Chapter Nineteen – But Silence is golden

The news came as an unpleasant blow to two men in particular, but the aftershocks were felt throughout Rosenkreuz. Gossip and rumour and hearsay rippled throughout the student body, and knowing glances were exchanged and acknowledged. No one said it aloud, but every one knew why he came.

Heresy, minds whispered to one another.

A telepath, the sensation pooled from thought to thought like a diverted stream.

Bradley Crawford, the silence screamed.

"Bradley Crawford," Hertz murmured to himself, "well, it wouldn't surprise me."

"How long have you had something against him?" Madame Dubois asked nervously.

"Oh, I always suspected this. He's too clever, too power hungry. Tell me exactly what you saw," the German demanded again.

"It's a long way off, and not certain," Madame Dubois reiterated, but Hertz waved this aside. "The summoning will go awry, and the elders will die. And he will play a central role."

"Do you suppose he kills them himself?" Hertz asked mildly, playing with a bone pen. "It would be a bit out of character, but greed can make men do strange things."

"Non, I doubt it. It is quite possible he is defending them. Of course, it all may never come to pass."

"Exactly. We are here to prevent it. Give me an excuse, Jacqueline, a single excuse. He hates me, and the feeling is more than mutual."

"But why? What did he ever do to you?"

"Some things are better left unsaid. Let me say this, though, you are the only person who can answer that question with any certainty." Hertz smiled and signed a death warrant with a flourish. The finger-bone pen bobbed erratically.

"'Pre-emptive strike', the most dangerous words since 'witch!'" Jacqueline bemoaned her colleague's enthusiasm. "So, when will Monsieur May arrive here?"

The red 'ink', already fading to brown, lay on the cheap paper in scribbled loops, reading as a woman's name forced on to an unfortunate boy child. Above it, in neat, ordered rows of stocky black print, was the name of the person whose life depended on the word of one man…

… Crawford opened his eyes. His name, Mr May's name, Herr Hertz's name. He lay in the cool white sheets, staring up at a cool white ceiling, trying to think cool white thoughts.

An inquisition. His mind raced, and he fought to control it. If Mr May had already arrived, he was as good as dead. Oh, he had been thinking very heretical thoughts recently. He'd learnt to shield amazingly well, at least according to Schuldig, but if there was a single chink… Perhaps Schuldig had been lying? Perhaps Schuldig, furious at being rejected, had pried open his mind and gone to the board of Governor's, demanding that Crawford be punished. Crawford could see that kind of vindictiveness in the young man, though he'd always believed that if Schuldig wanted revenge he'd do it himself.

Crawford moved slowly as he got out of bed, trying to shake the feeling of impending doom. An Inquisition.

"No one expects the Spanish Inquisition," a voice said almost chirpily, but with a hint of malice. Crawford spun around. Schuldig was leaning in the doorway. He wolf whistled.

Infuriated, Crawford grabbed at the sheets and sat down on the bed again. Schuldig sauntered over.

"What the fuck are you doing here? Come to gloat?" Crawford snapped, following his earlier line of thinking.

"You wish," Schuldig smirked. "Greg's coming. You are in such de-ep shit."

I can shield, Crawford declared inwardly.

"Not when you're this agitated," Schuldig observed. "And you are going to be way out of your depth by Friday. Do you even know how they go about these things?"

"What do you mean?" Crawford asked grumpily. "Mr May will come, scan my mind, and find nothing. There's nothing to find."

"Like hell there isn't," Schuldig laughed cruelly. "Look, as the resident telepath, I've done these things myself. First you get the poor sap suspected of treason. It doesn't take much, a rumour, the word of a telempath or seer, a funny look, whatever. Then Hertz has a go at them, maybe even puts them in hospital. It depends what they're suspected of. If they think there's a plot, which they do with you, then the kid is kept alive and intimidated until the 'fess up, even if they've got nothing to confess to.

"But, see, you've been beaten in the past. So that won't work, and they know it. They know you. Next step, telepath. As you think, a quick scan. But they know about your shielding. The telempaths complain you're like a black hole, but I don't think so. You've just got a wall where most people have glass, and some only have fences."

Crawford frowned at him.

