my dad died I didn’t cope with it that well. Not well at all, in fact. I thought it was my fault. My mum had me see the school shrink. Psychologist.”
George was surprised at how he was able to talk so matter-of-factly about the great unspoken pain in his life. He remembered the soldier with his father’s face and the firm grip he had taken on his arm across the horse’s neck. He remembered his smile and what he had said. And then he almost gasped as he realized that a locked door in his heart had opened somewhere back there, only he hadn’t had time to notice it. And now where there had been a black treacly darkness, he felt clean air and light flowing through.
He knew he’d never stop being sad about his dad. But he now knew that he wouldn’t ever have to be chained or made less than himself by that sadness.
He grinned.
“What?” said the Gunner.
“Nothing,” said George. “It’s all right.”
“No it isn’t,” said the Officer, tensing and aiming his pistol out into the night. “Gunner. We’ve got company.”
CHAPTER TEN
Dark Knight
A s George feared, the Last Knight of the Cnihtengild was slowly crisscrossing the City, looking for him. The Knight was in no hurry since a minister of fate, such as he was, knows things will come to their inevitable end at some point. So he doggedly traversed the wandering maze of streets in the Square Mile, seeking out George.
He didn’t really notice the clocks striking thirteen, nor the way all the people faded out of the City as that last chime dwindled to nothingness.
He was aware of the snow, but thought little of it.
In his mind he rode with his great ghostly company of fellow knights on either side of him, their hacked and battle-worn armor creaking and jangling as they searched the streets with him.
He thought little of the snow, because, in truth, he didn’t think much about anything. He didn’t have much of an internal life, indeed he didn’t have much internal anything. He was precisely what he had been made to be: a hollow man.
He was constructed, as was his horse, from curving sheets of metal, welded together at certain points, showing the gaps in his construction in a way his maker had intended. He was an armored man on an armored horse. The horse’s surcoat was made from interlinked wavelets of metal set with circles of blue glass, which jangled as he rode forward, seeming louder and louder as the clop of its hooves became increasingly deadened by the falling snow.
The Knight’s one thought was to find the boy and end the duel they had begun. He had no hatred for the boy. He had no rancor about this. He had a job to do and was going to do it.
It was just the way things were fated to be.
He had no fear of losing the coming fight, not because he felt himself invincible, but because the duel itself was the point, not the victory. It was a fight that had to be had, and would be had, and he would throw himself into it without holding back one ounce of his strength or his battle skill.
That’s what it took, being a minister of fate. Unswerving commitment to the “how,” the “when,” and the “who” of things, and very, very little reflection on the “why.” That’s what it took—that and being unstoppable.
He was riding across Holborn Viaduct when his horse whinnied and snorted at something in the roadway ahead. The Knight had been looking to his side and vaguely wondering where the statues of the ladies who normally adorned the bridge balusters had gone, so he didn’t initially see what had unsettled his horse.
He turned his helmet, and the two glowing eyes behind the slit burned a little brighter as he peered ahead through the thickly falling snow. All he could make out was the slow white blur of the falling flakes graying out the deeper darkness beyond. And then something detached from the wider dark and walked toward him.
It was a horse.
The Knight stopped.
“Who goes there?” he bellowed.
The Dark Horse did not
George was surprised at how he was able to talk so matter-of-factly about the great unspoken pain in his life. He remembered the soldier with his father’s face and the firm grip he had taken on his arm across the horse’s neck. He remembered his smile and what he had said. And then he almost gasped as he realized that a locked door in his heart had opened somewhere back there, only he hadn’t had time to notice it. And now where there had been a black treacly darkness, he felt clean air and light flowing through.
He knew he’d never stop being sad about his dad. But he now knew that he wouldn’t ever have to be chained or made less than himself by that sadness.
He grinned.
“What?” said the Gunner.
“Nothing,” said George. “It’s all right.”
“No it isn’t,” said the Officer, tensing and aiming his pistol out into the night. “Gunner. We’ve got company.”
CHAPTER TEN
Dark Knight
A s George feared, the Last Knight of the Cnihtengild was slowly crisscrossing the City, looking for him. The Knight was in no hurry since a minister of fate, such as he was, knows things will come to their inevitable end at some point. So he doggedly traversed the wandering maze of streets in the Square Mile, seeking out George.
He didn’t really notice the clocks striking thirteen, nor the way all the people faded out of the City as that last chime dwindled to nothingness.
He was aware of the snow, but thought little of it.
In his mind he rode with his great ghostly company of fellow knights on either side of him, their hacked and battle-worn armor creaking and jangling as they searched the streets with him.
He thought little of the snow, because, in truth, he didn’t think much about anything. He didn’t have much of an internal life, indeed he didn’t have much internal anything. He was precisely what he had been made to be: a hollow man.
He was constructed, as was his horse, from curving sheets of metal, welded together at certain points, showing the gaps in his construction in a way his maker had intended. He was an armored man on an armored horse. The horse’s surcoat was made from interlinked wavelets of metal set with circles of blue glass, which jangled as he rode forward, seeming louder and louder as the clop of its hooves became increasingly deadened by the falling snow.
The Knight’s one thought was to find the boy and end the duel they had begun. He had no hatred for the boy. He had no rancor about this. He had a job to do and was going to do it.
It was just the way things were fated to be.
He had no fear of losing the coming fight, not because he felt himself invincible, but because the duel itself was the point, not the victory. It was a fight that had to be had, and would be had, and he would throw himself into it without holding back one ounce of his strength or his battle skill.
That’s what it took, being a minister of fate. Unswerving commitment to the “how,” the “when,” and the “who” of things, and very, very little reflection on the “why.” That’s what it took—that and being unstoppable.
He was riding across Holborn Viaduct when his horse whinnied and snorted at something in the roadway ahead. The Knight had been looking to his side and vaguely wondering where the statues of the ladies who normally adorned the bridge balusters had gone, so he didn’t initially see what had unsettled his horse.
He turned his helmet, and the two glowing eyes behind the slit burned a little brighter as he peered ahead through the thickly falling snow. All he could make out was the slow white blur of the falling flakes graying out the deeper darkness beyond. And then something detached from the wider dark and walked toward him.
It was a horse.
The Knight stopped.
“Who goes there?” he bellowed.
The Dark Horse did not
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