlemy smiled. ‘I don’t think so. I gather what she really wants is to get Eric to have a look at it. She’s been very impressed by him. People usually are. Whether she’s come to accept that he’s from another world I can’t say, but she’s no fool, and she must realize he isn’t mad. She wants him to see it – she wants it to be in situ. She’s gone to considerable lengths to organize it. I must admit, I had no idea she was capable of such duplicity. People are constantly surprising me – it’s really very reassuring.’
‘At your age,’ Annie said with a furtive smile, ‘I should imagine there are few surprises left.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Bartlemy. ‘The longer I live, the more I realize that no one is ever predictable. Just when you think you’ve got people worked out, they do something extraordinary. Human nature has amazing depths – and shallows, of course. Whatever Freud may say, there are no rules of human behaviour.’
‘Surely your genes dictate who you are,’ Annie interpolated.
‘Genes don’t dictate,’ Bartlemy responded. ‘You can be trapped by your heredity – or you can live up to it – or you can rise above it. You make yourself. How can genes make a poet out of a monkey who came down from the trees? I have told you about magic, of the powers of the Gifted few, but the true magic is in the soul of Man.’
‘Men can do terrible things,’ Nathan said, thinking of the interminable confinement in the Pits.
‘And wonderful ones. They are two sides of the same coin. The darkness and the light is in all of us. We make ourselves into who we are. We choose.’
‘What about environmental factors?’ said Annie.
Their conversation wandered down psychoanalytical byways, while Nathan slipped into his own thoughts. These were mostly concerned with the back door at Thornyhill, and Hoover’s reliability as a guard dog who would never bark at a friend …
Nathan hoped he would dream again about Kwanji Ley that week, but he had another dream about the sea, in a world where all land had been devoured, and then about a beautiful country which resembled his childhood image of Narnia. There were green hills and mossy rocks and streams which tumbled over tiny falls. The woods were even lovelier and somehow woodier than Thornyhill, with thickets of dogrose and honeysuckle, a red squirrel flickering through the leaves, and birds singing whose names he didn’t know.
Night came, with a giant moon seen through a lacework of twig and branch, and an owl cruising on silent wings. And then suddenly there was fear. The moonlight was crawling with it; the woodland floor heaved upwards into a wave. They were there, the Ozmosees – even there, in that beautiful wild place. He had no iron on him, no protection. He ran like a mad thing, pursued by the nightmare, until he stumbled over a tree-root and went hurtling down – and down – into the black depths of undisturbed sleep.
Afterwards, when he thought about the dream, he wondered if that was the place where he had found Woody, on some long-forgotten voyage of his infancy. It was a while since he had seen his friend, and so one afternoon he went into the woods alone, equipped with a gift of Smarties, and they sat and talked together under the trees, though he didn’t mention the dream. He told Woody about the coming of the Grail, and his own plans for Saturday. He wanted many eyes watching when the time came.
‘I will watch,’ said Woody. ‘But others watch also.’
‘You mean the gnomons?’ Nathan frowned. ‘I think – they are bound to the cup. I don’t know what they’ll do. They can’t enter Thornyhill: there’s too much iron, and silphium in the herb garden, and I expect Bartlemy could manage the light and sound effects too.’
‘I was thinking of the dwarf,’ said Woody.
‘What dwarf?’ But as he spoke, he knew.
‘The one you released from the ground. The prisoner.’
‘We can’t worry about him as well,’ Nathan said. But the worry remained, niggling at the edges of his mind, and he couldn’t shake it off.
At the bookshop, Alex Birnbaum came in to talk about the cup, and invited Annie for a drink. Michael arrived in time to hear her polite acceptance. ‘Your admirer,’ he said lightly, when Alex had gone.
Annie was conscious of an agreeable warmth about the heart. ‘He’s nice,’ she said. ‘I like him.’ She wasn’t cruel, but she was female, and Michael was still a married man.
‘I was hoping you’d have dinner with me,’ he said. ‘Friday.’ It was the first time he’d asked her to dinner, and his tone was uncertain.
‘Nathan –’
‘Nat can look after himself.’
She smiled, a little shyly. ‘All right.’
But on Friday morning, Rianna Sardou came home.
