The Twelve Dragons of Albion Read online

  I’d been given a Doodad of my own, a personal gift from Mother Julia. It was a Persona, a Charm which made it harder, if not impossible, for Mages to use Sorcery to track me.

  I spread the plunder on the table – a glass topped stone table that’s half mediaeval and half science fiction. Dwarves are pioneers in the science of Quantum Magick, and the tabletop lit up as the built-in sensors assayed the Artefacts placed on it and labels appeared next to each item. Unfortunately, the labels were in Dwarvish.

  The little stone monster pointed to four of the medallions and separated them into a pile. ‘These are personal, tied to their maker and of no use to anyone else. We can smelt them and release the Lux. You will get 2.7oz Troy.’

  Troy ounces are the unit of magickal currency. Lux is stored in Alchemical Gold (real gold with some sort of enhancement), and the Dwarves act as bankers, as well as being the preeminent makers of Artefacts.

  The Lunar Sisters had paid the Lord Mayor of Moles a whole 36oz Troy for a special job, and the Sisters had considered it a fortune, so 2.7oz for the useless Doodads was a good price. Things were looking up.

  ‘Done,’ I said. ‘What about the rest? Can I incorporate them into my new Badge of office?’

  The Dwarf pointed to my neck. ‘You have a Persona already. A good one. I can incorporate it into your Badge and buy these two spare ones from the table.’

  I touched the Artefact through my jacket. ‘No, thanks. This was a gift from the first Mage to show me kindness. It can stay there.’

  The sentiment was lost on the Dwarf. He just flicked two more medallions towards him. ‘Value 0.3oz,’ was his only comment. Not so good.

  ‘What about an Ancile?’ I asked. The Ancile is an Artefact which can literally divert a bullet. Lots of bullets. There are limits: it won’t absorb a concussion grenade, as Debs Sayer discovered when I bowled one at her head.

  ‘There are two,’ said Hledjolf. ‘This one is burnt out and useless.’ That would be Ms Sayer’s. ‘That one is damaged. We will make you a new one.’ He took them off the table. ‘Another 0.1oz.’

  That left four pieces.

  The Dwarf pointed to three of them in turn. ‘This is the code for Dodgson’s Mirror. It takes much Lux to work, so the Artefact is rare. We offer 1oz. These two are pure gold: they do nothing but store Lux, and both have been much depleted. There is 2.4oz left.’

  I nodded my acceptance, and the medallions were removed. That left one.

  The Dwarf stared at it for a long time. ‘We have not seen a piece like this for many, many years. It is very old, and the Work it contains is folded in on itself, much as you might encrypt a computer program. Without the correct Keyway, not even the gods can use it.’ The Dwarf slid it back to me. ‘We suggest that you look in the estate of your victims for a clue.’ There was a pause. ‘We do not recommend that you use this Artefact yourself. The results could be unpredictable.’

  ‘Was that a piece of friendly advice?’ I asked. Perhaps underneath that silicate exterior…

  ‘No. It was to cover ourselves if you do anything stupid. We would not want the Peculier Constable to accuse us of negligence.’

  Ah well. Never mind.

  Hledjolf continued, ‘The total for these items is 6.5oz. You are owed 16oz for completion of your contract with the Lunar Sisters. What item do you want us to make for your Watch Captain’s Badge of Office?’

  When Hannah had admired my briefcase, I was keeping my fingers crossed that she didn’t look inside, or if she did, that she didn’t unwrap the oilcloth package hidden at the bottom. I took it out myself and peeled back the layers.

  ‘This is what I want,’ I told the Dwarf.

  It said nothing. For the first time in their presence, I got a magickal tingling of a different sort. It was as if all the instances of Hledjolf had stopped what they were doing and were staring through this one Dwarf’s diamond eyes.

  ‘We have never done this before,’ he finally said.

  The only vaguely human traits I’d seen in the Dwarves (other than greed) was pride. ‘I can go somewhere else if you’re not up to it,’ I said.

  ‘Of course we can do it, mortal.’

  Ouch. I’ve never been called that before. It stung.

