The Twelve Dragons of Albion Read online

  Hannah was wearing a green bandanna, knotted snugly around her head. It clashed with her conservative outfit of blouse, skirt and boots, but was a much better look than either the wig or the terrible scarring and misshapen repairs underneath. I’ve got a titanium tibia; she’s got a titanium skull.

  She came round and offered me a warm handshake, took my arm and guided me to the table in front of the picture window with its view over the Thames.

  ‘How did you do it, Conrad?’ she said when we were seated.

  This was way too much of an open question with far too many pitfalls to venture an answer. ‘Do what, ma’am?’

  She closed her blue-green eyes. ‘Enough of the ma’am, already. You don’t even work here yet.’

  ‘Sorry. If you’re going to be my CO, and you don’t want me to call you ma’am, you’ll be fighting against two decades of conditioning.’

  ‘At least while we’re sitting down. None of the others do it.’

  I thought that it might be a good idea if Li Cheng, the Royal Occulter, showed a bit more respect, but I kept that thought to myself and nodded my understanding.

  Hannah poured the tea and sat back. ‘I wanted to know how you sweet-talked Vicky Robson into joining your personal crusade up North. Strictly against the rules, and a serious matter. For her.’

  I fixed my gaze on Tower Bridge. I was going to lie, and Hannah knew that I was going to lie.

  ‘Vicky had decided to spend the weekend walking in the Lake District. It was a complete coincidence that she was nearby after the Battle of Lunar Hall.’

  Hannah snorted with laughter. ‘Vicky doesn’t walk to the Tube if she can get an Uber, she thinks that the Lake District is a shopping mall in Essex, and when I FaceTimed her, she was wearing a fleece. I’m surprised it wasn’t branded Team Conrad. Is this nonsense about a walking holiday what you’re going to put in your report?’

  I reached into my briefcase and pulled out the first document. ‘Already there, ma’am. If there’s anything you’d like me to add or amend, please let me know. I have no experience in writing reports with a magickal dimension. Except my expenses – there’s always been an element of fantasy there.’

  I passed her a second sheet with my claim for nearly £20,000. She passed it straight back.

  ‘You weren’t a Watch Captain and you weren’t on Queen’s Business at Lunar Hall.’ She smiled. ‘On the upside, I can’t discipline you for anything you did wrong.’ She took the first document and nodded. ‘Thanks for this. I’ll read it carefully, Conrad.’ She put the papers down. ‘Do you trust me enough to talk off the record?’

  Everyone else in the King’s Watch has come from the magickal establishment. They’re all graduates of this Invisible College thing. Hannah and I are outsiders, and I was counting on her support in the future, so, yes, if I didn’t trust her now, I might as well quit. ‘Of course,’ I said.

  She nodded again. ‘You’ve had a lot of close shaves. Been in a few sticky situations, and I don’t just mean recently.’

  There was no point in false modesty: she’s read my RAF record. ‘You could say that, yes. I’ve flown helicopters into – and out of – some pretty dangerous places.’

  ‘Teamwork,’ she said, more of a statement than a question. ‘Tell me honestly, Conrad, does Vicky have what it takes for field assignments?’

  I didn’t hesitate. ‘I’d trust Vicky to have my back 100%. On the record or off it. I know she’s struggling to find a role here, so I’d say she has great potential in the field.’

  ‘That’s what I hoped you’d say. Good. I also notice you said potential and your back. She’s not ready to go out on her own, and I’m guessing that you couldn’t have completed your mission without her. If you pass the test, I’m going to put her with you for a while.’

  Her last sentence contained the best and the worst news I’d heard in a while. ‘Thanks, Hannah,’ I said. ‘But I thought that rescuing Abbi Sayer was the test.’

  She gave what can only be described as an evil grin. I’ve seen her sad, furious and pissed off in her professional capacity, but this was the first time I’d seen an aspect of the woman underneath. I very much liked what I saw. ‘I’m sure you’ll pass,’ she said. ‘I only propose the Watch Captains. Someone else makes the appointment.’

  ‘Eh? And who would that be?’

  ‘It’ll be a surprise. Now, down to business. I’ve never appointed an ex-soldier before.’

