Property of a Lady Faire (A Secret Histories Novel) (24 page)

I looked sternly at her. “You just made that name up!”

“I did not! The Doormouse has been a fixture in the Nightside for ages, at his House of Doors. He’s a master craftsman, making dimensional Doors to order.”

“I know,” I admitted. “I have heard of him. The Armourer’s talked about him, on occasion. The Doormouse has been known to make Doors for the Droods, on occasion. Uncle Jack always says you can’t beat a specialist. But why would someone with a good working relationship with my family, who knows what we do to people who annoy us, make Doors our enemies could use to breach our security? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I think we should go ask him,” said Molly.

“Good idea,” I said. “Maybe I can get some answers, and pressure or guilt the Doormouse into providing us with a sneaky back Door into Ultima Thule.” I stopped, and looked at Molly. “Is he really a mouse?”

“Oh yes,” said Molly, offhandedly. “Just not your ordinary everyday mouse.”

“Sort of gathered that,” I said. “You know the strangest people, Molly.”

“I’ve met your family,” said Molly.

And then we both looked out the window again, as we heard raised voices and new movement outside. Half a dozen Droods were marching down the street, heading for Alan Diment, their golden armour shining brightly, even under the grey northern skies. The uniformed soldiers scattered out of the Droods’ way and stayed well back, keeping their automatic weapons pointed very carefully at the ground. They’d seen what one Drood in his armour could do, and they really didn’t want to risk upsetting a whole bunch of them. The Droods didn’t even glance in their direction.

“Don’t worry,” I murmured to Molly. “Even if the Armourer has told them about this address, they won’t know we’re here. They can’t even see us looking out the window. The house shields will see to that.”

“You’d better be right,” said Molly, just as quietly. “Neither of us is in any condition to fight off six Droods in their armour. How did they get here? I didn’t hear any transport, or sense any teleport energies.”

“My family has many ways of getting around,” I said. “But they’re still here a lot faster than I expected. They must really want to find me and shut me down before anyone else does.”

“The last time you were declared rogue,” Molly said carefully, “your whole family was out to kill you.”

“I think this time they want answers first,” I said, trying hard to sound confident. “Of course we can’t count on that. To the family, the only good rogue Drood is a dead rogue Drood.”

The six armoured Droods gathered around the dead False Knights. I watched closely. They were all doing their best to appear calm and casual and in charge of the situation, but I could tell from their body language just how shocked and surprised they were. They hadn’t expected anything like this. They clearly recognised the False Knights, just as I had, but I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding as it quickly became clear they didn’t know how the False Knights got here. They didn’t know about MI 13’s Time Gate.

They all turned on Diment and took it in turns to growl questions at him. Give the man credit, he held up well in the face of open interrogation by six angry Droods. It helped that he obviously didn’t know much, and what he did know pointed the blame very firmly somewhere else—at his current bosses. I wished I could hear what they were saying. Diment was doing a lot of nodding and compliant gesturing, and even more talking. One of the Droods suddenly armoured down, the better to glare at Diment, and I sucked in a sharp breath as I recognised the Sarjeant-at-Arms himself. Scowling and frustrated and very angry. He towered over Diment, barking questions at him, and Diment just kept smiling and talking, as persuasively as he knew how. Dropping his lords and masters right in it, with every word.

“Well, well,” I said. “The Sarjeant-at-Arms, out in the field . . . He is taking this seriously. And, perhaps, personally.”

Diment gestured at my safe house, having presumably got to my part in what happened, and the Droods all turned to look at my window. Molly and I both flinched back in spite of ourselves, but they only looked casually at the house for a moment, then turned back to Diment. The house’s shields were still holding. The Sarjeant gestured for the other Droods to inspect the dead False Knights thoroughly, while he continued his interrogation of Diment. The Droods nodded quickly and moved away to form a circle round the bodies and bits of bodies. Some knelt down to study the bitter yellow armour close up, though they were all very careful not to touch anything.

“That was close,” I said. “Too close for my liking. I think we should go visit the Doormouse. Right now. No, wait a minute . . . Am I right in thinking his House of Doors is situated in the Nightside?”

“Well, yes and no,” said Molly.

“That is never a good start to any answer,” I said. “Molly, I keep telling you, I can’t enter the Nightside! Droods are banned, by long compact and agreement!”

