by Derek Landy
Sult smiled, and for the first time Valkyrie believed the smile was genuine. Cold, unfriendly, but genuine.
“We’re not here to take over,” Sult said. “We’re just here to help. And I don’t dislike you, Detective. You’ve saved the world. Both of you have. The problem is, you’ve mainly saved the world from your own mistakes. Time and again, this Sanctuary and its Council of Elders have endangered the lives of the people it is supposed to protect. And in doing so, it endangers the lives of everyone else on the planet. And speaking for everyone else on the planet, that isn’t exactly fair.”
“And yet,” Skulduggery said, “by interfering, you’re breaking the international Sanctuary code. What’s next? We don’t solve the latest crisis in six days, and you take the decision out of our hands entirely? Purely for our own good, of course.”
“If we have to,” Sult said. “And it’s five days.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Skulduggery. He went to move off but Sult put a hand on his arm.
“Don’t act like we’re the villains,” he said. “We have been forced to step in because this Sanctuary is incapable of handling its own affairs. This isn’t our doing. It’s yours. And you know it.”
Skulduggery didn’t say anything, he just waited until Sult removed his hand, and then he walked away.
He gave Valkyrie an armful of files and told her to go through them while he went off to find Ghastly. She wanted to be there as they discussed what had just transpired, but reluctantly accepted that she’d probably be able to offer very little insight into what their next move might be. So she found an empty room and settled down and started reading.
It took twenty minutes before she threw the first file back on to the desk in disgust. Nothing was going in. She’d read the words and seen the words but there was a room full of blood and a middle-aged woman with a poisoned ring to keep the words from sinking in. And if that wasn’t enough, there was also the man who’d tried to stop them coming down here and there was Sult, impossibly smug Sult and his stupid face. And her arm still throbbed. She didn’t know what Nadir had done to her, but whatever it was, it was irritating.
She put her feet on the desk, pushed the chair back on to two legs and stared up at the ceiling. She thought about poor Ed Stynes the werewolf man and poor Jerry Houlihan the butterfly man, and how they were both downstairs, sedated, being poked and prodded by the Sanctuary medical staff. How many were down there now? Forty-three? Forty-three mortals lying in beds, bubbling over with magic they didn’t understand and couldn’t control. Sooner or later, one of these outbreaks was going to take place right in the public eye where there’d be no denying what had happened, and then what? Then everything would change.
She went for a walk. She passed sorcerers and Cleavers and didn’t speak to any of them. There were a group of American mages who quietened down when she walked by. Things were tense enough as it was without the Supreme Council and their little army wandering around whispering to each other.
She went outside, looked out over the dark stagnant lake to the wasteland beyond, to where dead trees clawed at the sky like the land itself was screaming. Valkyrie wondered if the whole world would end up looking like that when she was through with it. Would there even be dead trees? Would she leave any sign of life, even as a memento? She didn’t think so. If and when she ever did give in and allow Darquesse to take over completely, she imagined that she’d just burn the planet to a crisp. Do the job and do it properly, sort it out and put it away, then move on to the next thing. Whatever the next thing was. Maybe hunt down the Faceless Ones.
She smiled. She liked that idea. After she killed everyone here, hunting down the Faceless Ones would be the logical progression.
Her smile faded.
There was a shout and she turned. A mage was on his back next to a Cleaver van, and a man was running into the streets of Roarhaven, his hands shackled. Valkyrie recognised him as Christophe Nocturnal, the man who’d tried to have her killed. A Cleaver walked after him, not in any hurry.
Nocturnal grabbed a woman, spun her around, started shouting threats, issuing demands. The woman he’d grabbed was unimpressed, and Nocturnal didn’t notice that the street behind him was beginning to fill with Roarhaven citizens.
The woman waved her hand casually and the air rippled, flinging Nocturnal backwards. He scrambled up and a man stepped out of the crowd, laid a hand on Nocturnal’s shoulder and made him scream in absolute agony.
