Cardinal Black

by Robert McCammon

  “I’m sure this admiral took pains to make certain his decorations were well-observed, too,” said Julian. He frowned. “I don’t know any admiral who fits that description…then again, I have long since foregone keeping up with the navy’s officers.”

  “A question,” Matthew said. “Windom, if you made the connection between what we were asking and the presence of the Volcano, why didn’t your master?”

  “We—I—didn’t ask the right question,” Julian answered before the servant could speak. “I asked about the theft of such a ship, not the presence of one that sailed right past Bristol with my father’s approval and aid.” He looked back toward the house on haunted hill, which had now gone completely dark once more. A gust of wind blew among the three, strong enough to stagger Windom and ruffle the fearnaught around his frail form. “My father is aware that my…shall we say…current occupation does not meet his standards,” Julian went on, “I’m sure he doesn’t want to explore that realm any further, and therefore he heard only the question and no more.”

  “And I, sir,” said Windom to young Julian through lips that had begun to shiver, “am equally poor of knowledge about why you wish to know these things, and I believe it is to my benefit to remain uneducated. But…I did think you should hear about the admiral and his Volcano.”

  “Rightly so, and my thanks to you. Well…you’d best get to a warm place. Unfortunately you must return to Garrett Devane’s house.”

  “It’s not so bad, sir. Master Devane does what he thinks is correct, and I am in it for the—as the sailors say—long haul. I will ask you, though…do you need money? I have a bit saved up, I might spare you enough to—”

  “Nonsense,” Julian replied, with a shake of his head. “Corbett and I are fine on that account.” He placed a firm hand on the servant’s shoulder. “Thank you for your consideration, and for the information as well. Get back to the house, now, and mind your footing.”

  “Yes, sir.” Windom started to turn away and then paused. “Will you really return? I mean to say…Paul would be waiting for you.”

  “Tell him he won’t have to wait very long.”

  “Yes, sir. Until that time, then. Goodbye, sir,” Windom said to Matthew, and huddled up in his coat he turned toward the house and followed the yellow path of his lantern away from the two travellers.

  Julian watched him go. After a moment he said, “Matthew, we’re going to find a tavern that’s open. If not, we’ll open it up ourselves because I need a good strong drink. You with me?”

  “All the way,” said Matthew, who thought that if he could get a warm drink inside him on this blustery morning he would break the locked door down himself, and to the Devil with the Devil.

  As befitted a town where work at the harbor was constant, there was a narrow street just past a grand cathedral of white stones where the dark water lapped up at old pilings and not one but three taverns showed lantern-light in their sea-grimed windows. “This one,” Julian said, choosing the Flying Jib over the Wild Boar and the Checkered Horse. Inside the Jib, the place had the nautical trappings of hanging ropes, nets and the like that Matthew had expected; there were five other men in the tavern, two at one table and three at another, and a portly barkeep wearing an apron and the jaunty feathered and floppy-brimmed hat of a cavalier.

  “Do you have coffee?” Julian asked, and received an affirmative. “Two coffees—black and strong—and a jug of mead. That suit you?” he asked Matthew, who nodded and figured the combination would either knock him out for a few hours or get his flagging jib flying again.

  “You have money?” the barkeep inquired, before he got the goods.

  Julian unhooked the sword and scabbard from his belt and placed it atop the bar, which immediately drew the attention of the other patrons and a look of dread from Matthew, in preparation to try to save the life of another hapless bystander. Julian drew the sword out, put it aside and reached into the scabbard. His fingers came out with a leather belt in which eight notches were cut, holding eight golden guinea coins. He removed one of the coins and slid it across the bar to the open-mouthed cavalier.

  “Sir,” the man said, nearly stammering, “I don’t have the change for such a coin!”

  “No change needed, if you have a private place in the back…a table and two chairs and the desire to keep us undisturbed while we sleep for…say…two hours. And bear in mind that I sleep holding my scabbard, and I am a very light sleeper.”

  “Well…sir…there’s just my own table back there, where the wife and I have our suppers.”

