I was so shocked I actually stopped in my tracks and stared at him with my mouth hanging open. Members of the family had left in the past or been declared rogue and forced out, but no one had ever turned traitor, working from within to betray us to our enemies...It was unthinkable.

"Is that why everyone's been so conspicuously giving me the cold shoulder?" I said eventually. "Is that why I've been called back?"

"I don't know, Eddie. The Matriarch...hasn't been taking me into her confidence like she used to. So...watch your back, while you're here. Paranoia breeds suspicion. Because if the family can't identify their traitor, they might just choose one..."

We walked on together, back through the many rooms and pa.s.sageways of the Hall, past magnificent works of art that we all just took for granted. Rembrandts. Goyas. Schalckens. The Hall is stuffed with priceless paintings and sculptures and precious items, donated by princes and powers and governments down the centuries. They've always been very grateful for everything the family does for them. And then there were the displays of weapons and all the other spoils of war we've acc.u.mulated. The family might not be very sentimental about its past, but it never throws away anything useful.

"Someone is testing us," said James after a while. "Testing their traitor's information, seeing how far they can get before we stop them. But who? The Stalking Shrouds? The Loathly Ones? The Cold Eidolon? The Mandrake Recorporation?" He shook his head slowly. "There's so many of them, and so few of us." And then he smiled at me, his old d.a.m.n-them-all-to-h.e.l.l smile, and clapped me on the shoulder again. "Let them come. Let them all come. We're Droods, and we were born to kick supernatural a.r.s.e. Right?"

"d.a.m.n right," I said.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Remote Viewing W hen the Sarjeant-at-Arms finally came looking for me, Uncle James and I were standing before an old caricature by Boz of good old Jacob in his prime, sharing a conversation with Gladstone and Disraeli, outside Parliament. (One of those revered prime ministers was actually a Drood, on his mother's side, but I can never remember which.) G.o.d alone knows what the three of them were discussing, but given the expressions on Disraeli's and Gladstone's faces, Jacob was almost certainly telling them one of his famously filthy jokes. Jacob could shock the knickers off a nun at forty paces. Both James and I heard the Sarjeant approaching, but we deliberately kept our attention fixed on the piece of art until the Sarjeant was obliged to announce his presence with a somewhat undignified cough. James and I turned unhurriedly and looked down our noses at him.

"Well?" James drawled in that infuriatingly snotty polite voice of his. He'd been known to start bar fights with less. He even threw in a raised eyebrow. "Do you have any information yet as to how such an appalling a.s.sault was able to get past all of our legendary security systems to attack the Heart?"

Give the man his due; the Sarjeant just stared impa.s.sively back. "An investigation into the security breach is ongoing, sir."

"That'll be a No, then. Anything else?"

The Sarjeant-at-Arms gave James a meaningful look, and James nodded, knowing he'd pushed the situation as far as he could. He turned his back on the Sarjeant and smiled warmly at me. "It's time I was on my way, Eddie. The unG.o.dly await, and there shall be beatings. Another exciting adventure lies ahead in the scurrilous backstreets and bars of fabulous Shanghai."

"I could spit," I said feelingly. "I never get missions like that. I suppose it's going to be all good booze, bad women, and lots of gratuitous violence?"

"Ah, yes," said James. "The same old, same old..."

We laughed, he crushed my hand in his, and off he went, striding grandly down the gallery in search of danger and diversion like the accomplished adventurer he was. The Gray Fox always was the best of us. The Sarjeant-at-Arms reminded me of his presence with another of his weighty coughs, and reluctantly I allowed him to lead me back through the Hall to meet with the family Matriarch.

