Chapter 9 - A Busy Fucking Night
Sommers watches the tiny figure of Griddle, far below, walk unhurriedly across the pavement, heading south. On the opposite side of the road, a dirty-looking white van pulls up; the back doors open, and the Anarch hops up, and in.
He returns to his desk, and presses at a buzzer on his phone.
A few moments later, Antonia steps into the office, clutching a batch of files.
“Where’s Fellowes?” Sommers snaps, returning to his chair. "Get him in here. We're going to discuss the drastic refurbishment of this office."
She gazes at him, a little disconcerted.
“He’s in Kent,” she says at last. “You – sent him there, he’ll be back tomorrow night.”
He begins to calm.
“All right,” he mutters. His eyes return to the ghastly pamphlet, spread across his desk. “Fine. Tell the Brujah to get the car ready. It’s going to be a busy fucking night.”
*
The great glass conservatory has been built into the roof of one of Richmond’s familiar, high, stretching even further upwards. From here the dark serpent of the river is visible; and beyond it, the hedges and famous pagoda tower of Kew.
Rodyon Turcov reclines, amongst rare cacti, sloping vines and peculiar-looking ferns, his arms draped across a low wicker chair; a louche Adam gone to seed in a predatory Eden.
He gestures, with a friendly enough nod, for to Sommers to take a seat, and continues to listen intently to the pale young Toreador stood before him, who continues to recite aloud, in a high-pitched, uncertain voice,
‘And lo! From sweet Father Thames’ spring-birth in night,
The calling of Brutus, Trojan son, to found a new land,
And the rise of Roman steel, raised beneath noble Caesar’s might
The city cries out for one magnificent patron’s hand,
One of Eastern blood, the Czar’s most royal seed
To rise, two thousand years since, and bring to this city
Salvation; ‘’tis Turcov!’ the Thames cries. ‘’tis Turcov we need!’
And with similar words, Baron, do I end my poor ditty.’
The Toreador makes an absurdly deep, low bow, and remains held there for several seconds until Turcov begins to clap.
“Bravo!” he cries, with apparent enthusiasm. “Isn’t he marvellous, Anthony? You know, I’ve never been certain how these Toreadors do it. It’s in their blood, I suppose, so there’s no point crying about it…but dammit, I’d love to be able to write myself.”
“Yes,” Sommers replies, dully. “Very talented. Turcov, could we…”
Turcov flaps a hand at the Toreador.
“Out, Walter,” he says. “Very fine. We shall see if we can’t commission a chapbook for you. If you’re feeling hungry, go downstairs and tell the cooks I said to let you into the ice-room. Plenty of vitae of all sorts there.”
Walter nods his head, fervently, in gratitude, before scuttling past Sommers and down the spiral staircase, out of sight.
Turcov waits, patiently, for the door to slam far below.
“Well,” he continues, stretching out his arms with lazy contentedness, “what can I do for you tonight?”
Sommers tosses Griddle’s pamphlet across the conservatory floor. It lands at Turcov’s feet, and his bushy grey eyebrows raise in quiet surprise.
Then, with a low grunt, he stoops forward, lifts it up, and begins to read. His pace is unhurried, and he moves through page after page, reading intently, in absolute silence.
Finally, he closes it, and places it carefully down on the arm of his wicker chair.
“If you’ll excuse me reverting to a language I have striven to forget,” he murmurs, “I think my sire would have said of this, likha beda nachalo. You realise there’s only one person who could have given them all of these...speculations?”
“Listen to me, Turcov,” Sommers says, leaning forward in his chair. “That's not important. What’s important is that within the week, Griddle’s going to put that pamphlet out across the capital. He says it means civil war. Well…maybe he’s right, maybe not. Maybe our Kindred are all so idle and happy from years of sucking on necks unimpeded that they don’t care what their Camarilla gets up to. Maybe it’ll just mean a few more disillusioned recruits over to the Anarch cause, who’ll smash windows and shout in the street, making noise and achieving nothing.”
“But what concerns me, what truly concerns me, is that someone who matters more to the global cause than you or Eames or I gets their hands on that fucking pamphlet. And suddenly a justicar or, Caine help us, someone worse, asks, ‘Just what the hell happened to London after Mithras left’? And Vienna announces it’s going to resolve the chaos in this city, restore faith in the Camarilla, get rid of the bad apples…and every one of us ends up being swept aside into the Thames to make way for some foreigners who can be trusted.”
Turcov’s expression does not alter. The full light of the moon breaks and splits through the glass, casting shadows through the conservatory, catching on his silver hair.
