Pandaemonium (21 page)

Again, no way to tell. He was polite, mildly embarrassed, ungiveaway to the nth degree. I had no idea whether he knew about me and Jacey; or, if he did know, whether he cared. All I knew was that he did care about his son, and so about Jordan and me. He wanted peace between us; he expected peace to mean togetherness, because after all, who wouldn’t want to be with his wonderful boy, now that the vagrant child had come at last into his inheritance? He suspected, perhaps, that Jordan’s vicious reaction masked a deeper attachment. Likely he’d heard that such things happened among the young. Perhaps he and his wife had laughed about it, the way the laddie protested far too much. For sure – I was sure – this was a conspiracy. She was talking to the boy; he’d come after the girl. Strangeness and charm, a glimpse of power and a promise of life eternal in the Overworld: who wouldn’t buy into that?

Well, I wouldn’t. I for one. Not this way, not at his father’s hand. It lay not in the old man’s gift, my future.

Besides, there was Jacey. Now, again. Perhaps there always had been.

Besides, I had an errand to run. Urgent mercy. And I couldn’t even ask for help, given how utterly I was about to refuse everything he offered.

I shook my head, and had to hope that he’d understand the breadth and depth of that, because I was talking almost randomly: “You don’t owe me anything. Sir.”

He looked a little taken aback, just for a moment, before ageless good manners cut in again. I replayed the last thing he’d said: the word was
offer
, not
owe
. Of course he didn’t owe me anything, it would never have crossed his mind that he might. Noblesse oblige: it was his generosity that had brought us here, not any sense of a debt unpaid.

Oh, well. My mouth was dry, and that was nothing to do with the heat or the dust of the road. I licked my lips, which didn’t help at all, and took a breath of that hot air which didn’t help much either, and was all ready to try again, to say something, anything so long as it was
no
, but he forestalled me.

“How can we help you, Desdaemona? Anything that lies within our gift, you only need to name it.” And then, in response perhaps to my astonished face, “You brought our son back to us.”
The only one surviving.
“For that, we owe you the world.”

Which indeed they held in their gift, more or less. I thought he was a little astonished himself, to find himself thinking that actually he’d been wrong and I was wrong and there was indeed a debt, however much we both tried to deny it.

I still thought he should ask Jordan about that, measure whatever was due by his son’s gratitude rather than his own. That would keep things easy.

Here he was, though, and the offer was made; I only had to accept it. And decide what to ask for.

He gave me time, or took a little time for himself, perhaps, to recover from the enormity of laying himself so open to a mortal. He strolled to the side of the road, where something thistlish reached up almost to his head-height, and he was a tall man. Seemed to be, at least. I had no idea what he might be in truth. Heightwise or humanwise. He was one of the Great Powers, immortal and unchanging; did that mean he couldn’t be human too? His son was human enough. And short, as it happens. Shorter than me, at least, which is the measure that I go by.

He reached a hand out and plucked a leaf from the thistle-head, and my whole perspective changed. Now it looked like a giant artichoke, salad grown wild. A useful plant, contributory. I’d never heard of an artichoke so tender that you could pluck and eat it raw, but he nibbled his leaf with a thoughtful kind of pleasure, as far as I could judge. But he was an immortal, and... yeah. It’s hard to judge them. And hard to avoid it, when they’re trying to look human-normal and act that way.

And making crazy offers, holding out the world.

I didn’t want the world. Not even a little bit of it. I wasn’t sure I wanted anything, from him.

What did I want? I wanted to feel safe, I wanted to stop running. I wanted my friends safe too. If that meant putting an end to Oz Trumby, then that was what I wanted. I supposed.

If there was one... person... who could put an end to Oz Trumby, I was probably looking at him right now.

He picked another leaf, wandered back, held it out in offering. It was symbolic, of course,
whatever I can do
. But it was real too, and I was terribly tempted; only – well. I’m not immortal, and I can’t take everything they offer. I
can’t.

I shook my head firmly, hands behind my back like a little stubborn girl.

“No? Well. Perhaps you’re wise. I have no idea...”

No idea of what, the extent of my wisdom? Or what a hellplant might do to a mortal human body? It wasn’t clear, and he didn’t elaborate. He stopped there, and ate the leaf himself – like an artichoke, yes, stripping the flesh from it with a tug between bright white teeth, and discarding the residue – and then said, “So. What can I do for you, Desdaemona?”

Tell your son to stop chasing me,
that was the first thing; except for
take care of your son
, actually that should come first. But of course they’d do that anyway now they had him back, they didn’t need a girlfriend telling them to do it, and I wasn’t his girlfriend anyway. Emphatically, not that.

Tell Jacey not to come after me?
No, not that either. He didn’t need to know about Jacey, if he didn’t know already – and really there was something almost comforting in the idea of having Jacey at my heels. If he was. Not that I wanted him there, no, I’d run from him for a reason, to keep him as safe as I could manage; but – well. Let it lie. Don’t mention Jacey.

Well, then.
Tell Oz Trumby to leave me alone. And my friends too, all my friends.
Then I wouldn’t need to run any more, from anyone. I could even let Jacey catch up with me, if I wanted to. If I chose. And –

And for the rest of my life I’d know that my safety and everyone’s around me hung on the word of an immortal Power, that none of us could actually look after ourselves. Which was true, of course, every way from Sunday, but even so...

I shook my head. Quite firmly, still. I was quite pleased with myself for that.

“Nothing, thank you. I’m good.”

“You’re sure?” One immaculate eyebrow lifted; I’d surprised him again. There was a satisfaction in that.

And no, of course I wasn’t sure; but even so –
little stubborn girl
, and I’d never felt so small, or so young, or so helpless – I said, “Yes, I’m sure. Thank you.”

