by James Moore
Charnas took up the Beadle puppet, adding a black eyepatch. “Silence, foul demon! Do not even start with me.” The Beadle puppet waved its arms at the Devil, and the voice that floated through the air was Zho’s. “You will follow Use Decameron for me, and you will do so discreetly, or I will inflict upon you every torture that could possibly cause harm to you. Do you understand me?”
The Devil puppet looked ready to respond, then quivered and lowered its arms. “Very well, 'master,’ but don't think for a second that I won’t remember this.”
Dr. Dee regarded this for a long moment, then at last said, “I’m sure you find your psychotherapy very amusing, Chamas, but the plain fact is that you’ve already disobeyed your master’s order to be discreet.”
“I was discreet as I could be!” the Devil said defensively. “I was the very picture of discreetness until Pretty Polly there caught me looking at her knickers!" The puppet pointed to another, this one a pretty blonde doll that bore a strong resemblance to Use. “Mangy little witch! It was all downhill from there."
The Devil pretended to cry, but then when the Beadle turned his back, he produced a slapper and gave him a whack
upside the head, hiding it as the Zho puppet turned around. Chamas smiled with malicious glee.
“Very well, Chamas,” Dr. Dee said. “You were charged to follow Miss Decameron discreetly. If you were now to leave the house, you could follow her when she leaves on the morrow. Discreetly.”
“Yes," said the Devil, “but how do I know she won’t just nip out the back? She's a witch! I've seen her try it before!”
“I’m not a witch!” cried Pretty Polly.
“Yes you are, you little tart!" cried the Devil and began to bludgeon the Polly puppet as it screamed with Use’s voice. Chamas grinned all the while, and Use began to feel sick as she saw herself being brutalized in effigy, the Devil holding the slapper before him and thrusting it against Pretty Polly’s raggedy cloth form.
Dr. Dee let this go on for a full minute before he spoke. “If you’ve had enough of your psychotherapy, Charnas, I will offer you fair trade and assurances in exchange for your vacating these premises. I will give you Miss Dccameron’s location on the morrow, if you swear to leave and not return this night.”
The Devil paused in its rape of Pretty Polly. “I can come back after that?”
“You will never be welcome here, Charnas. But I’ve no doubt you could insinuate yourself by trickery again. All I ask is your vow that you will leave and not return this night. In exchange, I offer Miss Decameron’s location on the morrow. It is a generous offer. You will have the rest of the evening to yourself, and the rest of the day as well, unless your master chooses to summon you, which he dare not lest you lose the scent."
The Devil puppet came away from Pretty Polly, the slapper left imbedded in her limp form, staking her. “Okay!" cried the Devil, arms waving.
“Swear it," said Dr. Dee. “Swear it on your name."
“I swear," said the Devil puppet, then Charnas tossed it and the Beadle aside. “I swear it on my name, Charnas the Imp, lesser half of Charnas, Lord of Misrule, that I will abide by this pact.”
“And I shall swear by mine, Dr. John Dee, that I will abide by it also.” Dr. Dee reached into his doublet and withdrew a square of vellum, creased and folded to form an envelope, with a large seal of red wax in the center incised with the seal of House Tremere, red ribbons bound round the letter and through the wax.
He held up the packet. “This letter is from the Tremere chantry in Vienna, from the Council, addressed to Miss Decameron, care of myself. Though I have not opened it, there is but one meaning I know for such a missive: The recipient is to proceed to Vienna at once.”
“Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred?” Charnas inquired.
“Possibly," Dr. Dee replied. “Now I have seen to my portion of the bargain. See to yours, fiend.”
“Gone is gone!” Charnas exclaimed and vanished in a gout of purple flame, leaving the puppets back where they began, neatly stacked in their racks and coated with dust.
Silently, Dr. Dee handed the letter to Ilse. “Sarah, see that the puppet theater is burned. Once dolls have been inhabited by a demon, it is best not to keep them around."
“Yes, Doctor," Sarah said, and Ilse thought she heard a note of sorrow in the woman’s voice.
Ilse broke the seal, cutting the ribbons with a pair of stork-handled gold scissors Sarah lent her, and unfolded the letter, the vellum smooth beneath her fingers.
