The Nimble Man (A Novel of the Menagerie) (24 page)

There came a knock upon the door.

"Yes?" Conan Doyle called, turning his attention
from the red-tinted night.

The door came slowly open, a beam of light from outside
cutting through the darkness to partially illuminate the room. "Didn't
know if you'd still be awake," Squire said sheepishly as he entered.

"And now you do," Conan Doyle said, turning his
attentions back to the window and the unnatural conditions beyond it. "What
can I do for you, Squire?" he asked, annoyed that he had been disturbed,
but at the same time grateful for the distraction.

"Before leaving the townhouse, after I loaded up the
weapons and shit, I made a stop in your study."

Conan Doyle paused, raised one eyebrow, and turned toward
the hobgoblin again. Squire stood at the center of the office holding something
in his hands, a familiar red velvet case.

"It was the last thing I thought of before I flew the
coop. Thought you might need it," he said, holding it out to Conan Doyle. "Y'know,
to help you think and all."

Squire placed velvet case on the desk in front of the
leather chair.

"Thank you, Squire," Conan Doyle said warmly,
touched by the gesture, and by the loyalty of his faithful valet. "That
was most considerate of you."

"Don't mention it, boss," the hobgoblin said,
making his way to the door. "Least I could do, considering you're the one
that's gonna be responsible for saving our asses." Squire grinned as he
went out into the corridor. "Goodnight, Mr. Doyle," he said, closing
the door gently behind him, plunging the room again into red-hued shadow.

"Goodnight, Squire," Conan Doyle said under his
breath, leaving his place at the window to approach the case left for him on
the desktop. Conan Doyle reached down and took the velvet case in hand, slowly
opening it to reveal its contents. He removed the Briar pipe, its rounded,
ivory bowl giving off the faintest aromatic hint from the last time he had
smoked, and a pouch of his favorite tobacco blend. Many a problem had been
hashed out over a smoldering pipe.

Conan Doyle lowered himself back down into the leather chair
and began to fill the pipe, stuffing the tobacco into the bowl with his index
finger. Finished, he brought the stem of the pipe to his mouth as he uttered a
simple spell of conflagration to ignite the Briar's contents.

The mage puffed upon the pipe, filling the room with the
rich scent of the burning tobacco. He leaned back in the chair, a halo of smoke
drifting about his head, already beginning to feel the soothing effects of his
pipe, and attempted again to make sense of the swirling maelstrom that his
thoughts had become.

You're the one that's gonna be responsible for saving our
asses,
Squire had said. Crude, but not entirely inaccurate.

Conan Doyle only prayed that after all this time, he was
still up to the challenge.

The air inside the study was thick and redolent with the
aroma of Conan Doyle's tobacco. He drew it through his nostrils in long, slow
breaths, lips holding his pipe tightly. His eyes fluttered slightly as he
sketched in the air with his fingers. Yet these were not sigils or runes, not
symbols of power he was using to draw hexes. His hands were not spellcasting,
they were choreographing. There was much to be done, and all of his Menagerie
would be called upon. It was up to him to determine how best to utilize them.

Conan Doyle opened his eyes. The study — he was amused
by the modern fashion of calling such a room a home office, as if it were some
new invention — was dark, and beyond the windows the crimson fog drifted
along the streets. The sky was still black above the fog, but it was no longer
merely that the sun had been eclipsed. Real night had long since fallen.

And what of the morning? Will dawn come at all?

He wished he could tell himself that the question was
rhetorical. If he had spoken the words aloud and been overheard that was
precisely what he would have said. But these were his secret thoughts, and he
could not lie to himself. Ceridwen was powerful, and the forces she had brought
to bear showed him he had underestimated her. The Corca Duibhne, the Dead, some
of the Fey, and who knew what else had joined her cause. And Conan Doyle still
had not a single clue as to what that cause was.

Power, you fool,
he thought.
Of course, it's
power. Ceridwen tires of being the sister of the King. She wants something of
her own to rule, to control.

