Falling to his knees in the snow, with his cloak splayed out across the ground like a shadow peeled from darkness, Quaint stared up at the stone mausoleum. It was still early morning, but the sky darkened quickly as he ran his fingertips over the words chiselled into the marble.
AUGUSTUS QUAINT ELIZABETH QUAINT
1776 – 1808 1781 – 1808
--.--
BELOVED PARENTS, DEARLY MISSED
MAY THEY REST IN HEAVEN’S EMBRACE
A lone tear followed one of the many lines of Quaint’s face down to the corner of his mouth and he tasted its sweetness with a smile. This was a surprise. He had not thought himself still capable of tears after all this time. As much as he had tried to forget all the bad memories that he had accrued throughout his life (in some cases going out of his way to avoid them) the pain of his biggest loss was always there. It never went away, never ceased. His only protection was to lock the memories, the feelings, away in a strongbox inside his mind. He had lived that way all of his life, treating things with either disdain or ambivalence. One thing or the other, hot or cold. He knew where he was with those feelings. He trusted himself. To those that did not know him well, he was a gruff, sometimes harsh man, with little in the way of a sense of humour and a permanent frown etched on his brow. But one thing that makes a good conjuror is the ability to put on an act. It was a familiar mask that he had pulled on years ago, until it had become so much more comfortable than his real face. But here, faced with a monument to his parents’ deaths, there was nowhere for him to hide and his emotions ran rampant.
He’d been but a boy when his parents had been taken from him, yet old enough to know the pain of his loss. Had it not been for his French governess, he would have crawled up into a ball and sobbed until the tears ran out. He wanted to retreat from the world; Destine had forced him to face his sorrow, shown him that the greatest tragedy would be if he allowed his grief to claim his life too. It was her guidance in those fragile years closest to his parents’ passing that had moulded Quaint into the man that he was, and that was partly the reason for the cloud of guilt hanging over his head, for he knew that if he was to redress the balance of his life, he would have no recourse but to go against everything she had ever taught him.
‘I pray that you can hear me for I am in desperate need of your counsel,’ Quaint whispered softly, clawing at the snow with his fingertips, bringing handfuls of it to his face, bewitched by the glints of light dancing across its surface. ‘Destine says that digging up the past always leads to pain, but how can I forget what I have learned? I have nowhere else to turn… no one else to turn to. So tell me… what must I do?’ Quaint stared up at the mausoleum, a silent witness to his pleas. ‘By the way, this is the part where you’re supposed to give me a sign. You know, a ghostly apparition, a lightning bolt striking the ground at my feet, a bright light in the sky – anything!’
The wait was agonising. Not that Quaint expected there to be any sort of response; he was far too level-headed for that, but even so, he waited with his eyes fixed on the mausoleum. He was staring so hard that white spots began to form before his eyes. He tried to blink them away, but then he realised that it was only light snowfall.
Except it was not.
It was snow… but it was not falling.
It hung in the air, defying gravity. Quaint rose to his feet slowly, marvelling at the sight. The snow was suspended all around him and as his fingers brushed against its flakes they gently drifted from his touch, colliding with each other in slow motion. He reached out, catching a passing snowflake in his hands. Something made him want to squeeze it, but something else made him want to tend it, to keep it alive as long as he could. But its life was fleeting. As he stared at it, it melted away to become a tiny pool of water in a blink of an eye. As it evaporated into a wisp of tiny diamonds upon the breeze, time seemed to catch up with itself. The snow fell suddenly to the ground in one great blanket of white, covering him completely.
‘Destine would have a field day with this,’ he said, wiping the snow from his shoulders. ‘She’d say that it was a metaphor for my life right now. Frozen in time. And I need to grab it quickly before it disappears. Yes. That’s exactly what she’d say.’ Quaint smiled at how easily he interpreted happenstance to suit his needs, which was a trait that frustrated Destine no end. ‘Father, you once told me that revenge was for weak men; a retaliatory action, born of the heart and not of the head, and so it is destined to fail. Well… I’ve waited over forty years and now my heart and my head are aligned. I know where he resides, your killer… and now I know what I must do.’
