Not Donatien’s SAE, of course. He found the thought of torture incredibly arousing, which was one of the reasons he had agreed to become an Inquisitor in the first place. If ever there was a man whose work was his pleasure it was Father Donatien. He just had to stay alive long enough to enjoy these dark pleasures, and being late for an audience with Robespierre was not conducive to attaining old age.
Donatien almost ran across the square, and as he ran he tried to ignore the looming presence of the guillotine standing to one side of it, and the foul stench of decaying Solidified Astral Ether coming from the severed heads standing on pikes decorating it. How many ‘enemies of the Revolution and of the Rapprochement with the ForthRight’ had Robespierre sent to their doom here – a thousand? Two thousand? Three thousand? All he really cared about was not making it three thousand and one.
He arrived at the Hôtel de Ville, sweating and panting, with just minutes to spare, though the GrandHarms guarding access to the place were as aggravatingly fastidious as ever. But finally, ten minutes after he had first presented himself, Donatien was brought to a halt outside a door guarded by a uniformed member of the Special Corps of GrandHarms, a brute who searched him in the most impolite and personal manner.
Satisfied that Donatien wasn’t carrying anything ‘offensive’, the GrandHarm knocked, and, receiving the command ‘Enter,’ announced in a loud voice, ‘CitiZen Father Donatien, Chief Inquisitor, to meet with His Excellency, Senior CitiZen Maximilien Robespierre, Head of the Committee for Public Safety.’
As he stepped past the oak door, Donatien frowned. It appeared that the GrandHarm had made the announcement to an empty room. Standing, marooned, in that vast and seemingly deserted office, he shivered: the room was icy cold, and this despite a huge fire roaring in the hearth. Donatien wasn’t surprised. It was a peculiarity of Dark Charismatics that had intrigued him ever since Robespierre had been unmasked as one of these mysterious creatures by Sister Florence: they seemed to suck the heat from any room they were in. Enter a room occupied by a Dark Charismatic, even during the hottest day of Summer, and the room would feel chilly. This phenomenon had led Donatien to the very unscientific conclusion that the inherent power of Dark Charismatics was so profound that it chilled the soul of all who stood near them. Unscientific it might be, but it was a damned persuasive hypothesis.
As he looked about him, Donatien realised that the room, though cold, was not, in fact, empty. Robespierre was sitting, disguised by shadows, behind a huge desk set at the end of the room. Automatically Donatien bowed, and Robespierre waved a negligent hand in acknowledgement.
‘Come over here, Donatien. I wish to interrogate you.’
The word ‘interrogate’ sent a shiver of cold, clammy fear trickling down Donatien’s spine. ‘Interrogate’ was resonant with the infliction of pain and torture, neither of which Donatien was especially fond, except, of course, when it was him doing the inflicting. With guts churning, Donatien walked like an automaton the twenty metres or so across the polished wooden floor, until his toes touched the line painted precisely one metre away from the desk. Robespierre disliked his visitors coming too close to his person.
Robespierre closed the report he had been studying and dabbed a silk handkerchief to his prissy mouth. Donatien knew the man was only in his mid-thirties, but there was nothing young about him. His pale, thin face was heavily lined and he had deep shadows under his weak eyes, though these were almost hidden behind his green-tinted glasses.
The remarkable thing was that, though Robespierre was obviously in one of his most ferociously unhappy moods – the malicious sparkle in his eyes attested to that – his opening question was surprisingly mild.
‘Tell me, Donatien, what is your opinion of my spoken French?’ he asked conversationally. His voice, as always, sounded weak, barely more than a whisper.
‘I am sorry, Senior CitiZen?’
Robespierre groaned. ‘You see, Donatien, this is my dilemma. I ask what I perceive to be a very straightforward question, and people, for whatever reason, fail to understand what I am saying.’ He smiled, and Donatien almost fainted. Robespierre only smiled when he was about to do something truly horrible, like chop someone’s head off. He had been doing a lot of smiling recently. ‘Perhaps, Donatien, your wound has addled your thought processes?’
