Hazel and Lily were taken to the police station in Crowford for a formal interview. Pobjoy wanted answers, and he judged the official surroundings might prove sufficiently daunting to inspire them. Deep down inside, he had a nagging feeling he could be on a losing streak, but the circumstantial evidence was damning, and his hunches had got him exactly nowhere. He had believed the children’s story at first, but bitter experience had taught him to distrust belief. There had been the insurance fraudster who claimed he was in France when his business premises burned down, the stepfather who wept crocodile tears for a murdered teenager, the paedophile teacher who declared his only interest was in education. True, he hadn’t actually believed any of them, but he might have done, if he had been more credulous, if they had been well-behaved thirteen-year-olds who had managed to sneak under the barbed-wire fence of his instincts. You thought you had seen it all, he reflected, and then something worse came along. Still, their motives had been good …
‘You wanted to help Mrs Thorn, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘That’s why you looked for the injunction.’
Hazel made a tiny sound which might have been: ‘Mm.’
‘And then you were afraid it wouldn’t do the trick. D’you have a friend who knows about the law?’
Hazel thought of George’s legal ambitions, but decided that didn’t qualify. She said, a little louder: ‘No.’
‘You heard they were bringing the cup to Thornyhill, so you and Nathan decided to spy on the meeting. You must have been pretty excited about it.’
It wasn’t a question, and Hazel saw no need to answer it. She shut her mouth very tightly, trying not to be afraid, wishing Nathan were here. He would’ve known what to say.
‘Were you excited?’
She shrugged.
‘But you were interested enough to go to Thornyhill, and hide outside the house. Were you hoping to sneak in when no one was looking, and see what was going on?’
Another shrug. But she was tugging at her hair, pulling it over her face, always a sign of nerves.
‘They were just naturally curious,’ Lily said. ‘They’d heard a lot about the cup. It was just an adventure to them.’
‘I’m sure it was,’ said Pobjoy. ‘You must have been disappointed when you didn’t find the injunction. I expect you and Nathan talked about how wonderful it would be if you could get the cup, and give it back to Mrs Thorn. Didn’t you, Hazel? Didn’t you.’
‘No.’
‘So what did you talk about then? Tell me.’
Other worlds, Hazel thought. Dreampower. She didn’t answer.
‘What – did – you – talk – about?’ Pobjoy repeated.
‘Stuff. Music. School. You know.’
‘But not the cup of the Thorns?’
‘Not much.’
‘Not much.’ It was too small an admission to be of value, but he did his best to build on it. ‘Not much, but enough. You thought of the Graf Von Humboldt and the people from Sotheby’s as the bad guys, didn’t you? You thought the cup was rightfully the property of Mrs Thorn. You waited in the storm, hoping for an opportunity, and then the lights went out. Do you recognize this?’ He held up a rubbery green thing with rats’ tail hair hanging down on either side.
‘It’s my witch-mask,’ Hazel said, taken by surprise. ‘I had it for Halloween, two years ago. What about it?’
‘You can’t take that,’ Lily said. ‘You couldn’t – you didn’t have a search warrant. I know you have to have a search warrant.’
‘It was in the dustbin,’ Pobjoy said. ‘We don’t need a warrant for that. At a guess, you were the one who threw it out, just before we got there.’
Lily turned from the inspector to her daughter in evident panic, looking both guilty and confused. Annie had told her about the inspector’s insinuations, and she had found the mask in Hazel’s room before she returned from school and determined to dispose of it. ‘I want a lawyer,’ she said.
‘If you insist. It will mean keeping you both here for some time while we obtain one.’
‘What about the mask?’ Hazel hadn’t been primed. ‘Why is it important?’
‘Witnesses to the theft described someone short, almost a dwarf, with lots of hair –’ he glanced at Hazel’s untidy mop ‘– the face unclear. How tall are you, Hazel?’
As the sense of what he said sank in, she went white, then red. White with shock, red with anger. ‘There was a dwarf,’ she said. ‘He was nearly a foot shorter than me. We saw him – we chased him. I haven’t bothered with that stupid mask in ages. Ask the other people – ask Mr Goodman, Mrs Thorn. It was a dwarf.’
‘Mr Goodman wasn’t in the room at the time of the theft,’ Pobjoy said. ‘Of the others, both Alex Birnbaum and Julian Epstein concede that the thief could have been a child.’ The concessions had been reluctant, but he didn’t mention that.
‘I’m nearly five foot,’ Hazel confessed (it was clearly a sore point). ‘It’s not that tall, but it’s too tall for a dwarf. He was really short, I told you –’
‘You tell lies sometimes, don’t you? You sent us an anonymous letter about your great-grandmother’s death. That was a lie, wasn’t it?’ He didn’t really think so, he just wanted to keep her off balance, talking too much, admitting things. ‘Mrs Carlow died naturally; you just wanted to make trouble. For your father, perhaps? You thought if he went to prison he wouldn’t hurt your mother any more. Was that it?’
‘No – it wasn’t that – it wasn’t him –’
‘And now you’re lying about this. I’m sure it was all in a good cause – right? You weren’t stealing the cup, you were saving it. Planning to restore it to its rightful owner.’
‘No –’
‘Stop!’ Lily cried. ‘Stop now. I want a lawyer. I don’t care how long it takes. You can’t bully her any more. You’re not allowed to talk to her until the lawyer comes. Isn’t that right?’ She sounded both resolute and uncertain.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Hazel persisted. ‘I didn’t take the cup. Nathan will tell you …’
‘I expect it was Nathan’s idea,’ Pobjoy suggested, giving them both an out. ‘He pushed you into it, didn’t he?’
