Ian Tregillis - Bitter Seeds

Getting a doctor to study the prisoner had been easier. Stephenson arranged the examination under the cover story that she was a rescued victim from the camps. The doctor blanched when he saw what had been done to her, but he studied the woman at length. But the purpose of the wires, and the significance of their locations on her skull, confounded him. He'd claimed there was no meaningful pattern to her scars. It was as though somebody had tried countless different combinations at random.

Many of the scars, he'd said, had formed long before the girl had stopped growing.

Von Westarp's children.

Lorimer came over. He slapped Marsh on the back. “I hear congratulations are in order.” The prisoner turned to watch them. Marsh looked from Lorimer, to her, and back. The Scot nodded, taking the hint. “You owe us a celebratory pint,” he whispered.

The prisoner watched everything. Marsh wondered if she knew what they had planned.

Will hurried in, carrying a moth-eaten paisley carpetbag in one hand and a briefcase in the other. He tossed the carpetbag in the corner. It clunked to the floor with the ring of metal on wood.

“Sorry, sorry gentlemen. Sorry I'm late.”

“Nice bag, Will. I didn't know you collect antiques.”

Will doffed his bowler and shrugged out of his suit coat. He hung them both on a rack behind the door. Then he unbuttoned his sleeves. Rolling them up, he said, “That ugly thing? That's the reason I'm late, actually.”

Marsh leaned down to open the bag, but Will waved him off. “Hi, hi, no need for that.”

“Then what's it for?”

“If everything goes well,” said Will, “nothing.”

“And if it doesn't?”

Will's sigh—loud, explosive—dispelled the atmosphere of good humor that normally surrounded him. An angry Will was so rare that at first Marsh didn't recognize the scowl. Will snapped: “Is a smidgen of optimism so much to ask for, or has that gone on the rationing list, too?” His shoulders slumped. “Apologies. I haven't slept.” Sounding more like his usual self, he concluded with a feeble smile, “As to the bag, best not to trouble ourselves with such matters.”

Stephenson joined the others. They huddled together as though part of a rugby scrum. Marsh took care to keep one eye on the prisoner as he listened to Stephenson whisper:

“I don't like this. Why does she need to be here?”

Will said, “Far easier to query the Eidolons about von Westarp's handiwork if I can point to an example.”

“I still hate it. This thing you can do is our only leg up right now. You want to parade it in front of her.”

“Aye,” Lorimer said.

Will laughed quietly. “Unless that film is a great hoax, she has seen this all before. Trust me.”

Stephenson frowned, then nodded. The four men emerged from their huddle. Marsh checked the prisoner. She cocked an eyebrow at him with a playful look in her eyes.

From the briefcase Will produced a dish, a tin of safety matches, a bundle of dry twigs, and a sheaf of yellowed papers. The pages were curled and even cracked in places. Will set the sticks atop the dish in the middle of the floor.

“How does this ritual work?” Stephenson asked.

“No. Not a ritual.” Will fixed the old man with a stare, looking serious. “Negotiation.”

Stephenson shrugged. “What ever you want to call it.”

“Hear me now. Rituals and ceremonies are a load of made-up pageantry played out by loonies in robes dancing around bonfires on the solstice. A negotiation is the means of getting something done, for a price.”

Marsh interrupted: “What kind of price?”

Will waved off the question. “A trifle. 'By the pricking of my thumbs,' and all that.” But his gaze flicked to the carpetbag, and for a moment something akin to worry or concern creased his face.

But then his expression lightened. He exclaimed, “Ah! Speaking of which.” He rummaged in his pockets for a moment before producing a clean white handkerchief and a safety pin. He crossed the room to join Marsh and the prisoner. Will extended his hand, as if asking her to dance, and gave her a little bow. “Your hand, my dear.”

The prisoner seemed unimpressed.

Marsh asked, “What are you doing?”

“I need a sample of her blood,” said Will. To the prisoner, he added, “I'll only take a drop.”

Marsh took her by the wrist and raised her free hand toward Will. Her skin still felt warm to the touch. Will deftly nicked the woman's thumb with his pin. A scarlet bead emerged from the pad of her thumb. Will dabbed at it with the handkerchief, then inspected the small rust-colored stain. He held it up for all to see.

“Yes,” he said. “This will be sufficient.”

The woman watched it all with an air of bored detachment. But then again, if their suspicions were correct, she had seen scenes like this many times before.

Will returned to the center of the room. “Now. The principle is very simple. First, we have to catch the attention of an Eidolon. Once we've done that, we negotiate with it. Since we're merely asking for information, and not seeking to circumvent natural law, the price will be minor.”

Marsh frowned. “Will, it can't possibly be that easy.”

“Ah. Well. There is a catch. The Eidolons don't have the same relationship to the universe that we do. In some sense, they are the universe—intelligent manifestations of it. You don't expect them to speak the King's English, do you?” He thumped the stack of papers. “This is my grandfather's lexicon. The lingua franca of the Eidolons is a very, very ancient language. We call it Enochian.”

Stephenson lowered his voice. “I still maintain this dictionary of yours is our single advantage at present.”

“She won't pick up a word of it. None of you will. You're far too old.” Marsh cocked his head at this, but Will didn't elaborate. “Enochian is much too archaic for our lexicons to include terms for modern things like wires, batteries, and brain surgery. And I'm quite certain no warlock has ever had need to express the concept of, well, what ever's been done to her. Trust me. The odds of success are much higher if I can simply show her to the Eidolon.” He brandished the bloodstained handkerchief. “Which is why I needed this.”

He folded his long, gangly legs beneath himself and sat on the floor. “Make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen.”

Marsh opted to stand. So did Stephenson and Lorimer.

Will arranged the twigs into a small mound on the dish. “This part isn't strictly necessary,” he said, “but it's how I was trained. Helps me focus.” He lit a match and touched it to the kindling. The flame licked at the wood. “Be warned that once we catch the attention of an Eidolon, things might seem a bit odd.”

“Odd?”

“It's tempting to say that reality warps around the presence of an Eidolon, but that's not quite right. If anything, they're more real than we are. So rather, reality follows them. Orbits them. Things become more real than you might otherwise be used to. It can be unsettling.”

Marsh shuddered, remembering the Bod. And that had merely been the passage of an Eidolon; it hadn't dallied. He asked, “What should we expect?”

“Hard to know. Phantom smells, sounds, visions. Maybe nothing. It's different every time. Now shush.”

Aromatic cedar smoke trickled up from the burning tinders. It stung the eyes. Will stared into the flames.

Marsh pressed the backs of his fingers up against the smooth curve of his jaw. He cracked his knuckles, waiting for something to happen.

Will breathed deeply, sighed, then pulled an antler-handled jackknife from a trouser pocket. He raked the unfolded blade across the thin pale ridges that lined his palm. Blood welled up from the laceration. It trickled between his knuckles when he clenched his fist.