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Mortal Coil
He was no expert – even in life, his grasp of magic had been negligible at best – but this seemed possible. All of Scapegrace’s magic was used to animate his body and keep him thinking, but there was nothing stopping anyone else from performing magic on him.
There was a name that his old master Scarab had once mentioned. He had been talking about an expert in science-magic … Grouse, that was it. Kenspeckle Grouse, who had a Medical Facility somewhere in Dublin. Butterflies of excitement fluttered within Scapegrace’s stomach. He just needed to find out where it was, and all his troubles would be over.
A car horn beeped right behind him and he jumped in fright, then stalked to the pavement, muttering curses. The car carried on past him. Scapegrace saw it out of the corner of his eye, and froze. He knew that car. The first time he’d seen it, he had been thrown into the backseat in handcuffs. The second time, he was thrown into the trunk, in another set of handcuffs. It was the car Skulduggery Pleasant drove.
Scapegrace suddenly forgot how to walk like normal people. How had Pleasant known he was here? Had he been following him? Was this the day his existence ended? He was sure he hadn’t been recognised, because he had been facing the other way and he was dressed in a suit, but all it would take was one glance and it would all be over. He staggered to a large bush and fell into it, then crawled around to take a look through the leaves. The black car turned the corner and was gone.
This didn’t make any sense. Was it all an elaborate trap? An ambush? Pleasant had driven right by him. Had the great Skeleton Detective made a silly mistake? Or maybe he hadn’t been searching for him after all. Maybe this was just a coincidence. Maybe the house …
Scapegrace looked back at the big house. Pleasant’s car had been parked outside it. In the driveway in fact. Pleasant had parked his car in the driveway of the house like … like … like he’d owned the place.
Scapegrace stared. He knew where Skulduggery Pleasant lived.
Now all he had to do was figure out who’d pay the most for the information.
Skulduggery came to some steps leading down below street level, and an iron door swung open to let them through. The corridor they walked into was warm, with fantastic images carved into the walls on both sides. In places the paint was cracked and peeling, but the years had not diminished the sheer lushness of the colours used. Valkyrie bent to examine a tiny running figure. Even the light glinting in the figure’s eyes had been painted in.
“What is all this?” she asked.
“History,” Skulduggery answered. “It’s all here, for those who know how to look.” He nodded to a carving of two men and a woman, holding light in their hands. “These are the Ancients, discovering magic for the first time. The clouds above them represent the Faceless Ones, and the grass at their feet represents the people.”
“Regular people are represented by a lawn?” Valkyrie asked with a raised eyebrow. “How nice, and not at all insulting.”
“The people are represented by individual blades of grass,” Skulduggery said, a smile in his voice. “Born of the earth, as natural and integral a part of life as magic. You can see the Ancients protecting the grass from the unnatural storm clouds.”
“All I see are the Ancients standing on the grass, being rained on, and not one of them thought to bring an umbrella. Not the smartest, were they?”
“Don’t be too harsh – you’re descended from one of them, remember.”
“Any ancestor of mine would have brought an umbrella,” Valkyrie muttered, and crossed to the other wall. The scene depicted there disturbed her, like a hook that had found its way inside her belly and was now tugging gently at her guts. A city in ruins, the dead scattered like dry leaves fallen from a tree on a still afternoon. At its centre stood a man, burning with black fire. “And this?” she asked. “Is this meant to be Mevolent?”
Skulduggery stood at her elbow. “These chambers were built before the war with Mevolent even started. No, that’s not Mevolent. That’s his master. That’s the Unnamed.”
Valkyrie looked at him. “Was his name the Unnamed, or did he just not have a name?”
“He didn’t have one.”
She frowned. “But how does that work? All our magic comes from our true name, right? I’ve been reading all about this. So if he didn’t have a true name, where did he get his magic from?”
“To every law of nature, there are the aberrations. I’m very impressed that you’re doing a little research, by the way.”
“After Marr ordered Myron Stray to kill himself and destroy the Sanctuary, I thought it might be a good idea to learn a little more about the whole name thing.”
