lantern. “The Court was set up to deal with cases that uniquely concern the Parallel. It was felt it should be located between both worlds. You will have passed the Human law chambers on your way in?”
Cameron nodded.
Grey’s double chin had provided directions. The lump had become increasingly strident, its warnings accompanied by a series of bleeps, gargles and clicks from its innards. “A non-appearance at Court is as good as an admission of guilt. You may be judged in your absence –”
“Oh belt up.” Cameron had popped the plate-cover back on, ignoring the indignant cries. The lump was sounding increasingly like the pompous daemon that had spawned it. “Don’t think you’re going squelching about free-range while I’m out either.” He added some strips of parcel tape, strapping the cover in place.
He had dashed about the shop, looking for anything he could find that might show his connection to Grandma Ives, and so to the trading business he’d taken over after she’d vanished. Given that he couldn’t whistle-up the old lady in the flesh, perhaps he could prove to the Court he was her rightful successor.
That strategy hadn’t worked with Janus, but it was the best he could come up with.
Gathering together his papers and documents, he had scribbled a quick and only slightly desperate-sounding note to Eve and Morgan. He left the shop, climbed the hill to the oldest part of the city, and headed for a huddle of buildings off Parliament Square, set back from theRoyal Mile. Tagging onto a procession of dark-suited lawyers and their clients, Cameron had slipped in.
A series of elegant rooms reminded him of the costume dramas Eve sometimes watched on telly (the sort that usually made him long for an invasion by killer robots). On entering a grand multi-tiered library, he shifted through to the Parallel. The bookcase alcove opened up, as if it had been waiting for him.
The air was turning stuffy as he descended, the spiral stair passing balcony after balcony. Below, he could see the blurred outlines of lights bobbing through the gloom. Daemons of all kinds followed in their wake: antlered Cervidae, their heads bowed; impossibly glamorous Fey; whisker-faced Selkies, Moss Mites, Tree Spirits, Red Caps…
“Lanterns,” he said, as his eyes adjusted. “They’re all lanterns – moving by themselves, leading people through the dark.”
“Weir lamps, to be accurate.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Ah ha.” The light flared. “We
are
lanterns, yes. But we’re Weir lamps too. Named after the mad Major. You’ll know of Major Weir?”
Cameron shook his head.
“He was infamous in his day, as was his walking stick, which he’d send out on errands across the city.”
Cameron thought he’d have remembered seeing a flock of unaccompanied lights-on-sticks marching about the place. “When was this?”
“Oh… 1670 or so.”
“I’m
fifteen
.”
“Are you? The major’s long gone, I suppose, but hisstick – and its scions – are condemned to walk on.” The lamplight dimmed and turned a rusty orange. “And so, that is what we do. Until our task is done.”
The staff tilted back to block Cameron as a procession of monks in purple robes joined the stair. They were chanting and carrying aloft a banner strung between uplifted poles.
“The Joyful People of the Banner,” the lantern whispered.
“They don’t look very happy to me,” said Cameron, noting the monks’ downcast faces and mournful song.
“They’re in thrall to the Weaver Queen,” said the lamp. “The joy is all hers. I don’t believe their happiness enters into the arrangement.”
As the banner flowed past, the red eyes of the largest Weaver Daemon Cameron had ever seen glared back – and he swiftly became very interested in the banister.
“So not a fan,” he muttered. “I don’t know how they stand it.”
“We all have to serve, in our way.” The lamp resumed their descent. “And who will be representing your
Cameron nodded.
Grey’s double chin had provided directions. The lump had become increasingly strident, its warnings accompanied by a series of bleeps, gargles and clicks from its innards. “A non-appearance at Court is as good as an admission of guilt. You may be judged in your absence –”
“Oh belt up.” Cameron had popped the plate-cover back on, ignoring the indignant cries. The lump was sounding increasingly like the pompous daemon that had spawned it. “Don’t think you’re going squelching about free-range while I’m out either.” He added some strips of parcel tape, strapping the cover in place.
He had dashed about the shop, looking for anything he could find that might show his connection to Grandma Ives, and so to the trading business he’d taken over after she’d vanished. Given that he couldn’t whistle-up the old lady in the flesh, perhaps he could prove to the Court he was her rightful successor.
That strategy hadn’t worked with Janus, but it was the best he could come up with.
Gathering together his papers and documents, he had scribbled a quick and only slightly desperate-sounding note to Eve and Morgan. He left the shop, climbed the hill to the oldest part of the city, and headed for a huddle of buildings off Parliament Square, set back from theRoyal Mile. Tagging onto a procession of dark-suited lawyers and their clients, Cameron had slipped in.
A series of elegant rooms reminded him of the costume dramas Eve sometimes watched on telly (the sort that usually made him long for an invasion by killer robots). On entering a grand multi-tiered library, he shifted through to the Parallel. The bookcase alcove opened up, as if it had been waiting for him.
The air was turning stuffy as he descended, the spiral stair passing balcony after balcony. Below, he could see the blurred outlines of lights bobbing through the gloom. Daemons of all kinds followed in their wake: antlered Cervidae, their heads bowed; impossibly glamorous Fey; whisker-faced Selkies, Moss Mites, Tree Spirits, Red Caps…
“Lanterns,” he said, as his eyes adjusted. “They’re all lanterns – moving by themselves, leading people through the dark.”
“Weir lamps, to be accurate.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Ah ha.” The light flared. “We
are
lanterns, yes. But we’re Weir lamps too. Named after the mad Major. You’ll know of Major Weir?”
Cameron shook his head.
“He was infamous in his day, as was his walking stick, which he’d send out on errands across the city.”
Cameron thought he’d have remembered seeing a flock of unaccompanied lights-on-sticks marching about the place. “When was this?”
“Oh… 1670 or so.”
“I’m
fifteen
.”
“Are you? The major’s long gone, I suppose, but hisstick – and its scions – are condemned to walk on.” The lamplight dimmed and turned a rusty orange. “And so, that is what we do. Until our task is done.”
The staff tilted back to block Cameron as a procession of monks in purple robes joined the stair. They were chanting and carrying aloft a banner strung between uplifted poles.
“The Joyful People of the Banner,” the lantern whispered.
“They don’t look very happy to me,” said Cameron, noting the monks’ downcast faces and mournful song.
“They’re in thrall to the Weaver Queen,” said the lamp. “The joy is all hers. I don’t believe their happiness enters into the arrangement.”
As the banner flowed past, the red eyes of the largest Weaver Daemon Cameron had ever seen glared back – and he swiftly became very interested in the banister.
“So not a fan,” he muttered. “I don’t know how they stand it.”
“We all have to serve, in our way.” The lamp resumed their descent. “And who will be representing your
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