The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  ‘But there are still details to discuss, a great many details,’ the Home Secretary spluttered.

  ‘I will send a messenger to you tomorrow to discuss the formalities,’ said Shah. ‘I have only two stipulations, mere trifles, which Lord de Montfort has bade me communicate to you all. The first is that a certain agent of Apollo Lycea, one Lillian Hardwick, is to accompany the royal delegation. Lord de Montfort is eager to make her acquaintance. The second is that the good lady’s brother, one Lieutenant Hardwick, for transgressions made personally against my lord, is not to set foot in the north, on pain of death.’

  Lord Hardwick began to turn the colour of an angry bruise, and his large hands clenched into fists. Lillian was uncertain whether he was angry about her, or John, or both. More likely it was neither, and that he was apoplectic only because his family name had been drawn into this affair. Sir Toby, on the other hand, nodded grimly.

  ‘When do you expect you will be ready to greet His Royal Highness’s delegation?’ he asked.

  ‘Soon—three days hence.’

  ‘Three days… That gives us no time!’

  ‘Time? What time do you require, when the outcome is already assured? Gentleman—and lady,’ he said, glancing once more at Lillian, ‘I bid you good night. When next we meet, I trust it shall be as friends.’

  Lillian only scowled, an expression as etched upon her face as the vampire’s grin. With that, and with objections still being vocalised within the room, Shah took the hand of his strange companion, and turned away from the stunned dignitaries. Only when the doors had closed behind him did the true discussions begin. The formulation of a plan to topple the Knights Iscariot.

  ELEVEN

  Friday, 24th October

  THE ROYAL TRAIN, NEAR LEICESTER

  The royal train was seldom used, and when it was its movements were a closely guarded state secret. It was nine carriages long, each one gleaming black and adorned with discreet painted livery, appointed with fitting finery for the British monarchy. It was armed and armoured, from the indomitable war-engine to the triple-layered glass windows of the sleeping cars. The rearmost carriage held a garrison of ten soldiers drawn from the prince’s household guard, who made the total crew complement of the train—sans royalty—thirty-nine.

  From her private booth in the guest car, Lillian gazed through the reinforced window at the sky beyond, which was already paling to a hazy orange as they neared the Midlands. They were far from the largest conurbations, which attracted the baleful energies of the Rift. She mused on the fact that her father had kept her assignments largely domestic, especially since her ill-fated mission in Paris. She had spent more hours travelling these last few days than she had for the whole of the previous six months, confined as she had been to the Home Counties. Still, there were worse ways to travel—this was a world apart from the bumpy ride of Selby’s coach. The royal train was both mobile fortress and luxury hotel on rolling stock, forging through the blasted expanse of the countryside on rails cleared in advance of humble passenger and freight cars. It did not stop except by royal decree, and so they would rumble on for nearly two more hours until Hull, where the enemy delegation would come aboard. From there, the train would take the less-used lines along the east coast and across the North York Moors, travelling on to Edinburgh uninterrupted. This would give the Knights Iscariot more than four hours to make their case, by which time, Prince Leopold had ordered, the negotiations would be concluded for good or ill.

  The thought of it made Lillian’s skin crawl; these creatures, these murderers, were to treat with the prince. She scowled, and checked her weapons. A pistol was concealed within her dress, along with a belt of ammunition, both standard and etheric. A derringer was hidden up her right sleeve, a slender knife within her left boot. Only one gun was on show—a snub-nosed Webley at her breast holster, which she was not usually permitted to carry openly. ‘Unladylike, and liable to provoke trouble,’ her father had said. She checked herself in the mirror of her compartment once more, and tied up her hair into a chignon of sorts, slipping an eight-inch, razor-sharp hairpin into position to complete her arsenal. She had been commanded—more than once—to avoid confrontation with the northern delegates. But Lillian never went unprepared for any eventuality. Moreover, she never went unprepared for a fight.

