The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Mark A. Latham

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Part 1

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Part 2

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Mark A. Latham and available from Titan Books

  The Lazarus Gate

  The Iscariot Sanction

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783296828

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781783296835

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: September 2016

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © 2016 Mark A. Latham. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  PART 1

  Hark! death is calling

  While I speak to ye,

  The jaw is falling,

  The red cheek paling,

  The strong limbs failing;

  Ice with the warm blood mixing,

  The eyeballs fixing.

  Nine times goes the passing bell:

  Ye merry souls, farewell.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  ONE

  Saturday, 23rd August 1879

  SEVEN DIALS, LONDON

  The whore giggled as Lord de Montfort stroked her cheek. He had missed London of late. His visits were all too infrequent, and it was good to be back. There was nothing as important as family, after all. That did not mean, however, that he could not find some entertainment whilst fulfilling his duties in the capital, and there was no place where entertainment could be bought so readily as on the Ratcliff Highway.

  Lord de Montfort helped the girl down from the hansom cab. At his signal the driver flicked the reins and departed, leaving his passengers standing on the cobbles. The hour was late and the weather inclement; no one was about, and even if they had been, no one would care.

  ‘Are we going somewhere fancy, m’lord?’ Her voice grated on de Montfort’s nerves a little, but he let it pass.

  ‘Of a sort. I have a place set aside for… special liaisons.’

  She giggled again, an annoying snort preceding a rolling, childish laugh. De Montfort remembered how she had behaved when he’d first approached her—hard-faced and unobliging. His coin had done some of the work; his unique talents, and a few glasses of gin, had done the rest. Lord de Montfort was not a man for fumbling around with girls in a filthy East End alley, and so he had brought her here, to a quiet street in Seven Dials. As they walked arm-in-arm, the bang-tail’s head leaned on his shoulder as she sighed drunkenly.

  De Montfort looked up at the sky. There were hardly any stars visible any more as the deep crimson fire rippled overhead like liquid. He remembered the day that the sky had started to burn: it had been in 1872, the day of the Awakening; the day that de Montfort had torn free of the estimable shadow of his forebears and become something more than he’d ever dared hope. The great minds of the time had since been fixated on healing the world, of closing the Rift and ending the madness that swept the globe; but not he. De Montfort turned his eyes back to the street and smiled. He liked the fire in the sky—it felt like an eternal dawn, and it filled him with the same hope that a new day’s light might bring to lesser men.

  * * *

  Just hours earlier, de Montfort had found himself in another vile area of the forsaken city. Deep within the Isle of Dogs, in a stinking slum, he had stridden into the House of Zhengming—the most iniquitous den of vice in the Empire. Lord de Montfort had not been there as a patron, to partake of the opium pipe, for such earthly pleasures were far beneath him these days. No, he had been there on business, to talk with a man whose tangled web of intrigue had made him indispensable to the plans of arch-criminal and law-bringer alike; to every tyrant and politician in the realm. Tsun Pen, ‘the Artist’—a man who had earned a reputation as a self-effacing, loathsome master of lies and broker of intelligence. How de Montfort hated the Artist, but how he needed him…

  De Montfort had steeled himself before entering the Artist’s lair, for one never seemed to leave the House of Zhengming with a full hand, regardless of how well one played the game.

  On this night, de Montfort had disembarked his carriage and entered the Artist’s domain with far less than a full hand. His power, wealth and talents were of no use in this matter. Of all the Majestics created at the Awakening, only Tsun Pen had the infallible gift of foresight. If de Montfort’s people were to stake their claim to the Empire, to wage a secret war against the rulers of Britain, they had to be certain their gamble would pay off. Only Tsun Pen could tell them that.

  De Montfort followed Tsun Pen’s guards into the opium den, stepping over the dreamers who lolled on cushions on the floor as they chased the dragon in the smoke. At the end of the room, Tsun Pen sat languidly on an ornate throne, set atop a raised dais. Where the low stage would once have sited a piano and bawdily dressed songstress, Tsun Pen now sat like an emperor of old, surveying his kingdom of darkness and depravity. The Artist ever had a feel for the dramatic. He dressed in the finest silks, and his black hair flowed long around his shoulders. His eyes were quick and cunning, observing everything and revealing nothing, while a sickly, sardonic smile seemed rarely to leave his features.

  Lord de Montfort took an envelope from his breast pocket and held it out. At the merest nod of Tsun Pen’s head, a servant took the envelope and began to count the money inside. The Artist was always surrounded by servants and burly henchmen—de Montfort mused that a man as hated as this wretch could not afford to take chances. For every fortune Tsun Pen helped to make, there were those whose lives he would destroy. Only the highest bidder could rely on Tsun Pen’s assistance, or his integrity.

