The lawmen inspected it closely, with identical looks of suspicion.
At last: ‘What is it?’ one of them said.
Perth looked hurt. ‘It’s a sculpture. Can’t you see? It’s a stone head. I mean, it isn’t finished, but surely you can see the craftsmanship. The nobility of the features. The loftiness of the brow. The craggy wisdom of the nose—’
‘And these?’ The lawman indicated the tools that Perth had brought with him: the glass-cutting knife; the jemmy; the small hammer for breaking and entering.
‘Those are the tools of my trade,’ said Perth. ‘Can’t you see I’m an artist?’ And such was his air of injury that even the Law was taken in, as the three officers looked solemnly at the stone Head and acknowledged that, yes, it did have a certain something, and that Perth was free to go.
And then, just as they were about to leave, one of the lawmen – an older man, with cold blue eyes under his hat – dropped his gaze and stiffened. Perth had rolled up his coat sleeves when he’d broken into the penthouse. Now, in a sliver of moonlight, the runemark showed against his skin as clearly as a splash of ink.
‘What’s this?’ said the lawman.
‘That’s an Outlands tattoo,’ said Perth.
‘It looks like a brand,’ said the lawman. ‘A slave brand that’s been tampered with.’
Perth could see his position weakening rapidly. The lawmen, already suspicious, had now discovered his runemark. In a moment one of them would suggest that he accompany them to the roundhouse …
He turned to run. It seemed the best plan. He might even have made it too, without the Old Man and the satchel. But the lawman’s hand caught the satchel strap, and in the second it took to release it, the other two lawmen had moved in close. Before Perth could summon his glam, or even think of a plausible lie, one of those weighted sticks had caught him on the side of the head, and within seconds his hands were cuffed, and he – and the contents of the satchel – were on their way to the roundhouse.
Ten minutes later, stripped of his tools and of anything else that might help him escape, Perth was sitting in a cell underneath the roundhouse at St Sepulchre’s Gate. His head ached, his hands were cuffed, and through the trapdoor that led to the cell – a dark and windowless hole in the ground – the arresting officer read him his rights as set down in the Book of the Law.
Of course, as he pointed out, if Perth really was a runaway – a fact that would surely emerge under Examination – then he had no rights anyway, and, unless he was claimed by his master, would end up in the mines, or on the galleys, or, more likely, the gallows, which was undoubtedly where such as he belonged.
Perth said nothing. He’d learned that in these circumstances silence was always the best reply. So far he had refused to give the lawmen anything – not even his name – which might just buy him a day’s respite, he hoped, before the giant machine of the Law returned in force to crush him. By then he hoped to have thought of a plan. It wasn’t the first time he’d been in a cell, and he fully understood the need to play it soft, and carefully.
‘Lost your tongue, eh, scally?’ said the lawman nastily. ‘You’ll be lucky if that’s all you lose once the Courts have done with you.’
Still Perth said nothing.
‘Sure you don’t want to give us your name? We’ll get it out of you anyway, so you might as well save us the trouble.’
Perth pretended to go to sleep.
‘All right then,’ said the lawman. ‘But if you want to eat, or drink, or sleep under a blanket – and I’m warning you, it gets chilly down there – you’re going to have to give us your name.’
Once more Perth said nothing.
Annoyed by his prisoner’s lack of response, the lawman concluded this little speech by tossing a heavy object through the trapdoor. It almost hit Perth – it was meant to – but he saw it coming and dodged, and the thing hit the floor with a dull thud.
In the dark it was hard to determine what the object actually was; but just as the lawman shut the trap, he paused to deliver his parting shot and, in doing so, solved the mystery:
‘Oh, and by the way,’ he said, ‘here’s your precious sculpture.’
PERTH SAT DOWN on the floor of the cell and reviewed the situation. All in all, it didn’t look good. The cell was six feet square, baked earth, windowless, dark, and smelled as if something had died there. Most likely the previous occupant, Perth told himself sourly; and so far the chances of its current tenant’s continued survival didn’t look at all promising.