  ‘Why do you want a handgun?’ asked Hledjolf. ‘You cannot slash or stab with it. That is how Watch Captains enforce their authority when their magick is insufficient.’

  ‘I don’t want any handgun, I want a SIG P226 Elite. Like this one. You can put the Ancile and Badge in the grip, and you can put most of the magick into the bullets. I can’t be the first, erm, Mage to ask for magickal bullets.’

  ‘No, you are not, but when we explain to Mages how expensive is the targeting rune, and how inefficient is the delivery of Lux, they ask for something else.’

  ‘I don’t need a targeting rune. That’s one thing I can do on my own.’

  ‘Many claim that.’

  What is this? Put Conrad In His Place Day?

  ‘Look, Mr Dwarf, I can shoot an apple off your head at twenty-five metres with this gun.’

  ‘What is the significance of the apple?’

  I lowered my head and beat it slowly on the table.

  ‘Just set up a test,’ I said when the pain got too much.

  ‘As you wish.’

  We did it in a corridor. I insisted on ear defenders, then we argued about the light levels – it’s darker in Hledjolf’s Hall than in any nightclub. I know that Dwarves are photosensitive, but this was ridiculous. In the end, I did it using my lantern and they watched via video.

  Before the Dunblane shootings put an end to live pistol firing as a competitive sport, I was the South West Junior Champion and on the team for the Modern Pentathlon. When the fun stopped, I kept up the riding, and started shooting again in the RAF.

  I demolished all five targets and we reconvened for negotiation.

  ‘We will make an exact copy of this weapon,’ said the Dwarf. The cost of that will be 12oz, to include your Ancile and the holder for your Badge. We simply cannot incorporate any other Runes or Works in something so mechanical.’

  ‘What do you mean holder for my Badge?’

  ‘The actual Badge is stamped onto a socket when you take the oath. As we understand it.’

  ‘Fine. Ammunition?’

  ‘There will be a design fee of 2oz, and each bullet will cost 0.2oz.’

  ‘Rounds. The whole package is called a round. The bullet is what they fire.’ I had 22.5oz in the bank. The clip for a P226 holds 12 rounds of 9mm ammunition, so… ‘I’ll take 30 rounds and two spare clips, and don’t forget proving. I’ll expect you to provide three rounds and a suitable target for testing.’

  ‘It is agreed,’ said Hledjolf.

  And that was that. All he said on the way out was that it would be ready in a week.

  2 — …Invisible by Nature

  Between catching the late train back to Cheltenham on Wednesday, and catching the early one to Paddington on the following Monday, a few things happened that you should know about.

  The first – and sweetest – was Thursday morning. I got a text from Vicky Robson, who had obviously just heard the news about working with me: Howdy Pardner. Not sure if you’re Mad or Bad, but you’re definitely Dangerous to Know. See you Monday, Uncle Conrad. Vic. X.

  I’m only fourteen years older than her. Truly, the gap between the pre- and post-digital generations is immense. Vicky thinks I’m some sort of psychopathic throwback who doesn’t know what he’s doing, and knowing Hannah, she probably sold the partnership to Vicky on the basis that Vicky would be looking after me as I blundered round the world of magick like Mr Mole in an art gallery.

  Vicky’s message arrived while I was supervising the builders who were refurbishing the old stables at Elvenham House into new stables, so that I could get a horse. If that sounds a little extravagant, it’s because of my leg.

  The titanium tibia came from being a little too close to a rocket propelled grenade in Afghanistan. It
hurts after inactivity, then gets easier when I walk, but it’s too painful to run very far unless I have to, so the physiotherapist recommended swimming. If you like swimming, skip the next paragraph.

  I hate swimming. I loathe it. Swimming is the most boring form of exercise ever invented: who can enjoy thrashing up and down the water with nothing to look at or listen to, and no variety? Sorry. Rant over.

  Iyengar yoga is good, and when I’m settled I’m going to find a class, but for a good, whole-body aerobic workout, you can’t beat a gallop, and it’s perfect for keeping the weight off my leg. What’s more, if I hadn’t been able to ford the river Roeburn on horseback, I’d never have got to the Battle of Lunar Hall, never mind won it.

