The Eighth Court (The Courts of the Feyr - By Mike Shevdon Page 0,104

told her. “We’ll be moving to the new place, you’ll have a new room and everything.”

“Leaving?” she said. “But I was just getting used to it.”

“We can’t stay here,” I told her. “We’ve only been able to be here as guests of the High Court. Now that we have our own court we need our own place.”

“I s’pose,” she said again. Somehow the news seemed to depress her even further.

“Once you have a room that’s properly your own, you’ll be able to have your own things around you. Won’t that be nice?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Nice.”

Unable to penetrate into whatever it was that was bothering her, I left her to it. She was a teenage girl and maybe she was just having the blues that day. It happened. At least she wasn’t shouting or bothering the plumbing. Maybe she’d cheer up in a bit and join in.

I took the baby back to Blackbird and then made my excuses on the pretext of Warder duties. The next couple of days were likely to be busy ones and I had some outstanding business with a certain Sam Veldon that I wanted to deal with before I got embroiled into Eighth Court business. I found an empty room on the ground floor with a mirror in it.

“Sam Veldon,” I said into the mirror. It misted slightly and then cleared to the sound of low snoring. “Sam!” I shouted into the mirror.

“Wha–?” said a voice. “Who’s there?”

“You know who this is,” I said, “don’t you.”

“You’re dead,” he said. “I shot you. You’re dead.” He sounded only half awake, as if he were wondering whether he was dreaming.

“If that’s true, then I won’t be able to meet you on Westminster Bridge at midday, will I?”

“Westminster? What’s that gonna do?” He wasn’t making a lot of sense, but then he’d had a disturbed night, and had just been wrenched from the limited sleep I’d allowed him.

“Midday – don’t be late.” I released the mirror, sure now that he would be there. I had one or two preparations to make and then I would go and meet him, and this time I would be the one who was waiting.

SIXTEEN

On a December afternoon on Westminster Bridge, even when the low winter sun is at its strongest, no one stops to admire the view. It was bitterly cold. People huddled past wrapped in scarves with coats buttoned tight, eager to escape the freezing wind off the river.

I waited in full view for Sam, knowing he would watch for me. I took a risk. It was possible he could be in one of the buildings overlooking the bridge with a rifle, taking a bead on my head, but I didn’t think so. That was the reason I’d chosen this spot. It had a good view of the Houses of Parliament and the security services tended to take a dim view of people with sniper rifles and telescopic sights so close to the seat of government – something Sam would be aware of. He’d almost succeeded once in killing me by getting in close. I wasn’t sure whether he’d worked out that I could avoid the glassy stare of the CCTV cameras that were undoubtedly trained on the bridge, tracking everyone who crossed. Maybe he was relying on that.

People hurried past me, eager to reach the relative shelter of the buildings on each bank, their breath clouding in the chill air before it was whipped away upstream. Sam stood out as he approached. He didn’t huddle and he didn’t rush. His coat was loosely wrapped around him, giving him easy access to the inside pockets.

You bastard, I thought. You’re planning to shoot me again.

He looked grim. The stubble was raised on his cheeks where he hadn’t shaved for days. There were loose pockets of saggy skin under his eyes and dark smudges that spoke of too much whisky and not enough sleep. He paused and checked behind him, timing his walk so he would reach me while no one else was passing. I could see him weighing it up – one to the chest, one to the head, then over the parapet into the Thames.

He walked up to me. “Peterson,” he said. “Last time I saw you, you were dying.”

“I’d love to say there were no hard feelings,” I told him.

He turned as if to glance back and went for the inside pocket of his coat. That’s when Amber kicked his legs out from under him. He landed badly with a dull