“… Dreamers of sleepers and white treason, we dream of rain and the history of the gun.” And as the queue shuffles forward past the ticket desk she pays for admission and a tour guide, thinking of lighthouses and what it means to have nothing to lose.
Not wanting to stand out, she takes an hour to make her way around some of the historical exhibits—not including the Crown Jewels: the queue is out the door and halfway to Tower Gateway station—before drifting towards the café. She took the precaution of withdrawing a bundle of cash so now she’s able to pay for coffee and a croissant without leaving a transaction trail. She sips at her drink slowly, mentally revisiting her plans for the next couple of hours. After that, who knows? The SA implied that after doing her bit she should go to ground and await further orders. Which is all well and good, but it could be days before anything happens. It occurs to her that she quite fancies the idea of a spa treatment, and resolves to go in search of one this afternoon, assuming she survives.
Time slips slowly away until Iris’s coffee is a memory of bitterness dusted with cocoa, nothing left save a rim of scum adhering to the inside of an empty cup. She flicks pastry crumbs from her lap and stands, slightly creaky but as ready as she’ll ever be. A raven caws somewhere outside, baristas chatter behind the bar—the café seems to have hit a slow patch—and sunlight glints off the damp cobblestones beyond the doorway. Which, she reminds herself, she is allowed to walk through without heed for locks or wards.
On her way to the Beauchamp Tower Iris passes the site of the former firing range used by the Fusiliers during both world wars. They executed spies and traitors by firing squad, she remembers, and dips her chin in passing, feeling a momentary frisson of connectedness to those long-dead men. But she’s no longer a spy, she reminds herself, having taken a very long leave of absence from the Laundry’s org chart, and treason is a movable feast, as Seneca, or maybe John Harington, observed.
If she gets through this, she’ll treat herself to a spa session and a pedicure, she decides. And once the situation stabilizes she’ll move heaven and earth to find out where her daughter’s gone to ground. She doesn’t blame Jonquil for not visiting her in prison (the girl’s scatty but not that stupid), but once there’s no more reason to hide …
It’s not just her own life that she sacrificed on the altar of operational necessity, and for that she feels truly guilty.
The entrance to the Beauchamp Tower is coned off from the areas open to the public, and a discreet sign on the door says NO ADMITTANCE—PASSHOLDERS ONLY. Iris straightens her back and palms the identity card from the SA’s envelope. Her fingertips prickle as she touches it, and a moment later her scalp itches and she shivers violently as she crosses an invisible line just outside the threshold. Then she opens the vestibule door.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
The guard behind the transom smiles politely—he probably gets the odd tourist blundering in every day, it’s easy enough to take a wrong turning—but he’s clearly an old screw and his scrutiny isn’t remotely casual. Nor are the locks on the door at the other side of the guardroom. She smiles right back. “Iris Carpenter, from Q-Division. I’m here to interview the inmate. Following up on Dr. Armstrong’s visit a week ago.”
“I don’t think so,” says the guard, glancing at the computer screen on his desk, “no visitors expect—” Iris zaps him with the SA’s “little extra something.” It came preloaded on the company phone, a gadget that she still periodically boggles at—phones have come a long way, while she was in prison—and she holds the tiny tablet screen-out towards the man and he instinctively looks at it and then he slumps forward across the tabletop, sending his in-tray skidding. Iris intercepts it before it can shed its load—a bizarre mix of papers and what appear to be hearing implant transducers—then checks on the guard. He’s still breathing, but he’s deeply unconscious. She loosens his collar and tie, then fumbles for the ward he’s wearing on a chain—standard issue, heavy duty—and takes it for herself. (Not that she expects the prisoner to try and take her, but there’s always an element of risk.) Finally, she rummages along his belt for the inevitable keychain and adds it to her collection.
Two minutes have passed by the time Iris works out which key to use in which lock on the inner door. She takes a deep breath, holds her phone up, and pulls the door open.
“Hey, you—” The other screw slurs oddly as he collapses. Iris steps over him. There’s another door ahead on the left and she opens it.
“Why, hello!” The man-shaped thing in the armchair beams at her as he raises his teacup. “I was just wondering where you’d got to. Would you care for refreshments?”
“My Lord.” Iris goes to her knees creakily, then bends low, as low as a fifty-three-year-old can manage. “It is an honor to serve you.”
“I suppose so, but there’s no reason to stand on ceremony here, what? Get up, get up, have a seat. Do you take milk in your tea? Sugar?”
Standing up takes far longer for Iris than prostrating herself, and she catches her breath before replying. “Whatever you think suitable, my Lord.”
Her Lord appears to be in remarkably good spirits considering his circumstances, jovial and at ease with himself, but Iris is not misled. He is a mercurial being, capable of flashing from cheerful to icily furious and vengeful in a second at a perceived slight—or even on impulse, should he become bored. “I think you take your tea white, no sugar,” he announces, and, picking up the teapot, pours her a cup accordingly.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Iris says, careful not to spill a drop as she accepts the beverage and takes a seat in the other chair. He is eerily correct: when she drinks tea, this is exactly how she takes it. “I believe we will be free of interruptions for at least ten minutes.”
“Jolly good! So all is well with the world, I take it?”
“I … couldn’t say, my Lord. I’ve been out of touch for quite a long time.”
“As you will. That’s an interesting new geas you’re under; I assume your presence means that Dr. Armstrong is amenable to proceeding?”
Iris nods, not trusting herself to speak. She sips her tea for cover; it’s really very good, a perfect brew.
The prisoner picks up his cup and sips from it thoughtfully. “Would you like me to release you from your oath?”
Iris looks at him evenly. “As you will.”
Her Lord smiles. “Then I shall leave the geas in place; it suits you, you know, and it’s not as if it will make any difference. Time is short, I take it?”
Iris nods. “Dr. Armstrong told me to tell you that, ah, the party is to be held on Saturday at the usual venue.”
“I see.” He puts his cup down. “Then time is short, too short for a by-election. Hmm. So it will be necessary to join the government by the nonparliamentary route. Hmm again.”