  The building work was coming on nicely, despite the cold weather, and I left the builders to it while I looked into options for improving the thermal efficiency of Elvenham House, something of a major challenge.

  Friday morning saw the second highlight: a letter from my girlfriend. She’s only four years older than Vicky (yes, I know, she’s too young for me. You’re not the first to say that), but Mina Desai is culturally closer in age to me than she is to Vicky, because Mina is not a digital native. If you think that’s too much of a coincidence, I’ll explain why.

  Her family were quite strict when she was a teenager in ways still possible ten years ago, then she was badly injured in an assault and became quite isolated as a result, and now she’s in prison and won’t use the many illegal phones circulating both because she’s a great stickler for the rules and also because she doesn’t want to get into debt to one of her fellow prisoners. A wise woman, my Mina.

  Mina and Vicky have met, briefly. On Monday morning I had dragged Vicky to HMP Cairndale to explain, and demonstrate, the world of magick to an unbelieving Mina, and I wasn’t surprised to receive a letter so soon. Prisoners can send as many letters as they want, but every one is scrutinised. Stuck in her cell for up to twenty-two hours a day, Mina was having trouble digesting the fact that her boyfriend was now hanging out with a bunch of witches and wizards.

  As part of agreeing to become an item (as much as we can be an item when one of us in prison), Mina had made me promise not to lie to her, and she has never doubted me since. The net result is that she can’t decide which of us has gone mad, a very sensible question in the circumstances.

  Saturday was a busy day. It began with a phone call from Mother. I’d been going to ring her, but she normally likes a lie-in now that she’s retired. As soon as I answered, I asked her how the finals of the bridge tournament had gone.

  ‘It was close, but we won. Champions again, and we got our revenge for last year.’

  ‘Congratulations. Enjoy it, Mum. You deserve it.’

  ‘I think your father’s prouder than I am. A lifetime’s hiding my light under a bushel doesn’t prepare you for celebration.’

  If you’re thinking that Dad ever put her down, you’re wrong. Mum worked for GCHQ, and I know they’re all over the Internet these days trying to recruit people, but in her day it was as secret as my work for Merlyn’s Tower.

  ‘I was going to ring you, Mum, but you got in first.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, dear, but you’ve got to get in touch with Rachael. She called me up in a terrible flap this morning and got me out of bed. I can’t say any more, but it’s about you. Promise?’

  I sighed loudly enough for Mother to hear. ‘I promise.’

  She changed the subject, going back to the bridge club and her determination to get them to merge with a local Spanish group. I congratulated her again and wished her all the best. Before I could lose my nerve, I called Rachael.

  ‘What’s up, sis?’

  ‘Has Mother been on the phone?’

  ‘Yes. I take it you didn’t drag her out of bed to congratulate her on the bridge championship.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Never mind. What’s the problem.’

  ‘You are. I was at a function last night and this … woman came up to me. A journalist.’

  This didn’t sound good. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. She’d done her homework. She knew I was your sister, she knew what I did for a living, and she very much wants to get in touch with you. Only a lifetime of being discreet about Mum stopped me saying anything.’

  This was not good. It was not good on many levels. ‘Did she say what it was about?’

  ‘Sort-of. She dropped all sorts of hints that you’ve been up to no good, which didn’t surprise me, then she said she wants your version of what happened in somewhere called Cairndale. Something about you kidnapping a police officer and hijacking a helicopter.’

  That was a relief of sorts. If the woman was only after a story about Operation Rainbow, then I could handle her. If she’d started talking about the world of magick, I’d have become very worried very quickly.

  ‘Did she give a name?’

  ‘I’ve got her card here. Juliet Porterhouse.’

  Aah. I’d once used Ms Porterhouse to get in touch with Chief Inspector Tom Morton, with whom she seemed very friendly. She probably knew more about Operation Rainbow than any other journalist.

  ‘Thanks, Raitch. You did the right thing, and I owe you one. Just tell her you’ve passed on the message and that I won’t be getting in touch.’

  ‘Easy for you to say, Conrad. She was hinting at all kinds of really nasty stuff, and that’s how you met Mina, wasn’t it?’

