Shadow of the Templar: Cuckoo's Egg, Extended Edition: Chapter Fourteen

On timeline: early to mid-1990s, ten to fifteen years before the events of the books
Spoilers for: not much, honestly
Warnings: might be dull

14.

      The little electric furnace sat unassumingly at one end of the slate-topped workbench. If it hadn't been for the pile of battered ingot moulds next to it, Bran would have thought it a squat little metal blender—except for how it was awkwardly positioned bang in the middle of the table and there was absolutely nothing else within five yards of it. At the other end of the bench Ethan was laying out the tools for turning jewellery into bits of metal scrap and loose stones. Every bit of it showed evidence of long, hard wear, even the tools, which were deceptively fragile-looking: pliers with long, narrow jaws like insect mandibles, picks as thin and sharp as pins, frames holding saw-blades no wider than a strand of hair. Ethan glanced over at Bran. "Is that really necessary?" Ethan asked, but he was smiling as he said it.

      Bran picked up the last bag and dumped it onto the workbench, light spangling off the tangles of gold and silver. "Absolutely," he said, pushing the last of the jewellery into the pile that he'd created. It made a rich mound on the table nearly six inches high. Bran's eyes dropped half-shut as he breathed in the metallic scent of success.

      Jeremy leaned in and flicked a fat pinky ring out of the pile with one finger. It rang against the slate. "Completely necessary," he agreed, picking up the ring and trying it on his own gloved fingers. It was large enough that it wound up on his thumb like an extra knuckle.

      "Not yours," Bran said, leaning across the table and grabbing for it. As an afterthought, he added, "Little shit."

      Not quite laughing, Jeremy leaned back, avoiding Bran's hands for long enough to take off the ring and drop it back into the mound of goods. "Here, here, no harm done. Calm your trousers."

      "Look to your own trousers!" Bran said sharply. A moment later he realised that that sounded, well, stupid, and he shut his mouth with a click and went back to admiring the mound of jewellery in front of him.

      He could almost hear Ethan's eyebrow ticking aloft. "Instead of trousers, why don't we look to sorting the jewellery?" Ethan asked, mildly enough.

      "Because that's not nearly as much fun?" Jeremy asked, his own eyebrow rising—Bran saw that one right enough—but all the same he picked the ring back out of the pile. It had a flat onyx stone set into it, so Jeremy dropped it into the bowl by his side. It rang against the porcelain.

      Ethan started sorting out the silver bits—some were silver and some were white gold and Ethan was the best at knowing the difference—while Jeremy ploughed through in search of things with stones in. Bran tried to pull out a gold chain. It got stuck on something. Bran frowned and gave it a tug and the entire pile of jewellery lurched towards him, eventually sicking out an almighty mess of tangled chains. Bran rolled his eyes and settled in to picking the Gordian knot apart, one bit at a time. It was dull, soothing work, and he sank into it, barely noticing as Ethan and Jeremy made the mound grow smaller, one bit at a time. "I do wish there weren't quite so many watches," Ethan said, fussing with one.

      Bran rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm bloody sorry."

      "Mm?" Ethan looked up. "Oh, no, no, I didn't mean it like that. It's only that, well, to get any real value out of a watch, you have to move it intact, which is always a risk."

      "Like pearls," Jeremy volunteered.

      "Yes, only worse. One can always unstring pearls."

      "Next time I pull a job I'll be sure to hang about and check every tray for those nasty old watches, then, how's that?" Bran fiddled an ugly gold chain loose and dropped it into the 'gold' bowl.

      Ethan sighed. "Honestly, I didn't mean it like that, Bran. And watches hold their value nicely—for all that they're difficult to move, they'll net you more money in the end."

      "So what's the problem, then?"

      Ethan's smile was fleeting. "More work for me, that's all. And a touch more risk."

      Bran grunted and got back to work. The impressive mound had shrunk into several much-less-impressive piles by now; by the time Bran got the last two chains untangled, the mound was entirely gone. Ethan was sorting through a pile of the dreaded watches. Jeremy was idly poking around in the bowl of pieces-with-stones-in, making all kinds of little clattery sounds. Bran put the last two chains in the gold pile. "So now what?"

      "A learning opportunity, obviously." Ethan smiled right past the ensuing eye-rolling and picked up one of the delicate pairs of pliers.

      It was more painful than Bran had anticipated, reducing his take to scrap. He'd carefully untangled the chains but he might as well have ripped them apart and saved himself the trouble. Jeremy, wearing a ridiculous magnifying visor, was fiddling a tiny pick down the side of an inset stone to worry the metal free; the 'slab' of onyx that popped out was a slip no thicker than a bank card, held up by a battered copper table that looked to be a bit of folded penny. Jeremy rolled his magnified eyes at it. "Cheap bastard," he muttered, dropping the onyx into the 'loose stones' bowl. "Ethan? Copper?"

      "Make a pile. We'll find more."

      "Lovely."

      That afternoon found Bran on his bed, fiddling with his new watch. Ethan hadn't been enthused about letting him keep it, but in the end even Ethan had had to admit that the watch that Bran had picked out was the most ordinary sort, with a brown leather band and a gold face that wasn't any sort of real gold at all. Thousands of them all over the country, more than likely. Nothing to bring it back to WE BUY GOLD at all.

      Bran wasn't even sure that he liked it all that much, but he'd wanted some sort of souvenir and the watch seemed like a safe one. He'd wiped it clean and popped off the back to make certain that there wasn't anything incriminating or unusual inside. Nothing. Why had it even been important enough to be in the safe? Still, it was his now. Bran buffed it against his shirt, then held it up to admire it.

      Achtung Baby was in the stereo. Bran wasn't listening, so much. He'd put it on for the background noise. Still, sometimes he surfaced to listen to Bono sing a phrase or two, wild horses, fine, Bran didn't care. Now that Bran thought about it, he didn't care about the watch, either. He took it off and put it on his bedside table, by the clock.

      He should do something. He should take all the notes and papers from the job and go out into the backyard and burn them, or something. Shred them, then burn them. Bran sat up and looked out into the absolute mess of his study, then heaved a great sigh and collapsed onto the bed. Later. Bran shut his eyes for just a second.