It turned out she was down in the War Room, deciding the fate of the world again, so we had to tramp through most of the north wing to reach the heavily reinforced steel door at the back of what used to be the old ballroom. It took us three pa.s.sWords, a retina scan, and a not entirely unfriendly frisking before the Sarjeant and I were even allowed to approach the door, but eventually it opened and we descended a very basic stairway cut into the stone wall itself, with no railing and a frankly intimidating open drop on the other side. The electric lighting was almost painfully bright, and extra security measures were already in place, so that glowing force fields and shimmering mystical screens opened before us as they acknowledged our torcs, and then sealed firmly behind us. The usual guard goblins were in place, sitting in their stone recesses; squat and ugly things with a face like a bulldog chewing on a wasp. They weren't much bigger than a football, with long spindly arms and legs, but they could be quite spectacularly vicious when roused. I'd once seen a goblin run down a werewolf and eat it alive, and you don't forget things like that in a hurry.

While waiting for a chance to express their utterly vile and nasty natures, the goblins whiled away the time by working on crossword puzzles from the Times. Goblins love word games. One of them stopped me to ask for a seventeen-letter word for bad government beginning with an m and got really quite upset when I came straight back with maladministration. The poor thing didn't realise he was doing yesterday's crossword.

At the bottom of the stairs, we both had to place our hands on an electronic scanner before we were allowed into the great vault that held the family War Room. The Sarjeant led me inside and then insisted I stay put by the door while he went to inform the Matriarch that I'd arrived. I folded my arms stiffly across my chest and sneered after him, but I didn't push the point. There was a gorgon squatting next to the door, head down, wrapped in leathery wings like an enveloping cloak. She looked like she was sleeping, but I knew she wasn't, even though several of the snakes were making a game attempt at snoring. Entering the War Room without following exact rules of procedure would lead to the gorgon opening her eyes and looking at you, and then the family would have another surprised-looking statue for the back gardens.

The War Room was a vast auditorium carved from solid stone. In here we saw everything, or at least everything that mattered. All four walls were covered with state-of-the-art display screens showing every country of the world, with little lights blinking to indicate cities and other places where members of the family were at work. Green lights for a successfully completed mission, blue for certain individuals currently on the family hit list, and the occasional purple signifying a major c.o.c.k-up and its equally large cover-up operation. Potential trouble spots were marked with amber lights, current threats with red. There was a h.e.l.l of a lot of amber and red showing all across the world, and a lot more red than amber, compared to ten years ago. h.e.l.l, even Lithuania had a red light.

The family sat in long rows, concentrating on their workstations despite the hustle and bustle all around them. Dozens of farcasters caressed crystal b.a.l.l.s or peered into scrying pools, studying the world's problems from afar, while softly murmuring their findings into hands-free headsets. Technicians worked their computers, worrying out useful data, fingers darting across keyboards with dazzling speed. Agents may operate alone in the field, but each and every one of us is backed up by a staff of hundreds. And not just in the War Room. Information retrieval experts are constantly at work in the newsroom (usually referred to by those who work their eight-hour shifts in that windowless hole as the Pit), sifting through all the world's media and cross-referencing the official version with the mountain of information that comes in every day from our worldwide web of spies and informers. The family relies on these dedicated researchers to spot trouble forming before it gets out of hand, as well as keep track of certain individuals who like to think they can pa.s.s through the world without leaving a trace. These researchers could tell you exactly where to find a needle in a haystack, and make a pretty good guess about which way it would be pointing. They knew everything there was to know about the world, except what it was like to live in it. They were far too valuable to ever be allowed to leave the Hall.

At any given moment, hundreds of Droods are operating in hot spots all across the world. And they work alone, because agents in the field can't be viewed from afar. Their torcs hide them from us, as well as our enemies. That's why only the most trusted in the family are ever allowed to become field agents. And why I'm always kept on such a short leash. The War Room has to wait for field agents to report in by traditional means, often on the run, and then provide them with as much information and backup as possible. Every agent is supported by thousands of researchers, advisors, experts in the more arcane areas of science and magic, and an around-the-clock communications staff.

Field agents gather information, defuse pressure points, and take direct action when necessary. (We prefer to work with a quiet word and a subtle threat, but the family's never been afraid to get its hands dirty.) But every one of us knows that it's the backup people at the Hall who make our job possible.

