From a Drood to A Kill: A Secret Histories Novel Page 7

“We’re ready to take over,” said Maxwell. “If he could just . . . learn to trust us, I think that might take some of the pressure off him.”

  “But . . . his mother, Martha, was sharp as a tack, right up to the end!” I said.

  “She was a most remarkable lady,” said Maxwell.

  “Aren’t you both just a little young to be the Armourer?” I said.

  “How old were you?” said Victoria. “When you left Drood Hall to be a field agent?”

  I looked around the Armoury—the quiet, well-organized, mostly smooth-running operation that had replaced everything I knew and remembered.

  “This place won’t be the same without him,” I said.

  “It will be different,” said Maxwell.

  “It will be better,” said Victoria. “But we’ll do our best to keep the old man occupied, and useful, for as long as we can.”

  “He still has much to contribute,” said Maxwell. “If only he’d stop hitting his computer with that hammer . . .”

  “Has he seen a doctor?” I said.

  “He wouldn’t go,” said Maxwell. “So we sneaked one in, and he scanned your uncle Jack from a distance. Unfortunately, after everything the Armourer has done to himself, the readings didn’t make any sense.”

  “Even the very best clockwork winds down eventually,” said Victoria.

  “The old order changes,” said Maxwell, “but the family goes on.”

  * * *

  I was on my way out of the Hall, actually headed for the front door and the grounds, when the Serjeant-at-Arms appeared suddenly out of nowhere, to block my way. I stopped, reluctantly, and glared at him.

  “Really not in the mood, Cedric,” I said.

  “You rarely are. But the family comes first. Always.”

  “What do you want?”

  “The Matriarch has decided on a new official policy for all field agents,” said the Serjeant. “And you are back with us, as a field agent, are you not?”

  “For now,” I said darkly.

  “From now on, all agents operating in the field must keep in regular contact with the family, through an individual designated handler. That means regular updates, a steady flow of two-way information, and readiness to obey new orders and instructions as necessary.”

  “I don’t need a handler!”

  “It has been decided,” said the Serjeant. “All agents in the field. No exceptions.”

  “I used to have a handler,” I said. “Penny. She was murdered by Mister Stab.”

  “After you brought him into the Hall,” said the Serjeant.

  “Don’t push your luck, Cedric,” I said. “Really. Don’t.”

  “Your new handler is Kate,” said the Serjeant. “She’s on line now, waiting to talk to you.”

  “Hi!” said a bright and cheerful young voice, through my torc. “I’m Kate! I’m right here! Think of me as your backup and support, Eddie. I’m here to see that you have whatever you need. I can provide information, weapons, and tech, and even have the cavalry ready to ride in at a moment’s notice. But you need to keep me updated on everything that’s happening, Eddie, so I can learn to anticipate your needs. Oh, I just know we’re going to have such fun, working together!”

  “Oh, this can only go well,” I said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  From Out of the Past

  Outside of the main entrance, waiting for me, was the Armourer’s Bentley. I stood there for a long moment, staring at it, transfixed. Just the sight of that magnificent old car was enough to take my breath away. It wasn’t simply a superb example of restored period technology; it was a work of art in its own right. Sleek and powerful, and very deadly. Though of course that last point really went without saying; this was the Armourer’s car, after all.

  A lovingly restored 1930s open-topped, four-and-a-half-litre, racing green Bentley with red leather interiors. And an Amherst Villiers supercharger under the long, gleaming bonnet. Along with God alone knows what else, after the Armourer finished working on her. Back when he was a field agent, Jack drove this Bentley all over Eastern Europe, all through the heights and depths of the Cold War. Stamping out supernatural bush-fires, stopping wars before they could get started, and keeping the lid on all manner of unnatural things. My uncle James might have the reputation, as the internationally feared and respected Grey Fox; but Jack did good work too, in his own quiet and often very final way.