“Even rogue Droods?”

“I think especially rogue Droods.”

“Well, technically the House of Doors isn’t necessarily actually inside the Nightside,” said Molly. “You can access the Doormouse’s establishment from the Nightside, but then, you can access it from a whole lot of places. The entrance may be in the Nightside, but the shop isn’t. That’s the whole point of Doors. They’re short cuts, through Space. So the House of Doors is in the Nightside, but not of it. A bit.”

“That is a technicality,” I said. “But it’s good enough for me. If the Merlin Glass is in a mood to cooperate . . .” I glared at the hand mirror, still firmly gripped in my hand. “You behave yourself, or I’ll write dirty words on you with a bar of soap.”

The Merlin Glass seemed to stare innocently back at me. I took another look out the window. The Sarjeant-at-Arms was looking straight at me from the middle of the road, standing very still. I stood just as still. Could he see me? His face was unreadable, his gaze steady. And then he turned away, and I started breathing again. If the Sarjeant had seen me, he’d chosen to let me go. Which wasn’t like the Sarjeant-at-Arms. Unless he knew something I didn’t. Which wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Given my current situation, I was entirely ready to believe that everyone in the world knew more about what was really going on than I did.

So I needed to concentrate on what mattered: getting my hands on the Lazarus Stone, and rescuing my parents. I turned my back on the window and nodded abruptly to Molly. She provided the Merlin Glass with the spatial coordinates for the House of Doors, and the hand mirror jumped eagerly out of my hand, shaking itself out to Door size. A bright light shone through the Glass from the other side, and I stepped quickly through the Door, with Molly on my heels.

• • •

We arrived in a large and strikingly impressive reception area that was bigger than most shops. The Merlin Glass shut itself down immediately, shrank back to hand-mirror size, and all but forced itself into my grasp. I got the distinct impression it didn’t like this new location. I put it away, and looked curiously about me.

“This is it!” Molly said proudly. “The House of Doors! For when you definitely, absolutely, have to be Somewhere Else in a hurry!”

“Where is this House of Doors, exactly, if it isn’t in the Nightside?” I said.

“I don’t think anybody knows, exactly,” said Molly. “The Doormouse takes his privacy very seriously, and so would you if you were large and fluffy. You can only access his establishment through the Doors he makes. And yes, there is a hell of a lot of unseen security operating here, so let’s try being polite first, okay?”

“Of course,” I said. “First.”

“Stand further away from me,” said Molly.

The reception area was a large open space of quite staggering style and elegance. Thick white carpeting and walls so white they were positively luminous. Lots of large abstract paintings and intricate mosaics, heavy pieces of antique furnishings, and a number of low tables covered with strange things that might have been high tech, abstract sculpture, or just objets d’art. The track lighting was bright and cheerful, but I couldn’t help noticing there wasn’t any reception desk, or even a receptionist. At least there was no piped music, which argued for a certain level of civilised behaviour.

“Hey, Mouse!” yelled Molly. “Shop!”

I glared at her, and she smiled sweetly back. And just like that, there he was—the Doormouse, scurrying forward to meet us from the back of the reception area. A six-foot-tall, vaguely humanoid mouse, with dark chocolate-coloured fur, under a white lab coat that reminded me irresistibly of the Armourer. The Doormouse even had a neat little pocket protector in place, to back up his many colour-coded pens. He had a dark muzzle, laid-back ears, long twitching whiskers, and thoughtful, very human eyes. He looked cute, in an oversized and extremely disturbing and unnatural way. Mice just aren’t supposed to be that big. I felt an overwhelming urge to put some traps down. The Doormouse hurried forward to join us, clapping his fuzzy paws together, and when he finally spoke, his voice was high-pitched, cheery, and not quite human.

“How did you get in here without an appointment?” he said loudly, bouncing up and down before us. “No one’s supposed to be able to get in without—oh, it’s you, Molly! I might have known. You never did have any respect for other people’s privacy. Especially when there were valuables involved. Ah, well, at least it isn’t your sisters. Don’t tell them I said that. Hello, Molly! How are you, my dear?”

