Book 1 - The Man With the Golden Torc (20 page)

No one is ever supposed to eat there. It’s just a front for the
Middleman. Even the staff send out for takeaways.

I tucked my head down so no one would get a good look at my
face, slammed the door open, and strode briskly in. I ignored the startled Thai
staff and headed straight for the kitchen door at the back. The waiters were too
surprised to stop me, only just starting to react as I pushed the door open. I
heard their cries behind me as I marched into the kitchen like I’d come to
condemn it on health grounds, and then I armoured up, overriding the stealth
function. The kitchen staff took one look at me in my golden armour and fell
back with shocked cries, like so many startled birds. The waiters burst in after
me, having armed themselves with knives and hatchets, only to lurch to a sudden
halt as I turned unhurriedly to look at them. My family’s reputation goes a very
long way. The headwaiter put down a butcher knife and gestured for everyone else
to lower their weapons.

"Sod this for a lark," he said in decidedly East End accents.
"Marcus isn’t paying us enough to take on a Drood. You want to see the
Middleman, golden boy? Follow me."

He led me through the surprisingly neat and clean kitchen, while
the Thai staff watched me pass with expressions that weren’t in the least
inscrutable. There are places where looks can kill, but fortunately this wasn’t
one of them. The headwaiter took me out the back of the kitchen and down a long
narrow corridor with lighting so subdued it was positively gloomy. The carpet
was bloodred, and the deep purple walls pressed in from either side. The only
decorations were stuffed and mounted heads of various animals, peering down from
everywhere. Big cats and African wildlife, mostly. The eyes in the heads moved
slowly to follow me as I passed. Now, I’m used to weird shit; I grew up in the
Hall, after all. But something about those eyes seriously freaked me out.

"Let me guess," I said nonchalantly to my guide. "If I start any
trouble, you just say the Word, and the animals connected to those heads will
come suddenly crashing through the walls and have a go at me, right?"

The young Thai waiter looked at me strangely. "No," he said.
"They’re just conversation pieces. The boss bought them as a job lot, to
brighten up the place."

"Sorry," I said. "It’s the company I’ve been keeping recently."

We reached the end of the corridor, and he knocked briefly on
the only door before opening it and standing back to usher me in. I stepped
inside, and he immediately shut the door and retreated back up the corridor. I
didn’t take it personally. The room was more than comfortably large, very
luxurious, almost sybaritic. Deep pile carpet, padded furniture, drapes and
throw cushions everywhere. More subdued lighting, but upgraded to cosy rather
than gloomy. The air was perfumed sweetly with attar, the essence of roses, and
just a hint of opium. And there on the great circular bed was the Middleman
himself, Marcus Middleton, propped up against half a dozen pillows. He smiled at
me in a resigned sort of way but made no move to rise.

He was wearing green silk pajamas, stylishly cut, and sipping at
a slender flute of champagne. He was also smoking a slim black cigarillo set in
a long ivory holder. His long slender fingers were set off by jet-black nail
polish. He was handsome enough, in an aged and ruined sort of way, with flat
black hair, surprisingly subtle makeup, and mild brown eyes that had seen
absolutely everything before. He studied me for a moment, and then beckoned me
forward with a vague smile and a languid gesture. I moved to stand at the foot
of the bed, facing him.

The bed was surrounded by dozens of phones, all in easy reach,
in a variety of styles from Victorian Gothic to the frankly futuristic. These
were interspersed with a nice collection of crystal balls, magic mirrors, and
even a scrying pool in a chamber pot. At least, I hoped it was a scrying pool.
The Middleman started to say something but was interrupted by a sudden ringing
from one of his phones.

"Excuse me, dear boy," he said calmly. "But I have to get this.
Do make yourself comfortable."

He waved me towards a chair, but I declined, standing facing him
with my golden arms folded across my armoured chest. It’s hard to look fierce
and imposing when you’re sitting down, and I needed all the psychological edge I
could get. The Middleman sighed theatrically, flicked some ash from his
cigarillo over the side of the bed, and picked up a seventies Trimphone in puke
yellow plastic.

"Oh, hello, Tarquin; what can I do you for? Dwarves…Really, dear
heart, I told you only the week before that there was going to be a
shortage…They’re all working on this tacky new fantasy film they’re shooting at
Elstree Studios. Making good money too, from what I hear. Are you sure you
couldn’t settle for pixies? I could get you a really nice price on a group
booking…Has to be dwarves. I see. Well, leave it with me, duckie, and I’ll see
what I can sort out for you."