He adjusted his top hat, tightened his shoulders, and turned away from the mausoleum. His mind was set, his intentions clear.
‘Oh, and if either of you are on speaking terms with God, you might want to put a good word in for me. Something tells me I’m going to need all the help I can get.’
Several hours later, Quaint was onboard a steamship heading out into open waters with England at his back. Within a few days he would be in Civitavecchia, the largest port closest to Rome. From there, he knew little of what lay ahead, apart from the fact that this quest would take him deep into the city’s underbelly, thick within the shadows. His visit to the cemetery had done its job and his sense of purpose was renewed. He had everything he required to complete his task. Queen Victoria had supplied him with passage aboard one of the British fleet’s fastest steamships, the Victorious, one that he knew well, for it was the very same craft that had transported him on his journey to China. Familiarising himself with the ship’s layout again, he made his way towards the bridge, where the steamship’s captain was to be found. A broad-bulked moustachioed man in his late thirties looked up as Quaint entered.
‘Mr Quaint, sir. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’
‘Nor I, Captain Squire… but as a certain French companion of mine delights in reminding me, life is full of surprises.’
‘Yours especially, eh?’ said Squire.
‘Quite,’ said Quaint, the word speaking an entire lifetime.
‘You must have quite a pull with the palace is all I can say, sir. I got told to drop everything to pick you up like a glorified Hansom! What is it this time, might I ask? Another Chinaman giving you gip? Or is it some sort of messy business you’re not allowed to speak about?’
‘Actually, it’s some sort of messy business that I don’t want to speak about,’ said Quaint, unable to dismiss the edge to his voice.
‘Right you are then, sir. I get the picture,’ Captain Squire muttered, sharing a glance with his first mate. ‘Well, as long as the old girl’s engines keep pumping like they are, we’ll be in Italy in a few days. Your old cabin is already made up for you, and I thought you might want some privacy, so I’ve told the crew to keep their distance.’
‘Thank you for your hospitality, Captain.’ Quaint turned to exit the bridge, but something tugged at his conscience and he found himself lingering on the raised step.
‘Something wrong, sir?’ asked Squire.
‘Only my manners,’ admitted the conjuror. ‘I don’t wish to be so guarded, Captain, but this journey is not one that I’m taking by choice. We shall talk more once I’ve cleared my lungs of London’s soot.’ With that, the conjuror left the bridge, the snap of the door’s lock resounding like a gunshot.
Captain Squire turned to his first mate. ‘See?’
‘You weren’t wrong, sir,’ said the young man. ‘If he’s a circus magician then I’m Prince bloody Albert! Did you see those eyes of his? Black as pitch with the look of the Devil in ’em. You’d have to be a bloody madman to get on the wrong side of him!’
Chapter V
The Bloody Madman
Situated next to one of the busiest stretches of the Thames, Wapping had always been one of London’s seedier districts – even more so once the shawl of night was pulled tight around its bones. Not only did the place attract the dregs of humanity from the length and breadth of the river, it was al
so a haven for smugglers, thieves and those seeking to avoid the eyes of the law. The district was rife with criminal fraternities of varying ferocity, and their favoured establishment was a tavern named The Blue Boar.
The moonlight framed the silhouette of a rodent-like man as he teetered nervously on the front step. He forced each foot forwards, the sheer displeasure of this act evident on every inch of his greasy face. As he entered the dingy tavern, his small eyes darted left and right through the tobacco smoke, clear that he was looking for someone. Spotting a shadowed booth at the far end of the tavern, he found his target. As an operative of the Hades Consortium, Heinrich Nadir had done his fair share of business with despicable felons over the years – but the man seated in this particular booth paled the lot of them into shade. The scarred man cradled a dented pewter tankard of ale in a hand wrapped in fresh bandages following his treatment in the Limehouse surgery. In the dim light of the tavern he looked positively macabre – slicked black hair like the shell of a bullet, with a low brow shadowing his red-rimmed eyes. When he spoke, his voice was just as scarred as his face.
