“So his lordship wants them drugged, does he?”
Sam’s hunger vanished and he stopped instantly, his hand mere centimeters from the kitchen door. Finding the servants’ attention uncomfortable, he had approached quietly, not wishing to disturb them. If they had known he was hungry, they would have insisted on fixing something for him rather than letting him get his own. Their solicitousness, while pleasant at first, had begun to chafe as much as the confinement. Now he was glad that he had kept his kitchen raid quiet. He listened to the voices on the other side of the door.
“That’s what Norman said,” a deep voice replied. “I don’t know why, though.”
“You never know, Cholly.”
“Cholly’s got a point, Bert. They may be Yanks, but I don’t like the idea of slipping them something. I mean, what’s it gonna be next? Slitting their throats while they sleep?”
“Criminy! You’re such a whiner, Georgie. You’re almost as bad as Cholly. It’s not like we were poisoning them or nothing. The stuff is only going to put them to sleep a little early. They won’t feel a thing.”
“But how do you know, Bert? The stuff in that bottle Norman brought could be poison. We’d never know it until the Yanks died in their chairs. Then we’d be murderers.”
“You ain’t got nothing to worry about, Georgie. I used this stuff before. Got me my last three wives.”
“Bert, you hound.”
Laughter erupted. The loudest seemed to belong to Bert.
“They’ll never even taste it in the wine. A couple of sips and fifteen minutes later, they’ll get real sleepy and want to head straight to bed. We just let them. If they was birds, we could have a grand old time. They’d never know. Course they might feel a bit sore in the morning.”
Cholly’s deep voice trammeled on the last gasps of a fresh burst of guffaws. “Burt, why do his lordship want them to sleep?”
“Blimey, but you are slow, Cholly. His lordship’s got company coming in tomorrow night. He obviously don’t want his house guests to know about it.”
“Why don’t he just ask the Yanks to stay in their rooms?”
“Because they’re Yanks, ya twit. Yanks never do what they’re told.”
The scattered laughter was punctuated by the scrape of a chair. Sam backed away from the door. The talk continued, but he couldn’t hear it distinctly. He had just settled in a dark corner where he thought he would be safe from a casual glance, when the door swung wide spilling light into the hall. Bert the groundskeeper stepped through.
“Keep the fire burning, boys. I’ll be back after I make my rounds.”
Assurances and mock insults drifted from the kitchen. Bert waved them off and shuffled down the hall, oblivious to his surroundings. Sam didn’t move until he was sure that Bert had enough time to leave the building. Then he headed back upstairs. There’d be no raid on the larder tonight.
Pretending to be affected by the wine had been easy—far easier than waiting for the servants to make the check on the supposedly drugged guests so that they could assure their master that the ploy had been successful. But they came at last, and Sam’s lack of response to their calling of his name and the tentative prods that followed satisfied them that the Yanks were safely under the influence.
The house grew quiet.
Sam crept to Dodger’s room, avoiding the boards he had learned creaked the loudest. Together they waited while they heard Glover go to the door to greet his guests. When things again quieted, Sam and Dodger crept forth. From the landing, light spilling into the main hall told them that Glover had chosen to entertain in a room that Sam had been unable to penetrate astrally. A quick check assured him the barrier still held. Any penetration of Glover’s secrets would have to be physical.
Sam and Dodger skulked through the upper hall, settling where they could get a view of the meeting chamber. The room’s only illumination was the fire in the massive stone hearth at one end, but that made it far brighter than the hall and upper stories. The sliding doors to the room were open, allowing a rectangle of flickering light to fall across the ancient flooring and scale the paneled wall opposite the door.
At first, Sam thought that Glover and his cronies were foolish to leave the panels open, but then he remembered his own eavesdropping of the previous night. No servant would creep to the door and listen from concealment, for they would be seen. Any who crept close would be disclosed to those within the room as well; the hall’s flooring would announce their passage and alert the conspirators. Likewise, a servant returning from the upper stories in defiance of his earlier dismissal would be betrayed by the creaking of the old staircase.
Sam’s position provided him with a partial view of the room. Near its center, Glover sat in a comfortable armchair. In a matching chair at his side, a position of honor, sat an older man with grey hair and a trim grey mustache. From the deference shown to him, Sam pegged him as Sir Winston Neville, the only name he had heard Glover use in greeting the others. Neville’s welcome had been the most effusive, so it was likely that he would be given the most honored seat. A younger man, a son or cousin to Neville by the cast of his aristocratic face, stood behind the chair. Occasionally Sam caught glimpses of three others moving about the room.
