“Certainly, but I’m not asking you whether you would have trusted her with your Bentley. I just want to know what she was like.”
“Ah, well, give me a moment,” said Farrier. Her eyes got the same faraway look they had had three nights ago when she had been surprised in Myfanwy’s dream. “Thomas was simultaneously a tremendous disappointment and a surprisingly valuable asset.
“When we acquired that child, it was a coup. An entirely new talent with no alarming weaknesses or deformities. Do you know how rare that is? On an island this small? The organization screened her life intensely. If you like, you could probably find in the Estate’s records what kind of dinner she had every night for the three months between the manifestation of her powers and our acquisition of her. I watched that little girl’s dreams for weeks and recorded every minute detail, looking for any sort of mental instability. I interviewed her, taking care that every dream was set in a place that would test her…” Farrier trailed off.
“And?” Myfanwy prompted.
“And it was fine. She was healthy, she was happy, she was sane. She was ours.”
An attractive young man was led into Alrich’s room, and Alrich’s eyes brightened.
“So, how was she a disappointment?” asked Myfanwy, already knowing part of the answer but wanting to hear Farrier’s perspective on the events.
“It was one of those things that can’t be anticipated. A bright little girl, seemingly resilient, but she just didn’t respond well to the transfer. Many children have problems when they’re taken from their families, but the Estate is designed to minimize the impact. Its purpose is to welcome students in rapidly, make them feel comfortable and loved, and train them in the effective use of their powers. But Myfanwy Thomas withdrew into herself. She seemed almost pathologically shy. In some instances, I suppose, that’s acceptable. But with a talent that turned out to be linked exclusively to physical contact, it was disastrous. And we’d pinned such high hopes on you… I mean her.” Farrier stopped and looked thoughtfully at the woman sitting across from her.
I know what you’re wondering, Lady Farrier. You’re wondering if Thomas’s powers came with the body. You’re thinking, Hmm, when all those brain cells gave up the ghost and Thomas vacated the premises, did that clump of lobes that let her control other people’s bodies get broken too? That’s why you didn’t make a move to shake hands with me.
“So, there we were with this little girl who, in addition to being able to control other people, seemed to have the ability to grow an impermeable emotional and social shell around herself. And there was no question of letting her go, because no one leaves the Checquy.”
“Not even children?” asked Myfanwy quietly.
“Not even they,” said Farrier. “We were stuck with her, this constant reminder of unfulfilled potential. And don’t think that we simply gave up on you as a bad deal! The staff and teachers at the Estate spent years working with you. So disappointing.” Farrier shook her head.
You forgot, for a moment, that I’m not the same person, Myfanwy thought as Lady Farrier scanned the room. Is there a little residual guilt there?
There should be.
Alrich sat at his desk, reading reports carefully and wiping his lips, while behind him, on a couch, the man snored.
“When it became clear that Myfanwy Thomas’s powers would be hopelessly limited, the Court did not pay as much attention to the rest of her education,” Farrier continued. “She quietly beetled away through the training, receiving, by the way, a top-notch education, and then came into the Checquy organization.”
She continued unremarkably, and you shunted her off into some tedious little position in a relatively unimportant department, went Myfanwy’s mental subtitling.
“And then, thank God, she was redeemed. She proved quite capable. More than capable, really… she was brilliant. Under her hands, the Checquy’s administration was revolutionized, and she rose to the rank of Rook.”
Oh, and I’ll bet you were just thrilled with that. The failure that you’d hoped to sweep away into a corner was now sitting in the middle of the room.
“She was one of the most capable executives in the history of the Checquy, an organization that has endured for centuries and has had its pick of the nation’s top minds. Make no mistake, Myfanwy Thomas earned her position as Rook,” said Farrier.