An old lady shuffled by, took hold of him and hurled him to the ground with astonishing strength. Valkyrie couldn’t hear his words as Nocturnal crawled back to the waiting Cleaver, but she imagined he was doing a lot of apologising.
Roarhaven was not a town to make trouble in.
She stayed out of sight as Nocturnal was hauled to the Sanctuary. She just wasn’t in the mood for yet another confrontation, not with the day she was having. Even so, she was pleased to see him in shackles.
Just as the Cleaver and Nocturnal reached the main doors, Skulduggery emerged. Nocturnal turned to glare but Skulduggery completely ignored him, and strode up to Valkyrie.
“Did you talk to Ghastly?” she asked.
He waved the question away. “Forget Ghastly. Forget Sult. Forget all that. I’ve just figured it out.”
“Figured what out?”
“They’re not dead.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Who aren’t dead?”
“Lament and his missing sorcerers. They’re not dead, Valkyrie. Neither is Argeddion. Maybe they couldn’t find a way to kill him, maybe for some reason they didn’t want to, but they knew how to imprison him. That’s where they are. They’re guarding him.”
Valkyrie didn’t say anything, and he continued.
“Tyren Lament was, above all else, a scientist. Some of his research remains in the archives, enough to tell me that he had been working on a containment system. From the levels recorded, his theory was that it could contain something – or someone – of immense power. I think he was designing a prison for Argeddion. A prison capable of holding a sorcerer who knows their own true name.”
“But you said that wasn’t possible.”
“Lament found a way, I’m sure of it.”
“Then this is it,” she said, excited and nervous at the same time. “This is what we need to hold Darquesse. We could build one for me.”
Skulduggery looked at her. “Exactly. It’s for you, Valkyrie. Don’t forget we’re talking about building a prison to contain you.”
She swallowed. “But what choice do I have? Go to a prison cell until I learn how to control myself, or kill my own parents and probably my little baby sister? Not to mention the rest of the world? I think I’ll choose the prison cell, thank you very much. Are you sure about this?”
“It’s the only thing that answers all the questions. Why were their files destroyed? Why weren’t their disappearances mentioned in the Journals? Meritorious was doing his best to hide Argeddion’s existence from anyone who might go looking.”
“So where are they?”
“I don’t know yet, but it would be somewhere out of the way. Isolated. Somewhere without a magical presence.”
“Do we have any leads?” she asked.
“Just one. A freight company that Lament used was mentioned in the notes. There are companies all around the world, either run by or owned by sorcerers, that operate for both the mortals and the magical. Their dealings with other sorcerers are, as you can imagine, completely under the radar. Dagan Logistics is one such company.”
“So we just talk to them about their dealings with him, where they shipped whatever supplies he needed, and we have where he’s keeping Argeddion. Right?”
“Right.”
“Right. So why aren’t you looking pleased?”
He tilted his head. “How do you know I’m not?”
“I just know. What’s the catch?”
Skulduggery sighed. “Dagan Logistics is not the most reputable of companies, or the m
ost co-operative. I’d imagine that’s the reason Lament used them – they’re used to keeping certain dealings secret. It’s owned by one of Mevolent’s old supporters. Arthur Dagan.”
“Oh,” Valkyrie said. “Him. He doesn’t like me.”
“He’s not too fond of me, either. He didn’t fight in the war, he was always far too timid for that kind of thing, but he worshipped the Faceless Ones as fervently as any fanatic, and he aided Mevolent whenever he could.”
“I can’t really see him helping us.”
“Me neither. His son, on the other hand...”
“Hansard? Would he be able to help us?”
“He’s in the family business. He’d have access to his father’s files. And you two seemed to really hit it off at the Requiem Ball.”
“He was very hot,” Valkyrie murmured. “But why would he help us?”
“Hansard Kray is twenty-two years old. He wasn’t around for the war, and he’s been brought up in a very pro-Faceless Ones environment. Do you know what happens to people like that? They tend to rebel against their parents’ beliefs. Besides, he seems to have a good head on his shoulders, and if you ask him really nicely, how could he refuse you?”
