For Heaven's Eyes Only Read online

  I ran through everything that happened at Lightbringer House, with Molly chipping in now and then to add details. There were certain parts I chose to leave out, mostly concerning Isabella, but I couldn’t leave her out entirely. I was pretty sure she’d be inviting herself back in again at some point. William actually brightened up a bit at the mention of her name.

  “Very healthy young girl!” he said loudly. “Got a good pair of legs on her. They go all the way up to her arse. I don’t know why you insist on keeping her out of the Old Library, Sarjeant. She can come and visit me anytime. . . .”

  “She can’t have access, because she isn’t family,” said the Sarjeant.

  “Oh, let the girl in,” said William. “I could show her a few things. Oh, yes. I may be insane, but I’m not crazy.”

  “Dirty old man,” said Molly, in a not entirely disapproving way.

  “Moving on,” I said deliberately. “I’m mostly concerned about Alexandre Dusk, and the Great Sacrifice he was talking about.”

  “It is a worry, yes,” said the Sarjeant. “But I don’t see anything serious enough in this that we should make it a top priority.”

  “What?” I said. “Are you out of your mind, Cedric? A Satanist conspiracy involving every government in the world, talking about a satanic coup so big it could debase all Humanity, and let loose the Great Beast himself . . . and you don’t see that as a top priority?”

  “It’s just Satanists,” said the Sarjeant. “They always talk big. We’ll keep an eye on them, certainly. Gather information, see who’s actually involved and what they might have going for them. . . . I’ll delegate one of our field agents to infiltrate Lightbringer House.”

  “I could do that!” I said immediately. “I could go in as Shaman Bond!”

  “The council has a far more important mission in mind for you,” said Harry. “Important and urgent. You’ll need to be ready for insertion first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “What?” I said. “I’ve only just got back from being dead!”

  “No rest for the wicked,” the Armourer said solemnly. “I can always whip up one of my special pep-you-up tonics, if you like.”

  “No, I do not like,” I said. “Grandmother used to dose me with your tonics all the time I was growing up, and they always tasted vile.”

  “That’s how you know it’s doing you good,” said the Armourer. “You always got a nice chocolate afterwards, didn’t you?”

  “There isn’t a chocolate in the world that could take away the taste of your tonics!”

  “It’s nice to be appreciated,” said the Armourer. He shook his head slowly. “An actual Satanist conspiracy, after all these years. I always have trouble taking them seriously. It’s all a bit too much Dennis Wheatley, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Who?” said Harry.

  “You know,” said Roger. “The Devil Rides Out, that was him. The old Hammer horror film we watched on DVD last week. Most of the people in my circles think it’s a classic. We all love Charles Gray as the coven leader, Mocata. Very sinister. He made being a Devil worshipper look so damned cool. Mocata was supposedly based on Aleister Crowley, but I am here to tell you, Crowley was never that impressive. Or even that dignified. Hell of a mountain climber, though.”

  “Have you heard anything about this new conspiracy?” I said. “These are your people, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, please! Hardly,” said Roger. “They’re nothing but wannabes, whereas I am the real thing. There have always been satanic conspiracies, but none of them were ever as powerful or as important as they liked to think.”

  “Yes, well,” said Molly, “you would say that, wouldn’t you? Do you know anything about Alexandre Dusk and his proposed Great Sacrifice?”

  “Haven’t heard anything,” said Roger.

  We all waited, but he had nothing more to say. Even Harry was looking at Roger thoughtfully, but he didn’t seem to care.

  “I have to ask,” I said, looking round the council. “Given that there is an unquestionably real satanic conspiracy, is there, in fact, a good-guy equivalent? Apart from us, obviously.”

  “There are other organisations on the side of the Light,” said the Sarjeant-at-Arms. “And any number of powerful individuals, like the Lord of Thorns, in the Nightside; and the Walking Man, the wrath of God in the world of men. . . .”

  “I was thinking of something more specific,” I said. “Are there agents of good in the world, to match the agents of evil?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” said the Armourer. “There is . . . the Emmanuel.”