  She looked at herself carefully in the mirror. Though she was weary, and troubled, she had managed to conceal it well—the rings beneath her eyes and the tired complexion were hidden at least as well as the weaponry she carried. But there was something more, something that all the powders and lotions in the world could not disguise. There was a shadow about her—she could almost see it coalescing around her reflection. Every mile the train travelled was accompanied by swelling fear in her breast and, more than that, a tingling sense of anticipation. She would meet de Montfort today. She felt she knew him intimately; that she would recognise him instantly. What she could not say, what she had not said, was that she was not wholly anxious about the meeting, but curious, and even a little thrilled. Lillian buried these feelings deep, for she thought they were not born of her own psyche, but of some residual suggestion placed within her mind by the Majestic.

  There came a soft knock at her door.

  ‘Enter.’ Lillian turned away from the mirror, confident that her array of deadly weapons was masterfully concealed. She almost looked the lady her mother wanted her to be.

  Arthur entered the carriage, took one look at her and said, ‘Really Lillian, we’re on a diplomatic mission. Must you really carry the weight of London’s ordnance on your person?’

  Lillian tried to stifle a laugh, and put her hand over her mouth.

  ‘You shouldn’t use your powers on your friends, Arthur,’ she said. ‘That is not very gentlemanly.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Arthur said. ‘I require no second sight to know your ways, Agent Hardwick—merely simple deduction. The only time you ever wear a bustle is to conceal a gun belt.’

  Lillian smiled, and stood to face him. ‘Then it’s for the good that our guests do not know me half so well as you.’ She reached out and straightened his cravat. ‘You really must learn to dress yourself without the aid of Jenkins.’

  In the confines of the compartment, they stood close. Lillian fancied Sir Arthur reddened a little around the collar.

  ‘I, um… I came to say that they’re serving tea in five minutes. I believe the prince will be joining us—be rude not to show.’

  Lillian held Arthur’s gaze for a second longer than was proper, before turning away. ‘I will be there shortly, thank you,’ she said.

  Sir Arthur nodded, hesitated, and then left.

  Lillian sighed. She chided herself for playing games—whatever was between her and Sir Arthur was in the past. A missed opportunity; a forgotten moment. If it were not for her father’s unwarranted rebuke, and her brother’s patronising warnings, then the past was where these feelings would remain. But as in all things, Lillian could not help but rebel. She often disliked herself for it. But she did it regardless.

  * * *

  ‘Not long now, chaps, and we’ll be in the north,’ the prince said, as the train clattered between the ironworks of the Erewash. ‘“The north”,’ he added. ‘Honestly, people talk about the bit of the kingdom north of the Humber as though it’s another country. It’s not like anyone’s thrown up a bally great wall or anything, eh?’

  Lillian sat taking tea with a group of gentlemen, who all seemed as comfortable in the train carriage as they would have been at Clarence House. The train was furnished with plush carpets, settees, mahogany tables and crystal chandeliers. It was warm, having none of the customary draughts that characterised normal passenger coaches. It smelled now of brewing tea, Turkish tobacco and warm buttered teacakes. Comforts of home that were singularly out of place given the nature of the mission.

  ‘The Knights Iscariot are little more than degenerates, Your Royal Highness, and impudent ones at that,’ said Sir Robert Collins. The man was n
ot much older than Sir Arthur, with prematurely greying hair, but he had already secured a position as comptroller of the prince’s household. He always seemed to know the right thing to say, except to Lillian, for whom he appeared to reserve only a casual sneer and disapproving glance. She had taken an instant dislike to the man, for it seemed that his quips and apparent wisdom were a thin veneer for the jingoism and conservatism within. There was nothing they could say about the Knights Iscariot that Collins would not dismiss with some jibe about the ‘whiff of the foreigner’ or the ‘half-witted scheme of the diseased imbecile’. Lillian hoped that, when the time arose, he would not so brazenly underestimate the enemy.

  ‘Quite,’ said the prince, reclining on a plush settee. ‘And yet, there’s already a strange feeling in the air, don’t you agree? It is like we have all been blind to the goings-on in the north, as though whatever strange spell the Valayar creature worked on us at the Apollonian has somehow been performed en masse, disguising the workings of the Knights Iscariot while they strengthened their position. What do you think, Sir Arthur? Could this be the work of a Majestic?’

  Arthur had not been expecting the question, and set down his teacup quickly, dabbing his small moustache with a napkin to afford himself a little thinking time. Even a baronet could not speak entirely freely in the presence of a prince.