“I am very hot,” Valkyrie murmured.
“We just have to get you close to him without his father finding out. I made a few calls, asked a few people, and it seems that Hansard will be personally overseeing the transport of a large cargo on the invisible railroad tomorrow morning.”
“The invisible railroad?”
“I never told you about the invisible railroad?” Skulduggery asked, walking to the Bentley. “Then you’re in for a treat. So long as you like trains. And invisible things.”
“I love invisible things.”
“What are your feelings towards trains?”
“Meh.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
espite all the setbacks and hardships and obstacles in its path, the Church of the Faceless was growing.
It was a small growth, but a steady one, and it made the Church stronger with every passing month. For Eliza Scorn it was a point of pride to be now in a position of some influence. Certainly, from the moment she had taken control from the weak-willed and ineffectual Jajo Prave the Church’s fortunes had started to lift, so much so that now representatives of Nocturnal’s church were calling her, pleading with her, begging her to help them. And of course she felt compelled to do so. Were they not all followers of the Faceless Ones, after all? Were they not all brothers and sisters? Granted, Nocturnal’s people were a notoriously conservative bunch of prim and proper puritans who sought to drain the fun out of living, but their hearts were in the right place, all things considered.
She heard Prave’s voice on the other side of the door, insisting quite strenuously that Miss Scorn must remain undisturbed. Unsurprisingly, he was completely ignored, and Tanith Low and Billy-Ray Sanguine walked into her office like they owned the place. Prave trailed behind them.
“Some people here to see you,” he whined.
“Tanith,” said Scorn, rising from her desk, “Billy-Ray. So good to see you. Would you like some tea?”
“Thank you, no,” Tanith said. “We don’t do time-wasting, Miss Scorn. We are a busy, upwardly mobile kind of couple. Things to do, people to kill, that sort of thing.”
“Of course, of course. Prave, you may leave us.”
He wanted to stay. Of course he wanted to stay. But he backed out of the room and closed the doors after him, because of course he would do as he was told.
“Mission accomplished,” said Tanith. “Valkyrie Cain saved, would-be assassin eliminated. A good day, all in all. And now comes the bit where you hand over our reward.”
Scorn sat. “I’m afraid I don’t have it.”
Tanith fell silent. She looked at Sanguine, who took out his straight razor.
Scorn smiled, and held up her hands. “Now, now, before we say some things or kill some people that we might regret, I don’t have the information you’re looking for but I do know someone who does.”
“That,” said Sanguine, “reeks to me a little of time-wastin’.”
Tanith nodded. “Indeed it does, honey-bunny. Miss Scorn, I am prepared to cut you a little slack, seeing as how you beat the hell out of China Sorrows and blew up her library. When I heard that, I have to admit, I laughed. But that is the only thing preventing Billy-Ray from sliding his razor across your pale little throat.”
“Your understanding is appreciated,” said Scorn. “But our initial arrangement was not that I hand over the information you were after, only that I find it. And I did find it. I just don’t have it.”
“Semantics,” Tanith said, unimpressed. “How I love semantics. OK then, Miss Scorn, you tell us who does know where the dagger is and we’ll leave you with all your blood on the inside.”
Scorn smiled. “Christophe Nocturnal.”
Sanguine took off his sunglasses to wipe them. The holes where his eyes used to be seemed to drag in the darkness of the room. “The same Christophe Nocturnal who is now in Sanctuary custody?”
“The very same.”
“You’ve made things awkward for us,” Tanith said. “I don’t like awkward.”
“It was necessary, I’m afraid,” Scorn told her. “Nocturnal is the head of a very large church in America, a church that I want absorbed into mine. And now that he’s in shackles, his congregation is worried he might start naming names. So all of their money, and all of their power, and all of their influence, might all be snatched away from them, along with all of their freedom.”
Tanith folded her arms. “So they’ve gone running to you,” she said, “begging you to silence Nocturnal before he has a chance to rat them out. In return, I expect they’ve agreed to join the Church of the Faceless?”