Michael telephoned to tell her, sounding both embarrassed and apologetic. ‘The Georgia tour was cut short – political unrest or something, too near Chechnya for comfort I expect. Maybe we could do dinner next week. She’ll be in London reading for a new production of Macbeth.’
Which role? Annie wondered. Banquo’s ghost? And which Rianna had actually ‘come home’ – the real one, or the spirit who wore her face? In addition, the idea of dining with Michael on the quiet, when his wife – or someone who might be his wife – was around, troubled her conscience.
‘It can’t have been her you saw in London,’ Michael added. ‘She’s been in Georgia all the time. I fished.’
Annie said something noncommittal, and hung up. After a minute’s reflection, she tried Bartlemy’s number, but he was out, probably finalizing arrangements with Rowena Thorn. When Nathan came in to lunch, he found his mother distracted. She told him Michael had cancelled, but not why, and she had never got round to describing the horror from the river. She was picturing it, going to the tower to sleep (did it sleep?), worse still, sharing a bed with Michael.
Michael had told her he would be out that afternoon; he was involved in a special project at the university run during the vacation for non-students. Around three, with one of Nathan’s door numbers in her pocket – though she didn’t know if iron would be any use against the water-spirit – she closed the shop and walked round to Riverside House.
It looked very quiet, sleeping in the sunshine, neither ominous nor welcoming, both picturesque and bland. It occurred to her that unlike most village houses in the pith of the afternoon it didn’t actually appear to sleep, it had too little personality – it was more like a show house than a real home, all façade and interior décor, no heart. She rang the doorbell and waited, her pulse thumping, listening for the sounds of an approach.
She heard nothing. No footsteps, no fiddling with handle or lock – nothing. The door jerked abruptly open, and Rianna was there.
For a second – less than a second – Annie wasn’t certain. It looked like a woman, flesh-and-blood, jeans-and-sweater, bare feet with painted nails, dark hair swept up in a butterfly clip with long strands escaping down her neck. She knew a pang of guilt – if it was a woman – because a woman could be wronged, and hurt, whatever Michael had said about the state of their marriage. And then she looked into the eyes, and knew. There was a blackness there beyond iris or pupil, the dark of the ocean depths where no light has ever been since life began. And no human feet could have approached so noiselessly on such a quiet day – bare feet, where surely a normal person would have worn sandals, bare feet which had left faint damp prints on the rug behind her …
Annie felt her face whiten and knew she had betrayed herself. It was all she could do not to run. But her voice, when she found it, was steady enough. ‘I was looking for Michael. I’ve come across a book I think would interest him, a history of Victorian London. Is he in?’
‘No,’ said the thing, baldly. Perhaps it didn’t comprehend the significance of her pale cheeks; perhaps, even after the chase, it thought she could be deceived. ‘I’ll tell him you called.’
And then, in an altered tone: ‘How is your son?’
There was no threat in the question, rather a suppressed fever, a kind of greed. Annie felt an unexpected surge of anger, scattering her fears – the ancient, primitive rage of a mother protecting her child. She remembered Bartlemy’s gesture of dismissal when the spirit had appeared in the circle, the single word of Command. She forgot that she had no Gift, no power. She flung out her hand, cried: ‘Envarré!’ The thing that was Rianna Sardou seemed to flinch. It wavered, its substance changing, dissolving into a form of roiling water which reached out to seize her. She tried to resist, but her throat was held in a grip as strong as the currents of the sea, and fluid fingers streamed into nose and mouth, and water rushed into her lungs …
She came to, choking, vomiting a fountain onto the planks of the jetty. She was lying by the river, soaking wet and shivering, and Michael was bending over her with an expression of relief on his face, having evidently applied artificial respiration. ‘What happened?’ he said, giving her no time to answer. ‘I found you here – in the river. I heard a cry, and then I found you – I thought you were dead – I thought you were dead …’ His concern was so evident a warmth flooded through her that almost stopped the shivers. ‘Thank God I came back.’
‘Why –’
‘I’d forgotten a load of essays. No point in going without them. Thank all the gods …’
He carried her up to the house, saw that she could undress herself, provided her with bathrobe, blanket and hot sweet tea. ‘I don’t know where Rianna’s gone,’ he said. ‘I thought she was around this afternoon. What were you doing here? What happened?’
