“The boundaries of this house have superior wards and are also alarmed against more usual intruders,” said Merlin. “Vivien’s coming over to check the wards. Inspector Greene has decided to stay as well, and there will be extra police patrols in the square. I’d prefer her not to stay if there is going to be anything I need to deal with, but then again if there is some sort of attack by gangsters she’s apparently pretty handy. I’m in the next room, by the way, and Mira will be across the hall—”
“So she’s Mira now?” asked Susan. Surely the inspector was too old to fall for Merlin’s charms? She had to be thirty, maybe even mid-thirties.
“We are on first-name terms, upon occasion,” said Merlin gravely. “But it’s a professional relationship, you understand. Anyway, that’s it in the house, apart from Mrs. L. The Russians and the CND turncoat have been relocated for the time being.”
“What, too risky for them?”
“Yes,” replied Merlin. “And they weren’t supposed to be here anyway, according to our agreement with the police. Special Branch trying a sneaky little budget saving at our expense. It’ll be fine. Get some sleep. What time do you start work, by the way? And . . . uh . . . where exactly?”
“Eleven,” replied Susan. “The Twice-Crowned Swan. Cloudesley Street.”
“Well, I’ll see you at breakfast at, say, a civilized eight thirty,” replied Merlin. “Would you like a good-night kiss, by the way?”
“I don’t think so,” said Susan, after a moment’s hesitation. Caution still had the upper hand, though it took considerable exercise of willpower and common sense. “I have a feeling your good-night kisses might lead to a distinct lack of sleep.”
“Another time, perhaps,” said Merlin. He smiled, and exited.
Sometime later, there was another knock on the door. Susan woke with a start, the room dark, only partly lit from the spill of light from the square outside, creating numerous menacing shadows.
“Susan? It’s Vivien. Can I have a quick word?”
Fuddled with sleep, Susan sat up and wiped the corners of her eyes. Without even really thinking about it, her hand trailed across to the hilt of the saber by her bedside.
“Yes. Come in.”
The door swung open, and Vivien stood there, backlit by the hallway light. She had changed from her suit into dark blue jeans, a khaki shirt, and a dark brown vintage bomber jacket with a lambskin trim, and for a moment Susan thought she was actually Merlin pretending to be Vivien for some reason.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” said Vivien. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” said Susan, wiping her eyes again and waking up more completely. “What about you?”
Vivien didn’t answer that directly, nor move from the doorway.
“I’ve checked the wards around the house and they are all strong,” she said. “But . . .”
“What?” asked Susan. She was feeling rather irritable at being woken up.
“We . . . the right-handed . . . often have premonitions, some of us even visions,” she said. “Of the possible future and of the past. Like Cousin Norman, who I believe Merlin idiotically described to you as a reverse oracle.”
“And?”
“I’ve had one. Not exactly a premonition. A strong feeling that I should give you something, only I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do.”
“What is it?”
Vivien frowned. Susan had never seen her so indecisive. Like Merlin, she always appeared omnicompetent. Now she was standing on one foot on the doorway, hovering and hesitating.
“Come on. You’ve woken me up now. What is it?”
Vivien grimaced, as if suffering a momentary pang of agony, then finally walked forward and held out three paper sachets of salt from Wimpy and an old bone-handled butter knife.
“Carry these with you,” she said. “The knife is good Sheffield steel and it’s been sharpened a bit, so you can draw blood.”
“Uh, why would I want to?” asked Susan. She didn’t take the offering. “Oh, what your grandmother said . . . salt and steel and blood . . . but what does that mean?”
“It’s one method by which Ancient Sovereigns and others bind people . . . things . . . to their service,” said Vivien. “One of the surest and easiest ways for you, if you come into that power. Mix a little of your blood and salt on the flat of the knife; ask them to ingest it, if they’re willing. Or smear it on an open wound, or stab them, if they’re not willing. Your blood and salt and steel will bind whoever or whatever you need to, with some exceptions. You’d need to give them a command at the same time. Something along the lines of ‘You will serve me’ or ‘I am your master,’ you know, that sort of thing.”
“‘I am your master’? I don’t want to bind anyone or anything to my service!” exclaimed Susan with revulsion. “I mean, what happens then? Do they follow me around forever, wanting to help and tugging their forelock . . . forelock equivalents?”
“No,” said Vivien. “You can release them again. That’s simple; lay your hand on their head—or whatever approximates a head—and say something like ‘By my blood and salt and steel, I release you.’ Or you can order them to go and live their lives until summoned, or sleep until you need them, or whatever you like, really. And the binding will weaken over time, if it is not renewed or some other method employed to strengthen it.”
“I could do this to anyone? That business about smearing on a wound, I could scratch someone in their sleep and dab on the mixture, for example?”
“Yes. If you do inherit the power of your sire,” said Vivien. “You might not.”
“That is awful!” burst out Susan. “I don’t want to be able to bind people, or entities, or anyone!”
“It might all be purely theoretical. And even if you do gain the power, you don’t have to use it,” said Vivien. “But I think you need to know about the possibility—”
“I don’t want it,” snapped Susan. She lay back and pulled the covers over her head. “I don’t want the knife, or the stupid salt! Go away and let me get back to sleep!”
“Okay,” said Vivien. “Sorry.”
She turned to go, and trod on the discarded boiler suit at the foot of the bed. She hesitated for a moment, then bent down and put the salt packets in a side pocket and slid the knife into the long, thin pocket made to hold a ruler. Vivien’s mouth quirked at that. A ruler . . . Susan might well become one, no matter how she felt about it.
Vivien left the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.
Merlin was in the hall. He’d changed into dark pants, black tennis shoes, and a black turtleneck sweater under a black ballistic vest with “Police” on the front and back. He had the old sword belted on his right side and the Smython in a holster on his left, butt forward like an old-style gunslinger. All of which added up to the fact that he clearly expected trouble, no matter what anyone else thought.
“How did she take it?”
“She didn’t,” said Vivien. “But I put the knife and salt in the ruler pocket of her boiler suit.”