  ‘It cannot be ruled out, Your Royal Highness,’ he said. ‘Although I would grant that one Majestic would be incapable of such a feat. Even the whole of the Nightwatch combined could not befuddle half the nation.’

  ‘Or so you believe,’ said Collins. ‘I mean, how would any of us know?’ He let out a thin laugh at his own joke, which everyone was impelled to copy when the prince laughed out loud. ‘If it is not Majestics at work,’ Collins asked, addressing the whole carriage even though his question was clearly intended for Arthur, ‘then what? Some devilish power born of the Rift? The hypnotic gaze of the legendary “vampires”.’ He chuckled again. Arthur was about to answer, but Lillian stepped in first.

  ‘We have no evidence that they possess any such powers,’ she said. ‘In fact, I would say it is more likely that they have friends in high places, who have helped obfuscate their plot.’

  Collins stared at Lillian as though a servant had just addressed him unbidden. ‘Friends in high places? You mean, in government?’

  Lillian ignored Arthur’s imploring expression, and took the bait. ‘Who else could exert sufficient influence?’ she asked. ‘We have evidence that this Lord de Montfort has visited London on—’

  ‘My dear lady,’ said Collins, raising his voice to cut her short, ‘you venture dangerously into the realm of politics, a subject that no woman other than Her Majesty the Queen has ever sufficiently grasped. To have such self-destructive corruption within the hallowed chambers of Whitehall would be unthinkable, leaving it the least likely of the options we have discussed. Now, humour me… I understand that your father has given you a position within Apollo Lycea, but why would you feel qualified to make such assumptions about these Knights Iscariot?’

  All eyes were on her now—the prince, Arthur, Collins, the two diplomats, the three guards at the door, even the servants.

  ‘Because,’ she said, allowing her indignation to grant her courage, ‘I have killed more of them than any man on this train.’

  There was silence. A brief glower crossed Collins’ features, but he had no time for further witticisms at Lillian’s expense before the prince clapped his hands together slowly.

  ‘Bravo, madam, bravo!’ he said. ‘Killed more of ’em than any man here, you see, Collins? The lady is as fearless as she is pretty. If we indeed have a modern woman in our midst, then we must be modern men also, eh?’

  Collins cleared his throat and nodded. ‘Quite so, sir,’ he said. ‘I would say that Agent Hardwick is a rose amongst thorns, but it appears she is thornier than any of us.’

  Leopold laughed at that, too. Lillian forced a smile. The conversation had made her the centre of attention, for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘I am sure we will find out more than we need to about the Knights Iscariot shortly,’ said Arthur, gallantly intervening. ‘And should things turn sour, we should all be glad of Agent Hardwick’s particular expertise.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said the prince. ‘Although I should hope the guards will prove capable. Isn’t that right, Colonel Ewart?’

  The large Scotsman, who had remained thus far silent, now set down his own tea, the bone china cup looking comically tiny in his broad hands. ‘My men are prepared for any eventually, sir, although if our job is done correctly there’ll be nae need of hostilities.’

  ‘Spoken like a true soldier,’ remarked Collins, shooting another glance at Lillian.

  ‘Allow me to be candid, Agent Hardwick,’ the prince said, the mirth draining from him instantly. Lillian nodded, for she was unaccustomed to dealing with royalty, and the company made her even more uncomfortable than the formal attire. ‘You said you have fought these creatures before, and you have my sympathies. It is with deep regret that any brute should lay hands—or claws, or teeth, or whatever they possess—upon a lady, and one so young.’ Lillian felt herself blushing. It was ridiculous—Prince Leopold was not far her senior. ‘Know this,’ he continued, ‘it would give me no greater pleasure than to see the Knights Iscariot hung for treason, to exact revenge on them for the wrongs they have done you, and have done to others under the Queen’s rule. Colonel Ewart has been fully briefed on effective combat measures against the Knights Iscariot and their pets, and I would dearly love to set him loose on them. However, I must advise caution. In less than an hour we will be joined by their representatives, and I am honour-bound to treat with them peacefully, and reach an accord if at all possible. Our personal feelings must be set aside for the good of the nation, don’t you agree?’

