Nine of Wands Read online

  Nine of Wands

  Table of Contents

  A Note from Conrad…

  Prologue

  1 — Padres, Patrons and the End of Paradise

  2 — All Along the Watch Tower

  3 — Homecomings

  4 — Dragon’s Den

  5 — Reunions

  6 — Spare Part

  7 — Speed Dating

  8 — Welcome Home

  9 — Don’t mind me

  11 — A Miner Scale

  12 — Chain of Command

  13 — From the Other Side

  14 — Auntie Heidi, Auntie Hannah

  15 — Oath of Allegiance

  16 — All Quiet on the Mercian Front

  17 — Backhand

  18 — Accidental Damage

  19 — Exercise

  20 — Support

  21 — Friendly

  22 — Triangulation

  23 — Second Nature

  24 — Lost in Translation

  25 — Master of None

  26 — The Hypocritic Oath

  27 — Bedside Manor

  28 — The Master

  29 — Entangled

  30 — All’s Fair in Love and Cricket

  Eight Kings

  Author’s Note

  Table of Contents

  NINE OF WANDS

  The Fifth Book of the King’s Watch

  by Mark Hayden

  A Conrad Clarke Novel

  For Suzanne, Physio Extraordinaire

  Copyright © Paw Press 2019

  www.pawpress.co.uk

  Front Cover © Lawston Design 2019

  www.lawstondesign.com

  Images © Shutterstock

  A Note from Conrad…

  Hi,

  Some of you have said that it might help if there were a guide to magickal terms and a Who’s Who of the people in my stories.

  Well, I thought it might help, too, and my publisher has been kind enough to put one on their website. You can find them under ‘Magickal Terms’ and ‘Dramatis Personae’ on the Paw Press website:

  www.pawpress.co.uk

  I hope you enjoy the book,

  Thanks,

  Conrad.

  Prologue

  A Taste of Paradise and Things to Come

  ‘Can we stay here for ever?’ said Mina.

  She ducked under the parasol and put down her drink. ‘Budge up. There’s room for a little one.’

  There was room, if I shuffled dangerously close to the edge of the sunlounger. I shuffled, and she snuggled. I put my arm around her. It was hot, here under the parasol, and roasting outside its patch of shade. Definitely time for a siesta.

  ‘How did it go?’ I asked.

  ‘Your mother says that I have potential but I jump to conclusions. She may be right.’

  We’d arrived at my parents’ villa on Saturday afternoon, and it was now Wednesday. Since Sunday, Mother had been teaching Mina how to play bridge in the mornings while I went walking with Dad or practised yoga at the gym in town. My Spanish may be (very) limited, but I now know my Postura de la Silla from my Perro hacia abajo. Mina was doing much better with her bridge than I was with my Postura del Puente.

  Bridge is an intense game, and Mother can be an intense teacher, so afternoons were for siesta and evenings for leisurely Spanish dinners – here at the villa, down in town or over at their friends’ houses. It was pretty much Paradise, and exactly what we’d both needed, given recent events.

  Last week, I’d been attacked by a Black Unicorn, and Mina had still been banged up in Her Majesty’s Prison Cairndale. No wonder she wanted to stay here forever.

  She adjusted her ponytail and nestled her face against my chest, nudging me with her pointy nose in a subtle effort to get more space on the lounger. ‘Who are we seeing tonight?’ she murmured.

  I moved an inch and gathered her closer, feeling her warmth through the cotton dress and running my fingers up to caress her neck. ‘Didn’t Mum tell you about them?’

  She moved her hand and slipped it under my shirt. ‘I know all about Isabella’s tendency to over-bid No Trumps and Juan’s general uselessness in following his wife’s lead, but absolutely nothing about who they are.’

  ‘Dad calls them Very Important Locals. Juan is the town mayor, amongst other things. They’re nice.’

