‘Yes. Please.’
‘You will appreciate that I am gradually becoming bored with the constant necessity of getting you out of trouble.’
Sarius doesn’t answer. What is he supposed to say? But the messenger seems to be waiting for an answer, and Sarius certainly doesn’t want him to become even more bored.
‘I’m sorry. I was clumsy.’
‘There, I must concur. Clumsiness is pardonable in a Two; in an Eight it is a disgrace.’
He’s about to take a level from me, Sarius thinks unhappily. If not even more.
‘You could always rely on me in the past, couldn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I still rely on you, Sarius? Even when things get difficult?’ ‘Of course.’
‘Good. Then I will help you once more. But you must carry out some orders for me, and this time you must not be clumsy.’
The injury tone recedes, and Sarius sits up slowly. That was close. He’ll control himself next time; something like that will never happen to him again. The Arena fight is in two days; he wants to be fit by then.
‘I will carry out your orders. I don’t mind if it’s difficult. It’s not a problem.’
The messenger nods deliberately.
‘I am glad to hear it. Allow me to ask you a question first. Mr Watson is your English teacher?’
‘Yes.’
‘I understand he often carries a thermos around with him. Is that true?’
Sarius has to think about that for a moment.
‘Yes. I think it has tea in it.’
‘Good. Tomorrow morning, five minutes after the beginning of the third period you will go to the toilet on the first floor. The one where the mirror over the washbasin is cracked. You will find a small bottle in the waste bin. You are to tip its contents into Mr Watson’s thermos. The nature of these contents need not concern you. However your ingenuity will be put to the test. No-one must observe you doing this.’
Sarius has followed the messenger’s instructions with growing disbelief. He briefly considers running away and pretending he hasn’t heard a word of it. Or he can keep lying here and wait for the messenger to take it all back and pronounce it a bad joke. But his companion simply crosses his arms in front of his bony chest.
‘Well? Did you understand everything?’
Sarius gives himself a shake. ‘Yes.’
‘Will you do it? Since the task is difficult, the reward will be ample. A new magical power and three levels. Then you will be an Eleven, Sarius. As an Eleven you would even be a contender for a place in the Inner Circle, and I could tell you the name of its weakest link.’
Sarius takes a deep breath. It is a game, isn’t it? Probably the messenger is demanding a test of courage, and there’s milk in the little bottle. Or glucose.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘Excellent. I will expect your report in the morning.’
This time the darkness comes quickly and leaves Sarius feeling more at a loss than ever before.
Create. Sustain. Destroy.
For each of these tasks the Hindus have a different god. I master all that on my own.
I created what no-one before me has created, but the world is not my witness and never will be.
Next I tried to sustain what I had created – with all my strength, with all my will. Painfully, sometimes also tearfully, and always at considerable sacrifice.
Now I will destroy. Who will hold it against me? If there is justice, then at least this final act will succeed.
I would rather have remained a creator and taken pleasure in my creation, sustained it, shared it with others. But destruction can also be of some interest. Its appeal lies in its finality.
CHAPTER 20
Nick couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept as badly as he had last night. He’d turned the orders over and over in his mind, calming himself down one minute, and panicking the next. Attempted hundreds of times to imagine the scenario for the next day. He’d tried hard to devise a plan, however he’d never got further than the part where he was supposed to unscrew the thermos lid and tip the unknown substance in before the film stopped running.
But now the time had come. Two minutes ago the bell had rung for the third lesson. Nick climbed the stairs to the first floor, his heart hammering.
He had a free period. One of the many advantages of finally being in Sixth Form. The others who didn’t have a class now were in the library or the common room; Nick didn’t think anyone was following him. But he was constantly on the lookout. Secretly waiting for Dan or Alex or someone else to ambush him with a camera.
Nick stopped in front of the door to the toilets. He wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. But that didn’t change anything.
All right. Open the door. A quick look in the cracked mirror, at his pale face, the dark circles under his eyes.
There, to the left of the washbasins, was the waste bin. Half full, with used Kleenexes, empty drink cans, a banana peel, a half-eaten sandwich and a few scrunched up pages from an exercise book.
Nick separated the pieces of paper gingerly. Nothing there. There wasn’t anything under the first drink can either.
He didn’t have a choice: he kept burrowing. There was even more crumpled paper. A clumsy drawing of a naked girl. Nick shoved his hand deeper. If there was still nothing there, he’d take the waste bin and up-end it, and root through the rubbish like a pig at a trough. Or explain to the messenger that there hadn’t been any little bottle in the waste bin – now there was an idea. The hope had barely begun to blossom in Nick before he saw it – a small carton, blue and white. ‘Digotan®, 50 Tbl, 0.2 mg,’ Nick read. He lifted the carton out, felt something in it. Bloody hell.
He shut himself in the last cubicle and opened the packaging. A small brown bottle was revealed, about two-thirds full of white tablets.
Nick opened the bottle, smelled its contents, didn’t notice anything obvious. The tablets looked harmless; they were white and chalky, with a score line in the middle.
He could still hear the messenger’s words – that he needn’t concern himself with exactly what was in the bottle. But there was no way Nick could ignore the instruction leaflet.