  Everyone seemed to sit up a little straighter. Even William was giving the conversation his full attention, such as it was.

  “Emmanuel,” said William. “Literally, ‘God with us.’”

  “Is that a person or an organisation?” I said.

  “Good question,” said the Armourer. “Nobody knows. Or at least, no one knows for sure. This family has had dealings with the Emmanuel, down the centuries. When we knew for sure that we were in way out of our depth. According to family records, and these are very secret and very private records, the Emmanuel is extremely powerful, and not to be summoned lightly.”

  “All right,” I said. “What’s the big secret here? What does the Emmanuel do?”

  “He answers questions,” said William. “Truthfully. He knows everything there is to know about people, places and the true nature of reality. Which can be . . . very upsetting. Not to mention downright disturbing. We do have a book of his recorded sayings in the Old Library. It’s locked shut, in half a dozen different and very thorough ways, and on the front cover someone has stamped the words ‘Do Not Open Till Doomsday.’ I for one can take a hint.”

  “He can do . . . pretty much whatever he feels like doing,” said the Armourer. “I never met him, but Mother did. She said he was a man with no restraint and no limits. A man who would do absolutely anything in the name of the good. Which is why this family has only ever made contact with the Emmanuel when we were really deep in the shit, and going under for the third time. Apparently being around him can be . . . damaging.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Because he scares the crap out of us,” said William.

  “Of course,” said Roger. “Agents of the light, the ones who draw their power directly from the Most High, can be as cold-blooded, single-minded and dangerous to be around as any agent of the dark. Neither side really cares about people; it’s always the long view for them. Whatever’s best for Humanity as a whole, and God help the poor individual. Always ready to sacrifice today, in the name of tomorrow.”

  “Any way,” said the Sarjeant, “according to family records, we’ve only ever met the one man. And whether that is the Emmanuel or the representative of a larger organisation . . . we have no way of knowing. Certainly the family has always been very glad to see the back of him. Apparently, he has only to look at you and you want to blurt out every bad thing you’ve ever done, or thought of doing, and then throw yourself at his feet and beg for mercy. We had to be very careful about whom we let talk to him. Even the best of us came away from such meetings . . . disturbed.”

  “I have heard of the Emmanuel,” said Roger, and something in his voice made us all turn to look at him. “I’ve never met him. Don’t know anyone who has. But then, of course, we don’t move in the same circles. . . . He’s even more of an urban legend in the invisible world than the Droods. Often talked about, rarely encountered, best left strictly alone. Everyone knows someone who claims to know someone who’s met the Emmanuel; but when you try to pin them down . . . Where he comes from, nobody knows, but we’re all really glad when he goes back there. Extreme good can be just as scary, and just as dangerous, as extreme evil. All of my kind . . . the half-castes, the hellspawn and the Nephilim, and every possible combination of the natural and unnatural worlds, have good reason to stay well clear of such . . . archetypal forces. Neither good nor evil has any use for shades of grey. . . .”

  “On
a somewhat connected matter,” I said, after we’d all taken some time out to consider Roger’s words, “I was told that this family has long-standing pacts with Heaven and Hell. Is that right?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Armourer, entirely casually. “Very old pacts with the Courts of the Holy and the Houses of Pain. What about them?”

  “Why?” I said. “And a whole side order of, How?”

  “You never did pay attention in history class, did you?” said the Sarjeant.

  “This is very old family history,” said the Armourer. “Going back to the really early days, when our armour was still new and we were still making a name for ourselves . . . And we needed all the help we could get. The details of how contact was made, and even exactly what we get out of it, are kept locked away in Very Secret, Need to Know, Move Along, Nothing to See Here files.”

  “I’m getting really tired of hearing that phrase, need-to-know,” I said. “I used to run this bloody family, and the sheer number of things it turns out I didn’t need to know is getting on my tits big-time. Who does know?”

  The Armourer and the Sarjeant-at-Arms looked at each other, their faces unreadable. Finally, the Sarjeant said reluctantly, “The Matriarch knew. And . . . one other.”

