The first of the Londoners to enter the Twa Corbies that night were Knox and Grell. She had explained that no lady could go unescorted into such a place. Will could not go; it would imply official interest, driving the other customers away. Knox was voluntold by Will to provide that escort and any protection necessary.
Grell wanted to be first into the target site, but not to attract unwanted attention. Dressed in a faded, frayed uniform borrowed from Supplies, hair tied back under her collar and color-changed to brown, carrying a stout basket, she played the part of a worn and weary Reaper buying wine for her kitchen (fully blessed, please, it's been such a difficult month for us; one good burgundy, one good chablis, and two vins ordinaires.) After a short discussion with the cellarman, she accepted a glass of sherry from the bartender. While the bottles were wrapped and snugged into the basket (ordinares on top, please) Knox ordered a pint. They drifted off to the benches to join other shadows in silent drinking.
The next to arrive were ffoulkes and Sorenson. Sorenson identified himself to the host as a chauffeur, one staying sober to transport his friends home, and ordered a lemon squash. The bartender offered him the traditional parting coffee on the house – "Just ask for it when they're almost ready to leave," - and drew a mild and bitter for ffoulkes, who appeared to have been drinking for a few hours already.
Frank Bourne arrived alone, procured a glass of wine and faded silently to a table near the rear.
Eric ported Alan directly to the front door and whisked him inside. Alan looked around carefully, trying not to betray his great interest. Dim quarters with an uncertainty about the positioning of walls and furnishings. The seating was all in shadows. Dimensions seemed theoretical at best. Sound seemed muffled. "How big is this place?" he murmured.
"As big as it needs to be. Not too many Reapers here tonight, that's reasonable. Many regulars will be in happier places celebrating the recoveries of their partners and friends."
Customers were hunched on benches or over tables. Quite a lot of them were demonic and drinking with a grim determination. Several more might be Angelic, although it was difficult to be certain. There were groups standing and sitting in quiet conversation. The only illumination was over the bar, the light broken and diffused by the hanging wineglasses. The bottles and barrels on the wall included shapes and colors Alan had not seen before, not that he was terribly experienced with liquor; drinking did not ease his pain or sorrow as it did for Eric.
Alan ordered a half pint. He waited while Eric conferred with the Cambion behind the bar. After a discussion and two or three small samples, the bartender filled his flask with a fine single malt. With a pint of stout in hand Eric guided Alan to the table where Frank waited with his glass of red. They settled down into companionable comfort.
"Do they hire Nephilim too?"
"Ach, yes. Their brewmaster, for one. Taste yer ale and you'll see. The Angels can bless the ingredients and the finished product, but ye need a master for the brewing. Else ye'll never have perfection."
"Yes, of course. Frank, once all our convalescents leave the Hospice, I'd like to negotiate for deliveries of the angel-blessed tea for general distribution to the Cafeterias and to any Reaper who wants it. Will that upset anyone in your Realm?"
"No, it shouldn't. Talk to Ramiel at the Hospice."
Eric looked around and counted. The backup crew was now in place.
There were strict rules governing any fight tonight. Firstly, of course, by house rules it must take place in the street outside. Secondly, by rules of the Realm, Reapers could not draw scythes on each other outside the training fields or duelling pitches; certainly not in the midnight hours outside disreputable bars in bad areas; never when they had been indulging in alcohol. Their attackers would include Reapers, or demons glamoured to look like the sort of Reapers who would disobey those rules. Rather than spend the next morning explaining themselves to the authorities and then to Spears, the crew would limit themselves to utility knives, fists, belts, and any mundane object that could be picked up from the remarkably clean street outside the bar. Obviously the street was raked and hosed down every morning.
Ten Hagen and Terry arrived shortly after. Dutch looked relaxed and ready for his ale; Terry looked like a man who was humoring his partner and was determined not to enjoy it. He did, however, find his drink to be remarkably good. Together they settled at a table between Eric's and Sorenson's. Dutch talked quietly, as one who was trying to ease his friend out of a sulk.
A large demon solidified at their table. He had been a dark spot on the benches on the wall. He'd already had a few, as demons count them, and was just a little tiddly.
"There you are. About time! I'm here to discharge my debt. The damn thing itches unbearably."
"Hello, Fergilept," said Dutch pleasantly. "How's life?"
"Perfectly dreadful, thanks ever so." He drew up a chair and settled himself. "The Angels did something awful to us. I know you bloody Reapers are at the bottom of this; on their own, those smug, self-satisfied, conceited pigeons can't be bothered with an external problem unless it's shooting at them or disrupting their choir practice." Fergilept took a hefty swig of whatever noxious brew was attempting to eat through his glass. Dutch looked at the drink, which looked back with hostility.
