Unnatural Issue (7 page)

In fact, as Lord Peter Almsley was well aware, all this was a façade. Most of the members seldom set foot in the public areas of the Club except to dine. And those old gentlemen drowsing away were nothing more than camouflage for what really went on in the Exeter Club.

The club was the home of Lord Alderscroft—the actual home, since he had long since given up his London residence, and his country estate was managed
in absentia
by the “tenants” who ran the school for very extraordinary little girls and boys that was quartered there. These days Alderscroft never went there except for the occasional hunt and hunt ball, and now and again, when the heat in London became unbearable.

But this was his true home, the headquarters, as it were, of most of the most powerful Elemental Masters in Britain. And Lord Alderscroft was the Head of one of the oldest and most powerful White Lodges of Elemental Masters in all of the Empire.

Of course, that’s partly because trying to organize Masters is like trying to herd sheep with a cat,
Peter thought to himself, wryly.
It’s probably only tradition that keeps our lot muddling along as well as we do.

He had passed rapidly through the public rooms and into the Dining Room today; the Old Lion had summoned him for a consultation, and he badly wanted a bite to eat before he braved the old fellow in his den. He had hoped for a quiet table to himself, but as soon as his beaky nose cleared the door of the room, he found himself hailed by a group that had uncharacteristically gotten the servants to shove several small tables together to form one long one.

“Peter, old man!” said Nigel Harcourt, making an imperious gesture in his direction. “Come join us, we were just mentioning you.” As ever, Nigel was impeccably clad in the work of a tailor so exclusive that even half the Royal Enclosure couldn’t get fittings with him. Then again, Nigel was so perfect a specimen of British Manhood that he made the ideal body upon which to drape such an exquisite suit. And besides that, Nigel was the one who had discovered the man.

“Oh, I very much doubt that,” he replied, genially, putting a good face on it. “Really, old fellow, I’m just down from the family barn. I’ve been quite out of touch, and I don’t know what I could possibly add to any sort of earnest conversation.” But he joined them anyway. It was partly out of politeness and partly out of curiosity. Curiosity was an Almsley byword. The family arms, after all, featured a domestic cat about to investigate an open chest, with the motto, translated from the Latin,
No fortune without risk.

“What d’ye think about all this saber-rattling on the Continent?” Nigel asked, both fair eyebrows furrowed, flourishing a folded newspaper in the air as if he supposed Peter could read what was on it remotely. “You spend half your time over there, chasing French ballerinas and Italian opera singers—it’s all nonsense isn’t it? It’ll all blow over by Christmas.”

“Oh, I very much fear it won’t,” rumbled General Smythe-Hastings. The general looked just like any of the old fellows out in the Club Room at first glance, but at second, aside from the keen intelligence in his eyes and the vigor in his movements, there was no mistaking his military background. It was there in the set of his shoulders and the posture of his neck. “This is too like the run-up to the Boer War for my liking. You mark my words. The Continent is seething, especially the Balkans. Good gad, it’s always the Balkans! But they’re itching for a dust-up, and the Germans and Austrians are itching for an excuse to stop prancing about in fancy uniforms and shoot something. Preferably something French.”

“But that’s the
point,
old man!” Nigel cried. “How on earth does tossing a few Balkan anarchists into gaol turn into shooting Frenchmen? It doesn’t make sense!”

“Whoever said war was logical?” sighed the Hon. James Minton, who had lost the better part of his youth in Egypt. James looked as old as the general, though he couldn’t be a day over forty. What he had seen there would have turned anyone’s hair white.

The conversation circled around and around this subject while Peter grimly tucked into his saddle of mutton. He had just come from Heartwood Hall, the family estate, and plunging into this conversation was rather like plunging into ice water. He had gone from what could only be described as a pastoral atmosphere of benign and provincial ignorance to—this.

“Our German and Austrian colleagues have completely withdrawn all contact with the rest of Europe,” James pointed out. “And I mean completely. There’s nothing coming from behind those borders now.”

“But that just might be a precaution,” Nigel objected. “You know that lot. The least little thing happens, and they pull in their necks like so many turtles.”

