End of the Century (46 page)

“Wait, that's the
simple
answer?”

Stillman chuckled. “Well…remember how I said I used to serve two masters? Well, before I ever took the king's shilling, I was on the rolls of Omega. Now, the goals of Omega weren't at odds with those of the British crown. Quite the contrary. It was in Omega's interest that things remain stable, that business thrive and technology continue to develop, that the frontiers expand…all of which
we
wanted, as well.”

“What is Omega, anyway? Is that some secret society or something?”

Stillman smiled and shook his head. “Not exactly. It's…complicated. Suffice it to say that it's secret, at the very least. I was recruited by my mentor, the one I told you about. But while he was an agent in good standing, he had some rather definitive ideas about empire and self-determination, all of which
ran counter to Omega's goals. And to those of the British crown as often as not. And so he had, for years, been carrying out his own secret agenda, while appearing to serve the interests of his masters. After he…” He broke off, eyes sliding to the corners. Then, after a pause, he continued. “Afterwards, I kept up in the same vein, using some tricks he'd taught me to keep my thoughts hidden and to myself. I…I'm not as strong as he was. I just couldn't keep at it as long. In the end, all of the blood and pain and suffering…It was for a good cause, I believe it still. The end of any empire is painful, and a people first experiencing their liberty make mistakes. But even so, after so many years at the game, I just couldn't…”

He broke off, lost for a moment in memory.

“You okay?” Alice asked.

“Yes, I'm fine, love,” Stillman answered, not sounding it. “In any event, I stopped taking Omega's calls at the same time I bunked out on MI8.”

“Haven't they ever come after you?”

“Well, MI8 hasn't, but then why would they? They've got to know I'm still out here. I'm living in their abandoned headquarters, after all, and as much as I've labored to keep out of sight, I can't have disappeared entirely. I figure they've decided it's not worth their trouble, so let me be.” He paused. “As for Omega…Well, Omega might know where I am, but if I don't answer, there isn't much I've got to worry about. I was the only agent after my mentor…after my mentor, so it isn't as if there's anyone else Omega can send after me. Sure, I started to get older, but if that's the price I have to pay for peace of mind and a good night's sleep, so be it. Besides, I think a bit of gray gives me a distinguished look, don't you?”

Alice had followed only half of what Stillman had said, at best. He looked at her, as if expecting an answer, but she wasn't sure what to say. “Um, okay?”

“Thanks, love, I think so, too,” Stillman said, and then turned back to the computer.

By the time they could no longer ignore the grumbling of their stomachs, Stillman had worked out the plan to the finest detail. In the kitchen, over
roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, and gravy, accompanied by a bottle of pinot noir, he explained.

“Temple has an impressive security setup, there's no doubt about it. And I doubt any thief short of an Aria Fox or a Tan Perrin would be able to get in and out without tripping all manner of alarms and fail safes. It's near impregnable. Notice that I say
near
. Because there's a few holes in there, if you know where to look. Including one fairly significant one.” He unrolled a sheaf of papers, which had been spat out by a chattering dot-matrix printer the size of a refrigerator. There were schematics and architectural drawings of Glasshouse, with points marked in purple ink. Stillman held up one of Alice's Uniball Vision roller pens. “Hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of borrowing this.”

Alice patted her pockets. Sure enough, he'd snatched the pen right out of her front pocket, and she'd never even noticed him coming near.

“Another handy skill to have,” Stillman said with a smile. “In any event, once I got the blueprints, I found Temple's security company. They're wholly owned by Temple Enterprises, so they don't have to farm any of the work out, but they've got a server that's hooked up to the Internet. It wasn't easy, but with the old MI8 icebreakers I was able to get in and poke around a bit.”

“Wait a minute,” Alice said, setting down her fork on the plate. “If you can get into their computer, why don't you just, I don't know, shut down the systems so we don't set off the alarms?”

Stillman's smile broadened. “Why, Alice. Now I think you've been reading
my
diary…”

G
ALAAD RAISED HIS EYES AGAIN
and looked at the image of the White Lady on the crewless ship, while the captains around him stood open-mouthed in wonder.

“She seems more a phantom than a living thing,” Pryder said, his voice low and full of awe.

Artor nodded, and Galaad could see that Pryder was right. Though he could see her every detail, Galaad realized that she was translucent, the outline of the ship dimly visible through her body.

The White Phantom looked from one to another of them, an expression of confusion on her white face.

“Seven, you are,” she said in fractured Latin, her accent strange. “Three, I remember.”

Galaad climbed to his feet and took a step forward, his arms out. “Lady…” he began.

Artor stop Galaad with a hand on his shoulder. “Abide awhile,” the High King said quietly.

“Injured, one of you,” the White Phantom said, her glowing eyes coming to rest on Lugh, who lay on the ground spattered with his own lifeblood. “Heal.”

She waved her hand, and one of the scuttling silver beetle-things climbed up and over the side of the crewless ship. It came across the shore
towards them, and Galaad could see that it was the length of a man's forearm, with four pinchers on either end. Crabwise, it scuttled quickly towards them.

