from the agreed route and promptly got himself killed like an idiot, which basically kick-started World War One. So Ethereal Ethel had a vision of his assassination?”
“No. She had a vision of a woman in Greece who would invent a new kind of shoe.”
“Oh.”
“Every psychic missed the assassination. It changed the world, and they all missed it.”
“What about the shoe?”
“The Greek woman invented the shoe, then was run over by a train. Ethel missed that bit as well.”
“She wasn’t a very good psychic.”
“No, she wasn’t,” he said, searching through another cabinet. “But that’s what you get when you rely on prophecy to highlight oncoming threats – you’re going to be caught by surprise nine times out of ten. It’s a trap you must not fall into.”
“But psychics saw Darquesse’s arrival, and look at me, here I am.”
“You’re talking about it like it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, like the only reason you’re Darquesse is because they had a vision about you. That’s not what happened. Self-fulfilling prophecies don’t exist. The threat you pose as Darquesse did not come about because of what they saw. You didn’t learn your true name because of a vision. You learned your true name from the Book of Names, and once you became a threat, they started having the visions. When a psychic does have a vision, they are rarely wrong. The problem is they don’t see everything that’s going to happen.”
“Right.”
“You look confused.”
“I feel confused. The Death Bringer—”
“Was a scientific inevitability, not a prophecy. You’re not the Chosen One, Valkyrie. There is no Chosen One, there never was and never will be. The very idea is ridiculous. You’re your own person, independent and free to choose.”
“But we saw Darquesse. We saw what she does.”
“We saw a possible future, and if we’re very unlucky, that future will happen. But you’re not going to destroy the world just because people have seen you destroy the world. You’re going to destroy it for your own reasons.”
“That really fails to make me feel better.”
“I realised that halfway through. Sorry.” He slid the cabinet shut and stood there, tapping his fingers. “Nothing here. No files on Argeddion, no notes or cross-references or mentions of the Summer of Light. How annoying. We walked all the way in here and now have nothing to show for it. What a waste of walking. We could have walked somewhere else and be having a great time by now.”
“Yeah,” said Valkyrie as they started back, “it’s a real tragedy, all right. Maybe we should get the word out that we’re looking for him.”
“Already taken care of, but it could be days or weeks before we hear from anyone – if anyone out there does know him.”
They climbed the stone stairs into the main corridor network. “Do you think the Sensitives would have any information?” she asked. “Maybe we should call in on Finbar.”
“Finbar is out of the psychic business, Valkyrie, you know that.”
“But he’d do it for us. He likes us.”
“I’m sure he adores us, but it’s not that he won’t use his powers, it’s that he can’t. The Remnant possessing him like that, it overloaded his mind. And the mind is a delicate thing. If he tries opening it up to the psychic highways and byways, he may well never get it back. Besides,” Skulduggery continued, “I’ve already alerted a Sensitive to be on the lookout.”
“You have been busy.”
He shrugged. “What do you think I do at night while you’re sleeping? I asked Cassandra Pharos to let us know if she senses anything.”
Valkyrie’s smile faded. “Oh.”
“Do I detect reluctance? What’s wrong with Cassandra? You’ve only met her once.”
“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with her. It’s just … You know that dream whisperer she gave me? I burned it.”
“You did what?”
“Oh, come on!” she exclaimed. “It was Blair Witch creepy and you know it! A little man-shaped bundle of sticks that whispered to you at night? How could you not burn something like that?” She quietened again. “But the problem is, with Cassandra being a psychic and all, the next time she sees me she’ll know instantly what I did.”
“She can’t read minds, Valkyrie.”
“She’d be able to read mine. I just know it.”
“I’m sure she’d understand.”
“Well, of course you think that. You have no idea about presents or what they mean. The last present you gave me was a stick.”
“You wanted a weapon.”
“It was a stick.”
“It had a bow on it.”
“It was a stick.”
“I thought you liked the stick. You laughed.”
“I laughed because I thought the stick was a joke and you were about to give me my real present, but then you went home and I was standing there with a stupid stick with a stupid bow on it.”
“You’re welcome, by the way.” Skulduggery stopped, turned his head. “Hear that?”
“What?”
He didn’t answer, he just changed direction and she followed. Gradually she heard the rhythmic slap of flesh on leather, and they walked into a sparse room with only a punchbag hanging from the ceiling. Ghastly Bespoke moved around it, wearing jogging bottoms and nothing else, sweat running over his scars as he made the punch bag regret the day it had come into existence. They stood watching him until he saw them, and he finished with a flurry and stepped away, breathing hard.
“Hello, underlings,” he said.
“Elder Bespoke,” Skulduggery responded, leaning against the doorframe. “Did that bag do something to upset you in any way?”
Ghastly wiped his face with a towel. “It was mocking my choice of friends.”
“Aha, so you were defending our honour.”
“Actually, I was trying to make it shut up before someone passed by. I’m a respected member of the Council of Elders, I can’t be seen to be taking advice from large bags of sand.”
Skulduggery shrugged. “I can see how that might give the wrong impression.”
“I heard you’ve the word out for someone called Argeddion,” said Ghastly. “Any luck?”
“None so far.”
“Any idea how he’s mixed up in all this? We’re getting a lot of pressure from the international community to get this solved and squared away.”
“Is that who the VIPs were last night?” Valkyrie asked.
Ghastly looked at her. “That was official Sanctuary business. I’m sorry, but I can’t be talking about that with you. I can’t say, for instance, that Quintin Strom turned up on our doorstep as the voice of the Supreme Council, elected by a virtual conglomerate of other Councils around the world, to voice their concerns over matters of Irish security.”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “Simply to voice their concerns?”
“Oh, yes,” Ghastly said. “No other agenda than that, he assured us. And please ignore the fact that he brought a small army of mages with him as bodyguards, an army that stands