Chapter Five
4th March, Malfoy Manor:
Livia crept up the polished floor of the long dining room. Her fingers brushed over the inky wood of the table. The air was unnaturally still, even stifling. The smells of wood, wax and swept ashes permeated the room. Thick, dark green curtains lay half closed. Dust motes danced in watery sunlight. Her grandfather stood at the head of the table. He was facing away from her, staring up at the family tapestry.
He spoke softly, "Hello Livia. How goes it in the Wizangamot?"
"Poorly Grandfather. The lords refuse to see the need for a treaty with Argentina. They believe we are invincible," she said, stepping closer. Her eyes took in every detail, calculating.
He chuckled dryly, "How appropriate. Hoist by our own propaganda. What fools we mortals be. We never see the bigger picture." He turned and his velvet cloak swept behind him.
"Don't worry Grandfather. They can be won over, it will simply take time. Perhaps a concession on the mudbloods ..." she suggested.
"We can't," he answered. "I have betrayed my own beliefs, my father's beliefs and all my forefathers before him. However, I will not undo that work. New blood is still necessary. The long war did too much damage.
"If the lords were capable of thought they would realise their own blood is hardly pure. Who do they even think is left? The Blacks? The Dumbledores? Perhaps they imagine heirs to the Longbottom and Prewett names will spring from the earth if they pray hard enough. Maybe the Gaunts and the Peverells will return and set all to rights. The old houses are dead, save for the Malfoys."
"I know Grandfather. Nonetheless they want acknowledgement that they are different … better."
"Everyone wants that. I have something better to give them though. Hatred. We can make them remember their hatred for Europeans, their fear. They will cling to hems of our robes. The idiots we sent to the Princess have kicked a hornet's nest into life. I received the report this morning," his eyes sparkled.
"Really? How?"
"They decided the best way to get across the border was in a blaze of fire. The French are on the verge of declaring war on us. Hush, hush, do not panic. They won't for the moment. War will come, and it will be on our terms. We've played the entire affair as something the French cooked up. Then there is the mess they made of the gate at Calais we have an unparalleled opportunity.
"Though Nott will not be able to help relieve my annoyance at the fiasco. Poor fellow committed suicide yesterday. I wonder what could have driven him to it …" he smiled thinly. A knock at the door brought him out of his reverie. "Come in."
A diminutive house-elf with rust coloured skin which fell in crusty folds entered the room and bowed low. "Master, the summoned goblins are here. Must Bucket bring them in?" His voice sounded like nails on a blackboard.
"Shortly. Offer drinks and food. Give them bread, salt and wine. Tell me if any of them refuse. I will summon you when I am free to see them," Draco replied and turned his attention back to Livia. "Damn it all. I expected it to be another half hour before they arrived. I'm afraid I must ask you to go my dear. Will I see you at supper?"
Livia bit her lip. "Yes, of course," she said, "Grandfather … do we even know they are still loyal? I know it won't matter in the long run, but ..."
"My dear, their loyalty was never the point. I thought you would have known that," he said, shaking his head in disappointment.
"How could I have known Grandfather? You never tell us anything."
"Of course not Livia," he said. "If I told even half of what I knew or suspected you'd have killed me long ago. Were it not for the fact that the most recent assassination attempts have been so half hearted I might have thought you were behind them."
"Come now Grandfather ..."
"Do not think of lying to mechild. I know you plan to depose me. You are of my blood," he said with a small shrug.
"I promise you will never hear of a plot against your life which I organise, Grandfather," she assured him
"That's my girl. For now all we need do is ensure Potter maintains focus. If he does he'll drag our erstwhile lord along with him. As long as he remembers his 'duty' he'll do our bidding. If you think of anything tell me at supper. I have a plan or two," he smiled genially at her and waved her away. He stretched and sat beneath the family tree. He grimaced in pain and pressed his hand to the left-hand side of his chest as he settled himseld, resting for a moment.
"I'll see to it Grandfather. Grandfather ... Astoria's portrait is asking for you again ..." she trailed off. She could not remember how many times she had reported the portrait's plea.
"Thank you," his reply was soft, but there was no promise that he would go to see his late wife. Livia left the room.
A good girl, Livia, he mused as he snapped his fingers for Bucket. One to keep an eye on.
Five goblins entered walking abreast. They were clad in suits of ceremonial armour with hardly a weapon in sight, bar the swords strapped to their backs. A wyvern crested helm rested on their leader's head, adding another foot to his height. Draco nodded to them, politely, but he did not stand.
