Band of Gypsys (24 page)

Greetings were exchanged. The deputation treated President Ax with a sorrowful, knowing deference that set Fiorinda’s nerves crisping. She sat in a dark blue armchair, and idly counted the woven stars (though a whisper of intuition told her she ought to save this small pleasure). They were told that Jack Vries was not dead but he might not live; there were no further details for the moment. As to Mr Preston’s request for a personal call to President Fred Eiffrich—

Sometimes you have to lay that useless high card down. Ax’s friends would have been reasonably safe if he’d got away across the Channel. They were in grave danger now. Having no other recourse, he’d had to try an appeal to the Leader of the Free World—

‘We’ve spoken to Mr McCall, but I’m afraid we can’t reach the President.’

Ax frowned. ‘McCall?’ He did not know the name. He had hoped they’d get to Hana Rosen, Fred’s redoubtable Chief of Staff.

Greg nodded, exuding dark, suppressed satisfaction. ‘That’s right. Denton McCall, acting Secretary of State. Nobody you would know, Ax. Apparently there’s been some palace politics going on behind the screens, a little bit of a reshuffle at the top in Washington, we’re getting the real picture now. Nothing for you three to worry about.’

‘I see,’ said Ax.

The room, shrouded in midnight stars, rang with the silence of a shock that you can’t hide. So it was true: Fred was gone. The forces of unreason had dispensed with electoral process. What about his niece, Kathryn Adams? What about Harry Lopez, the golden boy with the hot White House connections? What’s happened to them all? It was as if they’d been told of a shipwreck, far off on black icebound seas. Did the unsinkable, beautiful monster really go down this time? Did our friends get to the lifeboats?

Boris Anathaswamy cleared his throat.

‘We’d better proceed to the matter in hand,’ said Mursal. ‘The matter in hand… Well, I don’t have my Wiccan Consultant, but Boris is standing in, as our chief neurophysicist. We’re lucky to have an authority on call.’

Fiorinda’s wandering attention was caught. She looked straight at Boris, with a sudden, warm and dazzling smile. The scientist flinched, and cleared his throat again. His eyes cast a flicker of longing at the double doors of the room. Guards stared back: no escape there.

‘Ahm, the condition is incurable.’

‘Condition?’ snapped Sage. ‘What
condition
?’

‘Commonly known as lycanthropy, the condition is a, not strictly a regression, but a, resurgence of the primitive, best recorded in Europe in the
berserkers
, naked outlaws, of Scandinavia. Men who are recognised as having become rabid animals; neurological outcasts. Physical effects that first seem signs of neglected grooming, as in overgrown nails and hair, are the heralds of actual transformation. Often periodic and linked to the lunar cycle, scientifically proven to trigger neuroactive change. We also see cases like the Maréchal de Letz, public fame hiding secret witchcraft: where self-control is unimpaired and supports a façade of normalcy for years. Compare the psychology of traumatised combat veterans, African child soldiers. Young males thrust suddenly into situations of extreme violence: supernatural heroism and berserker feats followed by sociopathy, psychosis, moral and mental degeneration. Recent Crisis in Europe has brought a surge of well-attested supernatural cases. Finally, uncontrollable fugue indicates the condition has become irreversible. Severe damage will be found to the amyglyda, seat of emotional roots of humanity, and typically more than 25% loss of brainstem tissue—’

‘Thanks, Boris. We remember Jack’s presentation.’

Sage cut the babbling off: it was a kindness. Anathaswamy might have thought he could do this, but he wasn’t coping. Sweat stood in drops on his blood-drained face.

‘But yer
neuro
isn’t up to yer
physics
, mate. Lose a quarter of the brainstem, you wouldn’t get a berserker, you’d get a stroke victim struggling to breathe unaided—’

‘Nevertheless, we are certain that this is lycanthropy,’ said Lady Moonshadow, with a superior smile. ‘Dr Anathaswamy’s diagnosis will be borne out by an unbiased neurological scan, which can easily be arranged.’

In a brief interview, shortly after the arrest, Greg Mursal had revealed to Ax the true nature of his relationship with Lady Anne: that she was his ritual consort, and they were joint heads of a certain, very low profile, élite Pagan community of worship—the branch of Paganism to which anyone who was anyone in government had to belong. Did that make Lord Greg and Lady Annd leaders of both Church and State?

Probably.

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Ax, and the three waited for more, calmly accepting the news that they were beyond all legal process, without sharing a glance. Their air of being in telepathic accord disconcerted the deputation a little, making for pauses and hesitations: but it wasn’t going to deflect the leaders, or their puppets, from their script.

