The Rook

  “That guy’s not stable,” said Myfanwy. “It was bad enough when we thought the Grafters were planning an invasion, but I assumed that at least they were sane.”

  “Yes,” said Ingrid. “Rook Thomas, you have a sister?”

  “Yeah,” said Myfanwy defensively.

  “How can you have a sister?” She lowered her voice. “You’ve been you for only two weeks.”

  “This body has a sister,” said Myfanwy. “It is just as much my body as the person’s you worked for before, so, yes, I have a sister. She tracked me down.”

  “How?”

  “Tax records.”

  “I see, and how do the Grafters know about her?” asked Ingrid.

  “I was out with her last night,” said Myfanwy guiltily.

  “You went out last night?”

  “We went clubbing” came the reply.

  “Clubbing?” Ingrid exclaimed.

  “Yeah.” Myfanwy felt herself blushing. “That’s how my phone got all slimy. What did you think happened?” With a visible effort, Ingrid calmed herself.

  “Rook Thomas, I am not your mother, nor am I a member of the Court, and I know that you are a clever woman, so of course you do not need me to point out how abominably stupid that was. You don’t need me to point out that you put your life, your sister’s life, and the well-being of the nation in danger. And now we’ve got lunatic Grafters on the line.”

  “I know,” said Myfanwy in a small voice.

  “What is your sister’s name?”

  “Bronwyn.”

  “And her birthday?”

  “Why is that important?” asked Myfanwy, confused.

  “I’ll put it down in the book so that you don’t forget to get her something,” said Ingrid matter-of-factly.

  “That’s a lovely thought, but shouldn’t we be worrying slightly more about the Grafter’s insane threats and slightly less about updating my birthday book?” asked Myfanwy, wondering if perhaps her secretary had poured herself too much therapeutic alcohol.

  “The comms department said that they’d let us know when they had a successful trace,” said Ingrid. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Well, since I don’t know anything about this Ernst von Suchtlen that I’m supposed to have in custody, I figure we’ll trace the call, track down the man with no skin, unleash the might of the Checquy upon him, and you and I can kick him once they’ve got him down. That should take care of everything. Except for the traitors in the Court, but I’m sure that will all be sorted out once we have the Grafter head honcho,” outlined Myfanwy. She took a contemplative sip of her amber fluid.

  “Do you know how long it takes for them to trace a call?” asked Myfanwy.

  Ingrid shrugged helplessly.

  “Okay, well, I guess I should get back to the business of running domestic operations,” she said. “Is there anything new from the Court?”

  “You need to get your nominations in by the end of Friday,” said Ingrid after checking her tome of an organizer.

  “Nominations?” repeated Myfanwy blankly.

  “Replacements for Rook Gestalt and Chevalier Gubbins,” said Ingrid.

  “Right, of course. Um, so what’s the process for that whole thing?” asked Myfanwy.

  “Actually, I’m not too familiar with the procedure,” said Ingrid. “I gather that it’s one of the things only the members of the Court are supposed to know, although I’m fairly sure it involves the Prime Minister, the Minister of Defense, and the ruling monarch.” Myfanwy gaped at her, and Ingrid looked a trifle embarrassed. “The secretaries talk,” she said. “But I do know that you have to come up with a list of five possible people from within the Checquy, for both the Rook position and the Chevalier position.”

  “Gosh,” said Myfanwy anxiously. “Ten people. Well, I’ll have to give that some thought. How about Colonel Hall? I like him, and he seems very knowledgeable. I looked over his file at one point, and he’s exceptionally qualified. Do you know he oversaw army troops in Northern Ireland? And various peacekeeping missions overseas?”

  “He’s very nice,” agreed Ingrid. “His secretary adores him and his team worships him, but I’m afraid he can’t be a member of the Court.”

  “Why not?” asked Myfanwy as her secretary flushed.

  “Well, because he isn’t a Pawn,” said Ingrid.

  “No powers, huh?”

  “No powers,” agreed Ingrid. “It’s a law of the Checquy that only those who are powered can rise to command.”

  “I’m not comfortable with the fact that you have to have bizarre powers to be a member of the Court,” said Myfanwy. “I mean, I never use mine. Or at least, hardly ever, and almost never for Courtly duties.”