      He woke abruptly to a silent room, his mouth tasting like ashes. His skin felt all sticky. Rolling up onto his side, he checked the clock: half an hour gone. The stereo was making the not-noise that it made when the speakers were on but no one was home. Faintly Bran could hear thuds and shouts from the gym below; odd time for it, since usually Jeremy was off with Claude after lunch. It sounded nice, though. Home-like. Cosy, even. Bran thought about that for a few seconds, then hopped to his feet, grabbed his mac, and left.

      An enormous metal pot rumbled on the stove, making the kitchen smell nicely of chicken. Claude had his arse perched on the edge of the kitchen table, mulling over a tiny cup of espresso and keeping a benign eye on the pot; he threw Bran a vague smile, one that made his little brushy moustache bristle. "This entire house smells like molten metal and burnt hair," Claude declared, cheerfully enough. "It's simply awful. I don't know how I can be expected to cook under these conditions—"

      "Seems you're managing," Bran said. "I'll be back in time for dinner, if anyone asks." He banged out into the garage before Claude could say anything else.

      The garage door shut behind Bran and the oppressive miasma was just... gone. The house had smelt like the metal furnace, but Bran hadn't known just how bad it was; the garage only smelt of wet. Bran took a full breath for the first time in hours, then got into the silver car. He felt a world better as soon as he was rolling, the window down to let the damp air in. He was fully awake by the time he came to the end of the drive and touched the button to open the outer gate. Left, down the hill towards town, or right, up into the hills past the other houses? Right. Bran put on his indicator and turned into the street.

      Ethan's property quickly gave way as the car picked up a bit of speed. The house on the next lot over was a massive brown-brick thing wodged into a relatively small lot, twice the size of Ethan's at least and styled as much like a Tudor castle as could possibly be done. It filled the smaller lot nearly from end to end, one vast side looming not ten feet from the fence, much to Ethan's quiet chagrin.

      Many years ago, when Bran had been small, he'd been impressed by the big house—hadn't had a lick of taste—and he'd asked Ethan why their house had to be so much smaller. Ethan had cast an amused glance at the other house, then had told Bran something that had stuck with him ever since. "Oversized houses like that belong to people who are only wealthy," Ethan had said. "They buy a smallish piece of land and put an enormous house on it to show everyone just how wealthy they are—and then they wonder why they feel cramped. People who are honestly rich, however—" he'd spread his arms "—they buy space. Privacy. Breathing room."

      "Oh. Are you rich, then?"

      "Oh, no." Ethan had smiled. "But I'm very good at pretending to be."

      Bran snickered at the memory (again) and flicked the 'v' at the neighbour's house, prudently keeping his hand down below the level of the car window, just in case.

      He loved driving, he decided, for the thousandth time. He didn't even need a destination; it was enough to travel the roads under his own guidance, fast or slow as he liked, deciding when to turn and where to go without having to ask anyone's opinion on the matter. Of course he'd had his bicycle, but it couldn't compare. The car was freedom in a way that the bicycle hadn't ever been. Freedom, and enough of it to share, if he'd wanted to—Bran slid down in his seat just a hair and cocked one arm out the window, unmindful of the damp. The roads ahead of him curved and spilled over the green hills, beckoning; all the constant little miseries of home fell away, leaving nothing but Bran, and the car, and a few idle fantasies.

      He had the spoils of a successful job tucked away, Bran decided, picking a little road off to the right that he'd never been down before. Not in the boot, any old idiot could find them there. In a secret compartment welded into the frame of the car, then, or under one of the hub-caps, or in a slit cut in the upholstered seat—and, while Bran was dreaming, it was a better car, too. Something less dull and practical. And someone along in the passenger seat to be impressed by his cleverness... Bran's first, reflexive thought was of Ethan, but he caught himself with a gagging laugh. God, no, who'd want that?

      Fancy houses drifted by, one after the other, as Bran painstakingly invented the cooing girl in the other seat. Or tried, in any case. He wasn't much good at invention. Whatever he invented just slid right off; eventually he settled for long hair, a good figure, and a short skirt. That much he could hold in his mind. She'd been thumbing a ride and he'd picked her up, and now he was slyly hinting at the riches in the secret compartment, and she didn't quite believe him but she would in time...

      Bran went around a traffic circle and headed back down the hill. He'd been here before; if he kept going in this direction, he'd end up back in town. That was fine. Where was he? Oh, right. She'd been a desk clerk at the fancy hotel that he'd just robbed, and she'd ended up throwing in with him because he was good to her when her arsehole of a boyfriend, who was also the hotel manager, had taken her for granted one too many times, and now they were both driving away with the goods and laughing about it...

      Town was straight ahead; to the right another road rolled off into the distance. Bran slapped on his indicator and took it. She was a thief just like him and they'd just finished taking an entire resort town for everything it was worth; they had two hours to make it to the train that would take them out of the country to safety, and they couldn't trust each other a bit, but all the same, right now they were laughing over their success...

      The houses here were smaller and closer together. Nice enough, Bran could only suppose, but still, nothing here for a top-flight thief. Not enough in any one of them to make it worth the risk of getting caught... she was the youngest daughter of a duke, who'd loved him for years and consented to show him her father's safe before flying the country with him... she was a girl from another country who'd got in trouble with some hard boys and begged him to save her... she was a girl from a small northern town who'd come to London looking for adventure, and found it... she was a university student on hols... she worked in a gallery, no, a museum... Bran glanced at the dash and discovered that he was almost out of petrol. The girl in the other seat vanished without a trace; Bran sighed and signalled for a turn. The little clutch of houses fell behind him and was lost.

      He filled up the car at a station on the outskirts of town. Bran idly studied the shops across the street while he waited for the pump to finish. Nothing special, just clutter. A couple of clothing shops, a pub, an Indian restaurant, a pet store, a bookseller's, a branch bank, an empty storefront with a TO LET sign in the window—Bran's eyes skimmed back the way they'd come, and he huffed out a bit of a laugh. Dull little branch bank like that one, it'd be easy enough to let that empty shop next door under a false name and bash on in. All right, so technically he wasn't a bank robber, but it couldn't be much more difficult than robbing a jewellery shop, could it? There'd be a vault, at least, and bank-boxes if he were lucky; not too much money in a bank that small, but the take ought to be commensurate with the risk, at least...

