The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  ‘As long as we remain in motion,’ the prince added.

  ‘Indeed, sir. Tesla’s modifications are powered by gyroscopic devices within the wheelset. When we stop to allow the Knights Iscariot to embark, we should all be on our guard, for that is when we will be most vulnerable to a Majestic attack.’

  ‘Then how fortunate we are to have you aboard, Sir Arthur,’ said the prince.

  Lillian saw Arthur’s hand brush his left-hand jacket pocket, where she knew he often carried his etherium, and that made her tense. The use of the sinister drug could increase a Majestic’s powers tenfold, but the dangers—physical and otherwise—were myriad. Arthur had struggled with his dependence on etherium in the past, leaving him somewhat frail. Etherium provoked encounters with the Riftborn, and that could take a terrible toll on a Majestic’s sanity. She knew that Arthur would be cursing his failure to overcome Valayar Shah’s influence, and that might be enough to tempt him into injecting the fluid once again. She resolved to tackle him on the subject later, though those conversations had never previously gone well.

  Lillian withdrew into herself, wanting no more part of the social sparring with Collins, allowing instead he and the prince to talk of matters between themselves. It appeared to her that the prince was not being entirely forthcoming, which was perhaps fitting, given Arthur’s idea that the Knights Iscariot had friends in high places. Leopold was difficult to warm to, but her respect for the prince only grew as she listened to him. He seemed to trust Collins’ advice, but had no truck with the man’s acerbic and often impolitic jibes. Though he had as much as admitted that he might sign away part of the kingdom—if indeed he truly had the authority to do such a thing—Lillian read in his eyes resoluteness and pride. She felt certain that, if the Knights Iscariot overstepped the mark, Prince Leopold would be willing to go to war rather than appease them. She realised that the look she saw in his eyes was not dissimilar to the ‘Hardwick look’. If that was not enough cause for concern, she mused, then nothing was.

  * * *

  The delegation had been given some time to prepare as the train rattled through Nottinghamshire. Arthur sank back into his seat, letting the needle fall from his arm, exhaling slowly as time seemed to slow around him. Every sound became muffled—the gentle, rhythmic clunk of the wheels faded away into a distorted bubbling, as though Arthur had submerged his head in deep water. Or, more accurately, as though he had climbed back into the womb, warm and safe, with nothing but the distant echoes of the world beyond his limited scope. The sensation lasted longer than usual. At least, he thought it did. Tesla’s psychic defences held at bay the onrush of Riftborn visions that always fleetingly, horrifically, flooded his senses after each administration of raw etherium.

  Snip-crack; snip-crack; snip-crack your bones…

  He almost missed it. The pain, the voices, the moments of utter madness. It was penance—the price he had to pay for absorbing the hateful fluid that so many of his kind suffered to produce. The process should not be without discomfort, but this time it was. He wondered if this was what the dragon-chasers experienced when they injected opium. The warm embrace of oblivion.

  Still, it passed all too quickly. There was no euphoria, no nausea, nothing; Arthur Furnival felt only a thrumming inner strength, somewhere deep in his mind. He was prepared for the worst the world could throw at him now. Perhaps, when the train stopped and Tesla’s defences powered down, he would experience the terrors belatedly. Deep down, he hoped so.

  Once he had recovered, he picked up his tiny syringe—another innovation of the Intuitionists—cleaned it, refilled it, and put it away carefully beside a row of tiny phials in its small leather case. He rolled down his sleeve, put on his jacket, and placed the case in his jacket pocket.

  Arthur blinked hard, suddenly feeling cold and vulnerable as the gentle buzz of the etherium tuned out all around him, his senses returning as the numbing sensation of the drug left him. What remained was an acute awareness of his surroundings. He felt the air moving, as though his skin was conductive material in some Intuitionist laboratory, and energy flowed in and out of him as surely as his breath. He was aware of everything and everyone on the train, and all the space in between, and all the spaces between the spaces, in which invisible things lurked and slithered. He was safe, for now, but he could feel it all the same. He blinked again, dispelling the last of the iridescent shapes that floated and flashed before his eyes. The muffled sounds of the half-world he’d inhabited just moments earlier vanished with them, and the rhythmic sound of the rails returned sharply.