The active substance in the small white pills was called ß-Acetyl-digoxin and was used, according to the instructions, to treat heart disease.
Digotan® improves the heart’s performance; it pumps more slowly and strongly. Blood circulation throughout the body is also improved.
It sounded trustworthy so far. Nick turned the note over and looked for the side effects.
Warning: Medications containing cardioactive glycosides can become toxic in the presence of electrolyte imbalance or due to interaction with other medications. Danger: an overdose can be fatal. You should therefore seek immediate medical attention if you experience any of the following symptoms: nausea, vomiting, visual impairment, hallucinations, or abnormal heartbeat.
Can be fatal. The instruction leaflet trembled in Nick’s hand. The stuff can easily become toxic, it said – what would happen if he emptied the whole contents of the bottle into Watson’s thermos? Would one sip of tea be enough to poison his teacher?
Nick leaned against the toilet wall with his eyes closed. There was no way he could do that. He couldn’t kill anyone. He would ask the messenger for new orders – taking photos, maybe. This was insane. It was probably a programming mistake anyway, and the messenger would be glad if Nick pointed it out to him.
Yeah right, sure.
He remembered what the gnome had said by the campfire: that they had to treat their enemies as enemies. Those who sought to destroy the world of Erebos. Had he really meant they should kill them?
Nick weighed the little bottle in his hand. Briefly he considered tipping the contents into the loo, but then he wasn’t game. Perhaps he’d still need the pills. He had to think of something.
For the rest of the period he roamed around the school, restless as a ghost. He needed an idea – and not
just any idea, a good one. One that would allow both Watson and Sarius to stay alive.
Next recess Watson was on yard duty. Nick watched him closely; he couldn’t take his eyes off the shiny chrome thermos that the teacher carried around, tucked casually under his arm.
At this rate Nick was never going to get at it. It was completely out of the question. The only possibility was to wait until Watson put it down somewhere. And he would presumably only do that in the staffroom, where there were always loads of people. He couldn’t simply march in there and chuck pills into someone’s tea.
It would never work! Nick felt for the bottle in his trouser pocket. It wasn’t fair. The orders couldn’t be carried out even if Nick threw his conscience out the window, even if he . . .
‘Nick?’
He stifled a yelp.
‘Adrian, must you sneak up on me like that, damn it?’
‘I’m sorry.’
But Adrian didn’t look sorry. He appeared resolute, even though he was pale and wetting his lips constantly.
‘What do you want?’
‘Is it true that those DVDs of yours have a game on them? A computer game?’
Adrian looked at him pleadingly, but Nick didn’t answer. Mr Watson was putting his thermos on the windowsill in order to sort out a quarrel between two younger girls.
Unfortunately the yard was full of people; he couldn’t just go over there . . . And besides, he wasn’t going to do it! He had to stop even thinking about it!
‘Nick! Is it true?’
Nick whipped around, saw Adrian biting his thumbnail, and suddenly felt unbelievably angry.
‘Why don’t you leave me in peace? Why don’t you try it out for yourself? I can’t tell you anything about it, and I don’t even want to! Piss off!’
Colin was standing quite close to him, and Jerome was further away. Both of them turned their heads to look at them. A thin smile stole across Colin’s face, and Nick regretted his outburst. He didn’t want Adrian to be the next to go tumbling down the escalators. ‘Just drop it, okay?’ he said quietly. ‘If you’re interested, get hold of one for yourself. It’s not difficult. Otherwise, forget about it.’
‘If it’s a game,’ Adrian whispered, ‘then stop it. Seriously. Please stop it.’
Nick looked at Adrian blankly. ‘Can you tell me why?’
‘No. Just take my word for it, please. I’m afraid the others won’t – even the ones in my class.’
‘And why should they?’ Nick watched Mr Watson walk back to the windowsill and retrieve his thermos. Damn. He turned back to Adrian.
‘Tell me! Why should they listen to you? You don’t even know what it’s about. Why do you want to spoil other people’s fun?’
Fun. He’d said fun.
‘That’s not what I want. But I’ve got a feeling that —’
‘A feeling,’ Nick interrupted him. ‘Well, let me give you some good advice right now. Stop bugging people about a feeling. All it will get you is trouble. The painful kind.’
Oh, terrific, now he’d warned Adrian about the other gamers. If word got around, the messenger definitely wouldn’t be amused, that much was certain. And then there was the business with the pills. He still hadn’t had any bright ideas.
He walked away from Adrian without another word.
Later, Nick was on the way to the canteen for lunch. He had zero appetite, but he had to find something to do. Sitting around waiting for lunchtime to be over would drive him crazy.
Eric was back – Nick saw him standing in a corner with three people from the Literature Club, having an animated discussion. As he approached they turned the volume down, but Nick had distinctly heard Aisha’s name. Emily was nowhere to be seen.
But he did spot Mr Watson, who was talking with Jamie and a fat girl by the wall of windows outside the Biology classroom. Nick studied the teacher closely. No thermos, not even on the windowsill.