  Somewhat to my surprise, I found that the Serjeant-at-Arms had followed me out of the Hall and was standing beside me, staring admiringly and just a bit wistfully at the Bentley. I wasn’t used to seeing him display his emotions so openly. We stood together a while, looking at the car.

  “I do miss my old 1930s Hirondel,” I said finally. When it became clear that somebody was going to have to say something, and it clearly wasn’t going to be him. “Marvellous old car. My tribute to the Armourer’s Bentley . . . But after I had to destroy her, back when I was on the run from the family, I never felt right about replacing her with just another Hirondel. She was one of a kind . . . And as the family does so love to say, never look back.”

  The Serjeant nodded solemnly. “Of course. All you’ll ever see are all your old sins and regrets, piling up behind you. Which is why I don’t even keep a photo album. But the Bentley is a special case. One of the family’s official treasures . . . I can’t believe the Armourer just handed her over to you! Especially considering the appalling condition you brought her back in, the last time he let you drive her.”

  “Be fair,” I said. “I had just been attacked by armed men and gunship helicopters from British intelligence.”

  “Excuses, excuses . . .”

  I looked at him. “The Armourer only just gave her to me. News does travel fast around here, doesn’t it?”

  “In this family?” said the Serjeant. “If we could only harness the speed of gossip inside Drood Hall, we’d have a faster-than-light stardrive overnight.”

  “Were you and the Matriarch listening in during my talk with the Armourer?” I said.

  “Of course not. The Armourer would never stand for it. He can be very old-fashioned about some things—and it’s never wise to upset someone who has a whole Armoury of weapons at his fingertips.”

  “Would he even know?” I said. “If it was Ethel doing the listening in?”

  “He’d know,” said the Serjeant. “Even in his current . . . somewhat distracted state.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “He would know.”

  “Why did he give you the Bentley?” said the Serjeant; not even trying to make it sound like a casual question.

  “I don’t know,” I said, quite honestly.

  The Serjeant actually smiled, just for a moment. “She really is an amazing car . . .”

  “All the very best hidden extras,” I said, “for the agent out in the field who doesn’t want to be stopped by anyone or anything. Bulletproof chassis; machine guns fore and aft, firing explosive fléchettes at two thousand rounds a minute—”

  “EMP-proof,” said the Serjeant, cutting in. “Spell-proof, curse-proof, and impervious to all known forms of unnatural attack. Back when I was just a boy, I used to love paging through the operating manual when it was put out on display in the Library. Damn thing was the size of a phone book . . .”

  “A lot of us kids did that,” I said.

  “And we all dreamed of being field agents,” said the Serjeant. “Doing great and glorious things in the service of the family. Going out into the world, and being wild and free and glamorous, like the Grey Fox.” He stopped, and looked at me. “You do know the cigarette lighter button actually fires the hidden flame-throwers?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And I know about the Overdrive, that can send you sideways through Space, taking short cuts through adjoining dimensions. I tested the Bentley out quite thoroughly the last time I drove h
er.”

  “No wonder she came back in such a mess,” said the Serjeant. He looked at me suddenly and sharply. “You gave the Armourer the Merlin Glass, didn’t you? That’s why he’s given you the car!”

  “Uncle Jack can be very thoughtful,” I said.

  “I should have known . . . Why did you give him the Merlin Glass when the last time you were home, you were so determined not to return it to the family?”

  “You might think the Armourer has the Glass,” I said, “but I couldn’t possibly comment. You could ask the Armourer if he has the Merlin Glass. Go on; ask him. See how far it gets you.”

  “This family . . . ,” said the Serjeant. “It’s a wonder to me we’re all still talking to each other.”

  “So,” I said, “do you still dream of being a field agent, Cedric? Rushing around the world being dangerous and glamorous? Like me?”

  “We all have dreams when we’re children,” he said steadily. “Most of us grow up, and grow out of them. I am perfectly content being Serjeant-at-Arms. I get to protect the whole family from outside and inside threats. But I would still love to drive the Bentley, someday.”