Hazel gave him a look so scornful he was jolted. ‘Nathan? Nathan would never do anything wrong. He’s not like that. And he doesn’t push people into things. You’re stupid. Nathan’s … different. He would never steal in a million years.’
And the worst of it is, Pobjoy thought, beating a temporary retreat, I believe her.
Nathan had been searching for Woody again, still without success. It was nearly six when he got home and Annie looked both anxious and impatient. ‘Hazel’s been arrested,’ she said.
‘What?’
Annie launched into a disjointed explanation. ‘They may not have actually arrested her but I saw them drive off in a police car with her and Lily. They want to talk to you too. They think you took the Grail. If you have any idea where it is –’
‘Do you think I took it?’ he demanded, picking up on the implication immediately.
‘Of course not. But if we could get it back I’m sure they’d drop the whole thing.’
‘What about the murder?’
‘They’ve convinced themselves it was an accident,’ Annie explained. ‘Never mind about the murder. It’s the cup … I ought to call the inspector. He said he wanted to see you at once.’
‘No. Please, Mum. I can get the cup if you just give me time. I’m almost certain I know where it is. The dwarf sent it back into the other world …’
‘Worlds tend to be big places,’ Annie pointed out. ‘Where would you look?’
‘It was kept in a cave before it was here, or so they said. I’m sure it’s back there. It’s the logical place. If I could get it – return it to Sotheby’s – they’d let Hazel go, wouldn’t they? There wouldn’t be a crime any more.’
‘I think that would depend on how Sotheby’s and the Graf’s family felt about it,’ Annie said doubtfully. ‘And the police, of course. Oh dear. If you bring it back, they’ll definitely think you took it.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Nathan said. ‘Let them think.’
He had started upstairs as he spoke. Annie called after him: ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Sleep!’ came the answer.
He had never been able to sleep – or dream – to order but now he must, he must. He thought of Hazel in a grey-walled room, shrinking into a chair while faceless policemen hurled accusations at her. It wasn’t a relaxing image. That was no good: he must find the place in his mind, the weak spot, the chink through which his awareness escaped when it moved from Here to There. The falling darkness spotted with stars and whirling with planets. He reached not out but inwards, all the way in, deep into himself. There seemed to be great spaces in his head, as if its inside was far bigger than its outside, and shadows lay darkly over the crevasses of the subconscious, and somewhere up above there was a white light shining into him, its rays streaming down like a visitation from God. And then he found what he was looking for, on the far left – he didn’t know if he could see it or feel it, but it was there behind his eye, a patch of something that didn’t belong. He thought it was bluish, though it was hard to be sure, and filled with snow-flecks which winked in and out of existence like interference on a TV screen. He pulled with his mind, drawing all his being inwards, pouring himself into that blob of otherness. Instantly – or so it seemed – he dreamed.
There may have been sleep: he felt as if he emerged not from a waking state but from brief oblivion. He spun down the tunnel, trying to decide if the planets and galaxies were the same or different ones. He thought it might be a wormhole, if a wormhole could connect not just different points in space but spaces in different worlds. A planet hove past him that was red with boiling gases; storms the size of continents slipped beneath his feet – if his consciousness had feet. Giant rings rushed towards him – then there was something in front of him like a wall, a cold dead surface pitted with craters, like a bad case of global acne. But it flicked away, and everything speeded up. Sound was a dim throbbing roar, like a vast wind far off, but he had a strange feeling that if you could slow it down, there might be music in it. Then came the dazzle of light, so his eyes closed, and a kind of silent, whole-body thud as he collided with atmosphere, destination and his own being.
He opened his eyes and looked around. He felt more solid than he had ever done – he sensed the difference at once – as if his own world was the dream, and this was real. He wouldn’t be able to shift from place to place any more: he was stuck. Stuck in himself, bounded by reality. He should have been terrified, but he was too busy wondering where he was.
He seemed to be in a complex of inter-connecting chambers, all circular. He was sitting on a curving sofa in the largest one, with a round rug on the floor, and curious pieces of furniture scattered about, all round, or curved, or blob-shaped. There were no external windows: the light, as always on Eos, appeared to come out of the walls, and down from the ceiling, though there were individual lamps in oval recesses which shone with hues of pink, apricot and turquoise. Everything else took colour from them. One of the adjacent chambers was fitted with what looked like a bed; another, closed off with a screen of clouded glass, emitted watery sounds, bubbling, and gurgling, and faint splashes. It’s like a bedroom suite, Nathan deduced, and someone’s in the bath. For a moment he thought of hiding – but he couldn’t hide now, not any more. He was here, and he was real, and he needed help.
He wasn’t really surprised when the glass screen slid back and Halmé emerged from the bathroom.
She wore a loose robe which hung open in a curious echo of Kwanji’s prison garb, and her body was all glowing golden smoothness, with swells and hollows, and shapes of bone gentled under the mantling of flesh and skin. He thought she resembled an art deco statue he had seen once in Rowena’s shop, unnaturally tall and slender, elongated into an impossible perfection. He gaped and stared as you stare at beauty, not womanhood, remembering too late to be embarrassed.
‘Sorry, I –’
‘Who –?’ Halmé drew her robe around her, but it seemed to be a purely automatic gesture. She too was staring. Her eyes were very dark and yet seemed to be shot with hidden colours. ‘Who are you? How did you get in here?’