  “Sold,” said Julian, returning the money belt to the scabbard and then sheathing the sword. He beckoned the barkeep closer and then leaned over the bar, and Matthew saw his eyes go as deadly as the barrels of his pistol. His voice, too, conveyed a dangerous promise. “Hear this, and heed it. If anyone tries to rob us, I will kill them on the spot. Even if you are innocent of such a scheme, I will kill you on the spot as well, after which I may just burn this fucking place to the ground. And if I think I taste something in the coffee or the mead that I don’t like, you are a dead man. Are we clear?”

  The barkeep nodded, his eyes huge. “Crystal,” he croaked.

  The back room did indeed contain a table with two chairs, crammed in amid various crates, boxes, broken chairs and other casualties of time at the Jib. A pair of lanterns hung from the rafters, emitting dirty yellow light. The barkeep showed them in and brought them the jug of mead and two clay cups while he brewed the coffee, and he closed the door between the room and the rest of the tavern.

  “I didn’t realize you were wealthy,” said Matthew after they’d gotten settled at the table.

  “A gift from the professor,” Julian replied. “He had the thought that this endeavor might have a need for money. And that’s for the coffee,” he said when Matthew reached for the jug. “Mead alone will put you on the floor.”

  “I could sleep on a bed of nails right now.”

  “I predict you’ll sleep with your head on the table for maybe two hours. Probably less. Then you’ll be wanting to get on with the task at hand, because you and I both know we are far from done.”

  “Agreed,” said Matthew. “I am very interested in finding this mysterious admiral, if at all possible.”

  “Nothing more can be done here. We’ll have to go to London.” Julian plowed on before Matthew could pose any questions. “I have contacts in London who can give me the man’s name. You understand that the admiral was timing the Volcano’s attack, yes? He wanted to make sure no merchant vessel witnessed the mortar shells being fired at the professor’s village. For sure that would have been reported in either Bristol or Swansea and led to an enquiry. What we have here, Matthew, is not the theft of a mortar vessel and a ship-of-the-line, but an admiral of the Royal Navy taking both ships out of the dock under the pretext of a military maneuver. Whoever this man is, he likely is the power behind Cardinal Black.”

  Matthew nodded. “It seems to me this operation was planned well in advance.”

  “Of course. Had to be. Months in advance, I’d say.” Julian yawned and stretched. He took off his tricorn, rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and went about reloading his pistol with ammunition from the saddlebag, a leaden ball in each of the four firing chambers. “They didn’t see this man in Adderlane,” Julian said as he worked, “because he never left the ship. Cardinal Black was the face, but this man was the brain.”

  The barkeep brought their coffee, again in clay cups. He took a quick glance at the four-barrelled weapon from Hell and scurried out.

  Julian poured a dash of mead into his coffee and Matthew did the same. “We’ll need to hire a coach,” said Julian after he’d taken a drink. “It’s a two-day trip from here, but we’ll pay the driver to keep going other than to change horses. I think we can make it in around thirty-six hours.”

  Matthew sipped at his coffee-and-mead, winced at the
strength of it but knew he was so bone-weary it wasn’t going to impede getting at least a modicum of sleep. Julian was right, though; with time pressing upon him, sleep was the least of his concerns.

  “Professor Fell has great confidence in you,” Julian said as he finished reloading the pistol. He left it on the tabletop next to his sword and scabbard. “He wouldn’t have allowed you to leave the village if he didn’t.”

  “I promised I’d find Brazio Valeriani for him. I intend to keep that promise.”

  “And that’s exactly why the professor allowed you to be here. He wants that man found. Why, I don’t know, but I do know it’s a matter of vital importance to him.”

  Matthew decided to go fishing in dark waters. “Why is Fell so interested in demonology?”

  “Is he?”

  “If he isn’t, his purchase of every copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon is a waste of his time and money, and I doubt the professor wastes much of either.” Matthew saw that Julian’s face was an expressionless mask, meaning the man knew nothing about this or perhaps too much for his own good. “The Lesser Key of Solomon is a compendium of demons, their descriptions and powers,” Matthew explained. “In case you really don’t know.”