  And I surprised myself then, by looking at him and nodding slowly. “You know, you could come with me for a ride, Cedric. If you like. We could take her out for a little spin, open her up and see what the old girl can do. I’ve got some time before I have to go off and save the world. Again.”

  He looked at me, and smiled again, briefly. “Thank you, Eddie, but I have to say no. I am tempted, but I have my duties to perform. Protecting the family.”

  “That’s not what I’d call it,” I said. “You enforce family discipline, and that should not be taken as any kind of compliment. It’s your job to stamp out dissent inside the Hall and put a stop to any emerging signs of independence in the young. You’re just as much a thug and a bully as your predecessor.”

  “Thank you,” said the Serjeant. “I do try.”

  “Come on, Cedric, admit it! Really you think you should be the one running this family, because only you know what’s best for it! You’d kill to be Patriarch!”

  “No,” he said. “I’ve never wanted that. I know my limitations. I have no ambitions beyond keeping the family safe.”

  “But what if I gave you the contents of the black box?” I said. “What if they really could put you in charge, despite what anyone could do to stop you?”

  “I would destroy whatever was inside that box,” he said flatly. “Whatever it turned out to be. Because no individual should possess that kind of power. The Matriarch only runs this family because we allow her to. She can set all the policy she likes; we’re the ones who decide how it’s carried out. Checks and balances . . . keep the ship of family on an even keel. I really don’t care whether you approve of me or not, Eddie. I only ever do what is necessary to hold the family together.” He met my gaze steadily. “You only have to look at what certain members of this family have become once they got the scent of power in their nostrils. Or see what others get up to, out in the field, away from a healthy sense of discipline, to be aware of what Droods might become without family concerns to rein them in.”

  “It’s time I was going,” I said. “When I find myself starting to agree with you, I know I’ve been here too long.”

  “Take good care of that car,” said the Serjeant. “The Bentley is irreplaceable; unlike you. In her time, she’s given far more good service to this family than you ever have.”

  “I’ll bring her home safely,” I said. I couldn’t help but smile. “Who would have thought it? After all this time, it turns out we do have something in common after all.”

  “We’re Droods,” he said. “We are always going to have more in common with each other than with anyone outside the family.”

  “See?” I said. “You had to go and spoil the moment.”

  “It’s what I do,” said the Serjeant-at-Arms.

  I strode over to the Bentley, and the bright green driver’s door sprang open before me. I sat down behind the big, broad steering wheel, and the door quietly closed itself again. Proof, if proof were needed, that the Armourer meant for me to have the car. She wouldn’t have done that for anyone else. Seat belts snapped into place around me, across the waist and the chest, strapping me firmly into my seat. Because when this car starts moving at speed, you can’t afford to be caught unawares. The Armourer installed the seat belts; 1930s Bentleys didn’t have them. It was a simpler, more reckless age then. I hit the press-button ignition, and a whole bunch of glowing dials and instruments lit up, the whole length of the polished beech-wood dashboard. It was like looking at the bridge of the starship Enterprise. I hadn’t a clue what most of them meant; it had been a long time since I’d paged through the operating manual. The massive engine purred like a great jungle cat under the long green bonnet, and then roared happily as I slipped the car into gear and stamped hard on the pedal. The Bentley surged forward, harsh acceleration pressing me back in my seat as we sped down the gravel drive, leaving the Hall behind. In the rearview mirror I could just make out the Serjeant-at-Arms staring wistfully after us before he turned away and went back inside the Hall. Back to his duty.

  * * *

  I slammed the Bentley through the Drood Hall grounds, and all heads turned to watch us pass. The gardeners and the security staff, the boys playing football and the girls riding winged unicorns, even the peacocks and gryphons. Some of the younger Droods waved, and a few even saluted. Though I knew better than to think any of those salutes were for me. The Bentley was just that kind of car. Family history, in motion.