      Buoyed by the fantasy Bran paid for his petrol and sauntered back to the car as casual and innocent as you like, smiling all the while, so that no one who looked at him could possibly guess what deviltry he'd been up to. His left hand was closed about the handle of an imaginary briefcase filled with neatly-banded stacks of stolen banknotes, swinging casually at his side. And jewellery? Why not? Bran added a scattering of valuable gold coins to his take, and a velvet-lined box of unset diamonds in little paper envelopes.

      Sliding into the car Bran flicked his fingers, imagining the briefcase put onto the floor by the passenger seat. He pulled out of the station lot being ever so careful to drive slowly and blamelessly, his hands dancing over the wheel as he turned it with every little flourish at his disposal, extracting himself from the situation with the proper panache. Once he was on the road, he drove with an eye to the mirrors, watching for the non-existent police to fall in behind him; when he'd got a block away without seeing them, Bran laughed a bit and relaxed into his seat.

      That was brilliant, the imaginary Jeremy in the passenger seat said, nudging one heel against the briefcase. Suppose it could have gone better, but not bloody much.

      Aye, well, Bran imagined himself saying, pursing his lips a tad. It isn't done before we've got out of sight.

      Ha! True enough! The look in Jeremy's eyes was nothing short of awed. Still can't believe how fast you jumped on that poor fellow. I hadn't had time to realise he was there before you were on him and he was gassed—I don't believe he had a chance to see us at all.

      Bran allowed himself a faraway little smile. Wish he hadn't been there at all, though.

      Of course, of course, said the imaginary Jeremy, laughing, and then Bran realised what it was that he'd been thinking and snapped out of it. Where had that come from? Honestly!

      Banishing all traces of his fantasy Bran drove down into town proper. The music shop was in a little centre with all sorts of other shops that Bran had never given a toss about before. Today, however, on a whim, he turned into the electronics shop on the corner. It was a loud and flashing cave of a place, stereos and televisions all competing for his attention, and Bran could feel the bass from some of the more aggressive speakers right through the soles of his trainers. Putting his hands into his pockets, Bran ambled about, trying to be casual about it.

      The store had security cameras, no doubt, and within five minutes Bran thought he'd found them all. He'd also found the door that led into the manager's office; it was ajar, and he'd spotted the leading edge of a green metal safe in one corner. He carefully kept his little smirk on the inside. This place would be easy enough. All he'd need was some sort of override for the security cameras...

      Bran drifted to a halt in the middle of an aisle full of televisions, all tuned to some film he hadn't seen. The smaller televisions were up above his head and Bran let his eyes roll up, watching a bit of the film while he studied the high warehouse ceiling. Thin, workmanlike, made with an eye towards keeping the rain off. Like as not, he could punch straight through it with a muffled circular saw. Five minutes, at the outside.

      The only problem—Bran drifted back to himself—was that the take wasn't likely to be worth the risk. He wasn't the sort of smash-and-grab artist who'd be after stealing televisions or stereo equipment, so all he would get was whatever cash was in the safe. God, he could just hear Ethan on the subject now. Bran gave one of the televisions a little pat, then left the shop.

      The next shop over sold computers and software. Bran spent ten minutes nosing around their computer games and studying the anti-theft archway and the stickers that were supposed to work with it. Good enough to stop shoplifters, possibly, but it wouldn't do much good against someone who ran out and didn't wait around to be caught—and against someone of Bran's calibre, absolutely hopeless.

      Next to the computer shop there was a little shop that sold gifts and artsy jewellery; Bran asked to see a pair of enamelled earrings (for his mother, naturally) and paid special attention as the shop-girl unlocked the case. After that, a bakery, which Bran skipped—who on earth would rob a bakery—and then a bookseller's, where Bran spent ten minutes finding all the places in the shop where he could not be seen from the counter. The expensive books had thick magnetic tags glued onto their plastic coverings. Bran picked at one, then put the book down and left.

      The rain had picked up, the day becoming even greyer. A police car was cruising by as Bran stepped out. Bran stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked down at his shoes, hurrying towards the music shop. If he'd ever been planning to hit one of these shops—which he hadn't, as he lived too close by—Bran decided that he'd have marked them off the list when the police turned up. Or at least made them less of a priority. In either case, a good day's work done, Bran stopped in and picked up two CDs to reward himself for his imaginary diligence.

      Tossing his music into the passenger seat Bran pointed the car up the hill towards home. It was almost time for dinner and Bran was starved, else he wouldn't have gone back just yet; he could almost taste the burnt metal in the air. The closer he got to the house, the more squashed he felt. It felt like squeezing himself into a pair of trousers that he'd outgrown, forced into a confining shape that didn't fit him any more; he didn't feel as if he could breathe in all the way.

      It really was uncanny: Bran had been alone in the gym when he ducked underwater, but when he came up, Jeremy was standing at the edge of the pool, one foot up on the pool's rim, one eyebrow raised down at Bran. Bran thrashed backwards in the water, then turned it into a casual backstroke that carried him away. "Fuck's sake, don't sneak up on me like that."

      "Sorry," Jeremy said, shrugging, obviously not sorry in the least. "Ethan sent me to find you—says to come to the kitchen when you've got a moment."

      Bran rolled his eyes. "Couldn't come and fetch me himself... all right, then. Tell him I'll come."

      Jeremy touched his quirked brow in a little gesture that was half a salute. He fell back a step, then another, then pivoted neatly on the ball of his foot and left. Ruffled, Bran sank under the water again and shot up with his hair slicked back. What was this all about, then? Bran hauled himself out of the pool and towelled himself off, already hating it, whatever it was. Dropping his towel Bran shrugged into his t-shirt and called that good enough. Ethan wanted to see him? Ethan could take him as he found him.

      Ethan was sitting at the kitchen table when Bran thumped in. Bran had been expecting a raised eyebrow at his shoelessness, or possibly a snide comment about the smell of chlorine, but instead Ethan barely glanced up before returning his attention to the tangle of black stuff in his fingers. Bran hesitated; Ethan pulled one hand free of the black tangle and patted the table, still not looking up. "Come and sit, Bran."

