"I hope you're telling him what a pathetic little runt he is." The Bone Inspector's gruff voice shattered the mood in an instant. He leaned on his staff, the wind whipping his grey hair.
Tom snapped, "No-"
"I was talking to him." The Bone Inspector nodded towards Church.
"Don't start with your useless prattling." Tom eyed him murderously.
"You may have been honoured by the Culture in the times of my ancestors, but that doesn't mean I can't give you a good whupping with my staff." The Bone Inspector underlined his point by twirling the staff around his arms as if it were alive.
"Great. Two old people fighting," Church muttered. "It'll be like watching your granny barge her way into the bread queue."
"Don't forget," Tom cautioned the Bone Inspector, "the Culture dies out with you." He smiled sadistically.
"Well, that's where you're wrong. I've been making some plans-"
"Don't you think that's a little premature?" Church said.
"You shut up and concentrate on your job, you lanky-arsed weasel." The Bone Inspector returned his attention to Tom, nodding superciliously. "Yes, I've been thinking. Now the seasons have turned and all the materialistic, logic-obsessed bastards have had a rude awakening, it might be time for a reflowering of the Culture. I can see the colleges now, maybe at Glastonbury and Anglesey, like we used to have in the old, old days. Passing on the wisdom to a new generation of bright-eyed-"
"You think you'd make a good teacher?" Tom sneered. "After all that time sleeping in ditches they'll need to hose you down with industrial cleaning fluid just to get somebody in a room with you."
The Bone Inspector scowled. "At least I know my arse from my elbow."
"Yes, but do you know your arse from your mouth? I think not."
Church sighed and made to pacify them, but they turned on him so venomously he backed away. "Okay, go ahead, knock yourself out," he said tartly. "Literally, if possible."
The bickering ended when Niamh walked over. Tom gave a restrained, deferential bow, but the Bone Inspector simply looked away, as if he were alone on deck and lost in a reverie.
"The Master is preparing to sail," she said. She glanced round to ensure she could not be overheard, then added quietly, "Taranis oversaw the arrival of a container brought aboard by Nuada's personal guard. It was stowed in a section of the hold where access is restricted only to the Master and Taranis. Those faithful to Nuada stand guard without."
"I think I saw it," Church said. "Was it a large wooden chest with bands of iron around it and a gold clasp?"
"That may be how you perceived it." Niamh looked from one to the other. "I believe it to be the Wish-Hex."
"They won't even let you near it?" Church asked.
She bit her lip. "I could attempt… It would cost…" She shook her head. "No matter. There is too much at stake."
Church looked to Tom. "When do you think they'll detonate it?"
"When it's close to Balor and they're well away."
"Not on board ship?"
"Good Lord, no!" Tom looked horrified. "And lose Wave Sweeper? This isn't just a collection of timber and nails, you know!"
Church took Niamh's hand and led her to one side. "I know this is hard for you, working against your own people, but if there's anything you can do-"
"Do not feel you have to ask anything of me, Jack. I do what I do freely because I believe in the rightness of this course. And I believe in you." She looked down at where her slim, cool hand still lay in his. "You have changed my existence, Jack. And to one of the Golden Ones, who are as constant as the stars, that is a humbling and profound thing."
"I don't see how I could have, Niamh," he protested. "I'm nothing out of the ordinary."
She leaned forward to kiss him gently on the cheek. "Things are coming to a head, Jack. All will be made clear soon."
Her smile was filled with such deep love he was left floundering. She turned and drifted away amongst the frantic activity of the crew, an oasis of calm and dignity.
The ship hove to soon after and made its way into the Estuary. Though it still remained a tranquil place, the strain on all who sailed was apparent. Tom rejoined Church at the prow, looking around nervously. "Now if we can get to that pep talk without any interruptions from that old curmudgeon…" He pointed to the makeshift rucksack hanging from Church's shoulder. "You have the Wayfinder?"
Church removed the old lantern with the flickering blue flame that had guided him through the earliest days of the mystery to show him. "But I don't know what use it's going to be. I was thinking of leaving it here. I don't want to be carrying any more weight than necessary."
Tom shook his head furiously. "There is still one talisman to find." His smile suggested this was another long-kept secret he was relieved to be revealing. "The biggest one of all."
"Where is it?"
"Somewhere near our destination. You recall when we summoned the Celtic dead for guidance in Scotland? They said: You must find the Luck of the Land if you are ever to unleash the true power of the people."
"Yes," Church said suspiciously, "and you said you had no idea what they were talking about."
"At that exact moment, I did not. But it came to me soon after. There was only one thing it could be."
Church bared his teeth. "And you didn't see fit to tell me until now?"
Tom shrugged dismissively. "The time was not right."
"Tom… "
"All right," he snapped. "I wanted only you to know. And I left it to this late stage because I did not want you to confide in any of the others, as you undoubtedly would have done with your various romantic liaisons," he added sniffily. "And then it would have been all over the place."
"All right. No need to act like my granddad."
"It is my role to be-"
"All right, all right! What is the bloody Luck of the Land?"
"The Luck of the Land is the severed head of Bran the Blessed. He was a great hero, and the closest of the Golden Ones to humanity. He knew about the destiny of the Fragile Creatures and he was even prepared to sacrifice himself to see us achieve it. The old stories tell how he was murdered by a poisoned arrow. On his deathbed, he told his followers to cut off his head, yet even removed, it could still eat and talk. It was brought back to London and buried beneath the Tower, where it became the source of the land's power. Of humanity's power. Another myth said King Arthur sought it out as the source of his own strength. You can see the symbolism."
"So it's linked directly to the Blue Fire? That's what all the Arthur myths mean, isn't it?"
"Correct."
Church looked out at the quiet, dead countryside that bordered the river. "But what can it do?"
"The Celts revered severed heads, believing them to have great magical power. In their view, the head is the source of the soul. They knew the truth at the heart of this legend. And don't forget…"
"… myths and legends are the secret history of the land. I'll be happy when I don't hear that phrase again."
"The head has great power, both in real terms, and symbolically. It encompasses everything you have discovered about the Blue Fire."
"So, in the day and a half we have left, we have to avoid Balor and about a million Fomorii in the heart of their power, locate this head somewhere under the Tower of London-like it's going to be just lying around ready to be picked up-and then find some way to use it or activate it or whatever the hell you're supposed to do with it?"
"Well, you didn't expect it to be easy, did you?" Tom said curtly. "If you only had to waltz in there and chop off a head or two they could have got anyone to do it."
"I'll take that as a vote of confidence," Church said moodily.
All that remained of the Thames Barrier flood defence system were columns of concrete and twisted steel jutting out of the slow-moving water. It looked as if it had been smashed into pieces by a giant fist. The rubble just beneath the surface formed a treacherous defence that would have sunk most ships coming up the river, but Manannan's magical skill picked the only path through. It slowed them down a little, but they were still on course to be in the heart of London by noon.