Stiletto

  “I’m just going as an observer. I don’t think I’ll be engaging in actual combat,” said Odette doubtfully.

  Although once this is done, I really should learn how to fight, she mused. I expect the Checquy will insist on it, regardless of whatever role I move into. Apparently even the librarians are death machines.

  “Good to see combat done, anyway,” said Grootvader Ernst. “Do me proud. Endeavor not to get killed or eaten. Oh, and don’t forget to wear your coat.”

  “Yes, Grootvader.” She sighed. “But be sure to let the Checquy know that you’ve given your approval. And you should probably make it clear to them that if I get hurt at all, you won’t hold the Checquy responsible,” she said and hung up.

  “Is it likely to be dangerous?” Clements asked. “You’re a Pawn of the Checquy,” said Derrick. “What kind of fuckin’ question is that?”

  “Not for me, sir,” said Clements. “For her.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t expect so,” said Derrick. “You won’t be going into the actual church, and she’ll be staying in the command center. Plus she’ll be surrounded by armed troops—the Rookery just sent up an additional lot of soldiers. Hard-pressed to find a safer place for her.”

  Clements looked a little relieved at this news. Then, with remarkable alacrity, the Pawn hustled Odette out of the operations suite, down to the front entrance of the hotel, and into a waiting car. As the car swiftly took off, Clements began reading through a file that had been waiting for them in the backseat.

  “Can I take a look?”

  “It’s classified,” said the Pawn, and she paused. “But then, so are you, and you’re going to the site.” She handed over the folder.

  As she read it, Odette began to feel less and less certain about everything.

  In Muirie, a village tucked away in the Central Lowlands of Scotland, no fewer than fifteen people were believed to have been killed by forces unknown over the course of the previous night. Believed was the operative word, since no bodies had been recovered, but the moans had endured for several hours before stopping abruptly shortly before dawn.

  What in God’s name happened? thought Odette. She skimmed over the history of the village itself.

  Muirie was a small community of about two hundred houses clustered around a dour-looking church. Historically, its primary industries had been agriculture and a sort of willful illiteracy. The earliest mention of the place dated from a history of Macbeth, the king of Scotland, who had been struck down with food poisoning whilst passing through (an anecdote that was somehow left out of the play). Apparently, between bouts of vomiting, the monarch had expressed his mild incredulity that the town continued to exist, and that had been in 1050.

  Since then, the village had grown somewhat in size, and the demographic had shifted from subsistence-level barley and cabbage farmers to information technology and legal professionals, who were drawn by Muirie’s quaint alleyways, authentic gray stone houses, and the willingness of the local council to let newcomers tear the guts out of the homes’ interiors and renovate (for a suitable fee).

  The place had one village store (now stocked with a selection of gourmet ingredients) and no fewer than five exquisite little restaurants serving food of extremely specific ethnic origins. The village’s children were bused to a nearby town for school, and most of the residents spent at least two hours a day commuting between their homes and their jobs in Perth (which boasted reliable Internet connections and legal problems that didn’t exclusively involve sheep). Some residents predated the arrival of the young, wealthy professionals. These proto-Muirites tended to be older, somewhat weathered-looking, and prone to making pointed remarks about the kind of limp fancies who felt the village shop needed to stock six kinds of salt.

  The church, as far as the Checquy could tell, was the origin of the problem. It was a squat structure that (judging from the photos) had not been so much built as laboriously chiseled out of a single sullen boulder of granite. As a result of its rugged construction, the building had withstood the centuries easily, and the village’s new denizens had resisted their natural urge to renovate the interior, feeling that it was their duty to preserve it for future generations whilst simultaneously not attending services. It had caught the eye of a visiting academic, who exclaimed over its untouched qualities and returned a few months later with a team of archaeology graduate students and permission to use them.