‘The situation is this,’ began Faud Hassim, huskily, eyes on the Moon and Stars carpet. ‘Mr Preston, is, is not guilty of assault, attempted murder, nor manslaughter. Not guilty, because he is very, very sick, he is becoming like a ravening animal—’

‘He
is
guilty of involuntary witchcraft,’ cut in Mairead.

‘The penalty is death,’ said Lady Anne. ‘We offer a painless assisted suicide by lethal injection. If preferred, should Ax wish, or should his wise partners so advise him, we can supply expiatory rites, in the manner of his death, to restore his human nature. Naturally, he is expelled from the Countercultural Movement. On his death, by either means, the Movement will be freed from the taint of association. There will be no further repercussions.’

Ah, so that was it. Nicely done, Faz. If you can trust them.

‘I’m offered the death penalty. What happens to my partners?’

The old lady shook her head. ‘That’s not for you to know, Mr Preston.’

‘No ugly publicity,’ Greg moved in to close the sale, eager and blunt. ‘No more show trials, eh? It’d be quiet and dignified, very private. Close family with you, if you like.’

The deputation waited, gazing at these fallen idols. What did they see? Two worn, unshaven men, in their mid thirties: both tall, one a gangling blue-eyed giant. Both looking older than their years. A young woman with tangled corkscrew curls, thickly marked brows, a stubborn jaw. Grubby and unremarkable, how on earth did they survive in power for so long?

Ax sighed, and said something, evenly and almost cheerfully. Nobody on the PM’s side recognised the language: for a revealing moment they all looked very scared.

‘Don’t worry, it’s only Greek. I said,
“the appropriate penalty would be to pay me a stipend for the rest of my life, to support me in the criticism of individual citizens of Athens…
” It’s what Socrates suggested to his judges, in the blasphemy trial, 399 BCE. Death was the proposed sentence then, too.’

‘He’ll be right,’ Sage assured the suits, helpfully. ‘Check it out. He knows his Classics. He had a stack of Ancient Greek and Latin stuff on his chip, the one the Mexican kidnappers took out of his head. If you have one of those implants for a while, a lot of data gets transferred to the grey matter.’

‘The Athenian judges expected you to bid for your punishment,’ supplied Fiorinda. ‘To grovel, and show a proper feeling. Socrates made them an offer, instead.’

‘Will you two please stop talking about me as if I’m not here?’ Ax smiled at the Prime Minister. ‘Well Greg, in English, that’s my suggestion and it’s a good one. What do you say?’

They didn’t say anything.

Fiorinda glanced once from Greg to Lady Moonshadow, her eyes grey stones, the pupils drilled to points (a strange response to this dim light): and resumed counting stars. The Zen Self champion, long legs folded in a spiky half-lotus, in a dark blue armchair, tipped his head back to gaze at the ceiling.

Lady Moonshadow rose. ‘We shall of course give you time to think it over.’

The visitors departed, with their guards. The three stayed exactly where they were, wondering if that was all. Very shortly they heard returning footsteps. Faud Hassim darted into the room and stood with his back to the doors, wild-eyed.

‘I’m sorry Faz,’ said Ax, without rancour. ‘If you’ve orders to soften me up, don’t bother. I am not going to top myself. We’re holding on, and you’ll thank us some day. You did what you thought best, but you made a bum choice. Do you really think you can trust those buggers to stick by a deal?’

‘It’s not that.’ Faz spoke in a muttering undertone. ‘I have a word for you, from Babylon. I don’t know what it means, it’s
Iphigenia.
’

‘Okay,’ said Ax. ‘Thanks.’

The former Assassin stared at them, maybe in horror; maybe in pity. ‘I shall stay beside your mother, Ax,’ he blurted. And he was gone.

They retired to the red bedchamber. They had three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a dining room and a small library, besides the blue reception suite. They liked the red chamber best, because it was the biggest. It was draped like the Moon and Stars room (heavily shuttered windows behind the arras), in dark red with an interlocking pattern of golden briars; which was repeated everywhere in the furnishings—this had a quirky resemblance to the bio-hazard sign: appropriate, for a werewolf’s lair.

They hadn’t tried to nail the concealed cameras, there was no point. Be thankful for great mercies, there were no actual guards with them inside the suite. If there was no natural light there was plenty of space, and the lamps were ATP, which meant Sage could control them and feed them.

