"Ryan-" Church began.
"What is it? She means nothing-"
"Of course she doesn't mean nothing." The steel in Church's voice brought Veitch up sharp. "And I don't believe this is the end of it. Whatever got to her isn't going to leave us alone. And when he or it or whatever it is comes back we're going to find out what happened to her before we gut the bastard."
The unrestrained venom took the others aback. Laura pushed the vegetables around her plate with her fork while Tom tapped out a beat with his spoon.
Shavi leaned forward and broke the silence diplomatically. "Then what is our next step?"
Tom answered. "The guidance offered to us specifically mentioned the Well of Fire. Historically it was the most abundant and powerful source of the earth energy. Some say it even provides a direct channel with the source of the energy, whatever or wherever that might be. But with the gradual break between land and people it has lain dormant for a long time."
Church nodded. "We're supposed to be waking the sleeping king… arousing the wounded land… whichever metaphor you want. This fits the pattern. How do we get to it?"
Tom shrugged. "The entrance lies somewhere on Arthur's Seat, that big pile of rock at the bottom of the Royal Mile, in the middle of Holyrood Park-"
"But the guidebook says the name has nothing to do with Arthur," Church interjected. "Not like all the other places where the blue fire is strong. Historians think it's just a corruption of Archer's Seat."
"Which shows how much they know." Tom removed his spectacles and polished them with the tablecloth.
"Then we head up there." Church glanced through the window at the late afternoon sun. "Tomorrow, now. And tonight-"
"Tonight," Tom continued, "we visit the Old Town."
The warm evening was filled with the oddly comforting aromas of the modern age: heated traffic fumes, food cooking in restaurants downwind, burnt iron and hot grease rising from the train tracks that cut through the city. Girls in skimpy summer clothes and young men in T-shirts and jeans lounged in the late sunlight outside the Royal Scottish Academy on the Mound. There was an air of spring optimism that made it almost impossible to believe that anything had changed.
But as the companions wound their way up Ramsay Lane into the Old Town, the shadows grew longer and an unseasonal chill hung in the air despite the heat of the day. The area centred on the Royal Mile was the oldest part of the city. In the Middle Ages it had been hemmed in by city walls, forcing the housing to be built higher and higher; they were crammed too close together, blocking out the sky, so that a claustrophobic anxiety seemed to gather among them. Tom, who had obviously been in the city before, led them down Lawnmarket to one of the numerous, shadowy closes that lined the Royal Mile. At the end was an eighteenth-century courtyard and the jolly judge pub. They decided it was as good a place as any to discuss their plans.
It was small and cellar-like, with a low, beamed ceiling painted with flowers and fruit. A fire glowed nicely in the grate and the comfortable atmosphere was complemented by the hubbub of conversation coming from numerous drinkers gathered at the tables or leaning on the bar.
As they bought their drinks, Veitch said, "It doesn't seem right sitting here getting pissed."
"We could be roaming the streets like some moron tourists." Laura took a gulp of her vodka as if she hadn't drunk for weeks.
"She's right," Tom said as he led them over to the only free table. "Inns are still the centres of community, even as they were in my day. Sooner or later all information passes through them. We simply have to keep our ears and eyes open."
"That's good," Church said, recalling all the pubs he'd passed through with Ruth, "because I don't feel much like drinking."
He changed his mind quickly. There was a desperation to all their drinking, as if they wanted to forget, or pretend the blight that was infecting reality was not really happening. The rounds came quickly, their mood lifted as they settled into the homely ambience of the pub. And once again Tom was proven right. They overheard snippets of conversation which added to their knowledge of the situation in the city, and Laura and Shavi engaged in brief chats with people they met on their way to the bar or the toilet.
As they had found elsewhere, after the announcement of martial law there had been an initial flurry of panic, but when no hard evidence of anything presented itself, people slipped back into old routines, cynically blaming the Government for some kind of cover-up or coming up with numerous wild hypotheses in the manner of old-fashioned campfire storytellers. It quickly became apparent to everyone that martial law wasn't enforced anyway; the police and armed forces appeared to have more important things on their minds, so everyone quietly ignored it. That resilience gave Church some encouragement, but he wondered how they would fare once the true situation become known.
Certainly everyone seemed to accept that some kind of change had come over the Old Town, although this was a topic few were prepared to discuss. When Church raised the matter, conversations were quickly changed or eyes averted. All that could be discerned was that the ancient part of the city had somehow become more dangerous and that after the pub closed the drinkers would "hurry home to wifey." But Church could tell from their faces that some of them had seen or experienced things which they couldn't bring themselves to discuss with their fellows.
Sometime after 10:30 p.m. another technology failure took out all the lights, but the drinkers dealt with it as they did any of the other minor changes which had come into their lives. A loud cheer went up, a few shouted comments about raiding the pumps while the landlord couldn't see, and then lots of laughter. The blazing fire provided enough light while the bar staff scrambled round for candles which they quickly stuffed into empty wine bottles and placed on every table and the bar.
"Nice ambience."
Church started at the voice which came from the previously empty seat beside him. A large-boned man carrying a little too much weight inside an expensive, but tie-less, suit was smiling knowingly, a pint of bitter half-raised to his mouth. His hair was collar-length and he had a badly trimmed beard, but the heaviness of his jowls took away any of the rakishness he was attempting. Church placed him in his early to mid-thirties and from the perfectly formed English vowels of his public school accent it was obvious he wasn't a local.
"Pleasant enough," Church replied noncommittally.
"And how are you finding this new world you're in? A little destabilising, I would think." He smiled slyly.
Church eyed him suspiciously. There was an awareness about the stranger that instantly set him apart. "Who are you?"
"A cop," Veitch said threateningly.
"Good Lord, no," he replied, bemused. "How insulting."
Church inspected the cut of his suit, the arrogance in his posture. "Security services."
The stranger made an odd, vaguely affirmative expression, one eyebrow half-raised. "Once, not so long ago. Decided to head out on my own. Not much point having a career structure in this day and age." He took a long draught of his bitter and smacked his lips.
"What are you doing here?" Church wondered if it had anything to do with the encounter with the police in Callander; he was ready to leave immediately if the situation called for it, and he tried to convey this surreptitiously to the others, but all their attention was on the spy.
"Why, to see all of you, dear boy." He chuckled at their uncomfortable expressions. "That would be a little bit of a lie, actually. Stumbled across you by accident in town earlier. Thought I'd drop in on you… see how you're getting on." The chuckles subsided into a smile that made them even more uneasy.