Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“Nolan,” said Max, “if anyone should want revenge, it’s me. But it wasn’t Cooper who attacked me—it was the demon controlling him. We can’t forget that. He needs our help, not our anger.”

Halting in the foyer, Nolan sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Of course you’re right. But to see Grendel like that and you covered in all that blood … I guess I’m just tired.”

“How is Grendel?”

“Hanging in,” replied Nolan. “He wasn’t poisoned, but that knife went awful deep. YaYa brought him back to the Warming Lodge. We’ll just have to wait and see, but I’m hopeful. Cheshirewulfs are tough as old tree roots. Anyway, the Director has been awful anxious for any word of you. Do you want me to tell her you’re okay, or do you want to tell her yourself?”

“I’ll go,” said Max. “Is she in her office or at Founder’s Hall?”

“The Director’s always in Founder’s these days,” replied Nolan. “C’mon, I’ll take you. We’ve tripled the guards on post, but I’ll sleep better if I’ve seen you there myself.”

Following the declaration of hostilities, Founder’s Hall had been transformed into Rowan’s war room. Almost every square foot of its vast space had been converted to some useful purpose. Upon its curving walls hung enormous maps, lists of regiments, crop inventories, architectural drawings, astronomical charts, and one vast section that was covered with sheets of Florentine spypaper. Despite the late hour, the hall was brightly lit and teeming with activity.

It was difficult to locate the Director amid the hundreds of people and creatures bustling about: Promethean Scholars, Mystics of various specialties, Agents, older students, innumerable domovoi, and a sandstone shedu boasting four unblinking faces. At last Max spotted her at the far end of the hall, leaning upon a table and conversing with an anxious-looking domovoi.

Most everyone was busily occupied, but as Nolan led Max through the hall, people began to notice not only his presence, but also his appearance. Conversations ceased, the silence spreading so conspicuously that the Director glanced up. When she spied Max, initial shock was replaced quickly by an expression of profound relief.

“This must wait, Zimm,” she remarked absently to the domovoi. “Question the lutins and scour the lower vaults. Zenuvian iron doesn’t just walk away.”

As the domovoi and Nolan took their leave, Ms. Richter came around the table to give Max a maternal hug and flick a stray leaf from his shoulder.

“Well,” she sighed, looking him over, “it’s been a long night and you’re a mess, but you’re here on your own two feet and that’s all that matters. I’d jump for joy if Directors were allowed to do such things. Let’s have a private chat.”

He followed her into an adjoining conference room and sat at a table while several apprentices quickly brought coffee, a basin of water, and a clean shirt to replace Max’s bloodstained horror. Sipping her coffee, Ms. Richter grimaced and set it down.

“Who would have imagined that a bawdy, incorrigible hag could be so irreplaceable?” she said. “For all of Mum’s foibles, she didn’t mistake sludge for coffee.” The Director chuckled. “My days are consumed by war—its awful scale and grandeur—and yet the littlest things make such a difference. Now, tell me what happened.…”

Max relayed what he could remember of Cooper’s attack—the ambush, Grendel’s intervention, and Umbra finally driving Cooper off and pulling Max from the fire. He did not mention Umbra’s true identity.

“And you’re certain it was William Cooper,” said the Director.

“Yes,” said Max. “The tent was smoky, but I saw him clearly enough.”

“I’m curious,” mused Ms. Richter, stirring her drink. “This Umbra is the same refugee who slew Rolf Luger. I find that very odd. Unless I’m mistaken, she has now sabotaged two assassination attempts, outdueled the commander of the Red Branch, and promptly healed a poisoned victim with a slit throat. That’s quite a girl. And yet you maintain that you know nothing else about her?”

“Um … yes?”

“Max McDaniels, you are the least competent liar I’ve ever encountered,” said Ms. Richter. “It’s a good thing, too, because you’re not terribly forthcoming. Who is this Umbra? And don’t you dare tell me she’s just some random refugee.”

Reddening, Max gave in and told Ms. Richter that Umbra was none other than Scathach who had crossed over from the Sidh to protect him. The Director raised her eyebrows.

“Well, well,” she muttered. “That is a surprise and a pleasant one. I’ll send word that she should be allowed access to the Manse and anywhere else you happen to be. If she’s your bodyguard, why wasn’t she in your tent to begin with?”

“I didn’t know that Umbra was really Scathach until tonight,” replied Max. “She was forbidden to reveal who she was. It’s … complicated.”

“I see,” said Ms. Richter, looking shrewdly at him but letting the matter drop. “Well, just so you know, we’ve got Ben Polk and some others searching for Cooper. I also hear that YaYa may join the hunt, so rest assured that we’re doing everything we can to track him down. While they’re hunting him, perhaps you can explain this.…”

Removing a sheet of spypaper from a folio, she pushed it across to Max. He glanced at its single line of bold black script.

Send the Hound to my chambers at midday .“Who’s that from?” he asked.

“Elias Bram,” replied Ms. Richter coolly. “Our illustrious Archmage rarely emerges from his chambers, ignores nearly all communication, and has contributed nothing to Rowan’s defense, and yet he suddenly wishes to speak with you. As Director, I want to know why.”

“I have no idea,” said Max.

“And here we go with another transparent fib …,” she observed with thinning patience.

“Well,” said Max. “I—I mean I have some idea. But I’ve already tried to go speak with him several times without any luck. He’s never there—or at least Mrs. Menlo never admits he’s home.”

“And why have you gone to speak with him?” asked Ms. Richter.

Max glanced at the Director, wilting under her penetrating gaze. At length, he sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “Because Astaroth came to speak with me.”

“What?”

Max had never heard Ms. Richter exclaim in such a fashion or register such open shock upon her face. It was several seconds before she composed herself.

“When did this occur?” she asked quietly.

“The day before we declared war.”

“And what did he want?” she asked. Before Max could reply, she raised a finger in warning. “Do not omit anything . You will share every word of this conversation and then you will explain why you never reported it to me.”

Max did as he was told, repeating his conversation with Astaroth and the Demon’s offer to save Rowan in exchange for Bram’s murder. He also shared his subsequent discussion with David, including his roommate’s theory that Astaroth might also have told his grandfather about the proposal. By the time Max had finished, Ms. Richter looked ashen.

“And you never thought to share this with me?” she wondered, aghast.

“I almost didn’t even tell David,” Max replied sheepishly. “I wanted to forget about it … pretend it never happened.”

Ms. Richter closed her eyes and rubbed her temples in weary frustration.

“There are times I have to remind myself that you are still very young,” she murmured. “You are a young man at the epicenter of enormous happenings and may not always see things in their proper perspective.” Opening her eyes, she gazed at him. “Max, you cannot simply pretend that such monumental events ‘never happened.’ Did it ever occur to you that I might need to know about this? Do you understand that right now we are at war against a vastly superior force and may come under siege within a matter of days or weeks? You have been withholding information that could not just influence this war’s outcome, but absolutely determine it!”