“Which is how they avoid having their heads chopped off,” the general said.

If I dared, I would finish this excellent roast, bid them all a fond farewell and go trotting on back home,
Peter thought wistfully; he was altogether too sure now that what the Old Lion wanted him for was—precisely this. He had an overt reputation as a Continent-hopping, genteel rake, and no one took him seriously but those of his fellow Masters who had actually worked with him. This could be very useful when you were fishing for information. The Old Lion found him
very
useful in this capacity indeed, in fact. Most, if not all of the Masters of Austria, Hungary, and Germany were under the impression that Peter had much more hair than wit, and one could discuss virtually anything under his nose without him taking any more interest in it than a greyhound in grand opera.

He thought wistfully of the atmosphere he had just left at the Almsley estate. Sometimes ignorance
was
bliss. The people back home were sailing into summer full of serene plans about tennis parties and picnics, of ways to entertain the youngsters during the Long Vac, and thinking about the hunts in the fall and the inevitable Season once winter set in. His brother was entirely wrapped up in managing the minutia of the Home Farm and all the tenants and their farms—not to mention his pet cattle-breeding project, which was finally proving to be a great success. When Hall and Village looked at the foreign events in the papers, it was with a sense of detachment, for certainly nothing a lot of unwashed anarchists could do would ever affect
them.

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Peter had far too much imagination and intelligence to believe that.

“We’re sailing into dangerous waters, young Harcourt. Dangerous.” The general shook his head sadly, his face looking altogether like that of a sad hound. “Things are unstable. It’s not just the Masters of Germany and Austria that are withdrawing contact. They’ve closed off the borders to any sort of traffic, including the Elementals. For the last two weeks, not even a sylph has crossed over.”

“The Kaiser wants a war, and he’s going to get it,” James added, glumly. “The Masters are making sure we get no information whatsoever, and that has to be on direct orders from Kaiser Wilhelm himself.”

If that was true . . . well, then it was bad. Kaiser Wilhelm was no magician, but like the king, he was well aware of, and made use of, the mages of his own country. Normally this was for very minor things; far more than Britain, Europe was the home ground of some very unpleasant Elemental creatures indeed, and too much meddling could make them take an unhealthy interest in the affairs of mortals. Unhealthy for both sides, ultimately, but it was generally innocent bystanders that suffered the most. So generally, no head of state who was aware of magic actually asked his country’s magicians to do much.

This might change all that, however.

War had a way of changing everything.

“I’m afraid the general is right, Nige,” Peter said apologetically. “I was hoping the rumblings in the thickets I was hearing this spring were going to turn out to be things that could be smoothed over, but it sounds as though the situation is growing pear-shaped. I think we had best prepare for trouble. Our brethren on the Continent don’t engage in business likely to rouse up the Old Things without a damn good reason, and closing the borders is likely to do that.”

Nigel swore, and the atmosphere around the table took on a funereal color. No one here, not even the general, was under the illusion that Britain would be able to stay out of a Continental conflict. And no one was under the illusion that once Britain
did
enter it, things would be wrapped up in time for Tommy to come home for Boxing Day.

“We’d better go consult the mirrors and oracles, then,” Nigel said with a frown. “If the avalanche has started, it’s time for the pebbles to try to reckon how bad it’s going to be and make preparations.”

“It will be bad,” the general replied. “Very bad. Those idiots in the War Office think we can face down machine guns and gas with cavalry and sabers.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad surely—” Nigel began, then swallowed at the look on the general’s face. “Oh.”

“Ugly,” the general said, nodding. “I haven’t been snoozing in a chair at the fireside. Almsley here—and more important, young Hawkstell—have been keeping me informed. The Austrians have enough torpedo-firing submarines to run a pretty effective interdiction force on our merchant fleet. They have big guns with incredible range, they have those infernal machine guns, and they have and will use poison gas. They have armored vehicles with guns mounted inside them. They have highly trained and organized troops, a superb rail system to transport all of that, and a great deal of their army is motorized—nothing to get tired or frightened or need care and feeding. And
we
have the army of the last century.”