Molly started to say something, and then all the colour just drained out of her face, and she would have collapsed if I hadn’t caught her in time. I made a loud, pained noise despite myself, as her weight almost dragged me down too. The damage I’d taken from the False Knights was catching up with me. The Doormouse leaned in close for a better look at Molly’s pale face, and then he nodded quickly.

“It’s dimensional shock! Seen it before, seen it before. Too many trips through too many Doors, with not enough time in between, crashes the nervous system. You’d better both come on through, into the Showroom. Yes, that’s the ticket! Oh, my word, yes. Bring her through, Drood. Oh yes, I know who you are. I know a torc when I See one.”

He led the way to the back of the reception area, chittering loudly to himself, scurrying along and then making himself wait until I caught up with him. It was all I could do to keep Molly staggering forward. Her eyes were half shut, and she was barely cooperating. I was worried. I hadn’t seen her this exhausted in a long time. She must have really drained her energies, fighting the False Knights. And I’d let her do it. I held her up, biting my lip against the fierce pains shooting through my abused body, and kept her moving.

And I still had the presence of mind to study the Doormouse unobtrusively. Very few people can See a Drood torc. That’s rather the point.

The Doormouse led us through a very ordinary-looking door at the back, and on into his Showroom. Which turned out to be almost unbearably vast. One of the biggest enclosed spaces I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been around. I literally couldn’t see the sides or the end of it. When I looked up, there wasn’t a ceiling, just a layer of puffy white clouds. The Showroom was packed full of Doors, standing upright and unsupported, hovering a few inches above the colourless floor. They stood in long rows and ranks, stretching away into the far distance. They seemed to go on forever, Doors beyond counting, made from every kind of wood I could think of, in every shade and fashion. There were even some Doors made from metal and glass and crystal. Some burned and blazed with their own inner lights. And each and every Door had its own special handwritten card, describing its particular destination. I looked at a few of the closest as I held Molly up. The Doormouse had disappeared off somewhere.

Shadows Fall. Carcosa. Sinister Albion. Lud’s Gate.

I was still getting my head around the sheer range in those destinations when the Doormouse came bustling back, carrying a tall glass of something hot and steaming in each furry paw. He thrust both glasses at me. I held Molly a little more securely, and she leaned her head on my shoulder and murmured something indistinct. I looked suspiciously at the proffered drinks.

“Oh, don’t be so mistrustful, Eddie Drood!” said the Doormouse. “It’s just a hot cordial, to restore your depleted energies. Perfectly safe, and very tasty. On the house!”

“Oh well,” I said, “if it’s on the house . . .”

Anywhen else, I would have held the Doormouse’s nose and made him take a good drink of the stuff first, but Molly needed something to help her, and there was nothing else on offer. I accepted one glass, and took a careful sip. Because bad as Molly was, I wasn’t about to give her anything I hadn’t tried myself first. It tasted like mulled cider, and it went down smooth and easy. Almost before I knew what I was doing, I’d downed the lot. A small and very pleasant explosion went off in my stomach, and a delicious warmth rocketed through my body, wiping out all my pains. It felt like someone had just kicked me in the adrenal glands. I snapped wide awake in a moment, and grinned broadly at the Doormouse, who sighed heavily.

“You’re supposed to sip it! Honestly, I go to all the trouble of brewing up something special, something you can savour, and you knock it back like it’s a cheap muscatel.”

“I like it!” I said happily. “What’s it called?”

“Rocket fuel,” growled the Doormouse. “Though that is of course metaphorical rather than descriptive. Go on, give Molly the other glass while it’s still hot.”

I handed him my empty glass and held the other to Molly’s mouth. I eased a little of the steaming beverage past her slack lips, and she swallowed slowly, and then her eyes shot open. I tilted the glass so she could get a good mouthful, and she immediately stood up straight and grabbed the glass with both hands. She chugged it all down in several large gulps, and the Doormouse shook his head bitterly.

“I don’t know why I bother . . . Next time I’ll just give you a bottle of Snakebite each, and you can rough it out. I’m wasted on you, I really am.”

Molly pushed herself away from me, tilted her glass all the way back to get at the last few drops, and then tossed the empty glass to the Doormouse. Her face was flushed with a healthy colour, and her eyes sparkled. She grinned at me, grabbed me and hugged me, and then pushed me away again so she could do her happy dance, right there on the spot. I couldn’t help but laugh.