      "Uh... aye, all right," Bran said, padding over and squelching into his chair.

      Ethan fell silent again. Bran glanced down at the black tangle, then back at Ethan, then started squirming in his seat as his wet trunks grew colder; he'd almost made up his mind to burst out with something when Ethan cleared his throat. "I'd been planning to move your haul on this afternoon," Ethan said.

      "... aye?" Bran said, falling still.

      "I..." Ethan trailed off there. His hands went tight around two loops of the black webbing, his knobby old-man knuckles whitening under their crusts of tannish callous. "Do you know, I haven't been doing any of this very well," he blurted out all in a rush. "It occurs to me that I have done you no favours by... well, standing between you and the seamier side of our business."

      Bran opened his mouth, then shut it again.

      "After all, I've pushed you into pulling an actual job," Ethan said. "Whether I like it or not, you're a professional now. I ought to be showing you how to act like one. So, I'd like you to come with me when I go to see Margery this afternoon." He dropped the tangle of webbing onto the table and pushed it at Bran. "And I'd like you to wear a shooter."

      "To go and see Margery?" Bran's voice cracked on the last word and he went pink around the ears.

      The flat of Ethan's hand cracked off the top of the table with a sharp report that set Bran back in his chair. "We are doing something illegal," Ethan snapped, something like fire in his faded grey eyes. "Yes, I've known and worked with Margery for many years. I even trust Margery—to an extent—but ours is a dangerous business. When it comes to doing business I always go armed, and so does she, and we both know that there is always a chance that this is the time that it may come down to shooting."

      "But," Bran managed.

      Ethan shook his head. "No, I'm not suggesting that she would attempt to rob me. What I am suggesting is that not a one of us in this business is wholly immune to pressure. If the police were at her heels, she might very well try to fling me to them in order to wriggle herself free. Any situation might end in tragedy, and it's high time that you and I both started acting like it." He prodded the webbing. "Take it."

      Bran blinked twice, his hand stealing out to tangle gingerly in the cords. "Oh."

      "Mm." Ethan shut his eyes long enough to take a deep breath. "Go on upstairs and wash up, why don't you? You'll want a long-sleeved shirt and some sort of jacket—oh, and your watch. I'd recommend you go left-handed on the harness, but... however you like."

      "Aye." Bran hesitated, then pushed himself up and out of his chair. His shorts were clammy and freezing. "Right. I'll be back down soon, then."

      Ethan waved him away. "We'll be in the gym when you're done."

      Harness dangling from his fingers, thoughts racing, Bran padded off. He'd never quite thought about things in that uncomfortable way. He did like the idea of wearing the shooter, though. A twitch of his wrist and a policeman fell, out cold, gun falling uselessly from his fingers to clatter across the dusty warehouse floor... the little fantasy carried him through his quick shower and out again.

      Untangling the harness took some time, especially since all the velcro was snarled together in a gigantic angry wad. It was a simple enough thing once Bran had it straightened out, even though it wanted to curl in on itself again. Bran considered it. Bran pointed his left hand at the wall, imagined a face, and jerked his hand up: easy enough. He strapped the harness to his left arm, winding long snakes of velcro around his wrist and forearm, settling the empty pouch along the inside of his arm.

      He hadn't worn one of these in years. Ethan had taught him to use the shooter when he was younger, but once Bran had figured it out, he'd put it aside; as much as he'd loved spraying the dummy rounds everywhere, he'd had so much else to learn. Bran wrapped his hand around his wrist, pressing the harness down. It wasn't the thinnest thing, but once Bran strapped his new watch overtop, it was at least stable. He ransacked his closet for a proper shirt and his mac, then headed back downstairs, rolling up his sleeves as he went.

      Ethan and Jeremy were in the gym, as promised. The floor had been closed over the pool, but instead of the mats being laid back out, there was a monstrous tarpaulin covering the floor and the side wall. The blue length of the firing zone was already spattered with bright pink. Jeremy had harnesses on both arms; he was laughing. "Bran! Will you look at this—"

      "Not like I haven't seen," Bran said shortly, coming over to join them. "I learned how to use the shooters ages before you even turned up."

      Ethan's own sleeves were rolled up to bare harnesses on both arms; his jacket sat neatly folded on the stacked-up mats behind them. He had an unfolded metal case in one hand—the shooter—and a wobbling flat plastic bag of pink paint in the other. "I thought you might want to brush up a bit," he told Bran, glancing away from Jeremy's ongoing expressionist artwork.

      Bran held out a hand. Ethan popped the dummy round into the metal case, closed it up, and handed it over. Bran ripped open the pouch and slotted the shooter into place. Fumbling with the tube—he had to run it under the band of his watch and it was close, fiddly work that threatened to get aerosolised pink dye (or worse) all over his hands—Bran watched Jeremy fire the shooters.

      The pink dye flew like the sleep gas, as close as Ethan could get it. It wouldn't knock anyone out, but it flew and fell like the real thing, leaving long tear-shaped splatter patterns on the plastic; the actual stuff was invisible, so you had to be able to visualise the arc when you fired it for real. Thus, the dummy packs. Jeremy studied the tracks he'd already left, then did the same thing that Bran had done, once upon a time: he raised his arm in a taxicab-flagging salute and fired into the air. The pink stuff lofted across the room in an impressive arc, achieving enough distance to splash against the far wall. "Very good," Ethan said. "Of course, what you gain in distance, you lose in cohesion and targeting."

      "Nice," Jeremy said, still cheerful. Tucking his left arm against his side, he fired again, this time from the hip; nothing came out of the tube but a weak pink splatter that dotted the floor at his feet. Empty pack. Jeremy danced back a step to save his shoes.

      Bran shouldered him aside. "Here, shove over," he said, already sighting his left arm down the splattered gallery. He paused, centred himself, and jerked his hand back, palm out; the harness tightened against the underside of his arm, the shooter sighed, and pink dye arced away from his hand.

      He fired four times before the pack was empty enough to splutter. Bran nodded and shucked out the empty plastic, tossing it into the bin next to the box of dummy loads. "That'll do."

      "Refreshed and ready to go?" Ethan asked. "Jeremy, you're welcome to keep practising if you like."

