Read Online Book 1 - The Man With the Golden Torc by Simon R. Green - Free Book Online
Authors: Simon R. Green
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head!"
"It’s not her head I’m interested in!"
And he wonders why the rest of the family won’t talk to him.
Out in the bright sunlight again, under a perfect blue sky, with
gryphons prowling watchfully on the perfect lawns, while butterflies big as my
hand fluttered through the flower gardens, I found it hard to believe that the
family could be in any real danger. Or that I might be. I might not always have
been happy here, but I always felt safe in the Hall. The power of the Droods
depended on the fact that no one could touch us. I looked up at the Hall
towering over me, ancient and powerful, just like us. How could anything be
wrong in such a perfect place, on such a perfect day?
I walked in through the main entrance, and there in the
vestibule was the Sarjeant-at-Arms, waiting to meet me. Of course he was
waiting; hours before the gryphons would have told him the exact moment I’d
arrive. The Sarjeant was never surprised by anything or anyone. That was his
job. He inclined his head stiffly to me, which was about as much welcome as I’d
expected. In the Drood family, the prodigal son was always going to be in for a
rough ride. The Sarjeant-at-Arms wore the stark black-and-white formal outfit of
a Victorian butler, right down to the stiff and starched high collar, even
though he had the build and manner of an army sergeant major. I knew for a fact
he always carried half a dozen concealed weapons of increasing power and
viciousness somewhere about his person. If the Hall ever was attacked and
breached, he’d be the first line of defence and very likely the last thing the
attackers ever saw.
He had a face that might have been chiselled out of stone. He
didn’t looked at all pleased to see me, but then, he never looked pleased about
anything. Gossip had it smiling was against his religion.
"Hi there, Jeeves," I said just to wind him up, because we both
knew he was far more than just a butler. (There are no servants, as such, in the
Hall. We all serve the family, in our own way.) (Or at least, that’s the
official line…)
"Good morning, Edwin," said the Sarjeant in his voice like
grinding gravel. "The Matriarch is expecting you."
"I know," I said. "I wish I could say I was glad to be home
again."
"Indeed," said the Sarjeant. "I wish I could say I was glad to
see you again, boy."
We sneered at each other for a moment, and then, honour
satisfied, I allowed him to lead the way through the shadowy vestibule and on
into the great hallway. Light streamed in through hundreds of stained-glass
windows, filling the extended hallway with all the colours of the rainbow. Old
paintings and portraits showed honoured members of the family: Drood men and
women sitting and standing in fixed and formal poses, in the dress and fashions
of centuries past, staring out at their descendants with stern, unwavering eyes.
Drood service and tradition goes back a long way, and none of us
are ever permitted to forget it. By the time we got to the end of the hallway,
the paintings had given way to photographs. From the first shadowy images to
sepia tones to the garish colours of modern times, the fallen dead stared
proudly out at the world they made.
I stopped to consider one photo in its silver frame, and the
Sarjeant stopped reluctantly beside me. The photo held two faces I knew like my
own. A man and a woman stood together, proudly erect as befitting Droods, but
there was a clear warmth and affection in their smiles and in their eyes. He was
tall and elegant and handsome, and so was she, and they looked every inch the
roistering adventurers everyone said they were. Charles and Emily Drood; my
father and my mother. Murdered on a family mission in the Basque region, while I
was still just a small child. Looking at them, so young and full of life, I
realised I was older now than they were when they died.
The Sarjeant-at-Arms hovered silently close beside me, making me
aware of his
"It’s not her head I’m interested in!"
And he wonders why the rest of the family won’t talk to him.
Out in the bright sunlight again, under a perfect blue sky, with
gryphons prowling watchfully on the perfect lawns, while butterflies big as my
hand fluttered through the flower gardens, I found it hard to believe that the
family could be in any real danger. Or that I might be. I might not always have
been happy here, but I always felt safe in the Hall. The power of the Droods
depended on the fact that no one could touch us. I looked up at the Hall
towering over me, ancient and powerful, just like us. How could anything be
wrong in such a perfect place, on such a perfect day?
I walked in through the main entrance, and there in the
vestibule was the Sarjeant-at-Arms, waiting to meet me. Of course he was
waiting; hours before the gryphons would have told him the exact moment I’d
arrive. The Sarjeant was never surprised by anything or anyone. That was his
job. He inclined his head stiffly to me, which was about as much welcome as I’d
expected. In the Drood family, the prodigal son was always going to be in for a
rough ride. The Sarjeant-at-Arms wore the stark black-and-white formal outfit of
a Victorian butler, right down to the stiff and starched high collar, even
though he had the build and manner of an army sergeant major. I knew for a fact
he always carried half a dozen concealed weapons of increasing power and
viciousness somewhere about his person. If the Hall ever was attacked and
breached, he’d be the first line of defence and very likely the last thing the
attackers ever saw.
He had a face that might have been chiselled out of stone. He
didn’t looked at all pleased to see me, but then, he never looked pleased about
anything. Gossip had it smiling was against his religion.
"Hi there, Jeeves," I said just to wind him up, because we both
knew he was far more than just a butler. (There are no servants, as such, in the
Hall. We all serve the family, in our own way.) (Or at least, that’s the
official line…)
"Good morning, Edwin," said the Sarjeant in his voice like
grinding gravel. "The Matriarch is expecting you."
"I know," I said. "I wish I could say I was glad to be home
again."
"Indeed," said the Sarjeant. "I wish I could say I was glad to
see you again, boy."
We sneered at each other for a moment, and then, honour
satisfied, I allowed him to lead the way through the shadowy vestibule and on
into the great hallway. Light streamed in through hundreds of stained-glass
windows, filling the extended hallway with all the colours of the rainbow. Old
paintings and portraits showed honoured members of the family: Drood men and
women sitting and standing in fixed and formal poses, in the dress and fashions
of centuries past, staring out at their descendants with stern, unwavering eyes.
Drood service and tradition goes back a long way, and none of us
are ever permitted to forget it. By the time we got to the end of the hallway,
the paintings had given way to photographs. From the first shadowy images to
sepia tones to the garish colours of modern times, the fallen dead stared
proudly out at the world they made.
I stopped to consider one photo in its silver frame, and the
Sarjeant stopped reluctantly beside me. The photo held two faces I knew like my
own. A man and a woman stood together, proudly erect as befitting Droods, but
there was a clear warmth and affection in their smiles and in their eyes. He was
tall and elegant and handsome, and so was she, and they looked every inch the
roistering adventurers everyone said they were. Charles and Emily Drood; my
father and my mother. Murdered on a family mission in the Basque region, while I
was still just a small child. Looking at them, so young and full of life, I
realised I was older now than they were when they died.
The Sarjeant-at-Arms hovered silently close beside me, making me
aware of his
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