Chapter 63

The Outside, Birmingham New Street Station.

Two men stood beside a public phone box outside the station's chapel.

The taller, blond one puffed on a cigarette, rubbing his hands and exhaling clouds of smoke. The younger man, a tartan scarf wrapped high around his face, held a newspaper in one hand and a Dunhill between his lips.

Early-morning Birmingham bit with a raw chill; wind swept south from the Trent valley, gathered beneath the Pennines, and coiled into a pocket of icy air that clung stubbornly to the city of iron and rails.

"Bloody hell, why is it so cold today? I swear even my balls have frozen solid," Jack grumbled.

Baron folded the paper whose headline read: ANONYMOUS TIP LEADS POLICE TO LLOYD'S BANK ROBBERS — MILLIONS STILL MISSING.

"Did everything go smoothly?"

"I handled it, didn't I? I slapped your black card on the table and the Westminster HR manager on the Inside practically bowed and scraped."

Jack glanced at Baron. "I just don't get why you'd use your black-card privileges for a flower girl."

"I nearly cost her father his job once; this is compensation."

Without waiting for more questions, Baron asked, "And the information you were sent to dig up?"

"Hey, hey, L junior, I'm your senior. Show some respect."

Even so, Jack answered. "A dragon-train does pass through today, but are you sure you want to go? If they're lying in wait, you'll be walking right into a trap."

"Walking into a trap is still better than doing nothing," Baron replied. "Until Anthony's killer is found, my name stays on the enforcers' wanted list... Freya's no help for now, so we start with the simplest lead we have."

"Let's move. According to you, the train arrives soon—no time to waste."

Jack stubbed out his cigarette; Baron let the newspaper fall. One after the other, they slipped into the station—fare-dodging, as usual.

...

By noon they had reached their destination in a dwarf-driven carriage: the small town of Plains, on the Inside Scottish Highlands, under the jurisdiction of House Constantine.

The Highlands were an ancient, fractured plateau; the mountains rose ragged and uniform, each summit nearly the same height, all but deserted by man.

Leaving the dragon-train at Inverness had been trouble enough; finding a carriage to Plains had been harder still.

Their goal was simple: to find the Plains dwarf the inquisitor had named—the craftsman who had forged the cane used to assassinate the Knight-Commander.

At the town gate a pair of dwarf soldiers blocked their way and demanded ten pounds as a toll.

While Baron paid, Jack explained. "Plains is a dwarven and half-breed autonomous district. Half the bureaucrats here are dwarves or mixed-bloods; House Constantine administers only two things—taxes and the fog-sweeping levy."

According to Jack, the dwarves were an open, hospitable folk; there should be no trouble.

Once the coins changed hands, Jack added, "And these half-breeds aren't like the Eurasian mixes you're picturing, L. We're talking inter-species."

"Like black and white?" Baron asked.

Jack nodded, then suddenly shook his head, staring at Baron as if to say, Brother, you're a Dragon-Knight, not some racial purist.

The carriage rolled on. At the driver's shout of "Arriving!" the two lifted the curtain and jumped down—only to freeze.

A squad of dwarf soldiers leveled spears at them.

"What's this, a welcoming committee?" Baron muttered.

Jack scratched his cheek. "Honestly, it feels more like a robbery."

The driver whispered to the squad leader, who then pointed at Baron. "The toll was ten pounds because we thought you were dwarves or half-breeds. Pure-blooded Old-Bloods from outside pay another ten!"

"So it's daylight robbery after all," Jack sighed under his breath. "Thought they'd recognised us."

Baron could see it plainly—the driver and the soldiers were working together.

The dwarf captain, shorter than his own spear, jabbed the weapon at them. "Pay up, or I'll report you to the city council for forcing the gate—suspected Lawbreakers!"

Baron's eyes flickered, calculating; Jack clutched his sleeve.

"L, we're on a covert mission. Blow our cover and the job's finished—and so are we."

Baron shot him a silent look that said, So much for 'simple, hospitable folk'.

