Chapter One: Edmund

"Congratulations, Pevensie."

Edmund settled slowly into his chair, peering through the cloudy afternoon light filtering through the window at the greying face of the man across the table. The man's expression was difficult to read. His name, according to the letter Edmund had received from him earlier in the week, was Mr. H.C. Durbin, senior undersecretary of educational policy for the British government. Durbin looked about eighty, skin sagging with wrinkles and and eyes perpetually half-lidded, but Edmund was quite sure the man had been a soldier once. His grey hair and mustache were neat and trim, posture perfectly straight. More than that, there was a deliberation and efficiency in his movements and speech - something about how he clipped his consonants and how he applied pressure to his knife with the pad of his finger as he buttered his roll. Probably no one else would have noticed.

The man eyed him back, suspicion knitting his brows together. Definitely a soldier, Edmund thought. Edmund slouched slightly, wondering if possibly the man had just been thinking the same thing about him. He kept his grip on his own knife firm - the slouch should be enough to throw Durbin off the scent.

"Thank you, sir," he finally responded. "I confess, though, that I'm at something of a loss as to why I'm receiving this honor."

The old man's eyelid twitched as he settled his red cloth napkin across his lap. He glanced around the room once before he answered, adapting his tone to fit the casual lunchtime murmur of the other patrons scattered around the restaurant.

"Your academics ought to be full qualification. Top marks, in all your classes. Except history, eh?"

Edmund frowned. History again. In his private opinion, history - English history - was almost unlawfuly dull. His siblings tended to disagree, Susan especially; history was her forte. Perhaps that's why he'd never bothered learning much of it: if he couldn't just look up some date or occasion, he could simply ask her. She always remembered those sorts of things, and choosing not to remember them himself cleared out mental room for all the other things he actually did need to remember. It was a great policy in practical life, but it didn't serve all that well in class, where the dictates of educational policy reigned supreme over practice.

Since this man likely wrote educational policy, though, Edmund felt it might be discourteous to elaborate these views. Edmund attempted to look politely bashful: "I find history to be - rather trying -"

Durbin chuckled without smiling. "No matter that. The real reason for the award is your exemplary attitude toward your peers."

That seemed so unlikely that Edmund forgot courtesy altogether. "You're not serious."

"Oh yes."

"But I've been in - about half a dozen fights in the last month."

The old man smiled tightly now. "Yes. That's why we noticed you, in fact."

Edmund scowled, trying not to feel nervous, but the situation was a strange one. This man - Durbin - who he had never seen before ten minutes ago, who had asked him to come to London today to receive a good conduct award, a special certificate detailing said award, an expensive luncheon, and two tickets to the weekend's rugby match, and who hadn't yet touched his mixed greens, was unquestionably strange. Something just felt wrong about him. Edmund put down his own salad fork and leaned back in his chair.

"You're telling me I'm receiving a good conduct award for bad behavior?"

"Indeed."

"Why's that?"

Durbin cleared his throat once before answering - Edmund noticed his eyes dart around the room again. Checking for listeners.

"This award - represents more of an opportunity for you than a commendation. You see, we - the British Government - have been looking for a boy like you, for some time. We're looking for a boy with fighting skills beyond his age. You've literally beaten all your competition. The boy should also be clever, beyond what his experience would suggest. He'd also have a certain - air, about him - as though he'd traveled to distant lands. Very distant."

The man paused to take in the effect of his words, but Edmund kept his expression carefully blank. He was getting an inkling of what this man was implying, and it didn't bode well. A long empty moment passed before Durbin seemed to decide to take a new approach. He lowered his voice even further and leaned across the table.

"I'll be straight with you. I know you don't belong here. In this world. I know you've been looking for a way to go back."

Edmund couldn't help himself - "go back?"

"Tell me, Mr. Pevensie, what would you do if I offered you a button to press - a button that would solve all of your problems, and return you to the place where you truly belong?"

"...excuse me?" He was buying time to think.

"All you have to do is agree to help with one small task - and I'll give you that button, no further questions."

Edmund took a moment to pinch his eyes closed, pressing his index finger and thumb into his eyelids, shaking his head a bit before responding.