      Jeremy took Bran's place at the firing lane, fingers fumbling over the pouch on his right arm. "I'll do that, I think."

      Ethan glanced at Bran, his weathered face set. "We can go whenever you like," he said, holding out a bit of clear fishing line with a loop on one end and a metal pin on the other: the safety. Bran took it, slid his middle finger into the loop, and slotted the pin into place under the face of his watch. The line was loose, and it brushed against the back of his hand occasionally, like a spider's web. Bran had never liked it, but today, he found that he didn't mind: he was being trusted with an actual weapon, for once, and the brush of the line was only a reminder of that. Ethan wore a signet ring to disguise the loop of the safety about his own finger. Bran wondered if he ought to do something similar.

      Ethan reached under his folded jacket and fetched out a flat pack full of something that looked like water. He handled it with such exaggerated care that it gave Bran chills; Bran was barely up to taking it and slotting it into place. He nearly dropped it, and wouldn't that have looked fine? He cleared his throat. In the background, Jeremy fired another pink blast. "Let's go," Bran said, his voice cracking once despite himself.

      Ethan ripped off the harness on his right arm and let it drop, then slotted a second flat pack into the harness on his left. "Yes," he said, picking up his jacket and shrugging into it. "Let's."

      The actual drive was... odd. Bran was half convinced that the police would pull them over just because Ethan's driving was so ostentatiously perfect. Outside was a soft ride, a gentle ride, a meek and forgiving ride; inside it was silent and taut enough to shatter if touched. Silent, grim-faced, white-knuckled, Ethan focussed on the windscreen and what was past with a single-minded devotion.

      He spoke only once, and that towards the end of the ride. "If it comes to that," he said, then cleared his throat. "It won't. But if, for whatever reason, it does, you turn and fire away from me. Try to put your back to mine. And don't get too fixated on running for the car. 'Away' is better than 'towards the car'. If something happens, fire twice and run. In any direction. Keep the other two shots, if you can. Just in case."

      "Aye," Bran said. His mouth was dry. "Makes sense."

      Bran didn't know what he'd been expecting, but when Ethan finally parked the car, Bran found that this wasn't it. Films had taught him about pubs, fancy hotel rooms, echoing warehouses... not parks stocked with ducks and small, noisy children. It wasn't even a nice park. It was the sort of park that had been tramped by thousands of feet until it was all dirt and little grey rocks; what grass there was was just a faint greenish stain overtop, like spilled paint. The water was a mucky steel-grey colour. It was the sort of park where you took your children because you had to get them out of the flat somehow and the playground by the pond wasn't entirely disgusting just yet.

      A ramshackle wooden pier, grey and warped with age, pointed out across the pond. The boards were furry on the edges with wear. Margery was about halfway along, alone, leaning on the railing and having a cigarette. A few hopeful ducks had gathered in the water beneath her, surging back and forth with every wavelet and hoping against hope that one of those dribbles of tapped-off ash might fall into the water and magically become crumbs.

      It all looked so earnest and simple, but Bran had been feeding off Ethan's tension all the way here and he was damned near vibrating now. He fell back a step, wishing that he had worn sunglasses so that he could scan the area without being all obvious about it. There were a few grim trees here and there, and a bush or two, but Bran couldn't fathom anyone hiding in them. Possibly sitting in a car—the back of Bran's neck prickled as he fought not to spin around—or... what, submerged in the pond? Bran snorted at himself.

      "Glynis!" Ethan called, slipping his hand out of his jacket pocket to wave. All of a sudden he seemed just fine.

      Margery glanced over her shoulder, then turned around, a smile wrinkling her face. "Samuel," she said, half-tottering towards them, holding out her arms. "I was wondering when you'd get here."

      Ethan accepted the hug with good grace. "You remember my son Paul, don't you?"

      Margery pecked Ethan's cheek, then slipped away and held out a hand to Bran. "Of course," she said. "My goodness, it's been years—I'd tell you how much you've grown, but I suspect you're heartily sick of hearing that from old ladies like me."

      It was all so ordinary and silly that Bran nearly burst out laughing as he took Margery's hand. What stopped him was the darting interplay of eyes that snagged on his consciousness like a fish-hook: Margery's gaze flicking to Ethan's wrist, Ethan's gaze brushing across the front of Margery's powder-blue jacket, both gazes snapping up to meet each other. They smiled at each other then, identical tight and crooked smiles that mocked everything about this. Margery let go of Bran's hand and stepped back, waving a hand. "Lead on, then."

      Ethan looked around, then shrugged and led them all out to the end of the pier. They stopped there in a loosely-arranged triangle. Ethan fetched a folded paper from his jacket and handed it to Margery; Margery flicked it open. Her eyes scanned down the column of unattributed numbers. Half the numbers were zeroes, Bran had noticed. Place-holders. "Small," Margery said, her voice suddenly brisk.

      "His first," Ethan said, tipping his head at Bran.

      "Ah! Extenuating circumstances. I apologise." Margery's eyes were two chips of flint, though, and Bran decided that he didn't feel all that well apologised to. Margery murmured her way to the end of the list and looked up. "Slabs and cabs," she said, with a snort.

      "One takes what one can get," Ethan said.

      "I pay by the pound for slabs and cabs."

      "I'm aware."

      "Slabs and cabs?" Bran asked.

      Ethan glanced at him. "Slab-cut stone and cabochons."

      "Oh."

      "These crystals," Margery said. "Small?"

      Ethan made a noncommittal noise.

      "Small," Margery concluded. "Well, can't have everything. Anything not on the list?"

      "Watches," said Ethan, with a shrug. "Care to take them on, or should I take them to Garrin?"

      Margery's eyes narrowed and she cast a sidelong glance at him. "How good?"

      "Mostly fair, some downmarket."

      "Let Garrin have them, then." Margery's hand darted into her jacket. Ethan's eyes followed it, and a wash of tension rolled over Bran and pushed him upright; Margery barked laughter at both of them and pulled out her hand with exaggerated care, displaying nothing more dangerous than a fountain pen. She ticked down the list at speed, mumbling under her breath, then wrote a figure at the bottom and passed it to Ethan.

      Ethan looked at it, made another of those noncommittal noises, and showed it to Bran. 1160, Margery had written. Eleven hundred pounds... it sounded like a lot. It was a lot. It didn't even count the watches. Still, in Bran's fantasies the number had been ten times that—more!