  There was no point denying it. ‘We got out. Both of us. Mina paid a higher price, that’s all. Mum and Dad…’

  I nearly bit my tongue through. How is it that siblings can do that to you? I knew as soon as the words left my mouth that I’d made a serious blunder.

  ‘You told them? You told them all about it?’ Her voice had risen alarmingly.

  ‘Some of it. When I got home at Christmas I’d just been shot and they were worried. Well, Dad was worried. I owed them some sort of explanation. I was a lot better when you turned up.’

  ‘It’s not like you to play the sympathy card.’

  ‘I didn’t, with you, did I? Probably because I knew I wouldn’t get any. You never visited me when I was in rehab with half my leg blown off. Dad did. He came over from Spain on the first flight to see me in hospital.’

  ‘You never sent me the details. I had no idea where you were.’

  I stopped myself from saying You could have rung Dad and asked him. I had her on the back foot and it was time for some verbal spin. ‘Just text Juliet Porterhouse and say I’ve gone underground. It’s literally true, half the time.’

  ‘If that’s what you want. Let’s hope she can take no for an answer.’

  Rachael is basically honourable. I felt confident she’d do what I asked, and felt even more confident that I hadn’t heard the last of this. She would give our parents the third degree when she next saw them, and I’d have to face the consequences when she got back.

  I’d been trying to build bridges to her, and didn’t regret it, but things hadn’t gone quite as I’d planned. Oh well.

  I turned my thoughts to Project Clerkswell: my plan to stake a claim in village life. Don’t forget, I’ve only been an occasional visitor to the place since I joined the RAF. It’s a good job villages have long collective memories or I’d have been forgotten long ago. Perhaps living in the second largest house helps.

  To my eternal surprise, not everyone is a cricket enthusiast, so bear with me a moment. I promise not to include much technical stuff, which should make the following story acceptable to the benighted amongst you who don’t relish our national game.

  Unlike his predecessor, the new captain of the village cricket team is a rather keen sort of chap, which is not always a virtue in village cricket. Part One of Ben Thewlis’s winter training regime had been very enjoyable: a lock-in at the Inkwell that he called a “team-building exercise”. After that, I now know who the other members of the team are, and whether they can hold their beer.

  Part Two was more of a challenge and feat
ured indoor nets at the sports centre in Cheltenham. Remember, I haven’t played cricket in any form since well before my leg injury.

  No team worth playing for has ever selected me for my batting, as Ben soon remembered when some teenager clean bowled me three times on the trot during the first session.

  ‘I hope you can remember how to bowl, Conrad,’ he said, looking worried. The prospect of dropping the man whose ancestor donated the ground can’t have been an enticing one.

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said, taking my coat outside for a smoke, where I found the teenage demon bowler doing something incomprehensible with his phone.

  ‘Well bowled in there,’ I said. His mother hadn’t allowed him to come to the team-building exercise, so I didn’t even know his name.

  ‘Thanks. Your stance is good, sir, but…’

  ‘You’re not in the RAF, lad. My name is Conrad Clarke,’ I said, sticking out a hand.

  He shook it. ‘Everyone knows you, erm, Mr Clarke. I’m Ross. Ross Miller.’

  ‘You must be Ed Miller’s boy. I went to school with him. Doesn’t he play any more?’

  The lad developed a sudden interest in the all-weather football pitch. ‘Mum and Dad split up three years ago.’

  Awkward. Why did no one tell me? I changed the subject. ‘My stance is good, but…?’

  ‘You’re not moving your left foot enough.’

  There’s a good reason for that, of course, but he doesn’t need to know about my scars. I stubbed out my cigarette and said, ‘Can you bat?’

  He gave me a grin. ‘Not as well as I can bowl.’

  ‘Me, too. I hope. It’s been a while.’

  Back inside, Ben chucked me a ball and pointed to the empty net. He picked up a bat and sauntered down to face me.

  My regular deliveries were good, if a little rusty, and certainly adequate for most village games. What I really wanted to try was a little magick. Enhanced spin, you could say.