‘My name’s Nathan.’
‘You’re very small. What race are you – what planet? Are you a refugee?’ She looked anxious or concerned and he thought: Refugees carry contamination.
He said: ‘I’m human. From Earth. It’s not here: it’s in another universe.’ She was silent, still staring, and he went on: ‘I’m small because I’m thirteen. I’m still growing. Actually, I’m not that small in my world – people are shorter there – but I’ll get taller. I’m really tall for thirteen.’
Her face altered – softened. Shock drained away. ‘You’re a child,’ she said. ‘Is that right? You’re saying – you’re a child?’
He remembered what Eric had said. No children here for hundreds of years. And … hadn’t he said Halmé had tried to conceive, before the magic stopped her womb, tried and failed?
He said: ‘Yes.’
Emotion seemed to be breaking over her in waves; he saw the ripples traversing her expression. She came closer, reached out, touched him, touched his cheek. ‘You might be my son,’ she said. ‘You are not so very alien. Your face is – wrong. The wrong shape. Too short, too broad, too low here –’ she brushed an eyebrow ‘– but I think you are beautiful.’ He noticed that she believed him without questioning, without doubt.
He said awkwardly: ‘I think you are beautiful too.’
‘Do you? All my life people have told me I am beautiful. My beauty has a life of its own, a life of fame and legend which has nothing to do with me. But you come from another world, where people look different – a world of children – yet you say I am beautiful. I think – that is the first time it has ever meant anything.’ She smiled, and he realized he had never seen her smile till now. ‘My name is Halmé.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you before. To begin with, when I got here I was invisible; then – like a ghost – sort of transparent. This is the most real I’ve ever been in your world.’
‘I’ve felt you,’ she said. ‘I’ve felt you watching. When we went to the laboratory, you followed. That was months ago. How long have you been here?’
‘I come and go. It’s dreams – I dream myself here. That’s how I got in. And time must be different in my world. It wasn’t months ago, when I followed you to that laboratory.’
‘How do you speak our language?’
‘I don’t know. I just do.’ In the dream, it came easily, fluently, as if it was native to him.
‘Why did you come to me?’ Halmé asked.
‘I found myself here. I don’t choose – I can’t control it. I go – wherever I end up. I don’t think it’s random, but I don’t know how it happens. I wanted to get here, and I found the place in my mind where I go when I dream – the way through. But I’ve no idea why I came out in your rooms. Honestly.’ He added: ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt your bath.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’d finished. Anyway, I’m glad. I’m glad you came here. If there is a pattern, then it was meant. My brother believes in patterns. He says all worlds are interwoven, part of a Great Pattern, and if you have the power you can change it, bend it around you.’
‘Of course – you saw him too. He will want to meet you …’ She stopped. The light dimmed in her eyes.
‘I came to you,’ Nathan said.
‘He would be angry, if he knew I had hidden something like this from him. Something like you.’
‘Does he – does he get violent, when he’s angry?’
‘No.’ She looked faintly surprised at the suggestion. ‘He’s never violent. He wouldn’t harm me in any way. But his anger is – terrible. I feel it inside me, clouding me, darkening everything … He sets me at a distance, isolates me. I can’t bear that. I need him to love me.’ There was something oddly childish in that plea, even to Nathan’s ear. He decided it would be a mistake to tell her that the Grandir already knew of him, spied on him, through a star that wasn’t a star. He didn’t know if the Grandir was a good man, but he was ruthless, and powerful – too powerful for Nathan – and to ask his help would mean him taking over. Nathan knew this was a task for him. Besides, the Grandir had an unknown purpose, a Plan – perhaps he was bending the Great Pattern of all the worlds around himself even now. Nathan, though he was only the tiniest particle in that Pattern, had no intention of being bent.
‘You don’t have to tell him about me,’ he suggested tentatively, ‘if you don’t want to.’
‘He’d find out,’ Halmé said. ‘He reads minds.’
‘Not yours,’ Nathan said, suddenly positive, remembering how the Grandir had refrained from touching her at the gnomons’ cage, though he told her to draw back. ‘Not if he wasn’t suspicious. He wouldn’t intrude. You know he wouldn’t.’
‘Ye-es,’ she said slowly. ‘That is true. But …’
‘I need your help. Please. There’s something I have to do here, and you can help me – only you. I know that’s why I found myself here. Like you said, it was meant.’
She sat down on the curve of the sofa, and motioned to him to sit beside her. She looked almost resolute, almost hesitant, like someone trying against their nature to be brave. ‘Tell me everything,’ she said.
He didn’t, of course. But he told her about the Sangreal being in his world, and how it was there for safekeeping, because neo-salvationists and suchlike might steal it if it was here, and do the Great Spell, and get it wrong. (‘A Great Spell,’ she said. ‘Oh yes. A Great Spell to change the Great Pattern. I know.’) He explained how a thief in his world had taken it, and sent it back, and his friend was wrongly arrested by the authorities, and he had to restore the Grail to save her, as well as for the sake of the Grail itself. He kept it simple, and hoped it was true. He felt it was true, with some deep unexplained vein of instinct. Kwanji Ley was a good person, he was sure, but perhaps she had been misguided, or the organization had used her. Anyway, he didn’t believe the spell could be botched together, or performed by people who didn’t know what it really was. That would be like some madman trying to build an atom bomb in his own garage. He held on to that thought, and watched Halmé’s face, which managed somehow to be expressive and at the same time unreadable, maybe because he didn’t know what it was supposed to express. Possibly it was an effect of that exquisite disproportion, the alien quality of her features. He was dimly aware that she was struggling to overcome some flaw in her own nature, weakness or inertia, fighting to become someone she had never been.