A second, smaller packet, sealed with green ribbons and green wax, fell forward into her hand. Ilse slipped the enclosure behind the larger sheet, looking at the beautiful, flowing script, red on cream.
Our Most Esteemed Childe,
We have monitored your progress in recent weeks and laud your efforts to further the interests of House Tremere. We now wish to express our gratitude in person, and we also wish to interview our descendant, the mortal mage of our House whom you have located. We desire that you bring him with you to Vienna, where he shall also be made welcome. Do this at your earliest possible convenience, no later than the night of April the 30th, for it is paramount that the House attempt the great work on Walpurgis Night, before the forces opposed to our designs may consolidate their forces.
More than this, our dearest I be, we cannot say, but this is a momentous occasion in the history of House Tremere, and we are grateful for the part you have played and will continue to play. Please come with all haste.
With deepest affection,
(signed)
Councilor Emus
The signature was done in the same lovely, flowing hand as the rest of the letter, with gold leaf sprinkled across the ink while it was still wet. Use smelled the heady scent of elder vitae; the Councilor had signed in his own blood.
Use felt very lightheaded all of a sudden, and Sarah placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right, Ilse? You look a mite peaked.”
“No, no, I’m just fine.” Use brushed her away, folding the letter before the punk girl could steal a glance at it.
“So wot’s it say?” Sarah asked, curiosity shading her usually solemn expression.
“Nothing,” Ilse said. “Nothing you wouldn’t expect, I mean. I need to go to Vienna, and I should take Carl Magnuson with me.”
Sarah nodded. “Good thing he’s got the blood of the House in his veins. That’ll make travel a lot easier. You want I should track him down? Sun up’s in less than an hour, and besides being lights out for the likes of us, it’ll also put the mickey on the door to the House of Secrets. Not that I’ve ever been awake enough to try it during the day, mind.”
“Yes, please," Ilse said, wanting to take another look at the letter. “That would be good, assuming he’s already made the arrangements with the Order of Hermes.”
“Oh, yes,” Sarah said. “Things have gone swimmingly, or at least so I gather. The Doctor hasn’t had any complaints on that end, though I suppose Carl could tell you best.” She glanced once around the room. “I’d best be getting you to the downstairs anyway. All the skylights in Malmsey have been blacked, but the theater hasn’t been used for a spell, and what with the pigeons we’ve got on the roof, I can’t vouch for its safety.”
She led the way out into the hall, shutting off the lights behind them. “There’s a parlor downstairs where you can receive the living gentleman once I hunt him up, then I'll go see about kicking open the gate in the ice house. May not be able to get to Vienna tonight — unless the Cobweb Castle’s in a peculiar mood — but at least you’ll be able to get out of London, and that’s worth something with Master Crackerbox on the warpath.”
Sarah glanced back at her, rounding the comer. “Come along. It looks like this is going to be a dawn operation as it is, and I don’t want to meddle with a day operation while we’re at it. Like I said, I’ve been told that daylight and the Midnight Palace don’t mix, and I can’t vouch for my wakefulness if I had to test it.”
Sarah
led the way down the grand stairway and through an arch, bringing Ilse to a sitting-room just off the kitchen. Thick, heavy velvet draperies covered what windows there were, and Use assumed there were heavy shutters behind them. Otherwise, it was as grand as the rest of the house, with Regency furnishings in green and gold brocade. The old gas brackets flickered to life at a simple gesture from Sarah as she left the archway.
Ilse sat down in one of the voluminous wing chairs by the dead hearth, reopening the letter. The smell of Councilor Etrius’ blood wafted out, sweet as woodbine, and Ilse looked at gold leaf and the elegant script in the amber glow of the gaslight. It somehow seemed very familiar.
She reread it twice. Dearest Ilse...deepest affection...It somehow read more like a love letter than one of the fabled “Letters from Vienna.” Too touching, too personal, but then Etrius, leader of the Council of Seven, was also rumored to also be the head of the secretive Humanus League, and was said to regret his loss of humanity more than any of the vampires of Clan Tremere.
The ancient ones, at least.