He put the Trimphone down with a graceful sweeping movement and
a swirl of his green silk sleeve, and then looked at me for a long moment, while
taking another sip of champagne and a deep drag on the cigarillo. If he was
impressed by my armour, he was doing a really good job of hiding it.

"Well, hello," he said finally, favouring me with an arch and
decidedly self-satisfied smile. "And which little Drood are you?"

"I’m Edwin," I said harshly. "The new rogue."

"Really? How thrilling…It’s been such a while since anyone was
able to tempt one of you away from the straight and narrow. Can I tempt you with
anything? I have some fine beluga caviar, or perhaps a little Martian red weed?
It’s such a smooth smoke…No? There must be something I can offer you, to make
you feel more at home and relaxed. How about if I was to call in a pretty Thai
lady or ladyboy?"

"Definitely no," I said. "I’m here on business."

"How very tiresome." The Middleman sniffed loudly. "Typical
Drood; you people just don’t know how to have fun. I suppose it was too much to
hope you might have been thrown out of your nauseatingly self-righteous family
for actually developing a few civilised vices. So, what can I do for you, dear
boy?"

"You’ve worked for the Drood family for years, off and on," I
said carefully. "Helping us locate just the right specialist, when needed for
certain out of the ordinary operations."

"Yes, and don’t I know it, duckie; your family uses me
ruthlessly and never pays a penny. I do as I’m told, or they’ll shut me down.
And they’re always so terribly rude to me. I don’t know why; I merely provide a
service. I put people of like minds together for mutual fun and profit. What
they do afterwards is no concern of mine."

"No," I said. "You don’t care how much trouble and suffering you
cause. None of the blood that ends up spilled ever stains your dainty fingers.
You make awful things possible but never take responsibility for your actions."

"Oh, how very tiresome. A philosopher Drood. But still something
of a man of action, I hear. It’s all over town, what you did to the Chelsea
Lovers, the poor dears. It’ll take them years to regain the ground you’ve lost
them. Not that I care, of course. I never care; it’s bad for the complexion. And
I can’t help feeling they’d find my little peccadilloes far too bland for their
extreme tastes. I never had much time for revolutions anyway, of any stamp. I
like the world just the way it is." He reached across his pillows and took a
Belgian chocolate from a large open box. He popped it into his mouth, chewed for
a moment, and then gestured vaguely at me with one black-nailed hand. "What
exactly did you come here for, dear boy? Do get to the point. I have some
important lounging about I should be getting on with."

"You have contacts inside my family," I said slowly. "You
must…hear things. Do you know why I was banished, declared rogue?"

"I’m afraid not, no. Haven’t heard a thing, I promise you. The
news came out of nowhere, no warning at all. You could have knocked me down with
a feather, duckie. Cover me in chocolate and throw me to the ladyboys, I
thought. Not dear upright Eddie! You’ve established quite a reputation here in
the city, these last ten years. Honest, upright, and depressingly incorruptible,
I would have said. No wonder your family assembled such an army to attack you on
the motorway…"

"It was you," I said abruptly. "The penny’s just dropped. You
organised the attacks on the M4!"

"Well, of course, dear boy. Who else? And don’t think it was
easy, contacting and putting together so many disparate elements, and getting
them to play nice with each other for the duration of the attack. I wouldn’t
have chosen half of them, but my instructions were very specific; all bases were
to be covered, scientific and magical. Honestly, the disputes I had over orders
of precedence! Half of them wouldn’t even talk to each other, except through me.
I would have had them all attack you at once, get it over with, and be sure of
killing you…but no, they all had to take their separate turn, to show what they
could do…Why can’t people be professional?"

I lowered my arms and took a step forward, and he actually
flinched back against his pillows. "There’s something else you haven’t been
meaning to tell me, isn’t there?" I said. "What is it, Marcus?"

"All right, all right! It’s just that…this particular commission
didn’t come from your family. As such. This was a private commission, from the
Drood Matriarch herself. Dear old Martha, bless her black vindictive little
heart. I danced with her, you know, one memorable evening back in the sixties,
when Soho was still Soho…Of course, we were both a lot younger and prettier in
those days. Such a glamorous scene…It was only after the attack on you failed
that I got word you’d been officially declared rogue. What did you do to upset
her?"