      Margery's laugh was even sharper than before. "Don't like the taste of it, do you? Too bad. You'd get less from anyone else."

      "She's right, I'm afraid," said Ethan. "I suspect you'll get another three hundred from the watches, although I'd hate to be held to that."

      "So it's fair," Bran said, carefully.

      Ethan nodded. "Quite fair. A few pounds over what I'd estimated, in all honesty."

      "Ha! Shouldn't have said that," Margery said, then flicked it away with an impatient gesture. "I said what I meant. Do you want it?"

      "Y..." Bran glanced at Ethan, then squared his shoulders. "Yes. Please."

      Margery looked back at Ethan. "Usual place, then?"

      "Already there," said Ethan. "I'll look for the cash in... four days, do you think?"

      Margery snorted. "Four days," she said to Bran. "Four days, he says. I'll have it there by the end of the day tomorrow. Any further delay on your part is none of my doing." She folded up the paper and made it disappear into her jacket, along with the pen. "Now, then, let's have a neighbourly hug before I go—" and she caught Ethan up in another one of those fragile little hugs, then gave Bran one, as well. With a carolling cry of "Some other time, I promise!" she strode back down the pier and quickly lost herself in a crowd of mothers with small children.

      They both watched her go, Ethan with his hands in his pockets, Bran with his arms folded over his chest. The harness shifted under his sleeve; Bran secretly rubbed the back of his hand up against the shooter, delighting in it. "So... where's this usual place?"

      Ethan chuckled. "She and I share a safe-deposit box. I put your things in yesterday; she'll leave the cash when she picks them up."

      "Oh. Do we... do we go now?"

      Ethan turned about to gaze out over the ugly pond. "I suppose we do." He didn't seem to be in any hurry.

      Bran followed his lead. There was a small flock of ducks on the opposite bank, floating about and preening themselves and doing all the things that ducks did. Bran was sure that he didn't care. "... I didn't make enough to cover expenses, did I," he finally said.

      "I'm afraid not," said Ethan. "In fairness, you requested several things that you didn't need. In the future, you'll have a better grip on what you need for any given job, and what you can do without."

      "I suppose." Bran looked down at the toes of his shoes. "At least I know I can do it. Pull a job."

      "There is that." Ethan paused. "Shall we go?"

      "Aye."

      "Sometimes I wish that I hadn't got you started on this path at all," Ethan said.

      Bran jumped. He'd been half-asleep, staring out the car's window at the scenery, when this had popped up out of nowhere. It took him a moment to even figure out what had just been said. "Why?"

      Ethan hesitated, then chuckled under his breath. "I suppose it's a bit too late to tell you not to mind an old man's maunderings."

      "A bit!" Bran sighed. "Look, I know about my da, all right, and how he made you promise to raise me like he would have, and all that. So you don't need to bang on about it."

      "Ah." Ethan paused. "Well. It's only—"

      Bran slumped down in his seat as much as the safety belt would let him. "Can we not—"

      "Are you happy?"

      It had been dropped across his path like a fallen tree. "Well," Bran said, floundering. "If you mean the job and such, aye, I like it—"

      "But are you happy?" Ethan said again, pushing it at Bran in something like desperation.

      "How in fuck am I supposed to answer that?!"

      Ethan sighed. "I suppose I thought that you'd say 'yes' or 'no'."

      "Well, then, yes and no!" Bran scrubbed both hands through his hair. "Nothing's perfect, is it? I like the job and all, though, that's all right, so you don't need to keep beating yourself up that you've ruined me or whatever it is that you tell yourself."

      "I suppose that's the best I'm likely to get, isn't it?"

      "Aye, probably."

      Ethan drove on in silence for a minute or so. "It's just that it's so very dangerous," he finally said, subdued. "I could handle it when I was the one in danger, mind you. And when you were small, I suppose it didn't quite seem real, the idea that some day you would be the one risking yourself—" Bran was groaning by now "—and it's a bit harder than I'd thought," Ethan finished.

      "Too late now in any case," Bran said.

      "Well, no. It's not." Ethan took an uneven breath. "You're only seventeen, after all, and you've got enough GCSEs... you could go on to university, if you liked."

      Bran's disbelieving laugh was entirely reflexive. Ethan might as well have suggested that Bran grow wings and fly to the moon; it sounded that mad. Bran couldn't even begin to picture himself at university—so he didn't. He rolled his eyes at the idea and shoved it away wholesale. "How about I don't?" he said. "University, Ethan! God!"

      "It was only a suggestion."

      "I'm not the university sort in any case," Bran said.

      "I suppose not." The mildness—the distance—in Ethan's voice was a warning.

      Bran turned his eyes to the window again. "I'm happy enough," he eventually said, aware that he was whining but not sure how to stop. "Can't you be content with that?"

      "I suppose."

      Bran bit down on his response and focussed on the window until the impulse to respond was long gone. Neither of them said another word for the rest of the drive.

      Friday morning found Bran in London once again, this time with Ethan.

      Ethan had hired a nondescript red car and was now bolt upright in the front seat, negotiating traffic, his lips moving as he muttered to himself. Bran was, by necessity, in the back seat. He wasn't sure if he should feel slighted by that or not. He probably should, but he was starstruck. Or money-struck, if that was a word. They'd stopped by the bank on the way into town; now Bran had three crisp new twenty-pound notes in his battered old wallet, and eleven hundred pounds more in a brand-new strongbox hidden underneath the driver's seat. He'd seen that much cash all in a pile before, but it had always belonged to Ethan. This was his.

      Ethan had bought the strongbox for him specially and given him both keys (not that keys meant much in their household, really). "It'll do for now," Ethan had said. "We'll keep the strongbox in the safe until we can get you a proper bank-box."

      "But—"

      "Jeremy won't touch it," Ethan had said, and Bran had subsided.

      They were here for the rest of Bran's money—thus, the empty passenger seat. Bran slumped down in the back seat and stared blindly out the window, toying with the fantasy of being driven about in a limousine. He couldn't really make it work. The red car wasn't at all nice, and Ethan wasn't much of a chauffeur. Outside the window London flowed by, and sometimes inched by, and Bran didn't pay it much attention. He only realised that they'd reached their destination when the passenger-side door was yanked open and a tall man in a sharp grey suit threw himself in. "Ethan," the man said, affably enough. He plunked his briefcase at his feet.