At last she said: ‘I can help you, I know I can. I will. But it is a big task for a small person. Do children in your world usually perform such tasks?’
Nathan thought of all the books he had ever read, of the Pevensies, Colin and Susan, Harry Potter, Lyra Belacqua and a hundred others. ‘All the time,’ he said.
Annie spent an uneasy, restless evening. Thoughts of Michael and the kiss frequently intruded, usually at the most inappropriate moments, leaving her confused and vaguely guilty because she had more important things to worry about. She telephoned Bartlemy, who was kind and unruffled and calmed her fears a little. ‘The evidence against the children is purely circumstantial, and without a confession or further proof it would be difficult for the police to proceed. Besides, the eyewitness statements refer categorically to a dwarf, and both children are too tall. If the cup can be returned, I think they’d drop the case. Trust Nathan. He has courage and determination – and he’s very intelligent, which always helps. Where is he?’
‘In bed,’ Annie said baldly.
‘I see.’
She looked in on him around eight, to find him sleeping on his side, fully clothed even to his shoes. She thought of taking them off, then remembered that whatever he was wearing he would wear in his dreams, and presumably he didn’t want to be prowling around the other world with bare feet. So she contented herself with putting a blanket over him, closing the curtains, and leaving him to wherever sleep would take him. She didn’t call the police, and they didn’t call her, but she was sure Pobjoy would be on the line in the morning. Around nine thirty, Lily Bagot phoned to tell her they had finally been allowed to return home. Hazel hadn’t been charged, and the lawyer seemed to be saying the same thing as Bartlemy, but rather more aggressively. However, Lily sounded strained to exhaustion, alternately tearful and furious, and Annie offered to go over there. Lily said no thanks, it was lovely of her, but Hazel wanted a word. And then Hazel’s voice took over, asking nervously if Nathan was there.
‘He’s here,’ Annie said, ‘but he can’t come to the phone right now. He’s – he’s gone to get the Grail back.’
There was a short pause. ‘Gone where?’ Hazel demanded.
‘The other world. He’s … sleeping. Don’t be afraid. He won’t fail you.’
‘Good,’ Hazel said, and rang off.
Annie thought of calling Michael, but she didn’t know what to say and what to leave out, and suddenly she was very tired. She went to bed without disturbing Nathan, but for all her weariness sleep was a long time coming, and her thoughts turned to Rianna, for a little variety in her worries. She wondered where the real Rianna was, in Georgia or under some strange enchantment, and she slipped into a dream where Rianna lay on a bed in a ruined castle, locked in a sorcerous sleep for time uncounted, while roses grew over her couch, enclosing her in a cage of thorns.
Nathan was flying through the air on the back of his own xaurian, while the warm desert night poured over him. He was wearing protective clothing which Halmé had procured for him; a scanner in her chambers had read his measurements and the garments had appeared to order in the space of about an hour. They were seamless, made of some fabric that felt like metal but moved like silk, blue with a grey sheen or grey with a blue sheen. There was also a pair of goggles whose tint varied according to the light like Polaroid lenses. ‘You will need a guide,’ Halmé said. ‘Someone I can trust’ – and somehow he wasn’t surprised when the man she summoned was Raymor, though he knew of no previous connection between them. ‘He was my bodyguard,’ she explained, ‘when I was very young and my father thought I had need of guarding. My father was rigid in his ideas, but Ray was kind. Sometimes we laughed together.’ She concluded: ‘He would die for me,’ not in wonder, nor vanity, but as a minor detail, a mere commonplace. Raymor remembered Nathan as the ghost who had sat behind him once before, and seemed in some awe of him. His mission, Halmé declared, was totally secret. ‘Since it is important the Grandir has authorized me to take charge,’ she said. Even though his face was hidden, Nathan could sense Raymor’s doubt. So did Halmé. ‘He trusts me as he trusts no other,’ she said, and Raymor appeared to relax a little.
Then they were soaring over the city, cutting up the slower skimmers, skirting the curving flanks of giant buildings, diving under arches and lifting over crested roofs. The teeming lights – from screened window and high door, from eyelamp and hanging globe – looped and dipped and streamed behind them, until at last the city fell away, and the remaining traffic swerved north or west, and they headed south-east into a night with no lights at all.
Despite his worries Nathan couldn’t help enjoying himself. He had felt insecure at first, straddling the reptile’s narrow back, knowing that his solidity was no longer borderline and if he came off there was nothing to hit but the ground. Also he had little confidence in his ability to steer the xaurian (he had once ridden a horse, which ignored everything he did with the reins). But the beast appeared content to follow its stablemate, the pommel of the saddle was high enough to hold on to, and he soon grew accustomed to the dipping and wheeling of the flight. Below he thought he could see the regular outlines of fields, and long tubular buildings like greenhouses, gleaming in the double moonrise (the third moon of Eos always lagged behind). He asked Raymor about them, using the communicator inside his hood. ‘We grow most vegetables under the filter-screens,’ Raymor answered. ‘Very few crops are hardy enough now to survive the sun. The fields are mostly left to the weeds and spittlegrass. What planet are you from, where they still grow crops outside?’
‘You wouldn’t know it,’ Nathan said.
