Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

“My sword? Are we expecting trouble?”

“We will be swearing blood oaths,” she reminded me. “And that requires blood. Bring your sword and something to wipe the blade that won’t show the stains. You don’t want people fainting when you pick up a blood-soaked rag.”

“We could ask Garvin to do it,” I suggested. “He’s done it before.”

“No, I want you to do it. It’s a symbolic moment and it needs to be done well. I trust you.” She rested her hand on my arm. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t lop anyone’s hand off.”

“No pressure then,” I said.

“We’ll let people meet each other, and then when everyone’s had chance to socialise, I’ll say something to the assembly. I don’t know what, yet, but I’ll think of something.”

“A welcome address, perhaps,” suggested Angela.

“Something of that nature. After that, we’ll name the baby, which means it’s your turn to stand up and say something, Niall. It’ll be the first naming ceremony in a fey court for hundreds of years, so you’d better come up with something good.”

“This gets better and better,” I said.

“Apparently this was all your idea,” said Blackbird, smiling, “so you can’t complain about it now. You keep telling me that’s it’s time our son had a name, and now’s your chance. It’s your choice, so choose well.”

She didn’t say, or else , after that, but I felt that it was implied.

“Speaking of our son, you could relieve Alex from looking after him. Lesley will have her hands full with the arrangements for tomorrow, but you could bring him back here. I need to find him something to wear when he’s presented to the court. What are you going to wear?” She asked me.

“Just Warder grey,” I suggested. “I don’t really have anything else.

“As good as anything, and it emphasises your neutrality. Angela, can you ask Mullbrook if he can have one of the new dresses ready for tomorrow? I’ll need to be presentable, and I’ll need something to wear when we beat the bounds — I can’t do that in a court dress…”

I left them to their discussions and went to find Alex. She was in her room, headphones plugged into her ears while the baby sat in her lap. I had to wave at her to get her attention. She didn’t look very happy at being left with the baby all morning.

“Are you OK?” I asked her.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I’m fine.” That was clearly not the truth.

“I’ll take him off your hands now,” I said. “Thanks for looking after him. We couldn’t have done what we did this morning and taken him along.”

“That’s OK,” she said. “He’s been no trouble at all.” This time her words rang true.

“Is something the matter?” I asked her.

“No,” she said. She must have heard the lie in her own words, because she added, “Nothing you can do anything about.”

I sat on the bed, gathering up my son, who kicked his legs furiously as soon as he was lifted up.

“You can tell me anything,” I told her. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I guess,” she said. “If there was anything to tell.”

“You should see the new place,” I said, trying to find something that would lift her spirits. “It’s quite something.”

“I s’pose I’ll get to see it eventually,” she said, refusing the bait.

“Sooner than you think. You’re being invited to attend a gathering at the new court, along with all the others. There’s going to be a party. I have to make a speech.” I tried to make it sound impressive.

“You’re not going to be embarrassing are you?” she asked.

“That depends whether you cheer up or not,” I told her, smiling. “I might have to tell everyone how you’re my best girl, my own little angel.”

That was usually enough to get her going, but instead she just shrugged. “If you want,” she said. “Sorry, I’m just a bit down, that’s all.”

I held out my arm and she gave me a brief hug. The baby reached out a hand for her, and she gave him her finger which he promptly stuck in his mouth. “You could give Blackbird and Lesley a hand,” I said. “They’re going to be running around like mad things for the next day or so. I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah, maybe I will,” she said, reclaiming her finger from being gummed and wiping it on the bedclothes.

“Well don’t sit up here moping all day. It won’t make you feel any better, trust me,” I said, standing up. “If you’re helping, at least you can be miserable in good company. Blackbird’s choosing something to wear, and I guess you’ll be needing something too?” I prompted. Usually the mention of shopping opportunities was enough to cheer her up.

“Who’s going to be there?” she asked.

“Everyone who’s anyone,” I said. “In the Eighth Court, at least. There are more of us than you might think these days.”

“Is anyone else going? Garvin or anyone?”

“Garvin? No I don’t think Garvin will be there. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering,” she said. “It’s not everyone, then?”

“It’s for the new court,” I told her. “We’ll be moving to the new place, you’ll have a new room and everything.”

“Leaving?” she said. “But I was just getting used to it.”

“We can’t stay here,” I told her. “We’ve only been able to be here as guests of the High Court. Now that we have our own court we need our own place.”

“I s’pose,” she said again. Somehow the news seemed to depress her even further.

“Once you have a room that’s properly your own, you’ll be able to have your own things around you. Won’t that be nice?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Nice.”

Unable to penetrate into whatever it was that was bothering her, I left her to it. She was a teenage girl and maybe she was just having the blues that day. It happened. At least she wasn’t shouting or bothering the plumbing. Maybe she’d cheer up in a bit and join in.

I took the baby back to Blackbird and then made my excuses on the pretext of Warder duties. The next couple of days were likely to be busy ones and I had some outstanding business with a certain Sam Veldon that I wanted to deal with before I got embroiled into Eighth Court business. I found an empty room on the ground floor with a mirror in it.

“Sam Veldon,” I said into the mirror. It misted slightly and then cleared to the sound of low snoring. “Sam!” I shouted into the mirror.

“Wha-?” said a voice. “Who’s there?”

“You know who this is,” I said, “don’t you.”

“You’re dead,” he said. “I shot you. You’re dead.” He sounded only half awake, as if he were wondering whether he was dreaming.

“If that’s true, then I won’t be able to meet you on Westminster Bridge at midday, will I?”

“Westminster? What’s that gonna do?” He wasn’t making a lot of sense, but then he’d had a disturbed night, and had just been wrenched from the limited sleep I’d allowed him.

“Midday — don’t be late.” I released the mirror, sure now that he would be there. I had one or two preparations to make and then I would go and meet him, and this time I would be the one who was waiting.

On a December afternoon on Westminster Bridge, even when the low winter sun is at its strongest, no one stops to admire the view. It was bitterly cold. People huddled past wrapped in scarves with coats buttoned tight, eager to escape the freezing wind off the river.

I waited in full view for Sam, knowing he would watch for me. I took a risk. It was possible he could be in one of the buildings overlooking the bridge with a rifle, taking a bead on my head, but I didn’t think so. That was the reason I’d chosen this spot. It had a good view of the Houses of Parliament and the security services tended to take a dim view of people with sniper rifles and telescopic sights so close to the seat of government — something Sam would be aware of. He’d almost succeeded once in killing me by getting in close. I wasn’t sure whether he’d worked out that I could avoid the glassy stare of the CCTV cameras that were undoubtedly trained on the bridge, tracking everyone who crossed. Maybe he was relying on that.