Annie faltered. She couldn’t lie any more – he was in danger – but he would never believe the truth. She would have to compromise. ‘I c-came to see Rianna,’ she stammered. ‘I wanted to ask her – about that time in London. I was so sure it was her. I thought if I asked her – if I saw how she reacted – I would know for certain. She opened the door – her manner was very strange. Then everything went black. I don’t even remember being near the river. She lunged at me – and everything went black …’ She hated deceiving him, even by omission, but she could think of nothing else to say. As it was, he looked at her in absolute bewilderment.
‘Rianna – are you saying – Rianna attacked you? But – she can’t have done. Not Rianna. She doesn’t care about me, not like that. We’ve slept in separate beds for years. Even if she was jealous, she’d be dramatic, she’d make scenes, but she’s not violent. She couldn’t … What did she say?’
Annie answered without thinking: ‘How is your son?’
‘What?’
‘She said: How is your son? Michael … this wasn’t – this isn’t about you. I can’t say – I don’t know any more. But it’s not about you.’
Michael stared at her, shock and concern slowly evaporating from his face, to be replaced by the contemplative expression of a scholar scanning some inscrutable antique text. When he spoke, his voice had acquired a new edge. ‘So what is it about?’
She didn’t tell him, she couldn’t, not without evidence to convince him of the impossible. He didn’t press her. She had nearly died – she was obviously shaken – so he took her home, saw she was all right and insisted on informing her doctor. If there was a shade of withdrawal in his attitude, only the most sensitive antennae would have picked it up – but Annie’s were very sensitive. He knew she hadn’t told him everything, he couldn’t believe ill of Rianna: all that was clear enough. Her only consolation was that Nathan didn’t come in till later, so she didn’t have to go through any complicated explanations with him. She would tell Bartlemy … when an opportunity offered itself. That evening, she cooked supper, and Nathan went to the video shop to hire a film, returning with a dark sci fi thriller which did nothing to cheer her up. She slept badly and woke late, to find a note on the kitchen table from her son saying he had already breakfasted and gone out. Panic struck: he could be near the river, pursued by the watery succubus with eyes that opened on the abyss. She phoned Bartlemy, pouring out her fears, but he seemed to think there was no immediate threat to Nathan, and told her sternly in future she was not to go looking for trouble. ‘Good thing Michael was there. Nice timing, coming back like that.’
‘He knows I’m lying to him,’ Annie said awkwardly.
‘Never mind. Women always lie to men: it’s part of the fun.’
Annie knew he only meant to lighten her worries, but she didn’t think it was fun at all.
Bartlemy returned to the preparation of a midday meal which would have induced conviviality between members of Hamas and Mossad, had they ever been persuaded to share it – though he was slightly less confident about the claimants to the Grimthorn Grail. Alex Birnbaum arrived shortly before noon, followed by Rowena and Eric. They assumed Dieter Von Humboldt was travelling with his property.
It had been decided in the end that the cup would come down from London by car, since a secure van would draw too much attention to it. The car in question was Julian Epstein’s BMW, driven by Julian himself, with a guard in the front seat and another in the back, handcuffed to a strong-box containing the Grail. Nathan would have been gratified to learn that both were armed. It drew up outside Thornyhill around one, reversing up the grassy track where Bartlemy parked his Jowett Javelin. The guards were invited inside, but Julian insisted that one remained by the front door. In the drawing room, Bartlemy served a choice of sherry, whisky, gin and tonic.
‘Where’s the Graf?’ Mrs Thorn demanded without preamble, as the newcomers entered.
‘We thought he was with you,’ said Epstein.
‘Well, he isn’t. We thought he’d be with you.’
‘Perhaps he’s delayed,’ Bartlemy murmured, though he considered it unlikely.
Hoover was sniffing the guard unenthusiastically, fixing his concealed holster with a whiskery stare. ‘He any good as a watchdog?’ the man inquired.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Bartlemy. ‘I’ve never asked him.’
Hoover gave a short, somehow pointed bark, ‘almost as if he understood,’ the guard told his wife later. He sat down, clutching the strong-box, and man and dog eyed each other in mutual suspicion.
‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Rowena said briskly. For all her business-like manner, Bartlemy could feel the knuckles of her determination underneath.
‘Not till the owner gets here,’ Epstein responded. ‘Who is this man?’