The signs of cultivation ceased, and there was only the desert, with the dunes rolling like great waves, pathless and shapeless, changeful as the sea. They flew for what seemed like hours, barely speaking. The night drew on and the moons followed their diverse paths across the sky. The third moon rose over the horizon, late and last, its face bisected with an arc of darkness. It was redder than the other two, blood-bright, and its light showed the landscape hardening into rock, weather-rounded ridges thrusting upwards through the ocean of sand. Ancient watercourses made deep creases in the slopes, snaring the shadows. Stars clustered thickly at the zenith of the sky, but their pale glimmer did not touch the earth: this belonged to the third moon alone. ‘It is called Astrond,’ said Raymor, ‘the Red Moon of Madness. Long ago, when pollution first began to change its colour, people said it was unlucky to be out under such a moon.’
‘Do you believe that?’ Nathan asked.
‘Superstition is not encouraged here.’
‘But you use magic,’ Nathan objected, thinking the two things went hand in hand.
‘We use power. Magic of the kind you mean, wild magic, out of control – that was over in the remote past. We harnessed it and tamed it.’
‘Then what is the contamination?’
Raymor didn’t answer for some time. The xaurian’s wings tilted, making a slight change of direction, and a single beat swept them southwards. ‘Men made that,’ he said eventually. ‘They misused the power, warping it to evil. I suppose you could say that what followed was the magic fighting back. That would be one way of looking at it. We thought we could rule the universe, mould it in our own image. We might have succeeded if it hadn’t been for war, and the desire to kill.’
‘Must there always be war?’ Nathan said. ‘Surely, if you’re civilized enough, you can live without it.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Raymor. ‘That was a level of civilization we never attained.’
They flew on. A faint greyness above the eastern horizon showed a ragged line of mountains. Raymor had estimated they would reach the cave around dawn, and Nathan tried to convince himself the mountain range looked familiar. The recollection of the monster had taken over his thoughts, but he hoped it might be easier to pass it in the dark. ‘Are we nearly there?’
‘Maybe half an hour.’
‘How will we dodge the lizard thing? Will it be asleep?’
‘The Grokkul hears and feels even in its sleep.’ Raymor’s tone was even.
‘Will it see us, if we try to slip past?’ Nathan asked.
‘It sees heat. To the Grokkul, your body glows in the dark. Or in the light. I will distract it. You must go in the cave alone.’
‘That sounds awfully dangerous for you,’ Nathan said unhappily. He knew, even if Raymor didn’t, that the entrance would be too narrow for an adult male.
‘It’s more dangerous for you,’ Raymor responded. ‘The Grokkul’s main object is to guard the cave.’
There was silence for a while. Nathan struggled to feel brave, conscious that he was failing. Hazel in a police cell seemed impossibly far away, and the monster was very near. At last he said: ‘Thank you. I mean, thank you for helping me, for risking your life. Whatever happens. And good luck.’
‘May the luck be yours,’ said Raymor, and somehow Nathan knew it was a traditional rejoinder, but it made him even more uncomfortable.
The light was growing now, reaching out across the sky, paling the desert to grey. Astrond, caught above the western horizon, still showed dimly red. And now far ahead Nathan thought he could discern the cliff-face which hid the cave, and the irregular slope with its double row of triangular boulders. His internal organs gave an unwelcome jolt; he wished they weren’t approaching so fast, but the light was faster. The sun inched above the mountains, washing the sandscape with colour and shadow. The slope was nearly under them now. Nathan tried to distinguish the outline of the monster, the broad flat head and splayed feet, but though there were humps which he guessed might be the eyes its camouflage was so perfect he could almost fool himself it wasn’t there. He could see no sign of the wild xaurians. Raymor called: ‘Hold back!’ and swooped low towards the rocks.
Nathan tugged on the reins, probably too hard, and his xaurian swerved awkwardly, circling away to the left. As he swung round he saw Raymor make a low pass, close to the ground, double back, and return lower still. ‘Next time,’ he said over the communicator, ‘you come from the other side. Fly swift and low, jump off, and run for the cave. Don’t worry about your mount: it can take care of itself. Ready?’
No, Nathan thought. Raymor quickened his xaurian and plummeted. Nathan hesitated – nudged his steed just too late – saw the ground moving, rising, sand streaming from the forty-foot muzzle – saw the monster give itself a shake like an earth tremor, so the dust whirled into clouds. Raymor’s mount would surely be blinded, though the extra lid might protect its eyes from hurt. Nathan looped back, uncertain what to do, and a swish of the giant tail took him unawares, catching his xaurian a glancing blow. They were knocked sideways – Nathan almost fell, clutching at the saddle, hanging on somehow. The xaurian, more intelligent than its rider, drove its wings down, gaining height, clearing the flying sand and sweeping tail. Nathan pulled himself upright and looked apprehensively for Raymor.
His guide had managed to sheer off and was hovering just out of range. The blue tongue shot out, but it wasn’t long enough. The great head swayed to and fro, eying first Raymor, then Nathan, waiting for its prey to come within reach. Somehow, it knew better than to move away from the cave mouth. ‘Sorry,’ Nathan said. ‘I was too slow. Scared …’ Oddly, his close shave had wiped out some of his fear; he felt sharper now, ready to act.
‘It’s natural,’ said Raymor. ‘I too …’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Try again. This time, I’ll give you the word. Don’t move till I say – then move fast.’
