Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Eight
Duncan and the witch stared at each other over the blue glow from the Kilner jar, like witnesses at some awful locomotive smash. Like outriders come across the early signs of a new war machine on the field of battle, the fresh horrors it could inflict.
Apparently, they weren’t the only ones.
“Excuse me?” Hardy leaning forward in his armchair. “You, of all people, want to bring modern warfare against the Huldu? You want to slaughter their children with artillery?”
“I want to offer them the threat of it, yes. And I need you to do it for me, so I can mediate.”
“I don’t understand you, Bainbridge. A couple of months ago, they tell me, you threw Sir Michael’s offer of employment back in his face.
You told him he was part of a dying culture, could not possibly grasp the subtleties of what the new age would bring or need. You told me much the same, to my face.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Rational modernity is dead, you told me.”
“And, substantially speaking, it is. Certainly people don’t want it anymore. And it appears the Earth and its powers have responded.”
“You don’t consider shrapnel shelling with long-range artillery to be modern?”
“I certainly don’t consider it to be hugely rational.
” Bainbridge prowled the room. “And to be completely honest, I don’t really want to have to carry it out.
But the Huldu must understand the need for rapprochement.
If we are to have diplomatic relations, then they must be based in strength.
And I need to have distance from the threat, so that it is not seen to come from me, so that I can offer alternatives. ”
“You could have broached this in concert with Sir Michael’s initiative.”
“And why exactly should I do that?” Sudden edge on the archmage’s voice.
“Endershall vilified me in the pages of the national press when I returned from America. He called me a traitor. He upbraided me in public at my club and in the street. Did you really think I was going to cooperate with a man like that?”
“He’s not the only one to level those accusations.”
“He has been one of the few to pursue them, even when he received assurances from within government that they were unfounded.”
“Assurances from close friends of yours,” said Hardy sardonically.
“The accusations are unfounded!” Raw fury for just a second.
Rachel quailed visibly in her seat. Perhaps Bainbridge noticed; as abruptly as the rage had risen, it ebbed.
The archmage grew calm and even toned again.
“Every action I took in the United States was at the behest of His Majesty’s intelligence services.
I feigned my allegiance to the pro-German initiative to better infiltrate their agents. I passed back information that—”
Hardy held up a hand. “Save your protestations for someone who cares, Bainbridge. The war is over. Whatever minor part you may or may not have played in it no longer matters. But this war—the war against the Huldu—is yet to be won. And I won’t fight it alongside a man who has more sympathy with the enemy than with his own species. ”
“I do not sympathize with the Huldu, Colonel. I simply understand what they represent far better than you, or any of the men whose will you serve.”
“We are all striving to understand what we face, Sir Michael included.”
Bainbridge shook his head emphatically. “Endershall is a superannuated fool. Less relevant with every passing day. Like so many of our so-called ruling class, he believes himself still in control of something that is tilting far beyond any skill or power of his or his kind to rebalance.”
“And what do you believe, Bainbridge? No, don’t tell me—let me guess. That you should be the next king of Elfland by government decree.”
“Would that be so bad? You sneer, but would it? Consider—a strong human conduit through which the atavism that has returned to haunt us can be mediated. Think of it as appointing a governor to a troublesome, benighted imperial province. An officer of empire with the vision and experience to deal with the shape of things to come.”
“Bainbridge, I wouldn’t appoint you to govern a brothel in Port Said.”
“Then what are you doing here, Colonel?” The archmage left his position behind Rachel in the armchair, moved to stare out of the window again, back turned pointedly to the other man.
The silence yawned. “No answer? Let me tell you, then, why you are here. You have come because you know that I am right.”
Hardy snorted derisively, but still he had no response.
Bainbridge gestured, out to the view beyond the glass.
His voice was soft, almost entranced. “Look out there, Colonel. The woods beckon, and once again we are afraid of what they hold. Fearful, emasculated, and confounded. The Forest encroaches, a new and terrible era dawns, and you and our rulers are out of ideas. Our current overture—gifting of a single human child of Fae lineage whom our ancient neighbors were able to take at their leisure anyway—has failed at every level. As it was doomed to from the start, as I could have told you, had anyone taken the trouble to consult me at the time. It was at best an attempt at abject appeasement, at worst an admission of both historical guilt and weakness. It is not the way forward, and I think by now that even Endershall and his cohort can see this.”
