Chapter forty-three

Kinspit

 

The moment, equally dreaded and desired, had finally come. John had reached agreement with the mage Agora and the “inter-disciplinary consultation panel” was preparing to meet.

Laurence was gone and so he had to rely on Ben. This meant the packing took a little longer than usual, but it was fine.  She chose the largest suitcase and filled it up to the brim with the finest clothes from his closest.

‘Where will you be staying?’ she asked

He shook his head

‘I have no idea – somewhere in the Senate building I guess… That’s the least of my worries’

‘Will it be cold, sir? Winter is advancing…’

‘Pack an extra vest or two…’ he murmured. She nodded and walked over to a drawer. She tutted as she folded his underclothes.

‘These are a bit tatty, sir. Mr Hardacre warned me that you have problems with the standard of the clothes that no-one sees’

John laughed.

‘You two must have such fascinating conversations’

Bentley raised her eyebrows. This was much more expressive than Hardacre’s version of the same response, but, in truth, their effects were very much the same.

‘We’re employed to look after you, sir. I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to stint on anything. Particularly now that we have rather overlapping roles’

‘Where is Laurence, anyway?’

‘Still searching for Dr Fielding, I assume’

John frowned. He would have to go soon and he hated leaving without knowing where his two friends were. If he had to disappear for several weeks who knew what other things might crop up. Also, why had he not yet heard from the Hybitor operative in Plenum? Surely Viola’s barge must have got there by now.

‘Any news?’ he asked, knowing the answer.

Bentley shook her head perfunctorily and returned to her folding. He sat on the bed, worry pinging gently through his head.

‘This is a fortnight’s clothes’ she said, ‘if you need any more then you should send for Simkins who can convey a message to us’

The pinging beat louder.

‘I can’t leave everything here for several weeks…’

Ben carried the pile of vests to the suitcase and slotted them into the remaining space. It was an impressive piece of packing.

‘It will be fine, sir. You just need to concentrate on your task. I’m sure it will go well’

John knew that this was not what Laurence would have said – he never went in for calming bland platitudes – but John was pleased, for once, to have comfort rather than reality.

‘Thank you, Ben’

She closed the case and snapped the locks shut. She turned to leave the room.

‘I’ll check if the carriage has arrived…’

She left. John forced himself to get up. He had never had such a strong sense of foreboding. This is stupid he told himself, it’s just a bunch of old elves. They’re no threat at all – just a nuisance.

The coach man, a broad man with a big belly, entered and picked up the suitcase in one hand.

‘Ready to go, guv?’ he asked, in broadest Eth City dialect. John wasn’t at all ready but he had to go anyway.

***

 

Bentley was tidying up in John’s bedroom. This was a wonderful opportunity to get Mr Ismay’s room straight – he would be gone for long enough that tidying could make a real difference, for once.  

She had been merrily pottering and planning for about half-an-hour when the Twins’ serada fizzled into the air. She was startled for a second, rocked back on her heels and then realised what was happening. She bowed twice with formal grace into the apparently empty air. 

‘Miss Preece , and… Miss Preece…’

Gwyneth’s face appeared. She was not happy.

 ‘Who the gods are you?’

Bronwyn’s face appeared beside hers. For a moment they looked like masks hanging in the air.  Masks with extraordinarily red hair, thought Bentley.

‘That must be Bentley’ Bronwyn said, hurriedly, ‘Laurence’s number two’

‘I thought that was a man’ muttered Gwyneth, ‘isn’t she called “Ben”?’

‘No, not really’ Bronwyn whispered, ‘that’s just a nickname…’

Bentley waited.

‘We need to talk to Mr Ismay’ snapped Gwyneth, ‘go and get him’

‘Please’ added Bronwyn, apologetically.

Bentley stood her ground. She was used to being ordered about and how to deal with it.

‘He’s not here, madam. He’s gone to the Agora’

Gwyneth shook her head.

‘No – that won’t do – you need to go and get him back…’

Bentley lowered her head a little.

‘My orders are not to disturb him’

Gwyneth set her face to stony; implacable.

‘Well, you must – this is of vital importance’

Bentley lowered her head even further. Her short brown hair shook slightly.

‘I can only apologise, Miss Preece… But my orders were definitive’

Gwyneth face cracked. She shifted to angry.

‘Good grief. It’s not my fault if John’s a bloody fool is it. You need to go and fetch him up; we have a crisis on our hands’

Bronwyn lips were a thin line. She seemed to be trying to stare beyond Bentley.

‘Is Laurence, there?’ she asked.

Bentley looked up. She was shocked by how similar two people could appear and yet be so unalike.

‘Mr Hardacre is also away at present’ She smiled softly, and showed her empty hands, ‘all you have to help you is me, I’m afraid…’

She paused for a second, ‘Perhaps you’d like to talk to Mr Simkins?’

Bronwyn smiled back, getting the joke, Gwyneth was completely unmoved.

‘Contact us the moment either of them come back’ she growled, ‘is that understood?’

‘Of course, Madam’

Gwyneth stepped back and disappeared. Bronwyn stayed, the smile fading slowly from her lips.

‘I’m sorry…’ she said

Bentley shrugged.

‘I’m not offended, Madam. We’re all just doing our jobs; sometimes tempers fray’

‘It’s just that things have gone dreadfully awry…’

Bentley forced a grin off her face. It was such a lovely, ridiculously archaic, word. She felt compelled to play with it.

‘Awry, madam? That’s somewhat infelicitous. Perhaps I can help facilitate some amelioration…?’

Bronwyn’s eyes narrowed but then she smiled again. The smile surprised Bentley by its warmth. But then, without warning, it broke down into a sob.

‘We’ve lost two witches and have to switch off a monstrous machine…’

Bentley was startled into sobriety. She gasped.

‘Do you mean that they’re both dead?’

Bronwyn shook her head uncertainly. Tears were welling in her eyes.

‘I hope not…’

Bentley was struck by a compulsion to help this gentle woman that nudged her close to the limits of pure duty. Miss Bronwyn Preece radiated a lovely wounded gentleness, even across the thousands of miles between them.

‘Is there anything else that I can do?’ she asked. She reached for a handkerchief in her pocket to pass it over, but then realised the futility of the gesture. She held it limply, like a tentative white flag. 

‘No… thank you’ Bronwyn said, looking down at the cloth, and then up at Miss Bentley, her eyes now dry, ‘you’re very kind…’ Her voice travelled, in that single sentence, from the borders of despair to the middle of hope.  Somehow, miraculously, the handkerchief had done its job.

Bentley heard Gwyneth shout out, ‘stop wasting time’ and then the vision was gone.

Such soft, sad, brown eyes Bentley heard herself whisper. She shook herself and then went back to tidying up. She felt a strange ache in her stomach, like the pain that you feel when you use a muscle for the first time after long inactivity. I’m not going there again she muttered and made straight for the waste paper bin.

I’ll throw away all the rubbish first, she thought. And that was what she did; going from pile to pile of papers. She left nothing superfluous undiscarded.  For the time being the task filled her mind completely.