The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  ‘It seems we’ve both gone down in the world. I daresay Lord Cherleten will want to tell us all the things we field agents are doing wrong, and how his precious armoury personnel can do it all better and faster, and at less expense.’

  ‘What was it Father always said? “The Order of Apollo is a first-rate warship, but Anthony Cherleten is a privateer, sailing the fine line between nobility and piracy.” Whatever he has in store for us, just remember where your loyalties lie, or he’ll end up stealing us from old Toby.’

  ‘I will not be one of Cherleten’s toadies,’ Lillian said.

  ‘Just try not to insult him to his face,’ John replied. ‘If you’re going to poke the anointed pig, do so from behind the fence.’

  ‘I simply cannot stand being in his presence; I swear it was his leering that made me feel faint, rather than the pain.’ She looked at John, and realised that he’d been rubbing at his ribs for a while, making her feel terribly guilty that all the talk had been of her feelings and injuries. ‘How are you healing?’

  ‘I’m still sore. But I’m trussed up in one of Smythe’s fancy girdles, tighter than a Tyburn tippet. A goodly number of cracks and bruises, but no breaks, thank heavens. You complained of your corsetry back at the club—I rather think I know what you mean.’

  ‘Are you quite sure you’ll be fit for duty on Monday?’

  ‘Of course. And even better, this girdle makes me look leaner, don’t you think? Mind you, I hope I don’t have to get my suit adjusted.’

  Lillian could not help but laugh at her brother’s vanity. ‘You always find a way to see the best in things,’ she said. ‘You’ll be wearing the girdle long after you’ve recovered if it improves the look of your wardrobe.’

  ‘Hmm?’ John turned sideways, admiring himself in the mantel mirror.

  While he was distracted, Lillian held out a forkful of herring to John’s cat, Chuzzlewit. The runtish ginger tom had entered noiselessly through the kitchen window; the cat turned his nose up at the merest sniff of the fish, and retreated whence he had come.

  Lillian whipped the fork back to her plate as John turned back to her, perhaps realising belatedly that he had been insulted. ‘And what of your injuries, sis?’ he said, evidently deciding to ignore whatever it was she’d said.

  ‘I am fine,’ Lillian replied curtly. ‘Granting me an extra day’s rest is nothing but chauvinism on Sir Toby’s part. I could have gone to Hyde immediately.’

  ‘Smythe would have liked that,’ John said. Lillian scowled at him. ‘Mind you, he was deuced sheepish when I told him… oh, never mind.’

  ‘Told him what?’ Lillian’s eyes flared.

  ‘Oh… damn. It’s nothing. I was gaming with him in the club last night and… it’s nothing!’ He spread his palms and smiled, but his protestations were too vigorous.

  ‘What are you hiding?’ Lillian asked.

  John sighed. ‘You know I shouldn’t say anything. You’re putting me in a jolly unfair position.’

  ‘You shouldn’t know anything; and if you hadn’t been so loose-lipped over cards and cigars, you still would not. Honestly, John Hardwick, I would expect better of you than carousing with the Bullingdon boys.’ It was one of the things that Lillian could not rise above at the Apollonian, no matter how hard she tried. Despite graduating from the academy with distinction, while in the club she could partake of neither alcohol nor tobacco in the company of men, and she certainly could not play cards. If she desired a glass of wine after a hard day, she was banished to the ladies’ drawing room, to gossip with the wives and daughters of distinguished clubmen, while her peers sat in offices and traded information that she should be privy to.

  ‘It was a bagatelle, if you must know. And I am lucky that the “Bullingdon boys” let me anywhere near their gaming tables,’ John grumbled. He sighed and looked resigned. ‘Look, Smythe might have told me about his next assignment and… and that he hopes very much that you will not look upon him unfavourably in the future as a result.’

  Despite being subjected to Lillian’s best withering glare, John’s eyes twinkled. It seemed that no matter how old they got, he would always enjoy teasing her.

  ‘He knew he was taking over from Arthur and me? How?’