      "Hello, Garrin," said Ethan, not taking his eyes from the traffic. "You remember my son Bran, don't you?"

      Garrin twisted around in his seat and offered Bran a distracted smile. "I do at that," he said, nodding to Bran before turning back about. "Well! I've only got an hour for lunch and I would like to eat something today, so..."

      "Oh, do give me one moment," Ethan said, his own smile flicking on and back off again.

      "Still paranoid, I see," Garrin said cheerfully. Still, he settled in and didn't fuss while Ethan drove on, getting them all well and truly lost.

      Eventually Ethan cleared his throat. "Bran's just now got started, " he said by way of explanation.

      Garrin blinked at him, then twisted back around and gave Bran a longer looking-over. Bran suffered it without too much squirming. "Well!" Garrin finally said. "Congratulations. What have you got for me, then?"

      Bran started to say something and found his voice to be dust-dry, forcing him to clear his throat. He spared a glance for Ethan, in the driver's seat; no warning glance was forthcoming in the mirror. "Watches," Bran said. "They're all right, Ethan says."

      "I can do all right," Garrin said thoughtfully. "Fact is, that's generally better."

      "They're under your seat," Ethan added.

      Garrin leaned down and groped about, coming up with a small soft-sided leather bag. Unzipping it, he stuck in his hand and came up with a single watch, knotted up in a chunk of padded cotton; he untied the bundle and rolled the watch over in his hand. Bran leaned over the back of the seat, resting his chin on his forearm. "They're all about like that," he said, watching Garrin inspect the watch.

      "That's fine," said Garrin. He splayed out his fingers to put the watch-band on display. "How many?"

      Bran hesitated. He'd forgot to count—"Twenty-four like that," Ethan said. "Nine more that are... the next tier down, shall we say?"

      "And how much were you looking to get for the lot?"

      Ethan opened his mouth to answer, but this time Bran beat him to the punch. "Three hundred and fifty."

      The look Garrin gave him was nothing short of amused. "That's a bit much..."

      Bran bit the inside of his cheek and willed himself to remain firm—"All right, three hundred then," he said. He'd have kicked himself if he could.

      "I can go three hundred," Garrin said, wrapping up the watch and stowing it with the others. Fetching up his briefcase, he popped it open and fetched out an unsealed envelope, which he handed back to Bran. Bran glanced in and found it stuffed with battered twenty-pound notes. "Pleasure doing business with you," said Garrin, now sounding actively smug. He stowed the leather bag in his briefcase and closed it again.

      Bran stuck the envelope into his mac, for lack of anything better to do with it. It crackled pleasantly against his chest. "S'pose Ethan told you how much to bring," he said.

      "He did make a small suggestion." Garrin spent a moment looking out the window, then grunted. "Drop me here, will you?"

      Ethan glanced his way. "What, here?" he said, but all the same he jockeyed the car over to the kerb.

      Garrin threw himself out almost before the car had come to a stop, his briefcase bouncing off his leg. He leaned back down and stuck his head into the car to pin Bran with a look. "Good luck in the future," he said, oddly serious all of a sudden. "Get Ethan to give you my number and tell you the terms."

      "Er, all right?" said Bran. "Thank you?"

      "Absolutely," Garrin said, patting the car's roof with one hand, and then he was gone, a grey figure striding purposefully away through a host of similar grey figures. Bran lost track of him quickly.

      "Do you want to get in the front?" Ethan asked.

      "What? I mean, aye, yes, I do, hang on a tick..." Bran scrambled out of the back seat and hopped into the front, grabbing for the safety belt. Ethan waited patiently until Bran was all strapped in, then put the car back into gear and pulled back out into traffic.

      Bran crossed his arms tightly. The envelope in his jacket crackled again, one corner digging into Bran's stomach beside his navel. Bran decided that he rather liked it, and pressed the inside of his wrist down against the envelope, making it shift against his chest. Eventually he realised that he was hugging his money. He went pink and dropped his arms again. "So what's with him, then?" Bran asked, jerking his chin at the window.

      "Garrin? He's with the Canadian Embassy," Ethan said, distracted. "That's why we picked him up near the embassy building."

      Bran blinked and thought back. The building they'd been in front of had been the usual multi-storey brick affair, but there had been red and white flags on it, hadn't there? He was pretty sure. He hadn't been paying that much attention. "Oh," he said.

      "I suppose he wasn't quite what you were expecting."

      "No," Bran said. "Don't know what I was expecting, honestly."

      "I don't pretend to know all the little details, but suffice it to say that he'll pop those watches into the diplomatic pouch and send them across the Atlantic." Ethan's smile was faint and distracted. "His special services cost the earth, I'm afraid, but it's the best way I've found to make relatively ordinary things absolutely disappear. No one is going to think to look for your watches in Canada."

      Bran's eyebrows went up. He was impressed. Over the course of his life he'd met a lot of people on the wrong side of a lot of laws, but the tang of spy-craft and international incident was new. "So Margery costs less but what she does isn't as safe," he said, feeling his way through.

      "Exactly," Ethan said, pleased.

      "So if I want to keep more of the profits, I use Margery—"

      "—as long as she stays in business, at any rate, she keeps threatening to retire—"

      "—or someone similar, then," Bran said, irritated at having had his thoughts interrupted.

      "Goodness knows there are always plenty of someones similar," Ethan said, his voice gone very dry for just a moment. "But, yes. It's a matter of evaluating risk. It's always a matter of evaluating risk."

      Bran grunted and subsided. It was bang-up noon now and the pavements were jammed full of people in suits, all out to lunch. It had been raining earlier but now it wasn't, and the mood on the streets seemed good. If only they knew... Bran curled his lip out at them, the grey suits and their grey little lives and their grey little pay-cheques. He patted his chest. His three hundred pounds crackled reassuringly under his palm. "He didn't seem to take much care," Bran said. "Seems to me like he's got more to lose than someone like Margery."

