The Power of Five Oblivion

difference.”
    “Is that what you believe, Scott?” Pedro asked. His voice was tired.
    “The Old Ones aren’t evil. It’s the world that’s evil.”
    “And what are you?”
    “I’m not anything. I just want to live.”
    And that was it. This time it was Scott who turned and walked off. Pedro watched him as he continued across the square, finally disappearing underneath the archway with its clock. He looked down. He was still holding the banknotes in his broken hand.
    He shoved them in his pocket, then turned and walked the other way.

TWENTY-TWO
    Jonas Mortlake was waiting for Scott in one of the great state rooms of the Castel Nuovo. It was a huge space that had been specially furnished for him with soft, comfortable furniture, thick rugs and a grand piano – although he couldn’t play it. Masterpieces of classical and modern art hung on all four walls; works by Rembrandt, Leonardo da Vinci and Picasso, all of them taken from famous art galleries shortly before they had been looted or demolished. There was a fire blazing in the hearth and stretched out on the flagstones in front of it, the skin of a white tiger with its paws spread, its glass eyes staring and its teeth bared in one final roar before it became extinct.
    Jonas was sipping coffee from a white porcelain cup when Scott arrived. He was dressed for the flight out of Naples, wearing a grey silk suit, white shirt and pink tie. Earlier that afternoon, while Scott was in the Piazza Dante, he had spent two hours in the gym next to his bedroom in the castle. But despite all the work he had done lifting weights, despite the press-ups, the rowing and the stretching, he hadn’t managed to get rid of the anger he had been feeling ever since he had heard that Scott had gone. His muscles were still warm but the anger was burning cold inside.
    “Where have you been?” he asked.
    “Out.” Scott took a biscuit from the table, broke it in half and ate it idly.
    “I know that. But that’s not why I asked you. I’d like to know where you’ve been.”
    “Why?”
    Jonas considered the question. He knew that a week ago Scott wouldn’t have dared to ask it – but then a week ago Scott had been a very different person. He decided to tread carefully. “I was worried about you,” he said. “I’ve told you how dangerous it is out there. There are a lot of very desperate people. If they see anyone with money and possessions, they’ll try anything.”
    “I can look after myself.”
    “I have no doubt.” Jonas raised the cup to his lips and sipped. “Even so, you’ve left it rather late. We ought to be on our way to the airport. The plane is waiting.”
    “I’m ready to go. I don’t need a passport, do I?”
    “No.”
    “Well, I’m all packed.” It was true. Jonas had provided him with enough new clothes to fill three suitcases. There were jeans, jerseys, shirts and jackets but also thermal underwear, padded jackets, hoods and gloves. It was going to be cold in Antarctica. That was where the two of them were heading, apparently. “You can get one of the servants to carry it down.”
    “I’ll do that.” Jonas took another sip. “So where did you go, as a matter of interest?” he asked, casually.
    “I was in a place called the Piazza Dante.”
    “And what took you there?” Scott didn’t answer. Jonas lowered the cup and leant forward. His eyes were hard behind the wire-frame glasses. “You saw Pedro.”
    It was an accusation, not a question. Scott shrugged. He couldn’t see any point in denying it. “Yes.”
    “May I ask why?”
    “He wanted to see me.”
    “You are aware that I am extremely annoyed about his escape. You and I may have come to an understanding, but it’s still going to make me look careless and stupid.”
    “You were careless and stupid, Jonas. That’s the point.”
    Jonas frowned. The boy was going too far. He would have to devise some sort of punishment. Not here. They had no time. But perhaps while they were on the plane. It was a Boeing 747 and there were only the two of them flying. There would be plenty of room. “I would have very much liked to have had Pedro back in my hands,” he said. “If you knew where he was, you could have warned me. At the very least, you could have told me who helped him escape. Presumably you know. How did he even contact you?”
    “He sent me a message.”
    “I’m very disappointed in you, Scott—”
    “You don’t need Pedro,” Scott cut in. “He’s nothing to you.