Spectred Isle (Green Men #1)(64)

“You,” he said, grabbing a passing clerk at random. “Saul Lazenby. Brought in this morning. Where is he?”

“I don’t know!” the man said, with some affront.

“Then find out.” Randolph shoved him away.

“In the cells.” Sam emerged from the reception office, which would have been a more logical place to start, but Randolph wasn’t feeling logical. “Delingpole’s authority. Bracknell ordered him brought in.”

“Get Delingpole,” Randolph told him. “Isaacs, with me. Barney, take Bracknell.”

“Sir,” the other three chorused with varying levels of sarcasm, to none of which Randolph paid the slightest attention. He marched through the corridors, daring anyone who passed not to get the hell out of his way, to the corridor of cells, and hurried down the row, glancing through the barred hatches. All the rooms were empty till the fourth, where a dark-haired man was curled on a bench. It smelled sour and rank, like vomit.

“Christ,” Randolph said, peering in. “Saul? What the— Saul!”

“There’s some people coming,” Isaacs remarked. “You want to get him and I’ll deal with ’em?”

“Thank you.” Isaacs might even be better at dealing with the door, but he could hold off any number of interfering officials, and Randolph needed to get to Saul. He put his hands against the door. It was solid wood, old and dry and painted.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He let the ivy wind up through him, through muscles and veins, around sinews and bones, until it thrust under his skin, at his eyes and ears; until his mouth was bitter with the taste of leaves and his vision was dappled green and his shoulders hurt. Then he flattened his tendrils against the door and demanded, “Forthlaede.”

The ivy burst from his hands. It ripped through the door in a cloud of splinters with a loud rending noise, tearing the wood away from the lock and handle and hinges. The door collapsed inwards in three parts and a pile of greenery, over which Randolph took a long stride. Out of his trance, he could hear the sound of Isaacs in energetic discussion up the corridor.

Saul had pushed himself up, leaning on his hands. He was sallow-faced and haggard. “Randolph?”

“What the hell?”

“Sick,” Saul mumbled.

“Can you walk?”

Saul nodded, swung his legs down, and almost fell off the bench. Randolph scooped him up, staggering slightly under his weight. “Right, we’re leaving.” He lugged Saul out of the cell, over the heap of debris, and down the corridor, turned the corner, and stopped.

There were six men, arcanists and officials, strung in a semicircle around Isaacs that would have been more intimidating if they weren’t keeping a nervous and substantial distance. As it was, it looked very much as though he was intimidating them. One of them glanced past him to Randolph and said, plaintively, “Oh God.”

Randolph snarled, not bothering to articulate a threat. All of the men moved back a step.

“Er, Glyde,” began a fresh-faced someone. Randolph had forgotten his name; his elder brother had died in France.

“You’re in the wrong place,” he informed the group. “Immediately, and generally. The Ministry has exceeded its authority; if I were you I’d rethink my allegiances.”

“You are exceeding your authority!” Delingpole rapped. He was hurrying up the corridor with Sam behind him. “That man is a—”

Randolph let Saul’s feet slip to the ground so he could brace the slumped body and hold his face up, and also because he was too damned heavy. “Look at him. A layman, left in the cells without attention. What the devil are you playing at, you damned irresponsible fool?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Sam asked, brow furrowing as he came to give Saul his shoulder, supporting his other arm. He could feel it too, Randolph knew, a deep and growing sense of wrongness. “This is not good.”

“I’m going to find out. Give me a hand. No, Delingpole, you have no right to detain him or any other innocent civilian. I will have words for you on this.”

“The Ministry has authority to procure information—”

“You and your information,” Isaacs said. “Mr. G, whyn’t you get on? Me and the Captain can handle this.”

“Good idea,” Randolph said. “Don’t feel obliged to leave anything standing.”

Saul muttered something. He was taking his weight on his feet now that Sam and Randolph both had him, and Randolph could feel the push of greenery, the drive upward to the sun. Saul was calling on the Green Men, know it or not. He needed to get out of here.

“Come on, Sam.” He pulled Saul forward.

Delingpole planted himself in their way. “I said, no. You may consider yourself above the law—”

“I’m not the one unlawfully detaining citizens.”

“I have the authority of the Government!”

“I have that of the Crown. I have letters patent of monarchs from the Virgin onwards, including his majesty who now graces the throne, and none of them matter a damn. I serve England.”

Delingpole leaned in. “You seem to think you live in a medieval system where your orders go unquestioned.” His lip curled, a menacing sneer. “You do not.”

“The medievals are Johnny-come-latelies. I am of the old land. Get out of my way, bureaucrat, or I’ll burn your paper castle to the ground.”