  ‘He… ahem… requested the assignment, for purely academic reasons, you understand. Although he was deuced disappointed when he learned you weren’t fit enough to go with him.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Did he request the assignment for the advancement of his scientific endeavours? Or did he… well…’

  ‘Just want to be close to you? Perhaps we’ll never know. But you realise that a lady of action such as yourself could do a lot worse—’

  John did his best to dart out of the way, but Lillian’s aim was true and a hunk of bread hit him square between the eyes. He laughed. She glowered at him, and rubbed her injured shoulder. That stopped John, and he went over to his sister, though cautiously.

  ‘Let’s have a look at that, sis. Oh… it looks angry. I think it’ll heal all right, but it’s little wonder you aren’t yourself. I think you should go to bed.’

  ‘I’m perfectly—’

  ‘No you are not. Just for once will you do what’s good for you? What would Beauchamp Smythe say, I wonder? In his professional capacity, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure I couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Then abed with you. I suggest that a good night’s sleep followed by a hearty breakfast will do you the power of good.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to make breakfast?’

  ‘Why… no. Cook will be here first thing.’

  ‘Then it is a wonderful suggestion. I feel better already.’

  * * *

  Lillian jumped awake, her heart racing and her nightdress clinging to her, damp with cold sweat. Her mind was filled with images of slavering jaws and sparkling, violet eyes, cold, pale, naked forms scuttling along the walls and across the ceiling, shimmering in the darkness as they hunted for her, the rank smell of fresh human flesh still on their breath.

  Worse, a voice had called to her. It pulled at her as inexorably as the moon pulls the tides. She had felt it resonate deep within her; in her blood.

  It had called her name.

  At first, the shadows of the strange room brought panic to her, but gradually as the wisps of nightmare relinquished their hold, she remembered that she was at her brother’s lodgings, and calmed herself. Her shoulder throbbed more than ever, and a few spots of blood stained her nightdress where they had seeped through the dressing, but her nausea had gone.

  She lit her candle and padded over to the sideboard to wash her face. She poured a glass of water and drank thirstily. The nightmare had been vivid indeed. The monster in the tunnels had shaken her more than any encounter in recent memory, for it could so easily have killed her. And what would have become of her then? Would she be another corpse for Smythe and Lord Cherleten to unearth, to feed their fanciful tales of vampires and ghouls and goodness-knows-what?

  Feed. A poor choice of word, she thought.

  Lillian took another long drink, and looked around the room. The dim crimson glow of the skyline shone through the thin curtains. She went to the window and opened the sash a little. John had closed it so that she didn’t catch a chill on top of everything else, but she needed air. Not that she’d get much fresh air from the city this night. Ghostly wisps of fog flowed into the room, as if grasping for Lillian with ethereal fingers. She sighed, and closed the window again. The next day would doubtless play host to a London particular, and she would be housebound whilst the world outside was suffocated by the stifling smog. She felt like a ship set adrift, waiting for a change in the wind to push her from the doldrums so she could beat to quarters once more.

  * * *

  Monday had not come quickly enough, though after another restless night Lillian began to regret her eagerness to take up her next assignment. When she had awoken that morning with bags under her eyes, and a nightmarish voice whisperin
g to her in the darkness, she had set about masking her unrest so that John would not look upon her with undue concern. Lillian had long learned to conceal fatigue and injuries from her mother, who was at least twice as observant as John, and so that morning she had washed in elderflower water, before applying a concoction of rosewater and sulphate of zinc to the dark rings about her eyes.

  John was in high spirits, though Lord knew why. They had left his flat at an ungodly hour to receive a briefing from Cherleten, and since then they had been confined to a carriage, which bumped and jolted their way out of the city. The details of their mission were skeletal at best, and what instructions they had received had been enough to frustrate Lillian—an outcome that doubtless filled Lord Cherleten with no small amount of pride. And yet, John was all smiles, despite being as much in the dark about their ultimate goal as Lillian.

  ‘Oh, come now, sis, surely you can manage a bit of cheer? I think of this as an adventure, don’t you?’ John sat across from Lillian, beaming at her like a child on Christmas morning.