"I don't know what you're talking about. You've got the wrong boy."

"Do I?"

The waitress arrived then with their meal. As she cleared away their salad course, they scrutinized each other through narrowed eyes. Neither sad anything until she was well away, and then they both started to speak at the same time.

"I need to be going -"

"I noticed from your academic file that your physical, mental, and social health has been dramatically altered by the events of the war," Durbin continued, even as Edmund began to rise. "Or, I should say, the alterations coincided with the events of the war." He paused to draw a file from his case, and Edmund sank back into his seat, his heart suddenly racing. He knew what was in that file.

"What does that have to do with -"

"Behavioural report says here that three years ago Edmund Pevensie was a normal child, average grades, bit of a bully, occasionally rude to teachers, a few pranks here and there. Then the evacuation. Then - I'll quote this part - 'a marked change in student's behaviour: prefers the company of teachers and of his brother; shies away from contact with his peers' ...that was two years ago. From last year: 'student excels academically but appears disengaged in class. Occasionally picks fights with other students.' From this year: 'student plunges recklessly into violent situations. Student is often involved in fights with his brother - sometimes for him, sometimes against, always loudly, always violently.' "

Edmund bit his lip. Those fights - not the ones with the other boys, those hardly mattered - but the ones with Peter -

They'd been alright together, back in Narnia. He and Peter and the girls. They'd been more than alright, they'd been wonderful together, for years. They'd grown up together, four best friends, happy to do anything together, happy to forgive each others' shortcomings, happy to forget all the unhappy memories of childhood and England, where they'd fairly driven each other up the walls. But coming back through that damn wardrobe had re-opened the old fissures, not obviously and not right away, but categorically. All those memories of their pre-Narnian irritations and rivalries and animosities - and Edmund was at the heart of them all - all those memories became real life. Of course they'd fought.

If Durbin noticed any hesitation on Edmund's part, he let it pass without remark. He waited while the waitress refilled their glasses, then continued: "Health report confirms the assessment and adds a number of interesting symptoms - recurring fever, paleness, headache - 'student reports difficulty sleeping at night and concentrating during the day; moreover, student is under weight almost to the point of malnourishment, yet refuses to eat ' - and school nurse says this condition has gone on for three years...and then there's the matter of the panic attacks..."

Edmund flinched. This was what he had known was coming, and hadn't wanted Durbin to know, hadn't wanted anyone to know. He considered making a grab for the papers, demanding that Durbin tell him how he'd gotten the reports in the first place. Suppressing the urge, he tilted his glass idly, speaking slowly and keeping his voice as cool as possible. "I thought that file was supposed to be confidential."

The old man raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly, without warmth. "Nothing is confidential to me. Least of all the school reports of a second form boy. You know, the details in these reports perhaps better describe the behaviour of a grown man, specifically one with something on his conscience... perhaps one with a fairly robust death wish..."

Edmund pressed his lips together before replying. "That's a fairly wild conclusion. Are you always completely inaccurate, or is it just that your position in the government requires you to make a certain number of erroneous conclusions, to fill some sort of quota?"

Durbin glared at him but ignored the bait. "Does your family know about your - 'poor health'?" The old man gave him an odd look. "Stupid question, obviously not; no mother would send her child away to school in such a state. So you've been stealing these reports away from your parents, lying when they ask how you are, all to cover up your thanatic episodes...because if they found out about the sickness, they'd find out about the trauma, wouldn't they? The one thing you absolutely must hide..."

Edmund slammed his hand onto the table, courtesy be damned. A couple eating nearby craned their necks curiously. He made himself lower his voice: "What the hell are you implying?"

Durbin's patience had also diminished, it seemed. He gave Edmund a very dark look before replying in the same tone.

"Simply that I know your story, Edmund Pevensie, your whole story, as well or better than you know it yourself. I know that you haven't forgotten your past, and that your siblings haven't either. These last three years you've become increasingly desperate to escape that past, to redeem yourself, but with little success. You need help, and I can give it to you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he hissed.

"You know exactly what I mean. I offered you a magic button to press; it wasn't a rhetorical strategy. You know the game. You help me play it, and I'll burn this file. I present the good conduct award to your parents, and I'll give you the button that will let you - and your siblings - return home. Otherwise..."