  The archaeologists had been laboring away inside the church with their little brushes and their distilled water and their digital cameras, and though they hadn’t discovered anything astonishing, they were getting some insights into the history of the place and had found some nice examples of local craftsmanship. Then, on Friday afternoon, around the time that Clements had been grimly surveying her assigned dress, something had happened. It was not immediately clear what, but the caretaker’s wife, who had been gardening out front, had heard a brief flurry of shouts coming from within, followed by faint moans and a sound like that of “a large dog when it laps at a bowl of water on a hot day.”

  Thoroughly unnerved, she had gone home and told her husband. The caretaker had rolled his eyes upon learning that his wife hadn’t even dared to enter the church. He declared that he would stroll along over there, poke his head in, and make sure that everything was all right.

  He did not return.

  His wife waited for the rest of the afternoon. She calmly tried his mobile phone and got no response. She calmly called the pub, which had seen no sign of him. She then calmly decided to lock all the doors and draw the curtains and call the village constable.

  The village constable, who was just sitting down to his tea, listened patiently to her story while his wife brought him a nice piece of fish. Fortunately, he had recently attended a course in Aberdeen for small-town police at which a woman (actually Pawn Lillian Wyldeck of the Rookery) had briefed them on what they should do if something a bit . . . unusual should pop up. He dug out the card with Miss Wyldeck’s number and was assured by the calm voice on the other end that he’d done the right thing to call. He should go down to the church and keep an eye on it, she said, but he should by no means enter it nor let anyone else do so. Assistance was on its way.

  The nearest Checquy contingent was two hours from Muirie, in Dundee, and they were all taken up in the nationwide alert about people’s eyes melting in public places. Two junior operatives (a Pawn and a Retainer who were in need of some experience) were sent in a fast car to take stock of the situation. In the meantime, a police team was dispatched from the much closer city of Perth with very specific orders not to enter the building. They had quietly established a perimeter around the church and waited for the big boys to arrive from Dundee. Then one bright young spark on the team, eager to make a name for himself, had pointed out that this was daft, that they didn’t know for certain what was wrong, and that people might be hurt in there. There was no strange sound that he could hear, and he was going in!

  The bright spark led three of his team into the church. They opened the doors, and blinding light flooded out into the darkness. The four officers rushed in and the doors shut behind them. This time, there weren’t even any screams. The rest of the police decided to wait quietly for the arrival of someone who was being paid enough to deal with this shite.

  The two Checquy operatives who eventually arrived might have argued that they weren’t being paid enough to deal with this shite either, but they did anyway. It turned out that the big boys from Dundee were actually young ladies, but the police still jumped to obey their orders. Their obedience mainly stemmed from the young ladies’ assurance and authority, although it probably helped that the Pawn could influence the minds of men as a result of her astounding ability to emit pheromones, while the Retainer could influence the minds of men as a result of her having big knockers.

  The Retainer approached the church cautiously, heard the aforementioned lapping sound, and backed away. Then she and her colleague made some phone calls.

/>   Various things happened in quick succession:

  1.The Checquy duty officer in Dundee reassured the Pawn and the Retainer that they had done the right thing.

  2.Then that officer called and woke up her boss.

  3.The boss, Pawn Mungo Kirkcaldie, called the Rookery.

  4.The villagers were roused, herded onto the village cricket pitch, and given a garbled but alarming story about spores, toxins, and bacteria that might have been unearthed in the church. The villagers, who could imagine the value of their homes dropping with every detail, conferred amongst themselves and decided to keep their mouths shut and not argue until they knew the extent of the problem. They were then evacuated to a lonely point in the countryside where hastily mobilized army troops were setting up a temporary quarantine and testing facility (one that featured no mobile phone reception so as to ensure the rest of the world did not take an interest).

  5.A Checquy team, led by a yawning Pawn Kirkcaldie, left Dundee for Muirie.

  6.Rook Myfanwy Thomas, who had gone to sleep only fifteen minutes earlier after finally getting home from the reception for the Grafters, got woken up.

  This has been going on for many hours,” said Odette, looking up from the file.

