The Sword of Straw (4 page)

“I…think so. A kind of magician?”

“So you do know
something
of this world. You have been here before.”

Nathan didn’t comment. There was a niggle at the back of his mind, another of those elusive connections that he couldn’t quite place. Whenever he sought for it, it slipped away into his subconscious, tantalizingly out of reach. He knew he was here for a reason—there was always a reason behind his dream journeys—but he had no idea what it might be, and he felt like an actor dropped into the middle of an unfamiliar play, while the audience waited in vain for him to remember his lines. His host continued to study him with absorption but curiously little surprise.

“Have you met the Grandir?” Osskva asked.

“Not
met,
no. I’ve seen him.”

“Whom have you met, apart from me?”

Halmé,
Nathan thought, but he didn’t say so. She had concealed him from the Grandir; he could not betray her. And Raymor, her former bodyguard. And the dissident Kwanji Ley, who had stolen the Grail in
this
world, and paid with her life…

Now
he remembered.

Take it,
she had said, giving him the cup, when she was dying of the sundeath in a cave in the desert.
To…Osskva…
Osskva!

Who is he?

My father…

Nathan sat down abruptly, holding his head in his hands. When he looked up, the practor was standing over him. “What troubles you?” he said. “What do you know?” His hood fell back, showing hair to match the beard, long and white. Then—perhaps to observe Nathan more closely—he took off his mask. His face, like that of all Eosians, was disproportionately long, at least to Nathan’s eye, a structure all lean curving bones with a skin the color of tarnished brass, contrasting sharply with the hair and beard. Thick white brows swept low over his eyes, which shone with a glint of pure amethyst. The same shade as Kwanji’s, Nathan remembered. There might be many people on Eos called Osskva, but he knew his dream had not deceived him. This was the one he sought.

Only he hadn’t been seeking him. He’d been looking for someone quite different. But the dreams, he now realized, couldn’t be controlled—or not by him…

“I once…met someone called Kwanji Ley,” he said.

“I see.” The man’s face changed, his eyes hooding, as if he did see.

“She asked me to find you.”

“Kwanjira. My daughter. Kwanjira the rebel.” Suddenly, he looked up. “Did you know she was my daughter?”

Nathan nodded, feeling uncomfortable, even though this was a dream—or at least, a dream of sorts—waiting for the question he knew would come.

“Is she dead?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve known it, I suppose—I’ve felt it—for months past. We didn’t keep in touch, but this time there was a differentness to her silence. There is a point when you sense no word will come again. But…you are the word. A word that has come to me. Can you tell me how she died?”

“She was in Deep Confinement,” Nathan said, remembering the pale emptiness of the prison pits. “She begged me to help her, to dream her out, and I tried, but you can’t really manipulate the dreams. I messed it up. I left her in the desert—in the sun. She made it to the cave, but not in time. When I got back—when I found her—it was too late.” He didn’t tell Kwanji’s father what the sundeath had done to her. The guilt returned, like a sickness in his stomach, but Osskva made no move to apportion blame.

“She always wanted to change things,” he said with a curious smile. “The government—the magics—the fate of the world. In the cave…what was she looking for?”

“The
Sangreal,
” Nathan said, picturing the greenstone cup, held in Kwanji’s ruined hand. “She asked me to bring it to you. She thought you could perform the Great Spell.”

“Did she find it?”

“Yes.”

“Then she died happy. I couldn’t do a Great Spell; I haven’t the power. Even the Grandir may not have the strength for it, or our world would have been saved long since. Besides, the Cup alone is no use. It needs also the Sword, and the Crown. Once they were said to be in the cave, guarded by a monster of ancient days, but there are other rumors. I’d heard they were scattered throughout the worlds for safekeeping, so they could not be brought together too soon, or by the wrong agency, lest the Spell of Spells should go awry…Yet you say the
Sangreal
was in the cave.”

“It was a mistake,” Nathan explained. “It had been kept in my world, but someone stole it. After…after Kwanji died, I wasn’t sure what to do, but I thought it was best to take it back.”

“You did right,” Osskva said, “I expect. Time will tell. If we have enough of it left. What about the sword? Was that stolen, too?”