The great outer door opened, swinging wide on silent hinges. There had been no knock or bell chime. A man entered, striding ponderously forward. He was huge, and walked with a huffing that emphasized the difficulty he had in moving his enormous bulk. The moonlight glinted off the sweat beaded among the sparse white hairs of his head. A casual swat sent the door arcing shut as he started down the hall.
“Hyde-White is here,” announced one of the men in the room. They all stared at the doorway when the obese man reached the arch.
Newcomer and gathered conspirators faced each other. They exchanged words in a language that Sam didn’t recognize, although it seemed to have echoes of English. Having finished what seemed a ritual greeting, Glover inclined his head and waved a hand in invitation.
Hyde-White rolled forward. As the jutting prow of his obesity passed over the threshold, the air in the doorway shimmered. A line of sparks ran around the fat man’s shape, making a glittering outline as he passed the magical barrier that sealed the room.
He spoke as soon as the last sparkle died, his voice a resonant rumble like the distant growling of summer thunder. “Please excuse my tardiness. There were some affairs in the Atzlan office to sort out, and my personal attention was required. I trust you have not reached any important conclusions without me.”
“We were having Barnett fill us in on his last acquisition,” the grey-haired man said.
“My apologies for the interruption, Sir Winston. Please continue, Mr. Barnett,” Hyde-White said as he marched deeper into the room. “I’m sure I will be fascinated.”
The fat man ponderously passed from view. Sam could tell when Hyde-White sat, for the banister in front of his face trembled slightly. The pinch-faced man, who was obviously Barnett, cleared his throat before continuing.
“I really don’t have much more to say. My mission went smoothly, and there were no problems. It’s a shame that we cannot all say the same. Eh, Glover?”
Glover, who had been staring at the fire, swiveled his head around to face Barnett. “Are you suggesting that I have failed the Circle, Mr. Barnett?”
“Anyone could lose valuable employees in such a venture. Although Mr. Burke was one of our more exceptional agents, I would hardly fault you for his passing. The fortunes of war, I am sure.” Barnett sniffed. “I am merely referring to certain loose ends.”
Stepping around from behind the chair, the younger Neville said, “Yes, Glover. What has become of the shadowrunners who accompanied you from Hong Kong? We have heard they are still in the country.”
Glover addressed his answer to the older Neville, as if he had spoken, instead. “They are upstairs, asleep.”
“Why haven’t you dismissed them? Were they to stumble downstairs into our meeting it would be most inconvenient. You should have left them in Hong Kong.” The younger Neville’s pointing finger of accusation didn’t distract Glover.
“I did not think that a wise idea at the time, Sir Winston. With Mister Burke eliminated, I deemed the additional protection they could offer to be necessary. Had I encountered additional difficulties, the safety of Monsieur Corbeau might have been threatened. I saw his safe return as my primary responsibility. The day draws near.”
“You should have dismissed them as soon as you arrived here safely,” young Neville insisted.
Glover shook his head slowly. “By then, they had seen enough to connect me to ATT. I thought it inadvisable to let them loose with that knowledge.”
“Then you should have had them killed,” Barnett said. “You swore the secrecy oath along with the rest of us.”
“Indeed,” Glover said, folding his arms across his chest. “That is precisely why they are still alive. If they were not disposed of cleanly and completely, there would be an investigation. We do not need inquiries from the Lord Protector’s Oversight Board at this time. But once we have completed our ritual, we will no longer need to remain hidden, and without a need for absolute secrecy we may dispose of them easily. For now, they remain here, believing themselves on retainer for an upcoming shadowrun. The deception is sufficient; they remain ignorant of the Circle and our goal.”
“You have badgered Mr. Glover enough,” rumbled Hyde-White. “The crucial question is the suitability of Mr. Gordon.”
“Suitability has been addressed and confirmed beyond any question. While Mr. Gordon remains uncrowned, there is no question of the sanctity of his bloodline. Had not the father-in-law of the current holder of the throne been so prominent in the work of gathering the scattered survivors of the royal family, Mr. Gordon would be our crowned sovereign. That unfortunate turn of events is but one of the hurdles we strive to overcome. The false king only contributes to the land’s woes. But crowned or not, Edward Arthur Charles Gordon-Windsor is the chalice of mystic power necessary to restore the land.”
Sir Winston Neville threw back his shoulders and tugged at his waist coat to seat it properly. “I spoke with him before coming here tonight. I can assure you all that he is ready to accept his part in the ritual. He seems eager to take his place as the seventh, for he believes as we do. The land must live.”
“The land must live,” the others echoed.
The seventh? If Gordon was the seventh, what was the name of Janice Walters doing on Glover’s list? Sam looked at Dodger. The elf was staring fixedly ahead. He seemed intent on listening to the conspirators. There would be questions to ask later.