‘Sorry. Remiss of me. Eric Rhindon – Julian Epstein. Eric works for me. Think he might be able to help us learn more about the cup. Bit of an authority on these things.’
Epstein glanced from Eric to Bartlemy. ‘Everyone you know seems to be an authority,’ he murmured.
‘Hardly surprising, in my line of work,’ Rowena breezed. ‘Come on, Julian. Von Humboldt’s fault if he’s late. No point in holding things up. The cup’s here: we may as well take a look at it. Then we can start talking.’
But Epstein was adamant. ‘I cannot open the box without Von Humboldt’s express permission.’
‘Surely he has already given it,’ Bartlemy said, pouring a soothing sherry. ‘He would hardly have organized this meeting and arranged for the cup to be brought here if he hadn’t intended it to be seen.’
Rowena opened her mouth to agree and shut it again when Bartlemy, moving across the room, paused to give her shoulder a meaningful squeeze. Julian declined the sherry – ‘I’m driving’ – and then accepted when his host suggested one of the guards should drive back. The guard drank fruit juice, manfully. Eric, in pursuit of new experiences, graduated from sherry to whisky. The alcoholic drinks of his world were clearly as limited as the food, though fortunately his capacity appeared to be up to the challenge.
By two o’clock, when Von Humboldt still hadn’t arrived, Bartlemy proposed starting lunch. Epstein tried Von Humboldt’s mobile without success, and reluctantly agreed. Everyone retired to the dining room, including the guard, who ate with the strong-box in his lap. It was a day of clammy heat and lowering cloud, when the air seemed to be squashed between earth and sky, and the old house offered a welcome haven of cool. Exquisite food and chilled wine did much to relax the ill-assorted party: the guard, mellowed by the atmosphere if not the wine, became indiscreet about former clients, Epstein teetered on the verge of admitting his dislike of the Graf and revived his old friendship with Rowena, and Eric struck up a new friendship with Birnbaum. Bartlemy took a picnic outside to the guard on the door, and kindly stayed to chat, admiring photos of a leather-clad boyfriend and three whippets before returning to the group indoors. It was only when silence fell that they were conscious of tension, not between each other, not any more, but beyond, creeping in from the woods, prickling at the walls of the house. In the sudden quiet Hoover padded to the window and put his forepaws on the sill, gazing out with ears cocked. ‘What is it, boy?’ Bartlemy asked.
The dog turned to him with an expression so intelligent that even Epstein was startled. ‘Perhaps we should return to the drawing room for coffee,’ Bartlemy said, and though it sounded like a suggestion, they knew it wasn’t. Everybody moved at once, with neither comment nor protest.
‘Where on earth is Von Humboldt?’ Epstein said, after trying his mobile again. ‘Could he have had an accident?’
‘Whatever’s happened,’ said Bartlemy, ‘it seems plain he isn’t coming. Now you have to decide what to do.’
All eyes were on the representative of Sotheby’s. ‘I should like to see it,’ Alex averred. ‘My mother said it was accursed, and now – there’s something in the air-I could almost believe her.’
‘It was our burden,’ said Rowena, ‘and our luck. Ill-luck to all others who lay hand on it.’
‘Is a great treasure, a sacred thing,’ Eric supplied. ‘If is here, is here in trust.’
Epstein nodded to the guard. ‘We’ll open it,’ he said.
The clouds were darkening as Nathan and Hazel approached the path, not piling up but hanging down, great swags of cumulus bellying low over the woods. It was still very hot, and the air around the house seemed to tingle, as if it had pins and needles. There was a soft growl of thunder far off. ‘They’re here,’ Nathan said as a familiar shiver of movement passed over the ground, cutting them off from Thornyhill. His gaze followed the ripple, and he fancied the gnomons were paying no attention to them; instead, they appeared to be circling the house, keeping their distance, restrained by some other power, by the proximity of iron or silphium. The children held out their numbers – ‘Our lucky numbers,’ Hazel said – and broke through, easily eluding the eye of the guard, then made their way round the back, avoiding the windows, and took shelter in the herb garden. Nathan reconnoitred the kitchen door.
‘Can we get in?’ Hazel whispered when he returned.
‘Not yet. Uncle Barty keeps going in and out, getting food or something. We’ll have to wait.’
