Michael broke the dark brown crust on the steaming pie with an eagerness quite unjustified after his mammoth breakfast-but since that had, after all, been the only meal he’d had in a day and a half, the steak and kidney was exactly what he needed. He thought of ordering a second one, and guessed that at least some of the others might be of the same mind, but not wanting to draw undue attention, he settled for a pudding instead.
Kristen was wriggling in her chair, trying to stifle her giggles behind her hands. He looked uncomprehendingly at her.
“That’s rude,” she said, and even on her brown face a blush was apparent.
“What?” He was still perplexed until he realized what was happening. “Ah, spotted dick. Yes, well, it’s a suet pudding with currants in it. Hopefully accompanied by a large amount of custard with satisfying lumps in it. Traditional English pudding.”
She looked doubtful and slightly embarrassed until the dish arrived, and lived up to Michael’s description of it, right down to the thick skin settling on the surface of the custard, which did, indeed, appear to act as a camouflage blanket for floury lumps lurking underneath.
“I had better go alone,” Serrin said eventually, having dispensed with such temptations. He had no liking for sweet foods, and was impatient to be away. “Will you be all right?”
“I think we might be,” Streak said, settling into a third pint. Serrin looked askance. “Don’t worry, term,” the other elf said pleasantly. “I can handle this stuff. Not something that can dull wired reflexes.”
“Very well,” Serrin said, getting up from the slightly uncomfortable wooden chair.
“When will you be back?” Kristen asked, fixing her eyes on his.
“I have no idea, Serrin said truthfully, checking that his small bag held the leather volume and the paperwork he’d done his best to assimilate during the journey.
“Look, let me come with you as far as the foot of the hill,” Streak said. “Sure you want to go on alone, but let’s not take any chances, right?”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Michael said.
Serrin thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Come on, let’s go. See you later, darling. Enjoy your, er, pudding, Michael”
“Sgreat,” Michael managed to say through a mouthful of custard-lubricated heavy pudding. Kristen threatened to laugh again as the elves made for the low doorway, ducking their heads down to get outside.
Streak left him at the approach road. The cottage was plainly visible, with only a few trees around it, and Serrin was almost surprised at the plainness of the place. He half-expected a small mansion shrouded in some form of mist, with spirits all over the place. Assensing the place, he found nothing around, not even a watcher. Nor even any obvious ward or barrier, but that might testify only to the old elf’s ability to disguise power.
Serrin paused along the short driveway. The obvious thing was to walk right up and tap with the brass door-knocker, but somehow it seemed wrong to do so. He was a little unnerved. He had the feeling of being naked, as if the old mage would see right through him even though Serrin had nothing to hide. Summoning his will, he covered the last few paces and knocked politely at the door with two short raps of the knocker.
It opened immediately, revealing a young, fresh-faced man with dark curly hair standing in the doorway. Behind him, the small hall showed simple carpets, a few brass and pottery ornaments, and an old grandfather clock ticking away sonorously, its giant pendulum swinging in its slow, steady rhythm.
“I hoped to make an appointment to see Herr Hessler.” Serrin said. “Forgive me, but the matter is pressing. I have what I hope may be a gift in return for some of his time.”
He had thought out the speech carefully. In response, the young man rubbed his chin and looked him over sharply.
“You’re trouble,” he announced.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, not you so much as your woman. Someone’s got it in for her,” the young man said, folding his arms across his chest.
“Oh, drek,” Serrin said, his prepared polite introduction abandoned in the face of such an unexpected revelation. What could this youth mean?
“I think my master might be interested in you,” the youth said. “But go back and bring your woman with you. She’s going to need more help then you do. Oh dear, there’s someone else too, isn’t there? Sorry, the emotional bond isn’t so strong between you and I couldn’t see him straight away. Someone’s got a sign on two people around you.
“Well, bring your woman anyway,” the youth said at length. “One should be enough.”
He’d been assensed already, Serrin realized, and it didn’t much surprise or annoy him, it being only what he’d expected. But it was disconcerting to be so vulnerable to someone so young. Then he realized that this wasn’t, of course, a youth at all.
“You are Merlin, I presume?” he said politely.
“You can call me that if you wish. He does.” The spirit grinned. “And I’ll call you Serrin. So I know your real name, but you don’t know mine.” The grin grew a little wider.
Serrin smiled in return. To know a spirit’s true name was power over it, and only Hessler would know that information.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
“Make it swift,” Merlin said, for the first time a truly serious expression settling over his face.
Serrin was halfway down the driveway, the door to the cottage closed behind him, when his senses dulled soddenly and he felt almost faint. A humming Sound came from behind him, and he turned slowly-unsure whether he really wanted to do so-to see a black cat sitting by a bush, purring gently.
That must be his cat he thought.
He got a distinct impression of resentfulness implanted in his feelings and corrected the error swiftly.
Sorry. You are his cat companion.
The purring seemed a little softer and the cat licked its paw, then used the back of it to wash its face. It looked wonderfully unconcerned while it was giving him the once-over.
An image came into his mind of four small dark kittens accompanying a larger tom cat. Black like them, the tom had white socks and a bib and a characteristic mane of hair and long white whiskers.
Skita! Suki’s cat, he thought. The tiny elven talismonger was among his few friends in London. This cat seemed to be saying it knew her cat. The image of one of the kittens grew and turned into the cat before him. The cat advanced and stood beside him, tail arched.
That’s Skita’s gesture, he thought with an inner smile. Spirits, are you Skita’s offspring?
The cat purred more loudly. Serrin felt himself freed as if from some constraint, and on impulse took a small brown paper bag from his pocket. He had come prepared for this and fortunately the delivery had reached Geraint’s apartment just before they’d left.
He reached inside the paper bag and extracted the cloth mouse with its faint smell of catnip. He rubbed it vigorously to make the scent stronger, and laid it at the cat’s feet.
The cat took one look at the mouse, which seemed to return the look, as if wondering whether this was safe. Then the cat seized the mouse in its jaws, ripped at it with its front claws, and finally rolled over on its back, savaging the mouse with all four paws. After a few seconds of mayhem it flung the mouse aside and rolled back over, giving Serrin a sharp look that did its best to mask embarrassment at its indignity.
Serrin dutifully turned and walked off, leaving the cat to its intoxicatory pleasure unhindered by human voyeurism.
I have a friend here, I hope, he thought. The thought cheered him as he walked back to the town to find a wife who did not yet know she needed the protection he so fervently hoped Hessler would give.
12