  “Yeah,” said Clements. There wasn’t much more to tell; that was the point when Pawn Felicity Clements had been ordered to the site to assist in reconnaissance.

  “Shouldn’t the Checquy have moved in by now, rescued the people?”

  “We have to be strategic about these things,” said Clements, looking out the car window. “If Checquy operatives just charge in without planning, you end up with large swaths of the countryside that don’t support life. There can be fallout.”

  “Like, nuclear fallout?”

  “If only,” said Clements. “There are fields in Cumbria where, for every hour you stand on them, you lose a year off your life span. In Bridewell, there’s a house whose second story, if you ascend to it, will destroy your credit rating. And a pond on the Lizard Peninsula whose water melts your teeth together.” Odette could feel her brow knitting in bewilderment, but she kept her mouth shut.

  “Those people in the church, maybe they’re alive, and maybe they aren’t,” said Clements, turning to her. “But the people outside, including the Checquy people, are definitely alive, so they get first priority. Checquy operatives are rare enough that it’s irresponsible and unpatriotic to just throw our lives away.” She looked out the window. “We’re here.”

  They hurried through a hospital and up to the roof, where the helicopter was waiting for them. They lifted off and away, Odette looking down in delight at the city beneath them. Within minutes, they landed. They were met by a man in uniform coveralls who led them to a jet waiting on the runway. The craft was small, pointy, and exquisite inside, and it did not have to wait in line to take off. Instead, it weaved its way between the larger, bewildered-looking planes on the tarmac and zipped off into the sky without apology.

  The flight up to Dundee went by swiftly, or at least it seemed that way to Odette, who was drunk on the landscape beneath her. Clements spent most of the time rereading the briefing files. At one point, the Pawn called the Rookery and asked for more information on the church, which was obligingly faxed through to the jet since no one’s phone could display the floor plan on a useful scale.

  From Dundee, another helicopter took them to Muirie. Odette looked curiously down at the town as they flew over it. “It doesn’t seem particularly malevolent,” she remarked. “Dour, but not malevolent.” They were dropped off at one end of a shinty field, where a Retainer in body armor met them, ducking slightly as he ran up to help them out of the helicopter. As soon as they had disembarked and moved away, the aircraft took off.

  “Welcome to Muirie,” said the man. “I’m Peter Burrows, site manager.”

  “Pawn Felicity Clements and Miss Odette Leliefeld,” said Clements, and they all shook hands. He didn’t give Odette any wary looks, which she thought was nice.

  “I’ll take you to Pawn Kirkcaldie,” said Burrows. “We’re all ready for you.” He led them off the pitch and through the village. There were only a few actual streets in the town but an abundance of little alleyways weaving between the houses.

  “Quaint,” remarked Clements as he led them through.

  “I believe it’s one of the reasons people like to live here,” said Burrows. “Everyone loves a snickelway.” Odette shot Clements a bewildered look.

  “It’s a word from the city of York. It means little streets and alleyways,” the Pawn explained.

  Some of them were very narrow, and several times the three of them had to go single file. Doorways opened off the alleys, presumably into the two- and three-story houses, all adjoining, that rose above them. Gray stone walls merged into gray stone walls and led up to steep slate roofs. Eventually, Burrows brought them to a courtyard with a few tables scattered under a large oak tree. “We’ve commandeered the pub as a base of operations—it’s the only place big enough,” he explained. “Except for the church, which is, of course, not available.”

  The main room of the pub was aggressively old-timey, with heavy beams across the low ceiling and creaky floorboards. Several tables had been pushed together to form a big one, and a group of armor-clad soldiers were eating at one end. On the other side of the room was an administrative area where people looked at computers, talked on radiotelephones, and perused large pieces of paper. Burrows introduced them to Pawn Mungo Kirkcaldie, a big military-looking man in his forties.

  “Pawn Kirkcaldie, this is Pawn Felicity Clements and Miss Odette Lilyfield,” said Burrows. Odette bit her tongue at his mispronunciation of her name.