"Blackmail."

"Not blackmail. Just an incentive."

It was time to end the conversation. "What exactly do you want from me?"

Durbin examined him carefully, and spoke in a clear, level tone. "All I need is a bit of blood. Your blood. Just a few drops."

"You're mistaken," Edmund snarled, clenching his knife. "You have the wrong boy."

"I don't suppose a sense of duty to country can interest you in becoming the right boy?" The old man's voice became aggressive. "This service could be immensely useful to His Majesty's war efforts, you know. No? Very well. If loyalty to King and country doesn't entice you, and I can't persuade you with other incentives, perhaps receiving pecuniary benefits might serve? You must be loyal to something."

Edmund stood up, glowering. "You have the wrong boy."

Neither of them had even touched their food yet, but he strode away from the table, about to walk out the door of the restaurant - when a thought occurred to him that stopped him in his tracks. He wheeled around, marching back to Durbin and splaying his hands on the table as he looked him in the eye.

"But I'm not the only boy who fits your criteria, am I?"

Doyle smiled. "Clever deduction."

Edmund glanced around the restaurant, heedless of the curious stares of the other patrons, then barged into the next room over, searching, then the next from that - there he was.

His older brother was half-way through a bite of strawberry shortcake. He was sitting with a balding old man whose face was withered with wrinkles and age spots and two dark-haired, middle-aged men who appeared to be twins. Peter seemed to be on the verge of saying something to them, but he stopped short when he saw Edmund striding up to their table.

"Ed - what are you doing here?"

"Same thing as you, I think. We need to go home. Now."

But the ancient old man at Peter's table spoke first, his voice surprisingly squeaky. "Ah - Edmund, Durbin - why don't you join us?"

Durbin had followed Edmund to Peter's table and was now pulling up a chair. Edmund crossed his arms, trying not to feel quite so outnumbered.

"We need to go -"

But Peter held up a hand and turned back to the others, taking another bite of shortcake. He finished chewing, then spoke to the balding man. "I'm not saying I'll do what you ask. But once I'm in Narnia, how would I know what to look for?"

"Peter-"

"They already know, don't they?" Edmund just stared at him.
One of the twins cleared his throat. "He's English, for one thing. Our source said he was rather ...distinctive. And he'd have the pawn."

What the devil...? But Peter nodded curtly and grabbed Edmund's sleeve, pulling him away from the table just as Edmund was opening his mouth for clarification. "Thank you for lunch, Mr. Graham. I'll think over your offer."

"That's all we ask...son of Adam." The balding man's voice wobbled badly.

As they left the table, Edmund saw Peter slip his folded napkin into his pocket - probably full of the little chocolates and peppermints the waiter had brought out with dessert. Just like him, Edmund thought, to pocket sweets in the middle of being bribed by a bunch of government cronies. It wasn't a very nice thing to think, he knew, but it didn't stop it from being true. The insatiability of the older boy's sweet tooth was legendary. Well, if Peter is going to just take what he wants from these people...

They'd nearly made it to the door when Edmund spun on his heel again and marched back to the table. "I'll have those rugby tickets too, if you don't mind."

He knew he was being awfully impolite, but he didn't care. Without even looking back, Edmund knew Peter's mouth had just dropped open in surprise and exasperation. He spared a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm it though, as Doyle exchanged a look with the other men before pulling four tickets from his jacket pocket. Edmund nodded at the four men and returned to Peter. Together, silently, they walked out into the damp drizzle outside.

The silence lasted about thirty seconds.

"Are you out of your mind, telling them about Narnia?"

Peter's voice was authoritative. "We'll talk at home, Ed."

"You do remember what Professor Kirke told us about how dangerous this Kingsblood game is, don't you?"

"Later. I don't want to talk about it out here."

"And you know they could very well arrange to just take our blood, right?"

"Edmund, shut up -"

"Look out -"
It happened in an instant. They were crossing the street. A car was veering toward them. Too fast. Edmund shoved Peter onto the sidewalk pavement out of the way, but stayed where he was so he could see the driver. One of Durbin's men - ?

