walk from the north. I no longer have the power to put wings on my feet.’
‘Your power may be worn out,’ Bartlemy responded, ‘but you can still move swifter than any of us, at need. Don’t fence with me, Ragginbone. You’ve always claimed to be a Watcher: what have you seen?’
‘I saw a peacock with a fiery tail,’ Ragginbone quoted. ‘I saw a blazing comet drop down hail. I saw a cloud … There have been omens and portents, some too strange to be easily read. There is a pattern in the stars pointing to a time of great significance, but whether good or evil is unclear. And more than that, there are whispers among the werefolk, tales of a Gate that will open at last, a loophole in the Ultimate Laws – a chance to snatch at power unguessed. No one knows quite when, or where – or how – but I heard you named, as a guardian, or an obstacle.’
‘Who—?’
‘I cannot be sure. They were voices in a crowd, on a dark street, and it was not a place where I wished to linger. There are many streets in the city, some darker than others, and not all those who use them are as human as they look.’
Ragginbone was not obviously a man of the city, even without his coat, but Bartlemy knew better than to categorise him.
‘Your wanderings take you to strange places,’ he said.
‘There are strange places round every corner, if you walk on the dark side,’ Ragginbone said. ‘Belief creates its own kingdoms, even in this world. As the legends change so do the pathways, but the shadows linger as long as memory, and the shadow-dwellers are always there. Some of them may be coming your way, or so rumour has it. Some may be already here.’
‘Nenufar,’ said Bartlemy.
‘The name I heard was Nephthys, but it is the same. She is old, and cold, and forever angry. Once, men sought to soften her with worship, but she could not be softened, not she. Now, she has been sailed and chartered, polluted and abused, netted and dragged and mined, and the tale of her grievances is the lullabye she sings to the storm. What she may hope for, should the Gate open for her, I do not know, but the drowning of all humanity is in her dearest dream.’
‘You’re well informed,’ said Bartlemy. It was almost a question.
‘I have heard her in the scream of the wind, in the roar of the waves,’ Ragginbone said. It was not an answer. ‘And there are those who flee from her, bringing word of her wrath.’
‘The word on the street,’ Bartlemy concluded. ‘Have you come to offer help?’
‘I have no help,’ the other said. ‘My spells have all gone stale. I came to warn you – and to wish you well.’
‘Thank you,’ said Bartlemy. ‘I need all the wellwishing I can get. Or rather, Nathan does.’
‘Who’s Nathan?’
‘I think,’ said Bartlemy, ‘he’s the key.’
‘I have experience of keys,’ said Ragginbone. ‘Perhaps I should have said, what is he?’
‘A boy. A relatively normal boy, insofar as anyone is normal. Intelligent, resourceful, courageous – but a teenager.’
‘He’ll grow out of that,’ said Ragginbone. ‘Is he Gifted?’
‘Not in the accepted sense. The power of the Lodestone on which Atlantis was founded has never touched his genes. But he has … ability. To be precise, the ability to move between worlds. There is a portal in his mind – he passes it in dreams – in extreme cases, his sleeping form disappears altogether, materialising in another universe. He seems to have little or no control over the phenomenon, but I suspect that someone else may be controlling him – guiding him – even protecting him. Someone from beyond the Gate. He has dreamed of a dying world, of a few survivors on the last planet, one stop from extinction. The ruler there is trying to perform a Great Spell. Plainly, Nathan has a vital part to play, presumably as a gatherer of certain objects. He has already retrieved the Grail, as you have heard, also a sword.’
‘Extraordinary,’ said Ragginbone, after a pause. For him, this was strong language. ‘Great Spells are perilous, and may be millennia in the preparation. Are you sure?’
‘The necessary elements are there. The feminine principle, the masculine principle, the circle that binds. A cup, a sword, a crown. The crown appears to have been mislaid, but no doubt it will turn up in time. Whenever that time may be.’
‘A cup … The Grimthom Grail?’
Bartlemy nodded. ‘I have been wondering,’ he said – changing the subject, or so it seemed, but Ragginbone knew better – ‘about a theory of yours. The Gift, as we know, is not native to the human race: the Stone of Power in Atlantis warped those who lived in its vicinity, giving them the talents their descendants still possess. Longevity, spellpower, the various madnesses that they engender. You have always maintained that the Stone itself was the essence of another universe – a universe with a high level of magic – accidentally catapulted into our own. Supposing, instead, it was just a part of another universe – an entire galaxy, for example – and its presence in our world was no accident …?’
‘In infinity and eternity,’ Ragginbone said, ‘all things are possible. What are you suggesting?’
‘Perhaps our universe was chosen – as a refuge or an escape route – many ages ago, at least in our Time. The Gift may have been given so that certain individuals could perform their part: Josevius Grimling-Thorn, called Grimthorn, who accepted the Grail, and myself, as Nathan’s protector when he was a baby. My role has been very minor; nonetheless …’
Ragginbone was frowning. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said abruptly.
‘It was merely a hypothesis,’ Bartlemy said. ‘I was looking for a pattern in Chaos, but—’
‘You misunderstand me. The theory is viable. That’s what I don’t like.’
‘You mean—’
‘I was thinking of the classics,’ Ragginbone said. ‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes.’
‘I fear Greeks bearing gifts. A reference to the Trojan Horse, a gift whose acceptance by the Trojans led to the downfall of their city.’
‘Exactly,’ Ragginbone said.
It rained heavily that night. In the visitor’s bedroom under the eaves the roof leaked, though it had never leaked before. Ragginbone woke, or dreamed he woke, and saw the steady drip-drip from the ceiling, and the water spreading in a puddle on the floorboards. Presently, a hand emerged – a white cold hand with bluish nails, like the hand of someone who has drowned – and groped round the edge of the puddle, seeking for purchase. The wolf-dog approached and growled her soundless growl, snapping at the crawling fingers, and the hand withdrew, slipping back into the water. The puddle shrank and vanished. The dripping stopped.
‘No spirit can enter here uninvited,’ Bartlemy said in the morning. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t just a dream?’
‘The time is out of joint,’ Ragginbone said. ‘The old spells are unravelling; even the Ultimate Laws may no longer hold. The future casts more than a shadow. Whatever is coming, it may change everything.’
‘Keep
