Immeasurably relieved, she had immediately reported her findings to the Lord and Lady. Did they tell the Prime Minister? Is that why he made his announcement? she wondered. Or did he simply think revealing privileged information would make him look powerful?
The door opened, and the Prime Minister entered, accompanied by the forbidding figure of Bishop Raushan Attariwala. The Bishop’s eyes tracked Myfanwy as she stood and walked up to greet the head of His Majesty’s Government.
“Excellent speech, Prime Minister,” said the Rook.
“Thank you. It’s going to mean a hell of a lot of work for a lot of people, I know,” he said. “But this situation must be addressed immediately.”
“I quite agree, sir,” said Myfanwy. At that point the door opened again and Sir Henry entered.
“Sorry about the delay, Prime Minister,” said Henry. “Had to wait a bit after you’d departed. Didn’t want tongues wagging, not that they’ll lack for things to talk about.”
“Will the rest of the executives be coming?” asked the Prime Minister as he settled himself into one of the seats.
“We thought it best not,” said Sir Henry. “The absence of the entire Court from the reception would draw questions. We’ll brief them later. Now, drinks. Port, Myfanwy?”
“Yes, thank you, my Lord,” said the Rook.
“Prime Minister?”
“Please.”
“Raushan?”
“I’ll take it,” said the Bishop, “but you know I’ll just be holding it in my hand for the look of the thing.”
“Of course,” said the Lord of the Checquy. “And a tonic water in case you actually get thirsty?”
“Much obliged.”
“Surely the Belgians must have pictures of these extremists,” said the Prime Minister. “Since they’re former operatives of the brotherhood.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Myfanwy. “They have already provided us with detailed files.”
“When do you propose to make the photographs public?” asked the Prime Minister.
“We have been advised,” said Bishop Attariwala heavily, “that there would be little point.”
“Little point?” repeated the Prime Minister incredulously. “Raushan, if we can show the public that we have already identified the culprits, it will do a great deal to reassure people.”
“We quite understand, Prime Minister,” said Bishop Attariwala. He looked over to Rook Thomas. “It seems, however, that these targets are quite capable of changing their appearance.”
The PM’s face twisted in distaste. “I really loathe this sort of shit,” he said. “It’s difficult enough running a normal country without all these abnormal issues cropping up.”
“That’s why you have us, sir,” said Myfanwy.
“Yes, it appears to be doing me a mountain of good,” he replied sharply. “Your function is to keep this kind of thing from affecting the citizens of this country. I would not say that you are succeeding at the moment.” The Rook flushed. “These attacks have come as a result of this . . . amalgamation that you have brought to us?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you think it possible that these radicals might still have contacts among their old allies? Even within the Checquy itself?”
“Yes, sir,” she said quietly.
“I cannot take this risk. The Checquy must not be divided against itself, Rook Thomas. The nation cannot afford that. And it cannot afford to have an enemy that is willing to use unnatural weaponry against the public. The clouds of gas were plausible—just. But Sir Henry advises me that the extremists are escalating. They are angry and they are reckless. The next attack might be impossible to explain away. It would change the world forever.”
“I don’t believe they would do that, sir,” said Rook Thomas.
“Oh?” said Bishop Attariwala. “Why not?” His eyes narrowed. “After all, from what we’ve heard of these ‘Antagonists,’ they could have unleashed monsters like at the Isle of Wight, or worse. Why are they being so discreet?” He pursed his mouth sourly when he realized that he had described the suffering and mutilation of hundreds of innocents as discreet.
“The same thing that keeps the Checquy discreet,” said Myfanwy simply. “Upbringing.”
“What?” asked the Prime Minister, bewildered.
“It’s the Estella principle,” she said. “If you take a child and teach it to hate and fear something from before it can understand language, it will be supremely difficult for the child to overcome that. Like graduates of the Estate, these Antagonists have been brought up to keep themselves secret at all costs.
“The Broederschap taught them to be afraid of more than just the Checquy,” continued the Rook. “The Antagonists will be frightened of revealing too much in public, in case they draw the attention of other predators.”
“Marvelous, so they just reserve the patchwork thugs for attacks on Court members,” said Sir Henry.
“They don’t hate the public,” said Myfanwy. “They just hate us.”
“This all sounds very speculative, Thomas,” said the Prime Minister dubiously. “I was not elected to take chances with the well-being of this nation. And you were not appointed to your position to do so either.”
“No, sir.”
“Any more attacks of this sort, and drastic steps will have to be taken. It is not essential that the Checquy merge with this brotherhood, but it is essential that this problem be solved.”
“I understand, Prime Minister.”
“Two days, Miss Thomas. That is all I can give you.”
“Sir.”
“Sir Henry, Raushan, is this acceptable to you two?”
“Very reasonable, Prime Minister,” said Bishop Attariwala. The Lord of the Checquy nodded.
“Forty-eight hours from now, then,” said the Prime Minister. “If the problem isn’t solved one way, you solve it the other. Quickly and quietly. It is now”—he looked at his watch—“ten past nine. At eleven past nine on Sunday, the Grafters will no longer be a problem.”