  “Yes, but in theory, you could be called out to supervise operations. Frankly, you’re lucky that you haven’t been called upon more often since Gestalt was exposed last week. Speaking of Gestalt, are you allowed to tell me what the situation is?”

  “Well, apparently, there’s not going to be a trial or anything. Gestalt has never argued its innocence, and trying to kill everyone at that party was proof enough of its guilt. But I spoke to Sir Henry and Lady Linda, and they agreed that it was inappropriate for me to supervise the interrogation, since we were the same rank. So we’ve turned that responsibility over to the Bishops. I gave them my ideas for ensuring Gestalt’s cooperation, and now I just have to wait and see if they come up with anything good.” Alrich had been absently licking his lips when he’d accepted the responsibility. She shuddered slightly at the memory and had another drink of amber liquor.

  “Waiting for the phone trace, waiting for the torturers,” mused Myfanwy, scratching at a place where blood had been taken with an alarming-looking triple-pronged needle wielded by a midget on a stepladder. “I really hate waiting. Is there anything I can do in the meantime? Anyone for me to talk to?” she asked plaintively. “No section heads or project leaders?”

  “It’s the weekend, Rook Thomas,” Ingrid reminded her gently.

  “Of course,” said Myfanwy testily. “And people shouldn’t be at work on the weekend, because that would be ridiculous.”

  “Well, the twenty-four-hour office is functioning,” clarified Ingrid, “and the Grafter situation means that the watch office is open. And of course, the medical staff is here conducting tests. A strike team and two pilots are on call. The security guards are here, and the cleaning staff, and—”

  “Fine,” said Myfanwy. “I will just squint at all these documents with my laser-scanned eyes and sign everything with my well-licked fingers.”

  “Now, Rook Thomas,” said Ingrid reprovingly, “you know they apologized. Apparently, your touch numbed their tongues and they had to try all your digits.”

  They looked up when a young man clutching a piece of paper ran into Ingrid’s office. He caught sight of Myfanwy and Ingrid through the door, colored, and then rushed toward them. One of the massive guards stationed at the door thrust out an arm, and Ingrid and Myfanwy were treated to a glimpse of the soles of the young man’s shoes as his body rotated in the air around the axis of the guard’s forearm.

  “Ooh!” Myfanwy and Ingrid flinched at the same time. The other massive guard stepped into the room, nodded to the two women, and placed his foot delicately on the young man’s throat. The supine man was gasping and desperately waving the piece of paper around.

  “Don’t kill him!” exclaimed Ingrid. “Rook Thomas, this is Pawn Summerhill from the communications section.” Myfanwy nodded to the guard, who reluctantly lifted his boot, letting Summerhill sit up.

  “Rook Thomas, Mrs. Woodhouse…”

  “What is it, Alan?” asked Ingrid. “Have you traced the call?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “We’re still working on it, but this fax came through. It’s addressed to Rook Thomas.” Myfanwy took the paper from Summerhill’s hand, and he put his head between his knees. The fax paper was covered in ornate copperplate, and she had to squint at it to see past the curlicues and flouris
hes to the message.

  Rook Thomas of the Checquy,

  I have unleashed a small horror in Reading, simply to demonstrate our capabilities. Unless you hurry, there may not be much left of John Perry’s home. I look forward to seeing Graaf Ernst von Suchtlen on Tuesday.

  Regards,

  Graaf Gerd de Leeuwen

  Myfanwy read the words in disbelief, and then they all jumped as the lights flickered overhead and angry chimes sounded. The phone started ringing frantically on Ingrid’s desk, accompanied by a red light flashing.

  “What the hell is that?” asked Myfanwy with a sinking feeling.

  “Incident,” said Ingrid grimly, heading to the phone. Myfanwy, the two hulking guards, and the wheezing kid from the communications department watched as Ingrid answered the call. “Right. Right. All right. Yes, she’ll be there. How long? Fine. Thanks, Jennifer.” She hung up. “Well, Rook Thomas, I’m afraid there’s been an outbreak in—”

  “Reading,” said Myfanwy tiredly.

  “Yes,” said Ingrid, raising her brows in surprise.