“You’re worried that someone might learn your true name?”
Worried was such a weak term for something so coldly terrifying. Valkyrie nodded, but didn’t speak. She didn’t trust herself to answer him.
Skulduggery started walking again. “So what did you learn?”
She walked beside him, forcing herself to remain casual. “Our true names are names of magic, from the oldest of the magical languages. Virtually all of us go around without knowing what that name actually is, but we can still use the magic it provides.”
“And?”
“If you find out what your true name is, it’s kind of like going straight to the source. You’d become more powerful than even the Ancients were. You’d be able to take on the Faceless Ones without needing a weapon.”
“If that is so,” Skulduggery said, “then how come Myron Stray became a puppet, and not a god?”
“Someone, in this case Mr Bliss, found out his true name before he did, so he never had time to seal it.”
They walked into the Great Chamber and the conversation died away. Thirty or forty people stood around on the marble floor, talking quietly. The walls in here were splendid, the elaborate carvings continuing up to the domed ceiling.
Erskine Ravel smiled as he came over. Valkyrie had met him a few times before – he had fought in a special unit with Skulduggery and Ghastly during the war. She liked Ravel. He was charming and nice and quite beautiful, in a manly sort of way.
“Erskine,” Skulduggery said, shaking his hand.
“Skulduggery, good to see you,” said Ravel, shaking Valkyrie’s hand next. “Valkyrie, you’re looking well.”
She actually blushed, and turned her head so it wouldn’t be noticed. Then she spotted an old man with a grey beard, and frowned. “Why is he here?”
Ravel put his hands in his pockets. “Like it or not, we need representatives from all the major groups in order to elect a new Grand Mage, and the mages in Roarhaven have as much say as anyone.”
“But why does he have to be here?”
“You don’t like the Torment?”
“He doesn’t like me.”
The Torment scowled at Valkyrie when he met her eyes. There was a woman beside him, in a black dress that flowed on to the ground at her feet. Her face was covered by a veil, and her hands were gloved.
“He’s here with his sister,” Ravel said, anticipating her next question. “Not his real sister, of course, but another Child of the Spider.”
Valkyrie had seen with her own horrified eyes the way the Torment could vomit black spiders the size of rats, with talons for legs. He also had the disconcerting habit of transforming into a spider himself – a huge monstrous thing that liked to haunt her dreams every once in a while.
“Madame Mist,” Skulduggery said, eyeless gaze on the woman in the black veil. “She lives in Roarhaven now too? Since when? I didn’t even know she was in the country.”
Ravel shrugged. “We really weren’t chatting long enough for me to get the details. I try to stay away from Children of the Spider, you know? They tend to give me the creeps. And speaking of creepy …”
High Priest Tenebrae entered the hall, flanked as always by Craven and Quiver. Tenebrae nodded to Valkyrie as they swept by in their black robes.
“Well now,” Ravel said, catching the nod. “You seem to know more people here than I do.”
Valkyrie smiled. “I’m still going to need some help with the boring ones.”
Ravel laughed. “I’m sure they’d love to hear themselves being called that. In this hall, you have the usual suspects. Sorcerers of particular power or age or standing. That lady over there is Shakra, and beside her is Flaring. You probably know them from the Sanctuary. They were lucky enough not to be there the day the Desolation Engine went off. To their left are assorted sorcerers you may not know – they work behind the scenes mostly, and do their best to stay out of the spotlight.
“Over here we have Corrival Deuce,” Ravel continued, indicating a portly old man in a colourful coat. “He’s more or less retired now, but we dragged him out of his house for this little get-together. He’s a good man.”
“A very good man,” Skulduggery agreed. “We took orders from him during the war. There aren’t many people I’d take orders from. He’s one of them.”
Valkyrie had heard Skulduggery and Ghastly mention Corrival Deuce in their conversations, always with real affection and respect. She decided she liked the old man very much, even though she’d never met him.