The family has raised remote viewing, in all its forms, to something of an art. And since we've always seen both science and magic as just two sides of the same useful coin, we work hard to stay in the forefront of all the latest advances. In fact, our research labs work every hour there is to make d.a.m.ned sure we're always one step ahead. We've turned out weapons, and answers to weapons, that most of the world doesn't even dream exist yet. We use whatever we have to, to keep the world safe.

I was surprised, and just a little alarmed, to see how many red alerts were showing; warnings of major threats not as yet narrowed down to any particular country or group or individual. And when I say major threat, I mean a clear and present danger to the world. I'd never known the War Room to seem so busy, with people crowded around every display, every computer, every paper-strewn table. There was a general susurrus of combined murmured voices, almost like being in a church. (Raised voices are discouraged; they breed agitation.) Messengers were constantly hurrying in and out, bearing notes and reports and vital updates. And fresh pots of tea. The family runs on tea. And Jaffa Cakes.

No one even glanced in my direction.

The Matriarch was sitting at the main mission table, stiff-backed and coldly attentive as always, studying an endless series of urgent reports as they were handed to her. Some she initialed, approving an action; others she sent back for more detail. Messengers waited in line for a chance to push a paper in front of her, or murmur confidentially in her ear, before hurrying off with new instructions. The Matriarch never allowed herself to seem hurried or worried, and she never raised her voice. If some especially harried messenger did overstep the mark, by questioning a detail or insisting on the importance of his message, one look from the Matriarch's cold gray eyes was all it took, and the messenger would practically break his back bowing and sc.r.a.ping as he hurried away from her.

The Sarjeant-at-Arms advised the Matriarch of my arrival, and she turned immediately to look at me. I stared calmly back, not even bothering to unfold my arms. She beckoned imperiously, and I ambled across the War Room to join her, deliberately not hurrying. The Matriarch gestured sharply for everyone to withdraw, and they all fell back a decent distance so she and I could talk in private. The Sarjeant looked actually outraged at being lumped in with everyone else, but he went. One didn't argue with the Matriarch. She stood up to greet me, wearing her usual cold and disapproving expression.

The family Matriarch. Martha Drood. Tall, elegant, and more royal than any queen. In her mid-sixties now, she dressed like country aristocracy, all twinset tweeds and pearls and understated makeup. She wore her long gray hair piled up in a sculpture on top of her head. She'd been beautiful in her day, and her strong bone structure ensured she was striking even now. Like the Ice Queen of fable, who drives a splinter of her ice into your heart while you're young and helpless, so you have no choice but to love her forever. She didn't offer me a hand to shake, and I didn't offer to kiss her on the cheek. Honours even. I nodded to her.

"h.e.l.lo, Grandmother."

The family has always been led by a Matriarch; it's a holdover from our Druidic heritage. Martha is descended from a long line of warrior queens, and it shows. Her word is law. When I was a child, in family history cla.s.s, I pointed out to the teacher that if she was our queen, the rest of us were just her drones. I got shouted at a lot for that. Technically, the Matriarch has absolute power over the family. In practice, she is very firmly advised by a council of twelve drawn from the foremost members of the family. You have to achieve something really quite remarkable for the family even to make the short list. Matriarchs who don't or won't listen to their councils don't tend to last long. In extreme cases, accidents have been known to happen, and a new Matriarch takes over. The family can be extremely ruthless, when it has to.

Martha's second husband, Alistair, stood diffidently at her side, as always, ready for whatever she might need him to do. Tall and st.u.r.dy, he dressed like a gentleman farmer; the kind that never ever gets his expensive boots dirty. He was ten years younger than Martha and handsome enough, I suppose, in a weak and unfinished sort of way, like the investment broker who a.s.sures you that the deal he's proposing is absolutely guaranteed to make you rich. I nodded briefly to him.