Hardy had evidently had enough. He stood abruptly up. “I came here to tell you that Silver has to be stopped. That is all. Bad enough that he has interfered in these matters of state, but now he is a murderer, too. A killer of men, not Huldu.”
“Mr. Silver has been a killer of men for almost a decade. His country was pleased to provide him with the practice.”
“I’m not talking about Germans, Bainbridge. I am talking about Englishmen. Our own compatriots, and policemen to boot.”
“German, English, Irish.” The archmage made a throwaway motion with his hand.
“Perhaps these distinctions, too, are becoming superannuated. From what I hear, the Forests of Europe teem with these same terrors as ours. The enemy we face is a common one. And Duncan Silver, whatever his…excesses, remains a seasoned warrior for our cause. Perhaps Achilles sulks in his tent—but can we forgo him at the siege?”
“I will not give the wink to a man who has murdered officers of the law!”
“That’s very honorable, Colonel Hardy. Though, as I heard it, you did see fit to try and shoot him dead when he was in your way.”
“That was a tactical decision, and I won’t—”
“Colonel, enough!” Bainbridge turned away from the window, faced back into the room. “Even if I wanted to, I could not give you Silver. I have no idea of his whereabouts. He may have left Erlsley altogether for all I know—though I doubt that. He wants the child, and he is tenacious to a fault.”
“You listen to me, Bainbridge.” Hardy was still up out of his chair, irate.
“I demand an undertaking from you, right here and now, that you will help me bring Silver to heel. The Commission will not entertain further association with you unless you agree. Your negotiations with Whitehall will come to nothing, that I can promise you. His Majesty’s government will not tolerate anarchy in the ranks. ”
Bainbridge shrugged. “Well, we can argue about this once the man is in custody. For now, it’s an abstract concern. But if you really want Silver, there is a simple way to achieve this. Where are you keeping Ada Endershall and her daughter?”
“We’re keeping them safe. Somewhere I have no intention of revealing to you.”
“You don’t need to. You merely need to let Silver know, and he will come for them. For that matter you could supply a completely false location, as long as he trusted it to be the true one. If you wish me to facilitate that, of course I can.”
It spiked through Duncan like ice—like a smoother, more benign version of the sorcerous blast Mebhuranon had laid on him in Consort Park. He let go the Kilner jar, was rising from his crouch almost before he realized it. The witch looked up at him in surprise. He turned to Arthur.
“I’m going to need cover,” he said tightly. “Back shortly. If anyone comes out after me, you put a bullet right through them.”
Arthur nodded, sliding prone amid the wet earth and tangle of rhododendron roots. He cuddled the carbine stock to his cheek. Duncan stood and tugged one of the Webleys from his coat pocket. Nimble Shanks Annie put a hand on his arm.
“Duncan, what are you—”
“I’ll be back,” he repeated, and strode out onto the lawn.
—
It was merciless open ground—he was in clear view for anyone who cared to look out of a window overlooking the lawn, and there were quite a few windows—but he crossed it uncaring, fleet and silent as some vengeful ghost. He barely felt his feet in the soaked grass, the steps he took.
Something at his back blew him onward like a leaf on a gust of autumn wind.
He reached the French windows, risked a moment to try the ornate outer handle, found it locked.
He stepped back, stomped hard at the frame with his boot.
Musical chime of glass as it broke, shattered, fell out of the frame on either side in jagged puzzle pieces.
The doorframes, lighter than Victorians would have built, splintered and cracked, smashed around the lock, then rebounded outward.
Duncan toed the right-hand frame wider open and stepped through the gap into the drawing room beyond.
His boots crunched on glass. He pointed the Webley.
“Colonel Hardy,” he said. Tight, combat grin gripping his face. “Did the Maunston survivors not carry my message to you?”
“You!” Hardy, abruptly rage pale. “You murderous bastard!”
His glance sideways was for the fireplace, the ironmongery beside it, a trench impulse, maybe dart for the poker, grab and swing—