  “William,” said the Armourer. “As Librarian, he knew.”

  We all looked at William, and he looked back with surprisingly clear and thoughtful eyes. “The original contracts, or compacts, are still on file in the Old Library. They make very interesting reading. Which is why I’ve filed them away in such a manner that no one will ever be able to find them again without my help. Trust me on this, Eddie: You don’t need to know what’s in them. No one in the family does. It’s enough to know . . . that we have contacts, and perhaps even friends, in high and low places. And Jacob, of course.”

  “What?” I said.

  “The ghost, Jacob,” William said patiently. “He knew. He wasn’t supposed to, but then, it’s hard to keep secrets from the dead.”

  “Could we use these . . . contacts?” I said. “To try to find out what’s happening with this new Satanist conspiracy, and what they’re up to?”

  “No,” said William.

  We all waited, but he had nothing more to say.

  “The family must be protected,” the Sarjeant said heavily. “Some things must stay secret.”

  “Like the source of our original armour?” I said. “Or the pact our ancestors made with the Heart? We did make some really bad decisions, back in the bad old days. That’s always been the trouble with this family. Too many secrets.”

  “I think you’re pushing this too far, Eddie,” said the Armourer.

  “Am I?” I said. “I don’t think I’m pushing this nearly far enough! What about those secret departments within departments that most of the family isn’t even supposed to know exist? You told me about them, William; have you remembered anything else?”

  “I don’t know!” said William. “Don’t push me! I know what I need to know, when I need to know it, and on good days that includes where to find the chemical toilet. I know some things . . . but I’m not entirely sure I trust them. There are . . . agents, yes, more secret than the field agents, sent out to do the kinds of things the family would rather not admit to, even to itself. Perhaps especially not to itself. But I don’t remember who they were, or are. Maybe I never knew. . . . Only the Matriarch knew everything.”

  “And she’s gone,” I said. “Which raises a very interesting question: Who’s running these special agents these days, and what exactly are they doing in the family’s name?”

  “Eddie has a point,” the Armourer said reluctantly. “We’ve let things run loose far too long. Admittedly, we have been a bit busy lately, but still . . . Someone has to take charge. Someone has to set overall policy of what is and is not acceptable, and make sure the family’s left hand knows what its right hand is doing.”

  “Once the family has elected a leader, they can take control,” said Harry.

  “Can we wait that long?” I said. “Are we supposed to let these secret departments run themselves, without anyone knowing what they’re doing?”

  “I know,” said William. “I’ve always known. Of course, I don’t always remember what I know. Or even if what I remember actually happened.”

  “I don’t care what he may or may not know; we are not putting him in charge of anything,” the Sarjeant said firmly. “No offence, Uncle William.”

  “Oh, hello, young Cedric,” said William. “Do you want an ice cream?”

  “Uncle Jack,” I said, looking firmly at the Armourer, “you’re the senior man here, with actual field agent experience. You’ll have to take charge. Dig up these secret departments and rein them in. Only till someone can take overall charge again.”

  “You do like to put me on the spot, don’t you, Eddie?” The Armourer scowled and drummed his fingertips on the table for a moment, but in the end he nodded shortly. “All right. There are people I can talk to. And they’ll talk to me, if they know what’s good for them.”

  “I should be involved in this,” said the Sarjeant. “It involves family security.”

  “Yes, it does, and no, you shouldn’t,” said the Armourer. “You tend your own briar patch, Cedric.”

  “Hold it,” said Harry. “Don’t we get to discuss this? The Armourer gets to be in charge because he’s the oldest here?”

  “Because he has seniority, because he has actual field experience and because he knows who these special agents are. Don’t you, Uncle Jack?” I met his gaze steadily. “You have to know who they are, because you’re the one who supplies them with all the necessary weapons and gadgets before they go out on their missions. Right, Uncle Jack?”