"Surely they didn't bring an assault on your gates?" asked Sam innocently. "Aren't there treaties about that sort of thing?"
"Nothing so direct, of course. I have no idea what did happen. A large number of middle-level managers just exploded. More have been converted into skeletons woven from brambles; nothing to be done but pot them up and plant them out as roadside hedges or formal shrubberies. Wind blowing through the canes sounds like distant screaming, so they fit right into the general décor. There's already a betting pool on whether they will bloom and fruit in spring."
"Probably the best possible use for managers anyway," offered Dutch sympathetically. "Careful with the berries, they'll be poisonous."
"Whole hosts of middle managers have taken to their beds. Lower-middle and lower-upper types are ill, and all the communications lines and command channels are down. The power vacuum is enormous. Work is halted while the remaining boss hopefuls claim the new vacancies with all available weapons and henchbeings."
"Oh, dear," said Sam with a fair imitation of distress. Fergilept growled and quaffed messily. A few drops landed on the table and scuttled away.
"Lucifer is laughing his arse off, when he's not ranting about 'independent actions taken without prior notification of their superiors' and 'due consideration of rollback strategies to mitigate the consequences of failure.' His lieutenants are going mad trying to settle the status wars among their underlings while preserving their own positions."
There were a few snickers from dark demonic figures around the room.
"Whole penitentiaries of souls condemned to serve as scribes have broken loose. Their surviving guards and overseers are fleeing in all directions. The escapees are running wild amidst Hell's bureaucracy. Most are drunk. All are starting fires in the file storage sections. All the pipes are frozen solid. None of the pipes that burst were anywhere near the fires."
"Your Admins must be frantic," said Dutch. A drop of Fergie's drink was gnawing on the toe of his shoe. Dutch eased his foot close to Fergie and shook the beastie off. It fastened on to the demon's … leg? Shank? Nether limb. It chittered at him indignantly.
"Reports from the Human Realm indicate large numbers of escaped souls have re-embodied. They're begging admission into religious communities as penitents. The local authorities are arresting them as fugitives from military conscription and turning them over to the armies. They have exchanged one Hell for another. You'll be returning them to us from the battlefields. Their escape routes are now blocked, which means nobody gets in or out without papers, which cannot be obtained because that office is shut down for a power war. Fortunately, as a battlefield worker, I already have all the proper documents. The guardians of the gates charge for passage according to a list of prices posted on the walls."
Fergilept's drink extruded a tentacle, which he flicked back into the glass. He finished the drink, tapped the glass on the table, and it spontaneously refilled. Obviously, he had a prepaid arrangement with the bartender. It fizzed up a towering head of foam.
"All the less ambitious demons are in hiding, and nothing, nothing is getting done, and one must port into the Human realm to get a proper breakfast." Shadows along the wall groaned in agreement. "I bribed my way into this Realm using a pot of hot, freshly brewed coffee and a plate of bacon butties." He bit the head off his drink and chewed it angrily.
"Ah, I believe the Angels broke a curse, and what you are seeing is the rebound," Dutch said. "The curse was laid on Reapers in violation of the Balance. Most of our injured are recovering. We have noticed the absence of demons from their usual patrols. D'you have any idea of how long that might last?"
Fergilept snorted. "And here I repay my debt. Pay attention, for I will say this once, and then I will be free of any obligation to you. In about a week all the jockeying for position will have ended. Give Lucifer two weeks to review the new rankings and to remind the winners who the ultimate boss is. He may have to destroy and replace an upstart or two whose ambition aims at his own defeat. Once the dust settles, general orders will be issued. He'll demand Mission Statements, plus statements of Synergy and Core Values, from the new bosses. That will take another week or two. In the meantime, expect a treaty agreement driven by the Admins of the three supernatural realms; their word will be final. Ravenings will stop, because we're too few to staff them. Individual predations will continue, Angelic as well as Demonic, but it will be well-documented and exquisitely polite. You lot will be left to your duties unless you really infuriate someone. Interactions will be comparatively peaceful for a while."
"A while? How long?"
"Listen to the Seeing Reaper of London. He's been warning you lot for years. Tell him to keep up with his newspapers. There will be a new disaster beginning in the Human Realm soon, very soon, and we supernaturals are almost too few to deal with it. And it must be dealt with. Admin has put its collective foot down. But once that's over, if we're all still here, Lucifer will begin to plot. It's his nature, after all. Our population will begin to grow again. There will be no more bounties set on the Seeing Reaper and the Planning Reaper. Their predictions are as useful to us as to you – more so, because we credit what they say, when your own people often do not.