  “The Grafters,” hissed Myfanwy, and realized that the guards and the kid were staring at her in horror. “None of you heard that, and I mean it,” she said in as deadly a tone as she could muster up in her pajamas. That skinless piece of shit said that if anyone knew he and I had been speaking, he’d kill Bronwyn. Obviously, I can’t expect him not to kill her anyway, but I don’t want to take any more risks than I have to. “In fact, you two are my bodyguards for the foreseeable future. No replacements. And you,” she said to the quaking communications kid.

  “Pawn Alan Summerhill,” said Ingrid discreetly.

  “Pawn Alan Summerhill, how vital are you to the tracking of this telephone call?” asked Myfanwy.

  “Well, it’s my fourth day,” he ventured.

  “Are you some sort of indispensable wunderkind whose presence would make a profound difference to the call tracing?”

  “No…”

  “Fine. Then you’ll be accompanying us to Reading,” said Myfanwy. “You will speak no word of what you have heard in this room to anyone, and you will not leave my sight without permission. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Rook Thomas,” he said, trembling.

  “Good. Ingrid, is the incident contained?” asked Myfanwy. “Is it discreet?”

  “It’s a police station” came the answer.

  “Fuuuuck,” said one of the security guards, and everyone looked at him. “I used to be a cop,” he said defensively.

  Ingrid went on. “The police station is in the middle of the town and they have had the good sense to seal off the building. The portable operation centers should be ready by the time we get there.”

  “Any other details?” asked Myfanwy.

  “The Barghests are mobilizing, and we’ll rendezvous with them at the site,” said Ingrid. “Gentlemen,” she said to the bodyguards, “you’ll be acting as on-site security for the Rook.” She went to her desk and came back holding her coat and a laptop in a case.

  “What are you doing?” asked Myfanwy.

  “I’m coming with you,” said Ingrid. “The helicopter will be here in seven minutes.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “Rook Thomas, you’re still in your pajamas. You may want to go upstairs and change. And don’t forget to bring a jacket.”

  “Fine,” said Myfanwy with a sigh, swinging open another portrait and going up to the apartment. Behind her, one of the large bodyguards had trouble squeezing up the stairway and had to be pushed by the other one.

  It was very different being in a helicopter with Ingrid, a terrified neophyte Pawn, and two large bodyguards, as opposed to just Shantay. People’s knees kept bumping and Li’l Pawn Alan (as she’d taken to calling him in her head) was crushed between the large bodyguards, both of whom looked as if they were about to be violently ill. Ingrid was reading rapidly off her laptop. Myfanwy was wearing a pair of large sunglasses and listening to the appalling reports that were coming in.

  “The Reading police have set up cordons at a fair distance,” said Ingrid.

  “And beyond the cordons?” asked Myfanwy.

  “Let me see,” said Ingrid, scanning through reams of text. “Okay, yes. Well, there are a few people hanging around, but not many. They can easily be dispersed, either with official announcements or, if necessary, tear gas.”

  “Well, that’s something. What’s the cover story?” asked Myfanwy.

  “Hostages, but no one’s used the T-word.”

  “No one is to use the T-word at all!” exclaimed Myfanwy. “Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how complicated that would make everything? Plus, the heads and the Bishops would skin me alive. I do not want the T-word to pass anyone’s lips.”

  “Bishop Grantchester did alert everyone in the organization that the T-word was never to be used,” Ingrid reminded her mildly.

  “Yes, because he had a very long conference with the Prime Minister and the Minister of Defense, and then the Rooks had to listen to a lecture for four hours,” said Myfanwy. Which thankfully I did not have to attend. Thomas was so pissed off that she wrote thirteen pages of single-spaced diatribe. “In any case, Ingrid, make sure the Rookery Liars are coming up with a rational excuse for what’s going on.”

  “A rational excuse, like crazy people?”

  “A rational excuse,” said Myfanwy firmly. “Now, does anyone know who this John Perry person is?” She would normally have referred to her purple binder, but in her haste, she had forgotten it. She looked hopefully around at the various people crammed into the helicopter, but none of them seemed to know. Ingrid looked up from her laptop and confirmed that no one of that name was a member of the Checquy. Googling the name had led to a variety of people, none of whom were from Reading or seemed to have anything to do with the situation at all.