‘Bonsoir, mon ami,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Guten Abend, mein Freund,’ replied Nadir, his German accent sharpening the edges of every syllable. ‘I almost did not recognise you after your… accident.’
‘Accident?’ The scarred man waved his hand across his disfigured face. ‘I did not do this whilst shaving, you brainless fool! Cornelius Quaint did this! And speaking of which, you bring word of his whereabouts, I trust?’
‘Ja, I have the location,’ confirmed Nadir. ‘He is currently right here in London, at a train station called Grosvenor Park, not far from here.’
‘Excellent. Then I shall pay him a visit once our business is concluded.’
‘And about that…’ Nadir looked around the tavern shiftily. ‘I must say, it is extremely rare to meet another operative. Usually, our employers prefer us to operate alone.’
‘Usually,’ said the scarred man, ‘but I could hardly kill you otherwise, could I?’
Nadir took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Kill me?’
‘Lady Sirona herself has given me orders to silence you, Heinrich.’
‘For… for what reason?’
‘She didn’t say,’ replied the scarred man. ‘I didn’t ask.’
‘And… you intend t-to g-g-go through with it?’ stuttered Nadir.
The scarred man’s face was horrific enough, but when he smiled it went a few shades darker. ‘I endured a great deal of pain to become a far more efficient weapon for the Hades Consortium, so if there’s one thing about me that you can rely on,’ he took a swig of his tankard, splashing ale down his filthy clothes, ‘it’s that I always obey my orders.’
Heinrich Nadir fidgeted in his seat, glancing towards the tavern’s exit. The place was full of customers, perhaps there was a chance of escape. ‘But… you must have misunderstood Sirona’s instructions. I am a trusted employee, my record—’
‘Is not up for debate and neither are my orders.’ The scarred man smashed his bandaged fist down onto the table, shattering the wood into pieces as if he had just taken an axe to it. Tearing the remnants of tattered bandages from his fist, he clenched his mechanical fingers, listening to the gentle whirring of the cogs inside.
Heinrich Nadir stared open-mouthed at the metal hand. ‘Mein Gott, Renard!’
‘Shhh,’ hissed Antoine Renard, with a finger to his lips. ‘I’m supposed to be dead, remember?’ His hand darted from his side and onto the top of Nadir’s skull, pressing his metal fingers into the man’s cranium. The German’s eyeballs bulged in their sockets, bursting free as Renard squeezed harder, swaying from their nerve endings like pendulums on a grandfather clock. With one final squeeze, Nadir’s skull cracked open like a hen’s egg.
‘I must apologise for calling you brainless, Nadir… I see that I was mistaken,’ said Renard, inspecting his gauntlet. He could feel the machinery throbbing against his nerves and tendons, obeying his every command. Never before had he felt such power. And never before had he felt such a desire to use it. ‘It’s been a while, Cornelius… we’ve got so much catching up to do.’
Chapter VI
The Bad Penny
Unaware that his quarry had long since departed not just Grosvenor Park station but England itself, Renard made his way to a lane nestled between a wooden shack and a large warehouse. Giant wooden planks were stacked in piles outside the warehouse and, using them as steps, he clambered up onto an iron support structure. Finding a gap in the roof, his mechanical fingers prised the corrugated iron from its rusted bolts and he manoeuvred his way inside the building, finding himself at the top of a large scaffolding structure. Peering over the railings, he spotted a burned-out shell of an old guard’s van. Damaged by fire, thick black scars streaked across the roof. The smell of grease and oil filled the air and in the near distance he heard church bells.
Inside her quarters onboard the circus train, Madame Destine paused in her embroidery as she heard in the distance the bells of St Jude’s Cathedral announce the stroke of midnight. Hearing the latch on her door click, she did not even look up.
‘You took your time,’ she said. ‘Antoine.’