Master Baggin had been too optimistic.

Even with money in his purse, being fleeced was different from choosing to pay. Still, Baron handed over the coins; Jack was right—mission and lives came first.

They started to leave, but the captain blocked them again.

Baron's brow creased. Push your luck once too often...

He understood the rule: kindness is taken for weakness. One more step and he'd turn this dwarf into somebody's widow later.

The captain pointed at Jack. "How much for the blond baboon, eh?"

The rest of the dwarves burst into raucous laughter.

With a wave the captain shooed them. "On your way, outlanders... and scram."

As they left, a chorus of shouts and jeers rose behind them. "Welcome to Plains! Hahaha... blond baboon..."

Baron glanced at Jack, but the Grade-D agent seemed deaf to the insults, busy critiquing the town.

"Warped roads—one star. Shopfronts uneven—another star. Asphalt riddled with potholes—yet another... though these dwarf and half-breed girls aren't bad... hips firm, chests round, just a bit short..."

Baron said nothing.

Grade-D really is Grade-D. I worried for nothing.

He slowed his pace and followed a few steps behind, close enough to keep Jack in sight but not close enough for conversation.

After twists and turns they reached what passed for the main thoroughfare of Plains.

The street bustled. Though paved with asphalt, the traffic was carriages—boxy vehicles said to be built of some light living metal. They looked heavy yet weighed barely a hundred pounds.

Jack said the horses were unicorn crossbreeds; at full gallop they matched modern British trains and could even glide for short spells. They kept to a trot because feeding them was expensive—unless passengers tipped extra.

For most families they were the poor man's griffin.

Cars? Outdated trash.

They had taken only a few steps when a sharp voice rang out. "How dare you!"

Reflexively Baron reached for his gun, eyes narrowing; three horsemen blocked the way.

A servant in livery cracked a whip. "Insolent wretch! You dare collide with Lord Soror's carriage!"

Baron sidestepped the whistling lash and looked up. Behind the servant sat a man of perhaps thirty—eyes cold as crescent blades, thin lips, clad in a grey robe embroidered lavishly with golden tulips and red roses.

Baron recognised him.

On the way Jack, mindful of Baron's former bloodless status, had shown him all the available photographs and backgrounds of House Constantine's current members.

Soror Constantine, born Soror Pell.

Second son of Baron's uncle Eugene Constantine. The tulips marked him a Black-Iron wizard in his third year at Edinburgh's College of Witchcraft; the roses marked him a scion of the Constantine family.

He was Baron's cousin.

When Baron dodged, the servant's brows shot up. "Still dare to evade?"

Seeing his master silent, the servant struck again.

If not for the need to hide, Baron would have dodged and counterattacked.

He raised an arm to block; dragon-scales glinted beneath the sleeve. The whip cracked against his forearm with a sharp report. Jack started to speak; Baron silenced him with a glance.

No complications.

As onlookers stared, another servant drew a blade and snarled, "What are you gawking at? Lord Soror is rooting out Lawbreaker spies! Keep staring, and when the [Beasts] come with the next fog, don't expect House Constantine to save you!"

The crowd shrank away.

After a few lashes the servant seemed satisfied and turned to Soror, offering the whip as if inviting him to take a turn. "Second Young Master..."

Baron's expression darkened. Taking turns, were they?

The scales kept the blows from hurting, but humiliation in front of a crowd was another matter—and exposure worse still.

Soror accepted the whip, hefted it, and studied Baron.

Since entering town Baron had worn the Mimic's Chain; to onlookers he was merely another passer-by, perhaps vaguely familiar.

Soror was probably wondering who this person was—someone within the Constantine city who did not recognise him.

Soror narrowed his eyes. "Enough. He looks like an outsider; these lashes will serve as warning."

With a flick he wheeled his horse and rode off.

The servant watched Soror disappear, then glared at Baron.

"Young Lord Soror is merciful. Next time you see the Constantine rose, remember to keep your distance!"

He spurred his mount and galloped after his master.