by Greg Curtis
He was in trouble, Manx realised. A lot of trouble. But he did his best to look calm, or at least stoic. If they were going to arrest him, they wouldn't hang him immediately. He had time to mount some sort of defence. Unless his father actually was behind what had happened. Then he was doomed. And wouldn't that be ironic! His father would finally have finished what he started twenty four years before and killed him!
But then an unexpected thought struck him. A ray of sunshine in an ever darkening day. “Lady?”
“Yes.”
“I just realised. If these creatures are truly from the pit, then my father would not have summoned them. He could not.”
“And why not?” The woman stared at him unhappily. She'd thought she had her case all but proven and he was busy unravelling it for her.
“He's the Duke of Clairmont. And Clairmont from one end to the other is consecrated land. It is an ancient abbey of Atan, town and cemetery, abandoned only to the first Duke because of the age and weakness of the structure.” Actually it had been bought for a fortune in gold by the first Duke of Clairmont because the land offered a title and sold by the church because it made them a huge fortune. And there had been a considerable amount of bribery involved as well, so he understood, even before they'd started building the hall itself. But that didn't matter. It was still consecrated land. And that meant something.
“If one of the darkness dared to stand on its hallowed ground, he would be driven from it. So our most ancient family histories state. If my father had made this deal you suggest, or even consorted with creatures from the pit, he then would be of the darkness and could never dare return to his home.” Of course that was all a smattering of ancient history mixed with legend. It might not be true. It probably wasn't. But he could see expressions of agreement in the faces of the peers of the realm. He could even hear murmurings. No one would dare deny the church.
“Myth and gossip!” she retorted.
“But not to any of the nobility,” he answered her, even though he actually agreed with her. “Ask any of the peerage here,” he nodded at the assembled nobility. “Would any of them dare defy the edicts of the true faith?” Then he nodded at the priest. “Would the faith allow it?”
He was safe on that he knew. Most of them probably didn't give single damn about the faith and would cheerfully break its every law. Especially if there was gold involved. But in public they all adhered to its tenets rigidly. Treason wasn't the only capital crime. So was heresy. And the King was the defender of the faith.
“So maybe it wasn't hell itself that he made his deal with.” The woman's argument gave way as she heard the nobles muttering against her. She had to let it.
But Manx had an answer to that.
“I confess, I don't know who or what those things were that attacked the city yesterday. My knowledge of matters of faith is regrettably small, and mostly if I follow one of the gods it would be Freda, the Lady of Knowledge, not Atan. But those great hounds with the three heads and the fiery breath were surely hell-hounds. However I imagine the priests of Atan would know better than I.” And he guessed she didn't want them called to testify. It was bad enough that one of them was here to act as a witness. Bringing the priesthood into any trial would only complicate it. Though it was never openly admitted the priesthood was one of the powers of the realm. Her master, the King, would not thank her for involving them in the affairs of state. And the Court would absolutely hate it.
She knew that too, which was why she glared at him. No doubt she had hoped for a quick trial followed by a speedy hanging. But her case had just been ruined in front of the nobles of the city and a priest of the Father, and there was little she could do about it.
“You speak with the tongue of vipers,” she told him. “There is truth in your words, but I sense that it is shaded.”
“I apologise, Lady.” Manx bowed to her. “I have tried to speak honestly.” He guessed though as he saw the anger in her eyes, that she didn't believe a word of what he'd said. On the other hand he guessed that the moment this examination was done, she would be heading back to speak with Walken, assuming he was also in her custody. And her questions to him would be far less civilly spoken.
“That may be. But not to speak the whole truth I suspect.” She drew herself up to her full height. “But for now you may return to your place in the city, while we consider your words.”
“Thank you Lady.” He bowed again, a wave of relief washing through him.
Before anything more could be said he found himself manhandled as the guards grabbed him, and started escorting him out of the courtroom as quickly as they could. He scarcely had a chance to grab his clothes before he was practically thrown out of the chamber and then escorted to the street.
One thing was certain, he decided as he stood outside the building dressing, he was not the woman in silver's favourite person. But at least for the moment she had had her hands tied. It would be difficult for her to come after him or his family with her claims of treason and heresy, at least for a little while. And if she got to question Walken with what he'd told her, he suspected that any thought of charges would be dropped in a hurry. The man might lie, but not convincingly.
He had escaped the noose for the moment. Though he still didn't know who the woman was that had been dangling it in front of him. Or why she wanted to for that matter. Was this personal in some way? Had his family offended her? Or was it simple political expedience?
But as he began walking back to the library and his work, he feared his freedom would not last for long. These things had a way of coming back to bite a man again. And he could feel the teeth closing around his throat already. Teeth that had Walken's name on them.