"h.e.l.lo, Alistair."

He was Princ.i.p.al Consort of the family, by long tradition, but I was d.a.m.ned if I'd call him Grandfather. My real grandfather, Martha's first husband, Arthur, died fighting the Kiev Conspiracy in 1957. I never even knew him.

Alistair and I never did get along. Officially, his function in the family was as personal advisor to the Matriarch, but that was just something to keep him busy, so he wouldn't realise he was just a glorified gopher. He'd never been on a field mission in his life, to his and everyone else's relief. Before he married Martha he was something in the City, but only because he inherited it. Word was, the City was glad to be rid of him. The whole family knew he was useless, but Grandmother loved him, so out of respect for her no one ever said anything. While making very sure Alistair was never allowed near anything important. Or breakable. There's one like Alistair in every family.

Martha studied me coldly. "It's been quite a while since you graced us with your presence, Edwin."

I shrugged. "I like to keep busy. And it's not as if there's anything here I miss."

"After all this time, you still blame the family for the deaths of your mother and your father," said Martha. "You should be proud of their sacrifice."

"I am," I said. "But no one's ever going to send me to my death on an operation that wasn't planned properly. I run my own missions."

"You serve the family," Alistair said, trying for Martha's frosty tone and not bringing it off.

"I serve the family," I said. "In my own way."

"The people responsible for the inadequate planning of that mission were punished long ago," said Martha. "You have to let it go, Edwin. She was my daughter too." She made a deliberate effort to change the subject, looking me up and down. "What is that you're wearing, Edwin? Is this really the best you could do on your first visit to the Hall in ten years?"

"Sorry," I said. "But I've been recently diagnosed as fashion intolerant. I can't wear anything good, in case I develop style."

She looked at me. "You know I don't find humour funny, Edwin. And stand up straight. Do you want to develop round shoulders? And when are you going to get married and give the family children? Like everyone else, you have a duty to provide the family with fresh blood, to keep us strong and vital. We have presented you with several lists of perfectly respectable candidates from suitable families. Any one of whom would make you a good match. You're getting a little too old to be so choosy."

"That is something else I'll decide for myself," I said firmly.

"What was wrong with dear Stephanie Mainwearing?" said Martha.

"Delightful creature, I thought."

"Oh, come on, Grandmother. If she was any more inbred, she'd be her own sister."

"Alice Little?"

"Lives in a world of her own and only comes out for mealtimes. Lots of mealtimes."

"Penelope Creighton?"

"You have got to be kidding! She's slept with more women than I have! Don't your people do even basic research anymore?"

"Well...are you at least seeing anyone at the moment, Edwin?"

I considered telling her about Silicon Lily but rose above the temptation. "No one special, Grandmother," I said.

"I hope you're being...careful, Edwin," said Alistair in an even more snotty voice than usual. "You know how the family feels about b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

I looked at him for a moment, and then said, "I'm always careful, Alistair."

"After all," said Alistair, "whoever you eventually settle on, she has to be acceptable to the family."

"Like you, Alistair?" I said.

Martha decided to change the subject again. "You have been summoned back to the Hall, Edwin, because I have a very important and very urgent mission for you."

"I had sort of gathered that," I said. "Can I just ask what could be so important that I had to be dragged all the way back here just to discuss it? What was wrong with the usual channels?"

"It's a matter of security," said Martha. "It has to be you, because everyone else is busy. Busier than ever before. You can see the boards; the whole family is stretched to its limits. And you saw what just happened in the Sanct.i.ty. Once, such an attack would have been unthinkable, but now the whole family is under threat. All our best efforts have to go into defending the family and identifying our attackers. The mission I have for you now, Edwin, is your chance to prove your worth at last and come back to the bosom of the family. Carry out this mission successfully, and you will have earned a seat on the council." She paused, considering her words carefully. "Some of us have come to believe that there is a traitor, perhaps at the very heart of the family. I am no longer sure whom I can trust. Even my own council has become...divided, and quarrelsome, of late. As an outsider, you might see things the rest of us cannot. Prove yourself with this mission, Edwin. I would value your voice in my council."

