A Judgement of Powers

Chapter 1

Cold wind blew down the concrete halls, carrying the scents of stone and water. The rain had stopped at sunset, leaving the streets and walkways wet, but the air still carried its chill. Distant traffic and faraway voices blended into background noise, but here, in the heart of the city, I was alone.

I was standing on a concrete walkway. Lights along the walls cast glowing rings of orange that faded quickly into the sea of darkness all around. Lit windows looked down from the flats above and from the theatre complex across the water, but I couldn't see a single living person. I glanced up and down the walkway one more time; when nothing moved, I kept going.

The structure around me was the Barbican, a huge sprawling complex of brown concrete in central London. It was the first time I'd visited the place, and it felt to me like a richer version of the council estates I'd grown up around. The tower blocks were the same, the rows of flats were the same, but it all looked cleaner and posher-there was even a handful of plants and trees, though all they really did was draw attention to how cold and sterile everything else was. Scattered living things, dwarfed by the thick stone barriers made to contain them; the essentia in the air, muted and weak. It would be a terrible place to find a Well, but I wasn't looking for a Well. I was looking for my father.

Twelve days ago, I'd been attacked in Covent Garden by a man calling himself Vermillion. He'd tried to stab me to death and nearly succeeded, but in doing so, he'd also given me what I'd been searching for. Vermillion was a member of the Winged, the weird mysterious group who for most of the past year had been alternating between attacking me and trying to recruit me. According to them, my father had been a member. I wasn't sure whether to believe it, but I was sure they held the key to finding him, and Vermillion's attack had given me the leverage I'd needed to pressure one of their other members into handing over a letter from my father.

That had been three days ago. Two days ago, I'd sent a message to the email address the letter had given me. Two hours ago, I'd been told to come here.

But told by whom?

I slipped behind a concrete pillar, my back coming to rest against the cold stone. To my eyes, the essentia currents glimmered faintly as they drifted through the darkness, taking on tinges of colour as they passed through objects: reddish brown as they moved through the concrete, pale blue as they moved through the fluorescent lights, a hint of green as they gathered around the leafless trees down on the courtyard below. It was beautiful, in a quiet, peaceful way, but all it was really telling me was that there was no one with an active sigl nearby.

And even that wasn't much help. If there was someone out there, they could just have their sigls turned off. Like me.

Middle of the Barbican, I repeated to myself. I'd rushed out of the door as soon as I'd seen those words on my screen; only now was I realising how ambiguous they were. I'd studied the orange-grey-green maps posted at the Barbican junctions, and as far as I could see, this spot, around the southern side of the artificial lake, was as close as you could get to "middle." But there was no sign of my father.

When you show up for a meeting and no one's there, you start second-guessing yourself. What if my father had already been here and left? Maybe we'd both wandered around the Barbican, somehow missing each other? What if I'd got the time wrong, or the place, or . . .

A line from the letter floated to the surface of my thoughts. The spirit is served by demons that give gifts to those they favour.

I shivered, pushing the thought away. That letter had left me with a million questions, but now wasn't the time. The message that had led me here . . . had it really been from my dad?

If it hadn't, the best thing I could do right now was to stay hidden. But if it had, then my dad might be out there doing exactly the same thing. And if I was hiding and he was hiding, we were never going to find each other.

I hissed out a breath. Screw it. I'd been waiting for this chance for years. I wasn't going to lose my nerve now!

I headed for the nearest stairwell and trotted down the steps until I came out at ground level, next to the dark stillness of the Barbican's artificial lake. The breeze blowing off the water was cold. I walked out into the middle of the courtyard, then stopped. A hundred windows looked down on me, blank and shadowed and faceless. Any of them could be holding someone watching me.

I took a deep breath and channelled.

Essentia stirred inside me, flowing through my body. In the early days channelling my personal essentia felt like trying to pick up water between my fingers. Nowadays it feels more like flexing a muscle, the essentia an extension of my own body, my nerves extending through the flows to brush the surface of whatever they touch. I lifted my right arm and sent essentia surging through my hand and into the sigl ring on my fourth finger.

Blue-white light erupted silently into the night. The sigl was weak, made years ago when I was still fumbling my way through shaping, but it was still bright enough to make me shield my eyes. To anyone looking out of their window, I'd look like a figure holding up a tiny star. Most people wouldn't understand what they were seeing. A drucrafter would.

I held the sigl at full power for a slow count of five, then cut the flow. The light winked out, leaving spots dancing in my eyes. I jogged away across the courtyard, disappearing into the shadows beneath the walkways, then stopped.

Murmurs echoed, louder than before. I heard the scrape of a window opening, then another; questioning voices. A flicker of movement showed up on the walkway, though I couldn't make out the figure behind it. The Barbican seemed to stir, turning towards the source of the disturbance.

Using a sigl in public, as I'd just done, is a bad idea. Drucraft isn't something you're supposed to advertise, and if the wrong person notices you doing it, it can mean trouble. But London's a big place, and one weak sigl doesn't draw that much attention, especially one that doesn't actually do anything you couldn't duplicate with a good torch. Most of the time, if I get caught using drucraft, all I have to do is hurry out of sight, and that's going to be the end of it.

But that's if the people watching don't know who I am. For someone who did, and who knew what I could do, I'd just written "Stephen Oakwood is here" in letters of blue-white fire.

The Barbican came awake, scattered lights coming on, voices echoing around the courtyard. From down where I was hidden I heard the sounds of questions and answers. But as the minutes passed and nothing happened, they tapered off. One by one the voices ceased, until everything was quiet. The Barbican slept once again.

I stayed out of sight behind a concrete pillar, listening. Nothing came, and I clicked my tongue. Was I going to have to do something more obvious?