  Her hand shot out of my shirt and she opened her eyes. ‘What? The mayor? Why didn’t anyone tell me?’ She swung her legs on to the floor. ‘Am I supposed to lose? Do we butter them up? Will Juan arrest your father if we beat them?’

  I rolled on to my back. For once in our relationship, I was looking up at her physically as well as personally. Her nose looked even pointier from this angle. ‘Can you imagine Mother trying to lose at anything, let alone bridge? Just play your best game and don’t tell any prison stories.’

  ‘Hmph. You are no use.’

  I took her left hand and stroked it. One of her friends in prison had given her a mega henna tattoo on her last night inside. It was meant kindly, but the woman wasn’t an expert. Like Mina’s permanent chill, it was fading in the Spanish sunshine.

  Mum and Dad had cooked on our first night here and made her very welcome, in the manner of a guest. After the second bottle of wine, Mum had asked what it was really like in a women’s prison. Mina had let her long hair fall over her face, like she does when she’s embarrassed, or scared. Or both.

  I’d given her thigh a squeeze under the table, and she took a deep breath. She’d brushed back her hair and said, ‘There weren’t as many lesbians as I’d expected. Disappointing, really.’

  Dad choked on his Rioja, and Mum coughed into her napkin before they both burst out laughing. Later, when we were clearing up, Mum had said to Mina, ‘Pass the plates, dear.’

  I’d let out a huge unconscious breath, one I’d been holding since they’d first found out about my new, criminal girlfriend. Pass the plates dear. It meant that Mina was part of the family now, and therefore entitled to all the Clarke family benefits, including the sharp edge of Mother’s tongue, as Mina had discovered during her first bridge lesson the next day.

  Mina pulled her wrist out of my hand and slapped my exposed thigh. Hard. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

  I gave it some thought. ‘It means Dad and I get to smoke cigars while you play bridge.’

  I got another slap for my pains. ‘It means I need to get my nails done before the meal, and I need to find something to wear. See you inside.’ She headed for the house, and I watched her go.

  Antonella, the maid, would soon go round closing the windows, lowering the shutters and saying goodbye. Her last act before locking the front door behind her would be to turn on the aircon, the signal for the Clarke family siesta to begin.

  Right on cue, I heard the bang of a window and the rattle of shutters from upstairs. I lit a cigarette just as the house phone rang. Dad uses the landline for his business, and usually lets it go to the answering machine, but today he answered it.

  I drained my beer and got ready to go in, only for Dad to appear, holding the phone. ‘For you,’ he said.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Dad shrugged and passed me the phone. ‘Put it back on the cradle when you’ve finished.’

  I took the handset. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Conrad Clarke?’ said an Anglo-Indian-American voice.

  The sun carried on beating down, but I felt a cloud move over my life. Our lives.

  ‘Who’s calling?’ I said, knowing it could only be one person.

  ‘Arun Desai. Mina’s brother. I know she’s with you.’

  ‘Not at the moment, she’s not. Why don’t you call her?’

  ‘I have. Many times. And messaged. She said she was going with you. To Spai
n. To your parents.’ We both heard the accusation in his voice, and Arun made an effort to moderate himself. ‘She said that she was switching off her phone, but I’m afraid that I need to speak to her. I think she’s blocking my calls and messages.’

  Mina’s phone has not been switched off. That’s a fact, and I know that she and Arun have had words on a few occasions since she started getting weekend release from prison. I know that because I’ve heard the raised voices and seen the pain in her eyes afterwards.

  This was the first time I’d spoken to him personally, and he sounded more desperate than angry. Antonella had moved downstairs, and I’d be locked out soon. ‘Perhaps she needs some space,’ I said. ‘It’s been very hard for her to adjust.’

  ‘Which is why I waited until she was released fully and not just on weekend leave,’ snapped Arun. ‘You must tell her to call me.’ He hesitated. ‘Our mother is sick. Dying. Cancer. The hospital in Bombay has sent her home.’