‘I am
shocked
at Boris.’ Fiorinda rubbed her arms. It was cold in their prison, the air was musty and tomb-like. ‘How could he fall so far, so fast?’

‘I expect he’s hoping to stay alive,’ said Sage. ‘He was screwed the moment he accepted his invite to the Neurobomb Working Party, now he has no way out. We know how it happens… How shocked, my brat?’

‘Oh, just shocked. I blame myself for that brainstem nonsense, I bet I started them on that track. I’ll swear, when I was trying to blind them with science, most of the class had never previously spotted a Neurobomb, Mass Destruction in human form, might have a funny sort of brain. I’m sorry, Ax.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up, little cat. It sounded like classic Paganoid pseudogook to me. I bet the camps are full of neurological outcastes.’

They’d been in prison for two days and a night, no food or drink provided. Fiorinda and Ax’s phones had been taken, Sage’s eye-socket button had been confiscated, and his wrist implant zapped to death. That was the sum of the depredations so far, but it can always get worse, always, any moment, get horribly worse. But Ax’s lovers were displaying intense relief, their worst fear had not materialised: and Ax’s own spirits rose. This strange lightness that filled them, better enjoy it, it couldn’t last—

Ax sat on the floor with their bags, making an inventory. Fiorinda and Sage wandered, surveying the domain. A curtained fourposter bed. A tall Arts and Crafts armoire, slightly damaged; a couple of red armchairs. There were pictures on the walls, but none of those Wallingham table displays of priceless
objets.
The chimney in the gothic hearth was wide enough for a full grown sweep, but there was an iron grille cemented inside it.

‘Lady Anne is a hereditary aristo, isn’t she? I mean, she’s Lady Anne something or other, besides the Moonshadow bullshit?’

‘Lady Anne Stanley,’ agreed Fiorinda, peering at pictures. ‘She’s connected with this place, maybe a great-great-niece of the millionaire, not sure how many greats: but I don’t know. I’ve tried never to talk to her, in so far as we’ve met, because I’m afraid she knows, knew, my gran—’

‘Well ladidah,’ said Sage. ‘D’you think she fucks Greg at Beltane?’

‘Augh. Thanks for the charming image. She’s
eighty
.’

‘And Lord Mursal has the chemistry of a brick with acne,’ countered Fiorinda, ‘You are being ageist Ax, and anyway the Great Marriage is not supposed to be fun.’

‘What does
Iphigenia
mean?’ asked Sage. ‘Do you know?’

‘She was Agamemnon’s daughter. He was supposed to sacrifice her, to get the Greeks a fair wind for the Trojan Wars.’

‘Right.’

‘And there was hell to pay,’ Fiorinda stared at a murky cottage, set about with dirt-blurred haystacks. Is that a Corot under there? ‘
Mourning Becomes Electra
and all that. What does it means as a message?’

Sage folded himself into an armchair by the hearth, dust clouding up from the upholstery. Fiorinda drifted over to join him.

‘I suppose it’s some kind of
sorry I can’t help,
from Fred.’

‘So that means—’

‘Fred can’t chat, but he’s in a position to be handing out obscure Euripidean apologies,’ said Ax. ‘Which I call good news, far as it goes: could be worse.’ There was nothing to eat in the bags. He’d been hoping for an overlooked biscuit, a sweetie or something. ‘I am
so
fucking hungry.’

‘
Everything
could be worse. I bet there are rats in these walls,’ Fiorinda settled on Sage’s knees, her cheek against his chest. ‘I have my tinderbox, and there’s wood all over the place. We can have rat
au vin
. If we had any
vin
.’

Sage took her chin and lifted her face, ‘Did you curse him?’ he whispered, his mouth against her lips.

‘Did not!’

Ax came to sit at their feet, bringing an untouched litre of mineral water and his smokes tin. Dust rose from the gold-briared carpet, and now they did not seem to be prisoners. They were travellers on a lonely road who had stopped for the night in Dracula’s Castle. Fiorinda and Sage were kissing and whispering: Ax found that his cock was standing. In fact, he had not felt so horny in weeks, the afterburn of peril will do that, sometimes.

‘We don’t need ration water, thank God. Not unless they turn off the stuff in the taps. What are you two muttering about, hm?’

‘Nothing,’ said Fiorinda. ‘He’s insulting me, but its just babytalk.’

‘Shush,’ Sage grinned at the bad brat, and ah, it’s a fine thing to have hands that will unfasten her clothes. ‘I say we live for the moment.’