Nathan said: ‘Na’ ka,’ the Eosian equivalent of okay. He watched Raymor retreating, putting more height and distance between him and the Grokkul. The monster followed him with its right eye, keeping the left – the one injured in an earlier encounter – on Nathan; then, satisfied Ray was leaving, it swung round to seek the other meal, jaws parting to reveal the three-tiered teeth and coiled-spring tongue. It took all Nathan’s courage not to kick the xaurian into flight, but he waited, hoping he was far enough away, determined not to mess up again. Far beyond the Grokkul, Raymor turned his mount, poised – and plunged.
The dive was so swift there was a tearing noise as the wings sliced through the air. With a speed unnatural to its size, the monster’s head jerked back. ‘Now!’ cried Raymor, but Nathan !had already moved. He aimed straight for the slot of the cave mouth – the ground zoomed towards him – he was aware of horrible things happening above, of pinions thrashing helplessly, of the crunch of jaw meeting jaw. But he daren’t look – he was rolling out of the saddle, tumbling over and over on the sand – scrambling to his feet and running, running for the cave. Behind him, there was a thud that loosened stone-chips from the cliff, and a scream. Not human. He flung himself into the dark, wriggled between the rock walls, staggered a couple of yards – then checked, and turned back.
He knew what he would see. Peering out of the cave, the broad head was too close for comfort, part of a wing and a tail, still twitching, protruding from the jaws. Raymor had vanished. The monster was masticating an obstinate morsel: suddenly it made a deep coughing noise, spitting out a hunk of metallized cloth and a spray of blood. A few droplets penetrated the cave entrance, spattering Nathan’s coverall. He didn’t move. He felt sick with disgust and horror, but the guilt was worse. Raymor had died for him. The thought flickered through his mind that Halmé had expected it, had still given the order, but it didn’t make any difference. His own xaurian was crushed under a huge foot, stabbed through the body with a claw a yard long. One limb jerked abruptly and then was still. The Grokkul chewed, swallowed, and then lowered its head, swinging it this way and that, attempting to see into the cave. Nathan wished he had a weapon, preferably something nuclear, but he was unarmed. ‘I’ll get you one day,’ he muttered, knowing it was futile. He retreated back into the dark, raised his goggles, pulled the torch Halmé had provided from an inner pocket and switched it on.
It wasn’t like an ordinary torch since instead of producing a single beam it had a tiny sphere at one end which gave an all-round light, like a candle only far brighter. He held it up in front of him, seeing the shadows move across the ribbed walls and veins of colour patterning the rock like watermarks. After a few turns the passage opened out into the main chamber: the torch-glow showed him three recesses in the far wall, crude but plainly man-made, each shielded by a metal grille. They were all empty. But there was something on the ground beside them, leaning against the rock-face. Someone. He recognized her only because there was no one else she could be.
What skin remained to her was red and split: blood leaked from the cracks. The burning had gone beyond mere blisters; much of her body seemed to be covered with pus, some of it drying into scabs. He drew closer to her, and saw her eyes were open and aware. He couldn’t see her properly, and realized he was crying. He groped inside the front of his suit for the water-bottle which was stored there, hearing himself murmuring he knew not what. ‘Oh God, dear God … so sorry … I tried to come back, I tried to come straight away, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to leave you. I told you, I can’t control it, I just seem to go where I’m sent – Here, drink this.’ He dribbled some of the water between what was left of her lips. It was difficult while holding the torch, and he wondered if she could hold it for him, but her hands were clasped around something else, so he put it on the ground. He managed to give her some more water, and presently he saw her throat flex and swallow. ‘You need medical help,’ he said, stating the obvious, feeling foolish and ineffectual. ‘I have to get you out of here.’ But his xaurian was dead, and the Grokkul was waiting, and the killer sun blazed down on the shelterless desert. He could adjust his communicator to reach Halmé, but she had warned him any long distance call would inevitably be overheard – and Kwanji Ley was an escaped prisoner. Still, surely prison was better than death …
‘Too late.’ Kwanji’s voice had shrunk to a croaking whisper. ‘No treatment … for this.’ She swallowed again, a brief pain convulsing her face. ‘I knew the risk. To die here, like this, is better … than to live in the Pit.’
‘You must be in agony,’ he said helplessly.
‘Not now. Nerves mostly … dead. The rest of me will catch up soon.’ He gave her more water, hoping it would ease the remainder of her suffering. He could think of nothing else to do. She went on talking, as far as she was able, pouring visible effort into every word. ‘It is good … that you came. You must take it … take it back.’ She attempted a gesture, but evidently it was too much for her. Looking down, he saw what she held – the object she was trying to pass to him. He would have known what it must be, if he had taken the time to think, but his thoughts had been full of her. Her hands were locked around it; she had no more strength to release them. He had to uncurl her fingers one by one. ‘Take it,’ she went on. ‘To … Osskva. He will know … the spell.’
‘Who is he? How will I find him?’
‘My father.’ She hadn’t mentioned her father before; only her grandfather. He thought the twitching of her face might have been an attempt to smile. ‘He didn’t approve … but no matter. Your dream will find him.’
He said wretchedly: ‘I can’t be sure of that.’ He had to take the Grail back to his own world, but he couldn’t tell her that, not when she was dying.
‘You found me,’ she said. ‘Fate guides you. I must believe …’
‘The other things – the crown, the sword – where are they? Shouldn’t they be here?’
