Part 36 (1/2)

”What should we do?” she said, looking at Durge.

”We cannot hope to hide from them, Your Majesty. Our fire will have given us away. They know we're here.”

”Then I'll talk to them.”

”You might want to fight first and talk later, Your Majesty,” Samatha said, hand on the dagger tucked into her belt.

Despite her fear, Grace gave the Spider a sharp smile. ”I find people are much harder to talk to you when their heads aren't attached to their bodies. And I need to find out what these knights are up to.” She stood and handed Tira to Master Graedin. ”Keep watch over her.”

Tira sleepily coiled her arms around his neck. The young runespeaker nodded.

Grace moved swiftly through the camp, Durge, Samatha, and Oragien beside her.

”All-master,” she said to Oragien, gently but firmly, ”you should stay behind.”

The elderly man shook his head. ”It was ever the purpose of the Runelords to serve and protect the lords of Malachor, Your Majesty. We Runespeakers trace our lineage back to the Runelords, just as you trace yours to Ulther's heirs.”

Grace's instinct was to order him to stay back. Instead she gritted her teeth and nodded. Warriors rushed around her, falling into place as Paladus barked orders. Grace reached the entrance of the courtyard. There was no gate; it had rotted away long ago. Dim shapes moved in the valley below, coming closer, like black moths drawn to the light of their bonfire.

Sir Tarus approached. ”Should we attack, Your Majesty? We have every advantage-numbers, a fortification, the slope.”

She shook her head. ”I want to talk to them. I have to find out what Kelephon is planning. If the Onyx Knights are ma.s.sing in the valley, we could be fighting a battle on both sides.”

”That would cut us off from King Boreas and the Warriors of Vathris,” Durge rumbled. ”We could not win such a battle.”

”Here they come,” Samatha said. ”There still must be only the thirty of them. Were there more, Aldeth and the others would have seen them by now and warned us.”

Unless the Spiders had been captured. Grace stepped forward, chin high, as the troop of Onyx Knights brought their black horses to a halt a dozen paces away. Both men and beasts blended with the night, like things of shadow.

”You are not welcome here,” Grace called out.

”Oh, I beg to differ, Your Majesty,” said a booming voice. One of the closest knights climbed down from his horse and stalked forward, spurs clinking. He was a huge man-their leader by the three stars on his breastplate. ”I think we're welcome here indeed. In fact, I imagine you'll be breaking out the ale for us. You do have ale, don't you?”

Oragien raised his gnarled staff. ”Lir!” ”Lir!”

Silver light rent the darkness to tatters. The ma.s.sive knight halted, raising a gloved hand before his visor. His black armor was scratched and dented, and not all of the pieces seemed to match.

”Blast it, runespeaker,” the knight growled. ”Now I can't see a thing. How am I supposed to drink my ale if I can't find the cup?”

As Grace stared in wonderment, a shapeless figure appeared from behind the knights and shambled forward on sticklike limbs.

”Well, don't just stand there like a village idiot,” the old hag said, holding out bony arms. ”Give old Grisla a hug.”

”Get back, witch,” roared the enormous knight in black. He tugged off his helm, releasing a wild profusion of red hair. His bushy beard parted in a grin. ”If anyone's doing any hugging of beautiful queens, it's going to be me.”

Before Grace could move, King Kel caught her in meaty arms, picked her up off the ground, and proceeded to crush her to jelly while his booming laughter filled the night.

Deirdre Falling Hawk stared out the window of her flat as rain drizzled down from a gray London sky.

”Where are you?” she murmured. ”Whoever you are, whatever it is you want, I need you to contact me. Please.”

Below, a black car sped down the street. Her heart leaped in her chest. Then, with a splash of rainwater, the car swung around a corner and vanished. She sighed, then sat again at the table. The computer the Seekers had given her whirred quietly. Emerald words pulsed on the screen.

What do you want to do?

”I wish I knew,” she muttered, picking up the photograph of the clay tablet. The photograph that had mysteriously appeared on her desk after someone had broken into the office she shared with Anders. Her eyes blurred, and the symbols in the photo rearranged themselves into new patterns, ones she felt she could almost understand.

Only she couldn't. She had some skill with Old English, and she knew a fair amount of Gaelic, but she was no expert on lost languages. That was why she had given a copy of the photograph to Paul Jacoby. He had the reputation as one of the finest cla.s.sical archaeologists in the Seekers, and he had made a specialty of ancient writing systems.

Luckily, Jacoby had been so thrilled to see the photograph, he had been more than willing to swear an oath on the Book not to tell anyone else about it. Deirdre hoped she could trust him; she thought she could. Then again, she wasn't certain if she could trust anyone right now.

Or maybe it's you that can't be trusted, Deirdre.

Was that really why Nakamura had a.s.signed Anders to be her new partner? After all, it provided a convenient way to keep a former security guard close to her at all times. And G.o.ds knew Anders had a way of showing up at her door at odd hours. She had left the Charterhouse early yesterday, grumbling something about having a headache, and he had shown up at her door at half past six with a bottle of porter and another of aspirin.

”If one doesn't solve the problem, the other will,” he had said in his incessantly cheery voice.

Every instinct in her had told her to send him away, but it was hard to believe he was really here to spy on her. She had opened the door, and they had sat on the couch-she in baggy sweats, he in the designer suit he had worn to work-watching reruns of Are You Being Served? Are You Being Served? While she wasn't certain if she had the porter or aspirin to thank, by the time Anders had gone, her headache had as well. While she wasn't certain if she had the porter or aspirin to thank, by the time Anders had gone, her headache had as well.

It was only after he left that she noticed her computer had been switched on the whole time, sitting on the table next to the folder with the photograph. Had he seen what she was working on? He would have had a few moments to himself while she poured the beer in the kitchen.

Stop it, Deirdre. Farr's the renegade, not you. He's the one they're keeping watch for.

”I wish you were here, Hadrian,” she said, setting down the photograph. ”You'd know what to do.”

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard of the computer, then fell to her lap. There was no point in doing another search. She had tried every possible combination of keywords, but even with Echelon 7 access she had found nothing. Which left only one possibility.

The tablet was part of the Philosophers' private collection.

There was no other answer. Echelon 7 granted her access to everything in the Seekers' catalogues-everything except what the Philosophers kept secret for themselves. Which meant whoever had left the photograph on her desk had access to the vaults of the Philosophers. And that could only mean . . .

”You're a Philosopher yourself,” she said, touching the keyboard.

Of course, Deirdre had no evidence that the individual who had spoken to her using her computer was one with the person who had placed the photograph of the tablet on her desk. However, she couldn't believe otherwise.

I know you're out there, she typed on the computer. I know you're watching me. What do you want me to do? I know you're watching me. What do you want me to do?

She hit Enter, and the computer let out a chime.

Error. Search request not understood.

Deirdre slammed the computer shut, shoved it into her satchel, and stood. It was long past time to get to work.

She was drenched by the time she reached the Charterhouse.