The Book Eaters(51)
Fertility treatments on the horizon meant nothing. Marriages would still be fraught, still need arranging. Dragons were still useful in a myriad of ways. He saw no reason those things should change.
But without Redemption, it would be impossible to maintain their power. And so the quest for Redemption mattered to him, because the knights mattered to him.
Make or break, indeed.
Add to that: the problem of Kingsey. Mentor, commander, father figure, frightful bastard. All good things. Except now he was an incompetent old man, brain bogged down from years of book eating, making decisions too slowly. Fearful, in his old age; mastered by worries, instead of mastering them. The patriarchs ran circles around him.
He thought of tonight’s bloodbath. All because Kingsey had feared the situation and striven to control it, an admirable goal, except he’d lost control of it, instead. Given it away to a junior officer, rather than staying involved himself, or staying on top of things. That was the clincher and the nuance. Dominate what you feared, sure, but the commander had confused lashing out blindly with taking decisive action.
Ramsey wouldn’t make that mistake. He wouldn’t forgive Kingsey for it, either.
* * *
In this buzzing mode of sleep-deprived, adrenaline-fueled anticipation, he arrived at last in the market town of Alnwick, carrying no other possessions beyond some cash, a long-distance bomb transmitter, and a purse with its unexpected gun. Bullets jingling in the inner compartment.
A far cry from several days ago when he’d driven to Newcastle with a full squad of knights, a hefty suitcase, and his favorite dragon. On the other hand, he was one step closer to salvaging the future of his order, and likewise his place within it. Ramsey considered the trade-off more than adequate. Sent a mental hat-tip in Devon’s direction, for her role in that.
Like so many places in the north, Alnwick was all history and no future. Gardens and castles for tourists, dwindling high streets and rising unemployment for locals. He skirted the town center, parked his car on a quiet road, and got out, leather bag in tow. Left the door open with the keys still in the ignition; someone else would nick the car and cover his fingerprints with their own. He walked the remaining distance to St. Michael’s Church.
Seven motorbikes were parked around the church. Men would be waiting inside. His watch read 3 A.M., the witching hour. Oddly appropriate. Ramsey smiled, jaunted through the crumbling gravestones. Enjoyed the atmosphere, enjoyed the cool and quiet place that the whole world became when all the humans had fucked off to bed.
And then he stopped in front of the doors, contemplating. A tiny part of him was still afraid of Kingsey, of facing him down. He could admit it. Just for a moment. Fear was a long-lived, enduring thing. Up until the very last moment, when you mastered it. This was normal.
A deep breath. He ducked into the church.
Seven knights stood in shadow, clustered at the front. One was Ealand, a good friend. The rest were familiar, too: Llanfor, Prescot, Ashby, Wick, Stalham. But Ramsey didn’t care about them. Someone had knocked over the podium to create more room. Dramatic moonlight, like a film. Flashman would have approved.
“Merry Christmas, one and all.” Ramsey Fairweather walked up the aisle like an abandoned groom, still in the ticket collector’s jacket and cap; ill-fitting, too tight. A woman’s leather handbag slung from one shoulder. He’d never felt more confident, and more anxious.
“Save the niceties.” Kingsey stepped forward with a well-disguised limp, cane scraping and dragging on the echoing floor. “Today has been the ruination of us.”
If the knight commander ever wore a color other than black, Ramsey had never seen it. Could not envisage the man as dressed any other way. Head shaved close, smart cap, black gloves and now, with the onset of years, a black cane. That wide-shoulder frame, once so menacing to a much-younger Ramsey, had stooped and caved with the years, the muscular weight of him withering into bony gauntness.
Ramsey made a deferential salute. “Well, you would know, sir. The past year has been a disaster under your leadership.”
Uneasy silence. Ealand looked sick, the other knights merely surprised by Ramsey’s reckless tendencies.
“Your spy is gone, and the Ravenscar with her. When we could have had them both.” Kingsey, so angry and leery. “And you lay the blame at my feet?”
“The Ravenscar patriarchs were notoriously careful with their secrets,” Ramsey said blandly. “We have no reason to assume they shared their scientific knowledge with a woman, not when Killock is still alive, and there are plenty of other sons in the house. Seizing Hester might have lost us the Ravenscars forever.”
The commander hesitated, off-balance. That pissed Ramsey off. Younger-Kingsey would never have shown such weakness. The old man was cracking.
The other knights saw it, exchanged anxious glances. Ramsey could see them adjusting, weighing, considering the situation as it changed. A hint of respect for his brass.
“We don’t know the status of the other Ravenscars,” Kingsey said at last. “We have no guarantees that any of them are still alive! If we lose that trail, if we cannot track your sister to her destination, then we are done and dusted. For all any of us know, Killock could be dead, or Hester living apart from the others—”
“See this?” Ramsey withdrew the embellished pistol. Held it high so they could see the crest, plain in the moonlight. “This gun belonged to Weston Ravenscar. The same one Hester was using at the train station. I got it off Devon”—a slight lie, a simplification of events—“a few hours ago. The surviving Ravenscars are alive and well. Killock, specifically, is alive and well. Keep our cool, follow the trail, and we’ll have what we’re looking for.”