King also had on his walls two Pickmans, an unknown Shlacken, and The Painting That Devoured Paris. Which suggested, if nothing else, that the Independent Agent was more of a collector than an art critic. There were also a number of display cases showing off items of unusual interest. The skull of an alien Gray peered blankly back at us, with holes and long grooves in the bone showing where bits of alien technology had been rudely extracted. Hopefully after death. A bottle of unholy water from the original Hellfire Club, Tom Pearce’s Old Grimoire, a stuffed Morlock, and a mummified monkey’s paw nailed very firmly to its stand. And, finally, a human skeleton wired together and standing upright inside a grandfather clock.
“That’s my mother,” said Peter. We all looked at him, but he had eyes only for the skeleton. “After she died, Grandfather claimed the body and had it brought here. Stole it, in fact, from the undertaker I’d entrusted her to. Had the body smuggled out of the country before I even knew what was happening. I got a solicitor’s letter sometime later informing me that Grandfather had used carpet beetles to consume the flesh, leaving only the bones, as they do in museums. And that Mother’s skeleton would be on display at Grandfather’s home, along with his other prized possessions. There was a photograph enclosed. Grandfather can be sentimental, but not in ways you’d expect. I was never allowed to visit Mother, until now. Remember this, if you remember nothing else: Grandfather never lets go of anything he owns.”
“Put it back,” I said sternly to the Blue Fairy.
“What?” he said, projecting injured innocence.
“That small black-lacquered puzzle box you just picked up and pocketed from the occasional table when you thought no one was looking,” I said. “Just because it isn’t in a case, doesn’t mean it’s up for grabs.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Blue Fairy said airily.
“I could just pick you up, turn you upside down, and shake you, and see what falls out,” I said.
Blue sniffed and put the puzzle box back on the table. “Just wanted a souvenir . . .”
King’s subtle influence pulled us on into a long narrow hall whose walls were covered with photos of people and places from around the world, celebrating King’s many famous missions and triumphs. Some places were so famous that all of us had at least heard of them. Roswell, Loch Ness, Tunguska. We all pointed and whispered and nudged each other like children in a museum.
“The Case of the Kidnapped Village,” said Peter, peering closely at a black-and-white photo of a crowd of people in 1950s clothing assembled in a village square. They were all turned obediently towards the camera, but none of them had any faces.
Another photo simply showed a severed human hand with the index finger missing. “The Case of the Cannibal Ghosts,” murmured Walker.
And a photo of Buchanan Castle, in Scotland. The sky was dark, almost night, and there were lights on in every window except one. A figure of a man stood silhouetted against a great light in the open doorway. There was something horribly wrong about the figure.
“The Case of the Recurring Ancestor,” I said. “All the Droods get told that story when we’re young, to keep us from getting cocky.”
The influence urged us on like an invisible dog leash through room after room, past wonders and treasures beyond counting, until finally it brought us to a sealed door. Black stained oak, eight feet tall and almost as wide, studded with brass and silver, and wrought with several lines of deeply inscribed protective wards in half a dozen languages that no sane human being had spoken in living memory. The influence snapped off, and I think we all sighed a little with relief. I was still debating whether to knock or give the door a good kicking when it swung suddenly open before us, smooth and steady despite its massive weight. Beyond the door was a huge baronial hall, with towering bare stone walls and great interlocking wooden beams for a ceiling. A fire blazed cheerfully in the huge open fire-place, but there was no sign of anyone to greet us. The sheer size and scale of the place rooted the others to the spot, but I grew up in Drood Hall, so I just strode right in. The others hurried after me.
“I’m beginning to wonder if there’s anyone here at all,” I said finally. My voice seemed very small in such a great hall, as though it had been designed and constructed for beings much larger than men. “I mean, King couldn’t run a place this size on his own, particularly if he’s on his deathbed, as he claims. Where are the servants, bodyguards, nurses? Could the Independent Agent have already died before the game’s even started?”
“Reports of my death . . . are no doubt highly anticipated,” snapped a cold, authoritative voice, and an image of Alexander King appeared suddenly out of nowhere before us. “I value my privacy, and I don’t have the time or the strength left to waste on unnecessary interactions.”
The legendary Independent Agent sat on a huge wooden throne, his back straight, his legs casually crossed. You could tell it was just an image projected from somewhere else in Place Gloria. Although the image was sharp and clear and had three dimensions, it lacked . . . presence. The image of Alexander King looked frail and shrunken but still vital. And nowhere near as old as he was supposed to be. Illness or age had dug deep furrows in his face, but he still had a long mane of silver gray hair, his mouth was firm, and his gaze was sharp. He was still handsome, in a ravaged sort of way, and he sat his throne as though he was King in fact as well as name. He wore a purple crushed velvet smoking jacket over checked tweed flares.
“I always felt most at home in the seventies,” he said calmly. “Such a glorious time to be young and alive and have the world by the throat.”
“Is that really you, King?” said Honey Lake. “Or have we come all this way to be greeted by a glorified recording?”
“Oh, I’m still very definitely me,” said King, grinning nastily. “Not gone yet, despite everything your pernicious Company has done to try to hurry me along. I am safe and secure in my private vaults, and I plan to stay that way until my game has run its course.”
“Hello, Grandfather,” said Peter.
“Peter,” said Alexander. He didn’t look or sound particularly pleased to see his only grandson. “Such a disappointment to me. All the things you could have done, all the people you could have been, and you settled for industrial espionage. Such a gray little world, when all is said and done. Where’s the glory, or the glamour, in grubbing through big business’s waste bins?”
“It pays well,” said Peter. He studied his grandfather thoughtfully, absorbing every detail.
“It would have to,” said Alexander. “Well, now at least you have a chance to prove yourself, grandson. But you’ll get no help from me. No advice or special preference, just because you’re family.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Grandfather,” said Peter.
From their cold, distracted voices, they might just have been discussing the weather. They sounded a lot like each other.
“Why us?” I said, and Alexander’s piercing gaze switched immediately back to me. I stared right back at him. “As I understand it, you wanted the six greatest field agents in the world today to find the one best suited to take your place when you’re gone. So why us? We’re all names, I suppose, with good solid backgrounds of work, but I could give you a dozen other names off the top of my head of agents more famous and more suited than any of us.”
Alexander King flashed me his nasty grin again. “I know who you’re talking about, and if any of them had been good enough, they’d have taken my place by now. No, I chose the six of you because you’re young and have potential. My game will bring out the best in you, or kill you. Either way, the winner will have proved themselves a worthy successor.