Rook
losing.
41
W ait, so Li’l Pawn Alan can kick arse?” said Myfanwy incredulously in the back of the car. “Against a soldier with a gun?”
“Li’l Pawn Alan can break down the composition of inorganic material, rendering it brittle,” said Ingrid primly. “If he’s touching the material, he can affect a portion the size of your torso. If he’s
not
touching it, then he can only affect a very small amount. But it’s enough to cause a trigger to shatter. Fortunately for us.”
“Yes, you look fortunate,” said Myfanwy, eyeing Ingrid’s arm sling and swollen black eye.
“I’m not complaining,” said Ingrid.
“You got shot!” exclaimed Myfanwy.
“It didn’t hit bone,” said Ingrid. “And while getting belted in the face and then shot in the arm is not a treat, it’s certainly preferable to getting executed.”
After Myfanwy had caught her breath in Grantchester’s office and called security, she’d found the watch office in an uproar. Apparently, a Rookery graphic designer working overtime had walked past the entrance to the command suite and seen an adolescent Pawn fighting with a security guard while the Rook’s executive assistant bled, unconscious, on the floor. Uncertain of which side to take, the designer had elected to cover all the bases, and she’d shocked both combatants into unconsciousness with her electricity-casting abilities before calling security.
“I’m just glad that they were able to patch you up so quickly that you could come for part of the Court meeting!” said Myfanwy.
“Some medic plugged the bullet hole with a resin that he extruded out of his glands,” said Ingrid darkly. “
Directly
out of his glands.”
“Ew,” said Myfanwy. “Which glands?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Ingrid. “The meeting was interesting though.”
“It was one of the most awkward meetings I’ve ever had.” Myfanwy yawned. “I thought they all took it pretty well, considering.”
“The Court has been subject to a number of shocks recently,” pointed out Ingrid. “They were all fairly pliable, especially after Chevalier Eckhart produced the photographs of the Grafter bodies.”
“Well, yeah, but the revelations about Grantchester—I mean, he was a member of the Court!”
“So was Rook Gestalt.”
“True. But Gestalt was a member of the Court whom no one actually liked,” amended Myfanwy.
“I always rather fancied Bishop Grantchester,” confessed Ingrid. “He used to flirt outrageously whenever he came to the Rookery.”
“He
was
hot,” admitted Myfanwy. She looked out the window. It was nearing dawn, and London was quiet, with only a few stray cars out. The convoy of limousine and attendant motorcycles was a tiny parade of movement in the streets. The coffee she had finally been permitted at the meeting of the Court was fighting a losing battle against the cumulative effects of a night of clubbing, a morning of testing, an afternoon of being absorbed by a flesh cube, and an evening confrontation with a traitor.
As it turned out, the bureaucratic rehashing of events had taken almost as long as the events themselves. Eckhart’s account of his assault on the Grafter home base had included a clinical description of his killing the skinless Belgian. Myfanwy had listened, openmouthed, as Eckhart explained that the Grafter leader had grown blades of bone from his arms and that the two of them had fought in a chamber in which giant sacs and cocoons hung from the ceiling.
Pods had burst open, warriors had sprung forth, and the Barghests had fought them off while Eckhart and Graaf Gerd de Leeuwen dueled, metal scraping against bone. Two members of theBarghests had been traitors, and they turned on their comrades. Their Grafter enhancements had not saved them. Finally, without any emotion, Joshua told them how he tore down a chain from the ceiling, shaped it into a javelin, and placed it with great precision through the skinless Belgian’s head.
After Eckhart’s description, the conversation had turned to Myfanwy’s adventures in Reading, followed by Myfanwy’s adventures with Grantchester. At that point, she’d done some rapid thinking and come to the conclusion that perhaps she could avoid admitting to the memory loss. She’d had to walk a narrow and confusing tightrope to explain what happened, and in the end she’d gotten out of giving a fully detailed exposition only by feigning light-headedness. The bruises around her eyes
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