Rook

strong you all have become, but you might be able to take the Croatoan forces, especially if we were not there to back them up. There are many possibilities for you in a world without the Checquy.” Myfanwy was proud of herself for remaining calm, but as she spoke, she became abruptly aware of the implications of the Checquy falling.
    “We were never interested in invasion.” The Belgian snorted. “Not after that disastrous first effort, which, I would like to point out, was done almost entirely at the instigation of the rulers of my country. No, this was a feint, showing you something with one hand while putting a dagger to your throat with the other. The Checquy controls a secret world. An invasion? Please!” He snorted again in disgust.
    “The world has grown smaller since the last time we matchedwits, Myfanwy Thomas. We cannot keep the conquest of a country a secret, and we cannot allow our existence to become public knowledge. But neither can the Checquy. Some secrets can be kept, and this one is just about the right size.” He raised an eyebrow, and she swallowed, calculating his meaning.
    “So, you will take over the Checquy?” she asked. “By force?”
    “That idea has found some favor in the higher echelons of the Broederschap,” he said, his voice expressionless. Myfanwy thought of the skinless Belgian floating in his tank. There had been hate and resentment in his voice and a lust for violence in his body.
    “I’ll bet it has,” she said.
    For a moment, they stared at each other across the desk. A soul that was centuries old regarded a mind that had been alive only a few weeks.
    “Graaf von Suchtlen, may I ask a question?” He nodded slightly. “You are one of the two founders of the Grafters?”
    “One of the initial investors, yes,” he said, nodding. The fluid had thinned on him somewhat, and his muscles were now more prominent.
    “You are centuries old and command all the knowledge and power of Wetenschappelijk Broederschap van Natuurkundigen—a force as great as any in history. In your lifetime, the leadership of the Checquy has passed from hand to hand, while you have only gained in experience. I cannot guess at the powers and abilities that have been built into your body, but I suspect that you are the beneficiary of every advantage your organization can give you. The forces that you have described are powerful enough to overwhelm the Checquy without your ever needing to leave Belgium. So why have you come to me now? Secret, alone, and naked?”
    The Grafter nodded faintly and smiled.
    “That is the question,” he said. “And what do you think is the answer?”
    “You know that the Checquy would never surrender to you,” said Myfanwy. “Even with traitors in the Court, it would not be an option.”
    “This is true.”
    “We would have to fight. We might win that dreadful war, but England would never be the same. It would be difficult to conceal an international battle, and that,” she said softly, “is our mandate. To protect, in secrecy.
    “And you too have come here in secret. Concealing your presence not only from the Checquy but also from your own partner.” The massive man in her chair was suddenly still, and Myfanwy realized how small she was compared to him. His fingers were tight on the wood of her desk, and though she could not control his muscles, she could sense the strength within him.
    “You have come here, Mr. von Suchtlen, because you do not want to fight us. You do not want to hide from us any longer. You know that we would not—
could not—
permit you to exist freely. Not with your history. I believe you have come to talk terms, not of surrender, but of alliance. You wish to join our organizations together, do you not?”
    He smiled.
    Perhaps I retained a bit of Rook Thomas’s diplomatic skills after all,
she thought.
    Graaf von Suchtlen settled back comfortably and told her a story.
    I remember it was mid-autumn. It was cold, of course, and the leaves were falling in a torrent on the road leading to my door. I was in a reflective mood, sitting on the front stairs of my country house, wrapped in a fur, drinking something hot and sweet. I was the Count of Suchtlen. I was thirty-eight, wealthy, and, thanks to an easily spooked horse and some inconveniently sharp rocks, I had been missing the bottom half of my left leg for eight months.
    It had been a genuinely dreadful year, even apart from the loss of my leg. One of my sisters had died in