  ‘We are to be confined to this coach for an interminable duration, and we haven’t even been entrusted with the details of the mission. You may call that an adventure, but I call it going off half-cocked.’

  ‘Oh dear, it seems you do not thrive on mystery. Perhaps an occupation outside of espionage might be more your forte?’

  ‘In our business, a lack of intelligence is dangerous.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll receive further instruction in good time.’ John sighed. ‘Mind you, given the state of us both, I’m surprised you aren’t glad of a little light duty for a day or two.’

  Lillian scowled again. ‘I did not join the Order of Apollo for light duties. I would rather be facing an enemy than be escort to some stranger.’

  ‘If it’s righteous vengeance against Cherleten’s monsters you’re after, I’m sure you’ll get your chance. We all have to set aside personal vendettas in the name of Queen and country. I’m sure these missions are vital, too, in the greater scheme of things.’

  Lillian held her tongue; she had forgotten how much she disliked working with her brother. They got along famously at home and in the dojo, but when he was on duty he adopted a superior air that infuriated her.

  The coach jolted violently for the umpteenth time, causing the windows to rattle in their panes, and an icy draught to be sucked into the compartment. Lillian turned away and looked out of the grimy window. They were approaching Streatham, their first stop, where the driver would change his team ready for the cross-country leg of the journey.

  ‘I never thought I’d crave a train journey,’ Lillian said at last, more to herself than to John.

  ‘Aside from the romance of this antiquated mode of transport, it is the safest way to travel. We command our own schedule, and can change our route at the drop of a hat. Trains run to timetables, and our journey could be predicted by the enemy.’

  ‘What enemy?’ Lillian asked.

  John shrugged. ‘Whichever. Just because we are used to facing creatures of a more… metaphysical nature, it doesn’t mean that the Empire has no real enemies left. In fact, I’d wager that’s the reason for Cherleten’s clandestine manner.’

  Lillian found that almost reassuring. She would rather believe that shadowy foreign agents plagued their every movement than trust Anthony Cherleten not to be toying with them for his own amusement.

  Minutes later, the carriage pulled into the courtyard of a coaching inn. The driver jumped down from his seat and tapped on the window. Lillian pushed it down to address the portly man, whose face was red from the cold wind.

  ‘Stopping ’ere for a moment, miss, to change the ’orses. If you’d like to take some time in the inn, that’d be agreeable. Otherwise, I’ll have this team swapped around in barely a minute.’ He said this proudly, confident in his skill with the horse and tack.

  Lillian saw that John was about to get out to stretch his legs, and immediately replied: ‘No, Selby, that won’t be necessary. I think we should be on our way as quickly as possible.’

  ‘As you wish, miss. I’ll be done in two shakes.’

  Lillian closed the window, happy at her brother’s minor discomfort. John reached for his newspaper and pretended he didn’t want to leave the coach after all.

  ‘We’re damned lucky to get Selby,’ John remarked, pretending to look over the obituaries. ‘Fastest whip in England, by all accounts. Five hours is a devil of a time to reach Portsmouth by road.’

  Lillian wished he hadn’t reminded her. Five hours seemed interminable. She knew that she would have to disembark at their next stop, no matter how satisfying it felt to score points against John.

  The carriage was an odd way to travel; Lillian half wondered if it would attract undue attention in and of itself. Even here, in a traditional coaching house, automated perambulators were parked outside unused stables, and the stertorous murmurings of new-fangled electrical generators could be heard from within. Jim Selby, a coachman of some note, was anachronistic in his passion for the carriage and horse.

  She had barely reflected on this when the coachman rapped on the window again.

  ‘All done, sir, miss.’

  ‘Very good, Mr. Selby,’ Lillian replied. ‘Let’s make hay while the sun shines.’

  Selby grinned and hopped back into the driver’s seat with an agility that belied his stout frame, and the coach jerked into motion once more, rattling from the cobbled courtyard and picking up speed at an alarming rate as soon as the gates were cleared.