‘You don’t sound very pleased to see me, Mother,’ Renard said, closing the door behind him, pulling down the shutters, turning the key in the lock. ‘Nor in the least bit surprised, might I add.’
‘I could feel the raging beat of your poisoned heart a mile away,’ said Destine, coolly. ‘I always knew that one day you would return.’
‘Well, you know what they say about bad pennies.’ Renard grinned, walking towards Destine slowly, each footstep firmly planted to the floor. ‘But I’m here now… to finish what I began in Hyde Park. It’s such a shame that poison didn’t finish you off as I’d intended, though. Your white knight came to your rescue yet again, did he?’
‘Evading death seems to run in the family,’ Madame Destine said, twitching a smile – but only for a moment. She looked up at her son, now truly a monster in form as well as soul. ‘Your survival within the Whitehall Weir House did not come without its scars, I see.’
Renard’s eyes flared. ‘The outer package may be damaged, but the inner rage burns within my heart just the same, thank you for your concern.’
‘I do not look upon you with concern, Antoine… only pity.’
‘Save your pity for Cornelius,’ said Renard. ‘And speaking of the old man, I expected him to be here… in fact, I was counting on it. I’ve been looking forward to showing him my new toy.’ The Frenchman took a porcelain vase from Destine’s dresser and crushed it to dust within his metal grip. ‘I have orders to deliver him to the Hades Consortium and my time is short, so where is he?’
‘You have had a wasted trip, Antoine,’ replied Destine. ‘Cornelius is no longer here. In fact, by now he is not even in the country.’
‘You lie!’ Renard considered the words, tapping out a rhythm with his metal fingers against his jaw. ‘Or… perhaps not. I can see that sickening look of triumph on your face. So… he is on his way to Rome, no doubt?’
Destine gasped. ‘How could you know that?’
‘A lucky guess,’ said Renard. ‘Well, an informed one. My master is aware that Cornelius has taken an interest in him. He said this might happen.’
‘Your master?’ enquired Destine. ‘You refer to Remus?’
Renard clapped his hands – the flesh of one striking dully against the metal other. ‘Felicitations, mère, right first time! Though I do not know the whys and wherefores, I know that if Cornelius has made an enemy of the Baron, it is the last enemy he will ever make.’
Destine shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The clairvoyant had not foreseen this.
‘Remus knows about Cornelius’s quest?’ she asked. ‘That he seeks to learn why his father was murdered?’
‘An interesting choice of words, Mother,’ said Renard. ‘Your prophetic gifts are still functioning then, as are my
own. Though not as polished as yours, I admit. I can still sense things as you can – voices in my head, instincts as sharp as a razor’s blade – and my intuition tells me many things. What paths to take, what choices to make… and especially warnings of imminent betrayals.’ Renard’s expression hardened. ‘I always knew you had skeletons in your closet, but giants too?’
Destine’s head dropped. ‘You may as well come out, Prometheus.’
The wardrobe’s door creaked slowly open, and inside stood the bearded Irish strongman, cramped within the enclosed space, almost bent double.
Renard took a swift step closer to Destine and held his metal hand to her throat.
‘I advise against any sudden movements, ape-man, unless you wish her death on your conscience. Now, be a good dog and come on out… slowly.’
Prometheus ground his teeth as he stepped awkwardly out of the wardrobe. He looked to Destine. To his great surprise, the fortune-teller winked back at him… and then she pulled the embroidered shawl from her lap, revealing a pistol.
‘It seems that your intuition has failed you, my son,’ she said, thrusting the business end into Renard’s stomach.
‘Très bon, Mother,’ he congratulated. ‘So… the giant was merely a ruse for my prescient gifts to focus on, masking the gun from my perception, eh? I’ll have to remember that one.’ He took a step back, seemingly thrilled at the recent developments. ‘You have me. I submit. What will you do now, eh? Shoot me? I hardly think so. We both know that you are far too spineless to pull the trigger!’
The Romulus Equation Page 3