"Greetings Draco, master of house Malfoy, and Minister of the wizards and witches of Great Britain and her provinces. I, ward-lord of Gringotts, thank you for extending your hospitality to me and mine," their leader said hoarsely.
Draco gestured for them to sit. "Greetings, Nastrond, high ward-lord and marshal of house Drapnuk. I offer you hospitality and safety within these walls." Draco almost sneered at the ridiculous creatures with their high and mighty titles, though he had to admit they did earn them.
"We accept most gratefully and swear that no harm shall come to you or yours by our hands," Nastrond croaked. "Now down to business."
"I have two requests," Draco began. "First I wish to consult your expertise on wards; secondly, I would like you deliver a request: I desire to meet the present Goblin King."
Nastrond's eyes narrowed to slits, "There has been no Goblin King in five hundred years. Are you implying that my kind have broken the long truce?"
Draco yawned, "Come now. We both know that isn't true. I killed the last Goblin king … I do apologise, I mean one of the latest Goblin Kings, myself. A hundred years ago."
"A rebel. He was not recognised as king."
Draco drew himself up, towering over the goblins, "Let us be frank. I do not care. You can have your kings. What I want is to meet him. I have a deal to propose, a deal which I think he will gladly accept. I even have a token of goodwill for him, if you are willing to consider it."
Nastrond paused, the possibility of no-strings attached profit was tempting. He could always refuse the deal later, "Go on ..."
"If you pass my message on to the king I will tell you the location of the only living man who has successfully stolen from you and another who escaped you," Draco promised; goblins adore revenge more than gold.
Nastrond's eyes closed for a moment as he deliberated. Opening them he splayed his long fingers on the table. "I fear I am not the goblin for this task, Lord Malfoy. Perhaps if you pay the commission for the consultation on the wards we can arrange a meeting between an ambassador and your good self."
Draco inclined his head politely, "An excellent suggestion, with one minor problem: I wish to meet the king, not his servants. I might become uncooperative if you did not make sure that the Goblin King himself is notified. Then again he might execute his own wrath upon you should he find that you, by your hesitation, refused the bargain I am offering. The second part of the price I will pay is, I assure you, something he would be interested in."
"Would you care to elaborate?" Suggested the goblin.
"Imagine a kingdom, free from Wizarding influence," Draco replied. "Give me your answer at the end of the consultation. Payment for your opinion on the small matter of the trans-Channel wards shall be transferred from the Ministry's private vaults to those of Gringotts in unmarked bars of gold."
Nastrond scowled. He lacked the political weight to negotiate as an equal, but it galled him to serve as a messenger, "Very well."
"It is quite simple really: would you as Gringotts' high ward-lord be prepared to state that the wards between Europe and Britain are impenetrable without inside help?"
Nastrond smild unpleasantly. "I really couldn't comment Minister. It would take time to think through the problems. Time is gold."
"How much … time would you need?" Draco asked. Goblins were wonderfully straight forward when it comes to making agreements. Nastrond's opposite in France was almost certainly making a parallel agreement. Sometimes the playing field had to be balanced.
"I think that three days at my usual rate will do. You will get the reply to your other question at the same time," Nastrond's smile widened, baring far too many teeth.
Draco nodded again, more slowly. Nastrond's rates were extortionate. However, he could not afford to offend the goblin any further. "That sounds wonderful. I look forward to our next meeting."
Nastrond stood, gave a curt bow, spun on his heel and marched out of the room followed by his guards. Draco sat there for a time. His eyes were closed and he breathed slowly and carefully, hand rubbing at his chest. After a little he smiled softly and began to hum. With a snap of his fingers a map of the world materialised on the table in front of him, small figures dotted over its surface. It looks somewhat like a Risk board.
He slid a figure over the English Channel into the section devoted to Calais. There were quite a lot of figures there now, a small army. A set of miniature goblins materialised at the top of the board, ready to be deployed. In Germany three tiny figures were set to cross the Black Forest.
A remote corner of China, 5th March:
Figures who had once scurried over the dig site like a swarm of maddened ants now sat around or lay in their tents, avoiding the baking heat of the day. Activity had dropped to nothing as they waited for permission to continue. Two or three muggleborns had set up a rudimentary tennis court and were working on creating rackets and teaching the others to play. So far the strings' tension had been terrible and most of the time the players resorted to ping-pong like bats.