I just stood there and looked at her. I really hadn't expected that. The council was where family policy was decided. Where all the decisions that mattered were made. It had honestly never even occurred to me that I might end up on it some day. I wasn't even sure I wanted such an honour, or such responsibility, but I had to admit I was tempted. If only so I could use my new exalted position to identify and help others like myself in the family.

"What's the mission?" I said flatly.

The Matriarch smiled briefly for the first time. "Your mission is to take the Soul of Albion back to Stonehenge and rebury it under the main sacrificial altar, where it belongs. Once it is back in place, the Soul will be safe again. The Stones will protect it. In the wrong hands, the Soul could bring down England, and perhaps even the Droods."

I was nodding even as she spoke. This had to be what Jacob and I had overheard them discussing, on his dead television.

Martha called to half a dozen armed guards, who brought forward a great oaken chest sealed with solid silver bars and cold iron padlocks. On top of which the whole casket practically crackled with protective spells. The guards couldn't have handled it more respectfully if it had been filled to the brim with nitroglycerin. They placed the casket very carefully at Martha's feet, and then almost tripped over each other as they backed away from it, at speed. Martha gave them one of her best icy looks and undid the bands and padlocks with a Word. They snapped open, one after the other, and the defence spells immediately started warming up, until Martha shut them down with a quick gesture. The casket lid opened by itself, and Martha reached in and drew out a small silver jewel box, no bigger than her hand.

She turned the delicate key in its lock, and the box opened to reveal a bed of red plush velvet and on it the Soul of Albion. A polished crystal sphere, no bigger than my thumb, it blazed with unearthly fires. It was impossibly, heartstoppingly beautiful, almost painful to the eyes, like the platonic ideal of every gem or jewel or precious stone that ever was. All across the War Room people stopped what they were doing and looked around, sensing the presence of something new and wonderful in their midst.

The Soul is supposed to have fallen to Earth from the stars some three thousand years ago, but there are more legends about the Soul than you can shake a grimoire at. Terribly beautiful, impossibly powerful, linked forever to the land in which it fell. Martha snapped the lid of the jewel box shut, cutting off the brilliant light, and we all breathed a little more easily again. While its light blazed, it was almost impossible to think of anything but the Soul. Martha glared around her, and everyone quickly got back to work again. She locked the box and handed it to me. I accepted it gingerly. It felt strangely light, almost insubstantial in my hand. I slipped it into my jacket pocket, taking my hand away from the box as quickly as possible. On the whole, I think I'd have felt safer carrying a backpack nuke with the timer already running.

"As long as the Soul of Albion remains in that box, it is protected by powerful masking spells," said Martha. "And the lead lining should shield you from most of the Soul's destructive radiation."

"Oh, good," I said. "I feel so much safer now."

Long and long ago, so far back that history becomes legend and myth, someone used the Soul to perform a mighty magic, and now as long as the Soul of Albion rests in its appointed place within the great circle of standing stones that is Stonehenge, England is safe from all threats of invasion. (There is another legend, about three royal Crowns of Anglia, but that was always just a diversion.) King Harold unearthed the Soul and took it with him to Hastings in 1066, thinking it would help him stand off William of Normandy, the fool. After the battle, William the Conqueror personally oversaw the returning of the Soul to Stonehenge, and no one had moved it since.

Until now.

"I have to ask," I said. "Who the h.e.l.l thought it was a good idea to bring the Soul of Albion all the way here in the first place? And have they been given a really good slapping?"

Alistair sniffed and did his best to look down his nose at me. "That concerns policy, Edwin. You don't need to know. Suffice to say...there were security issues involved."