  ‘Former airman. Please.’ I took out another bundle of papers, and this time her eyes followed my hands.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ she said, pointing to my briefcase. ‘Can I see?’

  I handed it over. It’s a Victorian adjutant’s case, made of soft leather and designed to survive a trip across the battlefield and arrive with its orders intact. Stamped on the front is the fading image of crossed cavalry sabres and, more recently, my initials and a set of RAF wings.

  ‘A present from my Dad, when I passed out of Cranwell,’ I said. ‘He’s an antique dealer. Retired now.’

  ‘Lovely work,’ she said, admiring the close stitching.

  As Hannah had leaned forward to examine the case, her chest had shifted. I’m not in the habit of staring at women’s chests, but I’d never been this close to her before, and I was looking at the briefcase myself, so it was right in my eye-line. I say that her chest shifted —–underneath her white silk blouse, her breasts sort of detached themselves and hung loose. Just by a fraction. It was a good job that she was looking down, and couldn’t see the alarm on my face. As well as the plate in her skull, it looked like she’d had a double mastectomy. Whatever traumas Hannah Rothman has suffered in her life, she bears them well. Better than I do.

  She handed the case back. ‘Sorry. What are these papers?’

  ‘I took the liberty of contacting the RAF personnel department. The procedure for resuming a commission is different to giving a new one. I was hoping to get my wings back, too.’

  She considered the question, nodded and asked what to do.

  ‘Sign here, here and here. I’ll tell Mrs Haynes where to send them.’

  She flourished a pen, signed, then tilted her head. ‘How do you know her last name.’

  It was my turn to smile. ‘I’ve heard about her daughter. Briefly.’

  ‘Hmm. I won’t ask. Right, Conrad, you know what to do next in terms of securing your appointment as Watch Captain, don’t you?’

  ‘See the Dwarf and claim my reward.’

  ‘Pretty much. Hledjolf has made the badge of office for Watch Captains for generations.’

  ‘I’ve seen Li Cheng’s dagger. Does it have to be like that?’

  ‘It’s up to you. The badge of office itself is a small engraving which gets stamped magickally at your appointment. Apart from that, the design is up to you. Some of the Watch prefer full length swords – awkward, but powerful. It depends on your magick and how you use it.’

  ‘And because I have so little?’

  ‘You’ll need more Works built in, and it will need a lot of Alchemical Gold to act as a reservoir. Whatever you choose, it takes about a week. I’ll arrange the swearing-in for a fortnight tomorrow. You need to wear your uniform for that.’

  ‘I’ll get it cleaned, and talking of Works, Vicky will need to get herself one of those Ancile thingies if she’s going into the field.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll put it in her orders.’

  Our business was done, but she hadn’t made a move to dismiss me. ‘Is there anything else, ma’am?’

  She frowned. ‘Vicky’s coming back from Wray tonight. My Deputy tells me that the case against Keira might be complicated.’

  ‘How come? She murdered that Polish Sister and, what’s worse, she tried to kill me. Four times.’

  ‘Mmm. Not sure of the details – Vicky can fill you in. She’s taking leave until next week, then she can start your induction. Come back here on Monday and I’ll set you off. I think you’ll work well together.’

  ‘I hope so.
It’ll get her away from Li Cheng, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bad case of unrequited love, I’m afraid. Shall I take the papers?’

  Hannah stared at me. ‘Vicky? And Cheng? How…’

  ‘Thanks, Hannah,’ I said, scooping up the papers. I didn’t want her looking at them too closely. ‘I’ll see you next week.’

  I left her shaking her head and smiling.

  Outside the formidable oak doors, Tennille accepted the commission papers and my direction to send them to RAF High Wycombe. In return, she took my photograph and got me to fill out a short form while asking about my family. All very friendly.

  I was hoping that I never had to account for how I really did meet her daughter and what Desirée was actually up to at the time.

  With my Peculier business concluded, it was time for Hledjolf the Dwarf, who lurks in his Hall beneath the vaults of the Bank of England. To get there, I would have to pass through the territory of my oldest magickal ally – His Worship, the Lord Mayor of Moles.

  I walked up to Bank tube station, site of Keira’s first attempt on my life, and took the service door which allows me to access the Old Network, a series of of tunnels under London, of which I’ve seen about ½ a mile. That could be 10% or 0.001% for all I know. Yet another yawning chasm of ignorance.