  Snip-crack; snip-crack.

  Though the light outside the carriage window still had its pinkish hue, the sun was almost certainly setting. His respite must have taken longer than the half-hour he’d allowed. Arthur checked his pocket-watch; it was nearly four o’clock. Outside, the landscape had changed once more—mills and refineries blotted the horizon. Quarries and warehouses slid past the carriage window, and numerous grey-stoned hovels huddled together in tiny villages, clinging to rugged hills against the inclement weather. He could see the cold sea beyond those hills, with dark rain rolling in off it ominously. They were almost at Hull, he was sure. Why hadn’t Lillian come knocking at his door? Embarrassed, he wondered if she had, and if so whether she had guessed what he was doing. Still, it mattered not—ultimately he had to be prepared for anything, even though Tesla’s inventions had reduced the risks.

  When Arthur eventually found Lillian, she was in conversation with Colonel Ewart, along with three members of the household guard. They were laughing when he entered; she was guffawing as though she were one of the soldiers. The laughter dried up almost instantly.

  ‘Sir Arthur,’ Ewart greeted him.

  ‘Colonel; Lillian.’ Arthur only nodded at the other men. One of them, whose name escaped him, stood apart from the others. Arthur recalled that the man had come off rather badly against Lillian during the previous day’s training—a turn of events that his comrades had likely not allowed him to live down.

  ‘Sir Arthur,’ Lillian said, with formality, ‘I was just telling Colonel Ewart about the rigours of psychic defence. We arrive at Hull in a quarter of an hour—I trust you are prepared?’

  Arthur doubted very much that psychic defence was what they’d been discussing, and the veiled chiding about his tardiness was not lost on him. Arthur half-wished his skill at telepathy was as pronounced as his psychometry, so he could ascertain what Lillian was really thinking.

  ‘My preparations are complete,’ he replied stiffly. ‘All being well, Colonel Ewart and his men shall be free to concentrate on our guests without fear of any fell influences.’

  ‘Aye. All being well,’ Ewart repeated. ‘If the situation turns ugly, mind, it’ll be this wee lassie I’d rather have wi’ us. No offence, Sir Arthur.’

  ‘None taken. But might I remind you that Agent Hardwick is the daughter of Lord Hardwick, and as such is surely unaccustomed to being called a “wee lassie”.’ Arthur had no idea why he was making an issue of the colonel’s manner—he certainly didn’t think Lillian needed rescuing. If anything, she appeared to be getting along famously with the Highlanders. Rather, he’d had the strangest buzz of intuition, and as a result had taken a dislike to Ewart most abruptly, when earlier he had thought the Scot earthy and dependable.

  Ewart held Arthur’s gaze for a moment, the smile playing on his lips suggesting he was somewhat amused at being challenged by such a slight fellow. Finally he turned and bowed to Lillian, and then to Arthur. ‘You are right, of course, sir. My lady, my humblest apologies for any offence. I am but a simple soldier, after all.’

  ‘No offence taken, Colonel,’ Lillian said.

  ‘Well, if ye don’t mind, we’ll take our leave. We must arm ourselves before we reach Hull.’ Ewart stepped towards Arthur, his men following him. He paused. ‘Be ready, Sir Arthur. I hear these beasties are full o’ surprises, even for one such as you.’ With that, and looking oddly pleased with himself, Ewart strod
e from the carriage, his men following.

  ‘Really, Arthur, you are such a stickler for etiquette. Was it really worth the quarrel?’ Lillian asked.

  ‘No… I mean, yes. There’s something not right, but I can’t place it. Damn Tesla’s wizardry: it has left me blind to my own intuition.’ Arthur was behaving irrationally, and he knew it. The etherium was coursing through his veins, heightening his sixth sense, and fighting almost painfully with the ‘Tesla field’ around the train. He had to get a grip—there were only minutes left before he would be the last line of psychic defence on board. He had dallied too long already.