“We strike first,” Sommers presses. “We strike first, and none of that happens. We pre-empt Griddle’s pamphlet, we get it all out into the open, announce it as if we’re discovering it for the first time, and condemn the Tremere for dealing in infernalism. Once the news about the fucking creature in Eames’ basement gets out, nobody’s going to care about the other scandals. We lance this boil once and for all, Eames takes the blame – as she should – and the damage to the Camarilla itself will be minimised.”
“Do you know how to kill one of the Fallen, Anthony?” Turcov asks, suddenly. A slightly dreamy smile crosses his face.
Sommers hesitates.
“No,” he admits, after a moment.
“Neither do I,” says Turcov. “And, I confess, I am singularly troubled by a plan of action which may require us to find that out.”
He gets to his feet, turns, and begins to examine a gorgeous bird-of-paradise flower, his large rough hands running over it with surprising care.
“I can’t do this alone,” Sommers calls after him. “The barons won’t listen to me, and the Anarchs don’t have enough people on their side. If we can convince the council to turn on Eames, there needn’t even be any violence over this. All of us, Rodyon, can come out with our reputations intact.”
Turcov glances back.
“I could, of course,” he says, “take this information...what you've just told me...to my dear friend Samantha. Let her know that…certain elements of our society were attempting to discredit her with…scurrilous rumours concerning events in the spring.”
Sommers waits, patiently, meeting his gaze.
“Let us say, then,” Turcov continues, with a savage little smile, “that we remove poor Samantha – as a matter of practicality. Who takes London?”
“That would depend,” Sommers says, “on the fate of Roger Kirkbeck.”
“Ah,” Turcov whispers, wistfully, “Roger. Yes.”
He glances down at his thick golden watch.
“Give me a couple of nights, Anthony,” he says, “to sound out my friends in the council. Your name – of course – won’t be mentioned. On your part, I suggest you speak to those allies you do possess…and ready them for blood.”
Turcov steps forward, proffering his hand; Sommers pauses, then rises from his seat, and takes it in his.
*
“I have…reconsidered,” Eames says. Her voice echoes, hollow and weak, in the darkness of the cavern. “I’ve been thinking about this for some time and…I do not hesitate, I have never hesitated, to take the correct action in order to achieve my goals. And this seems to me the prudent choice. You have not convinced me – as ever, I create my own destiny – but I believe that your earlier advice to me was the correct advice.”
She hesitates, before asking,
“How will it be done?”
“That’s not for you to know,” Hob replies.
His voice is a trickle of sound. Eames could swear it’s coming from right behind her shoulder, and not from the figure coiled like a cat across the battered sofa.
“Do it, then,” Eames says. “Tomorrow night. Just…you go ahead and do it.”
“If possible,” she adds, with renewed desperation, trying to fill the silence, “I would prefer to avoid there being any pain. I have…always abhorred unnecessary pain. Is that…is that clear, Hob?”
Hob’s eyes gleam, first gold, then silver, reflecting off the ever-changing glow of his television screens.
*
You sit at your desk in the Vessel, mechanically scratching out some old papers about blood bonds in Leicestershire in the 1600s. Listening, through the headphones of your receiver. Listening to the silence.
As dawn approaches, you turn the receiver off; and when you wake, at dusk the next night, you turn it back on and listen again. Moving slowly around the room, brushing your teeth, getting dressed, you keep the earphones plugged firmly in.
The dress was at the very top of the pile. It’s the one she’d choose to pick first, without thinking. She ought to put it on tonight. And if she does, you’ll be there to hear what she says when she’s all by herself.
And then, glancing downwards, you notice the sheet of paper, scuffed, smudged and torn, that’s been shoved beneath your door.
You bend down, and lift it up. Your eyes widen, slowly, as you make it out.
The third page from your treatise. A message from whoever stole it.
And scrawled across the back, in a childish, awkward hand, beneath a scribbled Greenwich postcode,
I’VE FOUND ANOTHER WAY IN. COME AS SOON AS YOU CAN.
*
What should Joan do?
A) Visit the address. Confront the thief.
B) Stay with the receiver; the bug is the important thing.
Sommers has some time to attempt to gather his resources, before Turcov responds with news of the barons. What should he do?
A) Seek out the harpies for news of Erika Schiller.
B) Gather together the Kindred of his barony.
C) Head to Cliveden, in order to take the Prince into safe custody.
D) Pay a visit to the Gangrel.
E) Pay a visit to the head of the Giovanni.
F) Try and track down the mysterious Setite.
G) Visit the Sisters of Cacophony, beneath St. Paul’s.