Ilse refolded the vellum square and tucked the edges back into the broken seal, looking to the smaller packet that had been enclosed. The ribbons were as green as springtime, and gold had been used on the seal as well, a leaf of it laid down before the ring had been pressed into the wax. Across the back, in one of the four squares formed by the ribbon, were the words, To That Most Beloved and Rediscovered Son-of-Our-Heart, Carl Magnuson, while in the square opposite, To Be Delivered, as Always, by Our Faithful Ilse. The ink was green and beautifully lettered in Councilor Etrius’ hand. Ilse wasn't sure if it was just the residue that had rubbed off from her own letter, but she thought she smelled his blood from it as well.
There was a creak of the floor behind her, and Ilse looked up to see Carl Magnuson slipping into the room, spruce and tidy in his dark suit and white collar, but his eyes looking for all the world like Paul’s. “There you are, love,” said the mage, his aura tinged golden with concern. “We were worried about you and, my, it looks like you’ve had a devil of a night.”
“It was an imp, but same difference.”
He came over, sitting down on the footstool before the hearth and taking one of her hands in his own. “Go ahead, and tell me about it.” His hands were warm, and Ilse could feel the beat of his heart through them.
It all came out at once — the terror, the capture, Crowley and his Beast, Westphal and Jackie, Zho and Charnas, the horrible memory the imp had prompted. By the time she finished, Ilse was in tears, blood dripping down onto her arm and the dirty gray silk of her dress.
“There’s a girl,” Carl said, sounding like a British version of Paul. “Chin up. You made it through, and much less worse for the wear than the rest of them.” He tried to put a finger under her chin and raise her head up.
Ilse didn’t want to look him in the eyes. “Crowley’s right. I’m nothing but a coward."
“Crowley’s a nasty piece of work, that’s what he is.” Carl gave up on trying to lift her chin and instead just stroked her hair with the back of his fingers. “I hate to say it, but I’ve had my run-ins with him too, but not as badly as your lot. And here I was just thinking he was just a dark mage. The Order will be heartily surprised when they discover the Tremere hate him just as much as they do. Generally, they just lump everyone together, which is always a mistake.” Carl stroked her hair again. “What you’d call cowardice I’d call just a good bit of self-control and common sense. From what you said, that Westphal chap just went into hysterics till he fainted, and that didn’t do his girlfriend a bit of good. If it hadn’t been for you, the whole mess could have turned out a great deal nastier than it did."
Ilse felt the tears trickle down her cheeks and the growing heaviness in her eyes that always preceded sunrise. “Wha—”
“Hush, love. The night’s been interesting for me too, but hardly as exciting as yours has been. All I can say is that what your Dr. Dee lacks in manners, he makes up for in connections, because before you could say, ‘Bob’s your uncle,’ I had my mates in the Order welcoming me back or at least willing to listen to what I had to say about the Tremere, especially Houdini's greatest escape." He grimaced. “Of course, there’s always a few firebrands who’ll listen to anything that will give the Technocracy a bad day, and since it’s no skin off our nose if it fails, they’re all for it. Brave lot, the Order, aren’t they?”
The deep and dreamless sleep that accompanied daybreak began to come over her, and Use struggled to retain consciousness, clasping Carl’s warm hands in hers. “We—" “Everything is in readiness," came Mr. Winthrop’s voice. “If we could make haste to the undercellar, Mr. Magnuson, Ms. Cobbler would appreciate it.”
“Quite right," Carl said, and Ilse nodded weakly, murmuring vague acceptance, then felt Carl’s arms lifting her as if she weighed no more than a doll. The letters fluttered down beside her.
“Wait,” Use murmured, trying to reach for them.
“I have them,” Mr. Winthrop said, finishing her thoughts, as always. “If you could...”
“Of course." She heard Carl’s heartbeat and felt the warmth of his life through his suit, the mage carrying her down the stairs as darkness tried to claim her.
She heard Sarah’s voice chanting an invocation in Enochian, the magical language Dr. Dee had first set down, the swishing of the woman’s sword, then Carl ducked forward with her, and she heard a slam and a shudder of glass.