Myfanwy and Farrier took separate cars to the meeting in Apex House. Thomas’s notes had said that the Checquy had facilities all over the country, but the big three were the Rookery, the Annexe, where foreign operations were based, and this place—Apex House—their ultimate headquarters. As they approached the building, she regarded the large crescent-shaped structure with curiosity. It was distinguished-looking, with columns and restrained decorations around the windows. Myfanwy skimmed through the background on the building. The base of the Lord and Lady and the Bishops, it contained much of the legal and financial apparatus for the organization. It was also the place where the Court of the Checquy met every Friday to coordinate the activities of the department.
Where did my day go? Myfanwy thought desperately, paging through the binder. I don’t know whom I’m meeting or what they do. Oh, crap crap crap. Some administrator you were, Thomas. You couldn’t have put in a cheat-notes section? Myfanwy was freaking out when she finally flipped to a section entitled
The Court
The Court of the Checquy is the executive council charged with overseeing the entire organization. And for as long as the game of chess has been recognizable in the British Isles, the hierarchy of the Checquy has been based around chess pieces.
It’s a terrible system.
Problems:
The Checquy is a government organization in a country that has a monarchy. You can’t have people running around calling themselves King and Queen when they’re not the King and Queen. Especially when they wield supernatural powers and command a private army. Inevitably, word gets back to the actual King or Queen, who is unimpressed. Accordingly, after a few pointed conversations, the titles of the leaders of the Checquy were changed to Lord and Lady, which departs from the chess motif and is still pretty obnoxious but could be worse.
The Lord and Lady titles are gender specific, which makes it awkward when a vacancy appears and the most qualified person has the wrong kind of genitals. As a result, during the 1920s, the organization was inflicted with the uncomfortable tenure of Lady Richard Constable, a large bearded man who once bit the head off a possessed Irish wolfhound. He succeeded Lady Claire Goldsworthy and out of sheer bloody-mindedness declined to change his title. Even when the then-Lord died, Constable refused to switch positions.
Although, as we’ve seen, the Checquy has occasionally departed from the chess theme, there is still adherence to the idea that there should be two of each rank. (Well, technically, there should be four of each rank, but that’s a whole other story.) We share responsibility for our bailiwicks with our counterparts, and the boundaries are not at all clearly defined. It’s a nightmare for logistics and responsibilities. It is implied that the Rooks, for instance, will consult and cooperate on all domestic affairs. In some cases, this works out all right. Rook Gestalt and I complement each other, insofar as I do all the paperwork and Gestalt does all the fieldwork. However, there have been less successful partnerships. On one memorable occasion in 1967, the Rooks accidentally led simultaneous but completely separate strikes on the same nest of gorgons, simply because they had refused to talk to each other.
The Bishops are not actually members of the clergy. Not anymore.
The Chevaliers have not necessarily been knighted.
Our titles cannot be used in front of civilians, which periodically makes for awkward situations.
Some people feel that the title Pawn has unpleasant connotations. We are brought up knowing that we may be sacrificed at any time for the greater good, but the implication that we may be sacrificed easily and without any thought is sometimes disheartening.
Not
everyone in the organization gets a chess title. If you have no unusual powers, then you’re not a Pawn, you’re a Retainer. Setting a large portion of our staff apart from everyone else doesn’t do a great deal for corporate morale.
Occasionally, someone will point out these flaws and attempt to institute a change, but that person is slapped down. The reasons for this down-slappage are:
If you’re in the Court, you have an impressive title, and you don’t want to change it for something generic.
Tradition.
It’s supposed to remind us of the importance of strategy and of rank.
It’s cool.
Still, here are the members of the Court, reduced to the barest bones—their names and offices. There are also flash cards in the top drawer of your office desk.
Rooks (responsible for domestic operations; based at the Rookery)
1. The Gestalt siblings (Alex, Teddy, Robert, and Eliza)
2. Myfanwy Thomas (that’s you)
Yes, thanks for that, she thought in irritation.