"However," Martha said quickly, "given the recent attacks on the Hall and now the Heart itself, it has been decided that the Soul should be returned to its rightful place, and the sooner the better. Originally, your uncle James was to have performed this mission. That's why we called him back from the Amazon jungles. But we all feel that under...current circ.u.mstances, the movements of a major agent like the Gray Fox are bound to be more clearly monitored than usual. If any of our enemies discovered he was heading for Stonehenge, they might draw some very accurate conclusions. On the other hand, a fairly minor, semi-rogue operative such as yourself might well slip under their radar and go unnoticed."

"Spell out the catch for me," I said. "Just so I can be sure I've got it right."

"I would have thought it was obvious," said Martha, meeting my gaze unflinchingly. "If you are noticed, and your mission deduced, the odds are that every bad thing in the world will come for you, desperate for a chance to get their hands on the legendary Soul of Albion."

"And then my mission turns into a suicide run," I said, nodding slowly. "No wonder you felt the need to bribe me with the offer of a place on the council. The odds are you're sending me to my death."

"But will you do it?" said the Matriarch. "For the family, and for England?"

"Of course," I said. "Anything for England."

CHAPTER SIX.

Dangerous Lab Interns S o I went off to pay a visit to the family Armourer. Bit of a dry old stick, but there's nothing he doesn't know about weapons, devices, and things that go boom, whether scientific or magical in nature. In the more than likely event of something going horribly wrong on my new mission, it was clear I was going to need all the serious weaponry I could get my hands on, if I was to protect the Soul of Albion from all comers.

I wanted a new gun. A big gun. A really, really big gun. With atomic bullets.

The family armoury is situated a decent distance beneath the west wing, set even deeper in the bedrock than the War Room. That way when (rather than if) the whole armoury finally blows itself to h.e.l.l, it won't take the rest of the Hall with it. The Armourer and his staff, geniuses one and all though they may be, and enthusiastic to a fault, have always had a tendency towards the kick it and see what happens school of scientific enquiry. They also have unlimited access to guns, grimoires, and unstable chemicals. I'm amazed this part of England is still here.

The present armoury is set up in what used to be the old wine cellars, behind vast and heavy blast-proof doors. Designed to keep things in, rather than out. The cellars are basically a long series of connected stone chambers, with bare plastered walls and curving ceilings, all but buried under a multicoloured spaghetti of tacked-up electrical wiring. The fluorescent lighting was a sometime thing, and the huge air-conditioning system grumbled constantly to itself. The stone chambers were full to bursting with the Armourer's extended staff: researchers, expediters, mechanics, weaponeers, and human guinea pigs. (Someone had to test each new device. This was decided by a lottery among the staff, and the loser was the one who wasn't smart enough to fix the outcome in advance.) The armoury is always coming up with new weapons devised, constructed, and tested right here in the labs. Which is why the place is always so appallingly noisy. I stood by the closed blast-proof doors awhile, waiting for my ears to adjust to the din. Men and women with earnest, preoccupied faces bustled back and forth, giving their whole attention to the latest generation of deadly devices they were producing for agents to use in the field. And hopefully getting all the bugs out in advance. I could still remember the explosive whoopee cushion, which didn't, and the utterly impenetrable arm-mounted force shield, which wasn't. No one paid me any attention at all, but I was getting used to that.

Lights flared brightly, shadows danced, and lightning crawled all over one wall like electric ivy. Sharp chemical stinks fought it out with the gentler aromas of crushed herbs, while molten metal flowed sluggishly into ceramic moulds, and smoke drifted gently on the air from the latest unfortunate incident. The armoury didn't have a first-aid box; it had its own adjoining hospital ward. A h.e.l.l of a lot of people crowded around test benches and futuristic lab equipment, alchemical retorts and silver-bullet moulds, and of course the ubiquitous computers and chalked pentagrams. Most of these very busy people were cursing loudly and emphatically as they tried to persuade their latest projects to do what they were supposed to without exploding, melting down, or turning the experimenter into something small and fluffy. Somebody close to me reached for a handy lump hammer, and I decided to go somewhere else.

