A Hard Day's Knight (12 page)

When I got to the Green Door, it wasn’t there. A bleak expanse of yellowing wall separated two perfectly respectable businesses, with no trace of any door or opening, or indeed anything to suggest there was anything special about the wall. Except, this was perhaps the only stretch of wall in London not covered with graffiti, posters, or dried streams of urine. I raised my Sight and studied the wall closely, and still couldn’t See the damned Door. I could See rough markings in dried troll blood, from some Scissorboys gang marking its territory, and a reptiloid alien hidden behind a human mask as it strode briskly past me, but the wall remained stubbornly a wall. The Green Door that provided the only entrance point to the London Knights’ headquarters remained thoroughly hidden. Which meant ... really powerful protections.

I knew the bloody thing was there because I’d once tracked a man all the way to it, back when I was being an ordinary private eye. I thought I had him run to ground and cornered until he said a Word I’d never heard outside the Nightside, and the Green Door appeared before him. He hurried through it, and the Door vanished before I could reach it. And I ... turned round and went home because I was determined not to get involved in cases of the weird and uncanny any more.

I heard later that the Knights executed the guy. Because he wasn’t worthy of their sanctuary.

But things were different now. I wasn’t afraid to use my gift any more. I reached deep inside me, concentrating, and my inner eye, my private eye, slowly opened ... and there was the Green Door, right before me. It could hide from my Sight but not from my gift. My sole inheritance from my Biblical Myth mother. The Door itself looked stubbornly real and ordinary: flat green paint over featureless wood, with no handle, no bell, not even a knocker or a keyhole. It was, in fact, a Door that suggested very firmly that either you knew how to get in, or you had no business even trying.

I tested the Green Door with my gift, searching out its secrets, and it didn’t take me long to discover the magical mechanisms that operated it. Very old, very simple, and very well protected. My gift could find them but not reach them. Which was frustrating. So I gave the Door a good kick on general principles, hurt my toe, and walked round in little circles for a while. I glared at the Green Door and seriously considered carving chunks out of it with Excalibur. However, since I’d come all this way to ask the London Knights a favour, open assault on their property probably wasn’t the best first impression I could be making. So, when everything else fails, try diplomacy. I put away my gift, dropped my Sight, and addressed the blank street wall in calm, civilised, and very polite tones. While studiously ignoring those passersby who wondered why I was talking to myself.

“Hello, London Knights. I’m John Taylor. From the Nightside. I need to talk to you concerning something that’s a lot more in your line of work than mine. If it helps, Julien Advent vouches for me. If it doesn’t, I never met the man. Look, this really is something you want to know about. It’s Arthurian as all hell, and the words
deep shit
and
approaching fan
should be taken into consideration.”

Still nothing. Arrogant bunch of pricks. I was considering the soothing properties of giving the wall another good hard kick when, almost without realising it, my hand rose and took a firm hold on the invisible hilt rising behind my shoulder. And the moment my bare flesh made contact with the ancient bone ... old, old words came to me.

“I bear Excalibur, the Sword of Morning, the Hand of Albion. In the name of the Lady who has granted me her power, and in the name of the man who last wielded it, the once-and-future King, I demand audience with the last defenders of Camelot.”

And the Green Door was suddenly there before me, very real and very solid, as though it always had been there and always would. I took my hand away from Excalibur’s hilt, and the Green Door opened slowly before me, retreating silently and not at all invitingly—revealing only an impenetrable darkness beyond. I took a deep breath, held my chin up, and walked right into it. Never let them think they’ve got you cowed, or they’ll walk right over you. The darkness swallowed me up, cold and limitless, and I barely had time to wonder whether I’d made a terrible mistake when a blast of light dispelled the darkness, and just like that I was standing in the entrance hall to a medieval castle.

Which was pretty much what I’d been expecting. The London Knights are firmly steeped in tradition. I looked cautiously about me. There was no-one round to greet me, or any signs of human habitation at all. Only great towering walls of a rich creamy white stone, spotlessly clean, without any trace of decoration. The whole place could have been built the day before. Every separate stone in the massive walls had been set so tightly and so perfectly together that no mortar was needed. And that takes real skill and expert measurement.

