“There’s no denying he’s been behaving . . . oddly,” said the Matriarch. “But then, Callan always did. He insisted on returning to the field the moment he was physically capable, and none of us had the heart to say no. But since then, he’s been a driven man. Working every hour God sends, either to prove to us that he’s still the man he used to be or to prove it to himself.”

“The family has always asked a lot of us,” I said.

“Only when necessary,” the Matriarch said immediately. “For the good of the family, and the world.”

“At least tell me Callan’s not out there on his own,” I said.

“Of course not!” said the Matriarch. “We partnered him with Subway Sue. Another of our spiritually walking wounded. Each of them thinks they’re there to look after the other, and so far it seems to be working. They’re currently down in Tasmania, investigating a new outbreak of devil worship.”

“He sent us a postcard,” said the Armourer. “Quite a rude one, actually. I’ll show it to you later, Eddie.”

“It is vital to the family that we recover the stolen torc,” the Matriarch said forcefully. “We cannot allow our most powerful weapon to remain in the hands of an enemy.”

“The Blue Fairy said he was taking it to the Fae Court,” said the Armourer. “And the only direct route to the world of the elves these days is in Shadows Fall.” The Armourer shuddered briefly. “Don’t know which of those places disturbs me the most.”

“Well, somebody’s going to have to go and get it,” said Ethel. “I can’t reach the torc myself, and it’s not for want of trying. It’s part of me and I want it back. But I can’t just reach into the elven realm; it’s too different. And believe me, I know from different. The Fae Court would put my teeth on edge. If I had any.”

“Hold everything!” I said. “If that’s why you called me back, you can forget it. I am not going to the Fae Court. It’s dangerous! Besides, they hate me!”

“They hate everybody,” said the Armourer, not unreasonably. “They’re elves.”

“Yeah, but I killed a whole bunch of elf lords and ladies on the M4, remember? I turn up before Oberon and Titania, and they’ll turn me into something. Probably something soft and squishy that squelches when it moves. You do remember that attempt on my life, Grandmother? You did arrange it, after all.”

“I have apologised,” said the Matriarch. “I don’t see what else I can do.”

“No,” I said. “You wouldn’t. Look, for this you need a diplomat. Someone they’ll talk to. Or at the very least listen to.”

“Trust me,” said the Matriarch. “I would never send you on any mission where diplomacy was necessary.”

“Even when you say something nice, it sounds like an insult,” I said. “Come on, people, you’ve been around and around the bushes so many times you’ve worn a trench in the ground. Why am I here?”

The Matriarch and the Armourer glanced at each other. “Forgive us for coming at this in such a roundabout way,” the Armourer said finally. “But we thought it important you understood and appreciated the situation the family is in. Traitors within, enemies without, and far too many questions we can’t answer. On top of that, we’re stretched far too thin. We’ve had to send out too many new field agents to replace those who died during the Hungry Gods War. Often without proper training, because there just wasn’t time. Many of them are going to die, but we had to send them anyway, because we have to reestablish our presence in the world. Remind everyone that the Droods are still a force to be reckoned with.”

“The family cannot afford to be perceived as weak or divided,” the Matriarch said flatly. “For the moment, most of the world gov ernments are still impressed, if not actually grateful, that we were able to save the world from the invading Hungry Gods. So everyone’s behaving themselves and playing nice. But it won’t last.”

“And all the usual troublemakers are still out there,” said the Armourer. “Dr. Delirium, the Kali Corporation, the Djinn Jeanie. So . . . when someone comes forward and offers us the name and current identity of the traitor within the family . . . we have to take them seriously.”

“We have received . . . a communication,” said the Matriarch, her thin mouth compressing as though tasting something bad. “From Alexander King, the legendary Independent Agent. Yes, I thought you’d recognise the name, Edwin. The single greatest spy the world has ever known.”

“Damn right!” I said, sitting up straight in spite of myself. “You used to tell me stories about him when I was just a kid, Uncle Jack. Hell, everyone knows stories about the Independent Agent!”

“Impress me,” said the Matriarch. “Show me you paid some attention during your lessons. What do you know about Alexander King?”

“There have always been other intelligence agencies in the world,” I said, “doing the same work as us. Some political, some religious: the Regent of Shadows, the London Knights, the Salvation Army Sisterhood. And any number of individual agents playing the great game for their own reasons: the Walking Man, the Travelling Doctor, the Old Wolf of Kabul, John Taylor in the Nightside . . . But the best of them has always been Alexander King. He’s taken on every rogue organisation, faction, and Individual of Mass Destruction and run rings around all of them. He’s worked with or against pretty much every government at one time or another, but always on his own terms. He’s even worked with us a few times. Didn’t he and Uncle James once . . . ?”

“Yes, he did,” said the Armourer. “And we still don’t talk about it. The point is, the Independent Agent has no loyalty to anyone other than himself. He’s worked for every country, every cause, every organisation, and always strictly for cash. He’s saved the world nine times, to our certain knowledge, and come close to destroying it twice.”

“I always thought he did it for the challenge,” said the Matriarch. To my surprise she was smiling just a little, and her usually calm and cold voice had just a touch of the wistful in it. “To see if he could do it, when no one else could. Alexander has been the best spy in the world for almost seventy years now. He admits to being ninety-one years old but could be even older. The point is, he became increasingly choosy about his missions, turning down most people. He said it was because there were no real challenges left anymore, but age catches up with all of us, even the incredible Independent Agent. In fact, he’s been quiet for so long most of us thought he’d retired.”

“He did contact us during the Hungry Gods War, to offer his services,” said the Armourer. “But that was when Harry was running things, and he said no. I don’t think he wanted to be overshadowed. Of course, that was before we realised just how serious the whole affair was . . .”

“The point is,” said the Matriarch, glaring sternly at the Armourer until he sank back into his chair, “Alexander King has contacted us. He says he’s dying. And is therefore prepared to divulge a lifetime’s hoarded knowledge and secrets to whichever present-day agent can demonstrate that they are worthy to take his place when he dies. To ascertain this, he is summoning the six most promising agents in the world to his home deep in the Swiss Alps. And he says he wants you, Edwin.”

“What? Me?” I sat bolt upright, honestly shocked. “Why would he want me?”

“He probably wants you because you took on the whole Drood family and won,” the Armourer said dryly. “And just possibly because you led us to victory against the Hungry Gods and saved all humanity. Anyway, he was most firm. He wants you, for this . . . competition of his.”

“You have to go,” said the Matriarch. “For the pride of the family, and to make sure the Independent Agent’s accumulated treasure of secret knowledge doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. That cannot be allowed to happen, Edwin. Alexander King knows things that no one else knows. The kind of suppressed truths that can bring down governments, start wars, and quite possibly set the whole world at each other’s throats. Any individual or organisation with that kind of knowledge would be a real threat to the Droods, particularly in our current weakened state.”