When it was just a few feet away, Caius stepped forward, sword in hand, prepared to swing at the beetle-thing.

“Wait,” Artor said. “Let us see what transpires.”

Seemingly heedless of those standing, the beetle-thing scuttled between them and marched right up to Lugh. Planting four of its pinchers in the ground, it reared up like a snake, the four pinchers on its other end in the air, and angled itself towards Lugh's severed arm. Then, without warning, it emitted a spray of some sort of mist, a small cloud which settled over the bloody stump.

The captains shouted protests, but a look from Artor silenced them.

The cloud of mist faded, almost immediately, and they could see that the stump had completely sealed over, the flesh smooth and unmarked just below Lugh's elbow.

Lugh struggled to sit upright, looking wide-eyed at his stump. “The pain…” he said in amazement. “It's gone.”

“Apologies, for arriving late,” the White Phantom intoned. “Too late to save the hand. Perhaps a substitute is possible.”

The White Phantom motioned again, and without warning the beetle-thing launched itself at Lugh. Before he could react, the four pinchers on its leading end clamped down on his stump, biting into his flesh.

“Aargh!” Lugh leapt to his feet, waving his arm to try to shake the thing loose, but it refused to budge. Then he stopped short, a strange look coming over his face. “Doesn't hurt,” he said, wonderingly. He lifted his arm, and the silver beetle-thing moved with it. The four pincers on the other end opened and closed, just like a fist clenching and relaxing.

“What…?” Galaad began, and found that words failed him.

Lugh's eyes opened wider, and he reached out with the silver beetle-thing, clamped its pincers around the blade of Galaad's Saeson sword, and tugged it from his grasp. With Galaad's sword held firm in the pincers, Lugh turned back to the others. “When I think, it moves! It does what I tell it.”

It was as if Lugh had been given a new arm of silver, to replace the one he'd lost.

Artor turned his attention back to the White Phantom.

“Lady, I take it you are the one who sent visions to this man here?” Artor indicated Galaad.

The White Phantom nodded. “Messages, I sent.”

“Who are you?” Galaad asked, stepping forward.

The White Phantom shook her head. “No time. Not now. Aid is needed.”

“What sort of aid?” Artor asked.

“This remote,” the White Phantom said, pointing to the crewless ship which bore her, “is simply another message. In body, I am held captive inside the heart of the Unworld. Captive of the Red King.”

Galaad didn't understand what the White Phantom meant. Was this not her, in fact, but merely another species of vision?

“Rescue me,” the White Phantom implored. “Please.”

“What's she saying?” Lugh asked, who had no Latin.

“She's asking to be rescued,” Caius explained. “Says that someone called the Red King has her imprisoned in someplace called the Unworld.”

“What's in it for us?” Lugh asked.

Artor scowled at him, but turned to the White Phantom and said, “What boon or bounty awaits us if we fulfill this office, lady? Already my men and I have been sore tested by this journey.”

The White Phantom looked confused for a moment, as if she were trying to puzzle out what he had said. “Gifts,” she finally said, nodding. “Weapons.”

The captains exchanged looks.

“Three, I remember,” the White Phantom continued. “Three sets of weapons, I carry. Apologies.”

She motioned again, and more of the silver beetle-things scuttled over the sides of the ship. Only this time, they carried something with them, in twos and threes, struggling under the weight of their loads.

First came long, thin objects a bit more than three feet in length. They were a handspan wide and an inch or so thick, except for one end where they tapered into cylinders about the length and thickness of a sword's hilt. At that, they had something of the look of a scabbarded sword, though of a material which none of the captains could identify.

The beetle-things laid the three long scabbard-shaped objects at Artor's feet. Artor bent and picked one up, finding it surprisingly light.

“Swords, these are.” The White Phantom paused, and with a smile she said two words which Galaad didn't quite catch but which he thought might be the Britannic words “awyr”—air or sky—and “pâl”—blade. “Once drawn, only the bearer will be able to draw them again. Bound to their owner.”

Artor nodded and wrapped his fingers around the hiltlike end of the object. Then he gripped the middle of the scabbard shape with his other hand and pulled. Where before the object had seemed an unbroken whole, suddenly there were two, a hilt and a scabbard, with a hint of blue blade in between.

The sword slipped silently out of the scabbard. The blade had a faint blue hue, like a cloudless summer sky, but was amazingly thin. When Artor held the sword up and turned it from side to side, the blade seemed to disappear entirely when seen edge on, reappearing only when he turned the flat of the blade back into view.

“Thin,” the White Phantom said, “but strong. Take care, do not touch, but sheath when not in use.”

Artor nodded, gravely, and carefully returned the blade to its sheath. When the hilt touched the scabbard, it seemed to fuse again and become once more an unbroken whole.

“May I?” Pryder said solicitously, reaching out to Artor. The High King nodded silently and handed it over.

Pryder gripped the hilt and scabbard in either hand, but no matter how hard he pulled he couldn't tug the sword free of the sheath. “This is snugger than your grandsire's blade,” he called over his shoulder to Galaad.

