The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  Arthur strained his ears to listen to the conversation, giving only the most cursory replies to Miss Fox, who was making monotonous chit-chat. In fact, Miss Fox did not seem to be truly engaged in their conversation either, though Arthur was sure she was not eavesdropping on the Queen and Lord Hardwick like he was; no, it seemed to Sir Arthur that the dark-eyed woman’s mind was altogether elsewhere, and he did not like the thought of that at all.

  ‘I hope you are right, Lord Hardwick,’ the Queen went on. ‘It took a great personal favour from Emperor Alexander to secure Mr. Tesla’s release—and were it not for the Earl of Beaconsfield, the Russians may not be so well-disposed to us at all. They believe the young man in question to be a danger to all around him.’

  ‘Youthful exuberance, ma’am, I am reliably informed, nothing more,’ Hardwick replied. ‘Tesla has been granted incredible knowledge, undoubtedly by the grace of God, and such gifts in one so young have led to unfortunate accidents. In our facility he will be trained and kept in check, until his wisdom grows in accordance with his talents.’

  Queen Victoria nodded thoughtfully, and appeared satisfied with Hardwick’s answer. Arthur, however, was more troubled than before. He had not previously heard of Tesla being a dangerous man, and as far as he knew no mention of this fact had been made to anyone in the Order. Arthur wondered if Lillian was aware what she was getting herself into.

  ‘Who is Lillian?’ Kate Fox asked, her voice flat, its rhythm slow.

  Arthur cursed himself; between Miss Fox’s dreamy prattling and his own eavesdropping, he had lowered his guard, and his thoughts had been transmitted to the most gifted psychic in the world as surely as if he’d written her a note. And had he imagined it, but did Lord Hardwick’s ears prick up at the mention of his daughter’s name? By God, the man had the senses of a wolf. Had he not spent several years training within the secret service, Arthur might have blushed. As it was, he merely cleared his throat and said, ‘I’m sorry? Oh, a fellow agent—Lord Hardwick’s daughter, in fact. She and her brother are away presently.’

  ‘I cannot see her,’ Miss Fox replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to say.

  Arthur looked at her, and shuddered as he saw a strange, shadowy black tendril whip up from behind the woman’s back and coil around her pale throat. And yet, when he tried to focus on the thing, it was not there. It remained in his mind’s eye nonetheless, as did the fingers that probed about her dress, and reached across to tug at Arthur’s sleeve. He dismissed them at once, and set about building his mental defences more firmly this time. Soon he could not see the creatures at all, but he fancied he could hear a voice in the back of his mind.

  We shall take your woman and claw-gouge her eyes…

  ‘Tell me, Lord Hardwick,’ the Queen was saying, ‘what news from the north? I have received most disconcerting reports from my government.’

  ‘I cannot lie, ma’am, the situation appears less than satisfactory, though we do not yet have all the intelligence we require.’

  ‘I would normally hold you accountable for any lack of intelligence when it comes to England’s security, Lord Hardwick, but it appears on this occasion that even Miss Fox’s vision is clouded by the matter. Isn’t that so, Miss Fox?’ The Queen stopped and turned towards her adviser.

  ‘Forces are arrayed against us,’ Miss Fox replied in her dreamy, detached tone. ‘Whether they have shrouded themselves from me, or whether it is the Other’s doing, I cannot say. I see only shadow.’

  The Queen nodded, and began to walk again, everyone else following suit at once. ‘There is another, is there not, who has previously helped us when Miss Fox was sadly unable? One who intervened when my dear Albert was almost killed. Can you perhaps not consult with him again?’

  ‘Alas, ma’am, I am afraid that is quite impossible. That man has not been heard from for some time.’

  They’re talking of the Artist, Arthur thought, though he shielded those thoughts from Miss Fox, whose shadowy familiars squirmed in his peripheral vision in ever-growing numbers. How the celestial would be able to assist the Order in this matter when Kate Fox could not baffled Sir Arthur.