She made a tiny movement with her head, negation or bewilderment. ‘Only found … the cup. Grille locked – but I knew the word of release. Grandfather … told me. I think … you will find … the rest. Hope …’ Her voice was growing fainter, more laboured. He took her hand and then let it go, afraid of hurting her, but she nudged it back into his clasp. ‘Chosen,’ she whispered. ‘You … chosen, to save us …’
He sensed she was clutching at that idea because it was all she had left, it gave meaning to the last moments of her life, to her death. He didn’t think it was true, but he couldn’t say so. She didn’t try to talk any more. They sat in silence for some time, he didn’t know how long, perhaps hours. He thought: I’m waiting for her to die, and that seemed dreadful to him, but to leave her, dying alone, would have been worse. Anyway, he had no notion how he was going to get back to Arkatron, let alone to his own world. There should be an opening from here to the sunken chapel in the Darkwood, but he didn’t know how to use it. He couldn’t solve the problem, so for now, at least, he tried not to think about it. Instead, he found himself remembering how Annie had told him once about sitting at Daniel’s bedside – Daniel who he assumed was his father – while the life ebbed out of him, sitting and waiting for the end. He had said: That must have been awful, and she had said: You will do it for someone one day, maybe for me, and if you are lucky, someone will do it for you. Death gives life meaning, and when we share it with another we accept that, we face it without fear, and maybe we can go beyond it, into a wider world.
He waited with Kwanji Ley, to share her death.
Annie woke early the next day, knowing there was a burden on her mind. Nathan – the police … (And in the background, still the pulse-churning recollection of Michael’s kiss.) She went through the routine of washing, dressing, making herself tea and toast for breakfast, putting off waking Nathan because that would hasten the moment when she had to call the inspector. Perhaps he had found the Grail, in his dreams – although then Pobjoy would be certain he’d taken it, even if they didn’t proceed with charges. It was a ludicrous paradox. Returning the cup might be the end of the matter, but in the eyes of the law it would be a confirmation of guilt. She worried about this for some time, knowing it was futile. You could only try to do right, and never mind what people thought. Teenagers hardly ever seemed to be prosecuted even for wanton vandalism or habitual theft, so surely they wouldn’t prosecute for a crime when they believed the motive was pure …
She emerged from reflection to notice that it was nearly nine and there was still no sound of Nathan stirring. She went up to his room, tapped on the door, called out, and went in.
The bed was empty.
She was sure he hadn’t gone out earlier: in her present restless state, his movements would almost certainly have woken her. Besides, he was good about things like straightening his bed, and the blanket was still rumpled over the duvet, and the pillow, unplumped, was dented from the pressure of a head. He’d have folded the blanket, she thought. He’d have changed his clothes. He’d have left a note. For the first time, she noticed where the Mark of Agares had been torn off the wall.
She ran downstairs to the telephone.
Bartlemy was out. His machine answered, requesting her to leave a message, and she tried to talk coherently, not to babble. ‘Nathan’s gone. He went to bed early, like I told you, to try and find the Grail. He hasn’t left the house: I’d have heard. If he gets up before I do I nearly always hear him. The bedding’s all rucked up, as if he’s still there, but he isn’t. He must’ve – dematerialized, got stuck in the other world. The Mark you drew him, it was on the wall over the bed, but it’s torn down, I don’t know why. Supposing he can’t get back … Please call me. Please call me.’
She hung up, and waited, watching the clock, but no call came.
By ten she could stand it no longer. She had to talk to someone, go somewhere, do something. She locked up the shop and headed for Riverside House.
Kwanji’s eyes had closed, and he thought she must have slipped away without his realizing it, but then they opened again. They were bloodshot, but they appeared to clear and brighten, or maybe that was his imagination. She gave him a look that seemed to reach deep inside him, into his mind, into his soul, then a tiny sigh escaped her, barely audible even in the silence of the cave, and the look faded. Long afterwards, he said: ‘There were people there. I couldn’t see them, but they were there. I don’t know that I was aware of them at the time, but I remember them. They came for her.’ Then he was alone.
He closed her eyes again, the way he had seen it done on television. He wondered if he should arrange the body more formally, laying her down, crossing her arms on her breast, but it didn’t seem to be necessary. She was still propped against the cave wall, and she looked quite comfortable, which mattered to him, even though there was no one there to feel comfort any more. Then he picked up the Grail, holding the torch to illuminate it, looking at it properly now. He half expected it to glow at his touch, like the vision in the chapel, maybe to fill with blood, but the stone, though pared to fineness and polished to a dull lustre, had no sheen but that of the torchlight reflected in the curve of the bowl, and there was nothing inside. A gem or two glinted in the coils of the design, like the eye-blink of a furtive animal; that was all. The gnomons must have followed it, or so he reasoned, and he listened for soft snake-voices creeping from the shadows of the cave, but heard none. He didn’t know that although Ozmosees may migrate from world to world on a thought-wave the Gate – the legitimate passage between states of being – is forbidden to them, and so they avoid the dying and the dead, and though they bring fear and madness they never kill. Death is inimical to them. But Nathan knew only that they had gone. He gazed at the Grail for a long while, awed by its ancientry, the might of legend that it carried and the power it was rumoured to encapsulate; but if any spirit lived within the stone, it was hidden. At last he tucked it inside his suit, where it made an irregular bulge that dug into his side. Then he drank a mouthful of water – there was hardly any left now – and made his way cautiously to the cave entrance.