  The Lord Mayor of Moles was born a perfectly ordinary specimen of talpa europaea, the common mole, possibly near Hackney Marshes. Something, or someone, magickally transformed him into a bull-sized bulldozer with magickal skills and the capacity to learn. Later, they tried to chain him for some purpose, and he escaped, eating one of his captors in the process. He now lives as a free creature in his nest under the Mansion House, as befits the first Lord Mayor of Moles.

  I gave him that title, and that’s not all. Part of my first magickal mission was to avoid becoming Moley’s dinner and, rather than risk a fight, I did a deal, providing him with a braille terminal, laptop and phone (hence the huge and hugely unsuccessful claim for expenses). He is one of the very few magickal creatures with an online presence, so I had e-moled him (sorry) in advance, and he was waiting for me when I entered the Old Network, having collected my camping lantern from its niche on the stairs. Unlike the movies, these tunnels are not illuminated.

  What the magickal enhancement hadn’t given Mr Mole was the gift of normal vision. Every time we meet, he has to run his squidgy over-sized nose all over me, and every time he does that it grosses me out.

  ‘You are no longer Odin’s creature,’ he said by way of greeting.

  ‘Hello to you, too.’

  ‘Ghaagh,’ he said. I think that’s Moleish for Whatever.

  ‘Are the worms still fat, Your Worship?’

  When Moley is distressed, his nose flicks round at twice the normal speed. This was not a happy mole and, for once, it wasn’t my fault.

  ‘The best worms have gone. To get Lux, I must do more digging for the Dwarf.’

  You’d think that Dwarves would be all for digging, wouldn’t you? Not any more, not when they can outsource it. It takes a lot of Lux – magickal energy – as well as a lot of raw meat to sustain a creature of Moley’s size and nature. He’d been living off magick worms that crawled out of the basement of various banks in the City. Why are financial institutions infested with glowing worms? No idea.

  ‘What exactly do you dig for the Dwarves?’ I asked.

  ‘The human Croshrail is deep,’ he said, mangling the sibilants. ‘The new tunnel has disrupted the Old Network. I dig to divert and to renew.’

  ‘Here you go,’ I said. ‘A gift. It’s curry paste.’ I loosened the lids on two jars and left them for him to nose out. How do I know that moles like curry sauce on their worms? Long story.

  He found the jars and his nose flicked round again: he was thinking, and I gave him some space. Mr Mole will never be my friend, as such, because Moles are too territorial, but he is a valuable ally, and I can do things for him that he can’t do for himself.

  Finally his nose almost stopped moving. ‘I have found something,’ he said. ‘You should examine it.’

  I didn’t have a fixed appointment with Hledjolf, and the chance of a guided tour was too good to miss. It would help fill that yawning chasm of ignorance. ‘Lead on, Your Worship.’

  We headed south west, away from the Bank, past the entrance to Moley’s nest and into unknown territory for me. These tunnels were obviously ancient, and were lined with stone that was far too well finished to be human handiwork of that period. Definitely Dwarvish.

  A little further, the tunnel swung north, then forked. The left fork was full of earth and completely blocked.

  Moley nosed it and said, ‘That was the old route. The new route is this way.’ He found the opening to the right fork and pressed on.

  The new tunnel started to descend rapidly, got warmer and became raw dirt. We were now in the New Old Network, as dug by His Worship. He stopped when the tunnel opened into a crossroads. Were we under the Barbican? My sense of direction is one of my strengths, but you have to know the surface to place yourself relative to it, and I just don’t know London that well.

  Moley’s new tunnel continued north and down on the other side of the crossroads, but he had clearly intercepted a very old part of the Old Network, because it was lined with long, low bricks. I dimly remembered seeing the like at Pompeii, and the passage was arched in a very suggestive way. Surely this couldn’t be Roman, could it?

  Mr Mole turned right, along the Romanesque tunnel, stopping at the threshold of a small chamber. ‘Here,’ he said.

  I lifted my camping lantern and unshipped my LED torch. The chamber was about the size and shape of a cathedral side-chapel, minus the altar and artwork. All I could see was unlined brick until I looked down.

