Simon Green - The Spy Who Haunted Me

“I’m paying for this,” he said flatly. “And part of what I’m paying for is a ringside seat.”

I sat back in my chair, apparently lost in thought, and surreptitiously studied the others as they told each other how easy it was all going to be, and how much fun, and the great reputations they’d make for themselves. The usual stuff. Sometimes I swear they’re just a bunch of big kids. I took the time to review all the information about the Tower of London that the family had supplied me with earlier. The Drood researchers know all there is to know about . . . pretty much anything, really. And enough to fake it about everything else. That’s their job. By the time Big Aus had calmed the others down and turned back to me, I was ready to sound like an expert and blind them with details.

“The best time to approach the Tower will be in the early hours of the morning,” I said confidently. “When the human guards are at their lowest spirits. Also, no tourists to get in the way. Nothing like innocent bystanders to screw up the most well-laid of plans.”

“Right,” growled the Dancing Fool. “The fewer uncontrollable factors, the better. Go on, Shaman.”

“Thank you,” I said dryly. “First off, you should know there isn’t just one Tower of London. There’s a whole bunch of them. Over a dozen, in fact, set together inside a high stone wall, like a veritable castle. And we are talking seriously thick stone walls, baptised with human blood by their builders to give them strength and with executed criminals buried down in the foundations so the dead will hold them up forever. Builders took pride in their work, in those days.

“The original Tower of London was the White Tower, built on the orders of William the Conqueror, back in the eleventh century. The one most people think of when they say Tower of London is actually the Bloody Tower, dating from Tudor times. That’s where traitors to the realm were kept, before execution. But there’s also Flint Tower, St. Thomas’s Tower (which contains the Traitor’s Gate entrance), and Whitechapel Tower, which holds the Crown Jewels. Each of these Towers stands host to secrets and treasures undreamt of by the everyday public, and they are very heavily defended.”

“You’re just showing off now,” said the Dancing Fool. “Stick with what matters, Shaman.”

“My feet are cold,” Coffin Jobe said wistfully.

“You want research, you get research,” I said. “The ravens have their own lodging house inside the castle complex for shelter during particularly inclement weather. Which means if we want to be sure of getting them all, we’re going to have to get inside the castle. Which will mean getting past the human guards, the Yeomen Warders. Never call them Beefeaters, by the way; apparently that started out as an old French insult, and the Warders are still very sensitive about it.”

“Well, hell,” said Strange Chloe. “We wouldn’t want to upset them . . .”

“No, we wouldn’t,” I said sternly. “Our best bet lies in sneaking in and out without anyone ever knowing we were there until it’s too late. The Yeomen Warders are all military men, including ex-SAS and combat sorcerers. They don’t choose just anybody to guard England’s treasures. And then there are the magical protections: the proximity mines and the shaped curses. Are you still with us, Jobe, or are you dead?”

“Just resting my eyes,” said Coffin Jobe. “I hope someone is writing all this down. I’ll never remember it all.”

“Nothing on paper!” Big Aus said quickly. “Carry on, Shaman. You’re doing fine.”

“It’s the ghosts we have to worry about,” I said. That got their attention. “These aren’t the usual memories recorded in time, played back to haunt the present. I’m talking about actual spirits, lost souls, damned and bound to this world by terrible magics. All the executed traitors, condemned to defend the Towers of London for all eternity, for their crimes. To serve and protect England as they failed to do in life, until Judgement Day itself, if need be. Some of these ghosts have been around a really long time, and they have grown strange and awful. Nothing like centuries of accumulated guilt and grievance to make you ready to take it out on someone else . . .”

“I can See ghosts,” Coffin Jobe offered quietly. “But that’s all.”

“And I can only fight what I can touch,” said the Dancing Fool, scowling. “No one said anything about ghosts . . .”

“And I can only affect the world of the living,” said Strange Chloe. “That’s it. Game over. The caper is off.”

“Wait, wait,” said Big Aus, flapping his big hands about. “Shaman, tell me you have a suggestion.”

“Of course,” I said. “That’s what you’re paying me for.” I had to be careful here. I was skirting territory and information that Shaman Bond shouldn’t really have access to. “Traitors weren’t executed in the Bloody Tower; they were all killed on Tower Hill, well outside the castle complex. Executions were public matters in those days: public entertainments. The source of power to control the ghosts will be buried deep inside the hill. Probably something very old and very nasty. Nothing we’re equipped to deal with . . . So, if you want to avoid being detected by the ghosts, the best way is . . . not to be there.” I grinned at their confused faces. “I’m pretty sure I can get my hands on a certain very useful item that will hide us all from the ghosts’ view. For a while, anyway. Long enough for us to sneak in, do the dreadful deed, and then get the hell out of there.”

Of course, I didn’t actually need such a device. My torc made me invisible to anyone or anything I wanted to be invisible to, and I was pretty sure I could extend that protection over the others for a while. Or until I found it necessary to drop it . . .

“How long will it take you to acquire this device?” said Big Aus.

“I can have it by tomorrow morning.”

“I just know this is going to cost extra,” said Big Aus. “How much, Shaman?”

I told him, and he winced. It had to be big enough to make sure he’d take the device seriously.

“All right,” he said. “But if it doesn’t work, I’ll take it out of your hide!”

“If it doesn’t work, we’ll all be dead,” I said easily.

“We’ll hit the ravens tomorrow,” Big Aus said forcefully, rubbing his big hands together. “We go in early, like Shaman said. Five a.m. Straight in, do the necessary, and straight out. No messing. And don’t be late getting there, any of you, or we’ll start without you.”

And just like that, we were committed to the crime of the century.

I got there first, of course. To check out the lay of the land and make sure no one else was planning any surprises. You can’t be too careful, in this game. So I was there on the open causeway by Traitor’s Gate at three a.m., two good hours in advance. I stood alone on the great gray flagstones, hidden behind my torc’s glamour, invisible to all. Hopefully including the ghosts. You can never tell with the dead; they follow their own rules. I hunched my shoulders inside my long duster coat and folded my arms tightly to keep out the cold wind blowing steadily off the River Thames.

It was only a short walk from the Tower Hill tube station through mostly empty streets. No one about but the usual revellers, old gods, and self-made monsters on their way to the next party. Things flapping high up in the sky, and voices declaiming long-forgotten languages in ancient tunnels deep under the earth. The usual. I looked the Towers over carefully with my Sight, and the whole place blazed with dazzling arcane energies. Layer upon layer of old magics and deadly protections, such as proximity mines floating unseen in midair, just waiting to hit you with all kinds of nasty medicine if you were dumb enough to approach the Towers with bad thoughts in mind. The shaped curses under the flagstones were harder to spot, lying in wait like trap-door spiders. The huge old walls containing the Towers were solid in more than three dimensions, and the Towers themselves were half-buried under spells like so much crawling ivy. There were bright lights and terrible sounds, and the whole place stank of blood and horror and despair.