Even wearing his goggles, the sun was dazzling. It must have been around midday: the glare was right overhead, bleaching the blue from the sky, reducing shade to mere wisps and dimples etched on a colourless landscape. The vastness of the Grokkul had disappeared into sand and rock, melding with its surroundings. He knew it was there – he could see the double row of its spines – but somehow, the threat seemed barely real. Some torn fragments of cloth lay outside the cave; the blood spots had long since evaporated. He thought: I’m trapped. Even if I could get past the Grokkul, I have no transport, and the city is hundreds of miles away, and the suit might protect my skin but the heat would kill me in under a mile … His only chance was to sleep, and return home the way he came.
Back in the cave he explored the recesses, sliding his fingers between the bars of each grille, but the rock did not waver. He kissed Kwanji’s swollen hand, thinking he should have done it before, and returned to the entrance, leaning against the wall in an attitude similar to hers, eyes closed, searching his mind for the portal that would take him back. But although he found it, now the wrong-coloured blotch was dark and opaque, with no fizzing snow effect. It was like approaching a door, unexpectedly sealed without handle or key: his thought beat on the panels, but it would not yield. In the end, unexpectedly, he slept.
When he awoke he was still in the cave. Beyond the entrance the sun was sinking towards evening. His neck was stiff from the awkwardness of his position, and he was very thirsty. He drank the rest of the water and stood up, squirming through the narrowness of the cave mouth, halting just outside. He couldn’t simply wait here to die, he had to try something, even if it was pointless. Anyway – better quick than slow. Maybe the power of the cup would help …
He stood in the lee of the cliff, screwing up what was left of his courage, watching the sun crawl down the sky, behind the barrier of the mountains.
Eric had taken to sleeping in the back room of the antique shop, guarding Rowena’s treasures, or so he said. She lived in the flat above. He had come upstairs for a meal a few times, when specially invited, but appeared hesitant about intruding on her private territory. However, they usually breakfasted together in the back room, sharing her daily paper, the Telegraph of course, while he asked questions about Tony Blair, and the aftermath of the war, and what the world was all about.
That morning Rowena was on the phone from an early hour, still chasing up contacts in the faint hope that she might pick up the trail of the stolen cup. She had just drawn a blank with a dealer in Oxford and was exchanging general courtesies and comments on the summer weather. ‘Well, we had that big storm on the day of the robbery but it’s been very hot ever since … Yes, it was unlucky – if the lights hadn’t blown the thief might have had no opportunity … A dwarf, really. Police want me to say it was a child but I know what I saw – would’ve had to be a bloody young child … Ran off into the woods. The kids went after him but he got away in the rain. Coming down like a monsoon … You didn’t? Lucky you …’ She rang off, remarking: ‘They didn’t have a storm in Oxford. Nice for them. We only had it here – almost like someone laid it on.’
‘Is possible,’ Eric said. ‘Force can do many things. Control weather – control minds.’
‘Really believe that, don’t you?’ said Rowena. ‘Sometimes, you almost convince me. Uncanny, the whole business.’ She poured more tea for herself, and coffee for Eric, who had acquired a liking for it bordering on addiction. ‘Stealing a cup you can’t sell, Von Humboldt dying like that – now they say it’s natural causes – too many things that don’t fit, little things, niggling at me …’ Her voice petered out; she replaced the coffee pot, frowning. ‘That conversation just now – there was something, something that didn’t quite …’
‘You think they lie?’ Eric asked.
‘No – nothing like that. A false note. Bugger – can’t find it. It’s there, but I can’t find it.’
‘What is this bugger that you always mention?’ Eric said. ‘Is word I hear often, but I not understand.’
‘It’s a swear word,’ Rowena explained. ‘You use it when you’re angry.’
‘What does it mean?’
Rowena told him. Eric looked rather surprised. ‘In my world,’ he said, ‘we have swear words, but not like that. We use words for story, corruption, untruth. What people do in sex is not bad. Is just a matter for them. I must use this word?’
‘Not if you don’t want to,’ Rowena responded. ‘Use any word you like.’ She left Eric to choose and reverted to her former problem, glaring furiously at the middle distance. Then her face changed. ‘But … how odd. Why should he –?’ She picked up the phone again, re-dialled Oxford. ‘Sorry to bother you again. Need to check about the weather. Are you sure it didn’t rain? – Not anywhere round there?’ She hung up, and looked at Eric. ‘It didn’t rain anywhere near Oxford that day,’ she said.
Eric was murmuring to himself, presumably trying out potential swear words for size. ‘Fantasy!’ he essayed. And then: ‘I tell you, storm not natural. Someone make bad weather.’
‘It’s not that.’ Rowena thought for a long minute, then dialled a new number. Evidently no one was there.
‘You are upset,’ Eric said, watching her expression, concern imprinting his own features. ‘Who do you call?’
‘Annie.’ She shrugged off the worry with a visible effort. ‘Never mind. Nothing important. Time to open up.’ Her assistant wasn’t due in that day, and she wasn’t going to take time off sorting out minor inconsistencies. Eric started work polishing a walnut side table, and Rowena decided to think of something else.
She tried Annie’s number again half an hour later, without success. She tried Bartlemy, and got the machine. Then she closed the shop.
‘Come on,’ she told Eric. ‘We’re going to Eade. Probably a wild goose chase – but I think something’s wrong.’
‘What is wild goose?’ Eric demanded, in the van which was Rowena’s standard means of transport. ‘Is dangerous?’
‘Don’t know. But we’ve got one dead body – two if you count Effie Carlow – and the Grail’s gone, and … why tell such a damn silly lie?’
‘What lie?’ Eric said. ‘Who lie?’
Rowena explained.