I appeared to have the whole great open space to myself. No-one there, and not even any windows or arrow slits through which I could be observed. I took a quick look behind me, but of course the Green Door was gone, replaced by a blank and very real wall. There was an open archway straight ahead of me, in the far wall. Silence filled the entrance hall, so complete I could hear my own breathing. A silence that seemed pointedly judgemental. I had no doubt I was being watched. So I stuck my hands in my coat-pockets, slouched, adopted a jaunty air, and strolled towards the open archway as though I had all the time in the world.

The sound of my footsteps hardly seemed to travel at all, not even a hint of an echo, as though the sheer massive size of the hall were soaking up the sound.

It took me a while to cross the long hall, and by the time I got to the archway it was filled with a heavy iron portcullis. I was pretty sure it hadn’t been there when I started walking, and I was pissed off enough to take this new snub personally. I glared at the portcullis.

“Lift this bloody thing right now. Or I’ll show you all a really nasty trick my mother taught me.”

There was a pause, then the iron portcullis rose silently before me, without any sound of straining mechanisms. I love it when a bluff comes together. I stuck my nose in the air and strode haughtily through the narrow stone tunnel into another great hall. The same creamy white stone as before, but richly adorned with hanging tapestries and colourful pennants, in sharp vivid shades of crimson, emerald, and gold. Huge silver crucifixes were mounted on the walls, between magnificent stained-glass windows depicting scenes from the lives of the Saints. The flooring was polished marble, with huge mosaics presenting scenes from the past—of knights in their armour, clashing armies, blood and mud and the fight for a dream.

I felt a very real lightening of the spirit, a feeling of calm and burdens lifted; the light was crystal clear, and even the air tasted fair. I relaxed a little, despite myself. I’d seen more impressive places in the Nightside, but not many. As medieval castles went, this one went all the way. But I still couldn’t help noting that the splendid crystal-and-diamond chandeliers at each end of the hall contained electric light bulbs rather than the usual massed candles. I stopped to study them for a moment, and when I looked down again, there were a dozen knights in full armour standing before me.

I hadn’t heard them come in. In fact, given the sheer weight of the armour they were wearing, I should have heard them approaching half a mile away. Clearly, I was meant to be impressed, so I nodded casually, as though I’d seen it all before, and much better done. My first thought was how ... practical, and functional, the suits of armour looked. They weren’t ceremonial, or works of art, or even symbols; this was battle armour, designed to keep its wearer alive in even the most dangerous of situations. Gleaming steel, from head to foot; expertly fashioned, and completely unadorned. No engraving or ornamentation, not even a coloured tabard over the torso to add a touch of colour. Steel helmets covered their entire heads, with only a Y-shaped slots for the eyes and mouths.

For a moment, I was reminded of the knight in dark armour I’d seen on the station platform, back in the Nightside. The nightmare armour that stood in utter opposition to the forces of chivalry before me.

The knights were still staring silently at me. I wondered whether there was some special password I was supposed to use; I still remembered the Word my quarry had used to get in all those years ago. But considering what had happened to him, I didn’t think I’d use it. The knights were trying to impress and/or intimidate me, but they really should have known better. If there was one thing that anyone should know about me, it’s that I don’t do impressed or intimidated. I considered drawing Excalibur and doing something dramatically destructive with it; but that might make me seem weak, in their eyes. And it seemed to me that the castle would be a very bad place in which to appear weak.

So I struck a casual pose and smiled easily at the knights, as though they were on parade in front of me. “Hi. I’m John Taylor.”

“Oh, we know who you are,” said an amused voice from within one of the steel helms. “Your reputation spreads a lot further than this.”

The knight speaking took off his helmet and tucked it casually under his arm. He had a fresh, cheerful face, with short-cropped blond hair and very blue eyes. The warmth in his smile gave every appearance of being genuine. He had the open, easy kind of charm you tend not to see a lot of in the Nightside. An honest, straightforward agent of the Good; exactly like the London Knights were supposed to be. I was immediately suspicious, but I gave him my best open smile in return.