  ‘A pity,’ the Queen said. ‘So what are we to do, Lord Hardwick? I hear that our ships are being turned away from our own ports, and that our army is facing worldwide shortages as a result of closed munitions factories. Why, the Prime Minister has even advised us not to travel to our beloved Balmoral for the foreseeable future. Am I, the Queen, not safe in my own country? This will not do.’

  ‘Of course not, Your Majesty,’ said Lord Hardwick. ‘You will pleased to hear, I hope, that agents of Apollo Lycea are in the north as we speak, and I expect their first reports any time now. Once we have intelligence, we will act swiftly and decisively, you have my word.’

  ‘Lord Hardwick, your word has ever been sufficient. I will speak to the Earl of Beaconsfield and advise him most strongly to lend you support in this matter. But we must have results, and quickly.’

  Lord Hardwick bowed courteously. The Queen was impossible to read; Arthur wondered if he would be able to divine her true intent even if he were to use his powers. Of course, such a question was moot, especially given the presence of the formidable Miss Fox.

  The circular walk continued, with the Queen commenting further on the state of the north, and Lord Hardwick holding his cards firmly to his chest in the most cordial manner possible. When finally they reached the courtyard of the country residence, they were met by several servants of the royal household, and a small gig was brought about to take Sir Arthur and Lord Hardwick back along the drive. Their perambulator awaited them a mile down the lane, for Queen Victoria would not allow the machines within earshot of her beloved horses.

  ‘We were glad to meet you, Sir Arthur,’ said the Queen. ‘The Nightwatch has ever been a valuable jewel in the Empire’s crown.’

  ‘I… that is, I am not with the Nightwatch, Your Majesty,’ Arthur replied, with a glance towards Lord Hardwick’s impassive features.

  ‘Indeed? Then perhaps Lord Hardwick and Sir Toby have finally seen sense and afforded their Majestics a more central role in the Order.’

  ‘Sir Arthur’s talents have proved indispensable, ma’am,’ Lord Hardwick interjected.

  ‘He is a great seer,’ said Miss Fox. Her interruption would have been indecorous, but appeared to be greeted eagerly by the Queen. ‘The Other takes great interest in Sir Arthur Furnival, but I foresee that his end shall not come at the hands of the Riftborn. Sir Arthur is too canny an opponent for such a fate.’

  Lord Hardwick straightened. Arthur shuddered a little. He was not altogether certain he wanted to discuss the manner of his passing at all.

  ‘My lady is too kind,’ Sir Arthur said, and against his better judgement he took her—mercifully gloved—hand, and bowed. Though he was well guarded against involuntary visions or intrusions into his thoughts, there was an exchange of energy between them, like an electrical charge, and he heard Kate Fox’s voice clearly in his mind, though she did not speak aloud.

  Take care of your lady. A time will come when all that she is will depend upon you. And if you fail, the Other shall be waiting…

  Sir Arthur pulled his hand away, perhaps a little too sharply. No one else seemed to notice any form of exchange, but as Arthur looked up at Miss Fox’s dark eyes—rather sad eyes, he thought—he could have sworn he saw a whip-thin tendril of shadow unfurl itself from her throat, and retreat once again behind—or, rather, into—her back.

  * * *

  ‘May I speak freely, Lord Hardwick?’ Arthur asked when they were safely away in the growling automobile.

  ‘I suppose you will do so anyway.’

  It seems to me that I was brought along today for no better reason than to sweeten Her Majesty’s disposition.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lord Hardwick raised a bushy eyebrow.

  ‘Indeed. The Queen’s preoccupation with Majestics is well known. However, I resent being paraded before her, and not ju
st her, but Kate Fox. That woman’s powers are quite beyond my own—to associate too closely with her is to court… unintended consequences.’

  Lord Hardwick considered this.

  ‘I had presumed you were skilled enough to handle the matter,’ he said. ‘That is, after all, why Sir Toby spared you the rigours of the Nightwatch, is it not? You are right—in part at least. The matters I put to the Queen this afternoon were delicate ones, to say the least. And I confess I hoped that you’d provide some distraction to the Fox woman. You certainly succeeded on that score.’

  Sir Arthur frowned at that. What he had seen—what he had felt—had been most discomfiting.

