So, still cursing under his breath, Peter Scott spun up his green-tinged summons, then limped off in search of a cabby brave enough to dare the docks after dark.
The meeting place was always the same; the Exeter Club, and if anyone happened to stumble in to see the poor old codgers dozing away in their chairs or pretending to read the Times, he’d assume it was just another backwater of retired Colonials. The codgers were a ruse, more than half of them the pensioned-off bachelor upper servants of the real members, kept in happy and comfortable retirement here to keep the work of their former masters as secret as anything you’d find at the Foreign Office. More so, actually. At the Foreign Office, you didn’t have to worry about a salamander whipping down the nearest chimney to have a listen-in.
Peter limped up the stairs to be greeted by the night porter, who allowed his usual stony expression to slip just enough to display a hint of sympathy for the dodgy knee. Clive had one of his own, courtesy of the Boer War; they exchanged a wordless wince of mutual pain, and Clive took his coat, muffler, and hat. “They are in the Red Room, sir,” the old soldier said, with a nod in the correct direction. “In view of the hour, I believe they’ve bespoken you some refreshment.” Of course, their idea of refreshment is usually purely alcoholic, he thought with continued irritation. Still. It showed some consideration. He strode past the Club Room, even at this hour full of drowsing ancient men looking like Methuselah’s grandpa, or slightly younger ones exchanging lies over pipes and port, and headed straight for the Red Room.
At least if it’s the Red Room, it’s not an all-out mage war, or some fool gone mad and trying to burn down London. If it had been something really, truly, serious, the Council would be in the War Room, not the Red Room, robed and begemmed to the teeth and staves or swords in hand.
The door opened just as he reached it, and to his relief, the fellow with his hand on the knob was Lord Peter Almsley, second son and—until his brother George came up to the paddock and produced a son—titular heir to the Almsley lands, estate, and strawberry leaves. Lord Peter stood on ceremony with no one, and was one of the few members of the Council and the Lodge that Peter Scott thought of as an actual friend.
“Get in here, Twin,” Peter exclaimed—his own private joke, since they were both named Peter and both Water Masters. “You look fagged to death. I’ve ordered you up a rarebit; it’s on a chafing dish and I’ve been guarding it with my life till you got here. Bunny keeps trying to bag some for himself.” Lord Peter could not have looked less like Peter Scott; he had that thin, nervy, washed-out blondness and general air of idiot-about-town that Scott tended to associate with a bit too much inbreeding within the Royal Enclosure, but he was as sound as an oak inside, and tough whipcord when it came down to cases. Scott had seen Lord Peter face down an ancient god without turning a hair, and knew for a fact there were at least nine ghosts haunting the old Almsley estate, all of whom Lord Peter had met and even conversed with. Lord Peter never said what the rest of his family (other than his grandmother) thought about the haunts, but he, at least, considered them to be personal friends.
With a hearty clap of his hand to Lord Peter’s shoulder by way of thanks, Scott entered the Red Room—which was—red. Very, very red. Red brocade on the windows, red-silk wallpaper, red-leather chairs. It must have been decorated by a Fire Master, and it always made Peter want to throw buckets of blue or green paint over everything.
But the enticing aroma of hot cheese coming from the chafing dish on the sideboard was enough to make him overlook the decorating deficiencies for once. He ignored the rest of the Council and went straight for the bubbling rarebit, scooping up a plate, loading it liberally with toast from the rack beside the dish, and inundating the crisp triangles with cheese until there was danger of the plate overflowing. Only then did he take his place in the single empty seat around the table—and privately nominated Lord Peter for beatification when the man shoved a tall glass of stout silently toward him.
“Listen, Scott,” began Dumbarton, one of the old lads who’d inherited a pile and made it bigger in the Exchange. “Apologies and all that—knew you were working—but there’s something come up.”
Peter made certain to demolish a satisfyingly hearty triangle of toast and cheese before replying. “Well, there always is, isn’t there? What is it that the Council can’t sort out over dinner without calling me in?”
Someone coughed. Owlswick, of course. Lord Owlswick, who never left the Club except for hunting season. “Well, ah—it’s magic, Scott, don’t you know. Earth Magic. New source of it, in the bottom of the garden, so to speak. And we’re none of us… ah… Earth Masters.”
Peter did not make the obvious retort that neither was he—nor that they would have more than half a dozen Earth Masters on the Council if they’d just give up their Old Boys nonsense and allow a few farm lads, a Scot or two, or, for God’s own sake, a few of the female Earth Masters just west of London into their exclusive little enclave.
Old argument, and his silence said it all for him. It was Lord Peter who took pity on the rest and kept the ensuing silence from turning into an embarrassment. “The trouble is, old man, it’s got bloody strong potential, but it’s not our Earth Magic. Nothing remotely like our traditions. And we can’t—well—trace it, locate it.”
That got his attention, and he stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “You—what? You’re having me on, right?”
Lord Peter shook his head. “ ‘Fraid not, old fellow. Wish I was. We get it narrowed down to a district, then—that’s as far as we get. It’s as if whoever is doing this has something going meant entirely to confuse and confusticate.”
“And that,” rumbled old Lord Alderscroft, the head of the Council, at last, “is very interesting. Worrying. And we damned well want to know how it’s done, especially if there’s something more serious behind it.”
Lord Alderscroft spoke in Council perhaps once a year, but when he did, even Peter lost his cynicism, sat up, and took notice. He was, perhaps, the most powerful Fire Master who had ever sat in the seat of the Master of the Council. Peter pushed away the last of his dinner, uneaten, and said respectfully, “What are my duties, sir?” He suspected that when Alderscroft spoke even the King stood humbly and waited for orders. The great man moved forward, out of the shadows of his wingback chair, bringing his face into the light. It was the face of an old lion, old, but without one whit of his power diminished in any way; eyes that saw through to the soul, weighed it and measured the worth and strength of it, yet somehow made no judgment of it. His hair was longer than was fashionable; no one would ever have even thought of him with other than that half-tamed, gray-and-fawn mane around his face. Power under will, will under the law, tempered with compassion, endless tolerance and patience, and a clear and unflinching knowledge of the best and the worst in his fellow man. That was Lord Alderscroft, and Peter would have gone through fire and brimstone and hell itself if the old man asked him to. They all would have, including the ineffectual Owlswick.
“We know the general district, Scott; it’s down near Fleet, and we’ve mapped out where the confusion-magic ends, so the source is likely to be somewhere within it.” Alderscroft motioned to Lord Peter, who passed over a map with a ragged ovoid drawn on it. And Scott immediately saw the difficulty.
“You’d all stand out there like horses in a hat shop, wouldn’t you?” he said, now with a touch of humor. “By heaven, I believe you couldn’t go five feet in that area without losing everything but the lining of your pockets!”