“I’m listening,” Serrin said as the hair rose on the nape of his neck.
“Serrault’s not a member of major importance, but word is he’s a possible recruiter. Be’s a socialite and hangs around to see if he can turn up any interested, talented people the Priory can use in some way. Middling mage, by all accounts. Not drek-hot, but capable enough.”
“Finding people he can use for what?”
“Well, now that depends. The orthodox heresy”-the New Yorker chuckled-“is that the Priory serves to protect the bloodline of the descendants of Jesus Christ.”
“Oh great. More freak-show stuff,” Serrin lamented.
“Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it don’t matter. Maybe the idea is emotive enough that it’s important as a myth in itself Life’s just a big myth, Serrin, you know that.” The voice trailed away into a gale of laughter and then calmed down again. “Sorry about that. Anyway, the HQ of these boys is a place called Clermont-Ferrand in the Languedoc. Did I get that pronunciation right? Down south in France, virtually in Spain.”
The room was deadly quiet.
“I’ve heard of it,” Serrin said, and waited.
“Right. Well, before you head off to warmer climes, if you have some reason for that, and I’m not asking, I’ve got a name closer to home. You want to trawl MagicNet. you can get half a dozen bonehead stories on the Priory, conspiracy theories and the usual pile of drek. You know how mages just spin drek day and night, chummer.”
“Spare me,” Serrin said. “Just give me the name’
“Yeah, sure. Guy down in Glastonbury. All these quaint English names, love it. A German exile, name of Karl-Heinz Hessler. Keeps pretty much to himself, and it’s not really a question of whether you want to see him as whether he wants to see you. Supposed to live in a little place close to the Tor. Serrin, what the frag is a ‘tor’?”
“It’s a small hill,” Serrin said. “Now, anything else on him?”
“Not really, except that he’s the man to speak to. Well, not man, elf rather. One of your people. Might help. He’s an old guy, too, which makes him a bit unusual.”
It certainly did. Elves had been born into the Sixth World for less than half a century and, with their as-yet-undetermined but definitely extra-human lifespan, they hadn’t grown old yet. Serrin was intrigued.
“Oh, and he has a sense of humor too, he’s got some kind of spirit about the place, an ally, I guess. Calls him Merlin. So be respectful. I heard he took up with a cat, too, or it took up with him.”
“Any more trivial details?”
“The cat isn’t trivial. It’s one of those blackberry cats. Like I said, be respectful. OK, chummer, that’s a favor you owe me sometime. Toodle pip, old chum, and cheerio and all that. Must pop over for some crumpet some time.” There was more chuckling.
“You got it. Thanks, McCarthy,” and Serrin placed the receiver back on the handset.
“Clermont-Ferrand.” Serrin simply restated the name and looked at Geraint. “There’s our second interested party, then.”
“I don’t get it,” Streak said as Geraint nodded. Senin gave Geraint a full-on “Shall we tell him?” look.
“He was there, we’ll tell him,” Geraint said, and retrieved the package for Streak to examine.
“I think we should hire him,” Senin suggested.
“I think I might” Geraint said slowly.
“This is music to my shell-likes,” Streak grinned.
“For seven days,” Geraint said, “starting now.”
“Seven days?”
“That’s how long we’ve got, and that includes today, which is almost over, so we’ve got six days really. Before the systems crash. Oh, well, let’s get this over with,” Geraint sighed, and he told Streak the whole story. More or less.
10
Michael woke around five in the morning with a head full of murder. He felt like he’d had a head-on collision with the entire Giants defense, and his head throbbed horribly. Groaning, he tried to get out of bed and found himself tottering backward. So he stayed put for a few minutes, took a drink from the bottle of mercifully still-cool mineral water, and then stood up and poured the rest of it over his head, He managed to stagger into the bathroom, stuck his head under the cold faucet, and waited and hoped for the best.
By five-thirty, after two cups of Geraint’s finest coffee extracted from the espresso machine, he finally felt able to peer out between the veins of his savagely bloodshot eyes. He went back to the bathroom, showered and shaved, and by six-fifteen, dressed in one of his best blue Saville Row suits, felt almost human. He was on the verge of contemplating getting something to eat, his hunger having finally overcome the residual nausea from the gas, when Kristen managed to hang on to the doorframe of the kitchen and focus her uncertain gaze on him.
“That is absolutely the last time I drink lemon vodka with you,” he said with a weak laugh. “Kick like a pack of mules. Good morning. Want some coffee?”
She slumped into the chair opposite him, the effort of speech apparently beyond her, but she was just about able to lift a cup and drink. Her hair, which seemed to have grown thicker and more lustrous since he’d previously known her, was an untamed mane of frizz around her face. She was wearing only a short nightgown, and her silky brown legs stretched under the table, touching his. Her physical presence was imposing for all that she was small, still young, and having considerable difficulty engaging with reality.
“Give me a cigarette,” she begged at last.
“Sure?”
“Don’t ask,” she said. “Just do it.”
He didn’t argue. She inhaled deeply, drank the cupful at a gulp, and sat back with her eyes shut.
“Wish I had the real thing,” she said, looking forlornly at the cigarette.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea this morning. What happened to us? I can’t remember anything after getting in that taxi.”
“Me neither,” she said, and stretched like a jaguar in the sunshine. She hadn’t bathed yet, and her scent was musky and sweet. But as he glanced at her, he saw a mark on her arm. Reaching out, he took her arm in his hands.
“Pinprick,” he said. “Look.”
Kristen stared intently at her arm, chewing her lip in concern. “How did you see that?” she said doubtfully.
“Don’t know. It just caught my eye.” Then he slipped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
His left arm had the same tiny mark. He’d missed it while showering, the slight ache in his arm probably masked by the general feeling of fatigue. His head had still been full of cotton-wool at the time, the world a fuzzy haze around him.
“Drek,” he said, shaking his head. ‘Someone’s taken blood samples.”
She looked alarmed. She didn’t know what it meant, but she was probably wondering what else might have been done to her.
“Blood, maybe for ritual magic,” he said. “It’s not an uncommon practice. They probably snipped off some hair as well. Not good. We’re going to have ask Serrin about this. He’s the expert.”
Kristen wasn’t reassured. She knew little of the art, and what things Serrin told her were hard to understand. The magically talented and the mundane walked different paths, with many points of simple incomprehension between them.
On cue, Serrin appeared in the doorway, a silk dressing gown draped around his thin form. The contrast with the graceful figure of his wife could not have been greater. Knobbled knees and a mass of scar tissue on the leg shattered during a botched run for a corp many years ago were visible beneath the garment. He took one look at the coffee machine dispensing dark fluid, and made for it like a polecat after a baby rabbit.
“What happened? How did we get back?” Michael asked him. Serrin told him. Michael was indignant at first, and then, despite himself, laughed. “Shipped in a crate? The bastards. Well, I can’t say I take offense, not really. They could have killed us, after all.” Then he told the mage about the pinpricks and the possibility that blood samples had been taken from them.