  ‘I said you were partly right,’ Lord Hardwick continued. ‘There was one other reason I asked you along today.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Lord Hardwick leaned forward in his seat. Arthur heard the man’s leather glove squeaking as his fist clenched around his walking cane. His face was as stone, his stare intense—this was not the elder statesman, this was Britain’s war leader, until recently a decorated, serving soldier, forged in battle. He spoke to Sir Arthur plainly, in almost a growl, so there would be no mistaking his meaning.

  ‘I do not know if what I have heard in the upper clubrooms is true or not, but the fact that I have heard such things at all displeases me. It displeases me a great deal. I shall say this to you once, and only once, and I shall say it as one man to another, so that our rank and titles may not muddy the waters: stay the hell away from my daughter.’

  EXTRACT FROM THE DAILY NEWS

  7th September 1860—In a statement issued by the Palace, Queen Victoria has today publicly endorsed the growing Spiritualist movement, which has until recently been mostly confined to practices in the Americas. Her Majesty the Queen revealed that a recent telegram received from a leading Spiritualist figure, one Catherine Fox, accurately diagnosed a hitherto undetected medical condition of the Queen’s Consort, Prince Albert. Through further consultation with acolytes of Miss Fox, the Prince is said to be on the road to recovery from what could have been an otherwise fatal illness.

  The Queen has extended an invitation to Catherine Fox and her sister, Margaret, to visit England and hold the first Royal Spiritualist Society meeting at Buckingham Palace. Whether the invitation will be accepted remains to be seen, but there is already talk in Parliament of extending the freedom of the City of London to the two American sisters.

  EIGHT

  Lillian jumped awake as the coach jolted.

  ‘Back in the land of the living?’ John said. ‘You missed Godalming altogether.’

  ‘What? You should have woken me. Where are we?’ Lillian craned her neck to see out of the window.

  ‘Coming up on Havant. Last stop. I didn’t have the heart to wake you. You seemed to be having a nightmare again. Oh, don’t pretend—I’ve heard you calling out in your sleep the last couple of nights. Something troubles you.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she lied. ‘But we really must stop soon so I can make myself presentable.’

  John nodded. ‘Ten minutes at most. Selby hasn’t set a new record, but he’s come deuced close, I can tell you.’

  Lillian was cross with herself for nodding off, but troubled at yet another nightmare. She hoped she hadn’t been too fitful. Even now, she was possessed of a sense of dread, and when she closed her eyes she could see the creature that haunted her dreams; the creature with the pallid skin, sharp claws, and those shining, violet eyes that glittered like amethysts in twilight. She could hear the voice, too, whispering to her from some place far away. A place she knew and yet had never been.

  She shook her head, as if to shake away her own foolishness. At that, she realised John was looking at her curiously. She ignored him. If the nightmares became worse, she knew she should confide in her brother, though it crossed her mind that she might need a Majestic rather than a confidant.

  Presently, the coach left a wide, gritted track and began to rattle once more over cobbled roads, which proved enough to shake the last of the sleep from Lillian’s head. A minute later, they drew into the courtyard of a half-timbered inn called the Bear, and Lillian alighted without waiting for Selby to bring the step. It was late afternoon, and the inn looked fairly quiet.

  The sky was not clear, but it was also not as fierce as back in London, and Lillian took a breath of fresh air before heading into the inn to refresh herself.

  Less than half an hour later she was sitting in a cosy snug drinking strong coffee, earning a disapproving glance from the landlord’s wife, but caring little. A fire crackled low in the hearth. John sat opposite her in a comfortable armchair, stretching himself after being cooped up for so long.

  ‘The lad has just returned, sir, ma’am,’ the landlord said, poking his head around the timber frame of the snug. ‘Your carriage will be here in ten minutes, I reckon.’

  ‘Thank you, Denton,’ John replied. ‘I trust the settlement for your services is satisfactory.’

  ‘Aye sir, more than satisfactory. Your agency can always depend on us.’