  ‘A minute and a half to change the team,’ John said. ‘He’s taking his time today. But this is where you’ll see Selby in action.’ John had a boyish look about him. ‘According to The Times, he achieved twenty miles per hour on this next stretch during the record-breaking run. We should be lucky if he does that today!’

  Lillian looked through the window as the uniform terraces of Streatham rattled past, the greenery of the old village poking between them at intervals. Though she would not admit it to John, there was something romantic about taking a stagecoach; a hearkening back to a simpler time when the fastest a body could travel was on the back of a horse. A time before Majestics and Intuitionists, etherium and Riftborn. The great march of progress and the downfall of the natural order had gone hand-in-hand, it seemed. Indeed, the rise of the Intuitionists had seen much of the world industrialised faster than had been thought imaginable just a decade prior.

  Before long the London outskirts gave way entirely, first to rough wasteland and then to fields and dark forests, the crimson caste of the sky mellowing to a golden hue, almost dawn-like. The great airships that monitored the meteorological conditions of the burning sky were specks on the horizon behind them; the last perambulator passed by the coach, its range insufficient to take it further beyond the city limits. The driver of the ‘automobile’ waved to the stagecoach, as if Lillian, John and Selby were adventurers, taking the path less trodden into unknown territory.

  ‘Next stop, Godalming,’ John said. ‘Almost seems like a bit of a jaunt, eh? Wonder how Smythe’s getting on up north? And Sir Arthur, for that matter.’

  ‘Perfectly well, I’m sure,’ Lillian replied. Though in truth, she was not at all sure. Arthur had been retained by Sir Toby after their last meeting, and although she had sent him a note on Sunday morning inviting him to tea, he had not responded. The secrecy of the club made forming bonds of friendship inadvisable; any one of the thirty-two active field agents of Apollo Lycea could find themselves in deadly pursuits at the drop of a hat. John was right—their current assignment did seem like a jaunt, and she only hoped that, while she and her brother rattled through sleepy countryside, Sir Arthur Furnival was not in danger.

  Monday, 20th October

  FROGMORE HOUSE, LONDON

  Sir Arthur held back a respectable distance, though endeavouring to keep in stride, and earshot, of his estimable host. The Queen walked slowly through the gardens of Frogmore, towards the great ornamental lake, with Lo
rd Hardwick at her side. The old soldier was tall, straight of back and broad of shoulder, striding slowly with Her Majesty, hands folded behind his back. He stooped respectfully to bend his ear to the diminutive monarch, and spoke only when spoken to.

  To Arthur’s left, her presence felt even when it was not seen, walked Kate Fox, the royal adviser. The catalyst, or half of it, at least. The American was slender and fey; her dark eyes bore into the back of Arthur’s head when he was not looking at her—even, he fancied, when she was not looking at him either. And when he did turn to her, to show diligence or exchange some pleasantry, he was forced each time to look away hastily, lest the myriad crawling things that slid into his peripheral vision and surrounded the woman drive him to distraction. She was a conduit for spiritual energy, the mother of all Majestics, and she alone remained untouched by the persistent attentions of the Riftborn. Or, if not untouched, at least unharmed.

  ‘And you are sure, Lord Hardwick, that the Earl of Beaconsfield is agreeable to your plan?’ the Queen asked. ‘He was most agitated when last we spoke, and I could not sanction any course of action that the Earl did not support. As he would say, the people would not have it.’

  ‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ Marcus Hardwick replied, his demeanour more respectful than Arthur had ever seen. ‘I have apprised the Earl of Beaconsfield of the situation, and will meet with him later today.’

  ‘And you are sure it will work?’

  ‘I am afraid there are no certainties in this world any longer, ma’am. All I know is that what I saw in Alaska gives me hope. Hope that there is a way out of these times of darkness, and a brighter future ahead. My experiment will, one way or another, settle the matter.’

  ‘And this Intuitionist is the key to your experiments?’

  ‘Nikola Tesla is, they say, the greatest Intuitionist in the world. His grasp of electrical engineering and his theories about the use of Rift energy are unparalleled, especially in one so young. He has some… eccentricities… but I believe he represents our best chance of success.’