Bitter Seeds

“Watching the festivities,” Will answered. He jerked his chin toward the window. It made the room spin. He shuffled sideways.

“Don't you and the others have more pressing issues to occupy you right now?” said Stephenson. The empty sleeve pinned to his shoulder flapped up and down as he kicked off his galoshes.

“I came to talk to you about that very thing.”

Stephenson turned on the light and joined him at the window. He looked pointedly at the bottle on the desk and the tumbler in Will's hand. “Dozens of men down in St. James', working their arses off in this weather, and you're up here having a little party.”

“I'd offer to share, but ...” Will took the bottle by its neck and waggled it upside down above the floor. Nothing dripped out. He set the bottle back in Stephenson's drawer, where he'd found it.

Stephenson looked around the room, assessing his office for further indignities. Will knew he'd left several strewn across the old man's desk. A finger's worth of spirits seeping across the blotter. A bent letter-opener. Scrapes and gouges in the finish along the edges of the drawer.

It had surprised Will to discover that the old man had taken to locking his desk drawer. Apparently he'd noticed the bottle slowly going empty.

“You're pissed. On my brandy.”

“Me? Heavens no. Empty stomach. Low blood sugar.” Will giggled again. “Blood. Yes. That's the problem.”

“Beauclerk.” Stephenson shivered as he said it. Perhaps owing to the draft; perhaps not. “I am wet, I am cold, and I am hungry. I wanted to come inside, dry off a bit, down a bracer to warm me, then go home and eat dinner with Corrie. You will note that nowhere on this list of desires did I include chatting with a soused toff.”

The room wobbled. Will plopped down in the wide leather chair behind the desk.

“And get out of my chair,” said Stephenson. He gave the chair a swift tug. It spun, and so did Will. Will lurched to his feet. Stephenson took the seat he vacated. “What the hell is wrong with you to night?”

“We need to talk. One Englishman to another.”

“Would knowing I'm Canadian born make you go away any sooner?”

Will waved away the objection. “We're none of us perfect. Take me, for instance. Completely pissed.” He gulped from the tumbler. “Runs in the family, you know.”

Stephenson sighed. “How long have you been waiting?”

“I really couldn't say.” Will pointed at the empty bottle. “How full was that when I found it?”

“Do I need to call a ride for you?”

“He's quite mad, you know.”

“Who's mad?”

“Your boy.” Will waved his arm at the window, slopping the remaining brandy with a gesture that encompassed the park and, by extension, all Marsh's works, and therefore Marsh himself. “Marsh.”

“He's not my boy.”

“Oh, but he is. He is, he is. Perhaps not by blood, but—Ha. There it is again.” Beads of liquid splashed across the desk when he set the empty tumbler down. “Can't get away from it, can I.”

“I wasn't jesting about wanting you out of here. Is this about Marsh?”

“It's about this whole bloody project.” Will pointed outside again. “It's a terrible idea. Sir.”

Stephenson said, “It's a brilliant idea.”

“What ever it is that you and Marsh hope to achieve with this ploy, I tell you true, it will end badly.”

“We can hobble the Reichsbehorde in one stroke. We stand to obtain the research as well. Britain needs us to do this.” Stephenson looked outside, down at the park. The fingernail rattle of sleet against the window had tapered off; a handful of cottony snowflakes blazed in the office light as they eddied past the window.

“It's a brilliant idea,” he repeated. “It's Milkweed's chance to balance the scales. And we have to take it now. At present they can't have more than seven or eight, perhaps a dozen at most, of von Westarp's creatures running around. But how long will it be until they number seven hundred? Seven thousand?”

“Have you forgotten that we don't even know what the woman, Gretel, can do? We had her, right here, and we still have no idea.”

“Marsh suspects she's some sort of mentalist.”

“All the more reason not to do this. If she is as he says, they'd only have to capture a few squad members to get a complete picture of the state of Milkweed.”

“Which is why every member of the team will be issued a cyanide capsule. Including you.”

Will rubbed his face. “Look. Sir. You and I both know that on a typical day he's the smartest chap in the room. But what's escaped your notice is that he's not the smartest fellow right now. He's not thinking clearly. Hasn't been since Agnes died.”

“He's mourning.”

Will ran a hand through his hair. Too late he realized his fingers were sticky and smelled of very good brandy. “Of course he is. But it's not just that. Did you know he's been sleeping down in the storerooms?”

Stephenson frowned, his head jerked back in surprise.

“They had a falling out. Liv and he.”

“When did this happen?”

“As best as I can determine, soon after they returned from Williton. He's fanatically private about his home life, you know.” Will shook his head. It hurt, getting cut out of somebody's life. “It wasn't always that way.”

“They lost a child. Tragic? Yes. And yes, their marriage may falter. But he'll get the job done.”

Will said, “You coldhearted bastard. We stood there in your garden, you and I, while they said their vows.”

“I have larger concerns right now. And so do you. I recommend you go dunk your head in a bucket and pull yourself together.”

“I'm telling you, sir, he's not himself. And if you let him, he's going to take us so far off the fucking map that 'Here be Dragons' will be a quaint memory.”

“Jesus, Beauclerk. You're raving—”

“He wanted us to resurrect his daughter. Bring her back to life. It's true. Practically fell to his knees and begged me to make it happen.”

“Can you do that?”

“Oh, not you, too. Of course not. The best result, the very best, would be nightmarish. But that's just it, sir: Marsh doesn't care.”

The outburst left Will feeling light-headed again. He took the chair across the desk from Stephenson. More snowflakes glittered past the window behind the old man. It was getting dark outside.

As if reading Will's thought, Stephenson rose and pulled the blackout curtains. “He is very focused. Always has been. I'll grant you that much.”

“Focused? Was that your reaction when he pinched your motorcar?”

Stephenson scowled. “That was understandable, given the circumstances.”

“And yet you say he's not your boy,” Will muttered to himself. To Stephenson: “You're not listening to me. He's fixated on one thing and can't be bothered to think past that result or the consequences of getting there.”

Stephenson turned. He pursed his lips, staring across the desk with narrowed eyes. “You're frightened.”

“Of course I'm frightened. I'm not an imbecile.”

The old man sat again. “Your colleagues are rather excited about this.” The unspoken word danced through the space between the two men like a snowflake: teleportation.

“They're eager to see whether or not it actually works. To them, it's an experiment. But they won't be the ones traveling piggyback on an Eidolon.”

“If it works, it will change the war overnight. We'll have the ability to send men and materiel anywhere we want, and to retrieve them just as easily. Without the Eidolons, this raid would be impossible. It would be a one- way trip for those men, assuming they made it as far as the farm in the first place,” said Stephenson. “But with the Eidolons, nothing, nowhere, is beyond our reach. Imagine inserting a squad directly into the Berghof. Or sending a half ton of explosives to the OKW.”

“These actions aren't free. If we tried to make this our standard means of waging warfare, the blood prices ... well, we'd end up doing Jerry's work for him. And consider this. Every person who goes on this little jaunt,