  ‘Colonel Ewart is not your enemy, Arthur,’ she said gently. ‘There are malign influences at work, certainly, but they are without, not within.’

  ‘Are they?’ He said it without thinking. She looked unsure of her convictions, and Arthur gleaned a sudden sense that Lillian was not wholly free of the vampires’ grip; that thought chilled him to the bone. Lillian’s featured hardened.

  ‘The train is slowing,’ she said. ‘They’re here.’

  * * *

  The doors were opened onto a grey platform, preceding a blast of icy wind that caused Lillian to realise just how artificial the environment was aboard the train. The draught carried with it the smell of saltwater and smoke.

  The prince stood before the door, in dress uniform, with Sir Robert and Colonel Ewart beside him. Behind them stood the prince’s private secretary, and behind him Leopold’s valet and two of the household guard. Two other soldiers flanked the carriage door.

  Lillian, standing further along the corridor with Sir Arthur, leaned over to get a better look at the platform through the thick glass windows. The steam was clearing, and from its swaddling embrace loomed a huddle of black-clad figures. She knew Shah at once, even as an indistinct shape amidst the silver-white plumes, his towering yet skeletal form unmistakeable. She caught movement from the corner of her eye, and looked left along the platform to see three of the bald vampire bodyguards in their long black coats, sniffing the air alongside the train, squinting into the windows with sparkling eyes. When one drew level with her window, it stopped and stared directly at her, cocking its head to one side in contemplation. They resembled the squat ghouls in many respects, though these creatures were straight-backed, and a keen, malign intelligence lurked behind their eyes. Lillian stared back, willing the creature to understand her intent: she would kill it given half a chance.

  She heard voices, the exchange of formalities. The entourage of the Knights Iscariot were announced, though Lillian could not make out the names. A rolled document was passed to Colonel Ewart, who presented it in turn to the prince. And then a man stepped into the carriage, bowed his head, and shook the prince’s hand. He turned to look along the carriage aisle, to where Lillian and Sir Arthur stood, and she knew him at once.

  Lucien de Montfort.

  He was tall, though not strong of stature. His face was smooth and angular, white as driven snow, with a thin black beard. He wore a topper, a fine brocade suit of dark green and a black coachman’s cape. His eyes met hers for only a second, peering over tiny spectacles. For the briefest moment, trepidation washed over her, as though he had issued a threat aloud. She looked to her right and saw that Arthur had taken a step backwards; his head was lowered, but his eyes were fixed upon the foppish de Montfort. The blue veins at Arthur’s temples stood out; he was concentrating hard, to the exclusion of all else.

  De Montfort was shown into the next carriage, away from the agents of Apollo Lycea. Next came Shah and his lolling companion, then a burly human servant, with eyes even more vacant than the vampire woman. Finally, a single bald man stalked aboard, head jerking all about, a faint growl emitting from his throat. Apparently satisfied, the thing followed its master into the next carriage, and the soldiers closed the doors. No more of de Montfort’s party were admitted. As the prince and his own delegation followed their inhuman guests, a whistle sounded outside, and the train’s wheels squealed as it jolted forward.

  Lillian looked at Arthur, who breathed a sigh of relief, the colour returning to his cheeks.

  ‘Are you all right, Arthur?’ she asked.

  He nodded, somewhat gingerly. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us take our stations. The journey ahead is long, in more ways than one.’

  * * *

  ‘Father, tell me what to do,’ John demanded. He tried to stop himself from pacing back and forth across the drawing room, but was otherwise unable to mask his agitation. His mother sat in her usual chair, eyes red, pretending to concentrate on the cross-stitch that she had been fiddling with unconvincingly for the last half an hour.

  ‘There is nothing you can do, my boy,’ Marcus Hardwick replied. He stood with his back to the room, staring at the mantelpiece absently as the dying fire warmed his legs. ‘I have important work to see to that will leave me indisposed for some time. I cannot have you along. You are an agent of Apollo Lycea, and you have your orders.’