  Julian said nothing for a time. He drank again, his hand went out to caress the pistol with loving reverence, and then the cold slate-colored gaze returned to regard Matthew’s face. “That scar on your forehead. How did you come by it?”

  “I had a little encounter with a bear.”

  “Oh, really? You mean a bear cub did that?”

  “No, the bear was big enough.”

  “You don’t look the type to go out fighting bears.”

  “It was thrust upon me,” Matthew said. “I can tell you that it nearly was my finish.”

  “But…you survived.” Julian offered a faint half-smile. “Ah. That’s what Professor Fell sees in you, then: the survival instinct. And the ability, evidently, to squeeze out of tight spots.”

  “Minus a tooth or two,” Matthew answered, referring to his recent appointment with a deranged dentist in the employ of Mother Deare, who had been if not a competent member of his profession, then a more competent practitioner of torture.

  “But,” Julian repeated, “you survived. And here you are, hunting another bear with a beard done up like flames and wearing the uniform of a naval admiral. Interesting how these things come around.”

  “I don’t look for trouble,” Matthew said.

  “Unlike me, you mean? Oh yes, some would say I do revel in the intoxicating musk of chaos and catastrophe. My father’s opinion, in particular.”

  Matthew had not wished to pursue the matter, but the moment seemed right for a simple question. “What happened to your brother?”

  Julian poured another quaff of mead into his coffee. He swirled the liquid around in the cup like God commanding the maelstrom.

  “Paul,” Julian said at last, “is proof of what a cannon broadside and a deck of flying oak planks can do to the human body. You know, it’s not the cannonballs that kill the most in a sea battle…it’s the oak of the ship itself. Those planks…ripped up, turned into jagged spears…those things…spinning through the air at tremendous speeds…and a small shard, enough to take off a man’s head. A human body…the flesh and the muscle…it’s no match for the violence of a ship coming apart under its crew…slicing through and maiming the men who have loved her.” He took his drink. “Paul was an officer aboard the frigate Newport. On the fourteenth of July in the year 1696…the battle of the Bay of Fundy, two ships of our gallant navy against two ships of the French. The Newport…well, you have seen who got the worst of that encounter.” He narrowed his eyes at Matthew. “Do you believe in God?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t. But I do believe in Fate. Take that date, for instance…the fourteenth of July.”

  “What of it?”

  “Paul was destroyed on the fourteenth of July, 1696. I was born on the fourteenth of July, 1676, and my mother passed away four hours after my birth. Do you see Fate at work there?”

  “I see terribly unfortunate circum—”

  “Fate!” Julian shouted, and he slammed his fist down upon the table. Coffee jumped from both cups. Red whorls had surfaced in Julian’s cheeks, and Matthew thought it was the better part of valor—and common sense—to keep his mouth shut. Julian’s red-rimmed eyes had become nearly in themselves demonic. “Fate,” he repeated quietly, looking away from Matthew as if pulling back into the hidden chambers of himself once more.

  After a time, Matthew cleared his throat and said, “July…Julian. You were named for the month?”

  “The nurses named me,” he answered, and that was all.

  There seemed nothing more to say. Matthew felt he was hanging onto this world by a bootstrap, and it was fraying fast. He took off his tricorn and the woolen cap and placed the cap upon the table as a makeshift pillow. Julian leaned back in his chair until he met the wall and with his legs stretched out before him he closed his eyes, but not before he first closed his hand around the scabbard.

  Matthew put his cheek down upon the cap; it was not much, but better than nothing. As sleep came up to carry him away for a time the questions in his mind nettled him: it was more clear why Cardinal Black wanted to get his fingers around The Lesser Key of Solomon than it was why a Royal Navy admiral would want to join in such an attack on Fell’s paradise. To steal Jonathan Gentry’s book of potions and poisons? Why? Obviously the plan had been a long time in preparation, and for what purpose?