“The two people ahead of us,” Skulduggery said, “are Geoffrey Scrutinous and Philomena Random.” Scrutinous had bizarrely frizzy hair and a goatee, and despite the cold weather outside, he was wearing sandals. Random’s appearance was altogether more sober – she had short hair, a warm coat, and none of the beads or rings or bangles that decorated her colleague’s wrists and hands.
“They’re public relations officers – it’s their job to convince the mortals they didn’t see what they thought they saw. The five people glaring at the Necromancers call themselves the Four Elementals. They see themselves as being in harmony with the world around them, and because of this they’re astonishingly self-righteous.”
“The Four Elementals?”
“Yes.”
“But there are five of them.”
“I know.”
“Can they not count?”
“They started off with four, but then Amity, the man with the unusual chin married the heavyset woman with all the jewellery and insisted she be allowed to become the fifth member of the quartet.”
“Couldn’t they just rename themselves?”
“And become the Five Elementals, when there are only four elements? They didn’t want to lose their precious synchronicity.”
“It’s better than everyone thinking you can’t count.”
“That it is,” said someone at Valkyrie’s elbow. She turned, surprised to see Corrival Deuce standing there. She hadn’t heard him approach. “You’re Valkyrie Cain,” he said, smiling. “I’ve heard so much about you. This is indeed an honour.”
She shook his hand. “Hi,” was all she could think to say.
“Erskine,” Corrival said. “Skulduggery. Good to see you again.”
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Ravel said to the older sorcerer.
Corrival barked a laugh. “What, after a solid three weeks of you pestering me about it?”
“I thought I was being subtle.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word. Where are the others, then? Where’s Ghastly, and Vex?”
“Ghastly hates these things,” Skulduggery said, “and I don’t know where Vex is.”
“Probably having another adventure,” Corrival said with a little sigh. “That boy needs to grow up one of these days, he really does. What about Anton Shudder?”
“Shudder likes to stay in his hotel,” Ravel said. “Besides all the Remnants trapped in there, he also has a vampire guest to contend with. If I were him, I’d want to keep a close eye on things too.”
The memory of Caelan’s kiss came flooding back into Valkyrie’s mind, and she fought against it in vain.
Corrival looked around. “So is this it? Is everyone here? Erskine, maybe you should start the ball rolling. I have places to go and things to do.”
“Me?” Ravel asked. “Why do I have to start it? You’re the most respected mage here. You start it. Or Skulduggery.”
Skulduggery shook his head. “I can’t start it. I don’t like most of these people. I might start shooting.”
Ravel scowled. “Fine.”
He turned, cleared his throat, and spoke loudly. “Everyone who is going to be here is here,” he announced. The other conversations died down, and all eyes turned to him. “We all know why we’ve gathered. If we can elect a Grand Mage today, then we can immediately start work on forming a new Council and finding a new Sanctuary.”
“Before we talk about the new Sanctuary,” Geoffrey Scrutinous said, “I think we should discuss the old one. In particular, I think everyone would like to ask how the search for Davina Marr has been going.”
“As far as we know, she’s still in the country,” Skulduggery said. “Any more than that, I’m afraid I can’t disclose.”
“Why not?” asked the Elemental named Amity.
“It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“She has evaded you for five months already, Detective Pleasant. Maybe we should be entrusting somebody else with the task of tracking her down.”
“Then by all means, Amity,” Skulduggery said, “find someone else.”
“The damage has been done,” the woman called Shakra said in a Belfast accent. “Marr isn’t important, not any more. What is important is how weak we appear. The Sanctuaries around the world are waiting to pounce, did you know that?”
“That’s a slight exaggeration,” Scrutinous said.
“Is it? The Americans have already announced how they will no longer stand by and watch as Ireland struggles against the legacy that people like Mevolent have left us. That’s what they said, word for word.”
“It was a gesture of support,” Amity said.
“No,” Shakra responded, “it was a threat. They’re telling us they’re getting ready to step in and take over if something like this happens again.”
Amity shook his head. “Nonsense. Ireland is a Cradle of Magic. No one would dare disrupt the delicate balance that holds the world in check.”
Shakra scowled. “You’re a moron.”
“Being rude does not make you more intelligent than I.”
