His thoughts made a pleasant distraction. The bottle of whisky he’d had was kicking in nicely. It was basically impossible to feel anything but cool with so much alcohol running in his veins. And it was necessary: the Council members were like sharks or dogs. They would smell fear on him a million miles off. They might mistake it as fear for himself, but it was the old man – Nessie – he fretted for. Nessie who had gone out on the worst sort of limb for him last night. Gratitude and other sharp things stung Cole’s eyes.
He gazed around. The Unseen Council. Nessie usually kept him far away from this place. He pretended he didn’t, but Cole knew when he was being handled. He didn’t argue. He didn’t have the temperament for politics. But now, here he was, in the beating heart of all the has-been crap of yesteryear. Hear the clarion call of the old folks talking about a world they know nothing about! This was the seat of the sickness Cole was expected to uphold.
Above, the vaulted ceiling was hung with banners like frozen confetti from the most try-hard wedding. Every Order of the Knights in Europe had a banner up there, ancient and moth-eaten mostly. The more moth-eaten, the more honour and backslapping tended to go around. And there was no substitute for time. These woven things weren’t jeans, produced pre-ripped and faded – the weaver couldn’t just get a bunch of moths to settle in and chew hard.
Which was why the far newer banners of the Houses of the Magi, side by side with the knight’s banners, made a mockery of the overall impression. Their rude health and bold colours told of a venerable history about fifty years old. Not because the Houses of the Magi were young. They predated the knights in most cases. But the mages, in their trademark arrogance and unrivalled need for one-upmanship, had refused to put anything on their banners from before the Coalition’s unification date, in the seventies. They refused to use their old banners, resplendent with their history, for the new regime. To a member, they had refused. At least they were consistent.
Progress was all fine and good, but the unification between the knights and mages to form the Human Coalition, or just the Coalition, was bullshit. They were playing happy families when both sides used to set fire to each other: one side combusting its enemies with good old-fashioned logs and kindling, and the other side using fireballs and jets of searing heat from their palms.
To make matters worse, some of the mages could actually remember the days when magic users were rooted out by Inquisitors and the like. A few mages were that old.
So no surprise then, peering up at the gallery, that the two columns of benches which sloped toward the railing that overlooked the floor of the Council chamber, spoke to the pretence of humanity. Every mage sat on one side, every knight on the other. The latter in classic attire of military vests, interspersed with gambeson and mail, the former sporting a variety of plumage reflecting whichever fae or god they bargained with for their power. The mages did not, as the media would have it, wear pointy hats.
Both sides looked like they might go for their weapons at any moment, and both pretended not to watch the other. And who could they all thank for this tragic division? The terrible beasts that stalked the night? The creatures of the elemental and celestial planes of the Myriad? No. People. Prejudiced, terrified, callous, short-sighted, idiotic people. As though they didn’t have enough enemies, the Human Coalition had managed to make enemies of its own ranks.
Or else they knew. They knew what Cole had done, and the mob was here to see his neck stretched or his head lopped off – as pleased the Council’s justice – like the bloodthirsty spectators they were. The Coalition might hate each other – but man, they all hated him. He was one thing they could really get behind hating. Leech, they called him.
Anger reached up to seize him. His parasite did a flip in his gut. It had been far too active since he’d come back from the North. Last night’s whisky bottle had barely kept It in check. Today’s bottle had been precautionary. He was a cautious sort where It was concerned. But still It moved, drunk. Maybe Nat’s protection – his gut armour – was slipping or something. She was still gone, overnight now and in breach of her duty as his watcher. It wasn’t like her. Hopefully, she was okay. She could look after herself, he had no doubt.
It moved again, twisting. Last night, It had been waiting for him in Bernard’s floor. Bile leapt to his throat as the scrape of his parasite’s rocky skin in the ground beneath him flashed intrusively into his mind. Nessie dragged him to his feet. Oh, yeah. Stand for the big man coming in. If he just kept talking to himself, it would all be fine.