Conan Doyle frowned, taking another breath of pipe smoke. Could
it really have been that simple? Perhaps. History was riddled with those whose
only lust was for power. Yet something about that did not ring true for him. Ceridwen
had never been so bold, never acted out her malice in so conspicuous a manner. For
her to take such a risk, to close the door on ever returning to Faerie as
anything but a captive, he was certain she must have some other motivation. But
no amount of rumination would provide him with a reasonable solution to that
problem.

More information was required.

He exhaled a plume of smoke and as it clouded in front of
him a flash of self-recrimination went through him. Yes, he had needed time to
deliberate the next step, but undead horrors still marched across the city and
he had no doubt that bizarre, apocalyptic phenomena continued to erupt
throughout the region.

The time for thinking was over.

Mr. Conan Doyle rose from the armchair in Mrs. Ferrick's
study and plucked his pipe from his lips. He inclined his head and blew a
breath across it, a breath that contained the tiniest of spells, and the ember
glow within the pipe died. He returned it to its case and left the study.

The hall was dark, but a glow of candles flickered upon its
walls. The power had been unreliable at best and so Julia Ferrick had unearthed
quite a collection of wax substitutes for electricity. Whatever Squire and
Danny's mother had gotten up to in the kitchen, it had been the last time they'd
depended on the electrical power in the house. Conan Doyle started toward the
living room, where he had left most of his comrades, his agents, only to
realize that the candle light now illuminated both the living room and dining
room, and that the low voices he heard were coming from the latter.

Curious, he stepped into the living room. There in the
silence, in the dim, flickering glow of burning wicks, Julia Ferrick lay
sideways on the sofa, legs drawn up beneath her, sleeping fitfully. She
muttered something and shifted, her anxious heart afflicting her dreams, but
she slept on. Several feet away, Danny sat on the floor with his knees drawn up
under his chin, watching over his mother. He still dressed the part of the
rebellious child, but circumstances had brought them closer, it seemed, than
they had been for some time. Danny's eyes glowed orange in the candle light.

Conan Doyle and the demon child watched one another for
several moments. Danny made no sign that he had seen the old mage, but Conan
Doyle knew the boy was aware of his presence. At length he beckoned with an
outstretched finger.

"Come," he said. "We have a great deal to
discuss."

Danny frowned at him and glanced at his mother again.

"She will be all right," Conan Doyle assured him.

Then he turned and went into the dining room, knowing that
the boy would follow. The room was a surprise. Though the house was pleasant
enough, it was decorated with the casual laissez-faire attitude of most modern
American homes. The dining room, however, was all dark wood and silver behind
glass, and the small chandelier was black iron. It had the atmosphere of
another age, and Conan Doyle immediately felt more at home here.

The others were all gathered there. Squire had opened a
liquor cabinet and discovered a bottle of Talisker scotch, which Conan Doyle
presumed had been there since the house had a
Mister
Ferrick within it. The
goblin presided, now, over a pair of shot glasses that were set upon the dining
room table. One was his own, and the other belonged to Eve, who had tilted her
high-backed chair away from the table and propped her boots upon its surface. Conan
Doyle frowned, displeased by her lack of courtesy, but this was typical of her.
Eve was long past taking lessons in propriety from anyone. He also chose not to
mention his distaste at the idea of the pair of them doing shots of finely aged
scotch.

Ceridwen was seated across from them. She held her elemental
staff across her lap, cradling it as though it was her child, and she gazed
into the ice sphere atop it, watching the dancing flame therein with the manner
of a scrier. Conan Doyle knew this was not far from the truth. There were
things she had seen in the ice there that had come to pass. For now, though,
the ice was clear save that flame.

At the far end of the room, Clay stood with his arms
crossed, speaking with Graves. The apparition of the dead man was as solid as
Conan Doyle had ever seen it, and he thought perhaps it was the setting that
inspired Graves to such focus. He was in the ordinary house of a more or less
ordinary woman, and in such close quarters he felt awkward about appearing as
what he was . . . a ghost.

Clay wore the face that had become his most common visage,
and he was the first to glance up when Conan Doyle entered the room.

"Well, well," Eve said, taking her boots from the
table and reaching for her newly filled shot glass. She stood and raised it as
though in a toast. "I'm going to guess we've got a plan."

