gently rebuking a much-loved but erring lieutenant. Even from his perch in the rooftop, Owen could feel that the crowd in the hall was swayed by him.
“We cannot judge the future by the past,” the small man said. “There are many things that we don’t know.”
“I agree that there are many things we do not know,” Chancellor said, “but we have to work with what small knowledge we have. I feel that the boy should not be admitted to our counsel.”
The crowd began to murmur this time. Glancing sideways, Owen could see that Cati looked worried. Chancellor leaned back in his chair. He did not look triumphant, but weighed down by the gravity of the situation. Suddenly, Owen heard a woman’s voice – a ringing voice with a tone of harsh amusement to it.
“The boy should be allowed in,” the voice said.
“You have been listening to our arguments, Pieta?” Chancellor asked. The woman made a scornful sound.
“I have no need to listen to your talk, Chancellor,” she said. “I know what is right and so does the man who has watched for us these long years. The boy is allowed into the Convoke by right of who he is.” Owen realised that the voice was coming from the chair by the fire.
“Would we leave him outside, parentless and confused?” the Sub-Commandant said softly.
“Is that your final position, Pieta?” Chancellor asked. His voice was low and there was a hint of anger in it. There was no reply from the chair, but Owen heard a bottle clinking against a glass and there seemed to be a kind of finality to the sound.
Chancellor sighed. “You have the right to ask much for your defence of us…”
“Yes. I have the right, Chancellor.”
“I appreciate your reservations, Chancellor,” Contessa interjected gently, “but I think justice demands that the boy be brought before us.”
“You appeal to justice, Contessa, but are you certain that the boy does not appeal to another part of you?” This new speaker stood up. He was a long-haired man dressed in a uniform of sombre but rich red. As he spoke, he swept his hair back over his shoulder. A silence fell over the hall. Contessa did not reply, but Owen could feel a chill stealing over the hall.
“That settles it,” the woman they called Pieta said. “Bring the damn boy and bring him now. If our resident peacock starts scheming about the thing, we’ll never hear the end of it.” The man in the coloured uniform glared at Pieta and made to speak again, but Chancellor held up his hand.
“Sub-Commandant.” His tone was commanding.
“I sent Cati to get him,” the Sub-Commandant said. “In case he was required,” he added smoothly. Chancellor turned his gaze to the Sub-Commandant. Owen shivered. He could only imagine the scrutiny of those piercing eyes.
“While we are waiting,” Contessa said, “we should discuss those who will not wake. The numbers have risen. We’re desperately weak, Chancellor.” Owen realised that she must have interrupted in order to break Chancellor’s searching gaze at the Sub-Commandant. He felt Cati’s elbow dig him in the side.
“Come on,” she hissed. “Quick!”
Owen and Cati crawled back through the gap in the stone wall. They ran as fast as they could down the staircases, Owen’s clothes covered in cobwebs and hands and elbows grazed from the rough stone walls as he tried to keep his balance. They practically fell out of the stairway into a brightly lit hall, dishevelled and filthy. A young man in the same richly coloured uniform as the long-haired man grabbed Owen under the arm and lifted him to his feet. His face seemed friendly but serious.
“Hurry,” he hissed. “You do not keep the Convoke waiting.”
The wooden door in front of them swung open and Owen was propelled into the hall.
Owen stopped dead. Every eye in the hall was fixed on him. He could see Chancellor standing on the dais. The young man gestured to him impatiently. Somehow, Owen managed to put one foot in front of the other, the crowd parting in for him as he did so. He felt his heart beat faster and faster, and as he approached the dais, his foot caught the hem of a woman’s cloak. He would have fallen had not a hand reached out and grabbed his elbow. Owen turned and found himself looking into the eyes of a tall older man with a beard and a terrible scar which looked like a burn on one side of his face. The man grinned and winked at him, managing to look both villainous and friendly at the same time. The sight gave Owen heart. At least he wasn’t without friends in the hall. He pulled himself upright and strode to the dais where the Sub-Commandant addressed him.
“You are welcome to the Convoke, young Owen. Have you anything to ask us?” But before Owen could open his mouth the man with the long hair broke in.
“He’ll have time enough for questions. For the moment I want to ask him a few things about himself and how he got here.”
For the next ten minutes Owen found himself answering questions about where he came from, his school, his friends, his age and how well he knew the area around the Workhouse. Such was the piercing quality of the man’s eyes and his air of command that it was impossible not to reply.
Chancellor was particularly interested in Johnston’s scrapyard. Contessa asked him about his home and about his mother, and listened sympathetically as he tried to make things with his mother sound better than they actually were, while feeling that he was letting her down with every word.
“Do you have any great fears, things that terrify you for no apparent reason?” Chancellor asked. His voice was casual, but Owen could feel that the whole Convoke was intent upon the answer. In his mind the image of a deep, still pool of black water formed, and he saw himself bending over it and realising that there was no reflection. He felt a single bead of sweat run down his spine and his voice dropped to a whisper.
“N-no,” he stammered. Before he had time to wonder why he had lied, the man in the red uniform stood up.
“I’ve had enough of this. Where is the Mortmain? Tell us that, boy. Return it to its rightful owners!”
“Enough, Samual!” the Sub-Commandant said. He didn’t speak loudly, but his voice cut through the tension in the room like a whiplash. The man in red sat down again, grumbling.
“That subject should not have been mentioned,” the Sub-Commandant went on. “Let the boy ask his questions now.”
Owen looked around. A thousand questions swirled in his mind. “Where am I?” he said and then, with his voice getting stronger, “Who are you? And what has happened to… to everything?”
“I will try to answer,” Chancellor said, getting to his feet. “There are three parts to your question. As to where you are, you are in the Workhouse, the centre of the Resisters to the Harsh and the frost of eternal solitude that they wish to loose upon the earth. We are not the only Resisters. There are pockets elsewhere, perhaps even in other lands, but all hinges on us, on our strength and strategy.” There was pride in his voice, even vanity, but sorrow as well.
“As to who we are,” he went on, “we are the Wakeful. We sleep the centuries through until we are called. You could say we are the custodians of time. Like everything else, time has a fabric or structure. And sometimes that fabric is weakened or attacked and requires repair or defence.