Instinctively Donatien touched his fingers to the vinegar-soaked bandages that swathed his head, covering the gunshot wound he’d suffered when he’d tried to arrest that bitch Aroca.
‘No, Senior CitiZen, it is only a graze.’
‘So, let me try again. How good do you believe my spoken French to be?’
‘Why, it is excellent, Senior CitiZen. Your pronunciation is impeccable. Your accent—’
‘So,’ interrupted Robespierre sharply, ‘there is no reason, as a consequence of impaired phonetics, why people should not understand my instructions?’
Donatien nodded, the centime having finally dropped. ‘No, Senior CitiZen, none whatsoever.’
Robespierre rose from his chair, picked up his cup of coffee au gore and sauntered lackadaisically around the desk, coming to a halt just a half-metre in front of Donatien. ‘This being the case, Inquisitor Donatien,’ he said quietly, ‘perhaps you would be so good as to explain why, after more than one whole Season of endeavour, you have not yet perfected the galvanicEnergy Interrogation Engine? Why, after more than a Season, is the Revolution still denied the means to scientifically determine who of those denounced as Enemies of the Revolution are genuinely hostile to the Revolution, and those who have been falsely accused and are the unfortunate victims of political calumny?’ He flicked a hand towards the stack of dossiers piled by his desk. ‘The matter is pressing, Donatien. I must have a means by which the delinquent chaff can be separated from the virtuous wheat … of better determining who should live and who should die. And as we have now established that it cannot be that you were unable to comprehend what it is I demand of you, then I can only attribute this failure to either incompetence or wilful disobedience. If it is the former, I have no further use for you. If it is the latter, I have no further use for you.’
As Donatien stared into those empty cold eyes, he knew that his life now hung on the next sentence he would utter. ‘Senior CitiZen Robespierre,’ he began, desperately trying to still the quaver in his voice, ‘everything has been done as you ordered, but the intelligence regarding galvanicEnergy is amongst the ForthRight’s most closely guarded secrets. However,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I am now able to guarantee success in this endeavour.’ The word ‘guarantee’ had its designed effect and Robespierre’s tight lips twitched into a smile. ‘Indeed, I am pleased to inform you, Senior CitiZen, that Vice-Leader Beria has finally acceded to our several requests that the ForthRight provide us with an expert skilled in the use of galvanicEnergy. This expert will be here in Paris within a matter of days.’
‘This is excellent news.’ Robespierre took a long sip of his coffee. ‘The triumph of the Revolution depends upon our being able to find and destroy the Spies and Seditionists trying to Traduce the Virtuous.’
This prick, Donatien decided, is the only man in Paris who can speak in capital letters.
‘Only by the use of force – public force – can we cut this canker from the sweet body of the Medi. Yes, CitiZen Chief Inquisitor, we must cut, cut, cut.’ The tic pulsing in the corner of Robespierre’s right eye became worse. ‘But although we must act swiftly and resolutely, we must act surely. Do you not understand, Donatien, that in this matter you are commanded by the Supreme Being, by ABBA Himself?’
No, decided Donatien as he watched a line of spittle dribble from the corner of Robespierre’s mouth, in this matter I am commanded by a fucking maniac.
‘And now that we have the Lady IMmanual within our grasp, it is more important than ever that you are successful. The Lady IMmanual is perhaps the most pernicious and dangerous enemy of UnFunDaMentalism. I wish you to use the wonder of galvanicEnergy to delve into the deepest re
cesses of her mind, to secure her darkest secrets. We must know how she has done what she has done. We must know how she worked her miracles. So I ask again: in this most sacred matter, CitiZen Chief Inquisitor, am I truly able to rely on you and your talents?’
The Lady IMmanual! So his employer – his other employer – had told him the truth.
Donatien took a second to compose himself. He was being given the honour of interrogating the Lady IMmanual. This was a moment he had dreamed of all his life: to have a Daemon at his mercy. Now he would be able, at last, to obtain empirical evidence that the whole concept of ABBA and of supreme beings was the arrant nonsense he had always conjectured it to be. Now he would be able to torture ABBA in His guise of the Lady IMmanual, to torture her using the miracle of galvanicEnergy. And by doing so, to receive a full pardon from the Doge.
