Bedlam

“Should we begin?” Sturmun Drang said. “We are all busy, are we not? And time is not on our side.”

“It never is,” said China, blinking her way out of the Whispering and disconnecting from the city around her. “Skulduggery. Valkyrie. Thank you for coming.”

“It’s so hard getting an appointment to see you,” Skulduggery replied, “so, when you call, we’re all too happy to oblige. I assume you want to talk about the problem in the City Guard.”

China waved her hand. “I’m meeting with Commander Hoc later today to discuss the fate of Yonder and his little friends, but I definitely see jail time in their future. That is not why I called you here, however.”

She tapped the table and the wooden surface flickered, and small screens came to life beneath the grain. The screens showed a photograph of the American president, Martin Flanery, walking across the White House lawn, deep in conversation with a slight man in an ill-fitting suit. “The man next to the president is Bertram Wilkes, Flanery’s personal aide. Grand Mage Praetor?”

“A little under six months ago,” Praetor said, “Wilkes disappeared. The official line is that he resigned due to the workload, and planned to travel extensively in order to recharge his batteries. He has not, as far as we know, been seen since three days before he left his job, but that has been difficult to ascertain due to the fact that he has no family and, apparently, no friends to note his absence. It is our belief, however, that Wilkes was a mage, and we believe he was murdered.”

Skulduggery shifted ever so slightly in his seat. “Go on.”

Praetor tapped the table, and a black-and-white photograph appeared of a group of friends smiling for the camera. “We retrieved this from a woman we believe Detective Cain interviewed last year in San Francisco.”

Valkyrie recognised a few of the faces – Richard Melior, Savant Vega, Azzedine Smoke and a friend of Temper’s, Tessa somebody. Four others, too – one of them being Bertram Wilkes with radically different hair.

“We don’t know his actual name,” said Vespers. “All we know is this Wilkes persona which, as you can imagine, is a well-executed forgery. But, judging by the company he kept, it is not far-fetched to conclude that he may well be associated with Abyssinia.”

“So you think Abyssinia sent him in undercover to the White House,” Skulduggery said. “Why?”

“We don’t know,” China responded. “But we believe that the American president had him killed.”

“You think Flanery knows about sorcerers?” Valkyrie asked.

“We do.”

“So how bad is this situation?”

“We have had worse scenarios,” said Drang. “World leaders, law-enforcement officials, media organisations – they have all learned of our existence and we either find a way to guarantee their silence or we resort to more extreme measures to keep our secret.”

Valkyrie frowned. “What do you mean, ‘more extreme’?”

“Now is not the time,” said China.

“How extreme have we gone?”

China sighed. “Lengths,” she said. “Sanctuaries have gone to lengths to preserve our anonymity. We may have to go to lengths again here, as Flanery is not the most stable of mortal leaders.”

“Whether Flanery knows about us or not,” Skulduggery said, “we’ve got to find out why Abyssinia felt the need to send a spy into the Oval Office. Do we know anything at all about Bertram Wilkes?”

“The only lead we have is this person,” China said, her fingernail tapping the table. A new photograph appeared. A tall man leaving a house, his dark hair shot through with grey. “We’ve identified him as Oberon Guile, an American sorcerer who has just completed a three-year sentence in Ironpoint Gaol for robbery. That is, roughly, the sum total of the information we have about him.”

“This is Bertram Wilkes’s house that Mr Guile is leaving,” said Praetor. “We’ve been watching it for months and Mr Guile is the only person we’ve seen, coming or going. This photograph was taken three days ago, and we’ve been keeping discreet tabs on him since then in the hope that he leads us to something more concrete. But our feeling now is that we must act.”

“Which is where we come in,” Skulduggery said.

“I am fully aware that, as Arbiters, you do not work for me,” China responded, “but I would greatly appreciate it if you would make contact with Mr Guile and find out what he knows and what he’s after and how it connects back to Abyssinia and whatever dastardly plan she’s hatching. Does that sound acceptable?”

“It sounds positively acceptable,” Skulduggery said. “And in the meantime you’re going to be looking into corruption in the City Guard and seeing how far it’s spread, yes?”

China settled her gaze on him. “Yes,” she said eventually, a hint of reluctant amusement in her voice. “I was just about to announce that.”

Valkyrie and Skulduggery stood up to leave.

“One more thing,” China said. “I have a favour to ask, actually.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “This should be interesting.”

“I find myself somewhat conflicted of late,” China began. “Abyssinia is, obviously, a threat that must be taken seriously. We don’t know what her plans are, but we can rest assured that they will not be in our best interests. She sees herself as a ruler, the Princess of the Darklands and, I am sure, its future queen, and she will not stop until both the mortal world and the magical world are under her control.”

Whereas China would only be happy once the magical world stayed under her control was something Valkyrie decided not to say out loud.

“Abyssinia’s actions, and the actions of her little gang of killers, are to be condemned. However, I must admit to being cautiously happy that Caisson has been broken free from his almost-century-long torture. As everyone in this room knows, I raised him, and he was almost like a son to me.”

Valkyrie kept her mouth shut.

“But more trouble is stirring,” said China. “Serafina Dey wants Caisson back. She seems to think that because he killed her dearly departed husband, she owns the poor boy. So, as part of her efforts to recover him, she’s coming here.”

“I don’t suppose she’s planning a quiet visit, is she?” Skulduggery asked.

China smiled. “Not entirely. She expects crowds, a red carpet, a reception, dinners … And that is what I have to request of you.”

“I don’t eat dinner,” Skulduggery said.

“And you don’t have to,” China responded. “I’m going to be greeting her on the front steps of the High Sanctuary on Saturday at noon. My esteemed Council of Advisors will be in attendance, of course, and I would greatly appreciate it if you two would be there also.”

“Why?” Valkyrie asked.

“A show of strength,” China said. “A show of solidarity.”

“And also because we’re Arbiters,” Skulduggery said, “and we operate outside the jurisdiction of any one Sanctuary. In theory, we’re the only people with the authority to challenge someone like Serafina Dey.”

“There is that, too,” China conceded.

Skulduggery looked at Valkyrie, and she shrugged.

“We’ll be there,” she said. “I’m not going to pass up the opportunity to meet the woman who married Mevolent. I can only imagine what kind of freak she’s going to be.”

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“Mr President, we were thinking that maybe you need a cat.”

Martin Flanery, the President of the United States of America, the most powerful man in the world, the most important man in the world, and the most famous man in the world, swivelled his chair round and looked at the aide who had spoken.

The Oval Office was full of people. His Chief of Staff, his Directors of Communication, his Press Secretary, aides and advisors and assistants and one or two others. All their voices blurred into one after half an hour. This guy had caught his attention.

“What?” he said.