Walken was a man filled with hatred and anger for what had been done to him. He had taken great risks in the past to hurt his father. He would do so again. And though Manx suspected that the man was shortly to go from being a valued witness to a prisoner for the crime of making the Lady look foolish, he still might have the power to destroy the Smythe family. Maybe, filled with hatred and rage as he undoubtedly was, Walken would have the will to overcome whatever form of interrogation she used on him, and stick to his lies about his father having had consort with the demons. Or maybe he would come up with another tale to tell.
Then his family would be hung.
Manx couldn't allow that. His father could swing for all he cared. In fact he might even pull the lever to let him drop to his death. But not the rest. He didn't even know them but he could not allow his mother and his brothers and sisters to be executed. They were the only family he had. So he was going to have to make sure that that didn't happen.
There was one way he could help them. Tell them what he knew. The problem was, that he knew almost nothing. And they surely already knew that little themselves. So he had to find out what else Walken said as soon as he said it. And if possible stop him saying it at all. But how?
Chapter Five
It was cold in the fog. Freezing cold. And he was once again blind. But then that was the price Manx had to pay to keep from being seen. He had after all, only one way of hiding, and that was by covering himself in fog as he crept through the darkness.
Of course he could have stuck to his original plan and not come at all. He'd wanted to. The cats would make excellent spies, save for two unfortunate shortcomings. The first was that they had very poor attention spans and would quickly forget what they had been sent to do. Especially if it was something boring like listening to what people said. They wouldn't pay attention. If he had learned anything from Whitey it was that. The second was worse. He couldn't trust them. The damned vermin were naturally lazy and prone to lying. They would tell him anything that came to mind if there was a promise of food at the other end. In fact the chances were that they wouldn't even bother spying on the woman he wanted them to listen to. They'd just sneak away for a little while, then come back with whatever strange fantasy came to mind and assume he would be fooled. Whitey certainly would.
She lied to him constantly, and thought he'd believe her.
Which meant that if he wanted to know what Lady Jayla Marshendale – he finally had a name for her – was planning, he would have to listen in himself. And that in turn meant he would have to use his fog and stumble around in the dark, as blind as everyone else. Actually more blind as if such a thing were possible. Because he didn't know the layout of whatever place she was staying while her guards surely did. On top of that, he didn't even know where she was staying, but he was certain it wouldn't be in any part of the city he was familiar with. He lived in the garden quarter of the city. Not the noble quarter.
But he hadn't done that. Because he'd realised that listening in on Lady Marshendale's conversations as he'd intended wouldn't have helped him a lot. Even if he'd found out where she was staying. He'd asked. Made numerous enquiries. But no one had been able to tell him. But in any case it probably wouldn't have helped. He doubted she had a lot of conversations regarding her plans. Not with the local nobility anyway. She was above them. Not only was she the King's great niece, she was the head of the Silver Order. The silver armour and silver sword and pistol should have given that away he supposed!
If he was going to hear her plans he should probably have staked out the telegraph office so he could listen as she dictated her messages. But aside from the fact that she would have spotted him instantly – there was nowhere to hide in it – it would have looked suspicious to everyone else. So would fog in the middle of the day – because she wouldn't send messages at night when it was shut. And he had work to do in the library. He would be missed if he staked out the telegraph office.
Besides, now that he knew who she was, it left him with more questions he had no answers for. Ones that he doubted any amount of spying on her would have provided answers to. And not the least of them was how she could seem to be in charge of anything. The Silver Order were an ancient cadre of warriors sworn to do the King's bidding. But the King had long ago become little more than a figurehead. The Court through their endless series of committees and circles ran the realm – and the priests interferred. So what business did the servant of King Willhelm, even if she was his great niece, have taking over a court and holding a trial? None as far as he could tell.
Then too she had magic at her disposal, something he would never have imagined. He'd thought he was the only one. But the fact that she had magic in a realm without it was far less important than the fact that it might be the sort that would undo his. And maybe the sort that would tell her the cats were spying for him.
Then of course there was the true reason he didn't try spying on her. He was afraid. If she caught him, it would be bad for him. Very bad.
She could probably kill him in a fair fight – easily. Unfortunately most children could have as well. Or she could have had him hung with just a word, if she'd spotted him. And as a soldier she was trained to spot enemies. Also she knew him. He wouldn't be able to just wear a blue and white uniform and hope she wouldn't realise he wasn't a soldier. But worst of all, she wasn't going to be staying in one of the local inns. Chances were she was sleeping in one of the mansions of the city's nobles, well guarded by a small army. And if she was the one who had blown away his fog before, he wouldn't have been able to hide from her.
Which meant he had to try another option. If he couldn't find out what the woman planned or what power she had at her disposal, and prepare for it, he would have to change her plans. He had to get rid of Walken instead. And cleverly, so that it looked like the man had been a liar.