At that point, Peter decided to forgo the sweet course. He wouldn’t have the appetite for it anyway. He pushed away from the table. “Sorry, chaps, but I
was
summoned, and it doesn’t do to keep Alderscroft waiting.”

“Quite right,” the general replied. “Off with you, lad. Speak with me later, if you like.”

“I shall, sir,” Peter said respectfully, and withdrew to the stairs and lift for the Members’ Rooms.

“M’lord is expecting you, Lord Peter,” said the lift operator. Peter immediately got a flutter in his stomach.

“Thank you, Collin,” was all he said, however. Were things worse than even the pessimistic projections of the general?

But when he was ushered into Lord Alderscroft’s sitting room, it was clear that whatever the Huntmaster had summoned him for, it had not been
urgent.
Alderscroft waved him to a chair and had his valet present Peter with brandy (accepted) and cigars (declined) before getting down to business.

The Old Lion was well-named. He had a great mane of unruly silver-gilt hair, a moustache and beard to match, and the powerful build of a born fighter that he had not permitted to run to fat in the least.

“D’you need me to run to the Continent, m’lord?” Peter asked diffidently, once the valet had gone and they had both had a sip of Alderscroft’s excellent liquor.

“I’ve got Hawkstell out there now, and if I send another of you, it might put the wind up them,” Alderscroft rumbled, surprising Peter. “No, I have something domestic in mind for you. There’s a scent of necromancy up in Yorkshire; I want you to look into it. The only Earth Master in that part of the world is—or rather,
was
—Richard Whitestone. There’s no point in even trying to contact him. He mewed himself up after his wife died twenty years ago, and no one’s gotten so much as a glimpse of him since. Necromancy’s an Earth business, but you’re Water, so you’ll have to do.”

Peter could not have been more surprised had Alderscroft asked him to don rags and join a Gypsy band—incognito, of course.

“I say,” he objected. “M’lord, Yorkshire? Anyone performing necromancy is pretty blamed secretive, and I’ll stand out there like a pig in a cathedral! I’m not bad at disguises and all that, but Yorkshire—no native will be fooled for a minute by me, and whoever your necromancer is will know I’m there for only one reason!”

He has no idea how insular the average Yorkshire man is, nor how impossible it is for an outsider to get anything useful out of one,
he thought somewhat desperately. Even among the gentry, he wouldn’t have the right accent!

“You’ll manage, my boy, you always do,” Alderscroft said serenely. Peter wanted to bang his head on the back of his chair in frustration.

“You’ve got leave to make as much ‘noise’ magically as you please,” Alderscroft continued. “Provided you don’t frighten our game, of course. With the way our Teutonic neighbors are acting, with any luck at all they’ll assume that you are doing something that they should be interested in, and you might also distract them.”

Peter bit his lip. “My lord, if a distraction is all you want, I can provide it from London, or better still, from Paris or Milan.”

The old man snorted. “I have plenty of people to provide distractions. What I need is someone who can reliably find a beginning necromancer. Don’t play the silly ass with me, Almsley. I know you too well. You can chase your opera singers in whatever time we have left after you find him.”

Peter sighed. “Yes, my lord,” he said with resignation.

After some idle pleasantry, an inquiry after his mother and grandmother, and another after Peter and Maya Scott, Alderscroft suggested he might want to be on his way. Taking that as the dismissal that it was, Peter finished his brandy. The valet appeared as if summoned and showed him out.

Frustrating. It was very frustrating. Alderscroft seemed to think that he was some sort of arcane Sherlock Holmes, able to chameleon himself into any shape.
I appear to have done my job a little too well,
he thought ruefully, as the doorman summoned a taxi for him. Yes, he certainly could find entry into many places on the Continent, but that was because he could fling money about and be the silly English ass that everyone found amusing, use his knowledge of antiques and literature to fit in among the Ancient Aristocrats, and use his knowledge of art, socialism, and American ragtime to find a place among the bohemian crowd. And of course, the bohemian crowd gave him access to the criminal element.