He almost managed to ignore the hushed silence that fell as the Grandmaster entered the room in all his finery, flanked by his flak-armoured honour guard. Just another day at the office. The Grandmaster usually took the half-hour required to strap on his full plate armour. The Claymore of Eternal Justice regularly came with him on trivial business.
The front of the Council chamber was dominated by tiered crescents of benches, rising high above the floor, the very highest tier consisting of three chairs for the big cheeses. Not that either the Greatshadow or the Grandmaster needed the height advantage. Of the three thrones, only two were visible. The one on the right sat in an alcove, in permanent darkness. It felt empty – and not the empty it was filled with when the Greatshadow was there.
It seemed only the Grandmaster had come. He climbed the stairs to his throne and sat on the middle chair of the three at the top, a carved wooden throne on which he perched like a ridiculous king. The third chair, the one on the left, was carved of black stone not unlike Cole’s obsidian fist-knives. It hadn’t been occupied in his memory. The Myriad representative had had little to say for a while now.
The tiers of seats below the three thrones were mostly empty save for four, which were filled with prize wankers. North, South, East and West Edinburgh city Lodge commanders lounged there like minor nobles. There was space for the leader of every knights’ Lodge in Britain up there. The men of the North would be coming for Cole soon, and their leader’s empty chair would be filled with the worst arse of them all.
The first five minutes of session was full of posturing and nonsense. Would the right honourable sir care for a circle-jerk? Keeping his mouth shut was a skill barely possessed and sometimes it was taxed worse than others. A list of the Grandmaster’s accolades was read, along with the brothers ranked full knight and above in attendance – and there was a lot of the brass up there in the cheap seats. The fact that he’d had run-ins with more than half the names on the list fed Cole’s anxiety. The day he faced a jury of his peers, he was a dead man.
The Record Keeper stood at the bottom tier of benches. He was balding, but his comb-over still clung on to the idea of hair. The Keeper watched proceedings with heavy eyes that looked forever unimpressed before reading aloud all the useless information no one had come there to hear about.
After an age of the earth, they got to the meat of it. Breathe – it will be fine. It has to be.
The Keeper announced the meeting’s purpose. ‘Commander, Esteemed knights of our noble Coalition. You have answered the summons promptly and with courage. For that, the Council and the Grandmaster thank you.’ Cole really wished they’d just get on with it. He must have seemed agitated – a firm hand gripped his forearm, and Nessie’s deep brown eyes weighted him down with unspoken meaning. We are in deep shit, play nice, don’t poke the bear. All things Nessie wouldn’t say, so it must have been the whisky translating.
‘We are gathered for business of a grave and dire nature.’
Shit. Couldn’t he just escort a dignitary?
‘We stand on the precipice of calamity. The danger is twofold. The second matter is not my purview to elaborate on, I will cede that responsibility to the Grandmaster.’
Cole wished he had managed to sneak more than a bottle as It flipped in his stomach.
‘The first matter is this. Last night, the Council received allegations of a heinous and utterly unacceptable crime committed in our fair city.’
Oh, fuck.
‘The allegation of murder, committed by one in this room.’
Those hooded eyes fell on him.
‘The Council welcomes and recognises its legal citizen, Andrew Ancroft.’
Nessie squeezed his arm in a manner he might have found reassuring, were he not about to be had up for murder. The doors at the back – thirty feet of solid oak – opened. His wheezing preceding him, Andrew Ancroft entered the room.
The vampire was disgusting. Exuding his glamour like cheap perfume, he took a seat adjacent to Cole and Nessie’s own, his ghoulish smile desecrating the once-human face on which it sat. Andrew’s clothes were pure black, which was probably meant to signify mourning, but Cole knew better. Vampires had played a game of politics and murder through the centuries, and Andrew would be overjoyed to lose a competitor; there was no doubt.
Andrew’s face straightened, mouth curving down as though he remembered where he was and that smiling wasn’t the right look. Everyone else in the room would see Andrew as a handsome, charismatic man, but nothing hid from Cole’s sight.