  The answers would have to wait, for Matthew tumbled away into the darkness of sleep and for at least a while a blessed release.

  He awakened—who knew how long it was—when Julian rasped out, “No!” and he lifted his head to see the man sitting upright, his eyes wild and staring at nothing. As Matthew watched, sleep-fogged, Julian settled his chair against the wall once again, the tortured eyes closed and he was gone into the realm of Somnus, if he had ever really been awake.

  Matthew slept again. The second time he was jarred to consciousness was when he heard a rattle and scrape and Julian was on his feet with the pistol in one hand and his drawn sword in the other, and the barkeep was peering in through the door he’d just opened. The barkeep looked nervously at the weapons and said, “Pardon, sirs…just seein’ if you need anything.”

  “Privacy and silence,” Julian answered, his voice as harsh as a horsewhip. The barkeep backed out, closed the door, and Julian returned to his chair with a muffled curse.

  Matthew’s cheek found the woolen cap once more and he drifted away, yet part of him remained on watch just as he knew Julian did. Precious time was moving, but the demands of rest had to be met.

  It seemed no more than minutes later when Matthew felt a hand on his shoulder and instantly he surfaced from the depths.

  “Let’s go,” said Julian, who already had his pistol holstered, his sword in its scabbard and the scabbard put away, the saddlebag over his shoulder and his tricorn on, tilted at its rakish angle. The dark hollows beneath his eyes said he had not rested well, if indeed he ever did. He took the last drink of cold coffee from his cup and said, “We need to find a ride to Londontown.”

  seven.

  The sun was just coming up, painting the town and the harbor a lighter shade of dull gray. Low clouds had settled in and cold wind blew through the streets. Seagulls flew amid the masts, and beneath them the workmen labored on with their crates and barrels, a never-ending task of loading and unloading.

  Matthew and Julian, bundled up against the morning’s chill and breathing out ghosts, were on their way toward the coach office the barkeep had directed them to. The chalky and slightly bitter smell of old stones permeated the air. Here and there the rest of Bristol was awakening; horse-drawn wagons were trundling about and a few people were walking to their destinations still carrying lanterns to gu
ide their paths. Further along, Matthew noted an office with the sign of an anchor centered within a gold coin. The signage read Royal Atlantic Company.

  “Your father’s business?” Matthew asked, motioning toward the sign.

  “The same,” said Julian, who gave it not a glance.

  “Shipping what kind of cargo?” was Matthew’s next question.

  “Slaves,” said Julian. “Every slave bound for the colonies passes through Bristol. Hundreds so far, I understand. Soon likely to be thousands.”

  They left Garrett Devane’s slave company behind. Two more streets east of the harbor there stood a building of red bricks with a barn behind it and at the side a fenced enclosure holding four horses. In front a coach was already hitched to a team of four sturdy-looking steeds, and a pair of workers were loading articles of luggage into a canvas-covered baggage compartment at the rear. Matthew followed Julian past the coach and through an oak door inset with squares of frosted glass. Within the office where a fireplace warmed the air a sharp-nosed clerk at his counter looked up from a ledger with an incurious gaze. “Help you gentlemen?”

  “We want to hire a coach,” said Julian. “London would be the destination.”

  “Ah.” The clerk pushed aside his ledger and drew closer a leather-bound notebook. He opened it and dipped a quill pen into an inkwell. The pen was poised over the paper. “Passage for two, then? The next coach I have available will be going out tomorrow morning. Does that suit—”

  “It does not.” Julian angled a thumb toward the door. “Where’s that coach going?”

  “London, sir, but it’s a private hire.”

  “Oh, dear.” Julian gave the man the wicked smile that Matthew dreaded to witness. “Oh dear, dear me.” He withdrew his sword, which caused the clerk’s arm to jump. The pen made a scrawl across the pristine paper like a black wound. Julian set the sword atop the notebook, its tip pointed at the clerk, and produced the money belt from the scabbard. He slapped one of the guinea coins down upon the wood. “There’s our fare, and I’m sure it’s more than enough.”