“I’ll begin making the arrangements,” said Rook Thomas quietly.
“I expect we’d better get back to the party, then,” said Bishop Attariwala finally. “Myfanwy, you and I will have a little chat later.”
“Yes,” said Thomas. She rose as the men left and then placed a telephone call. “Ingrid, can you please come to the Reading Room, and bring Security Chief Clovis.” She sat down again, brooding in the shadows.
Two days. The Prime Minister has given me two days. But that presupposes that the Antagonists won’t do anything in the meantime. If there is another attack, then all bets are off.
Why are they delaying? Is it to build up tensions in the Checquy? If that was their goal, then it was certainly succeeding. When the Prime Minister had revealed the true nature of the Antagonists to the guests at the reception, there had been a moment when she had genuinely feared the Checquy would turn on the Grafters present.
What would I have done then? she wondered. Would I have used my powers against my own people? To protect a peace they don’t want? Or would I have stood aside and let them kill our guests in front of civilians? And what was she to do now? The tension would only heighten as word of the Antagonists coursed through the ranks.
It would take so little, even now, Myfanwy thought. A simple strike, a simple wound, placed precisely, and this peace will be smashed forever.
She wondered if the Antagonists had agents within the Checquy who were feeding them information. The Grafters had possessed such spies, after all, although Ernst had finally turned over the names. They knew when we’d be leaving Hill Hall, she mused. They had attackers waiting for me on the road.
Suddenly, ridiculously, she wished she could speak with Thomas—the first Myfanwy Thomas, the woman who’d worn this body before she herself came into existence. Thomas had been shy and meek, but she’d possessed years of experience and training. She would have given good advice, or at least been someone Myfanwy could confess
her fears to, could show weakness to.
I have to ensure that nothing happens in the next two days. How can I make the Antagonists wait? And then the revelation came to her.
Odette! They won’t strike without retrieving her. Christ, look at the effort they went to before. Thank God Clements was prevented from killing her when I gave the order or we’d have no leverage at all!
I need to place her somewhere beyond their control, somewhere they cannot access but that raises no questions. I can’t simply put a hundred bodyguards around her—Ernst and the Broederschap would know there was a problem, that the Checquy does not trust them. And I can’t send her overseas, or the Antagonists will feel free to strike on British soil. Myfanwy turned the problem over and over in her mind, certain there was a solution.
There was a knock on the door, and her EA entered, followed by Security Chief Clovis. Myfanwy explained the situation quickly, and they both looked horrified.
“So, Rook Thomas,” said Ingrid. “The Prime Minister . . .”
“Yes?”
“He’s given you two days to eliminate the Antagonists.”
“Yes,” said the Rook.
“And if you don’t, he means to shut down the negotiations?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Which would mean war,” said Clovis grimly.
“Maybe,” said the Rook. “Although if I manage to make all the arrangements I need to, it might simply mean a quick, discreet one-sided slaughter.”
As they emerged from the Reading Room and made their way back to the reception hall, Myfanwy kept turning the problem of Odette over in her head. There must be a way, she thought. But if there isn’t, I need to prepare for every other eventuality.
“Ingrid, I’ll need to talk to the team leaders of the Barghests immediately,” she said. “All of the domestic ones.” I’ll need them ready if Sunday comes and we have to eliminate Ernst and the Broederschap.
When they came to the assembly room, she looked about automatically for Odette. I’m going to feel really bad if she’s still standing alone with no one to talk to except her kid brother and Clements.
The room still seemed to be somewhat subdued and there wasn’t much cross-pollination between groups. Finally, she saw the Grafter girl talking to a tall man in his late twenties. Judging by their postures and hands, it seemed to be quite a civil conversation. At least, no one was getting slapped or stabbed.
“Who is that?” she wondered aloud.
“He’s a Pawn,” said Ingrid. “Louis Something. He works in Analysis and Assessment.” As they watched, the Pawn stepped out on the dance floor and extended a hand to Odette. She took it, and even from a distance they could see that she was both nervous and delighted. The two began to waltz, easily and beautifully.
“Did you tell him to do that?” asked Myfanwy.
“No, I didn’t,” said Ingrid. “I don’t think anybody ordered him to do that.” She was smiling as she watched the two dancers. “So maybe there’s hope for us all yet.”
Yes, maybe, thought Myfanwy grimly, the ultimatum she’d just received replaying in her head. But not much.
43
It had been a pretty good evening all in all, thought Odette in satisfaction. Some low points, certainly, but the high points had outnumbered them.
And the Prime Minister’s speech was very encouraging, she thought. He really put his support behind the negotiations. After that, she and Alessio had milled around a bit, and Alessio had continued to interrogate her frantically about the Antagonists. Of course her brother had known them all, but he’d been ignorant about their turning against the Broederschap. He’d been told a milder version of the story that had been given to Clements—that they had been killed by a supernatural enemy. He was particularly distraught to hear about Dieter, whom he’d known well. Odette had tried to keep her answers reassuring, but it was hard to sugarcoat the fact that his family was responsible for the atrocities they’d been watching on television all evening.