The sword. In Nathan’s head, something else clicked into place. The princess had mentioned a sword, the Traitor’s Sword…

With that question, that connection, the dream jolted.
Tell me about the sword,
Nathan wanted to ask, but the words wouldn’t come out. It was like in an ordinary dream, when you try to speak but your vocal cords don’t work, and everything slows down, and the person you want to speak to is receding, fading inexorably from your thought. He had felt insubstantial, a pajama-clad teenage ghost, but now he was growing solid, and the world around him thinned, the world of Arkatron on Eos, becoming ghost-like while he alone was real. He heard the voice of Osskva, insect-small and faint with distance: “Don’t go. We have things…to discuss…Questions…answers…”

But he couldn’t respond, and sleep swallowed him, plunging him back into the dark.

A
FEW
weeks after the attempted burglary, Chief Inspector Pobjoy called at Thornyhill again. “Of course, they won’t get custodial sentences,” he said, referring to Ram and Ginger. “They’re underage. Ginger has a record already, petty theft, petty assault, petty everything. Ram’s been smarter: no previous, just a government health warning. The really interesting thing is their lawyer.”

“Dear me,” Bartlemy said, replenishing his guest’s tea mug. “I had no idea lawyers were interesting.”

Pobjoy didn’t grin—he wasn’t a natural grinner—but a sharp-edged smile flicked in and out, quick as a knife blade. “Boys like that—backstreet kids, no dosh—they usually get whoever’s on call that day. Legal aid, no frills. That’s what they had in the past. But this time they get a Bentley among lawyers, top of the line with power steering and champagne cooler. Hugh Purlieu-Smythe, legal adviser to the very, very rich. It would be a giveaway—if we knew who was footing the bill. Still, it
is
interesting, isn’t it?”

“Indeed. Do we know who else this Purlieu-Smythe has represented in the recent past?”

“I’ve been finding out.” Pobjoy sipped his tea, nibbling the inevitable seductive cookie. Sometimes he fantasized about what lunch or dinner might be like at Thornyhill. He was a single man living alone on a diet of frozen meals, takeout, and the occasional omelet, and the mere thought of such home cooking must be put behind him, or it would seriously disrupt his professional detachment. “He’s done a few white-collar fraudsters—big-city types who’ve brought their cash and their bad habits into the area in search of rural peace and quiet. Then there was that local authority corruption case—he was for the developer, got him off, too. Grayling made donations to police charities—all the right people wined and dined—lent his Spanish villa to a lucky few. You get the picture.”

“Are you suggesting some of your colleagues could be…swayed by such things?” Bartlemy inquired gently.

“It wouldn’t be anything overt,” Pobjoy explained. “Just a general feeling that Grayling was a good bloke, one of the lads. One of the
chaps,
I should say. Wouldn’t have thought he’d be interested in this place, though. Or that cup of yours.”

“It isn’t actually mine,” Bartlemy murmured, but the inspector held to his train of thought.

“Grayling isn’t much of a one for history and culture,” he said. “We’re looking for the classic movie villain, right? Sinister type with very big bucks and an art collection no one ever gets to see. I have to say, most of the super-rich around here like to show off their paintings, at least to their chums; no point in having them otherwise. They collect for status, not pleasure. The Grail’s a little obscure for them.”

Bartlemy made an affirmative noise.

“Myself, I’ve only come up against Purlieu-Smythe once before,” Pobjoy resumed after a pause. “Another kid. Not quite like our Ram and Ginger, though. Poor little rich boy wanted for stealing a car, even though Daddy has four and Mummy two. Beat up a girl about a year ago, but someone talked her out of going to court. The boy’s a nasty little psycho in the making. Not yet eighteen.”

“And the father?” Bartlemy queried. “I assume it was he who employed the lawyer.”

“Respectable,” said Pobjoy. “Squeaky-clean businessman, plenty of good works, pillar-of-the-community image.”

“Highly suspicious, in fact,” said Bartlemy with a faint smile.

Pobjoy read few novels, but he took the point. “Real life isn’t much like thrillers,” he said. “Pillars of the community are usually stuffy, but…”

“Upright?”

“Yeah. Just one point: he’s a publisher. Educational books, art, that sort of thing. He might have heard of the Grail.”

“His name?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you that.”

Bartlemy offered the policeman another cookie.

“Hackforth. Giles Hackforth. The company’s called Pentacle Publishing.”