  ‘Bugger me,’ was my informed, reflective contribution.

  At the centre of the chamber was a depression, shaped like a rugby ball but much, much bigger, and seemingly carved from a single piece of smooth black rock, much blacker than any rock should be, especially down here. I’ve never seen anything like that dug from a British quarry.

  The rest of the floor definitely said that we were in Roman territory, because no one else made mosaics quite like these. Great red tongues of fire spread out from the basin, each flame a masterpiece of intricate tiles. The rest of the floor was mostly black, but with a suggestion of roiling smoke. The basin looked to me like some sort of font, some baptismal shrine to a god of fire. I’d have said it was an actual fire-pit, but the roof of the chamber had no chimney or soot stains.

  ‘Have you nosed it out?’ I asked Moley.

  ‘I can feel the presence of a Work. You can go in.’

  (BTW, a Work is what they call a spell down south. The Witches I’d met in Lancashire called them Charms. Ghaagh.)

  ‘I think we need an expert opinion,’ I said. ‘But thanks for the heads-up. Where does the tunnel go in the other direction?’

  ‘It runs 35.36 metres and ends in another Work.’

  How did he measure 35.36m? Never mind. I was about to thank him again when a rather obvious thought struck me. ‘You dug both of the cross-tunnels, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Until I made a way, this tunnel was sealed completely.’ He reared up and nosed me again, because that’s what he does. I tried not to shudder. ‘Mole must dig. Mole must go.’ And he went.

  I took a last look into the chamber, from a safe distance, and saw nothing new. So, we have a magickally guarded chamber, probably of Roman construction, with possibly some sort of religious function and which was accessed from a tunnel that was completely inaccessible. Hmm.

  I took a picture with my digital camera (because I won’t have a smartphone), and walked the 35.36m to the other end. Moley had been reluctant to approach the Work at the end, but I soon saw what his blindness and caution had hidden from him: a door.

  I took another picture and retraced my steps past Bank Station, on and down, down below the vaults to the antechamber of Hledj
olf’s Hall.

  As far as I can tell, there is one Dwarf called Hledjolf, and it exists in several bodies as a sort of shared consciousness. The instances of Hledjolf have only one thing in common with your average Tolkien dwarf –height. Hledjolfs are about four foot tall, and look like a cross between R2D2 and a Minion. They have diamonds for eyes, no visible ears and a loudspeaker for a mouth. Oh, and they’re made of stone. No, I don’t understand it either.

  If you think that I’ve got a soft spot for Mr Mole, you’d be right, and if you’d met the Dwarves you’d know one of the reasons. The Hledjolfs are as incapable of emotional interactions as the carvings on their walls, one of which is me.

  The antechamber to Hledjolf’s Hall is covered with relief carvings of their clients, going back hundreds if not thousands of years, sort of like a visual testimonial. I checked to see if anyone had been added since my last visit, and found images of two women, one in a priestess robe, the other in a mini skirt, further proof that now they’d been given the chance, women were asserting themselves in the magickal world. I took a picture (in case I ever ran across them again), rang the bell and waited.

  Seeing the Dwarf again was no less disturbing than the first time. The Lord Mayor of Moles is unique, bizarre and in all senses larger than life, whereas Hledjolf is just plain unnatural. And greedy. Very greedy.

  The Dwarf and I got straight down to business when he/it had escorted me to their conference room, the one with the human sized table.

  ‘You made a lot of money out of me,’ I said. Best to be clear from the off.

  ‘And we we gave you that opportunity. You knew the risks,’ said the Dwarf.

  ‘Right. Your risk was only financial – I nearly got killed. Several times.’

  ‘Which is reflected in the bonus paid to you by the Lunar Sisters. A bonus from which we received no commission.’

  ‘You won’t starve. What do Dwarves eat, by the way?’

  ‘Lux. Nothing but Lux. Do you have plunder, also?’

  I did. Apparently, if you defeat a magickal enemy, you get to keep all their Doodads. Doodads is not a technical term by the way, it’s just my name for the Artefacts which Mages wear on a chain round their necks to extend and focus their magick. I’d picked up a dozen when I’d killed Deborah Sayer and captured her partner in crime.