"One more thing. I say this to you, Mister Ten Hagen, once only; a great bounty has been placed on the Learning Reaper. There is no being in your Realm more dangerous to us. He binds the angelfire to your scythes. He created the bonds which can hold us prisoner. Do not believe him safe because he never leaves your Realm. Our influence is everywhere and corrupts rapidly. Your Realm has no secrets from us, not for long."
"Smitty?" whispered Dutch.
"My debt is discharged. We are done, we three. If you will excuse me, I have some serious drinking to do before getting back to my duties. Talking has sobered me. I need to rectify that. I wish you no good, Reapers. May we never meet again."
"I'm free," said Alan. "They're not hunting me. I can walk free."
"Bull," said Eric, finishing Alan's drink. "Ye'll go escorted as always. The demons are not yer only enemies. Nice try, though."
"Thanks, it's good to get credit for the attempt. I'm going to get you some subscriptions to American newspapers now that they're committed to the war. I'm already cultivating a few of their Reapers for news on their humans. And listen, Eric, we'll be able to take some Reapers out of Defense roles while our new hires are still retraining."
"I think we have a few months yet before the next disaster begins. It's certainly going to overlap the one we've got now. But it's good to know that Molly will begin battlefield work when demonic activity is low."
"Grell's got two wine bottles moved upright in her basket. I hope we can leave peacefully, a pity to waste them. She can leave at any time. Ronnie is getting coffees for them both. Ffoulkes is pretending to doze off. Sorenson's ordering his coffee. Would you like another glass, Eric? The brewmaster is indeed remarkable."
"Aye. Frank, might I buy ye another of yer favorite wine?"
"That would be a welcome gesture." Frank sat back. "Bring an empty glass as well, and I'll give Alan a taste of mine. The wines here are very good, Alan, but I know you won't want a whole glass."
As Eric walked off to the bar, Alan asked Frank, "Do you think there will be a temporary cease-fire between your Realms?"
"Could be, could be. Like the humans, we are nearly at a standstill. We shall see an armistice – where enemies draw back behind their diplomats. The diplomats trade lies to give the armies time to reorganize, reposition and re-equip. No one has to admit that they are near defeat. The Admins are more powerful than most know. They'll work to preserve the Balance. I'd say the next offensives will be Demons on Angels rather than Demons on Reapers. But we are a stronger opponent, and they're too few to swarm us as they like to do. Yes, an armistice, with the occasional guerilla strike to test our alertness and resolve. There's a bit more truth than usual in your demon's words, enforced partly by the debt and partly by malice. Obviously, Eric is the Seeing Reaper and you are the Planning Reaper. Who's the Learning Reaper?"
"Scythes Engineer and Senior Artificer Edward Smithfield. Ten Hagen's roommate in Housing."
"Ah. Yes, of course. I remember him from the Scythes Tent at the Gather. Several Gathers. One of the few Reapers who has visibly grown and matured. Engineers do that in our Realm too. I will pass that warning on. Our own artificers speak well of him. Perhaps we can counter some of the threats that Fergilept implied."
"That would be excellent. Oh, thanks, Eric." Eric set down a glass of wine and another of stout, then an empty wineglass. Frank poured an ounce of his wine into the empty glass and passed it to Alan, who sipped and was very pleased. Eric smiled.
"Let's wait a bit longer. Grell and Ronnie will go outside first. They'll chat a bit and check out the street. Sorenson will help ffoulkes out next. They'll talk with Grell, who has her basket, and if there's an attack they'll both grab a bottle by the neck and whale away while Grell drops her disguise. Ronnie will tap his glasses and the Monitors will raise the alarm. Frank will run out, and you and I, Alan. There will be a grand donnybrook. Once we're done, we'll bring Sam and Dutch back to Housing without interference."
"Spoilsport," said Sam behind Eric's shoulder. "We can fight our own way out, as is right and proper. But truly? It's not going to be much of a fight if half of Hell is rioting in its own streets and the rest is hiding or drinking. Maybe no fight at all."
"A pity if all your planning goes to waste," said Dutch. "Look, we need to return to the S&S first. I'm concerned about Smitty, who's probably still there drawing diagrams with the London Lab R&D team."
"Don't try to confine him," warned Alan. "He'll waste time figuring out ways around you, time he needs to spend on his work, and it might break up your friendship."
"No worries," said Dutch. "We will warn him, in front of Franklin and Cole and all their evilly inventive tribe. Then we will warn Engineer Crawford in Scythes. They'll deal with it. Whatever they do is no fault of ours. We're just the friends to whom he complains."