  ‘That’s just it, Father—my orders are to do nothing,’ John retorted. ‘Lillian is away in the north, in the lion’s den, and I am here, with no mission, and no way of knowing if—’ He stopped short, knowing that his mother was listening; knowing that her distress at her daughter’s absence consumed her. He was surprised that his father had not conducted this discussion in his office rather than here, where Dora could hear.

  Lord Hardwick took up the poker, and prodded life back into the coals.

  ‘When I spoke to Sir Toby, just an hour ago, we agreed that you should take some leave, John.’

  ‘Take some leave…’ John was exasperated. ‘And do what?’

  ‘Whatever you see fit,’ said his father. Lord Hardwick turned now, to face his son, locking eyes with him. ‘Sir Toby informs me that Agent Smythe has returned from Cheshire. Smythe shares your concern for your sister. Perhaps the two of you should… take that leave together. Neither of you are required for a few days. It would be well if you should make yourselves scarce for a while. If you take my meaning.’

  John could hardly hide his surprise—this was most out of character for his father. He wondered now if his mother had talked some sense into the old man. It would certainly explain her presence.

  ‘I understand completely,’ he said, studying his father’s face for any further hidden instructions, but finding none. ‘You may not hear from either of us for a short time.’

  ‘It will do you good to get away,’ Lord Hardwick said. ‘Find your own path.’

  ‘I will leave immediately,’ John replied. He was aware of his mother standing, and walking to him. She took his hands in hers, and he bent to receive her kiss.

  ‘God speed,’ she whispered.

  John stepped away, nodded a farewell to his parents. Shah had told him to stay away from the north, on pain of death. In that case, he reasoned, he had better call at the armoury first.

  * * *

  ‘You see now the extent of our grip on lands that were traditionally subject to the Crown,’ de Montfort said. ‘The Knights Iscariot are no longer a tiny sect, but rather a large, diverse line of politicians, businessmen, nobles and, dare I say it, warriors. We have made our home here, and our numbers are set to grow beyond imagining. And yet there has been none of the chaos and bloodshed that your advisers may have warned against. Through commerce and good governance we have brought peace and prosperity to the north.’

  ‘Peace at what cost?’ asked Leopold, wearily. They were going around in circles. ‘What of the liberty of the people? What of their choice in the matter of their governance?’

  ‘Of course, Your Royal Highness, if you feel so strongly about the future of your subjects, they will be given the choice to leave the north,’ de Montfort said.

  They had already spoken at length. The prince had stated his case most passionately, becoming more animated than Lillian believed possible of a member of the royal family. De Montfort remained, throughout, measured and immovable. At every turn he brought the discussion back
to the minutiae of his precious contract, refusing point-blank to be drawn on matters of morality and philosophy, willing to negotiate only over specific terms. The greatest source of disagreement was, naturally, the loyal subjects of the Crown who resided in the northern counties.

  ‘You make the north sound like little more than a townstead, whose people, only mildly inconvenienced, can relocate to the capital at the drop of a hat. The reality, Lord de Montfort, as I am sure you are aware, is that hundreds of thousands of poor people will be dispossessed. They will be forced from their homes—homes which are the only ones many of them have known for generations—and they shall become migrants in their own land, refugees.’

  ‘My dear prince, you speak of refugees as though we were at war, but there is no war. There is no threat. These people will be allowed to live as they have always done, albeit with some… adjustments.’

  ‘By adjustments,’ growled Sir Robert Collins, ‘you do of course mean that they shall be hunted across the moors like game before the hounds.’

  ‘Sir Robert, you insult our way of life—our very existence—with such a crass assertion,’ de Montfort said. ‘There will be nothing so vulgar as a hunt. As Sir Valayar stated when last you met, we will take our nourishment from willing volunteers, and servants of our order. The people who wish to remain in their homes shall do so unmolested, and under far greater protection than they would enjoy in London, whose rate of crime eclipses all the cities under our control combined.’

  ‘Under your control?’ Collins spluttered. ‘They are not under your control yet.’

  ‘Are they not? Who do you believe polices the north? Who controls trade? Who keeps the lands free of the taint of Riftborn?’

  ‘And who kills innocents in the north by unleashing an army of monsters upon the land?’ Collins retorted.