He cast the rune Bjarkán and took a look at the décor. For a moment or two Bjarkán revealed little that Perth’s nose hadn’t already told him, but now he saw the Old Man, the mysterious object that had landed him in this fix in the first place, gleaming with runelight and bindrunes, its blue heart glowing like a ball of thread woven with strands of starlight.
He reached out with his bound hands. The Head felt warm, as if touched by the sun. It brightened at the contact, a rose-coloured glow appearing where his fingers pressed the rock. He pulled his hands away; the glow dimmed. He touched the rock; the glow returned.
Perth. Perth.
That voice. That whispering voice. He thought he might have imagined it. What in the Worlds had he stolen?
Once more he peered at the Old Man through the circle of finger and thumb. It looked like no gemstone he’d ever seen, though the ravens had called it a treasure. But they had also called it a slave, and now Perth understood what they meant: there was a consciousness trapped within the rock, something that whispered in his mind—
PERTH! WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!
He pulled back his hands as if they’d been burned. The voice in his mind was louder – much louder – as soon as he put his hands on the rock; when he took his hands away, the voice went back to a comforting drone.
Perth. Listen to me, Perth.
Cautiously he extended his hands. Touched the rock with his fingertips. Once more the trapped blue heart pulsed in its web of runelight.
Thank the gods for that, said the voice with a trace of irritation. In case you hadn’t noticed, neither of us has much time. Now I want you to listen—
‘Hang on,’ said Perth. ‘And what do I get?’
There came a chuckle from the rock. You get the chance to listen to me. What did you want? Three wishes?
‘Well …’
We’re talking about Ragnarók. The war between Order and Chaos. The chance to make better Worlds—
‘Fine,’ said Perth. ‘But what’s in it for me?’
Gods, you sound like my brother. The Old Man sighed. Very well, he said. Do as I say and I’ll give you whatever your heart most desires. All right? Is that enough to tempt your grasping little soul?
Perth shrugged. ‘It’ll do. But I’m warning you: my soul may be little, but my price—’
Understood, said the Old Man. Unlimited wealth. Ultimate power. Runes to charm any woman – or man. Adventure. Excitement. Freedom—
‘Freedom?’ said Perth.
The Old Man glowed. Of course, he said. Come closer, Perth, and listen …
MEANWHILE, BACK IN the penthouse, Maggie Rede seemed strangely unmoved, both by the theft of the Old Man and by the rage of the Whisperer.
She had not attempted to follow Perth as he fled across the rooftops, nor had she seemed at all concerned as Adam’s dark passenger vented its fury, hurling objects across the room, tearing at the drapes, breaking ornaments and generally behaving like a drunken bard following a particularly unsuccessful performance.
Why did she let him get AWAY? it howled.
Adam asked the question.
Maggie shrugged. ‘We’ll get him back. I had other things on my mind.’
‘Other THINGS?’ snarled the Whisperer. ‘What kind of things? Your wedding dress? Canapés for the party, perhaps? You practically hand over the Old Man to some sneak-thief from the rooftops, and you have the nerve, the almighty GALL—’
Maggie’s only response wa
s to give Adam a long and measuring look.
‘Is your name really Goodwin?’ she said.
Adam stared at her. ‘Of course. Why do you ask?’
She smiled at him. ‘Because,’ she said, ‘when our son is born I want him to have his father’s name. A name that he can be proud of. Be that Goodwin … or Scattergood.’
Adam’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. In his mind, the Whisperer had suddenly fallen very still.
Be careful, boy. She knows …
But how?
‘That’s why I let him go,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t risk him hurting our child. You see that, don’t you?’ Her voice was soft. ‘You understand why I couldn’t fight?’
Adam nodded silently. In fact, he was even more confused. How had Maggie even known she was carrying a child? Was he supposed to congratulate her? Why was the Whisperer in his mind capering like a lunatic?