“As you wish, then.”

He nodded a polite farewell, and turned away. I hesitated –
um, how do I get home? Please?
– but figured he must have that in hand. This was his realm, and I didn’t belong here; he’d spit me out like an orange-pip. One way or another.

So I turned round on the road there and began to skate back the way I’d come, slowly and distractedly. Wondering how much distance I was undoing here, how much would all need to be done again. Watching the scenery, that too: waiting to see it change, waiting to find myself back in London streets, going the wrong way and probably quite lost, unfocused, maybe a little afraid.

Maybe a lot afraid, if there were any sign of Oz’s minions about. For all I knew this kind of Powerly interference in a girl’s progress would act like a magnet, like a pillar of smoke, like a flame in the night, drawing all manner of immortal attention from the Overworld. Maybe I’d find myself skating back into the heart of a reception committee. Corbies and wyrms and Jacey and Jordan too, all wanting some contradictory part of me.

I skated and skated, and the sky grew dark. I hadn’t known that Hell had nights and days, but –

Oh.

I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more. Again.

Only, not in London either. Not any more.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I
COULD’VE DONE
with a small dog to talk to, actually. It would have been a comfort.

I don’t usually need that kind of comfort. Desi doesn’t. But here I was suddenly in the dark, and – well, suddenly in the dark. Not knowing where the hell I was, except that it wasn’t London and not Hell either. Nor was it daylight, as it ought to be. I couldn’t even be sure this was the same day, or the same season. The same planet, I was fairly sure of that; and somewhere in England still, most likely – but these supercool rollerblades weren’t quite so cool when they were embedded up to the ankles in mud, and frankly neither was I.

It’s probably
lèse majesté
to become insanely irritated with one of the great Powers, but I did that anyway as I plodged down this squelchy rutted track he’d left me in. I’m a city girl, me. I don’t do rural, except
in extremis
. Even my boat I kept moored near the bright lights; even my little cottage was in the heart of the Thames Valley, which is only country by courtesy, really just a dormitory playground for the better parts of London.

Still. You don’t ever need to know where you are, so long as you know where you’re going. You’re just in transition, that’s all. Speed and direction are what matters; location is incidental. Ask a particle, any particle.

I didn’t need my Aspect to show me the lights down the valley there, simple human night-sight was good enough for that. I didn’t need it to lift my heavy legs for me, despite all the day’s exercise and the great mud weight of the boots, the claggy suck of the ground beneath. Above all, I didn’t need it for reassurance,
I’m Desdaemona, the meanest bitch in the valley, and noli me tangere if you know what’s good for you.

I really was quite firm about that. I felt suddenly soured by the whole Overworld and all that therein is. Powers had been dicking me about all day – if this still was the same day, even – and I’d had enough of it. Didn’t want to play any more.

Did still need to take a message to an old friend, that word of warning,
Oz is after you.

Me too, he’s after me
– but that was the kind of news better kept to myself, frankly. Too many people would turn me in as soon as they heard it, for money or from fear or just because that’s what you do, you do what Oz Trumby wants. It wouldn’t make a difference, who they heard it from. I could give myself away as readily as I could be betrayed.

That’s the Overworld in a nutshell. Fear and greed and tradition, all bound up together, inextricable. Is it any wonder I was sick of it?

So I left my Aspect alone, let it drag behind me in the mud as I hauled my weary self down towards those alluring lights.

First gateway I came to, I perched on the gate and worked the skates off my feet, put my regular boots back on again.

Left the skates there for the first passing farmhand who wanted them, because honestly, why not? Their time had come and gone, for me. They’d carried me to Hell and back; that was enough. Out here they were as silly as skis. Of course there was tarmac ahead of me, not every country road is mud and cowpats, but nevertheless.

Maybe I was being sensible, not wanting to draw attention to myself; zooming around on blades in country lanes is the opposite of concealment, perhaps. Or maybe I just didn’t trust them any more. They’d carried me to Hell and back, when that was the last journey I’d have chosen to make.

Sometimes I can baffle myself, things get so complicated in my head. Trying to juggle three worlds, two boys, one hurry? Too much. I left the skates where they dropped, left my Aspect off however much it was nudging at the corners of my mind, went on as simply as I could. Just this girl, y’know...?

L
IGHTS AT A
junction in the country, by a bridge; of course there was an old inn there.

By luck or happenstance or someone else’s good planning, the inn was still an inn. Pubs everywhere were closing down, being turned into family homes or offices or private clubs. The White Horse declared itself, though, proudly in the night: illuminated signs in the car park, in the hedgerows coming and going, and above the door.

The bridge took me over a gushing stream; my boots took me stompingly through the door and into the warm burr of local voices, the warm smells of beer and potatoes. Food, they did food! Of course they did, every surviving country pub these days is half a restaurant, but oh, I could have wept. I hadn’t realised until that moment just how hungry I could be.

If they really were an inn still and not just a gastropub, if they had rooms upstairs, if they had room, a room for me, there could be a shower soon. Right now, though, a long glass of something cool, a plate of something hot: that was the height of my ambition.

I went to the bar and ordered almost without looking, almost without thinking. A pint of best and a plate of shepherd’s pie. And chips. And crisps while I was waiting, ready-salted. Nuts? Yes, please. Nuts too. Anything salty, crunchy, immediate. Pork scratchings. Yes.

Order enough and you have to wait, even for what you want while you’re waiting. He went this way and that, packets and pump and till; I let my eyes wander, so as not to stare at him like a scary ravenous ravening thing. Country pub, old low ceilings, beams and whitewash and mismatched furniture. Typical pub decor, horse brasses and repro prints, local views and old photographs, horse-drawn wagons and ploughs and...