  ‘Your predecessor asked me a question, and I have striven to answer it,’ said the Artist, the vestiges of his Chinese accent softened to an almost aristocratic purr. ‘Yet you must have eyes to see. Look there, and tell me if you are pleased with the result.’ Tsun Pen waved a slender hand at the large rectangular object to his right—a canvas, some six feet high, covered by a dust sheet.

  De Montfort stepped towards it. The Artist was notorious for his cryptic
messages, delivered through the medium of his paintings. Sometimes the glimpses of the future were vague and abstract; other times they were clear as day. De Montfort sought certainty on behalf of his people—of his master, though he hesitated to admit such—and he would brook no tricks this night. He pulled the sheet away and studied the painting, illuminated by the flickering Chinese lanterns that hung all around. De Montfort gasped.

  He had his answer, it was clear. Victory, it seemed, was at hand. But there was something more; something less easily interpreted, which filled him with dread. He gazed at the canvas, searching for clues, for there was clearly a danger ahead—the Artist had laced this painted prophecy with a dire warning, a price for triumph that perhaps even de Montfort was not ready to pay. And there was an implication for his own part in the future—an implication that would surely not be lost on his master.

  He turned on his heel and glared at the Artist. ‘A simple “yes” would have sufficed,’ he snapped.

  ‘“For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be,”’ Tsun Pen said. ‘Tennyson. Do you care for poetry?’ De Montfort’s glare gave its own answer, and the Artist sighed. ‘The future is sometimes made clear to me; but I can assure you, “Lord” de Montfort, the path that takes us there is never simple. Your people asked a question, the answer is clear, is it not?’ Tsun Pen’s voice was soft, almost musical, but his mocking tone tested de Montfort’s patience, as always.

  ‘But this… what does it mean? How can this outcome be avoided?’

  Tsun Pen looked to the servant who had finished counting the notes at last. The little celestial nodded to his master, answering an unspoken question. The Artist turned back to his customer and sighed lazily.

  ‘In my line of business, speculation is a dangerous pastime; more dangerous, even, than handing out free advice. If you wish me to undertake more work, to commune with the fates once more on your behalf, then you know the fee.’

  De Montfort allowed rage to well up inside him, revealing for an instant his true nature. He took two paces forward, fists clenched, and was met in an instant by three blades, held at his throat by Tsun Pen’s guards. The Artist’s smile broadened, and de Montfort checked himself.

  ‘You understand, Tsun Pen, who I am? And whom I represent? You understand that these men of yours risk their pitiful lives by threatening me?’

  ‘My lord, it appears that you have taken offence at my terms of business,’ the Artist said, still smiling. ‘I shall forgive the transgression, though, for I know how vexing it can be when all that you hold dear depends upon a wild throw of the dice. You have your answer, and if you persist upon the course that you have set, the outcome is clear. If you wish to commission further works, I will be waiting.’

  I will be waiting. Was it de Montfort’s imagination, or were those last words delivered with a devilish gleam in the eyes? He could scarce believe the Artist’s audacity. De Montfort would have gladly torn apart all in the room if he thought it would uncover the answers he sought; but there was something unsettling about the Artist’s certainty. Some trick, perhaps… this time, discretion would win out. But one day the Artist would get his just deserts—de Montfort was no soothsayer, but he saw that part of the future plain enough. Satisfied by these thoughts, he relaxed, and the guards lowered their wicked knives, visibly relieved.

  At least they are terrified, de Montfort thought. Good. They should be.

  ‘I… apologise for my quick temper. I will take the painting and complete our transaction. If there is more work to be done, I shall contact you presently. Rest assured, I always know where to find you.’

  * * *

  The whore giggled again. Sally, was that her name? Or was it Molly? De Montfort could not recall, and at this stage in their relationship, it mattered not.

  He pressed her up against the rough brick wall of the cellar. She smelled of corruption, fitting right into the dark, dank chamber. He brushed his lips across her throat; squeezed her thigh just above her garter. He could feel the gooseflesh of her skin, the thrumming of the blood in her veins. His nerves jangled for a moment… he had to stay in control. She was his no longer.

  ‘You’re so cold, guv,’ she squealed as his hand slipped beneath her bustle. ‘I bet I can warm you up.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said de Montfort, his voice as cold as his flesh. He withdrew half a step from the bang-tail. Her silly laugh repulsed him. He was drawn to the warmth of her body, but he was beyond carnal desire. He had his orders.