Of course, he had been offered more – much more – if he would connive in the Lady IMmanual’s assassination, but that would risk his being unmasked as a crypto and being executed. Better a smaller reward than the risk of death. Death was not a condition Donatien aspired to.
‘Yes, Senior CitiZen Robespierre, you may rely on me.’
Ella came to reluctantly, consciousness seeping only slowly through her bruised body. With her head aching like the very devil, she relinquished her grasp on comforting oblivion unwillingly. Even the slightest, most tentative of movements sent a shiver of suffering through her head, and thence down through her body. Consciousness seemed to offer nothing but pain and nagging discomfort.
How long she had been unconscious Ella was unable to tell, but the rancid taste in her mouth and the stiffness in her limbs told her it had been a long time. Long enough, obviously, for her to have been removed from the Hub and brought …
She referenced PINC, which told her that she was now in a cell in Paris’s infamous prison, the Bastille. This somewhat disturbing piece of news prompted her to try to open her eyes, but the headache sizzling across her forehead dissuaded her. Instead she pressed her eyelids tighter shut, trying to squeeze out the pain that made it impossible for her to think clearly.
As she lay on the hard narrow cot, her other senses kicked in; especially her sense of smell. The cell she was being held in stank of urine and damp, but there were other competing fragrances, notably the tart smell of tobacco smoke and the heavy, cloying fragrance of cologne. This told her that she was not alone.
Gingerly, Ella eased open her eyes.
‘I am pleased to see you have returned to us, my Lady IMmanual.’ The voice drifted towards Ella from what seemed like a thousand miles away. It was a man’s voice, cultured and languid.
Turning her head carefully towards the voice, Ella braved her headache and cautiously opened her eyes. There was a only single oil lamp burning in her cell but it provided enough light for her to see the man addressing her. He was sitting on the other side of the cell, idly puffing on a cigarette and sipping from an enormously large glass of Solution. Clad, as he was, in an uncomfortable-looking dark grey habit made of rough wool, he made an incongruous sight. He looked like a rather pious debauchee.
As her eyes became used to the semi-darkness, Ella saw that he was small, young – she judged him to be in his mid-twenties – and quite attractive in a nondescript sort of way, though his best feature – his blond, curly hair – was cut in an unfortunate tonsure and partially hidden by the thick bandage which circled his head. Attractive he might be, but there was still something unpleasant about him. His sharp blue eyes and full mouth were of the type Ella associated with petulant children, and he possessed the sort of podgy hands forever destined to be caught picking over the contents of a chocolate box.
‘I am Chief Inquisitor Donatien,’ announced this strange man, ‘commanded by Senior CitiZen Robespierre to prepare you for the Ordeal of Interrogation.’
‘Interrogation?’
‘Why, yes, Senior CitiZen Robespierre has instructed me to delve deep into your mind and discover all your secrets, especially those involving the performing of miracles.’ Donatien gave an airy wave of his cigarette and took a long slurp from his glass. ‘You should feel honoured, my Lady; because for the first time in the history of the Quartier Chaud the wonders of galvanicEnergy will be employed to unpick the secrets of a mind. It will also, of course, be the first time a living, breathing Daemon has been put to the question. Believe me when I tell you that I am excited at the prospect of working with you – or perhaps that should be, working on you? In just a few days’ time I will know whether the precepts that have until now underpinned my life and my philosophy are validated.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘How disappointing. I had expected the Lady IMmanual – the Messiah – to be all-knowing, but no matter. What is life if not a collection of disappointments? To explain: my entire philosophy has been predicated on there being no such thing as ABBA, no such thing as the Supreme Being, and no such thing as a Messiah. And now I am being given an opportunity to put that belief – that disbelief – to the test.’
Ella shook her head in protest, but all she succeeded in doing was to incite a spasm of pain to shoot across her forehead. She groaned and clenched her eyes shut again.
‘I think if you lie still, my Lady, the pain and the nausea will pass a little more quickly. It was quite a blow you took to the head. Your disciples were very firm in their defence of you, but also very inaccurate.’