Artor picked up another of the scabbard-shaped objects and exchanged it with the one that Pryder held. Pryder yanked on the hilt, which immediately came loose, the skyblade slipping free. Unbalanced, he put his arms out to either side to right himself, and the skyblade swung in a low arc, slicing into the ground at his feet. The blade's tip dipped in and out of the ground like an oar in water, effortlessly, but a huge chuck of white-tufted sod came away with it, sides as smooth as blown glass.

“The Huntsman's blade,” Pryder said in a low voice, looking at the bluish blade reverentially before carefully returning it to the scabbard.

“Lady,” Artor said, turning back to her, “before coming to these Summer Lands we faced an eerie foe, a Huntsman who carried just such a blade. Is he the one who now imprisons you?”

The White Phantom took on a puzzled expression. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I know of no Huntsman. Only the Red King, and he cannot leave the white walls which surround these Summer Lands, as you call them.”

Artor scowled. Another mystery, another question to add to their tally.

Lugh picked up another of the skyblades, drawing its blue length from the scabbard, while the beetle-things deposited three long, thin, staff-shaped objects at Artor's feet.

“Hey!” Caius said, as Lugh admired the whisper-thin blade of the skyblade. “Now that you've drawn that, no one else can!”

Lugh just looked at him and shrugged. “Ah, so that's what she was saying. Oh, well, I'm sure she's got another of them on her little boat for you.”

“She only brought three,” Galaad explained, still unsure how the White Phantom had “remembered” three of them.

“Well, then,” Lugh said with a smile. “Good thing I picked
this
one up, isn't it?”

“Lances, these are,” the White Phantom went on, indicating the staff shapes.

“
I'll
be having one of those,” Caius said, shouldering forward and picking one up.

The lance was perfectly cylindrical, a little thicker than a man's thumb, and a little under five feet in length. They were perfectly white, the color of sun-bleached bone, except for a scarlet jewel set in the haft two feet from one end.

“Point the end away,” the White Phantom instructed, “and depress the jewel.”

With a shrug, Caius swung the lance around, its end pointing at a clump of red heath on a nearby hill, and pressed the jewel with his thumb.

With a low hiss, a red glob in the shape of a blood drop spat from the tip of the lance, flying at blinding speed through the air. When it struck the heath, it immediately burst into flames, setting the ground ablaze.

The other six instinctively moved away from Caius, who looked in wide-eyed amazement at the thing in his hands.

“It…it shot blood!” Caius gasped.

“It shot
flame
!” Bedwyr said, edging farther away, an edge of jealousy in his voice. “
I
want a lance that shoots flame.”

“Here,” Artor said, nudging one of the other lances towards Bedwyr with his toe, leaning away from it. “Consider it yours.”

Bedwyr hurried over, careful to remain behind Caius, and picked up the lance. Gwrol, still holding his bruised ribs, picked up the other. Stepping away from the others, the pair faced in opposite directions and tested the bloodflame for themselves, and in short order there were small fires blazing on the hills and fields leading up to the shoreline. Galaad worried for a moment that they might be caught in a conflagration, but fortunately the fires, while burning fiercely, seemed to burn just as quickly, extinguishing in just a matter of moments.

“Disks, these are,” the White Phantom continued, indicating the large circular shapes the beetle-things struggled under. “Unbreakable. Indestructible. Used to absorb and store, but can be used to protect.”

Artor reached down and picked up the first of the disks dropped at his feet. Each was about the size of one of their shields, with a smooth silvery surface on one side and a kind of metal hoop in the center of the other side. Artor grabbed this hoop with his fist and hefted the disk, wielding it like a buckler.

“Here,” he said to Galaad, tossing him the disk. “You can likely find use for this.”

Galaad scrambled, but managed to catch the disk before it hit the ground. He found it remarkably light for its size, easily held in a one-handed grip. The hoop was a little too wide to be held entirely comfortably, suggesting it was either designed with a larger grip in mind or for a different purpose entirely, but putting aside the mild discomfort of the hoop's edges biting into his fingers and the base of his thumb, the shield was easily wielded.

Artor gave the other two disks to Caius and Bedwry, who experimented with crouching behind their round bucklers while firing bloodflame at the hills.

The weapons were all distributed, but as the beetle-things scuttled back to the crewless ship, more came after them.

“Lady,” Artor said, lashing a length of leather around the top of the skyblade's scabbard and securing it to his sword belt, opposite his spatha, “there
is something in these Summer Lands which does not agree with our constitutions. We have been ill since shortly after arriving, with no sign of improvement.”

The White Phantom nodded. “Changed, are these Summer Lands. Unchanged, you cannot long endure. Mantles, you require. Protection.”

She indicated the silvery material that the beetle-things laid before Artor. He picked it up and inspected it. It seemed transparent like glass from one angle, but when turned another way looked like silver. But it moved like fine, soft fabric.

“Enough for three, I bring,” the White Phantom said, sounding concerned. “Mantle can divide, and redivide, and still be effective. But you will not be able to tarry.”

Artor looked from the silvery, glasslike material in his hand to the White Phantom.

“Tear each in half, and one in half again” she instructed. “Then give a portion to every man.”