  “Okay,” said Myfanwy. “Well, that’s a mystery for later. Now, do we know if anyone has been harmed?” Please, God, let them just have been taken hostage. It is going to be bad if that skinless piece of shit has started harming civilians. I must be cold, calm, and collected.

  “There are seven police officers, three clerical staff, and a couple of dozen civilians caught in there,” said Ingrid grimly.

  “Damn!” said Myfanwy. She slammed the armrest in frustration. “This was so completely unnecessary. I told de Leeuwen that I would find his damned partner!”

  “But you didn’t mean it,” said Ingrid gently. “You were tracing his call, planning to hunt him down before your time was up.”

  “Yes, but he didn’t know that!” snapped Myfanwy. “So why would he feel compelled to do this?”

  “You called him a reject from a butcher shop and threatened to make him torture himself in a tub full of feces,” said Ingrid.

  “You think he did this because of something I said?” said Myfanwy.

  “Well, he didn’t strike me as the most stable of individuals,” replied Ingrid. “He might have done this because of the way you said hello, or because it’s Saturday, or because one of his aides didn’t bow deep enough, or who knows what.”

  “It’s still Saturday?” said Myfanwy exhaustedly. “You know, I don’t generally do this. Rook Gestalt was the one who took care of situations in the field.”

  “Please, Rook Thomas,” squeaked Alan, the little Pawn. “Back at the Estate we all heard about how you handled the incident at Bath.” The large bodyguards nodded, and even Ingrid smiled at her confidently.

  Oh, brilliant, Myfanwy thought dismally as the helicopter began its descent. “Ow!” she exclaimed as they landed roughly, jarring everything that had been investigated by the Rookery doctors. The two large bodyguards, looking profoundly relieved to be on the ground, got up and surveyed the landing pad. There was a limousine waiting for them, flanked by two formidable off-road vehicles. Clustered around the vehicles were several large people, all of whom were antsy and heavily armed, which was never a good combination.

  “Rook Thomas, we’ll
just make sure these people are secure,” said one of the large bodyguards. As they left, Alan slowly unfolded. Myfanwy watched through the window as the bodyguards hulked over to the collected Checquy staff, weaving slightly as they recovered from airsickness. Ingrid’s phone rang and she answered it, then nodded as she listened.

  “We’re cleared to go, Rook Thomas,” she said, getting up. “Alan, get those cases, please.”

  “Where are we?” asked Myfanwy. The helicopter appeared to have landed in a recently vacated cow field. “We couldn’t find an airport? Or a helipad? Or a place that wasn’t mined with—damn it! Now I have cow shit on my shoes.”

  “At least you’re not wearing heels,” retorted Ingrid as she sank into the soil. Behind them, Alan struggled with the cases.

  “Rook Thomas, this is Pawn Cyrus West. He’s site manager for this incident,” said one of the large bodyguards.

  “Good to see you, Cyrus,” said Myfanwy, trying not to notice how hesitantly he took her hand. She remembered Ingrid saying that word had gotten around about her making that guy stab himself.

  “Ladies. Gentlemen.” She acknowledged the Checquy team members with a nod and eye contact. “It’s good to see you all. Cyrus, I’m certain you’re eager to get back to the site.” She stepped into the car and was joined by Cyrus and her team. The large bodyguard inspected an extremely large gun that he’d taken from one of Ingrid’s cases.

  “That thing has the safety catch on, right?” asked Myfanwy anxiously.

  “Uh… absolutely, Rook Thomas,” said the large bodyguard uncertainly, peering at the side of the gun.

  “He’s not really a gun person,” whispered Ingrid to Myfanwy. “But he does have the ability to make people’s skin burst off their torso.”

  “Oh… good,” said Myfanwy. “Anyway, Cyrus, could you fill me in on the situation in the police station?” He nodded and began to speak in an incredibly soporific droning voice. Myfanwy, already hungover, low on sleep, having been probed, drained, injected, scanned, and scraped, found her eyelids drooping. But she managed to extract several key facts from the lecture. According to various reports: