The officer nodded. “Do you want us to set up a search?”
The agent shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. On the contrary, it couldn’t be better. Let him report to his superiors.” He gave Daud an odd look. “I will be fascinated to learn of their response.”
The officer began directing his men. Two of them kept a firm hold on the female prisoner, while two others picked up the body of the young man before they all headed down the alleyway.
Daud watched them, confused. Then he shook his head and stepped up to the agent.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but you said you would take me to meet Norcross. Whatever this little show was all about, I intend to hold you to that promise.”
The agent adjusted his hat, which had managed to stay in place throughout the fight. Then he lifted his monocle again from beneath his cloak and looked at Daud through it. His magnified eye dropped to Daud’s left hand, his gaze holding there for a few seconds.
Then he turned away, dropping the monocle on its chain.
“Follow me.”
Daud reached forward and grabbed the man’s shoulder. He pulled him around and then twisted his fingers in the man’s cloak below the neck, pulling his face up to his.
“Take me to Maximilian Norcross, now.”
The agent just laughed, then coughed as Daud’s grip threatened to choke him.
“But my dear fellow,” he said, “I am Maximilian Norcross. Now, do you want to do business, or not?”
14
THE NORCROSS ESTATE, SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH-CENTRAL GRISTOL
25th Day, Month of Earth, 1852
“Known for its rolling green hills and foggy meadows, Gristol is the largest of the Isles and is home to half the population of the known world. While most are simple people living in rural areas where sheep, blood oxen and gazelle are raised for their hides and meat, there are also five major cities spread out across the nation.”
—THE ISLE OF GRISTOL
Excerpt from a volume on the geography and culture of Gristol
They traveled by electric road coach; Daud had heard of such vehicles, but had never seen one, let alone traveled in one. The austere, angular vehicle was a cross between a horse-drawn coach and a rail carriage, with large, wide wheels and high suspension, making it look suited to rough terrain.
Norcross hadn’t specified their destination, but he’d told his men to take the female captive ahead of them to “the house,” so Daud assumed they were going to the collector’sresidence. But, to Daud’s surprise, the journey took the best part of three hours, the coach first piloted through the narrow and winding streets of Porterfell before setting off along the rutted track that passed for an open country road in rural Gristol as they began to wind their way up into the shallow rise of the hills that bordered the town. As they traveled, Daud’s gaze remained fixed on the view outside the window to his left, because if he could at least pick out some landmarks, he might have a fair idea of which direction they were going in—and how he might get back to Porterfell alone, if he had to. He abandoned that plan as soon as they left the town, the rough—if regular—purr as the coach’s wide tires glided over Porterfell’s cobbled streets replaced by an altogether louder rattle as the vehicle’s suspension began to compensate for the rough country terrain. At the summit of a hill, Daud could see nothing but moonlit moorland, the flat, virtually featureless landscape stretching to the horizon, covered in almost uniform scrubby vegetation. After several miles of travel along the even, straight road, the landscape began to change again, the moorland now rising and falling as the coach began to weave up and down a series of valleys that grew increasingly steep the farther they went.
Norcross sat facing Daud, his back to the direction of travel. He didn’t speak for the whole journey, and Daud, in no mood for conversation, made no attempt to break the silence. Occasionally Norcross yawned and twice as they rumbled along the road, Norcross took his monocle out and stared at Daud through it, lips pursed, his magnified eye moving up and down.
Daud ignored him.
Eventually Norcross leaned forward, looked out the window again, and sat back with a nod. “Nearly there,” he said.
Daud leaned forward to get a better look outside, but by now the moon had set and the moorland view was reduced to nothing but a foggy gray halo stretching a few yards from the coach’s side lamps.
Then they began to crisscross up another valley hillside, doing nearly a complete loop. Norcross pointed out the window. Daud once again turned for a look, and this time there was something to see.
Norcross’s residence wasn’t just a house, it was a castle, planted against the steep side of the valley. The edifice consisted of one fat, round high tower, capped with battlements, which loomed over the box-like bulk of the main structure, the castellated walls interrupted at intervals by small towers with pointed turrets. As the coach negotiated the curve of the road, Daud could see that same road continued until it crossed a bridge spanning the gap at the narrowest point of the valley, leading directly to the main castle gates, complete with portcullis and drawbridge.
The entire building was lit from within, every window a beacon shining from the sole sign of civilization in who knew how many miles of open countryside.
Norcross sat back in his seat, his hands folded on his lap. “Impressed?”
Daud tore his gaze from the view. “A house is a house.”
Norcross barked a laugh and leaned forward, slapping Daud on the knee. “Not just any house, my friend,” he said. “This is Morgengaard Castle!”
Daud glanced back at the view. “That supposed to mean something?”
“Mean something? Mean something?” Norcross slumped back in his seat. “Oh, I forget, you’re from the south, aren’t you?” Norcross’s nose crinkled in distaste. “Karnaca, perhaps? Serkonos, certainly.
