Ian Tregillis - Bitter Seeds

“So,” said Will, “boy or girl?”

“Girl,” said Marsh. He smiled, but the hard light highlighted the dark papery skin under Marsh's eyes. It made him look gaunt. And his hair was mussed. The poor fellow looked as though his last sleep had been several days ago. In a haystack.

“You look awful,” said Will.

“I've heard.” He started to turn toward the window again, but then the stopped and turned. “Thanks for getting Liv to the hospital, Will. I can't thank you enough.”

“It was nothing, Pip. I was glad to help, and as it happened your neighbors had left her high and dry.”

Marsh nodded more thanks, but a strange look passed between him and Stephenson as he did so.

Looking back and forth between them, Will asked, “And what, pray tell, has kept you from your loving wife? You made a rather hasty exit from the Continent, I gather.”

Marsh summarized the events of the past several days. Just as he'd done with his Spanish adventure, he made it all sound routine: secret meetings, speeding toward the German army, capturing a foreign agent.

After Marsh wrapped up his story, Will pointed at the window through which Stephenson had been peering. “Our new guest?” Stephenson nodded. Will peeked inside the makeshift brig.

The storeroom was empty but for a cot. A woman lay across it, hair fanned about her head like a sable halo. Darker-skinned than he'd expected. She had bony ankles.

“Heavy sleeper, is she?”

“I dosed her as we entered the city. Better if she doesn't know where we are.”

At this, Will rolled his head back, feeling dense— Ah, of course. I'm hopeless . Again he caught the glance flickering between Stephenson and Marsh.

“I sense you chaps are hiding a bloody great secret.”

“She knows things, Will.”

“Things?”

“She knew my name. And that we'd just had a girl.”

Air whistled through Will's teeth as he inhaled. Though he was a tyro in this business, he understood Marsh's liaison work for the Entente, and meeting Krasnopolsky, had both been carried out under false identities. And if those had been compromised—

“A mole?”

“Or,” said Stephenson quietly, “we have to consider the possibility that somebody has been watching Marsh. Perhaps watching each of us.”

The news made Will feel naked, exposed. He suppressed the urge to glance over his shoulder, but only just. “Why? And since when?”

“Since Spain would be the logical conclusion,” said Marsh. He pointed through the window. “And there's more. Look. She has the wires.”

“No?”

Marsh nodded. Will's palms slapped the door as he pressed himself to the window for a closer look. “I'll be damned.” He couldn't see anything under all the hair. “I don't recognize her,” he said.

“She's not in the Tarragona film,” said Stephenson.

Oh, hell. Nothing for it, then . “Ah. Well. Speaking of that, and since I have you both here—though you ought to be home right now, my friend—that's something I wanted to discuss.”

Stephenson said, “At last. You have an answer for us?”

“No and yes. As to what von Westarp has done, and how, I still can't say.” Stephenson frowned. Will continued, before Stephenson could object: “But! There's a way to find out. It's a bit drastic ... In fact, I came looking for you,” he said, pointing to Stephenson, “to suggest instead using this approach to find Pip in France.” He grinned at Marsh. “Glad we didn't have to.”

“How do you propose we obtain this information?”

“Simplicity itself,” said Will, expressing a confidence he didn't feel. “We ask the Eidolons.”

“Who the hell are the Eidolons?”

“Not who , Pip. What .” In response to blank stares, Will elaborated. “A warlock doesn't perform magic. A warlock isn't a magician. A warlock is a negotiator. A warlock changes the world around him by petitioning an Eidolon to circumvent the laws of nature. The Eidolons, being entities that exist ... outside ... of space and time, acknowledge no such laws.” He looked at Marsh. “That night in the Bodleian? The thing you felt was the passage of an Eidolon not quite noticing us.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Marsh.

“I fail to see how this helps us,” said Stephenson.

Will said, “It's clear from the film that what ever von Westarp has done, it's quite unnatural. That means the Eidolons are involved. But the most vexing thing about that film is how it shows no evidence of the negotiations. Which has made his methodology a deuce to unravel.”

“So,” said Marsh, warming to the subject, “we just ask these Eidolons to tell us how the Jerries are doing it?”

“More or less.”

“It can't possibly be that simple.”

It won't be so bad, if I'm properly prepared.

Will rubbed his aching hand and shrugged. “Mostly.” He pointed at the makeshift brig. “In fact, our little guest is a boon. Having her on hand could simplify things.”

“We've got Lorimer at work on her belt,” said Marsh.

Stephenson nodded. “Set it up, Beauclerk. I want it done as soon as you can. And you,” he said, squeezing Marsh's shoulder, “go home. That's an order.”

Will slapped him on the back again. “I'll walk out with you.”

Marsh pulled him aside when they reached the top of the stairs. “I need to ask something of you.”

“I am, as always, your servant. What can I do?”

“Look, Will,” said Marsh, looking at his feet. “First, I'll always be grateful to you for looking after Liv while I was away. But now I need you to keep your distance from my family. Just until ...” Marsh made a vague gesture that encompassed their surroundings. “ ... until this is over and things go back to normal.”

Will took a step back, feeling slapped. “Why?”

“Because if they're watching us, we have to keep as separate as possible.” Marsh raised his voice, perhaps even without realizing it. His eyes flashed. “I can't protect my wife and daughter with you leading the Jerries straight to the bloody house. When I arrived this morning, the door was unlatched. Practically wide open. Was that you?”

The question, and the accusation veiled within, caught Will off guard. “I, I don't know. Perhaps—”

“Well, it was you, or it was the Jerries rummaging through my house after you'd taken Liv. Didn't occur to you to watch your surroundings, did it?”

“I stood for you at your bloody wedding.” The words came out forcefully, propelled by bitterness and hurt. “I introduced you.” Will's voice echoed in the corridor. “You wouldn't have Liv if it weren't for me.”

Liv deserved better than to be cloistered from the world. She would suffocate. If Will understood that, why couldn't Marsh? The man didn't know what he had. Will spat, “She isn't a china doll and she isn't a trophy. Were she my wife, I'd have the respect to warn her of danger.”

Marsh's eyes narrowed, and he pulled himself to his full height. Though he was still shorter than Will, his anger gave him a palpable force of presence. Will had never seen him truly angry; he immediately regretted his words. Marsh tamped down on the fire in his eyes with visible effort, leaving just a smoldering irritation there.

“Stephenson's arranging to have one or two men from SIS keep an eye on Liv and the baby, to find our watchers. Anything more runs the risk of drawing attention to Milkweed. Including your visits.”

“Haven't I at least earned the privilege of meeting your daughter?” Will's question acted like a bellows blowing fresh air on hot coals.

But Marsh swallowed the anger again. This time he shrugged, as though physically shaking it off. “The war will be over soon, and then things will go back to the way they were.” He patted Will on the arm. “Honest.”