"We do indeed," Conan Doyle replied.

Eve threw back the shot of Talisker and knocked the glass
loudly onto the table. "About time," she said. "I'm so bored I've
got spiders in my brain. The goblin was starting to seem like a scintillating
conversationalist."

"Hey!" Squire protested. "I've got oodles of
personality. I'm a catch!"

Eve laughed. "If I spend enough time with you, I'm sure
to catch
something
."

Conan Doyle appreciated the fact that Clay and Graves, at
least, seemed appropriately grim. He glared at Eve, but Ceridwen spoke up
first.

"That will be enough," the Fey sorceress
commanded.

Eve flinched, eyes narrowing at the presumption in Ceridwen's
tone, but that was all right. The women were equally formidable. Ceridwen was
royalty, but Eve was royalty of a sort herself. A matriarch in her own right. Still,
there were times when angering her was the only way to remind her of what her
priorities ought to be.

"I apologize for the wait," Conan Doyle said, "but
it is time, now, to get to work." He gestured around the table. "Please,
all of you, be seated." The old mage turned toward Danny Ferrick, who
waited behind him in the arched entry of the dining room.

"Danny, come in. Join us. This is your house. You have
a right to hear what we plan to do."

The teenager nodded, the nubs of his horns gleaming sharp
and black in the candlelight. He passed Conan Doyle and took a seat beside
Ceridwen, though he fidgeted and glanced at her several times, distracted
either by her beauty or her power, both of which were palpable. Conan Doyle
took note of this, and of the way the boy stole glances at Eve as well. A
teenaged boy amidst these two women . . . Danny was unlikely to hear a word he
said.

Conan Doyle sat at one end of the table and Clay at the
other. Squire and Eve pulled their chairs in closer. Graves did not sit at all.
Ever. Regardless of how solid he might appear, he was, after all, merely a
shade.

"Now, then," Conan Doyle said, surveying his
Menagerie, "let us be clear about this. Thus far, our efforts have been
less than useless. We have learned little of value. The first order of business
is to improve our position in that regard."

He turned the plan over in his mind, wishing there was more
to be done. Conan Doyle opened the case for his pipe, finding comfort in it. Once
more he blew lightly on its bowl and it was rekindled. He took a long pull upon
it, let out the smoke, and then merely held it in his hand.

"Ceridwen will infiltrate my home. Morrigan has the
Corca Duibhne at her disposal, as well as a handful of Fey warriors. In order
to discover what her intentions are, subtlety will be more effective than
force. For now. Morrigan wants access to Sweetblood's power, and we must know
why. It cannot be to release him, for Lorenzo Sanguedolce could easily destroy
the tainted sorceress. The only way she could have breached the magickal
defenses around my home is if Sweetblood's chrysalis is already leaking. But he
has not been released, or the world would know it. If we rush to battle without
answers, it might cost more than our lives. It might lead to catastrophe."

Conan Doyle nodded at Ceridwen. He was aware of the
magnitude of what he was asking, sending her alone into the lair of their
enemy. But such was his faith in her. And if anyone was to combat Morrigan
alone, her niece had the best chance of surviving such a conflict.

"For my part, I will remain here. I hope that Mrs.
Ferrick will be kind enough to watch over me whilst I meditate and attempt to
reach Lorenzo. Our minds touched once before, when I first discovered his
strange sarcophagus, and now I must try to communicate with him again. We must
know why he hid himself away. From our brief contact, it is clear that
Sweetblood believes that there will be cataclysmic consequences if his
chrysalis is opened. The signs and portents might not all be Morrigan's doing. Some
of them could be a result of the natural and supernatural worlds reacting to
the prospect of Sweetblood's release . . . or whatever Morrigan plans to do
with him. There are too many questions. I hope Sweetblood can be made to
provide some answers."

A strong wind had begun to blow and the storm windows
rattled in their frames. The red fog seemed to undulate as they swept past
outside. Conan Doyle took his pipe firmly between his lips and drew a long puff
into his lungs. Outside, the wind screamed. Danny Ferrick muttered under his
breath and even Squire glanced uneasily out into the bleeding night.