"Ed!"

The car was less than five feet away. Edmund dove onto the sidewalk. The driver sounded the horn and sped off. Peter was stumbling to his feet.

"Are you crazy!"

The driver hadn't looked like any of the men from the restaurant, but Edmund hadn't really had a great view of his face - his cap had been pulled down almost over his eyes. Would any of them have had time to run out of the restaurant and into the car -

"Edmund! Are - you - insane?"

"We need to get inside. That probably won't be the only one."

"What -"

Edmund cut him off. "If I'd jumped early, that car would have ridden onto the sidewalk to hit both of us. Besides, I wanted to see his face."

They were standing outside a bookshop. Edmund swerved through the door, Peter on his heels. The clerk at the counter looked at them curiously, but Edmund half-ran past him, yanking open the service exit at the back and ignoring the clerk's protests. He strode into the back alley and rounded the corner onto another street. There was a tube station near here, he knew - if they stayed out of the main streets -

"Ed, stop. What are you doing?"

"I'm not sure we should go home. They'll be able to find us there -"

"They who?"

"Who do you think?" He walked briskly down the street, keeping near the building walls and eyeing everyone they passed. They rounded a corner, and then another. "We both get invited to a mysterious lunch with complete strangers, these strangers tell us they need our blood, and two minutes later a car tries to run us down. It's a pretty straightforward case -"

"You think that car was Graham and his people?"

"If that was his name."

"That man was about nine hundred years old -"

"All the more reason for him to hire a hit instead of trying one personally -"

Peter tugged him to a halt.

"Ok stop. In here."

They ducked into a greasy-looking coffee shop. Edmund wasn't eager to stop, but the place looked dingy enough to hide in for a few moments at least. They sat down at a window table as raindrops began to slide down the glass. Edmund peered around the curtains to stare up and down the street. Peter began again, in a rough whisper.

"First, that car was probably a coincidence. None of those men at lunch would have had time to get in and follow us just like that. Second, I don't understand why you're so quick to distrust them. They made a good offer. Third, and this should be first, is next time don't stand around waiting for a car to hit you -"

"What did they tell you? What did they offer?"

Peter sighed, waving away the waitress who came to get their order. "One minute please, ma'am." He looked back at Edmund, his voice low again and excited. "They said there's a way all of us can get back into Narnia. All four of us. All they wanted was for us to send something back through when we got there."

"And you want to do it?"

"Of course I do. We belong there, in Narnia..." Peter's expression became wistful, but there was something flinty in his eyes at the same time. "...and even if we didn't get back through... we could use the money."

Edmund's jaw dropped. "You must be joking."

"It's basically a win-win scenario." Peter's voice was defensive and a tiny bit whiny now. "We get what we want, either way. I think we should at least try."

"I won't. Not a chance."
"Why not? Why shouldn't we trust them?" Peter snapped.

"Probably because the last strange person to call me a 'son of Adam' and offer to cut me a deal -"

"God, it always goes back to that with you, doesn't it?"

Edmund's nostrils flared, a sure sign that he was about to lose his temper - but at that moment he saw what he'd been watching for. He pulled the curtains closed and signaled to Peter to stop talking.

"What -"

He nodded toward the window. Peter pulled the curtains open just slightly, and his eyes narrowed. A dark-haired man - one of the twins who'd been at lunch - was walking down the other side of the street, turning his head this way and that, as though he were looking for someone. Edmund was pretty sure he knew who.

"...paranoid..." Peter murmured, but he dropped the curtain anyway, just as the man passed their cafe and disappeared around the far corner of the street.

"What if I'm not? Those men at lunch - they didn't - they didn't look right to me. There was something off, something wrong. I'm sure they're following us - they might already have the girls."

Peter rolled his eyes. "If they did, why would they still be following us? Why even offer us money at all if they were just going to run us down at first chance?"

Edmund didn't answer. He'd been trying to work that part out himself.

"Come on. You've been reading too many mystery novels. We'll talk more at home."

Edmund's lip twitched, but he nodded. They stood to leave.

"Ah - there you are." Peter and Edmund both froze. The voice belonged to the dark-haired twin, who was standing in the doorway.