  Apollo Lycea, under various guises, had safe-houses across the country, with staunch men and women from all walks of life ready at a moment’s notice to act as servants to the Order, knowing only that, in some small way at least, they served the Crown. For Denton, like so many others, that was enough. That, and the fact that the Order paid them well. Lillian wondered if the safe-houses in the north were still loyal to the Crown—whether such folk as Denton hid their allegiance from those who would oppose England’s authorities, or if they had been compromised by whatever forces were sweeping the land. She wanted nothing more than to head northwards to find out for herself.

  ‘I see our boys are in a spot of bother in Caboul,’ John said, rustling his newspaper.

  ‘Afghanistan… Father will be vexed, though I imagine it shall get worse until we can mend this situation with the munitions supplies.’

  ‘Yes, I rather suppose you’re right,’ John said, his brow furrowed. ‘Better finish our coffee. When the carriage gets here we’ll have to be off to the docks.’

  ‘I wonder if this Tesla fellow even speaks English,’ Lillian mused. ‘Could be an awkward journey back to London otherwise. My Russian is not up to scratch.’

  ‘A nam ponravilos, dear sis,’ John said with a wink.

  ‘My, you are full of surprises,’ Lillian replied, somewhat annoyed at her brother’s apparently fathomless skills.

  ‘If you knew where and why I’d picked it up, you wouldn’t be half so impressed. Now come along and finish your coffee. We have another carriage ride to look forward to, and then we’ll finally meet our mysterious charge.’

  * * *

  The great Russian ironclad that awaited them at Portsmouth’s naval docks was an imposing if outdated vessel; an oversized reminder of Imperial Russia’s fading glory, rusting, creaking, belching smoke and steam, and yet bristling with cannon and swarming with regimented sailors who laboured like clockwork men.

  The two sailors who flanked the Russian naval captain on the gangway were straight out of an adventure novel—striped shirts, cocked berets and near-identical square jaws and barrel-chests—standing to attention as though they alone represented the pride of the Imperial Navy. The captain himself, a stern-looking fellow named Novikov, returned John’s salute when the latter was introduced as a lieutenant. Novikov’s eyes did not so much as glance towards Lillian.

  A small party of Royal Marines stood with the two agents, eying up their Russian counterparts as a curiosity, for few soldiers and sailors from these two great nations had encountered one another during the uneasy peace that had followed the Awakening.

  Lillian wondered at first where Tesla was; there appeared to be no civilians present as John exchanged pleasantries. That was, until she observed a mass of unruly black hair poking out from behind one of the Russian marines, followed by a pale, gaunt face. It was a young man, barely twenty years of age if his wispy moustache was any indication, and now he
leaned most comically around the burly sailor, looking about twitchily like a newborn fawn. He eventually saw that Lillian alone was looking at him directly, and flinched back behind the sailor, who pretended not to notice he was playing mother doe. Slowly, the young man gathered himself and stepped out into the light, dusting his palms down the front of his ill-fitting suit jacket, and trying to act nonchalant. It was only then that Lillian saw his manacles.

  ‘If you will sign here, Lieutenant,’ Captain Novikov was saying, ‘and the consignment will be yours.’

  John took a hefty docket offered to him by the nearest Russian sailor. There were scores of pages of neat, printed text, which John looked at confusedly.

  ‘What is all this?’ he asked.

  ‘A formality. Do not worry about the details; they have been already agreed between our superiors.’

  Lillian spoke up at last. ‘Why is this man chained?’

  The Russian captain looked at her with an air of distaste. ‘Madam?’

  ‘Agent,’ she corrected. ‘Why is this man chained? I did not understand him to be a prisoner.’

  ‘Then perhaps you do not understand much about these… “Intuitionists”, you call them? He is chained for his own safety, and for the safety of my vessel.’

  He spoke to Lillian like a child or, worse, an inferior. She glared at him boldly, and without taking her eyes from his, said quietly to her brother, ‘Sign the papers, John, and let us take our leave. I should like to be back in the bosom of enlightenment before midnight.’

  John did not turn around, but Lillian saw from the tensing of his shoulders that she had put him in a predicament. Much as she regularly cursed the limitations of her sex in London society, she was thankful she wasn’t serving with the likes of Captain Novikov, who seemed only to acknowledge her under sufferance.