‘You spoke to the Old Man,’ he said. ‘That’s how you knew, isn’t it?’
Maggie nodded.
‘What else did it say?’
For a long time Maggie said nothing. Instead, she looked at Adam’s face, trying to understand what had changed.
A week ago, that face had seemed as noble as it was handsome. The face of a hero from one of her books, honest, brave and true. But now, somehow, the mask had slipped; and she could see behind his features to the mean-eyed boy who had pissed his pants when Maddy had hit him on Red Horse Hill. She could see his confusion now, his weakness and his terrible fear.
That was the Old Man’s gift to her, and she knew, with a painful twist of the heart, that she would never be able to see Adam in quite the same light again.
But Love is the greatest of glamours, making folk see what they most want to see, rewriting the past, gilding the future, making the ugly beautiful. To a lover, any vice becomes a hidden virtue; any betrayal a challenge. Adam was only human, she thought. And yes, perhaps he had lied to her. But now that they were a family, surely things would be different. And what was a storybook hero compared to the father of her child?
‘Don’t lie to me any more,’ she said. ‘You can’t build a marriage on a lie. And now that you’re going to be a father, you have to be responsible.’
‘B-but … how? I mean, what did he tell you?’
She shrugged. ‘That doesn’t matter now. It only matters that it’s true. And that you love me …’ She looked at him with such intensity that Adam felt his knees go weak. ‘You do love me, don’t you?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Adam. ‘Yes. Yes.’ And he nodded so emphatically that his teeth almost rattled in his head.
‘All right. Good,’ said Maggie, and smiled. ‘That’s really all that matters. We have a wedding to think about, and one more day to prepare for it—’
‘But what about the Old Man?’ said Adam in a trembling voice. ‘We can’t let him fall into enemy hands. What about the New Script? What about the Firefolk? And what about me, Maggie? What about me?’
Maggie smiled. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Let me handle all that. And as for you’ – here Adam knew that she was addressing the Whisperer – ‘all I want of you is your word that you won’t try to interfere. This wedding is going ahead as planned. I don’t care what the Old Man says. I won’t have my son telling folk that his parents were married over the broom. Is that understood?’
Adam’s head nodded vigorously.
‘Good,’ said Maggie. ‘That’s settled then. Now – Adam. You deal with the wedding. We still have things to organize, and I don’t want anything going wrong at the last minute. Everything’s going to be perfect. Nothing’s going to spoil my day.’
‘B-but …’ stammered Adam. ‘What about you?’
Maggie gave him a tender look. He really was just a boy, she thought. A frightened and uncertain boy, as new to all this as she was. Perhaps he had deceived her. Perhaps he’d lied to her – at first. But now that they were a family, everything was bound to change.
The old, suspicious Maggie would have cast the rune Bjarkán at this point, if only to know that his love was true. But the Maggie who had let the Old Man go rather than risk her unborn child had no need for that kind of proof. Love is built on trust, she knew; to question trust was to murder love.
And so she took his love on trust, and found herself loving him even more.
‘Don’t you fret about me,’ she said. ‘Of course, I’ll be working too. But I don’t want you getting hurt. This business of mine might be dangerous.’
Adam’s eyes widened. ‘What will you do?’
‘What I should have done from the start.’ Maggie turned to him and smiled. ‘I’m going to deal with the Firefolk.’
Adam and his passenger watched as Maggie went onto the balcony. The moonlight shone on her cropped hair, giving her a silver crown. The runemark at the nape of her neck glowed with an eerie intensity.
For a moment she stood there in silence, barefoot, in her nightdress. Then she murmured a cantrip and held out her arms to the night.
For a long time nothing happened. Then came a sound of beating wings.
Two ravens – one with a white head – alighted on the balcony rail. They looked at Maggie and crawk-ed – Almost as if they were talking to her, Adam thought uneasily.
In his mind the Whisperer hissed and writhed like a nest of snakes. They are talking to her, it said. Hel’s teeth, how did she summon them? How did she even know about them?