Chevaliers (responsible for foreign operations; based at the Annexe)
1. Major Joshua Eckhart
2. Heretic Gubbins
Bishops (supervisors of the Checquy, aides to the heads; based at Apex House)
1. Alrich
2. Conrad Grantchester
Lord and Lady (heads of the Checquy; based at Apex House)
1. The Right Honorable Linda Viscountess Farrier
2. Sir Henry Wattleman
Unfortunately, there were no photographs or even sketches. I suppose I’ll just have to wing it, Myfanwy thought. I’m getting pretty good at that. She looked up when the car stopped. Up close, the building reeked of old money and discreet authority. The fattest man she’d ever seen, dressed all in purple like a pampered plum, opened the car door.
“Good evening, Rook Thomas. May I carry that to the boardroom for you?” he asked, gesturing toward her purple binder and briefcase.
“No, thank you,” she said absently, staring at the grand pillars that marked the entrance of the Apex.
“Actually!” she exclaimed, reconsidering. Seeing as how I have no idea where I’m supposed to be going… “If you could, that would be wonderful.”
She followed the man as he waddled to the lift and then through vast hallways. She took the opportunity to read his system. Compared to the radically altered Van Syoc, the biology of a normal human being was harmonious, elegant. She concentrated, tracing the impulses and connections of every movement. It was fascinating, the play of muscles and neurons, the complexity that went into taking a step, turning one’s head. She reached out a tentative thought, and his hand opened, dropping her briefcase to the floor.
“Terribly sorry, Rook Thomas,” said the Retainer, looking surprised as he bent down. “Butterfingers.”
“Not to fret,” she said easily, smiling at him. They proceeded along, and she became absorbed in the frantic energy of his spine, the messages humming back and forth between his brain and the rest of him. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
“Rook Thomas?” said a distant voice.
“Hm?”
“Uh, we’re here,” said the fat Retainer, warily proffering her possessions. She pulled her thoughts back into herself and took the case and binder.
“Sorry about that,” she said. I’ll have to be more careful, she thought. I’m getting better, though. Every time she used her powers on someone, she gained a greater understanding of how things worked, intuitively sensing connections.
The Retainer opened the door, and she stepped through into the boardroom, where she was a little taken aback. With all the talk of the Court, and the impressiveness of her own office, she’d been expecting something pretty amazing. She’d wondered if it would be traditional, with lots of polished wood, or high-tech, with glass and metal. She hadn’t been anticipating a rather stark room that needed a fresh coat of paint. A battered-looking table sat in the center, and two men were on each side of it. Two of the four were Gestalt. The twins.
“Rook Thomas,” said one of the men who was not Gestalt, rising to greet her. He was tall and slim, in his fifties, and extremely handsome. His wavy black hair was making a slight retreat at the temples, but his blue-gray eyes were mesmerizing. Was it her imagination, or were there faint tendrils of black smoke coiling off his shoulders? He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.
“Good evening,” she said, flashing him a faint smile. Despite the difference in ages, Myfanwy found herself warming under his ardent gaze, and she blushed slightly when he took her hand. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell us why the meeting has been brought forward?”
“Um, well, I think we should wait until everyone is here,” Myfanwy said.
“Fair enough,” he said, smiling. “And how is the residence? Does the decor continue to delight?” he asked. Oh! Ho ho ho! This is Conrad Grantchester, the man from the portrait, the man behind the circular bed, Myfanwy realized and then again flushed at the image this had conjured up. I bet that round mattress got quite a bit of use, she thought, and she resolved not to sleep on it if she could possibly help it.
“Well, Bishop Grantchester, the decor continues to continue,” Myfanwy said politely, restraining an unladylike snort. She turned her attention to the other stranger in the room, who had also risen and was waiting to greet her. He had a full head of thick, curly brown hair, no eyebrows, and a large walrus-style mustache. He was not a particularly attractive man, but his eyes were kind.
“Rook Thomas, it’s good to see you,” he said, his smile apparently genuine. She liked him immediately. “What on earth happened to your eyes?”
“Muggers, of all things,” she replied, trying desperately to figure out who he was. “Two men jumped me and tried to take my purse.”