The French government, which had been forced to promise a number of favours to the Chinese Republic and its Grand Wizard to gain permission to begin the dig, had called a sudden halt to the dig after a particularly exceptional find. The dig was not terribly out of the ordinary. It had been commissioned on the basis of a research paper by the leading magio-archaeologist of the Spring period of the Eastern Zhou dynasty. That archaeologist was now out from behind her desk and leading the expedition to her great pleasure. What was unusual was that the Département de l'Inconnaissable had funded the dig.
The reason for the interest? Michelle Ego, leader of the expedition, could not have told you. The site was, her paper had argued, the location of the defeat of the African sorcerer Mustaphar. A man who in his time had been a great and feared wizard. According to myth he had been defeated by the thief Alah-al-din and his allies. Michelle did not listen to myths, she listened to facts. If she listened to myths she would be off hunting things like the Elder Wand, not unearthing a battle site.
So far all the evidence supported her paper and research application. They had found numerous traces of magical residue resonating throughout the hill, and even a shrine or two. The shrines had probably been built by muggles to the gods they must have believed had waged war upon the spot. Nevertheless, they were still interesting to the archaelogists. The most remarkable discovery though had come only weeks before.
They had uncovered a perfectly preserved statue of a man, carved, or moulded by magic. No chisel mark or scratch of power marred the ashen stone. Even the eyelashes were still perfectly preserved beneath the heavy brow. Though not tall, perhaps marginally shorter than Michelle, there was something impressive about him. Something which drew the eye. The statue wore a long, cowled robe, decorated by occasional tassels, knots and love charms. His right hand was extended, pointing to some unseen foe, the index finger pointed accusingly. A short beard, hardly more than stubble, covered the broad, frozen chin. The face was contorted in anger and the dark brows were drawn together beneath a furrowed line.
It was this discovery which had sent the Ministry supervisors of the dig dashing back to France. Now a team of the finest, most experienced and most expensive cursebreakers and enchanters had arrived to do something. They were all legendary, if only in many cases for their mercenary natures. Bounty hunters looked good next to these witches and wizards.
Michelle sighed as she dusted the last of the clay from the statue's eyes with a fine, unicorn-hair brush. Magic was far too dangerous to risk around a find like this; not that it mattered much, magic seemed to frequently fail around the digsite. If that had not been the case she would at least have had a cooling charm on the tent. She wiped a grubby hand across her forehead, wiping away the sweat.
It was heart-breaking. All her research, all of the excavations she and her team had done. Their painstaking care, and now it seemed her greatest find would be snatched from under her nose by the Département de l'Inconnaissable. Bastards.
The blue canvas of the tent rippled around her in a soft breeze. She started, shock out of her reverie by the gentle zephyr. Straightening up she reluctantly decided that she ought to go and freshen up. There was a faint hope that she might be able to plead her case to the Ministry official who would be leading the mercenaries.
"Good luck old man. I hope they take care of you," she murmured to the statue before turning and leaving the tent. There was so much she could have learnt from him. If only she'd had more time: styles of dress; the way in which he had been created; the techniques used to do it; possessions a wizard might have been expected to carry. The Chinese conception of African sorcerers in the sixth century would have made a magnificent paper. The statue could have revolutionised the entire field. To see such an artefact – the statue of one of the most terrible magicians in recorded history – a statue dating almost from the time of Mustaphar's defeat … it was extraordinary, thrilling even. The sky was slowly filling with rolling masses of black cloud. They spread down from the north like ribbons of sea stained kelp. The very peak of the clouds, still illuminated by the sunlight, were still a bright, startling white.
Twenty minutes later the Ministry official arrived. He was a tall, pale young man with small glasses and a thin nose. He was followed by the cursebreakers who eyed the camp with the eyes of hungry wolves.
"Bloody tomb raiders," she muttered as the official approached her. He shooed a haughty pigeon out of his path.
With a nod from the official the cursebreakers set off for the blue tent in the centre of the camp, eager to examine the statue. They barely paused as they reached the security charms the archaeologists had set around it. Michelle suppressed a surge of anger at their arrogance and turned to the Ministry official, smiling sweetly.
"Excuse me, Monsieur," she began, stepping towards him.
He cut her off abruptly, "Mademoiselle, the Ministry thanks you for being so obliging. However, I am under orders to insist that you and your team are to leave this area immediately. I am sure you will act with alacrity." He smiled at her, brushing a lock of chestnut hair away from his forehead. Despite her annoyance she felt her heart miss a beat, dammit, he was good looking.