I strolled through the labs, keeping an eye out for the Armourer. Doorways opened in midair, giving brief glimpses of faraway places, and a test animal imploded. A desperate young intern chased through the labs, flailing away with a b.u.t.terfly net, trying to catch an oversized eyeball with its own fluttering bat wings. I'm sure it had looked perfectly reasonable at the drafting stage. No one paid any attention to these little disruptions, except to jump just a little, absentmindedly, at the latest bang. Just another day, in the armoury. When you're working at the cutting edges of devious thinking, you have to expect and allow for the occasional setback, along with regular stinks, spatial inversions, and the odd unexpected transformation. Everyone who worked in the armoury was a volunteer drawn from a long list of applications, carefully selected from those in the family who had clearly demonstrated they had far more brains than was good for them. (Often accompanied by an unhealthy curiosity and a complete lack of self-preservation instincts.) (The really dangerous thinkers were either rapidly promoted to purely theoretical projects or sent to alternate dimensions and told not to come back till they'd calmed down.) The current crop of interns looked like science nerds everywhere, all heavy spectacles and plastic pocket protectors, except that some of them wore pointy wizard's hats as well. A lot of them were wearing T-shirts under their lab coats, bearing the legend I Blow Things Up, Therefore I Am, Even If Someone Else Suddenly Isn't. Science nerd humour. They all looked very earnest and very committed, and if they survived long enough would eventually be promoted to the somewhat safer environs of the research and development labs. It did seem to me though, as I wandered through the chaos in search of the Armourer, that the old place held a lot more people and projects, along with a greater general sense of urgency, than I remembered from my last visit, ten years ago.

Two of the more brawny types were sparring with electrified bra.s.s knuckles, sparks crackling and spitting fiercely on the air as they swung and parried. One girl had her head stuck deep in a fish tank, proving she could now breathe underwater. Impressive, but I couldn't help thinking the gaping rows of gills on her neck would be a bit of a giveaway in polite society. Not far away, an unfortunate young man had stopped proving he could now breathe fire, because it had given him hiccoughs. Unpredictable and highly inflammable hiccoughs. Someone led him away to put an asbestos bag over his head. I didn't see why they couldn't just stick his head in the fish tank, next to the girl.

And someone had blown up the firing range again. There's always someone trying to break the record for biggest and most powerful handgun.

I finally spotted the Armourer up ahead, striding back and forth through the caverns, keeping a stern eye on everyone and everything. He paused here and there to dispense advice, encouragement, and the occasional clip on the ear, where necessary. The Armourer was strict but fair. I waited until he came back and settled at his usual testing bench, and then I slipped in beside him. He glanced briefly at me, sniffed loudly, and went back to what he was working on. It takes a lot to surprise the Armourer.

A tall, middle-aged man with far too much nervous energy, he wore a permanently stained white lab coat over a T-shirt saying Guns Don't Kill People; I Kill People. Two shocks of tufty white hair jutted out over his ears below a bulging bald pate, and under bushy white eyebrows his eyes were a steely gray. His expression rarely changed from an habitual scowl, and while he had once been tall and imposing, he was now bent over by a p.r.o.nounced stoop, legacy of so many years spent leaning over workbenches and lab projects that always needed fixing in a hurry. Or maybe just from ducking a lot. I sat beside him for a while, waiting for him to say something, but as always it was up to me to tear his attention away from his latest project.

"h.e.l.lo, Armourer. Good to see you again. The old place seems very busy, just at the moment. Are we preparing for a war?"

He sniffed loudly again. "Always, boy. Always."

He plugged a thick electrical cable into a socket, tripped half a dozen switches, and then looked expectantly at a computer monitor wrapped in mistletoe and strings of garlic. Nothing happened. The Armourer hit the computer with a hammer, and I quickly took it away from him.

"Give that back!" he said, scowling fiercely. "That's my lucky hammer!"