The scrape of a footstep sounded from nearby.

Instantly I was on full alert. You can tell a lot from a footstep. Normal footsteps are steady and rhythmic; the sound of someone with somewhere to go. This had been a single motion, followed by silence.

I stood very still, straining my ears. Nothing else came, and I focused on my sensing, reaching out. And this time, I felt something. It was faint-very faint-but beyond the currents of essentia drifting through the Barbican, the white-grey tendrils carrying with them echoes of water and concrete and earth and stone, was something else. Something . . .

-water, deep and crushing. Gold gleaming in the depths. Scales like mountains, rippling like the tide-

I wrenched myself away, the flood of images cutting off as if with a knife. I'd been about to stick my head out in the hope of seeing my father; instead I stayed where I was.

The corridor was silent for a while, then I heard quiet footsteps moving towards me, passing my hiding place without stopping. I reached out again with my sensing, more cautiously this time, and felt nothing-there was some kind of wispy essentia signature, but it was so faint that I might have imagined it, and as I watched it faded. The footsteps faded. I was alone once more.

I waited.

Doubts started to nag at me. Only minutes ago I'd been promising myself that I wouldn't let this chance slip away. Why had I hesitated?

I shook my head; this was getting me nowhere. I stepped out around the pillar, out of cover. I was going to have to come up with-

"Stop."

My head snapped around and I stopped dead.

"Stay where you are."

The voice was coming from behind the pillars a little way down the corridor. I couldn't see who was talking, but whoever he was, he was close. Without thinking, I took a step-

"I said stay," the voice repeated. "One more step and I'm gone."

I stopped.

"Good," the voice said, when I didn't move. "Now. I'm going to ask you a question. Just one. Think carefully before you answer. Answer wrong, this conversation is over, and you'll never hear from me again. Take another step, this conversation is over, and you'll never hear from me again. You understand?"

It was a man's voice, middle-aged, and in the time he took to finish speaking my hopes soared and plummeted, up and down like a roller coaster. I desperately needed to know if it was my dad, and I couldn't tell. It didn't exactly sound like him . . . but it didn't sound not like him, either. It had been so many years . . .

"You understand?" the voice repeated.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. "Yes."

"Good," the voice said. "Now. What was the number of the house where Stephen got his cat?"

I stared. "What?"

"You need me to repeat it?"

"What do you mean, 'Stephen'?" I demanded.

"Answer the question."

". . . I can't."

"Don't know?"

"No, I can't, because there isn't an answer. I didn't get Hobbes from a house, it was from one of the ground-floor flats on that estate round the corner. I mean, I guess it had a number, but why would I care? It was just 'the flat with the old sofa out front.'"

The voice didn't answer.

"You there?" I asked. Subtly, I tried to crane my neck to catch a glimpse of whoever was talking, but all I could see was the concrete pillars. A few steps to the side would give me a clear line of sight, but . . .

"Yes," the voice replied. "Stay here for a slow count of fifty. Then go up the stairs to the level directly above. Ring the bell for flat 117. You'll be let in. Follow?"

". . . Yes."

"Repeat it back to me."

"Stay here for a slow count of fifty, go up a level, ring flat 117," I repeated. "Then what?"

"You'll find out. Start counting."

"Hello?"

Silence.

I started counting. I've had longer minutes in my life, but not by much.

As I counted, my thoughts raced. Who had I been talking to? It had to be whoever had sent me that email . . . which meant it had to be my dad.

Didn't it?

I desperately wished I could identify him from the voice. But the voice had been maddeningly vague, close to my memories but not quite a perfect match. Were my memories wrong? Or was it someone imitating him? Or was he disguising his voice? Or . . . or . . . or . . .

Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Fifty. I darted forward.

There was no one behind the pillars. I looked from side to side, trying to figure out where my stalker had gone. There was a small, blue-painted door, but when I tried the handle, it didn't open.

I took the stairs up.

The first-floor level was silent, lights winking in the darkness; if I'd stirred the Barbican awake, it had gone back to sleep. I walked along the walkway, my feet echoing softly on the tiles, then pressed the button marked 117.

There was a pause, then a metallic buzz and the door clicked. I slipped inside.

Flat 117 was at the end of one of the corridors. The door was very slightly ajar, and as I pushed it, it swung open without resistance. The inside was dark.

I hesitated. I could make out a few pieces of furniture in the shadows; all else was black. I felt stretched, like a taut wire, ready to snap forward or back. Was this what I'd been waiting for, or was it a trap?

The door yawned before me, inviting me to step through and find out.

Resolve flared up in me and I set my teeth. I'm not backing out now. I stepped through and swung the door closed behind me. The lock resisted slightly, then clicked shut.

I swallowed, then spoke into the darkness. "Show yourself." I could hear the tension in my voice.

For a moment everything was silent. Then there was the click of a switch and the room flashed into light. I blinked, squinting, as a man stepped out and turned towards me.

My father had my looks, matured and weathered. His jaw was a little squarer, his brow a touch heavier; still handsome, but in a more distinctively masculine way. He was a couple of inches taller than me and a little stronger, and brown eyes sparkled at me from beneath a head of wavy black hair. "Stephen," he said with his lopsided smile. "It's been a while."

I think right up until that last second I'd still been wondering if it was really him, whether the whole thing had been some sort of insanely elaborate trick. But the sound of his voice, steady but warm, with the trace of his old East End accent, banished all that in an instant. My doubts turned to smoke and I flew into his arms.

My father staggered as I crashed into him, then laughed, hugging me tightly enough to make me lose my breath and then ruffling my hair the way he'd used to do when I was a little boy. "You okay?" he asked. "Not hurt?"