  The words came out in a rush. Poor bloke. Instinctively, I glanced up to the shuttered windows of the master bedroom, where my bonkers but healthy mother would be doing the crossword before her siesta. I shivered, and toyed with the idea of leaving the bad news until we got back to England. No. That’s no way to start a relationship.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked. ‘For the time zones, I mean.’ Arun lives north of Cambridge, Massachusetts, but could easily be in India.

  ‘At work, but she can call me any time. I’m flying to Bombay on Friday and on unpaid leave from next week.’

  Antonella appeared at the patio doors. I picked up my glass and waved to say that I was coming in.

  ‘I’ll go and tell her now,’ I said to Arun.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Clarke. Tell her … tell her I that I have her Indian passport. I will courier it to wherever she wants. She won’t get in to India on her British passport. Not now she has a criminal record.’

  The Villa Verde nestles in the hills, just above a little town to the north of Valencia. The town is far enough from the coast to avoid tourists but still be attractive to ex-pats, like Mum and Dad. They’ve lived here for a few years now, and love it.

  The walk down to town is long enough to appreciate the view but not too long to tire you out before dinner. Dad does enough business with the local taxi drivers that it’s always easy to get a lift home afterwards. It was way too long for heels, though, and I was swinging Mina’s shoes in my left hand while my right hand held hers. The human population of the town was waking up from siesta, and so were the flowers.

  In these last days of May, I reckon that the town is at its best, stuffed with blossoms, and the natural scents joined with the odours from a hundred cooks’ open windows. Jasmine, garlic, paprika and nicotiana, all blended together as we wove our way through the streets. It was another corner of Paradise, and Mina did her best to treat it as such.

  We hadn’t got much sleep after I’d broken the news from Arun, not because she wanted to talk, but because she wanted to avoid talking. To him or me.

  In the end, I’d hugged her to sleep, and the break in consciousness had been enough for her to pretend that it hadn’t happened. For now.

  We were an hour ahead of the parents tonight so that I could escort Mina to her appointment at the beauty salon to get her nails done. We arrived just as the owner unlocked the door. I handed over her shoes, we kissed, and I retreated across the road to give her a couple of minutes to get settled in. After that, I was off for a beer.

  I lit a cigarette and let the warmth of baked brick seep through my shirt. The letters of the salon’s name – Bellegente – sparkled in the last flush of sunshine, and I let my mind wander.

  In my shoes, your mind might wander to your problems, perhaps, or what you’re having for dinner. My mind wandered home, to Clerkswell in Gloucestershire, and I wondered what the angle of sunset would be at that latitude, and how much later it would happen. Sorry. It’s just the way I am: navigational puzzles fascinate me.

  And then I jerked off the wall as if I’d been scalded.

  I turned and stared at the stucco. That wall faced north. It had never seen the sun, so unless the building were on fire, why was it warm? There could only be one answer.

  Magick.

  This was my first trip to Spain since I’d been catapulted into the world of magick. Mostly I’d forgotten about it while I was here – the craft part, anyway. It’s hard to forget about the murderous ambush parts. They stick in the mind. After all, magick doesn’t play the same part in my day-to-day life as it does in Vicky’s or Hannah’s. This wall, however, I couldn’t ignore.

  My magickal partner, Vicky Robson, senses Lux (the raw power of magick) with her eyes. I don’t know how, but she does. I imagine it’s a bit like bees being able to see further into the ultraviolet than humans can: to Vicky (and bees) it’s just natural. How it is. For me, sensing magick is a bit like heat. Imagine you’re standing in the snow in Iceland, next to one of those thermal springs. You can feel the currents of hot air. Or walking into a cold room where the central heating has just come on: you know where the radiator is without having to look. This wall was a bit like standing outside the boiler room of the Titanic. I stepped back to get a proper look.

  The buildings opposite the salon, of which this wall formed a part, were all residential, a mixture of apartments and townhouses in pinks and yellows, with one exception: the one I’d chosen to lean against. It was a very old, single story white farmhouse set back from that white wall. There was a traditional wooden gate to the left with a spy grille, and next to it a brass plate. I took a closer look.

