Mike Shevdon - The Road to Bedlam

"What if they're here to prevent Blackbird having the baby?"

"If they touch Blackbird then they violate the truce. Blackbird is part of Yonna's court and she would demand blood price. That's a lose-lose. You, on the other hand, are a Warder. You're not part of anyone's court and you're in harm's way. You may even be the sole purpose for their visit."

"Why me?"

"You're a half-breed and a wraithkin. That's enough on its own. You restored the barrier, making it harder for them to cross into our world. You're a Warder. There hasn't been a wraithkin Warder since the night they left. All of that makes you a target. I'm just putting you out of harm's way, Niall. It's for your own good."

"I'd rather stay."

"It wasn't a request, Dogstar. You're a Warder. You'll go where you're sent."

I started to protest, but he held up his hand. "I want you out of here by dawn. There's a fishing town on the north-east coast called Ravensby. There are disturbing reports – some are saying it's a rogue fey. None of the courts are claiming it, so it's ours. Go there and find out what's going on. Use the Warder's discretion. It should be right up your street."

Warder's discretion – that meant: do whatever's necessary.

"What do I do when I find out what's going on?"

"Deal with it, but understand your limits. If you need help, contact me and I'll send someone as soon as I can. Keep it low profile. I don't want any more house fires."

"That wasn't…"

He just raised an eyebrow.

I held my fist over my heart. "I'll go and tell Blackbird."

"And lead them straight to her? No, you leave now. Tate will kit you out with what you need. I'll tell Blackbird as soon as there's an opportunity to do it discreetly. I want you out of here now before they can organise something."

"I don't even have any clean underwear."

"The Warders were never prevented from their duty by a lack of underwear, Dogstar. You have your mission."

He stared at me until I clenched my fist over my heart again, accepting his orders. He nodded, sombrely. Tate returned with a plain black holdall.

"What am I supposed to do when I get there?"

"You'll know. Don't fail me. I have arrangements to make so I'll leave you in Tate's hands. Keep safe, Warder, and think before you act. No more accidents."

I nodded and he patted me on the shoulder. I watched him walk across the room and close the door quietly behind him.

"You're going to have your hands full," I said to Tate.

Tate ignored my comment. "No mission for the Warders is ever simple or without danger. Watch your back. We don't know whether Altair will bring any more of his cohort with him. We don't know what hazards are already there."

"Will you look out for Blackbird for me?"

"I'll do what I can. There'll be wards placed around her quarters. We'll know if they get close."

"I don't like leaving her like this."

"She survived for many years without you, Niall, remember that. She's no one's pushover."

"She had her magic before."

"Even so." He handed me a passport, an ID card, a wallet. "You are Neal Dawson, freelance journalist. You're looking for a story. It'll give you an excuse to poke your nose in other people's business."

"I'm not a journalist, Tate, and you know I won't be able to lie about that."

"It's just another label – like Niall, or Dogstar. Neal Dawson is a journalist. He's filed several stories in the last six months. A couple of them have made the national press. He's been paid for them. He's a member of the National Union of Journalists. He tends to write slightly off the wall, investigative pieces that dig into the facts – story behind the story, that type of thing. You're Neal Dawson. The fact that the stories were ghost-written for you is irrelevant."

"They were written for me?"

"The Warders need to be able to move around in the world, Niall. We all have our aliases, alternative identities. Yours was prepared for you months ago and it will be maintained for you as long as you serve. The stewards aren't just housekeepers, you know?"

"I didn't know, no."

"Preparation is key. Remember that."

"Great. I don't even know what I'm looking for."

"This one's been hanging around for a while, we just haven't had the opportunity to deal with it. It's right up your street."

"That's what Garvin said. What does that mean?"

"If he wanted me to tell you he'd have said so."

"Ever loyal, eh, Tate?"

"I follow orders. So should you. It'll keep you alive."

"Why did Altair call you Mishla?"

"It's my name."

"I thought your name was Tate."

"That's a nickname." He showed me the contents of the holdall: uniform, wash kit, underwear, all in my size.

I refused to be distracted. "What kind of a nickname is 'Tate'?"

"It's short for something. This is your codex. It shows the Way-points. If you're wise you'll ward it so no one else can read it."

It was a small, leatherbound book with pages like tissue but made from something stronger. He showed me how the node-points were listed. Each page had a number in the top left corner with notes of what to expect when you reached that place. Sometimes there was a little sketch or a delicately coloured drawing of the site. Below were the page references for other node-points that could be reached from that point and where you might go from there. Tate took me through the journey I was about to make, showing me how the index worked and what to expect on the way.

"There's space to add your own notes at the bottom of each entry. Take my advice, use a pencil. Things change."

"Thanks." I took it from him. "So what's Tate short for?"

He sighed. "The Decapitator."

I was taken aback and he could see it.

He opened the wallet, flicked through the money stuffed into it and handed it to me. "It was a long time ago," he said, "and I keep it as a reminder."

"A reminder of what?"

"If you're going to kill wraithkin you have to get in close. You get one chance or they have you. Tate is to remind me that I only have to get sloppy once and I'm dead."

"You killed a wraithkin?"

"More than one."

"That must make you nearly as much of a target as me."

"I'm a Warder. I do my job. Do yours." He thrust the bag into my hands.

I took it from him and we walked out together towards the basement room where the node for the Way was. As we came out into the hallway, a familiar voice behind me called to me from behind.

"Alshirian Dogstar, they tell me you are a Warder now."

I stopped at the use of my formal court name and turned, suddenly conscious of the weight of the sword swinging from my hip. Walking towards me were two men, shadowed by Amber and Slimgrin. The first was taller, his hair dark and full like my own, but styled in a way that suggested Edwardian gentleman rather than assassin. His face was long, his cheeks carved like mine. In a room of strangers I would have picked him out as a cousin or an uncle, maybe. His smile was filled with warmth, but I knew he hid his feelings well.

"Raffmir, I should have guessed that it would be you accompanying Lord Altair."

His smile widened and he opened his arms as if he might attempt a hug. I let my hand fall to the hilt of my sword and his arms paused and then dropped to his side.

"I asked it of him, as a special favour, so that we might meet again." He bowed extravagantly, allowing me to keep my distance.

I returned the bow with a discreet nod.

"Let me introduce you to Deefnir, another of our kind." The our kind part of the introduction rang sour to my fey hearing.

Like Raffmir's and mine, Deefnir's face was on the long side, his cheeks high and sharp. He looked younger than Raffmir, though perhaps that was his style of dress. His high-collared shirt ruffed out over a brocade jacket that shimmered with green like a scarab's carapace. His silk trousers were tight to his legs and were tucked into black suede boots. A black sash was wound around his waist and was caught with a silver clasp. He took a half step back and bowed slowly.