Adam could sense how badly his passenger longed to eavesdrop, and how afraid it was to do so. He tried to hear what Maggie was saying, but caught only the raucous cries of the two ravens, and a few broken phrases in Maggie’s voice of something like a nursery rhyme:
‘See the Cradle rocking
High above the town.
Down come the Firefolk
To bring the baby down.
All the way to Hel’s gate
Firefolk are bound …’
It made no sense to Adam at all, and Adam found he didn’t care. One more day, and he would be free. The rest was none of his business.
He’d always known Maggie was dangerous. He’d sensed that almost from the start. But this was a different Maggie Rede to the one he’d found in the catacombs; the lonely, suspicious little girl who’d wanted nothing more than to follow him. That girl was gone, and for the first time in over three years Adam Scattergood felt afraid of someone who wasn’t the Whisperer.
Something had changed her. What had she said? You’re going to be a father? How could she know that, anyway? How could anyone possibly know?
Whatever the reason, Adam thought, there was something new in Maggie’s eyes; a dark and murderous knowledge that had not been there the day before. It frightened him, and not for the first time he offered up a silent prayer to whatever gods might be listening:
Please, don’t let her find me out …
Because whatever she might have been once, Maggie Rede had undergone a kind of transformation. It was like watching a milkweed pod that had ripened slowly throughout the year suddenly burst and release its seeds into the hungry summer wind.
What had the Old Man said to her?
What was his dark passenger’s plan?
And what were those birds, those ravens, whose language she seemed to understand?
Adam didn’t want to know the answer to either of these questions. He’d had enough of oracles – and of talking birds, and glamours, and dreams – to last him a dozen lifetimes. But one thing he was certain of: he couldn’t afford to anger her. She was no longer the Maggie he’d known; the one who had been such easy prey.
Somehow, in barely an hour, she had become the Rider whose name was Carnage.
THE LAST TIME Maggie had ridden the Red Horse through Dream, the Whisperer had guided her steps. This time things were different. This time Maggie herself was in charge. Dreams no longer frightened her. Maggie had learned that even Dream was just another World to explore – a World in which she was powerful enough to challenge even the gods th
emselves.
While Maddy was waiting for Perth outside in the alley behind the penthouse, Maggie was already making plans. By the time she was ready to leave, the moon had dipped below the city rooftops, and the first fine strands of a pale pre-dawn had begun to cling to the horizon.
Maggie pinned her bergha in place and went down to the stables, where the Red Horse of the Last Days was placidly eating a bag of oats.
He looked up and snorted at her approach.
Above the stables, in Aspect, Hugin and Munin were circling.
Ironically it had been the birds that had given Maggie the idea. An idea for a plan that both the Whisperer and the Old Man himself might have dismissed as impossible – a plan that would solve all her problems, contradictory as that seemed; so that in just one move, the war would be stopped, bloodshed prevented, Adam freed, and their child born into a world at peace.
Rhydian had been a mistake. Somehow, the Firefolk had escaped. But this time, Maggie told herself, there would be no confusion. This time not even the Trickster would see the trap as it closed upon him – or at any rate, not until long after it was too late. This time there would be no escape; no confusion; no mercy.
Beside her, Adam’s passenger was showing signs of restlessness.
‘I demand you tell Me what’s going on!’ it complained, in Adam’s voice.
Maggie gave Adam a tender smile. ‘Trust me. I know what I’m doing,’ she said. ‘Take care. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
‘But I’m going with you—’ the Whisperer said.
‘No, not this time,’ Maggie replied, and then, with a cantrip of Ós, she was off, ignoring the Whisperer’s protests as it tried in vain to enter her mind.
She turned her attention once more to the birds that circled and crowed overhead. They’d said that they belonged to her. But would they really obey her commands?
Crawk.
As she rose, in Aspect, to join the course of the river Dream, she found that she could hear them dimly in the back of her mind.