  Mercedes del Convento

  Lectuas de Tarot

  Con Descreción

  I was juggling the translation in my head when a loud buzz was followed by a click, and the gate sprang off the catch. Did I want a discreet tarot reading by Mercedes the Nun? Was there a line missing on the brass plate that said Trampa – Trap?

  1 — Padres, Patrons and the End of Paradise

  A young woman in her late teens or early twenties pulled back the gate and stepped over the threshold on to the pavement. She was dressed casually, in a sleeveless top and jeans, and she’d been cooking, I reckoned. The pulled back hair, lack of makeup, rolled up sleeves and large knife were all clues, so call me Sherlock. She looked at me and arched her eyebrows. She had a long, domed forehead and round eyes. Her mouth was on the verge of a smile most of the time, and not in a sultry way: her default expression was happy.

  The only foreign country where I can blend into the background is Germany, and then only with practice. Everywhere else I might as well wear a Union Jack waistcoat. It was no surprise she spoke in English.

  ‘Señor? Can I help? Mother is here today.’

  Someone inside had sensed my own magick, of that I had no doubt. It would have been downright suspicious, to say nothing of rude, if I’d just walked off. I smiled and stepped through the gate into an exquisite courtyard garden that overloaded the senses with flowers, herbs and the ripe odour of an enormous marijuana bush. How had I not copped that smell outside?

  Now that I could see the house properly, it looked even older, with lots of exposed aged wood and small, shuttered windows. The door was down a narrow side alley, and I could see a field sloping down to the river over the young woman’s shoulders as she led me inside.

  The smell of onions hit me from a kitchen down to the left. She pointed right and said, ‘Please wait. One minute.’

  I had to duck to get through the arch, and I blinked at the sudden darkness and warm glow. There was a lot of magick in here.

  Shapes and walls came into focus. The room was smaller than I expected, about three metres square, with most of the floor taken up by a circular table and four chairs. The table was covered with a black cloth, and more black was draped to hide the contents of shelves and bookcases. The brightest thing in the room was a set of crystal glasses on top of a dark oak sideboard that looked vaguely familiar. Even the most rigid sceptic from the mu
ndane (non-magickal) world would be creeped out in here.

  I made my way round the table and leaned on the wall between the windows. Women’s voices, muted by distance and magick, sounded from down the farmhouse passage. Talking of magick, I felt a weight on my hip that I normally ignore.

  I’ve been wearing the Hammer, my magickally enhanced SIG pistol most of the time, yes, even on holiday. A key piece of magickal evidence had come into my possession, a piece that needed analysis. A lot of innocent people had died on the way, and until word had reached all corners of the magickal world, we’d still be at risk.

  The Hammer sits in an occluded holster, for obvious reasons, and even powerful Mages don’t normally see it. But there was so much Lux in here that it would be obvious to the householder, and Señora Mercedes is some sort of Sorcerer. Seeing is what they do best.

  Taking it off was also a risk (I still knew nothing about these people), but I eased the holster off my belt and put it on top of a nearby table. Handy, but not too handy.

  Sandals slapped on the terracotta tiles, and Mercedes herself came through the archway. I doubt she greets her regular clients in jeans, but that’s how she was tonight. Jeans and a smart, red silk blouse (sleeves down and makeup on). She was exactly what you’d expect her daughter to look like in twenty-five years’ time: fuller in the body and creased round the eyes, but what eyes. Unlike the daughter’s, they were dark and deep set, and they swirled with mystery and glimpses of other worlds, fragments of sunlight and darkness. Scary, and it wasn’t even a deliberate illusion, it was just a side-effect of her Sight.

  Her eyes cleared, and she focused on the gun. I held my hands up and smiled.

  ‘Bienvenido, Señor,’ she said, rather stiffly.

  I inclined my head and fished out a business card. I put it on the black tablecloth for her to take it or leave it.