Last Stand of Dead Men. Derek Landy

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      hastly Bespoke returned to Roarhaven with a sense of overwhelming dread. It wasn’t danger he dreaded, or battle, or confrontation or arguments. It was meetings. It was endless, monotonous meetings.

      The last few days he’d spent at his old shop in Dublin, working on various items of clothing. Repairing, modifying, making from scratch. He had been content there. Happy. Alone with this thoughts, alone with the needle and thread, with the fabrics, his mind had been allowed to settle, and it had been wonderful.

      But his vacation was over, and here he was, being driven back into the squalid, bleak little town of Roarhaven and all that anxiety he’d left behind was quickly building up again inside his chest. They drove through Main Street, drawing a few cold glances from the townspeople. There was a single, sad little tree planted in a square of earth on the pavement. For as long as he’d been here, he had never seen it with leaves. Here they were in August and it was just as thin and skeletal as it had been in winter. It wasn’t dead, though. It was as if the town were keeping it alive purely to prolong its torture.

      They approached the dark, stagnant lake and the squat building that rested beside it, all grey and concrete and uninspiring. The Administrator, Tipstaff, was waiting for him as he thanked the driver and got out of the car.

      “Elder Bespoke, welcome back. The meeting is about to start.”

      Ghastly frowned at him. “It’s not scheduled till two. They arrived early?”

      “In their words, they are ‘eager to negotiate’.”

      Ghastly walked out of the warm sun into the chill Sanctuary, Tipstaff beside him. “Who’s here?”

      “Elder Illori Reticent of the English Sanctuary plus two associates, an Elemental and an Energy-Thrower.”

      “That’s all?”

      “We’ve been tracking them since they flew in this morning, and we’ve been keeping an eye on all known foreign sorcerers in the country. It would appear that these three are the only ones in the vicinity. Elder Bespoke?”

      Tipstaff held a door open and Ghastly grumbled, but went inside. In here, his robe was waiting. He pulled it on, checked himself in the mirror. His shirt, his waistcoat, his tie, his trousers, all those clothes he’d made himself, all of them were covered up by this robe. His physique, honed by countless hours of punching bags and punching people, was rendered irrelevant by this shapeless curtain he now wore. The only thing that wasn’t covered up was the one thing he’d spent his life trying to draw attention away from – the perfectly symmetrical scars that covered his entire head.

      Tipstaff brushed a speck of lint from Ghastly’s shoulder, and nodded approvingly. “This way, sir.”

      Ghastly could have walked to the conference room blindfolded, but he let Tipstaff take the lead. There was Ghastly’s way of doing things and there was the proper way of doing things, and if there was one thing Tipstaff liked, it was procedure.

      They reached a set of double doors guarded by two Cleavers. At Tipstaff’s nod, the warriors in grey banged their scythes on the floor in perfect unison and the doors opened. Tipstaff stood to one side as Ghastly walked in.

      Grand Mage Erskine Ravel sat at the round table and scratched at his neck. The robes could be particularly itchy against bare skin, which was why Ghastly had lined his with silk. He hadn’t offered to line Ravel’s, though. He found it quietly amusing to watch his friend suffer.

      Beside Ravel sat Madame Mist, her face covered by that black veil she always wore. He’d often wondered if her features were as unsightly as his own, but decided that no, the veil was probably some piece of tradition that the Children of the Spider had chosen to keep alive.

      Across from Ravel and Mist, Illori Reticent sat patiently. A pretty woman with a beautiful mind, Illori’s smile grew warm when she saw him.

      “Elder Bespoke,” she said, rising to meet him, “so good to see you again.”

      “Elder Reticent,” said Ghastly, shaking her hand. “Sorry I’m late.”

      “You’re not late, we’re early, which in some circumstances can be twice as rude as being late.”

      Ghastly glanced at the man and woman standing behind her, their backs to the wall and their expressions vacant. “You only came with two bodyguards, I see.”

      “Of course,” Illori said, smiling innocently. “I’m not in any danger, am I? I am among friends, yes?”

      “Indeed you are,” said Ghastly, smiling back at her. “It’s nice that you remember. So many of your fellow mages seem to have forgotten that fact.”

      “Well, they’re not here, and I am, so I have been granted the honour of speaking for the whole of the Supreme Council. And I have some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

      “Then let’s get started,” Ghastly said, and took up his place at Ravel’s side.

      Illori looked at them all before speaking again. “The Irish Sanctuary has been at the forefront of the battle against oppression and tyranny for the last six hundred years, ever since Mevolent’s rise to power. We recognise that, and we appreciate that. Until recently, your Council of Elders was the most respected Council of any territory in living memory.”

      Ravel nodded. “Until recently.”

      “That’s no secret, surely. The death of Eachan Meritorious was a great loss to us all, but for Ireland it signalled the beginning of a rapid slide into uncertainty, aided no doubt when Thurid Guild’s brief time as Grand Mage ended with his imprisonment. Again and again, the Irish Sanctuary has been battered by enemies from without and within.”

      “And again and again we have triumphed,” said Ghastly.

      “Indeed you have,” said Illori, “thanks to some exemplary work by your operatives. But your Sanctuary has been weakened. When the next attack comes, you may not be strong enough to prevail. So I have come to you with a solution, should you be agreeable.”

      “This’ll be interesting,” Ravel muttered.

      “Before the Sanctuaries, there were communities. Each of these communities was ruled by twelve village Elders. Each of these twelve would oversee a different aspect of village life, but, when the time came to make important decisions, all twelve votes were counted equally.”

      “We know our own history,” said Ravel. “We also know that when the Sanctuaries were established, the unwieldy twelve was cut down to a more practical three. Even the communities that are around today haven’t kept up with the old ways.”

      “Even so,” Illori said, “lessons can be learned. We propose the establishment of a supporting Council of nine – five mages of our choosing, four of yours – to help you in the running of your affairs. This would leave you with a majority of seven to five, and it would mean you had more sorcerers, more Cleavers, and more resources. Your Sanctuary would remain under your full control and it would be returned to its СКАЧАТЬ