‘I think it’s going to rain.’
It was an understatement. Two or three fat drops struck their heads, and then the clouds started to liquefy, streaming earthwards with all the blinding vigour of a monsoon. Thunder blotted out Nathan’s next remark, but he grabbed Hazel’s arm and tugged her into the lee of the wall, where the broad eaves offered a little cover. Lightning ripped across the sky, so that for an instant both garden and wood were spotlit, and they could see branches sagging under the onslaught of the rain, stems broken, leaves pummelled into the ground. More thunder rattled their ear-drums, and the lightning followed immediately – Hazel saw a flickering lance earth itself only yards away, blackening the grass with a hiss audible even beneath the roar of the storm. She wondered if the gnomons would endure it or scatter; under these conditions, the subtle indicators of their presence were impossible to make out. Already, the two children were wet to the skin. Hazel’s hair, always in her eyes, was plastered in rats’ tails across her face. ‘We’re doing no good here!’ she yelled in Nathan’s ear. ‘We should go.’ But they didn’t leave the protection of the eaves until the rain eased. Another lightning-flash must have struck an electric cable as the lights went out in the adjacent kitchen window. Although it was day the afternoon was suddenly very dark. There was a movement behind the bean-plants, not the gnomons, something bigger, more substantial. Even as they froze a small figure shot past them into the house.
Inside, four people were brooding over the cup when the storm started, their intent faces so focused on the object before them that they barely registered the deepening gloom or the first thunder-roll. For a second, in the poor light, each face seemed to wear the same expression of hunger, and the same fanatic gleam danced from eye to eye. Then Alex drew back, perhaps disappointed that the result of his search wasn’t gaudier or more glamorous. Epstein recovered his professional detachment, and the illusion was broken. Only Rowena and Eric remained poring over the cup. ‘Is the one,’ Eric said. ‘The treasure of treasures.’ His normally resonant voice was hushed; Rowena thought she saw tears on his cheek.
Bartlemy, anticipating the side-effects of the storm, had gone to fetch candles. The guard relaxed on a chair, still shackled to the empty box; his colleague had retreated inside the front door, with Hoover crouching watchfully at his side.
‘What is it made of?’ Rowena asked the exile.
‘Stone. Is greenstone of Eos, much used in old days. Not common now. Jewels are aeson, have great value, but not important. Only Sangreal important.’
‘He knows about it?’ muttered Epstein, sotto voce.
‘Is the Grail valuable, where you come from?’ Rowena persisted.
Eric managed a gesture at once vague and emphatic. ‘Has – no value. Too sacred.’
‘Priceless,’ said Rowena. ‘I see.’
And then the lights went out. Something rushed into the room with the violence of a small tornado, bringing with it an indescribable smell, a reek not quite animal, not quite human. Rowena grabbed for the cup; Eric hesitated, unwilling to relinquish it; Epstein and Birnbaum joined the fray. The guard tried to lunge, forgetting his handcuff, and smashed his elbow on the box. Hands scrabbled on the prize, though no one was sure, in the dimness, which belonged to whom. ‘Eve got it! – You’ve got it? – Who’s got it? – What’s that?’ The cup slipped through too many fingers, dropped – but never hit the ground. Feet fled towards the kitchen. Something no one had seen clearly was gone as fast as it came. Bartlemy returned with a candelabra; Hoover shot out of the hall. The sudden light showed a tangle of hands, snatching at nothing. Nothing.
Eric swore in his own language, Epstein sat down too quickly, almost missing the chair, Alex said: ‘My God.’ Rowena produced a string of expletives they had never heard her use before. ‘Follow,’ Bartlemy said. Hoover bounded from the room.
Outside, Nathan and Hazel saw the thief emerge clasping the trophy to his chest. They took one look at each other and set off in pursuit, regardless of the rain. But they skidded on wet leaves and could barely see, whereas their quarry moved quickly, apparently untroubled by the weather. In moments he was out of what little sight they had. Then Hoover overtook them, loping ahead, picking up the rank smell which even the storm could not eradicate. Soon he too was lost to view, but the erratic sound of barking kept them on the trail. The rain slackened, and they began to run faster. Hazel stumbled several times; her hands were muddied where she had flung them out to break her fall. Nathan was more surefooted, but his T-shirt was smeared green from hindering branches and his jeans were slimed to the knee.