“Hi!” said the knight, stepping forward and extending a mailed glove for me to shake. I grasped it firmly, and he gave it a good solid shake, like a young clergyman who played rugby on the side. “I’m Sir Gareth. Welcome to Castle Inconnu. I see you’ve noticed the electric lighting. We are a part of the twenty-first century, you know. We have central heating, indoor plumbing, cable, and broadband. We’re traditionalists, not barbarians. Sorry we had to give you a bit of a hard time getting in, but we live in dangerous times. You of all people should know that. You’re one of the people who makes these times dangerous. And you really should have known better than to drop the Victorian Adventurer’s name. He’s been persona non grata round here for years. But ... you say you have Excalibur. And you knew the old Words ... So here we are. Despite your really quite appalling reputation.”

“Are you by any chance suggesting that I’m not worthy to bear Excalibur?” I said carefully.

“Not on the best day you ever had,” Sir Gareth said cheerfully. “But then neither am I, or any of the London Knights. Excalibur is so much more than a sword, or any enchanted blade. Whoever bears Excalibur has the power to shape the fate of nations or change the course of history.”

“Is that why you felt compelled to make a show of strength?” I said, glancing at the other knights, standing still and silent and watchful.

“Just being cautious,” said Sir Gareth. “And, to show respect. To the sword Excalibur.”

“And to the man who bears it?”

“Perhaps. As I said: your reputation goes before you, John Taylor.”

“Who are you people?” I said bluntly. “What, exactly, are the London Knights? I know the name, I know the reputation, but I don’t think anyone knows exactly what it is you do. And I’m not handing Excalibur over to just anybody.”

“Fair enough,” said Sir Gareth. “We go to great pains to keep what we do secret. We’re not in it for the applause. Now, do you want the long version, or the short version? The short version misses out a lot of fun stuff, but the other version does tend to go on a bit. We have been round for a very long time ... What say I hit the high spots, and you can ask questions afterwards?”

“Can you guarantee there will be an afterwards?” I said. “One of the few things I have heard is that you people have a tendency to execute those you consider unworthy.”

“Oh, we don’t do that any more,” Sir Gareth said briskly. “Or at least, hardly ever. Only when we feel we absolutely have to. Now then, the London Knights are descended from those original knights who sat at the Round Table in Camelot, serving King Arthur and his glorious dream of justice, of Might for Right. The knights themselves were slaughtered at the final battle of Logres, fighting Mordred’s army. All save one. The knights fell, and the dream was over.”

“You did win, in the end,” I said.

“Nobody won. Arthur and Mordred killed each other, both armies were destroyed, and the land was devastated. All they had built, gone, less than the dust. Good men, the finest of their generation—all that was left were piled-up bodies in the blood-soaked mud. But one knight survived. He gathered up all the families of those who fell and took them to a safe place. To the Unknown Castle. And down the centuries he slowly rebuilt the order of knights and based them here in London. That the might and the glory and the traditions of Arthur’s dream might not vanish from this Earth. We maintain the chivalric way, serving the good and battling evil. The London Knights.

“We are warriors. We are the secret army, the hidden force, the men who ride to battle when all else has failed. We don’t solve problems, we don’t investigate mysteries, and we don’t do diplomacy. We fight. We are the steel hand; we are sudden death; we are vengeance.

“Mostly we work behind the scenes, apart from everyday society, that we might not be corrupted by it. We fight our wars on far-off worlds and in hidden places, and no-one knows our triumphs and our losses but us. The London Knights stand firm against evil; that is all you know and all you need to know. We are still a religious order as much as an army, with every knight sworn to give his life and honour and everything else that matters to the cause that never ends.

“We are the guardians of the world. Any questions?”

“Where were you when we could have used you, during the Lilith War?”

“We don’t sweat the small stuff,” said Sir Gareth.

I glared at him. “All right. Who’s in charge here?”