“I will make them pay for this,” said Molly. “Make them all pay. . . .”
“No,” I said. “Don’t. Please. Anything for the family, remember?”
“I know what I’ve done to you,” said Ethel. “Do you forgive me, Eddie?”
“Ask me later,” I said.
She disappeared, her red glow gone in a moment. And what little comfort her light had given me went with her. Still without saying anything, the lab assistants turned and left, taking their tech with them. I would have liked to put their silent departure down to tact, and understanding, but I doubted it. There just wasn’t any reason for them to stay any longer. So all that was left was Molly and me, and the Armourer. He sat down in his chair, looking older and more tired than ever. I sat down facing him, and Molly sat down beside me. She held my hand in both of hers, like she would never let me go. And for a while, we all just sat there and looked at each other.
“Was it really that bad, Eddie?” the Armourer said finally. “It looked bad.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Eddie. There just wasn’t any other way. You said it yourself. This mission matters.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I know. Anything, for the family.”
He winced, and looked away from me.
“I hate your family, Eddie,” said Molly. “Always have, and always will. Because they do things like this to people. To their own people.”
“I would have taken your place if I could, Eddie,” said the Armourer. “I would have given up my torc to take another run at Casino Infernale. I volunteered. Argued my case before the rest of the Council. I would have spared you this, if I could. But the family wouldn’t let me go. Apparently, I’m too valuable to risk in the field. I had to fight them just to be allowed to take you to the Summit on Mars. I wanted you to have some fun first.”
“It’s . . . all right, Uncle Jack,” I said.
“No, it isn’t,” he said. “It’ll never be right between us again. I’ve poisoned what we had, for the family.”
We sat a while longer, each of us lost in our separate thoughts. The Armoury seemed surprisingly quiet, subdued. Molly wouldn’t let go of my hand. The pain was gone; the shock was gone. I just felt . . . cold. Finally, the Armourer forced himself up out of his chair, his face calm and composed again, as though nothing had happened. He was just a man with a job to do. He searched through the various drawers under his desk, brought out a hefty buff envelope, and handed it to me. I made myself take it, and look inside. Molly looked too, and wrinkled her nose at the wad of documents and papers.
“What’s this?” she said. “You want him to sign a disclaimer, so he won’t sue you?”
“This is what those in the field call a legend,” he said, ignoring the anger still dripping from every word she spoke. “Spy talk for a complete set of documents, all the paperwork an agent needs to support his identity in the world. Driving license, photo IDs, credit cards, old letters and photos, everything to prove Shaman Bond has a real history in the world. Normally, Eddie wouldn’t need it. He’s a familiar face in the scene. But this is Casino Infernale, so we don’t take chances.”
I leafed quickly through the various papers, and then distributed them here and there about my person.
“Don’t I get a legend?” said Molly. Her voice made it clear that while she hadn’t forgiven him, she was ready to play the game again if I was.
“Use your own,” said the Armourer. “Just be yourself. They’ll have heard of you. In fact, you’re exactly the kind of person they’d expect to turn up for the games. And, hopefully, your infamous reputation will help to hold everyone’s attention, and distract the Security people from seeing your companion as anyone but the shifty and shady Shaman Bond. You shine brightly, so he can hide in your shadow. . . .”
“Is that it?” I said. “Are we done now?”
“Not just yet,” said the Armourer. “I was wondering if you might like to leave the Martian artefact with me. The one the Tombs forced on you? I would like to study it.”
“No,” I said. “The Tombs wanted me to have it.”
“You see?” said the Armourer. “I’d find that worrying.”
There was one more stop before Molly and I could leave the Hall. The Armourer took it upon himself to personally lead us back through the Hall, and accompany us all the way to Vanity Faire, the Droods’ very own costume department. (Named after the novel, not the magazine.) A great store full of clothes and costumes and outfits suitable for every occasion, in every culture and country. Field agents have to fit in, if they want to go unnoticed.
The Armourer threw the door open with a flourish, revealing row upon row of clothing racks, groaning under the weight of more good tatt and schmutter than you could shake a fashionable stick at. It looked like the world’s biggest jumble sale, or a going out of business sale. The Armourer looked at me hopefully. It was obvious he’d brought me here to try to cheer me up. So I did my best to play along.
“I don’t normally get to use this place,” I said.
“Because you hardly ever come home,” said the Armourer. “You can’t go to Casino Infernale looking like that, now can you?”
“What’s wrong with this?” I said, looking down at myself. “This is my best casual outfit.”
“That’s so casual it’s downright careless,” said the Armourer. “You look like you’re wearing your favourite old suit so your wife can’t throw it out. You need something more fitting, more glamorous, to make the scene at Casino Infernale. You have to dress up if you’re going to mix with gambling celebrities and Major Players. A Drood wouldn’t, but Shaman Bond would.”
“What about me?” Molly said immediately. “Do I get a new outfit too?”
“Of course!” said the Armourer. “Help yourself to anything you fancy!”
“Oh, you will regret saying that,” I said.
Molly gave the Armourer a hard look, to show she wasn’t finished with him yet, and then gave me a searching look. Asking without asking whether I’d be okay on my own. I nodded briefly. Molly gave my hand one last squeeze, and then went charging into the costumes department with the light of battle in her eyes.
“Caradoc!” the Armourer said loudly. “Where are you, man?”
“Is he still in charge?” I said. “He’s a bit . . .”
“He’s a lot,” said the Armourer. “But everyone in the family has the job that fits them best, and this is his. He reads all the fashion magazines, you know. . . .”
Caradoc Drood came striding forward to greet us. He knew everything there was to know about outfitting a field agent with just the right look, to blend in. Though looking at Caradoc, it was hard to think where he might ever blend in. Tall and spindly, with his overlong arms and legs, Caradoc was wearing a bright pink frock coat over white leggings and court shoes, and all in all he looked very much like a mad flamingo. He had long, slicked-back white hair, a sharp angular face, and piercing blood-red eyes. He stopped before us, struck a pose, ruffled his cravat of gold cloth with the long fingers of one hand, and looked down his nose at me.
“So!” he said, in a dark dramatic voice. “You are the incredible Edwin Drood! I was hoping they’d let me run up something special for you, to mark you as the family’s new head, but you didn’t last long enough. Hey ho . . . alackaday. And now you’re off to France, home of la belle couture. I am so jealous I could just spit. Well, well . . . what are we to make of you, so that you can walk through Casino Infernale with your head held high, Mr. Shaman Bond?”
If Caradoc were any more artificial, he’d be an android.
“I’m sure my measurements are on file here somewhere,” I said.