“No, being more intelligent than you makes me more intelligent than you, you goat-brained simpleton.”
“I did not come here to be insulted.”
“What, do you have somewhere special to go for that kind of thing?”
“Can we please focus?” Corrival asked. Immediately, everyone shut up. “In the last five years alone, two of our Elders have been murdered, the third betrayed us, and the Grand Mage who took over has been revealed as a criminal. Two out of Mevolent’s Three Generals returned, and the Faceless Ones actually broke through into this reality.
“Amity, you and your Four Elementals may not want to believe this, but Ireland is under attack. We have enemies both obvious and hidden. The war with Mevolent was fought largely on Irish soil. His actions, and the actions of his followers, have created an instability that is impossible to be rid of. This is where the agents of unrest are drawn. There is blood in the water here.”
“That’s right,” Flaring said. “Dark sorcerers like Charivari in France, or Keratin in the mountains of Siberia, hate us and plot against us with every moment that passes. And what about all the visions of this Darquesse person, laying waste to the world? We need to be ready.”
Valkyrie saw the nods and the looks in the eyes. If any one of them knew the truth, they’d have torn her apart right there and then.
“Then we need to get down to business,” High Priest Tenebrae said. “The task ahead is not an easy one. We’ll have to set up a new Council, elect a Grand Mage and two Elders, build a new Sanctuary and consolidate our power base. Even though it will add greatly to my responsibilities and workload, I am willing to put my own name forward for the role of Grand Mage.”
There were some rolled eyes and cruel whispers, but Corrival held up a hand to silence them. “Thank you, High Priest. Who are the other nominees?”
“Some of us have been talking about this among ourselves,” Scrutinous said, “and we’d like to suggest Corrival Deuce as a candidate.”
Corrival raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re well-respected and well-liked, Corrival, and—”
“I know what I am,” Corrival interrupted, “and what I am is retired. Even if I wasn’t retired, I’ve never been interested in the job. That’s for people like Meritorious, not people like me.”
“Your country needs you,” Flaring said.
“My country needs better taste.”
“You’re the only one who can do it.”
“This is ridiculous,” Corrival said. “I don’t have the experience or the training, and I’m always getting into arguments. Not many sorcerers agree with my point of view, you know.”
“Even so,” said Philomena Random, “you’re one of the few people who could bring the Irish magical community together in its time of need.”
“Nonsense. There are plenty of others.”
“We don’t make this suggestion lightly, Corrival. We’ve considered this a great deal.”
“And all you could come up with was me?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“But I’m really enjoying my retirement. I get to sleep in every day. I do crossword puzzles and eat cakes.”
“Duty calls, Corrival.”
“Then we’ll vote,” Flaring said. “Right here, right now. Let’s forgo the usual pomp and circumstance and have it as a simple aye or nay. All those in favour of High Priest Auron Tenebrae as the new Grand Mage, say aye.”
Craven and Quiver both said aye. Tenebrae clenched his jaw against the overwhelming silence.
“OK then,” Scrutinous said. “All in favour of Corrival Deuce as the new Grand Mage, say aye.”
Ayes filled the room. Only the Necromancers and the Roarhaven mages stayed quiet.
Scrutinous grinned. “I think it’s decided.”
“Fine,” Corrival said. “I’ll accept the position, on the condition that as soon as someone more competent comes along, you’ll all let me retire in peace.”
“Agreed,” said Amity. “So now we need to talk about nominations for the other two seats on the Council, and where the new Sanctuary is going to be built.”
“Don’t need to start building,” the Torment said in his dreadful croaky voice. “We have a Sanctuary, ready and waiting.”
“In Roarhaven?” Tenebrae said, disgust in his voice.
“Yes,” the Torment glared back. “A fine building, built especially for this purpose.”
“Built for a coup that failed,” said Ravel.
“That may be so,” the Torment said, “but the fact remains. There is a new Sanctuary building with all the rooms and requirements. Do any of you have any proper objections, apart from the fact that it’s outside your precious capital city?”
There was silence.