Nessie’s hand was on his forearm again. He had to keep calm. The hidden flask called, but he could feel every eye in the room on him. A dull headache threatened.
‘Citizen Andrew Ancroft begs the ear of the Council and all its witnesses.’
With that, the Record Keeper sat and put pen to paper, recording events. Andrew made a show of drawing himself to his feet, as though burdened by the weight of the world.
‘Lords, esteemed knights, defenders of the realm and the freedoms of those within.’
Put a sock in it, wheeze-box. Andrew’s arms made sweeping gestures as he threw his revolting platitudes across the gathered crowd.
‘It is with sorrow that I bring this blackest of deeds before you and beg for your justice.’ He paused every now and then, filling his empty chest with air in a sucking slurp.
‘Your accusation?’ The Grandmaster’s voice sounded weary. The plates of his armour rattled as he shifted, his deep baritone filling the room effortlessly.
‘Murder, Grandmaster. Murder of a fully licensed and law-abiding citizen of our great community.’
The law-abiding citizen who had been about to drain a ten-year-old child of her life. That it wasn’t technically illegal for a vampire to do that just proved how fucked the whole Armistice was in the first place. He growled. Nessie was forcing him to lean back; he was pushing forward. Nessie’s hiss pierced the red veil drawing down over his eyes. ‘Ethan, be calm.’ Cole swallowed, clenched his fists and breathed. He was being handled but thank the gods. He wasn’t any good at this.
Andrew made a show of looking frightened, backing away from Cole, hands up in a warding gesture. The Grandmaster was ominously calm. ‘Armiger, you will get your say in a moment.’ Whisky called; it was wearing off big-time now. At every touch of adrenaline to his blood, It stirred.
Nessie spoke. ‘Andrew, you are perfectly capable of defending yourself. Let’s not play the innocent lamb. Make your accusations and spare us your act.’
The gallery fluttered, the crowd enjoying their Commander’s jibe. The thin gash of Andrew’s mouth turned down.
‘Commander, the loss I have suffered, the grievous harm done to my family. I am the victim here.’
The Grandmaster’s tone was low. ‘Say your piece, Andrew.’
The simpering movements stopped, replaced by the timeless calm that all his wretched species displayed when not enacting their charade of life. The stillness of death, hidden by the glamour.
‘Our very own armiger, Ethan Cole, murdered my brother last night, after he cruelly – but legally – dispatched our long-lost father, François Ancroft.’ Andrew threw his arms on the desk in front of him in theatrics, sitting back down as though defeated. The gallery erupted above. Amongst the shouting and voices, there was a sinister creeping hiss and gurgle. Vampires had gathered in number to sit among the knights and mages.
There it was. The sound that would seal his fate. A mob of beasts and his own kind, baying for his blood over the death of a wretched vampire. He sat.
‘Silence!’ Nessie’s bellow held the force of a man who told the sky what to do. ‘Where is your evidence, Andrew Ancroft? You dare to stand here and accuse our great city’s armiger of such a serious crime!’ The old man blazed.
Andrew shrunk, and not in play this time. Malice seemed to burn in his eyes as he spoke. ‘I saw it. I saw it as my brother cried out to me. I saw it through our bond!’
The gallery murmured again. Many of them up there would lose no sleep if Cole were hanged; many would sleep better.
Andrew pressed on. ‘I saw flashes. My brother and father had a disagreement. François was sure my brother Bernard had cast him into the Pit.’
If that was a disagreement, Cole wouldn’t want to be around for an actual falling-out.
‘The armiger came and murdered François, my poor, dear father, returned to us after so long.’
It was time to defend himself; this charade had gone on long enough. Nessie’s hand viced him into his seat. Nessie was impressively strong for a skinny old guy. His look said sit down and be quiet. Fine, Nessie had this one – Cole owed him. Besides, the old man was good at this stuff. Cole trusted him to sort it out.
‘You will be required to submit these flashes to examination, Andrew. Exactly how confident are you? Perhaps in your grief and your brother’s – tragic – death throes, you mistook what you saw?’
