Sam's position provided him with a partial view of the room. Near its center, Glover sat in a comfortable armchair. In a matching chair at his side, a position of honor, sat an older man with grey hair and a trim grey mustache. From the deference shown to him, Sam pegged him as Sir Winston Neville, the only name he had heard Glover use in greeting the others. Neville's welcome had been the most effusive, so it was likely that he would be given the most honored seat. A younger man, by the cast of his aristocratic face a son or cousin to Neville, stood behind the chair. Occasionally Sam caught glimpses of three others moving about the room.
The great outer door opened, swinging wide on silent hinges. There had been no knock or bell chime. A man entered, striding ponderously forward. He was huge and walked with a huffing that emphasized the difficulty he had in moving his enormous bulk. The moonlight sent glints from the sweat that beaded among the sparse white hairs of his head. A casual swat sent the door arcing shut as he started down the hall.
"Hyde-White is here," announced one of the men in the room. They were all staring at the doorway when the obese man reached the arch.
Newcomer and gathered conspirators faced each other. They exchanged words in a language that Sam didn't recognize, although it seemed to have echoes of English. Having finished what seemed a ritual greeting, Glover inclined his head and waved a hand in invitation.
Hyde-White rolled forward. As the jutting prow of his obesity passed over the threshold, the air in the doorway shimmered. A line of sparks ran around the fat man's shape, making a glittering outline as he passed the magical barrier that sealed the room. He spoke as soon as the last sparkle died, his voice a resonant rumble like the distant growling of summer thunder.
"Please excuse my tardiness. There were some affairs in the Atzlan office to sort out, and my personal attention was required. I trust you have not reached any important conclusions without me."
"We were having Barnett fill us in on his last acquisition," the grey-haired man said.
"My apologies for the interruption, Sir Winston. Please continue, Mr. Barnett,'' Hyde-White said as he marched deeper into the room. "I'm sure I will be fascinated."
The fat man ponderously passed from view. Sam could tell when Hyde-White sat, for the bannister in front of his face trembled slightly. The pinch-faced man, who was obviously Barnett, cleared his throat before continuing.
"I really don't have much more to say. My mission went smoothly and there were no problems. It's a shame that we cannot all say the same. Eh, Glover?"
Glover, who had been staring at the fire, swiveled his head around to face Barnett. "Are you suggesting that I have failed the Circle, Mr. Barnett?"
"Anyone could lose valuable employees in such a venture. Although Mr. Burke was one of our more exceptional agents, I would hardly fault you for his passing. The fortunes of war, I am sure." Barnett sniffed. "I am merely referring to certain loose ends."
Stepping around from behind the chair, the younger Neville said, "Yes, Glover. What has become of the shadowrunners who acompanied you from Hong Kong? We have heard that they are still in the country."
Glover addressed his answer to the older Neville, as if he had spoken, instead. "They are upstairs, asleep."
"Why haven't you dismissed them? Were they to stumble downstairs into our meeting it would be most inconvenient. You should have left them in Hong Kong." The younger Neville's pointing finger of accusation didn't distract Glover.
"I did not think that a wise idea at the time, Sir Winston. With Mister Burke eliminated, I deemed the additional protection they could offer to be necessary. Had I encountered additional difficulties, the safety of Monsieur Corbeau might have been threatened. I saw his safe return as my primary responsibility. The day draws near."
"You should have dismissed them as soon as you arrived here safely," young Neville insisted.
Glover shook his head slowly. "By then, they had seen enough to connect me to ATT. I thought it inadvisable to let them loose with that knowledge." "Then you should have had them killed," Barnett said. "You swore the secrecy oath along with the rest of us."
"Indeed," Glover said, folding his arms across his chest. "That is precisely why they are still alive. If they were not disposed of cleanly and completely, there would be an investigation. We do not need inquiries from the Lord Protector's Oversight Board at this time. But once we have completed our ritual, we will no longer need to remain hidden, and without a need for absolute secrecy we may dispose of them easily. For now, they remain here, believing themselves on retainer for an upcoming shadowrun. The deception is sufficient; they remain ignorant of the Circle and our goal."
"You have badgered Mr. Glover enough," rumbled Hyde-White. "The crucial question is the suitability of Mr. Gordon."
"Suitability has been addressed and confirmed beyond any question. While Mr. Gordon remains uncrowned, there is no question of the sanctity of his bloodline. Had not the father-in-law of the current holder of the throne been so prominent in the work of gathering the scattered survivors of the royal family, Mr. Gordon would be our crowned sovereign. That unfortunate turn of events is but one of the hurdles we strive to overcome. The false king only contributes to the land's woes. But crowned or not, Edward Arthur Charles Gordon-Windsor is the chalice of mystic power necessary to restore the land." Sir Winston Neville threw back his shoulders and tugged at his waistcoat to seat it properly. "I spoke with him before coming here tonight. I can assure you all he is ready to accept his part in the ritual. He seems eager to take his place as the seventh, for he believes as we do. The land must live."
"The land must live," the others echoed.
The seventh? If Gordon was the seventh, what was the name of Janice Walters doing on Glover's list? Sam looked at Dodger. The elf was staring fixedly ahead. He seemed intent on listening to the conspirators. There would be questions to ask later.
Illusion was the heart's blood of the Shidhe Courts.
When Hart glanced around her, taking in the wild array of sights, sounds, and smells of the Seelie Court, she could never be sure if what she saw was real or an image that was the result of a magical spell. Checking astrally didn't always help. The great amounts of magical energy and the almost continual activity of the magicians of the court made assensing difficult. Much of the magic was defensive, for members of the court were often at odds with each other. Open warfare was forbidden, but pranks, taunts, and even clandestine, oblique struggles were common. Some of the magic was defensive on a less immediate level. The court had attracted elves and dwarves from around the world; some were concerned that their appearance was not up to the court standards. They used illusion to glamorize themselves, for the ugly were perforce members of the Unseelie Court, the co-ruling rivals with whom the Fair Folk shared the control of the Shidhe Dominion of Ireland.
The Seelie Court proclaimed Ireland to be a magical state, claiming that the Shidhe lords were the ancient proprietors who had returned to claim their rightful lands. But although they reveled in magic and officially held technology in scorn, the magician lords i took every advantage of science. The computer facilities and combat simulators she had been using for the past week were ample proof of that. Of course, the Shidhe would not speak of such things in public forums. They denied having or even needing such things. They had them, all right, and their technology was cutting-edge. They simply hid their technological workings or cloaked them in illusion. Image was very important to the metahuman rulers of Ireland.
The great double orichalcum doors to the inner court opened, swinging wide until they came to rest against the walls of vines in which they were set. Two elves, outsiders by their dress, walked through the arch. As they passed Hart, the woman nodded in friendly recognition. It was nothing personal. Hart's upswept fall of hair was the latest style outside. Even though she wore local garb, the hairdo marked Hart as a visitor to this fey land, and most visitors, though strangers to each other, found other visitors more congenial company than the locals. The man, glowering beneath his dark brows, didn't seem to notice Hart existed.