The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  Lillian marched unhindered through the marble hall, between the great classical pillars, past the sweeping staircase, and through to the banqueting hall, which was now transformed into an emergency meeting room. John and Sir Arthur gravitated to her at once, doubtless to shepherd her out of sight of the illustrious gathering at the far end of the room. No one seemed to notice her arrival, not even her father.

  ‘Are you quite sure you should be here, Lillian?’ asked Arthur, his voice low. She responded with her best withering look, which she had practised often on men who questioned her abilities or her right to do as she pleased. It had lost some of its efficacy on Arthur over the last couple of years, true enough, but it had the desired effect now.

  ‘Look here, sis,’ John said, ‘I for one think you’re as much a part of this as anyone—we both do, isn’t that right, Sir Arthur? I heard Old Toby say as much earlier, and that’s good enough. I’ve had a word with the Nightwatch’s handlers, to make sure there are no… ah… interferences with your faculties, you understand.’

  Lillian turned her look to her brother, and intensified her withering glare somewhat. John fumbled. Lillian was pleased.

  ‘Oh come now, I was doing you a favour. If there is a risk, it’d be a deuced bad time for it to manifest, don’t you think, with the bloody prince here and all.’ The thought had not really occurred to her, but now Lillian peered over John’s shoulder and saw indeed that, at the end of the room, Prince Leopold stood with her father, Sir Toby, and several advisers and other men whom she did not recognise. She sighed and nodded acceptance. John looked relieved, and went on, ‘The Nightwatch can keep a lid on all of that, leaving us to focus on what’s important. When this diplomat fellow arrives, we are to meet him at the door and escort him in. We take positions near the prince and our people and make sure there’s no funny business. Just stick by us, and no one shall question your presence.’

  For a moment, Lillian dropped her guard, for she realised that these two men were her only friends in this place; possibly her only friends anywhere. ‘Thank you,’ she said at last. ‘Both of you.’

  John kissed her on the cheek. Arthur managed the first smile she had seen from him all day. Perhaps, she mused, she should show a little gratitude to them more often if the effect was so telling.

  * * *

  By ten minutes to midnight, the guards within the club were visibly on edge. Other than John, none of them had ever seen a member of the Knights Iscariot up close, and the guards did not know what to expect. Lillian only hoped that the emissary would not be accompanied by any of their foul, cadaverous monsters. It seemed unlikely that they would sully proceedings by bringing along those hideous ghouls, but who could know for sure? John had said that de Montfort had exercised some control over the creatures back in Hyde, so perhaps they could be tamed. The thought of Hyde made her uncomfortable, for she still did not know if Beauchamp Smythe was safe. She told herself that she did not care overmuch, but she had said some unkind things about the surgeon the other night, and when she had believed his head to be in the mysterious package she had regretted them. Most of them, at least—the man was still unbearable.

  John had gone to the door to check for any signs of the visitors. Before he even turned back, Arthur, standing beside Lillian near the rear of the hall, said, ‘They are coming.’

  Lillian was thankful that she sensed nothing. She had not voiced this concern to anyone, but secretly she feared that if de Montfort was near, she would feel his insidious influence in the back of her mind. She was certain it was de Montfort, even though they had never met. A fragmented picture of the mysterious Majestic had started to coalesce in her mind, piece by piece. Though she was afraid of what might happen should they ever meet, part of her relished the chance to purge him from her thoughts once and for all; to kill him. If the diplomatic talks went badly, she might yet get her chance.

  John entered through the front doors and strode down the hall towards her.

  ‘There’s movement outside—a right royal entourage by the looks of it, arriving in three growlers. Bloody heraldic seals on the sides; of all the arrogance.’

  ‘Well, their leader is apparently a lord,’ said Arthur. ‘It stands to reason they have some station.’

  ‘If what Cherleten says is true, they aren’t even human,’ said John. ‘Besides, so far as I can tell, Lord de Montfort is using a defunct title. I doubt there’s any nobility in him.’

  Arthur shrugged. Lillian was glad to see her brother so agitated—he clearly had a score to settle.

