Night Sessions, The by Ken MacLeod Page B

Street and crossed the road to find Skulk waiting on the portico steps of the National Gallery. The rain had stopped but the sky was still overcast. As Ferguson and the leki walked towards the Mound steps the sky darkened further, then lightened.
    “That's odd,” remarked Skulk. “That partial eclipse should have been twenty seconds longer.”
    “Trouble at t'mill,” said Ferguson. “It was on the news.”
    “Fine,” said Skulk. It engaged in what Ferguson recognised as a moment of extrospection. “So it is. Now, about the Covenanters—”
    “We'll be at the College in two minutes,” said Ferguson, beginning the ascent.
    “I'll keep it brief,” said Skulk.
    By the time the leki had finished its account they were standing in the courtyard of New College under a statue of a bearded man in a broad beret and long coat, a book in one hand, the other arm upraised.
    “John Knox,” Ferguson said. “Was he a Covenanter?”
    “No,” said Skulk. “They came later. He was a Reformer.”
    “Looks more like a revolutionary.”
    “That's correct,” said Skulk. “He was.”
    Ferguson mimed a shudder, which involuntarily became a real one as he recalled the most unpleasant six months of his youth.
    “As if I weren't prejudiced enough against this place already.”
    “I've cleared us with the reception desk,” said Skulk, with an air of changing the subject. “Shall we proceed to Professor Mazvabo's office?”
    “She's in?” Ferguson had been hoping to waylay her on the way into work.
    “Yes,” said Skulk.
    “Let's go,” said Ferguson.
    Skulk led the way, up a sweep of steps at the back of the courtyard, upsome more stairs and through long corridors lined with portraits of stern men in black coats and white collars. The door of Mazvabo's office was closed. Ferguson knocked.
    “Come in.”
    The professor looked around from a kettle at the windowsill as Ferguson entered. She was a slim woman with a serious thirty-something face.
    “Hello,” she said, frowning. “Who are you?”
    “Detective Inspector Adam Ferguson, Lothian and Borders Police.” Ferguson held up his ID card. “Good morning, professor.”
    Mazvabo nodded, turned aside, finished pouring hot water on instant coffee and sat behind her desk. She waved Ferguson to a worn chair on the other side of it.
    “Take a seat, take a seat.” She glanced at the leki. “Does that thing need…” Her voice trailed off.
    “To sit down?” Ferguson smiled. “No, it's quite all right.”
    “To be here?” said Mazvabo.
    “I'm afraid so, ma’am.”
    “It makes me uncomfortable.”
    “Think of me as a recording device,” said Skulk. “A camera on a tripod, perhaps.”
    Mazvabo sipped coffee and straightened some sheets of paper on her desk. Ferguson watched this composure-gathering behaviour without a word. Mazvabo looked up.
    “So, inspector,” she said, “what can I do for you?”
    “Well, professor,” said Ferguson, “you might explain to us why you told the Bishop of St. Andrews that his life might be in danger.”
    “You might explain,” said Mazvabo, “how you come to believe I did such a thing.”
    “Fife Police told us what the bishop told them.”
    “Ah,” said Mazvabo. “That's all right, then. For a moment there I wondered if you'd been tapping phones.”
    “Not at all,” said Ferguson. “Now, can we continue?”
    Mazvabo gazed out the window for a few seconds, sighed, then faced Ferguson again. “All right,” she said. “Have you heard of the Congregation of the Third Covenant?”
    “I've heard of the Covenanters,” said Ferguson. “And of the two Covenants. Was there a third?”
    Mazvabo looked momentarily flustered. “Well, in the eighteenth centurysome of the Cameronians did in fact sign…” She shook her head, smiled, and waved a hand. “Forget that, it's a detail of history. The Congregation of the Third Covenant has nothing to do with that. It's a new…movement, I suppose. A very small one, I believe. A