"Didn’t she tell you?" I said.

"Didn’t tell me one thing more than she absolutely had to,
duckie. Just the hired help, that’s all I was. And she wanted the whole package
put together impossibly quickly, as well as extremely secretly. Gave me less
than twelve hours to get the job done, and then was very rude to me when I tried
to explain how difficult that was going to be. The words guts and garters were
mentioned, and not in a good way."

He carried on some more about how overworked and
underappreciated he was, but I’d stopped listening. Grandmother wanted me dead
and had only resorted to declaring me rogue when her assassination attempt
failed. And twelve hours…that had to be significant. What could have happened in
that short time frame, to set the Matriarch so fiercely against me? I did a good
job at Saint Baphomet’s. Did everything I was ordered to do, and got out clean.

"So you don’t know anything useful," I said finally, cutting
across his well-rehearsed self-pity.

"I could ask around," he said with a vague and very languid
gesture.

"But all you’ll get at this stage is gossip. Of course, now that
you’re rogue…If you were looking for a new role in the world, or a secure
position, I’m sure I could find a use for you in my organisation. If only
because it would be absolutely killing for me to be able to say ever so casually
at one of my little soirées that I had my very own Drood on the payroll! I know
people who would just shit at the very thought! I could be very generous to you,
Eddie. And what better way to get back at your snotty family?"

"I don’t think so," I said. "I’m…otherwise engaged. There are
answers out there, and I will find them. Nothing is going to stop me."

"Of course, of course," said the Middleman. He shifted uneasily,
disturbed at something he heard in my voice. "But I’m afraid there’s nothing I
can do to help you there. Nothing at all. I deal in people, you understand, not
information. I could put you together with certain specialists who might be able
to assist you in your quest. For a consideration, you understand."

"How about you help me, in return for my not killing you in
horrible and inventive ways?" I said.

He sniffed and puffed sulkily on his cigarillo. "Typical Drood.
Go ahead; threaten me, bully me, see if I care. Why should you be any different
from the rest of your appalling family? No one appreciates what I go through for
them. I swear, I’m so delicate these days that I’m not long for this world…"

I raised a hand in self-defence. "All right! How about you help
me for the satisfaction of putting one over on the Drood family, who’ve been
using you for years without paying you? Wouldn’t you like that?"

He considered me thoughtfully. "Why should I risk upsetting your
very powerful, not to mention vengeful, family…when I could seriously ingratiate
myself with them by handing you over? They might be so grateful they’d finally
let me off the hook."

"You really think they’d do that?" I said. "The Droods never
give up anything they own. And do you think you have any way of making me stay
here till they come to collect me?"

"No…and no," the Middleman said sadly. "So…run along, dear boy.
Don’t let me keep you; you’re free to go. I never bother with a threat I can’t
back up."

"If only everyone was so civilised," I said gravely.

I was turning to leave when the Middleman leaned forward
suddenly. "There is someone you could talk to. She knows many things, most of
which she’s not supposed to. And she has more reason than most to hate your
family. The wild witch Molly Metcalf."

"Ah," I said. "Molly. Yes."

"Do I detect a problem? You don’t sound too enthusiastic."

"Molly and I have a history," I said.

The Middleman laughed and spread his hands as though embracing
the universe. "Who doesn’t, dear boy? It’s what makes the world go round!"

I armoured down as I walked out of the Thai café, the living
armour melting back into my torc. Never wear the gold in public. I smiled
slightly. I might be outcast from my family, and on the run, but I was still
following their rules. Behind me, the Thai café staff hurried to lock the door
and pull down the blinds. I didn’t blame them. I stood outside for a while,
thinking, and then looked up suddenly as for the first time I realised how quiet
the street was. I looked around me, and there was no one to see anywhere, up or
down the street. No traffic, no pedestrians. The busy sounds of the city
continued off in the distance, but my little part of it was completely deserted.
Which just didn’t happen at this time of the evening, unless the whole area had
been quietly and efficiently sealed off. And the only people with enough clout
to do that, in the very heart of London, were my family. No one says no to the
Droods. So; they’d found me. I looked around sharply as a man came strolling
casually out of a side street. A very smart, very smooth man, with a familiar
face, looking inordinately pleased with himself: Matthew Drood.