“It’s a good suggestion,” Corrival said. Valkyrie looked at him in surprise. She wasn’t the only one. “The fact is,” he continued, “it’s there, and it’s available. And if someone sets off another bomb, we won’t have to explain it to the civilian authorities. And as for the other two seats on the Council, I already have my nominees. I nominate Erskine Ravel and Skulduggery Pleasant.”
Someone barked a laugh. Valkyrie turned to Skulduggery, really wishing he was wearing a face so she could see his reaction.
“Ah,” said Ravel.
“Oh,” said Skulduggery.
“Sorry, fellas,” Corrival said, “but if I have to suffer through this ridiculousness, then so do you. Both of you are controversial figures, but I fought with your unit on the battlefield, and I’ve never known such bravery and honour. Erskine, you like spending money way too much, but you’ve been my trusted confidant for the last hundred years, and I don’t think there is anyone who is going to deny that you would make an excellent Elder. You’re wise when you need to be, and impulsive when you have to be.
“Skulduggery, my old friend, I daresay a lot of people are going to object to your nomination.”
“Myself included,” Skulduggery answered.
“You make more enemies than friends, which isn’t saying an awful lot, but you also make the difficult decisions. You always have. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter. The rest is up to the voters. As duly elected Grand Mage, I now call a halt to proceedings, as I have a crossword to do and some cakes to eat.”
Without waiting for a response, Corrival turned and walked from the room.
“I was not expecting that,” Ravel said in a low voice.
“I’ll vote for you,” Skulduggery said, “so long as you promise not to vote for me.”
Ravel grinned. “And let you miss the fun? Not on your life, dead man.”
As they were walking for the Bentley, Valkyrie caught sight of a pretty blonde girl standing by a long, black car. “Back in a minute,” she said to Skulduggery, and jogged over to the girl, trying her best not to smile too broadly.
“Hi Melancholia,” she said brightly.
Melancholia scowled. She was four years older than Valkyrie, tall, and she wore black Necromancer robes. From the very start, Melancholia had never made a secret of the fact that she despised Valkyrie utterly. Valkyrie, for her part, thought this was astonishingly amusing, and revelled in the many opportunities she had to annoy the older girl.
“What you doing?” Valkyrie asked, smiling a friendly smile.
“I’m standing here,” Melancholia responded, not looking at her.
“And a fine job you’re doing of it, too. Do you know where Solomon is? He said he was going to come today, but I didn’t see him.”
“Cleric Wreath is on an assignment.”
“Cool. What kind?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it exciting?”
“I don’t know.”
“Right. So you’re just waiting here for the others, then? Waiting for ol’ Tenebrae?”
Melancholia stiffened. “You should show more respect for the High Priest. You should use his full title when referring to him.”
Valkyrie shrugged. “High Priest Tenebrae just takes so long to say, you know? I usually just call him Tenny. He likes that.”
“If you were truly one of us, you would be severely disciplined for such behaviour.”
Valkyrie frowned. “Do you really talk like that, or are you just putting it on?”
Melancholia finally looked at her. “You are mocking me?” she snarled.
“Is that a statement or a question?”
Melancholia was taller than Valkyrie, and she loomed over her. “I should punish you myself, on behalf of the High Priest.”
“I don’t think Tenny would like that very much.”
“You are not our saviour.”
“Solomon seems to think I am.”
“Cleric Wreath has spent too long out in this decadent world. He’s lost his objectivity. He looks at you and he sees the Death Bringer, whereas everyone else looks at you and sees a pathetic little child.”
Valkyrie grinned. Despite how sinister it sounded, the Death Bringer was a title that she was beginning to actually like. She found Necromancers creepy on a very fundamental level – Solomon Wreath aside – but even so, it was nice to be thought of as a possible saviour. Certainly, it was a change from having to think of herself as Darquesse. The chance, no matter how slim, that instead she might turn out to be the Death Bringer was a source of comfort to her. Two possible destinies – one where she saves the world, and one where she ends it. Her future couldn’t get any starker than that. “Maybe I am the Death Bringer,” she said.