  I poured on even more speed as I reached the end of the long gravel drive and the massive iron-barred gates loomed up before me. I didn’t slow down—and they didn’t open. Because they weren’t really there. The gates were just an illusion, as long as you’re a Drood. Seen from the other side, they’re an unbroken stretch of high stone wall covered in ivy. A Drood can pass right through, as though it is all just so much mist and shadow; anyone else will have a really nasty collision. We’re not keen on visitors. They rarely mean anything good.

  The Bentley glided through the closed iron gates like so much fog, and out into the narrow country lane that leads away from Drood Hall. And the moment I was out, and free from the constraints of family, I hit the control for the Bentley’s Overdrive. It’s a small red button on top of the gear stick. With an embossed tip, so the driver can find it by touch without looking. For if it’s dark, or you’re being shot at. You could tell everything in the Bentley had been designed by a man used to the pressures and demands of operating in the field. Where there’s nearly always someone, or something, trying to kill you.

  I had no intention of driving all the way to the Lark Hill listening centre, along hours of congested motorways and minor back roads, not when there was a much quicker alternative to hand. The Bentley came with super-prescient sat-nav. It didn’t depend on information from satellites for global positioning; it just knew. The car’s onboard computers used quantum description to plot short cuts through adjoining dimensions and territories, to take the car straight to the required destination. The Armourer did try to explain the theory behind this to me once, and I had to beg him to stop. I was afraid my brains were about to start leaking out my ears. I know enough to drive the car; I don’t need to know how it all works.

  I didn’t even need to input coordinates for the Big Ear; it seemed the Armourer had already done that for me. Which suggested he’d already decided to give me the car, some time before . . . My uncle Jack might be slowing down, but he was still several jumps ahead of everyone else. It was good to know there were still some things in life you could depend on. The Bentley’s computers calculated the quickest route to the Big Ear, through the smallest number of side dimensions, and then something on the dashboard chimed prettily to let me know we were ready to go.

  (Don’t ask me where the Bentley keeps her
extensive computer systems; everything under the bonnet is a mystery to me. Never meddle with the Armourer’s work. And besides, an old lady like the Bentley is entitled to keep a few secrets to herself.)

  I braced myself as the whole car began to shake and shudder, and then she shot forward like a scalded cat. The Bentley accelerated so fast she broke the walls of Time and Space, and left the world behind. The surrounding countryside elongated into a long streak of distorted colours, as reality itself stretched and snapped, and just like that . . . we were somewhere else.

  * * *

  The world I knew was replaced by another, and then another and another in swift succession, as the Bentley drove sideways through dimensions. The familiar English countryside was replaced by a tropical jungle, complete with huge trees, dark shadows, and awful lurking things watching balefully from the gloom. Then the jungle was a desert, was a mountain pass, was a great stony waste. Day and night switched back and forth, flickering wildly, as worlds snapped by in a slipstream of motion. I drove under dark purple skies full of strange constellations, where the stars spun like Catherine wheels. The air was full of strange sounds and disturbing voices. A whole city sang a single great song, in harsh, dissonant harmonies. It snapped off abruptly as the world changed around me, replaced by a massive choir of whale songs, as I drove the Bentley through a great school of banana yellow whales, flying through the rain clouds. Followed by a terrible screaming of insane children plotting mass murder, and then one great Voice, impossibly distinct and utterly inhuman, speaking my name . . . until the Bentley accelerated even faster and left it all behind.

  Different realities shot past like so many shop-window displays, Dopplering away behind me as I clung fiercely to the steering wheel with both hands. I knew better than to actually try to steer; the car knew where it was going. I just kept a careful eye on the view ahead of me in case we needed to defend ourselves. I didn’t even try to slow down when things loomed up suddenly before me; I trusted the Bentley to dodge anything that needed dodging and drive right over everything else. The faster we moved, the happier I was. There was always the chance Something might notice me, take an interest in me, and try to follow me home. It’s never a good idea to attract the attention of Forces from Outside. I have heard stories of what happens when they decide to meddle with people . . .