  He smiled suddenly. “You always were smarter than you let anyone realise, Eddie. Yes, I know who they are. Now all I have to do is persuade them to tell me whom they work for; who gives them their orders and sends them out on their missions. As if I don’t have enough work on my plate . . . Engines big enough to drive the moon out of its orbit don’t build themselves, you know.”

  There was a pause.

  “I thought we’d agreed that you were going to table that one, for the time being,” I said tactfully.

  The Armourer sniffed loudly. “Man’s allowed to have a hobby, isn’t he?”

  I looked at Roger. “We are about to change the subject. What do you know about the family’s pact with Hell?”

  “Not a thing,” said Roger. “Way above my pay scale.”

  “Is there anyone you could talk to who might know what Dusk is up to?”

  “I don’t think they’d tell me, even if they knew,” Roger said carefully.

  “Even though you’re half Drood?”

  “Especially because I’m half Drood. Besides, consider the source. Hell always lies.”

  “Except when a truth can hurt you more,” said Harry.

  “What did happen on your recent trip to Hell?” I asked Roger. “Did anything come of that?”

  “Not really,” said Roger. “I had to call it off and come back in a hurry when everything started kicking off here with the Accelerated Men attack.”

  “I think we’ve spent quite long enough talking about Hell,” said the Sarjeant. “It’s time to move on to more immediate business. Our immediate top priority is the Supernatural Arms Faire, currently being held in the mountains above Pakistan.”

  “What?” I said. “What’s that got to do with us?”

  “It’s still mostly called the Supernatural Arms Faire, even though most of the weapons on display these days tend towards superscience,” said the Armourer. “I go every year; never miss it. Last year they were giving away Shock and Awe in the goodie bags! It’s a very old affair, Eddie; goes all the way back to Roman times. Or at least, that’s when it first appears in an official report. Enthusiasts such as myself did take to calling it Harmageddon back in the eighties, but it never really caught on. Everybody who’s anybody who’s involved in weapons of mass destr
uction goes there to see what’s new and nasty. The Internet’s made a lot of things more readily accessible, but there’s still nothing quite like the joy of browsing.”

  “What has this got to do with me?” I said. “And why do I know I’m really not going to like the answer?”

  “Must be turning psychic,” the Armourer said cheerfully. “Now pipe down and pay attention, or there’ll be a short, sharp visit from the slap fairy. You need to know this. All the world’s most talented weapons makers turn up at the fair every year to show off their latest creations. And take orders for the coming year. We can often figure out what the bad guys are planning by studying their shopping lists. The location of the Supernatural Arms Faire changes every year, attendance strictly by invitation only. But it does keep coming back to the mountains over Pakistan, if only because they’re far enough from anywhere civilised that if something should go bang! unexpectedly, it won’t do too much damage. Do I really need to tell you that they’ve never even heard of Health and Safety? And the organisers do like to keep the fair as far as possible from the world’s prying eyes.”

  “What organisers?” I said. “Who’s behind the fair?”

  “The Gun Shops of Usher,” said the Sarjeant. “Very old firm. Older than us.” He fixed me with a cold stare. “We’re sending you in this year to observe and take notes, because you’re the most experienced field agent we’ve got left. Who isn’t busy with something else.”

  “Why does it always have to be me?” I said plaintively. “Why can’t I ever get a case that involves loafing about at the seaside?”

  “I could go,” said Harry.

  “No, you couldn’t,” I said quickly. “I need you here, taking care of the day-to-day business. So I don’t have to.”

  “Every man to what he does best, Harry,” said the Sarjeant.

  “If you only knew what he does best . . .” murmured Roger.

  “Not now, dear,” said Harry.

  “How am I to get in, even as Shaman Bond, if I don’t have an invitation?” I said craftily, to show I had been paying attention.

  “I visit the fair every year,” the Armourer said cheerfully. “I have a long-standing invitation to attend, because I have established a cover as a weapons enthusiast and retired nerd. You can get in on my ticket. Take Molly; I’m allowed a plus-one. Ah, I always have a great time wandering round the stalls, quietly sneering at new inventions I created or overcame years ago. And I always bring back a few good ideas. . . . Steal from the best, and call it research!”