Ilse began to rouse, the sleep of day giving her a sudden reprieve, and she looked up to see the door of the curio case in the Ching Parlor that formed the gateway to Malmsey House, the ivory figures on the other side jumbled about by the slamming of the door.
Carl set her on her feet. “Just in the nick of time, I’d say." He yawned. “And now, I think, we get to turn the tables. You may be feeling bright and chipper after having gotten away from daylight, but I’ve been up a deucedly long time, and I’m going to have to sleep." He smiled at her, mismatched eyes sparkling like Paul’s...and like Zho’s in her horrible memory of that past life the imp had made her recall. “I think i’ll take Mammy up on that offer of a room, because after what you’ve told me, I’ve got an awful lot to sleep on, and I’m certain you want a chance to get cleaned up as well.”
Ilse nodded. She was in fact very tired. Not in body, but in soul, and she wondered if she’d ever feel clean again.
Kurt and Jackie joined the Ventrue of London, prepared to head back to the safety of Bexborough Manor. Lady Anne was speaking about something — for the life of him, Kurt couldn't quite understand, his exhaustion destroying his attention span — when the Queen of London’s chauffeur, sans clothes or limousine, flung himself at her. “My Lady! I am ready for you at last!”
Kurt stepped back, suddenly very wide awake, and watched as the Queen’s entourage surrounded the hapless man. “Pray tell, Clarence, whatever is it you’re supposed to be ready for?” Lady Anne had, doubtless, seen much in her time. Despite a moment of surprise, she recovered quickly, her stunned grimace replaced with the dryly amused expression that only the upper-class British ever seemed capable of carrying off properly.
With a shriek of abject horror, Clarence managed to all but fly backwards into the shrubs he’d just emerged from, eyes wide and hair literally standing on end. Kurt noticed with some amusement the shock and then raw anger that danced across Courtland Leighton’s face before the man regained his composure; he suspected the anger came from a sense of betrayal. “Milady? I did not expect you’d have company...”
“Obviously not, Clarence. Would you care to explain yourself?”
“Begging your pardon, Milady, you—" The man’s face had almost mystically transformed from the color of human flesh to the same shade as cooked beets.
“Yes?"
“You only moments ago said you wanted me. In a carnal way.”
“Really?" Now she seemed surprised. “One would think I’d remember making such a proclamation.” Clarence groaned, his face re
d enough to make Kurt fear he’d have a stroke from the pressure.
Courtland Leighton stepped forward, all but placing himself completely between the humiliated man and Lady Anne. “Shall I handle this matter for you, Lady Anne?”
“Oh, please do, Courtland.” Despite herself, the Queen of London seemed on the verge of hysterical laughter.
“With pleasure.” Leighton stepped forward, his paces measured and restrained, but his body showing the rage he was surely feeling.
“But Courtland—”
“Yes, Milady?”
“Do leave him alive. I believe we shall have to discuss his activities and find the source of so unusual a delusion.”
“Yes, Milady."
The Queen of London called to one of her other aides, and in a matter of less than forty minutes, a rented limousine approached and they were soon on their way. The group was most of the way to Bexborough Manor before Kurt realized that Jackie was smiling for the first time all night.
By the time Kurt finally managed to break free of his fellow Ventrue, a Blood Hunt had been called against Aleister Crowley. Lady Anne had been very interested in hearing about the Malkavian’s plans, and with his haven uncovered at last, she sent her minions to the Canary Docks as soon as they arrived back at Bexborough Manor. All that remained of his unholy church was evidence that he’d been there; the humans and vampires had vacated the underground haven beneath Kensington, Pope and Kelly Spice Merchants. No one was surprised that he’d escaped again. The old bastard had more lives than a pride of kittens.
Appolonius and his crew were being held until a meeting of the primogen could be arranged, and that in turn was being held until Courtland Leighton and John Dee could once again work out a new agreement and possibly even work out a longer peace this time around. No one expected the peace to come easily as a result of the previous night, nor did they expect it to last.
Despite her protests that she was fine, Kurt insisted that Jackie take the night to rest and recover from the ordeals of the previous forty-eight hours. Jackie did not complain overly much.