"See, everybody's thoughts are kept in their heads in glass boxes," Schuldig explained vaguely. "Most of the time, it's one way glass, so I can see in but they can't see out. But passives, it's two way. And me? I don't have any glass. I can put things on the other side of the glass too. Inside the glass, some people have wooden crates of their most repressed memories. Pretty easy to break into. But you? You're like one of Rosenkreuz's walls, an unsurpassable barrier. But I know all the secret passages," Schuldig smirked. "We both know that."

"So what happens to me?" Crawford demanded impatiently. "If they can't see in…"

"They find a way to knock down the walls. You're not the only one with walls, you know, though for a lot of people it's more like clouded glass. You can get impressions of what's-" Crawford frowned, and Schuldig fought his way towards getting to the point. "Fine. They knock them down. If they can't do it using mere telepathic pressure, they traumatise you."

"Rape," Crawford guessed correctly. "How do you know all this? I'd have heard if you'd got into this kind of trouble."

"You didn't listen. I'm the resident telepath," Schuldig said softly.

Crawford looked ill. He didn't really want to ask, but he had to know. "Do you rape them or does somebody else and you just hang around near by?"

"It depends," Schuldig told him.

"I see."

They sat in silence. After a while, Schuldig got up and left, his request unrequested. Crawford didn't spare a thought for what had brought the young man there in the first place. He was too frightened. Eventually, he got up and poured himself a glass of wine to steady his nerves, then another to relax, then a third because by that time it seemed like a good idea, and by the seventh he was mutely toasting death and looking for another bottle.

* * *

"Help me, Nagi, they're going to kill him," Schuldig dragged the Japanese boy away from his accustomed corner in the courtyard. Nagi's huge eyes just stared up at him. "Mein gott, he's going to die. They're going to rape him, Nagi, and mindfuck him, and destroy him. They might even not kill him, once he's like that. He won't survive it. Not with those walls. Mein Gott, Bradley, what are you planning?"

"Nani?"

"Shut up," Schuldig said brusquely.  "What am I going to do? Answer me, Nagi! How do I help him? Oh scheisse, Greg's coming here. What do I say to him? Do you think he'd listen if I asked him to go easy on Bradley? What sort of questions would he ask if I told him to? Mein gott, Bradley…" Schuldig trailed off miserably. Nagi still looked utterly blank, but nodded obediently. Schuldig patted him on the head like some small dog.

Schuldig slumped against a filthy brick wall. Nagi hovered nervously. The small boy was covered in bruises, but they were fading now. Those who had picked on him had learnt the hard way that he wasn't entirely in control of his talent yet. After the first death, the bullying suddenly slackened off. Schuldig wondered vaguely whether Nagi understood what had happened, what he'd done, or whether no one had taken the time to explain to him that he'd killed someone. Schuldig got the impression that Nagi wouldn't care.

The green jacket was getting covered with some hybrid of mildew and mud, turning its own distinct shade of sewer-brown. Schuldig shrugged it off carelessly and placed the broken sunglasses on it, looking more like any other cloned student. The sky was a dingy yellow, and storm clouds loomed overhead, piling on one another to tower over the institute. Nagi hated this kind of weather.

"What am I going to do?" Schuldig moaned again. "I hate him, Nagi, but I'm going to put my arse on the line to save him. It's hard to hate dead or insane people."

Nagi only understood about four words in the entire short speech, but he knew Schuldig well enough to guess the rest. Schuldig-sama, he thought in a language that Schuldig couldn't understand, you want him alive because you love him, not because you hate him. You just hate that you love him.

"I wish you could talk," Schuldig sighed. "Well, you know, Deutsche. Or English. Or anything but fucking Japanese. I mean, you're ten, so I wouldn't expect any particularly useful advice, but you seem pretty smart." Nagi stood stock still, listening as expected. It was as if, somehow, he was supposed to learn all these languages just by listening to them. Well, that was how babies learn, but Nagi was old enough to need teaching.

"I wish we could leave," Schuldig sighed. "You, me, Bradley… almost had a chance, if I'd stuck with him the first time. But this planet isn't big enough any more." He looked utterly dejected. "We're all going to die, Nagi. I watched that vision. She only noticed Bradley, but I've observed a few of his. We're right in the thick of it too. If they think they can prevent it, we'll all die, no matter how invaluable."

Nagi couldn't say a word.