“A long-established firm,” Bartlemy said. “Very reputable. So…we can infer that Hackforth is a cultured man who might well have an interest in local antiquities, and the folklore that accompanies them.”

Pobjoy nodded. “I’d say you were imagining things,” he went on, “if it wasn’t for Purlieu-Smythe. But lawyers like him don’t do charity work. There has to be a connection with
someone,
and Hackforth seems to be your best bet. I don’t see what we can do about it, though. Suspicion isn’t evidence.”

“As you say. However, all information is valuable. Is there anything more you can tell me about him?”

Pobjoy hesitated. “Your nephew, Nathan Ward…” There was a certain constraint in his manner. He was still uncomfortable at the mention of Nathan’s name, not least because in his view any individual, once suspected, was suspect forever, and he found it hard to change his mind-set.

“What about him?” Bartlemy’s tone, as always, was mild.

“I heard he was at Ffylde Abbey. Scholarship boy.”

“Yes.”

“So’s the problem child. Damon Hackforth. Should have thought they’d expel him, but apparently not. I expect Daddy’s buying the school a new wing or something.”

“Ffylde Abbey is fundamentally a religious institution, remember. Perhaps they feel they cannot abandon the stray lamb—they want to bring him back to the fold.”

The inspector, cynical from experience, made a sound something like a snort.

“Don’t dismiss the possibility,” Bartlemy said. “I’ve seen things that would surprise you.” And, on a note of irony: “You do not know the power of the light side.”

But Pobjoy missed the allusion. “I ought to be going,” he said, finishing his tea. The cookie plate was empty.

“Next time,” Bartlemy said, “you must stay to lunch.”

N
ATHAN WAS
accustomed to his uncle’s cooking, but habit didn’t take the edge off his appetite. He, Hazel, and their friend George Fawn were devouring roast lamb with teenage enthusiasm the following Sunday and talking about Jason Wicks, the village’s aspiring thug, when Bartlemy inserted his question.

“Do you have any problems of that kind at Ffylde?”

“The teachers keep a close eye on things,” Nathan said. “They try to stamp out bullying before it gets really nasty.”

“No school bad boys?” Bartlemy persisted. Annie looked thoughtfully at him.

“There’s Nick Colby…he was caught insider trading. He overheard his father talking about a merger and bought up shares for half the class.”

“Did you get some?” George asked, awed.

“He’s the year below me.”

“Anyone else?” Bartlemy murmured.

“Well…Damon Hackforth, in the sixth. He’s been in trouble with the police. We’re not supposed to know, but of course everybody does. There was a rumor he’d be expelled. He’s always having long talks with Father Crowley. I expect they’re trying to reclaim him—some of the monks are very idealistic.”

“Do you think they’ll succeed?” Bartlemy asked.

Nathan made a face. “Don’t know. I’ve never really had anything to do with him, but…he gives off very bad vibes. You can feel it when he walks past. A sort of—
aura
—of anger and aggression. Worse than Jason Wicks. Ned Gable’s parents know
his
parents, and Ned says they begged the school not to chuck him out. They must be pretty desperate about him.”

“They care about him, then?” Annie said, flicking another glance at Bartlemy.

“I expect so.” Nathan was still young enough to assume that parents generally cared about their children. “He’s got a sister who’s an invalid. Ned says Damon’s jealous because she gets all the attention. She’s very ill—something they can’t fix, where she just goes on and on deteriorating. Muscular dystrophy, maybe. Something like that. She’s in a wheelchair. Ned says she’s very pretty and clever.”

“How awful,” Hazel said, thinking of a girl who had everything she didn’t, trapped in a wheelchair, wasting away.

“Awful,” Annie echoed, thinking of the parents, with their violent, mixed-up son and dying daughter.

“Stupid,” said George, “being jealous of someone who can’t even walk.”

“Good point,” Bartlemy said. “Most of the unhappiness in the world is the direct result of stupidity—of one kind or another. Who’s for baked apple?”

Afterward, when Nathan, Hazel, and George had left, Annie said: “So what’s your interest in this boy Damian?”

“Damon. Did I say I was interested?”

“You didn’t need to say. I could see it.”

“I don’t know that I am interested in him,” Bartlemy said. “I might be interested in his father.” He told her about his conversation with Pobjoy.