  “Ah, Clements, excellent,” said Kirkcaldie. “Good to have you here, we’ve been waiting on you. And Miss Lilyfield, welcome. We’d better get on with it.” He walked them over to a map pinned to the wall. “We’ve got troops ringing the church; they’re on the roofs of the surrounding buildings and in the street,” he explained, pointing out the positions. “They’re mostly concentrated at the front, where the doors are, and the rear, where they’ve got that one biggish window. We’re lucky there’s not a lot of stained-glass windows in this building—the original builders of the church seemed to think windows were a wicked popish extravagance—so there’s really only two points of access and escape.

  “So, Pawn Clements, we want you to sashay over and take a peek in the church. Give us an idea of what’s where before we go inside. I understand you need to be touching the building?”

  “It’ll make it easier and faster,” said Clements. Several Pawns came over to strap some armor onto her and give her a headset. A Retainer handed her a nasty-looking submachine gun.

  “Easy and fast is what we want,” said Kirkcaldie, and he led them over to the front windows of the pub. “Now, that’s the church over there,” he said, pointing through the glass. “We’ll send you across the street so you can lay hands on the back wall. There’ll be sharpshooters covering you, but I’m also sending Pawn Pickhaver here.” Pawn Pickhaver was a large man with a large chin and a large gun. “He has a trick where he can solidify light, so he can raise some walls around you if necessary, give you a bit of extra protection. Not that we expect any trouble.”

  “Fine,” said Clements.

  “Miss Lilyfield, you’ll be staying in here with me,” said Kirkcaldie firmly.

  “I understand, sir,” said Odette.

  “We’ve heard from the historians at the Rookery and Apex House,” said Burrows. “So far, their searches have revealed nothing ever happening at Muirie.”

  “No history of supernatural activity at all,” mused Kirkcaldie. “Well, this town’s had a pretty good run up until now.”

  “Not just no supernatural activity,” said the aide-de-camp. “I don’t think anything has ever happened here.”

  “Well, spontaneous shit happens,” said Kirkcaldie. “That’s what keeps us in work, eh? Let’s get a move on, then. Clements, can you give
us a running commentary?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir,” said Clements. “I’ve got to leave my body entirely to scan something outside it.”

  “Right. Then to begin with, just make quick forays and then zap back into your body to give us sketches of the situation. Once we’ve got an overview, we’ll work out what we want in detail.”

  “Understood, sir. You don’t need to know what’s happened in there, do you? No past events?”

  “Nah, just give us the present situation,” said Kirkcaldie. It was clear he’d been briefed on Clements’s abilities. “We’ll figure out the past later. You take a look, tell us what you see, then we’ll work out a strategy and go in.”

  Clements agreed, nodded to Odette, and then proceeded outside with Pawn Pickhaver. Burrows handed Odette a headset so she could hear Clements’s commentary. She watched through the window as the two Pawns ran across the street, keeping low. When they reached the church, they crouched down against the wall. Clements knelt and placed her hand against the stone while Pickhaver stood ready with his gun.

  “We’re established. Going through the wall now,” Clements said.

  “Sentries, stand ready,” ordered Kirkcaldie. There were several minutes of tense silence, followed by a couple of minutes of bored silence, followed by a minute or two of increasingly worried silence.

  “I’m back,” said Clements suddenly.

  “What did you see, Clements?” Kirkcaldie asked.

  “The place is empty, sir. The people have vanished.”

  “No bodies?”

  “Negative.”

  “No bones, even?” said Kirkcaldie hopefully.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Well, that’s creepy as anything,” said Burrows in a vexed tone.

  “The place seems undisturbed,” said Clements. “The aisles are mostly clear. There are some backpacks and cases between the altar and the pews. I’m guessing they belong to the archaeologists.” She described tools lying about as if dropped, but “I’m not seeing anything,” said Clements finally. “No life at all. Some small puddles of something.”