Their pace accelerated – too late they realized why, as the slope grew steeper and they both slid some distance, Hazel landing up to her waist in brambles and leaf-mould. As she scrambled to her feet, her language almost rivalled Rowena’s. ‘Come on,’ Nathan said. ‘We can’t stop now.’ She followed on his heels, or as near his heels as she could manage, dogged more than eager; her enthusiasm for adventure had been washed away in the mud and the rain. But Nathan, more careful now, was moving as rapidly as he dared. Hoover’s hindquarters appeared some way ahead, tail bedraggled but still waving. Suddenly, he halted, head down. There was no sign of their quarry. But even before he got there, Nathan knew where the thief had gone. He dropped to the ground and jumped down through the hole into the chapel.
The dwarf was at the far end, thrusting the Grail into the alcove where Nathan had seen it in the vision. He began to chant – no, to gabble – words in a strange tongue, the tongue Bartlemy had used to summon spirits to the circle. It might even have been the same one the Grandir had used to conjure images from the magical globes. The dwarf’s voice was harsh and cracked, as if long unused. Nathan ran forward, trying to reach the cup, but the dwarf grabbed him and they fell to the ground, half wrestling, half punching, neither gaining any advantage. Behind him he heard Hazel call out; Hoover was growling his rare, deep growl, but he didn’t come down. The green nimbus surrounded the cup; whispers came from every corner of the ruin. Somehow Nathan broke free, tried to stand – his opponent head-butted him in the chest, hurling him backwards, driving the breath from his lungs. The whispering died; when Nathan looked again, the alcove was empty. The cup had gone.
The dwarf emitted a sound which might have been a cackle, leapt for the hole with demonic agility, and disappeared. Nathan caught Hazel’s startled cry, Hoover’s angry howl. He clambered out more slowly, slithering on the wet earth, while Hazel struggled to get a grip on his arms. Hoover waited for them, wagging encouragement. ‘Where’s the Grail?’ Hazel demanded when he finally emerged. ‘He didn’t have it. I thought you –’
‘He sent it back,’ Nathan said. The sky was clearing, and in the growing light the three of them looked sodden, dirty, and defeated. ‘He sent it back to the other world. It isn’t safe there, I know it isn’t. It’s meant to be here, till they need it. I don’t know if it’s good or evil, but we were supposed to look after it, and we failed.’
‘How do you know?’ Hazel asked.
‘I’m not sure. I just – know.’
They didn’t say any more. Sombrely they climbed back up the hill, Hoover in the lead. The rain had stopped altogether and the wood began to steam, pale strands of vapour rising from the leaf-mould and drifting upwards. The trees faded to branching shapes of grey, their foliage all but drained of green. Mist-ghosts floated a little way above the ground, or coiled around trunk and bole. Nathan watched for any hint of the gnomons: a disturbance in the mist, a shudder of twig and leaf; but the wood was still, almost unnaturally so. They hadn’t left the valley, and there were no birds. High above he glimpsed the spectre of the sun, its white face shining wanly through the fog.
Hoover stopped just short of the crest of the hill, the fur bristling on his nape. He padded a few yards to the right, investigating something humped on the ground, colourless in the mist. Then he raised his head, looking at Nathan. The boy went over to him; Hazel came after, inexplicably reluctant. She couldn’t see what they were staring at until she drew nearer, then suddenly the veil thinned, and the hump acquired form and meaning. The lack of colour was a suit, a grey suit, incongruous in those surroundings. The back was uppermost, the face – fortunately – half buried in leaf-litter, the arms outstretched as if to prevent a fall. The fingers dug into the soil as if he had clawed at the ground in some final spasm. Nathan had squatted down beside him; he turned a curiously blank face up to hers. ‘I think he’s dead,’ he said, and his voice, too, was blank, wiped of all emotion. ‘He’s very cold.’
Hazel swallowed, wanting not to look, unable to tear her eyes away. The man’s hair was sleeked against his head, but in one place it seemed to be matted with dark stuff which might be dried blood. He was facing downhill. ‘Who is he?’ she said.
‘Don’t know. But I think we should get the police.’
‘Again,’ Hazel said.