From the tent behind her she heard muttered incantations. Even where she stood the flares of magic were making the hairs on her spine prickle.
"I don't think you understand the importance of what we've found here. The artefact which your hired monkeys are quite possibly destroying is of irreplaceable historical impor …" she began, plastering the smile back onto her face, quashing the desire to scream at him to make them stop before they damaged her priceless statue. What were they doing that they needed cursebreakers anyway?
"Mademoiselle, I understand better than you think. Perhaps even better than you do. I am sorry, but I must ask you to leave now," the hint of urgency in his voice was clear now. His eyes were flickering between her and the tent with a frantic speed.
"Why? At least tell me that," she asked, catching onto his sleeve as he made to push past her. If she had to leave the crowning achievement of her career behind she would be damned if she didn't know why.
"I can't. This mission is paramount to the security of the state. That should be enough for you. That must be enough for you."
"I'm sorry, but it isn't. If your blockheads destroy a pricelessartefact the least you can tell me is why."
He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose before he answered, "How much do you know about the statue and the man it represents? Briefly."
She frowned, puzzled, "It is a statue of the sorcerer Mustaphar. He came to China in the sixth century BC to obtain a rare magical object and to continue his practice of defeating the greatest local wizards in combat. The statue is easily identifiable …"
He held up a hand to stop her. His eyes focused on her shoes. "Very good, very good. Now what does legend say happened to him?"
"Legend," she said, injecting those two syllables with as much derision as she could, "has it that he was beaten by a muggle thief. The legend is patently ridiculous. We should stick to the known facts."
He nodded without much feeling, "True, but remember that legend also says that the thief was aided by one of the djinn, perhaps the greatest and last of all their number. Crucially, the magic of the djinns does not allow them to kill ..."
She blanched, "You can't mean ..."
Away over the hills thunder rolled in a deep booming wave. The sound crashed down, pounding the air like gargantuan fists.
"I can, and I do. Why do you think the Ministry agreed to fund this? Now the time has come for you to leave," he looked down at her like a stork watching some infinitely smaller bird and wishing that it too could shelter from the storm which was coming. She realised for the first time that his pallor was not natural. "You have your explanation."
"You're going to wake him? Are you insane? You won't even be able to talk to him!" She shouted over the gathering wind, her voice barely audible as it whipped around them.
"Go Mademoiselle Ego. I have already told you more than my job is worth and quite possibly more than my life too. I am the Ministry's official representative to him. What happens next is my own affair. I have my duty to perform," he wrenched his sleeve from her grasp and began walking down the dusty grass towards the tent. For a moment she looked after him before she hurried away, frantically gathering people together and urging them to leave.
The spell binding the statue was a work of art. A chain of spells, looped, locked and interlinked to preserve the target as stone forever, never dying, never changing. A frozen moment of time. It was not even particularly complex. The spell was elegant, refined and perfect. The ward experts could do little. This magic relied on no runes. There was to be no bypassing of hidden traps or subtle contests of ingenuity. The magic was a living thing, ever changing, swirling around not just the statue but the hill as well. Even so the cursebreakers were making headway. They channelled power into the various sections of the spell so that piece by piece they forced other segments out of alignment. The magic was reaching critical levels. Light spiralled and spilled into the room from elsewhere.
"Containment shields in place," announced a blue haired, Ukranian, woman as she flicked her wand once more. She scuttled backwards to place a small, flat sandstone pebble the size of a two pence piece, on which a rune was carved precisely into the soft stone. Pressing her wand to it she poured power into the rune before running backwards once more.
"Secondary wards prepared," another of them called. His forked beard shook as a great wind whirled around them with a sigh as if the spirits of the forgotten were finding their way home. Dust lifted into the air, tiny forks of lightning crackled inside the shield.
"Sandstone? Really?" One whose accent might have been Russian asked incredulously even as he began to pour in power along with the others. A blue dome of light rose around the area which the nine of them surrounded. Within it a second dome of pale gold shone brightly, protecting them from all that occurred within.
She shrugged, "It'll release its power faster if we have an unexpected burst of power. Less likely to get a cascade this way. If Iwere in charge we'd do a final heavy duty ward in dragonbone in any case …"
"Takes too much time. These will block most spells, if anything forces a cascade it won't be too large for the containment shields to cope. I think nine of us ought to be able to restrain one old wizard. The man's literally a fossil!"
