know how it works,’ Crake assured him, his voice thin. He felt suddenly out of breath.
‘Of course you do. And I expect you know how dangerous and unpredictable the echo technique is, too. Can’t risk a battery conking out on me while I’ve got some bloody great horror sitting inside!’ He laughed nervously, before noticing that Crake had lost the colour in his face. ‘Are you quite alright?’
Crake tore his eyes away from the echo chamber. ‘I’m fine.’
Plome didn’t pursue the matter. He produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘The Shacklemores were here looking for you.’
‘The Shacklemores?’ Crake was alarmed. ‘When?’
‘Sometime around the end of Swallow’s Reap, I think. They said they were visiting all your associates.’ He wrung his hands. ‘Made me quite uncomfortable, actually. Made me think they knew about . . . well, this.’ He made a gesture to encompass the sanctum. ‘It’d be very awkward if this got out. You know how people are about us.’
But Crake too busy thinking about himself. The Shacklemore Agency was bad news. Bounty hunters to the rich and famous. He’d expected they’d be involved, but the confirmation still came as a blow.
‘Sorry, old chap,’ Plome said. ‘I suppose they found you out, eh?’
‘Something like that,’ he replied. Something much, much worse.
‘Barbarians,’ he snorted. ‘They take one look at a sanctum, then cry “daemonist” and hang you. Doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve done. Ignorance will triumph over reason every time. That’s the sad state of the world.’
Crake raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected such a comment from this generally conservative man. ‘You don’t think I should have stayed to face the music? Argued my case?’
‘Dear me, no! Running was the only thing you could have done. They just don’t understand what we’re about, people like us. They’re afraid of the unknown. And those blasted Awakeners don’t help, shooting their mouths off about Allsoul this and daemonism that, riling up the common folk. Why do you think I’m brown-nosing up to the local judge, eh? So I’ve got a fighting chance if anyone discovers what I’ve got hidden under my house!’
Plome had reddened during his tirade, and he had to take a few breaths and mop his brow when he was done. ‘Speaking of which, he could be here any minute. What can I help you with?’
‘I need supplies,’ Crake said. ‘I need to get back into the Art, and I don’t have any of the equipment.’
‘It’s practising the Art that got you into this pickle in the first place,’ Plome pointed out.
‘I’m a daemonist, Plome,’ Crake said. ‘It’s what I am. Without that, I’m just another shiftless rich boy, good for nothing.’ He gave a sad, resigned smile. ‘Once you’ve touched the other side, you can’t ever go back.’ A sudden, unexpected surge of tears surprised him. He fought them down, but Plome saw his eyes moisten and looked away. ‘A man should . . . a man should get back on a horse if it throws him.’
‘What happened to you?’ Plome asked, getting worried now.
‘The less you know, the better,’ he said. ‘For your own good. I don’t want you involved.’
‘I see,’ said Plome, uncertainly. ‘Well, you can’t go to your usual suppliers. The Shacklemores will have them staked out.’ He hurried over to a desk, snatched up a sheet of paper that was lying there, and scribbled down several addresses. ‘These are all trustworthy,’ he said, handing Crake the paper.
Crake ran his eye over the addresses. All in major cities, dotted around Vardia. Well, if he couldn’t persuade Frey to visit one of