  ‘’Ere, what do you mean? Come on, lover, don’t go shy on me now. I mean, I know you’re a gent and all, but I can’t be your first…’

  The words died on her lips, along with her smile. De Montfort had removed his tinted spectacles, and allowed her to gaze into his eyes for the first time. The glasses must have seemed at first an affectation, but now the girl saw that they hid something peculiar. His eyes gleamed in the half-light, the way that torchlight shines off a fox’s eyes. Like all de Montfort’s kind, his shone violet.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean to be coy,’ he said. ‘It’s just that you aren’t mine. You’re for my friends—my cousins, actually.’

  The wench suppressed a sob. De Montfort relaxed his hypnotic hold over her a fraction, allowing her to become abruptly aware of her precarious situation. She blinked and looked around, seeing the cellar as if for the first time, snagging her tousled hair on the rough mortar of the wall behind her.

  ‘I want to leave now,’ she said. ‘This ain’t what you paid for.’

  As she made to move past de Montfort, he put a hand to her chest and pushed her back towards the wall, gently but firmly. Her eyes darted around, panicked.

  De Montfort leaned in to her. ‘My dear, if it is remuneration you desire, I am sure I can give you more than you bargained for; do not worry on that score.’

  He reached past her with his free hand, and her eyes followed, widening as she noticed at last the heavy, studded door behind them. De Montfort unlatched it, opening it to reveal utter blackness beyond. A draught blew through the doorway, carrying with it the rank smell of damp earth and a strong, metallic tang that de Montfort could taste on the air, like carcasses in a butcher’s market.

  The girl’s eyes grew wild. This was the kind of thing her friends whispered of in the doss-houses; the kind of thing that always happened to someone else, never to them. Only it was happening now, to her. There came from the dark void the sound of clinking chains, and a low, rumbling growl. Panic grew in the girl. She lashed out, but de Montfort was immovable as stone. She clawed at him, and managed to dig a nail into his face, where a lump of his pale white flesh peeled away beneath her fingernail, yet no blood spilled from the wound. He slammed her against the wall before turning his violet eyes upon her once again.

  ‘Please…’ she sobbed. Her shoulders sank. The best she could hope for was that his ‘friends’ would take their pleasure and turn her out onto the streets. But she must have known in her heart that this was not the game they were playing. De Montfort savoured the moment—the confused mess of defeat and resignation to a dark fate, coupled as always with the glimmer of hope that all men and women carried with them to the very end.

  ‘Shh… enough of that. I would like nothing more than to ease your suffering. I am ashamed to say it is in my power to do so; but my kin are not like me. They need your fear.’ He leaned close again, letting her smell the grave-scent that lay beneath his fine cologne and shirt-starch. He looked her in the eyes one last time. ‘Fear… sweetens the meat.’

  He flung the girl bodily through the door with a mighty sweep of his arm. Her scream echoed around the subterranean tunnels beyond, and was joined by bestial snarls. De Montfort shut the door against the noise, latching and barring it quickly. He put his back to the door and mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

  ‘Degenerates…’ he whispered, with distaste. ‘But perhaps there is hope for them yet.’

  He tur
ned, calmness returning as the frenzied sounds subsided. De Montfort touched a hand to the aged wood, running his fingers over the iron studs. He recalled the words of the Artist, and smiled as he recited under his breath:

  ‘Thou shalt hear the “Never, never,” whisper’d by the phantom years; And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again.’

  De Montfort smiled thinly. Yes, one should never show Tsun Pen one’s full hand.

  EXTRACT FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES

  16TH AUGUST 1858—The Fox family consisted of the mother and three sisters, one of whom, Mrs. Fish, was a widow. The rapping performances of the two youngest sisters, Catherine and Margaret Fox, gifted mediums, it seemed, commenced at Hydesville, an obscure village in Wayne County, New York, within a few miles of the spot where the Mormon apostle Joseph Smith found the Golden Plates. For some time their art was the wonder of that neighbourhood, and crowds were wont to collect, chiefly on Sundays, to witness its exercise. But somehow the miracle grew unpopular, and the family removed to Rochester, where their peculiar gift soon began to attract attention. Strange stories were told of secrets revealed, and fates foretold. Each of the sisters was a medium, through whose agency the spirits of the dead conveyed information by alphabetic raps on the floor and upon tables. Committees of leading citizens were appointed, who reported that they heard sounds, but could not tell whence they came. To be sure, there were not lacking statements of fraud discovered and exposed, but the public ear was never open to this side of the question. It craved miracles, and got them in abundance.

  The extent to which table-rapping has been carried, not only in this country but in Europe, is one of the greatest marvels of the century; and the phenomena which were first discovered by this family are still a puzzle to philosophers.

  TWO