Magic surged inside the ward with a sudden ferocity. The air split apart with a howling moan and dust whirled in a tornado behind the shields. A crack of thunder boomed and all was still. There was silence. They peered into the dry, brown, floating dust. From inside the wards came a rusty, coughing, breath and then another. There was a thump and the air cleared. Mustaphar looked at them, straightening up as he did so, no small degree of surprise covered his features. It was swiftly mastered.
His robe was a rich burnt-siene. He stared at them and they froze in place until it turned away. Finally, after he had turned a full circle, he spoke. Whatever it was he said though was incomprehensible. Though there were hints of mystery, wonder and enchantment. Then, seeing that they could not understand him he swore; at least they presumed he swore from his tone.
He looked at them and a small grin tugged at his lips. He glanced over the runestones placed over the ground. He ran his hand over the air which shimmered and sparkled as he brushed it. With a grin he pinched the air as if it were cloth and pulled, the stone closest to him leapt out of alignment. There was a small flash, a smell of burning ozone and he stepped through the ward. A ball of power robbed from the wardstones glowed in his hand.
The cursebreakers took a step backwards. A second later the containment shield rippled and tore apart as he thrust the glowing energy straight into it. The blue light ripped like a curtain and he was through. Two of the cursebreakers raised their wands. With a snap of his fingers the wands were ripped from their owner's hands; he caught them easily. The others reacted like lightning. Stunners flew across the room. He danced in and out among the jets of light, if he could raise a shield he did not attempt to. His staff swung in his hand and a beam of red light broke apart on it, shooting towards three of his assailants. Two dodged, one didn't. Three down, six left. The two who had lost their wands had been reaching for their backups when his staff cracked them around the skull and they dropped into enchanted sleep.
A Peruvian flesh-eating curse shot past his ear as an enchanters upped the game. It hit the canvas wall of the tent which began to dissolve into thick, black, sludge. Mustaphar moved like lightning. Ducking under the enchanter's wand arm he lifted the man and used him to catch a triplet of stunners. Then with a grunt he hurled him into the black pool of liquid. It sucked inwards towards the body, leaving the rest of the tent untouched. The man withered, prune-like, before exploding into soft dust. The sorcerer's hand rose as he twirled his staff to deflect spells. He frowned and then with a cheery wink he curled the fingers of his left hand. The canvas sprung to life, trapping the other wizards, forcing them to drop their wands. He leant on his staff, breathing lightly.
Through the gap in the canvas stepped a tall man with pale skin and chestnut hair. Mustaphar appraised him as he offered a short bow and opened his hands to show that he carried no weapon. Mustaphar beckoned him forward and took the piece of parchment with its message scrawled in ancient Chinese from him. He looked at it for a moment in bemusement and tossed it aside.
His hand struck with the speed of a cobra, gripping the man's scalp. The French official fell to his knees whimpering as Mustaphar tore through his mind. Images, thoughts, memories, languages, long buried secrets and forgotten dreams, all that made up the man poured through Mustaphar. Like a sieve he filtered out those parts he needed and released the hyperventilating man. The official collapsed to the ground, twitching. Mustaphar paused and bent down, running his fingers over the man's eyelids sending him to sleep.
Mustaphar stood, surveying the wide eyed horror of his captives. His staff twisted a symbol in the air and thumped once on the ground. They fell into unconsciousness as the sleep spell washed over them. He might punish those who sought to use him, but these men were merely hired dogs. He could respect that. A smile flashed over his face as he looked at them, the smile a jovial father might have given his son. Still waste not want not. He perused their minds one by one, selecting what knowledge he deemed useful. Most of it would probably fade before long, but there was always the chance he'd keep hold of some of it. Then he pressed his staff to their heads, removing the memory of the day's events.
He stepped outside the tent, feeling air upon his cheeks for the first time in millennia. It was good to be alive. The man and his overlords might have intended to use him, but the idea of testing his mettle against the self-proclaimed Lord Voldemort he had found in their heads was tempting. After that he could deal with those who had dared to think of controlling him.
He half wondered about hiring a few of the mercenaries, but it wouldn't really be sporting to do so. After that rogue had beaten him by cheating he was quite set on fair victories, well relatively fair. The sun shone down upon him, breaking through the heavy storm clouds. He picked up a handful of the wands which they had dropped, choosing two which felt most comfortable and stuck them into his belt. Life was good. He smiled and started walking down a nearby track towards a local town. Behind him the rain continued to fall on the dig site turning it into a mire of mud.