“Good God!” he exclaimed with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Myfanwy. “You know, whoever takes one of us on is going to regret it.”
“Well, of course,” said the man. “I know several people who absolutely pray for the chance to smite some evildoers. One of my accountants actually hangs around in rough areas, hoping to get attacked. He’s always disappointed, poor chap. I suppose no one is going to try and mug a man who’s built like the Colossus of Rhodes,” he mused, absently lifting one leg off the floor, and curling it up into the small of his back.
“Yes, anyway, you look like you’re… well,” she commented, trying not to let her eyes bug out of her head. He had rocked back on his other leg and ended up balancing on his heel. “Anything, uh, new happening in your office?” Fortunately, further conversation was precluded by the arrival of Farrier. She was hanging on the arm of a tall, gruff-looking old gentleman, and everybody bowed his or her head respectfully. Sir Henry Wattleman, Myfanwy surmised. The Lord and Lady greeted everyone by name, which helped Myfanwy figure out that the curly-headed contortionist was Heretic Gubbins, one of the two Chevaliers.
When the Lord and Lady greeted Myfanwy, she gave her most charming smile and a tiny curtsy, which earned her an approving look from Wattleman and a flat stare from Farrier, who could detect Myfanwy’s amusement.
They had only just gotten seated when another man walked in hurriedly, smoking a cigarette and talking speedily on a mobile phone. He nodded to each of them and continued to give directions into his phone.
“No, no, no. You let her get off the plane, you let her walk to Customs. Then you claim there is a problem with her visa, and you have her escorted to the interview room we have set up.” There was a pause. “She receives no food, she may go to the ladies’ room as long as she is accompanied, and you ensure that anything that comes out of her is collected. Keep her away from any pipes connected to the greater system. She may be given water. Don’t answer her questions.” He clicked off the phone and made his greetings. “Good evening, all. My apologies for being late. Am I the last? Of course not, we’re still waiting for Alrich, aren’t we?” So h
e must be Eckhart, she thought.
He sat down across from Myfanwy and quickly lit a new cigarette off the old one. Myfanwy looked at him with interest. Joshua Eckhart had thinning blond hair and a hardened look about him. He was tanned in a way that suggested he’d spent a good deal of time in the sun doing actual work. His posture was military issue, and his eyes were alert. As he brought his cigarette up to his lips, Myfanwy noticed the many scars on his hands.
Then Bishop Alrich entered, and Myfanwy caught her breath.
Alrich was tall and had ivory skin dusted with light freckles. His features were angular, androgynous, and perfect. His blood-red hair flowed down straight to the small of his back, and he was dressed in an exquisitely cut navy blue suit.
“I am sorry you had to wait for me. Working the night shift means this is my busiest time.” Alrich spoke with a husky, growling voice, which was a little jarring coming out of someone so smooth and polished. “Rook Thomas, you look different somehow.”
“Well, I recently got the shit kicked out of me,” she said.
“Ah, that would be it then,” Alrich replied, and he settled down into the chair next to her with a sinuous grace. “Now, what is the emergency that has necessitated this early meeting?”
“The Grafters,” said Myfanwy calmly. Gestalt is going to have to run this show, so I’d better get my licks in while I can. She looked around at the various Court members as they took in the information. Reactions varied from a narrowing of the eyes on the part of Eckhart and Grantchester to Heretic Gubbins looking like he was going to throw up. She noted with passing interest that there was utterly no change in Alrich’s position or demeanor. “This morning, a Grafter operative named Peter Van Syoc was apprehended in a darling little bed-and-breakfast in Harrow. During the subsequent interrogation, we learned that he was sent here by the Belgians. Gestalt?” Tidy Twin looked up in surprise and then fumbled for his notes.
“Uh, thank you, Rook Thomas. To begin with, we have just received the footage of the acquisition. Although neither I nor Rook Thomas have viewed it, I understand it serves as an effective demonstration.”