  Two minutes past midnight. The doors of the Apollonian Club swung open. Lillian realised she was holding her breath, and felt at once foolish. Releasing it, however, gave rise to a fluttering in the pit of her stomach.

  Four men entered the marble hall, very much human as far as Lillian could tell. They took up positions briskly, standing at either side of the door. They were dressed as footmen, in full livery, but all four were large men with a slack look about their features that set Lillian in mind of the poor coachman they had encountered the previous night. The men all had rough-shaven heads, with visible scars beneath their stubbled scalps. What had been done to them?

  Lillian had little time to muse on that, as four other men entered, this time fanning out into the hall in regimented fashion. These four were certainly not human, and the club servants and even several agents shuffled away from them instinctively. All four were clad head to toe in black, smart suits and ruffs of a somewhat antiquated style visible beneath long coachman’s cloaks. Their movements were unnatural, jerky, their limbs sharp and angular; sparkling violet eyes set within deep, hollow sockets scanned every face, peering into every corner. Their strange, snub noses sniffed the air as if the creatures were wolves hunting prey. They were completely bald, and their skin pale as alabaster. Their jaws were overlarge and curiously scarred, but they were not as deformed as the monsters Lillian had previously encountered; indeed, something in their eyes betrayed a keen intelligence, though they appeared almost ape-like in aspect. These were surely the masters of those degenerate beasts—kindred, perhaps, but a breed apart.

  Lillian felt her grip tighten around the handle of the derringer, which was tucked into the holster at the small of her back. One of the creatures turned to her at once, as if sensing her aggression. Its nose wrinkled in something like a snarl, head cocking to one side as it examined her. She released the pistol at once, and the creature’s face smoothed instantly into something almost human, and it nodded to her in acknowledgement.

  A loud tapping sound came from the covered portico beyond the doors. And into the hallowed halls of the Apollonian came the emissary of the Knights Iscariot, tapping his steel-tipped cane on the marble.

  ‘It’s not de Montfort,’ John muttered into Lillian’s ear. But she already knew that.

  The creature before them looked as though it had walked straight from another time. It was a man, ostensibly, whip-thin and tall, with a grin etched on his pallid face that was almost too wide, too grotesque, and somehow too perfect all at once. He was dressed in a fashion a hundred years out of date, as though he was en route to a Venetian masquerade. His velvet raiment was the colour of claret, with accents of ruffled black lace. He swept a long cloak from his shoulders and handed it to a trembling club servant, followed by his stovepipe hat, revealing a powdered wig atop a powdered face, which looked as ridiculous as it did anachronistic. The hideous grin did not fade as he looked about the hall, eyes hidden behind small, dark spectacles, but unmistakeably fixing upon each assembled face with deep scrutiny.

  Behind this man was a woman; demure, small, timid. She too was bedecked in Georgian fashion, but there was no flamboyance about her. Her violet eyes had no sparkle. Her expression was tired, her bearing laggard. Where the male was proud, grotesque and garish, this creature was lolling, awkward, her features lumpen, as though beneath the powder and wig lay some great deformity. Like nothing else Lillian had ever witnessed, from Riftborn to the bestial serv
ants, these two creatures frightened her.

  ‘The Right Honourable Sir Valayar Shah, Prince-in-exile of Ahmednagar, Knight of the Ancient Order Iscariot!’ The declaration was abrupt, and loud; it came from one of the human serfs who had entered first, and the baritone announcement—too eloquently delivered for the look of the man—reverberated around the hall.

  Lillian looked again at the grinning ‘prince’, and frowned. He was announced as ‘Right Honourable’, but he was certainly no privy councillor, no peer deserving of the honorific. Now his title and rather exotic name had been revealed, however, she realised there was something of the colonies about his features, even though his skin was white as a moonlit sail. Whatever race of men that he claimed his brethren, however, was irrelevant. He was not human.