Walken by contrast had been easy to find. He'd lied to Lady Marshendale. There was only one place he would be after that. Which was how Manx had ended up here. Four days later. Four long days of sitting in his home and waiting for a knock at the door as more soldiers in their blue and white came to take him away for his hanging. They hadn't thus far. But the danger remained. So he'd come up with a plan. Unfortunately this new plan wasn't any less dangerous than the last one.
“Is there any creature clumsier than a monkey man?” Whitey asked merrily as she led him across the parade ground. Then she started sniggering. “If only you could see yourself.”
Surprisingly she had been easy to convince to help him. All he had had to do was alternately promise her some cream and threaten her with no more food if he was caught.
“And if only you could see your food bowl growing emptier!” he hissed back at her.
“It's not my fault you don't know where your feet are!”
“But it is your fault that you keep forgetting to tell me where to put them!”
“Alright, alright,” she grumbled. “Mind out for those steps ahead.”
“What –?” Manx found the steps, first with his cane which ran out of solid ground beneath it, and then with his foot which did the same. And after that he found himself tumbling and slipping down the steps to the terrace outside the city gaol's main entrance. All to the sound of a cat laughing!
Why did they have to build dungeons underground, he cursed as he nursed his bruises?!
But in truth he knew why. It was the safest place to keep prisoners. The guards barracks were on top of the gaol, and it was all set in the middle of a large parade ground. There was a wall right around them, guarded by the city guards. And there was no shortage of men with guns. Trained soldiers. If by some miracle the prisoners escaped the dungeon, they'd never make it out of the main gate.
“Who's there?” A gruff voice called out from the other side of the door having heard him smash into the ground.
“Mace,” Manx answered him while groaning a little and rubbing at his new collection of bruises. But at least he knew there was a Mace among the guards. He'd heard them talking. “Can't see a damned thing out here!” He thought his imitation of the man's voice was good enough to pass. At least through a solid oak door and with a cloth covering his mouth.
“Whadaya want?” The man yelled back.
“Captain wants to see ya!” He called to him, while adding a little more thickness to the fog. “On the double! And ya better bring torches. It's black out ere!”
“Shite on the mucky bastard!” the guard complained. But then he started making sounds that suggested he was getting up out of his chair, causing it to scrape along the stone floor.
Manx took that as a sign that he needed to get out of the way, and he stumbled his way through the darkness, a little way away from the door. Then he waited.
It wasn't long before he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock, and then saw a crack of yellow light glowing in the darkness. A crack that quickly spread, before a vaguely man shaped figure appeared in it.
“Where are ya?” The figure called out.
Manx didn't answer him. He was far enough away in the darkness, and wrapped up in a great black cloak, that he knew he wouldn't be seen. And he'd hopefully said enough. The figure called out again, got no answer, and started swearing loudly. But in the end he started trudging out into the fog, and up the stairs to the parade ground. All while a little white and tabby coloured beast laughed herself silly at the blindness of the monkey men!
And while they did that the fog from the outside flowed into the dungeon through the door the guard had conveniently left open. Manx naturally added to it as quickly as he could.
“Dullard! It's bloody cold! And you left the door open!” Another voice called out from inside the dungeon.
“Shut ya hole!” the first man called back as he carefully navigated his way up the stairs. “An get off ya arse an close it!”
“Piss arse!” the man yelled back. But his chair scraped on the stone floor as he got up to do exactly that. And all the while the fog in the dungeon grew thicker.
“Mace ya bastard!” the first man started yelling out when he finally reached the top of the stairs. “Where'n hell are ya?!”
His question was quickly answered by maybe half a dozen others yelling back, trying to work out who he was, and also where he was. The light from the man's torch didn'
t travel far. But that was a good thing. It meant the grounds above were becoming a mass of confusion. That helped Manx. With everyone shouting at one another and no one able to see more than a few inches in front of them, no one knew he was about.
Manx took advantage of the confusion to step across the landing to stand beside the open door and wait. It wasn't long before the second guard came stumbling out to close the door, and fell into Manx's arms. A moment later he grabbed him, yelled out for him to watch his step through the cloth across his mouth muffling his voice, and then pushed him backwards.
The guard fell back and hit the floor hard, barely making a sound as he did so, and after that he just lay there, moaning. He must have hit his head. And while he did that Manx picked himself up off him, and did his best to find his way around the main room of the dungeon. It wasn't long before he found the desk – mostly by smashing into it – and could start searching it for the keys.
It took him a while to find them, largely because he had a cat helping him who seemed to think it was the height of hilarity to make him pick up anything but the damned keys and then try to pretend innocence. But that actually proved useful. Because several of the items the cat made him grab first were bladders full of wine, which he tossed in the direction of the fallen guard. No doubt the man would be disciplined in due course for being falling down drunk on duty. And he probably had been drinking anyway.