      "Well." Ethan huffed out the tiniest little laugh. "That's because he's a bit of an idiot, honestly. He believes that if anything ever goes wrong, he'll be able to slide free in the ensuing diplomatic kerfuffle."

      Bran frowned. "Is he right?"

      "Oh, possibly. I mean, he'd certainly be sent home in disgrace, but—" Ethan's shrug encompassed the world and the endless vagaries of politics, and then dismissed it all as too tedious for words.

      "Huh." Bran slithered down in his seat and turned his attention to the side window, staring at nothing and conjuring up fantasies of international intrigue, all the way home.

      Some atavistic impulse, some reflex, made Bran slip the strongbox inside his mac before he went into the house. It was all for nothing, of course: Jeremy was waiting for them at the kitchen table, absolutely lying in wait, awash in tea, cookies, magazines, and ancient padlocks. Bran's arms tightened around the strongbox—hugging his money again—but he knew that it was useless.

      Jeremy came up and out of his chair like he was on a spring, his eyes shining. "Did you get it?"

      "Aye," Bran said shortly.

      The enthusiasm burned on Jeremy's face for a moment longer before abruptly fading, leaving only his new cynical little smile behind in its wake. Jeremiah would have begged to see; Jeremy only glanced from Bran to Ethan and asked, "How much?"

      "Fourteen hundred pounds." Just saying it made Bran come over a bit faint; despite himself he warmed to the question. It put a touch of swagger in his stride as he crossed to the kitchen table, brushing aside a pile of locks to put the strongbox down with a comforting metallic clunk. "Plus a bit," he added, aiming for nonchalance.

      Jeremy's lips parted in a soundless 'o' that was sweet as anything to see. "Not bad for an evening's work," he said, patting his hands together in a parody of applause that somehow came across as the more sincere for it.

      "Hah! An evening's work, he says," said Bran, throwing a sneer across at Ethan.

      "I'm sure that's not how he meant it," Ethan said mildly.

      Jeremy's little smile came right back. "All right, then, an evening's work plus a bit."

      Bran snorted. Still, he was in a reasonably good mood, all in all, so he let it drop and patted the lid of the strongbox instead. "And if you so much as touch it I'll bloody your nose for you right and proper," he said.

      Jeremy looked at the box. He looked at Bran. Bran already knew what was coming, and sure enough, Jeremy held up a hand, wiggling his fingers to get Bran's attention; once he was sure that he had it, he let his hand drift down towards the corner of the strongbox. It paused barely an inch from one of the hinges, fingers still flickering through some sort of complicated dance. Bran snorted and batted Jeremy's hand away. Jeremy faked a hurt expression. "It's as if he doesn't trust me at all," he told Ethan.

      "I don't!" Bran swept up the box. "Here, I mean it. You touch the box and I'll see that you regret it."

      He didn't sound serious enough, and he knew it, and the fact that Jeremy's little smile did not so much as falter proved it, at least in Bran's opinion. Jeremy only sat back in his chair and went all boneless, like he did. "I wouldn't in any case. It's yours."

      "Well... good," Bran said, hugging the strongbox to his chest. After a moment of hesitation, rocking back and forth, he stepped past Jeremy's outstretched feet, heading for the door and the back hallway. He heard nothing from behind him, but he hoped that Ethan was following.

      The safe sat where it always had, with the antimacassar on top. The only difference was that now Bran knew the combination—thanks to Jeremy, everyone did—so he knelt in front of the safe and put his hand on the massive dial. Then he twitched it away. Even though he knew that it couldn't possibly be sitting open, he dropped his hand to the lever and gave it an experimental push. It didn't drop, the safe didn't open, and from somewhere behind him Ethan swallowed a laugh. Bran twitched out half an embarrassed smile and worked the combination as usual.

      At some point Ethan had cleared a space on the floor of the safe, just large enough for Bran's new strongbox. It seemed like a moment for reverence, but Bran didn't have much to spare, so he slid the box into its new place and gave the lid a pat. It looked... naked. Shiny and alone and far too tempting, should Jeremy come ravaging by... Bran picked up a random bank bag and put it on top of the strongbox. It was the worst attempt at camouflage ever. Bran went in search of more things to pile on top.

      "Oh," Ethan said from right behind him. Bran jumped. Ethan pretended not to notice. "Oh," he said again. "That reminds me." He reached over Bran's shoulder and picked a small brown velvet box off the topmost shelf. "This is yours," Ethan said, hunkering down by Bran's side and offering him the box. "I've been meaning to give it to you. For years, in all honesty."

      Confused, Bran took the box. It was heavy for its size, the velvet worn bald and shiny on the corners; he flipped it open with a creak of tiny hinges and fished out a small gold cross, threaded on a fine bit of chain. "Huh," he said, twining the chain about his fingers.

      "I'm told it belonged to your grandmother," Ethan said.

      Bran's fingers twitched, the chain making tiny slithery sounds.

      "Er, your mother's mother." Ethan dropped neatly to the floor, crossing his legs tailor-fashion. "It, ah, came with you, if I might be a bit indelicate—the idea was that I would give it to you when you were old enough to have it. Which you have been for several years, but as has been established, I am a terrible father."

      "Huh," Bran said again. Shaking the necklace down to hang about his wrist, he picked the white satin cushion out of the box. Underneath it there was an ancient yellowed bit of cardboard that looked like it had been indifferently scissored out of a larger piece; Given to my mother Lisette Dougherty on the occasion of her first communion, 1931, it said.

      Ethan chuckled. "No, no, see, here is where you tell me that I'm not a terrible father."

      "What? Oh. Aye. ... what?"

      The chuckle became a full-on laugh and Ethan rose to his feet, clapping Bran on the shoulder. "I'll just leave you to it, shall I?"

      "Aye," said Bran. He put the cardboard back in the box, put the satin cushion on top, and dropped in the cross. The box's hinges made the same creaking sound as he closed the lid; Bran sat there for what must have been a full minute, box clasped between his hands as if he were praying over it. He wasn't sure how he felt about this—how he should feel about it—if he felt anything about it at all. His first thought had been nice, heavy, well-made—it's worth something, I'd steal it. Bad enough to think about the only real inheritance he'd ever seen; worse yet to think about a cross. God, Bran thought, would not approve.