Begun around 1474 as the Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen,*1 the Grafters were Belgian alchemists. Rather than following the traditional alchemical pursuit of failing to turn lead into gold, however, they had directed their attention to the mysteries of the mortal clay. Somehow, working in primitive conditions, they had gained radical insights into biological science, developing techniques that still remained far beyond modern medical understanding. With their knowledge and capabilities, they possessed the ability to twist and warp living flesh to suit their purposes.
Apparently, the Grafters’ original purpose had been simple research, but then, in the seventeenth century, they’d turned their brains to military applications. On the orders of the government of the time, they created monstrous soldiers and then mounted an invasion of the Isle of Wight with an eye to conquering the rest of the British Isles. It had taken the full supernatural might of the Checquy, and the losses had been horrific, but finally the Grafters had been subdued.
The British had not allowed the matter to rest there. Instead, they pressed their advantage, mustered up the shattered remnants of the Checquy, and dispatched emissaries to deliver some fairly pointed and undiplomatic messages to the Continent. Faced with the unimaginable forces that the British could apparently bring to bear, the ruling government had briskly given in, and the Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen was dismantled.
The Checquy had never forgotten, though, and over the centuries the Grafters had remained something of a bogeyman to new recruits. This was no mean feat, given that many of the new recruits themselves could be considered eligible for the title of bogeyman. But every Pawn was brought up to loathe and fear the memory of the Grafters.
As a result, it had been a matter of significant outrage and consternation when, a few months ago, it was announced by the executives of the Checquy that the Grafters, far from being utterly destroyed and consigned to the secret-history books, had been operating clandestinely for the previous few centuries. Even more outrageous was that the Checquy would not be mustering its power to smash them into oblivion once and for all. Rather, the Grafters were going to become part of the Checquy Group, pledging their loyalty and service to the nation that had once been their worst enemy. It was to be a new era, one of collaboration and camaraderie.
“It’ll never work,” said Pawn Buchanan.
“The Checquy and the Grafters?” Barnaby snorted. “Course not. I’m betting that VIP cocktail do tonight will erupt in magma and blood before they bring out the first tray of canapés.”
“But how can the Court believe the Grafters could ever be trusted?” wondered Buchanan. “How can they even think about giving them the benefit of the doubt?”
“Not our job to worry about it,” said Felicity. “That’s a problem for the wonks swanning around Apex House.” And they’re welcome to it, she thought with feeling. The world of policy and diplomacy held no attraction for her. Never had. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d wanted to be a soldier. Give me an enemy I can fight, not one I’ve got to smile at politely over dinner.
“Yeah?” said Moore. “Tomorrow the Grafters will be walking in the corridors of the Rookery and the Apex. Just you wait until they’re adding some Flemish Frankenstein to our team. Then it’ll be our turn to worry about it.”
“It will never get that far,” said Buchanan confidently. “The Grafters are the opposite of everything we are. They may be negotiating today, but within six months, our little team here will be part of an army taking a trip across to the Continent to do a bit of smiting and pick up some tax-free wine.”
“Enough chitchat,” said Gardiner firmly. “At the moment, you need to be thinking about the mission. After we’ve reduced this wee beastie to ashes, written up the report, and had a pint, then we’ll have a team meeting and you can bother Pawn Odgers with your concerns.” There was an exchange of looks and a little bit of eye-rolling, but they all were guiltily silent. Then the door to the other room banged open, and everyone jumped.
“All right, children, time to move out!” shouted Odgers as she swept into the room.
*1 Which could be translated as “the Scientific Brotherhood of Scientists” if your Dutch wasn’t great and you weren’t keen on making the Grafters sound good.
4
“We’ve got the order, so stir yourselves! Transport’s out the back,” Odgers barked.
The soldiers hurried out, leaving the support staff to tidy up. As they went through the door, they were each handed a short-barreled submachine gun by a waiting attendant. In front of them was what appeared to be a very unhealthy moving van. They all hustled up the ramp and sat on the benches that ran along the walls. Chopra sat next to Felicity. Odgers came in last, and the door was rolled down behind her. The truck began moving.
Time to get into character, Felicity told herself. She turned her attention to the gun in her hands and automatically checked that the safety was on. Then she ran her Sight through it, confirming that it was full of bullets and that all the components were in good shape. Part of her training at the Estate had involved the laborious memorization of the specifications for (among other things) several dozen kinds of guns. “What good is it if you look at something and don’t know what you’re seeing?” one of her instructors had said reasonably when she’d balked at learning the structure of an internal combustion engine.
Around her, the rest of the team was getting ready. Chopra was breathing the slow, deep breaths of someone who was doing his utter best not to get unprofessionally excited. His armor caught her eye. The same basic model as Felicity’s own, but much glossier; aside from a couple of scuffs, it had no real damage.
Not yet, anyway, thought Felicity. Maybe today it’ll get some scars.
Felicity herself was beginning to feel the familiar creeping of nerves and excitement spreading out from her stomach. Still, the memory of that strange void at the end of the maze left her feeling uneasy. Focus, she told herself. Calm.
“Barnaby will open the door,” said Odgers, “and I’ll enter first.” Felicity noticed Chopra looking skeptically at the older woman in her ill-fitting armor even as she laid out the strategy for them. She couldn’t blame him. In the Checquy, they were taught not to judge by appearances, but with her multiple chins wobbling heavily, Pawn Odgers was not a sight to inspire confidence in a combat setting.
“Remember,” continued Odgers, “we have to assume that the Homeowner will be aware of us as soon as we enter. So we move quickly.” Felicity, who had the best knowledge of the layout, would lead the way, accompanied by Barnaby and by Cheng in her gaseous form. The rest of the troops would follow closely, ready to kill anything that appeared to be a threat.
“So if something eats Barnaby and me, at least it won’t have time to digest us,” Felicity remarked.
“Exactly,” said Odgers.
“One minute, Pawn Odgers,” the driver called back.
“Right,” said the leader. “Children, be prepped.” Beside Felicity, Pawn Susie Cordingley began quietly singing scales, limbering up her voice. The hairs on the back of Felicity’s neck trembled as her comrade emitted tones that she couldn’t hear but that she felt. To Felicity’s surprise, Cordingley’s voice caused her lip balm to evaporate off her mouth — she could actually see the mist curling away from her lips.
“My apologies, Pawn Clements,” said Cordingley. “Are you using a new brand?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry about it,” she said sourly. On the other side of her, Jennings held his hands up as if he were carrying an invisible basketball. To Felicity’s eyes, nothing actually happened, but Jennings nodded in satisfaction. Meanwhile, the other troops were checking their guns or their armor.
The truck stopped with a jolt, turned, and began backing up.