  Lillian had the unpleasant feeling that word of her reputation, such as it was, had reached the prince’s ears. Or perhaps he was merely referencing her part in the unpleasantness with Shah. Was this a warning for her to keep a level head? If anyone else had said it, she would have fought her corner tooth and nail, but from Prince Leopold? It was a battle she would not take on. And so she nodded, and said merely, ‘Your Royal Highness is correct, of course. Sir Arthur and I are here as representatives of the Order, not as soldiers.’ She picked up her cup as casually as she could, and took a delicate sip of tea before presenting her comeliest smile to the prince, just as her old nanny had taught her many years previous, before being driven to her wits’ end by Lillian’s tomboyish ways. The prince returned her smile and nodded approvingly.

  ‘What I can’t stand,’ said Collins, changing the subject, ‘is all this skulking about in the dark. By the time we reach Hull, evening will be upon us. Is it true then, what they say about the bastards being vulnerable to sunlight?’

  ‘Please, Sir Robert,’ said the prince, ‘remember that there is a lady present.’

  ‘Of course, sir, I was… forgetting. Sir Arthur, you will know more of this I’m sure—can sunlight kill the creatures?’

  ‘I am afraid we don’t know for certain,’ Arthur said. ‘Lord Cherleten is the foremost expert on the Knights Iscariot, and his knowledge is limited to hearsay and snatches of old texts. The arrival of Tesla has increased our knowledge dramatically, but there are still unknowns. To answer directly, we believe that sunlight merely hurts their eyes—perhaps even blinds them—just as it would a nocturnal creature. Beyond that we do not know.’

  ‘It seems Apollo Lycea knows very little about the greatest threat that ever has been to our national security,’ Collins said.

  ‘Forgive me, Sir Robert, but we do have some knowledge of the vampires’ vulnerabilities,’ Lillian intervened, ‘as Colonel Ewart can attest.’

  ‘Ah, yes—fire and electricity, isn’t that so, Colonel?’

  ‘It is, sir, yes,’ replied the colonel, looking awkward in such estimable company. Lillian had spent much of the previous day in the company of
Ewart, his men, Cherleten and Tesla, going over the known methods of killing the pale creatures that accompanied the Knights Iscariot—creatures that the Highlanders had dubbed ‘gaunts’ upon seeing one of the corpses laid out on a dead-room slab. ‘The surest way of killing them, though, is tae strike them in the heed, firm and sharp. Or stab them through the brain wi’ a long blade, as the lady has done herself.’ He nodded acknowledgement to Lillian. ‘There’s nae mistake then.’

  Lillian had gained the impression yesterday that Ewart was embarrassed by his countrymen’s stance on the Knights Iscariot. Half of his regiment was still north of the border, where it seemed they would remain even if civil war broke out across England. Ewart and his battalion, however, were stationed in London, where they were assigned to ceremonial duties as guards of the Tower and royal residences. Ewart was not an officer born—he had risen through the ranks, and Lillian was touched by his humble attitude and his great shame that his regiment would not heed the Queen’s call to arms if required. Lillian had wondered what had become of the royalty who resided in Scotland; were they attempting to sway public opinion against the Knights Iscariot, or were they sheltering within their palace walls for fear of reprisal?

  ‘We may ever depend upon the colonel for a colourful description,’ said Collins.

  ‘Let us hope such action is not called for today,’ said the prince. ‘Although,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘I am certain there is no man more suited for the task of “striking heads” than Colonel Ewart.’

  ‘It all depends, one supposes, on whether all of the Knights Iscariot possess the hypnotic abilities that we witnessed at the Apollonian,’ said Collins. ‘I mean, are our defences sufficient to prevent them from toying with our minds?’

  ‘Cherleten assures me so,’ said the prince, ‘and I trust his expertise, as should you.’

  ‘Sir.’ Collins nodded.

  ‘Our man Tesla has worked wonders on the royal train,’ offered Arthur. ‘The etheric defences have had their efficacy increased tenfold. I have tested these defences myself—my own humble abilities have been dulled almost to mundanity. Within the confines of the train, we are protected from any psychic intrusion.’