The vampire shambled over to face Cole’s table. He stabbed an accusing finger at Cole.
‘He was there, above Bernard with that demon blade of his, poised to strike! I saw it! He killed my brother! I will have my justice!’
Nessie stood. ‘But you did not see the killing blow. And Cole had no motive to murder your brother.’
Nessie stepped into the space beyond their table with a flourish. He started the arm waving, addressing the gallery. Was this an Unseen Council session, or one of those real-life television shows about famous nobodies that Nat made him watch?
‘Remember your memories are evidence, Andrew.’
Nessie’s simple statement prompted a fall in Andrew’s shoulders. ‘It is difficult to say; the connection was weak. But since my brother’s refuge was burned to the ground afterward – in highly suspicious circumstances – I move that we cannot know for sure! There is one man in this room who does: Cole himself. He had the means. He was there. He was above my brother with his knife; he killed my father! I move the Council extracts Ethan Cole’s memories, to prove his guilt once and for all!’
The room exploded, cries of ‘aye’ stabbing down from human-sounding throats above.
No chance. No one was rooting about in his brain. The process of extracting memories caused hellish trauma to human beings and was normally illegal. No way was he letting anyone try.
It took yelling to re-establish order, though a mumbling persisted, a low, angry buzz.
Cole’s head really ached now, thumping above his right eye.
‘Cole?’ The Grandmaster’s voice was neutral. ‘Why did the residence burn down? Can you offer evidence in your defence?’
Nessie’s vice-like grip closed on his shoulder before he could rise, and the old man spoke.
‘The house was burned down by me. I went to help the armiger in the discharge of his duties against a Pit-spawned vampire. A creature he had every reason to believe would be a beast vampire. Not a legal, licensed vampire, but a thing from the Pit itself. The most dangerous assignment imaginable and not one that any other in this room would be asked to acquit. Remember that when you point fingers.
‘When I examined the Pit mouth, I found evidence that something had indeed escaped, but it could not have been a beast vampire.’ The crowd whispered. ‘Knowing the armiger would be facing a creature unaffected by the ammunition he would bring, I summoned the storm hags and fought them until they brought me to the armiger’s location.’ The hush was graveyard.
‘I rushed to the house, and
there I saw with my own two eyes the death of Bernard Ancroft’—Nessie raised his finger—‘at the hands of his father, François Ancroft!’
Nausea followed in waves. Gods be damned. Whatever happened now would happen to them both.
‘I had moments to act. Swollen and bloated by power from the centuries in the hellish Pit, François was seconds away from rending the life from our armiger, and with it, rending the protection of our city asunder. I summoned the fury of lightning upon him. The armiger and I barely escaped with our lives. The ensuing fire burned the whole sorry house to the ground. We escaped, but we could not save the life of your brother, Andrew. For that, I am sorry. This I do swear.’
Andrew’s hands shocked together in slow applause, shattering the silence. ‘What a tale of heroism. Such noble self-sacrifice from our esteemed protectors. I, for one, shall sleep more soundly today.’
There was rasping laughter in the gallery. Some of Ancroft’s cronies were enjoying the spectacle.
‘Such a convenient testimony, Commander. Come now, you do not have to drag yourself down with this man who hates me and all of my kind.’
Nessie shrugged. ‘That is the truth, Andrew. The armiger had no motive to harm your brother and he did not. I will stake my life on it.’
The vampire snaked around, viper-quick.
‘Oh, you have, Commander. But you have also offered another solution. I will gladly accept your memories as testament. I’m sure our whole community would feel much better once the evidence has been examined.’
The rasping, gargling responses from above echoed down the chamber.
The Grandmaster got up and started walking down the steps to ground level.
‘The matter will require further investigation, but the Commander’s testimony is a solid oath, Andrew.’ The Grandmaster’s tone was not one Cole would have taken on.
The Cost of Magic (The Ethan Cole Series Book 1) Page 7