“Indeed they have.”
“And you want us to break into the Sanctuary and, when Nocturnal has told us where the dagger is, you want us to kill him.”
“Naturally,” Scorn said, nodding. “Of course, you’d be doing this job for free.”
Sanguine laughed. “Now why in tarnation would you think that?”
“Because once he told you where the dagger was, you’d be killing him anyway, wouldn’t you? To stop him from telling Skulduggery Pleasant or some other investigator what you were looking for?”
Sanguine’s laugh died on his lips. “Dammit,” he muttered.
“You,” said Tanith, “are a very cunning woman. Even more cunning than China Sorrows, I’d say.”
“Oh, you flatter me.”
“And just for that, I don’t think we’ll kill you.”
“Thank you very much,” said Scorn. “Now, without wanting to be rude, I have a lot of work to do. By the end of the week my Church will be one of the most powerful and well-funded organisations on earth, and I have arrangements to make.”
t was a little past nine on Monday morning. The Bentley was parked in a field, and Skulduggery and Valkyrie were standing in long grass.
“Welcome,” Skulduggery said, “to the invisible railroad.”
Valkyrie looked down at the rusted old railway tracks. “Two things,” she said. “First, it’s not invisible. Second, it’s still not invisible. That’s two things immediately wrong with something called the invisible railroad. I could go on.”
Skulduggery dipped his hat lower so that the sun wouldn’t get into his eyes. She didn’t know why he did that. Force of habit, probably. “The invisible railroad was used a lot during the war,” he said. “It’d ship people and supplies all over the country, then link up with other railroads around the world. Some of these tracks go underwater – and I don’t mean in a tunnel, either. The trains run along on land and then they get to the shoreline and they go down and continue along the seabed.”
“You promised me invisible things.”
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“Trains that travel underwater. Brilliant. You promised me invisible things.”
He checked his pocket watch. “And I keep my promises,” he said. “It should be along any moment now. We should step back.”
They walked away a little, and Valkyrie looked up the tracks. “Are we waiting for an invisible train?”
“Yes, we are.”
“How do we know when it’s here?”
“We’ll know. The train isn’t invisible itself, but rather it’s encased in a series of bubbles.”
“Cloaking spheres?”
“Exactly.”
“And where does the train stop?”
“Pardon me?”
“The train station, where is it?”
Skulduggery laughed. “There isn’t one, Valkyrie. It’s an express service.”
“So what are we supposed to do? Hop on a moving invisible train?”
He looked at her. “Of course. What did you think we were going to do?”
She felt the air shift, pressing against her cheek. To her eye, though, the track was still empty. “It’s coming,” she said.
“Yes, it is,” Skulduggery responded, wrapping his arm round her. They lifted off the ground, moved over the tracks, and started picking up speed. Below them, the long grasses were suddenly blown back by something huge, travelling fast.
They dipped lower, passing through the bubble, and suddenly the train was right there below them and the noise was deafening. They landed on the roof of the last carriage, Skulduggery diverting the rushing air around them.
“I should go in alone,” Valkyrie said, speaking loudly to be heard. “If we both go in, it’ll look too official.”
“So I’ll just stay out here?” Skulduggery asked. “But what’ll I do? There’s no one to talk to. It’s boring.”
“You’re standing on the roof of a speeding train,” Valkyrie pointed out. “If you find this boring, you really need your head examined. Just wait here. I’ll do what has to be done and I’ll be right out.”
“Fine,” he said, sounding grumpy. “Don’t be long.”
She grinned and stepped away from him, bringing up her hand to deflect the air. Her movements were too casual, however, and the sheer force of the rushing wind took her by surprise. It hit her like a truck and she cried out as she was taken off her feet. Skulduggery reached for her but she was already tumbling backwards, the train whipping beneath her. She threw out a hand, grabbed a ladder rung, almost yanking her shoulder from its socket as her legs dangled over the blurring track. She got her other hand on to the ladder, and her feet, and clung on to the rear of the train, her entire body trembling.