  ‘A prince, no less,’ John whispered. ‘I believe that is our cue.’ He stepped towards the centre of the hall, Sir Arthur beside him. Lillian, as they had planned, stayed close. The eyes of the four bald creatures fell upon them as they approached their master. This close to the emissary, Lillian was greeted by a sickly smell, the pungent odour of dried flowers left to hang for far too long, of embalming fluid and strong cologne. She stopped a pace short of him as her senses were assailed.

  ‘Sir… um… Valayar,’ John said, meeting the creature’s gaze. Lillian knew her brother was far too professional to be fumbling about his words, and his memory far too keen. He was being subtly disrespectful, and Lillian loved him for it. ‘Welcome to the Apollonian Club. I am your liaison officer, Lieutenant Hardwick of Apollo Lycea, at your service.’

  ‘We know who you are,’ said Valayar Shah, his voice as thick as a desert wind. He was a full head taller than John, though much thinner, and looked down upon the agent with that rigor-mortis grin almost unmoving. Lillian could barely keep her eyes from it; those teeth that looked too large and white to be real, and dozens of tiny cuts and scars across Shah’s face, covered by make-up, as though his visage was nothing but a carnival mask. In fact, she had the disturbing impression that his smile was carved into his flesh, and could not be relaxed even if he wished it. ‘We know this one, too,’ the emissary continued, looking directly at Lillian. ‘My dear lady, Lord de Montfort sends his regards, and wishes me to convey his great disappointment that he is unable to make your acquaintance at this time.’

  ‘The regret is mine,’ Lillian said, her words dripping venom. She managed a small curtsey all the same. Shah’s eyes lingered upon her for a second longer than was polite, before turning to Arthur.

  ‘Ah… the free Majestic, the great novelty of Apollo Lycea. Sir Arthur Furnival, is it not?’

  Arthur nodded. Lillian saw that Arthur had taken as much of a dislike to this creature as she had. The look in his eyes suggested that he was studying Shah for signs of weakness; perhaps, she thought, he had taken offence on her part. For once she was glad of it.

  ‘Sir Valayar, our delegation is gathered just through here, as per your request,’ John said, indicating the double doors at the back of the hall. ‘Let us not keep them waiting.’

  Shah bowed low, but his eyes were, at all times, upon Lillian. Lascivious. Impertinent. Threatening. When he straightened, he stepped past John, following the line of his extended arm towards the doors, which were also flanked by club guards. Shah curled a beckoning finger nonchalantly behind him, signalling for the strange woman to follow, which she did at once, tottering unsteadily, her vacant stare suggesting she was in some fug, either of intoxicants or mere mental deficiency. The other members of Shah’s entourage remained where they were, the bald creatures as one staring coldly at Lillian and her two companions. She had half hoped they would try to enter with their master, for she already relished the thought of pitting herself against them, but it was not to be. The creatures would be confined in the great hall, and would remain there, if they knew what was good for them.

  * * *

  Lillian took up a position at the side of the room, next to Arthur, ignoring the look her father gave her when he finally noticed that she had prised her way into the meeting. She expected to face his ire later, but for now she would say nothing, as would he. Agents of the Crown and royal guards lined the room. No chances would be taken this evening, and it dawned on Lillian that, as far as her father was concerned, she represented as great a security risk as Shah, given Mr. Tesla’s assertions.

  John announced Valayar Shah, who bowed to his hosts and took a seat at one end of the long table, his attendant—or whatever she was—standing beside his chair. The men at the other end of the table were introduced in turn: Lord Hardwick, Lord Cherleten and Sir Toby; Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Edmund Henderson of the Metropolitan Police; General Askwith of the British Army; the Right Honourable Richard Cross, Home Secretary; and last of all, seated at the head of the table upon an ornate chair reserved for state visits, Prince Leopold. The prince was a young man in his middle twenties, with a thin, pale face and small, neat moustaches. He had dressed for the occasion in ceremonial garb and, despite his tender years and diminutive stature, looked every inch the noble. It was not the prince, however, who opened proceedings, nor even Lillian’s father, but Sir Toby Fitzwilliam. He was commander of Apollo Lycea, and this was his territory; just as a ship’s captain would brook no challenge aboard his own vessel, Sir Toby would not relinquish control.

