“A car will be along in a few minutes to take you to the nearest helipad,” he continued. “They’ll fly you to London City Airport, and from there a private jet will take you to Dundee. Briefing file will be in the car.”
“Yes, sir,” said Clement. She seemed a little uncertain and looked over at Odette. “Um...”
“It’s all right, Pawn Clements,” said Odette. “I know that you need to go. You have responsibilities.”
“We’ll assign another minder for her,” said Derrick. “No problem.”
“Yeah,” said Clements. “Unless... you’d like to come along?”
“Oh!” said Odette, startled. When she thought about it, the idea was tremendously exciting. Certainly it would be far more interesting than staying in the hotel, and she was rather touched that Clements would invite her. She didn’t have to ask me along. “Would that be allowed?”
“Buggered if I know,” said Commander Derrick sourly. “I’ll have to check with the Rookery, and that’ll probably take longer than we can afford. Clements is supposed to be departing shortly. Maybe if we get permission, we can send you up after her.”
He put a headset on and muttered some words into the microphone. As he waited for an answer, he stared at them. Odette heard a tinny little response come through the headset, and Derrick looked surprised.
“They say it’s fine with them if it’s all right with the Broederschap.”
“I’d need to get permission from Grootvader Ernst,” said Odette. “Although I really don’t think he’d have any objection. He’s always saying we should get out more. Do you know if he’s in a meeting at the moment?” she asked Commander Derrick. He muttered into his headset and then shook his head at her.
“He’s receiving a haircut from the hotel hairdresser.”
“Thank you.”
Odette was put through to Grootvader Ernst by his assistant and he approved the idea immediately. “It sounds like an excellent plan,” he said. “It will do you good to get out of the city and away from the paperwork and tension here. Combat can be very invigorating.”
“I’m just going as an observer. I don’t think I’ll be engaging in actual combat,” said Odette doubtfully.
Although once this is done, I really should learn how to fight, she mused. I expect the Checquy will insist on it, regardless of whatever role I move into. Apparently even the librarians are death machines.
“Good to see combat done, anyway,” said Grootvader Ernst. “Do me proud. Endeavor not to get killed or eaten. Oh, and don’t forget to wear your coat.”
“Yes, Grootvader.” She sighed. “But be sure to let the Checquy know that you’ve given your approval. And you should probably make it clear to them that if I get hurt at all, you won’t hold the Checquy responsible,” she said and hung up.
“Is it likely to be dangerous?” Clements asked.
“You’re a Pawn of the Checquy,” said Derrick. “What kind of fuckin’ question is that?”
“Not for me, sir,” said Clements. “For her.”
“Oh, well, I don’t expect so,” said Derrick. “You won’t be going into the actual church, and she’ll be staying in the command center. Plus she’ll be surrounded by armed troops — the Rookery just sent up an additional lot of soldiers. Hard-pressed to find a safer place for her.”
Clements looked a little relieved at this news. Then, with remarkable alacrity, the Pawn hustled Odette out of the operations suite, down to the front entrance of the hotel, and into a waiting car. As the car swiftly took off, Clements began reading through a file that had been waiting for them in the backseat.
“Can I take a look?”
“It’s classified,” said the Pawn, and she paused. “But then, so are you, and you’re going to the site.” She handed over the folder.
As she read it, Odette began to feel less and less certain about everything.
In Muirie, a village tucked away in the Central Lowlands of Scotland, no fewer than fifteen people were believed to have been killed by forces unknown over the course of the previous night. Believed was the operative word, since no bodies had been recovered, but the moans had endured for several hours before stopping abruptly shortly before dawn.
What in God’s name happened? thought Odette. She skimmed over the history of the village itself.
Muirie was a small community of about two hundred houses clustered around a dour-looking church. Historically, its primary industries had been agriculture and a sort of willful illiteracy. The earliest mention of the place dated from a history of Macbeth, the king of Scotland, who had been struck down with food poisoning whilst passing through (an anecdote that was somehow left out of the play). Apparently, between bouts of vomiting, the monarch had expressed his mild incredulity that the town continued to exist, and that had been in 1050.
Since then, the village had grown somewhat in size, and the demographic had shifted from subsistence-level barley and cabbage farmers to information technology and legal professionals, who were drawn by Muirie’s quaint alleyways, authentic gray stone houses, and the willingness of the local council to let newcomers tear the guts out of the homes’ interiors and renovate (for a suitable fee).
The place had one village store (now stocked with a selection of gourmet ingredients) and no fewer than five exquisite little restaurants serving food of extremely specific ethnic origins. The village’s children were bused to a nearby town for school, and most of the residents spent at least two hours a day commuting between their homes and their jobs in Perth (which boasted reliable Internet connections and legal problems that didn’t exclusively involve sheep). Some residents predated the arrival of the young, wealthy professionals. These proto-Muirites tended to be older, somewhat weathered-looking, and prone to making pointed remarks about the kind of limp fancies who felt the village shop needed to stock six kinds of salt.
The church, as far as the Checquy could tell, was the origin of the problem. It was a squat structure that (judging from the photos) had not been so much built as laboriously chiseled out of a single sullen boulder of granite. As a result of its rugged construction, the building had withstood the centuries easily, and the village’s new denizens had resisted their natural urge to renovate the interior, feeling that it was their duty to preserve it for future generations whilst simultaneously not attending services. It had caught the eye of a visiting academic, who exclaimed over its untouched qualities and returned a few months later with a team of archaeology graduate students and permission to use them.
The archaeologists had been laboring away inside the church with their little brushes and their distilled water and their digital cameras, and though they hadn’t discovered anything astonishing, they were getting some insights into the history of the place and had found some nice examples of local craftsmanship. Then, on Friday afternoon, around the time that Clements had been grimly surveying her assigned dress, something had happened. It was not immediately clear what, but the caretaker’s wife, who had been gardening out front, had heard a brief flurry of shouts coming from within, followed by faint moans and a sound like that of “a large dog when it laps at a bowl of water on a hot day.”
Thoroughly unnerved, she had gone home and told her husband. The caretaker had rolled his eyes upon learning that his wife hadn’t even dared to enter the church. He declared that he would stroll along over there, poke his head in, and make sure that everything was all right.
He did not return.