Without stopping to think what he was actually doing, Nick headed for the staffroom. He wasn’t going to carry out the orders – of course he wasn’t – but he needed to know whether it was possible in theory. So he’d be able to tell the messenger why it wasn’t possible. If it actually wasn’t possible.
The door to the staffroom was ajar. Nick stuck his head in. There were only two teachers sitting at the long tables arranged in a U shape. They didn’t even raise their heads when he took a step into the room. One was doing corrections, the other was reading the paper and chewing on a sandwich. There was no sign of Mr Watson’s thermos.
Half disappointed and half relieved, Nick turned on his heel. What now? He had to at least act as though he was going to carry out the orders – someone was bound to be watching him and reporting in. There. Dan was crossing the corridor, and although he didn’t even look in his direction, Nick was convinced that he had only walked along there because of him.
Nick slowly walked back the way he had come, but after only a few steps an idea made him pause. Where else did the teachers keep their things, apart from the staffroom? In the cloakroom. He was right in front of the little room, and the conviction was already pounding in his brain before he’d turned the doorknob. His gaze flew to the flask immediately, as if magnetised by it. It was peeping out of a leather shoulder bag that hung on a hook between jackets and coats.
Quick as a flash Nick slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. Even just doing this could get him into serious trouble; students had no business being in here. But no-one could watch him here: not Dan, nor Colin nor Jerome.
Nick lifted the flask part way out of the bag. It sloshed a bit; it must be about half full. He could feel his pulse throbbing right up to his scalp as he unscrewed it. Peppermint tea. The bottle of pills weighed heavily in his trouser pocket, as if trying to get his attention.
I could do it, Nick thought. Now. Quickly.
No. He wasn’t crazy! What the hell was he doing here at all?
Even more hurriedly than he had opened it, Nick screwed the thermos closed, wiped the fingerprints off the chrome surface with his shirt, and stuck the bottle back in the leather bag.
But he had been here. Someone was bound to have seen him going in. That was the main thing.
It took nerve to walk out of the staff cloakroom – what if he walked straight into the arms of Mr Watson? But nobody took any notice of him as he left the room and closed the door quickly behind him. Except that Helen was in the corridor; she skewered him with an unfathomable look.
He disposed of the pill bottle after class in a rubbish bin at the Tube station and suddenly felt surprisingly light-hearted. He’d gone about it the right way; he’d thought of every detail. He could have actually done anything in the cloakroom; nobody would be able to prove otherwise. Mr Watson would live, and Sarius too. He was practically an Eleven already.
CHAPTER 21
A cathedral of darkness, Sarius thinks as he stands facing the messenger. They are in a gigantic space with Gothic windows that admit no light, although the stained glass seems to be glowing palely. Stone statues, twice as tall as Sarius, with demon faces and angel wings, stand between the windows staring at nothing.
The messenger is sitting on an elaborately carved wooden chair, a throne. Something gapes behind it, even darker than the rest of the surroundings: a fissure or an abyss. Sarius can’t see it clearly from where he’s standing.
The messenger has folded his long fingers under his chin and is studying Sarius silently. All around, hundreds of grey candles are flickering in their holders.
‘You had orders,’ says the messenger.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you carry them out?’
‘Yes.’
The messenger leans back and crosses his legs.
‘Tell me about it.’
Sarius keeps it brief, although he doesn’t omit any important details. He reports on finding the pills and on his search for the thermos, and finally describes how he tipped the pills into the tea.
‘All of them?’ th
e messenger inquires.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. What did you do with the empty bottle?’
‘Threw it away. In a rubbish bin at the Tube station.’
‘Good.’
Silence reigns again. A candle flame goes out with a hiss; a thin plume of smoke rises up and assumes the shape of a skull. The messenger leans forwards and his yellow eyes take on a reddish cast. ‘Explain something to me.’
I was dumb – he knows, he knows everything.
‘One of my scouts found the bottle. It was full.’
Sarius goes hot with panic. An explanation, quick . . .
‘Perhaps the scout found the wrong bottle.’
‘You’re lying. Other scouts report that Mr Watson is in the best of health. They say he’s still at school.’
‘Maybe Mr Watson hasn’t drunk any of his tea,’ Sarius puts in hastily. ‘Or he tipped it out because the pills made it bitter.’
‘You’re lying. I no longer have any use for you.’
‘No, wait, that’s just not right!’
Sarius searches desperately for arguments that will convince the messenger. He’s been clever; nobody can prove that he didn’t go through with it.
‘I did everything as agreed. If Mr Watson didn’t drink his tea, it’s not my fault. I did —’ ‘There is no place for the indecisive or the frightened, or those who hesitate or moralise, in my master’s service. They are not fit to destroy Ortolan. Farewell.’
Farewell?
At a gesture from the messenger two of the stone demons break away from their places between the windows and spread their wings.
‘No, stop, it’s a mistake!’ Sarius cries out. ‘That’s unfair! I did everything right!’
The two demons reach for his shoulders with their clawed feet, and lift him up.
Sarius struggles with all his might, writhes in the grip of the stone giants. How can the messenger do this to him? He’s always helped him before . . . And now, just because of this one time, this one order . . .