People had begun looking at the two of them with increasing distaste, and Alessio was almost in tears when, with impeccable timing, the headmistress of the Estate, a well-rounded woman with a German accent, swooped down and engaged him in conversation about his studies and the field trips. Odette, grateful for the break, had looked around for Clements and seen her a few feet away, talking to an acquaintance. Felicity had nodded permission for her to mingle, so Odette drifted through the crowd, listening to snatches of conversations.
“. . . either have to apply for emergency funding or dig into some of the bequests. I simply have no idea to what extent the government will pay for all this . . .”
“. . . I think there were traces of nut in that little pastry thing, does anyone have an epi-pen . . .”
“Hush, there’s a Grafter walking by.”
“I love her dress.”
“Yeah, but God knows what’s squirming underneath.”
At that last remark, Odette had moved away, focusing on keeping her countenance calm, her complexion unflushed, and her spine straight. You never thought it was going to be easy, she told herself. And one speech from the Prime Minister isn’t going to change minds instantly. For a moment, she considered taking refuge in one of the little clots of Grafters, but then decided against it.
I’ve sculpted bones, delivered babies, and held off a gang of thugs, she told herself. I’m not going to be intimidated by some snobs at a cocktail party. Taking even herself by surprise, she abruptly turned a sharp ninety degrees to the left and stood expectantly by a little clump of Checquy operatives. Their conversation died away awkwardly.
“Good evening,” she said brightly. “I’m Odette Leliefeld. It’s a lovely party tonight.”
Now make pleasant conversation, you fucks.
And make pleasant conversation they did. It was clumsy and stilted at first—none of them had actually met or chatted with a Grafter before—but she had to give them credit, they rallied magnificently. As it turned out, they all worked in Analysis and Assessment: three Pawns (two men and a woman), and three Retainers (two women and a man). They’d discussed trivial things to begin with: the orchestra, the food, the men’s suits. Then they’d moved on to other, more important topics: the attacks on various British cities, the merger, the ladies’ dresses. Everyone had taken care not to say anything that could be considered offensive, but Odette had taken extra care to condemn the attacks and mention that she’d been caught up in one.
“So, what are your preternatural abilities?” she asked during a lull in the conversation, and there was a pause. “Oh God, have I committed some supernatural faux pas?”
“No,” said Pawn Grasby, whose first name she had forgotten. “Not at all. It’s just that we’re used to everyone knowing what we can do.”
“I can summon and command wasps,” said Pawn Harriet Collinge, whom Odette suspected of being a little bit tipsy. “Roger disrupts mathematics, and Louis can draw wasps to him.”
“Very cool,” said Odette. “Wait, so you can both do things with wasps? Are you two related?”
“Oh, no,” said Louis. “Sorry, she does the thing with insects. I can attract white Anglo-Saxon Protestants.”
“That must come in handy,” said Odette.
“What about you?” asked Pawn Grasby curiously.
“Oh, I’m a regular little Swiss army knife,” said Odette. “But nothing as impressive as maths, or, um, white people.”
“Oh, come on,” said Harriet.
I should give them something, thought Odette. Something they can understand.
“Okay, well, I can rearrange my muscles,” she said. She held up her arm and concentrated, and they watched as ripples moved underneath her skin. There were some polite comments, although she suspected that they were used to much more impressive effects among their own. “It lets me perform incredibly tiny microsurgery better than any robot, but it takes a bit of time to arrange the muscles properly. Though I don’t think of that as the coo
lest thing I can do . . .”
“All right, then, what’s the coolest thing you can do?” asked Monique, one of the Retainers.
“It’s going to sound terrifically nerdy,” Odette cautioned them.
“We’re analysts,” said Roger, “we like nerdy things.”
“We prefer them,” said Harriet.
“I performed a heart transplant on an unborn baby.”
There was a startled silence.
“That’s actually way more cool than controlling insects,” said Monique.
Then the extremely nice Pawn Louis Marshall had invited her to dance. She’d been conscious of everyone’s eyes on her and him and was thankful that her dress had obligingly absorbed her perspiration, which had been copious. Then more couples had joined them on the dance floor, and suddenly it felt as if a dam had broken. The music swelled, and the party began.
At one point, Great-Uncle Marcel had tangoed by with the headmistress of the Estate. Odette saw Marie whirling with a man whose suit had steam pouring out the collar and sleeves. Odette herself moved from partner to partner, being as charming as she knew how to be.
The tempos changed, and she blessed her mother for insisting that she take dance lessons. She essayed a pavane with a man whose skin chimed whenever she brushed against it; she cha-cha’d with a man who was attended by a troop of hummingbirds that fluttered above him; and she did the twist with Harriet. There were even some slow dances. And always, she took the opportunity to say some pleasant words and leave a better impression than she formerly had.
Finally, a Pawn of the Checquy, with much urging from her comrades, had stepped up to the microphone and begun to sing. As far as Odette could tell, her voice was not supernaturally gifted—no strange emotions or sensations touched her from the sound—it was simply a lovely voice singing “At Last,” written by Mack Gordon and Harry Warren. The lights dimmed overhead, and the room was full of dancers. A hand touched her arm, and she saw that it was Grootvader Ernst, dapper in his tuxedo.