  Not even to a privateer, Lillian thought, glancing at Lord Cherleten.

  ‘We bid welcome to Sir Valayar of the Knights Iscariot,’ Sir Toby said, standing. ‘Every courtesy under the conditions of parley will be extended on this night, but the noble emissary must be under no illusion—the actions of his order thus far have not endeared them to us. Indeed, today’s “gift”, sent by a certain Lord de Montfort, constitutes the latest in a long line of criminal acts committed or endorsed by the Knights Iscariot. We may have agreed to Lord de Montfort’s conditions, but tonight’s talks will involve a discussion of reparations for his actions. That is our condition.’

  Shah stood, gathering his full height and tilting his hideous, grinning skull-like head to Sir Toby. ‘The honourable gentlemen is right to be angry, of course; but be aware that I am not a representative of any individual, but of a species with its own royal line, its own government and, we hope, its own sovereign state.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Sir Toby dropped the cordial tone and furrowed his imposing brow.

  ‘Surely you understand the nature of the Knights Iscariot by now?’ Shah said. ‘By the laws of men, indeed you may believe our people have transgressed against you. But we are not men, sir. We are something else entirely. For too long now—centuries, in fact—we have hidden in the shadows, our purpose at times intersecting with nations of men, either fortuitously or by design. But for the most part we have stood alone, looking inwards to protect ourselves from a world that could never understand us, and never accept us. But with the rise of the Riftborn and the thinning of the veil, we have spied an opportunity to end our long, self-imposed separation. It is men who have brought about this calamity, and men who fail to control it. And so it falls to us to act. The time for hiding is at an end. We seek a truce, and a place in this great empire of yours. We seek nothing more than a home, and in return we shall place at your disposal all our great esoteric knowledge, which will assist you in combating the growing terrors of the Rift. When presented thus, does not the desire for retribution against my Lord de Montfort seem… petty?’

  His voice was lilting, soothing. Only when he had finished speaking did Lillian realise that Shah had left his position, and had moved half a dozen places along the table, so that he was now close to her. No guards had moved to stop him. At the same moment she realised this, the other agents also tensed, as if nodding awake from a dream. Shah spread out his palms in a gesture of apology, his smile doing nothing to assuage their fears; the smile lingered again on Lillian, Shah’s dazzling eyes fixing on her over the brim of his spectacles even as he turned away. As Shah retreated back to his seat, his movements fluid and elegant, Lillian
looked about the room to see that only one man had reacted during the emissary’s entreaty. Lord Cherleten was not in his seat, but was standing near the head of the table to Prince Leopold’s left, where he would have been able to intercept Shah had the emissary attempted any misdeed.

  Lillian breathed easy. More than that, she saw Cherleten in a different light all at once. He’d had presence of mind enough—or perhaps even some trickery from the armoury—to shake off the almost soporific influence of Shah’s sing-song tones and uncanny will, and Cherleten had used that composure to put himself in harm’s way to defend the prince. Lillian found that admirable, if not reassuring; he was, after all, a greying man of middle years, with not half the formidable military training of her father or Sir Toby.

  And it was Sir Toby who spoke next, choosing, Lillian thought, to ignore whatever odd experience they had all just shared.

  ‘Sir Valayar, you seek to move the discussion from what you call “petty” matters to one of global import. Under normal circumstances, with a normal guest, I would applaud your audacity and perhaps approve of the sentiment. But in this matter I—and, I imagine, all of those fine gentlemen assembled here—find it hard to overlook the criminal acts to which you allude. Accusations of murder fall at your door—at the door of Lord de Montfort, whose title, I might add, the honourable House of Lords does not recognise. The death of at least one servant of the Crown preceded your arrival, the admission of guilt signed by de Montfort himself. And lastly, but most certainly of greatest consequence, there is the matter of the nature of the Knights Iscariot. Yes, we do indeed understand your “nature”, if it can be called natural at all. And as we understand it, your kind is sustained only by the blood of the living—specifically, the blood of human beings.’