‘You think I’m the Messiah?’
‘Well, that’s how you’ve been billed by your very vocal exhorters, the IMmanualists. Of course, people claiming to be the Messiah are ten a penny, but your Miracle of the Boundary does set you apart from the common herd.’ Donatien took another long drag on his cigarette. For a man dressed as a monk to be smoking and drinking as he was, suggested there was something decidedly not right about him. ‘Miracles are what separate the men from the boys when it comes to testing divinity and as all miracles have a depressing tendency to wilt when subjected to the scrutiny of scientific enquiry, I have had to conclude there is no such thing as ABBA.’
‘But you’re a man of God … of ABBA.’ Ella nodded to the Valknut badge pinned to Donatien’s habit, which proclaimed him to be an UnFunDaMentalist.
‘This badge?’ Donatien gave a disdainful sniff. ‘A flag of convenience, my Lady, nothing else. UnFunDaMentalism is the religion of hypocrisy, as it must be, given that it teaches that all virtue is linked with chastity. But the powers that be in the Medi demand a certain cosmetic devotion, and for the sake of my neck I am willing to participate in their charade. The reality is that I am far from being a proponent of theism – quite the opposite, in fact.’
‘You’re a RaTionalist?’ The question was slurred and distorted by her gummed mouth and leaden tongue. Ella swallowed, trying to suck away the taste of bile.
‘Tush, nothing so mundane. Rather, I am a libertine. That’s “libertine” in its original rather than its more modern and somewhat sulphurous connotation. I regard myself as a freethinker and, of necessity, a free-doer. A libertine is one who surrenders to instinct … one who is loyal only to himself and his desires.’
‘You’re a libertine who nevertheless seems to set great store by miracles.’
‘Because, my Lady, I do so wish to believe. Man is addicted to the pleasure derived from the marvel and astonishment engendered by experiencing and believing in ABBA, and miracles are proof that He exists. And that is why a true, honest-to-goodness miracle providing irrefutable evidence of His actuality would come as such a relief. That’s what makes your miracle so very exciting.’
Although the fog that clouded Ella’s thought processes was beginning to ease, she was still beset by a disturbing sensation of unreality, as if she were participating in some darkly abstract farce. Nothing seemed to make sense. ‘Water?’ she asked, hoping that if she could drive the fug from her brain and the taste of bilge from her mouth, she might have a better chance of making sense of what Donatien was saying.
‘Oh, how remiss
of me.’ Donatien stood up from his chair and poured a glass of water from a jug resting on a shelf, then stepped across the cell to hand the glass to Ella. She made to take the glass, and it was only then that she realised her right wrist was manacled to a steel hoop fixed to the wall. Disbelievingly she pulled at the unyielding chain, rattling it, trying to tug her wrist free. It was no good: the chain, the manacle and the wall fixing were heavy and substantial.
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Why are you manacled? Isn’t that obvious? To protect me from you and, of course, to ensure that you don’t escape. Reinhard Heydrich believes you’re much too important to lose, and whatever Heydrich thinks, invariably Robespierre agrees with.’
With a rueful shrug, Ella reached out her untethered left hand and took the glass of water from the man. She drank it in one long gulp, not having appreciated just how parched she was. Somewhat revived, she swung her legs off the cot and slowly sat up.
‘You say I’m dangerous? I don’t understand.’
‘Then you are a very naïve Messiah. You are seen as that most dangerous of things, a threat to Certainty. The promotion and broadcasting of UnFunDaMentalism as the only true religion in the Demi-Monde is vital to both Heydrich and Robespierre. By puffing themselves as the Defenders of the Faith, they proclaim themselves to be blessed by ABBA, and are thus able to hoodwink the hoi polloi, who are universally stupid and ignorant, into obeying their commands no matter how ridiculous they might be. But to do this effectively they have to promote a Certainty – to evince a lack of doubt – and you and your miracles challenge that Certainty.’
‘That is a very cynical view.’
Rod Rees - [The Demi-Monde 02] Page 8