Now that struck a chord with Norma. If she wasn’t mistaken, auto-da-fé usually involved burning at the stake. Ella was literally playing with fire.
‘Your threats do not frighten me, Torquemada. Know this: ABBA will not allow me to burn. I am here to sweep evil from the Demi-Monde, not to succumb to it. Only ABBA may take me from this world, not you, a lackey of Reinhard Heydrich … the Beast.’
Now that was an insult that hit home. ‘Foul, duplicitous wench, how dare thou imply Great Leader Heydrich is in league with Loki? Cease thy poisonous slander on pain of everlasting torment. Thou shouldst know that the reward for the sin of blasphemy is to be cast to the depths of Hel and there to have eternal torment visited on thy unrepentant soul. I implore thee, do not put thyself in danger of being damned. Admit that thou liest, that thou art just a conniving witch, or mayhap, a most diabolical Grigori,’ here the fidgeting with his his silver cross became more pronounced, ‘and I will have thee cast into the flames, and by this transitory pain, I will guard thee from everlasting suffering in Hel.’
Norma shivered. Not only was this madman talking about burning Ella at the stake, but he was suggesting that she should thank him for doing it.
‘I do not fear for my soul, Torquemada. I am blessed by ABBA.’
‘I would that thy spirit was easier for advice, wench, but thy intransigence denotes that thou art a most malicious and malevolent witch. But there is more: my most close and faithful servant, Chief Inquisitor Donatien’ – a nod to a curly-haired Quizzie with a bandage around his head, who was standing next to Ella – ‘has made deep and devious enquiries regarding thy witchery. And he, with the utmost of conviction, doth relate that thou art possessed of strange and wondrous powers – powers which if not bestowed by ABBA might only be conferred by the Trickster, Loki. Is it not true that thou hast withstood the test inflicted on thee by the galvanicEnergy engine?’
‘It is true. And beware, Torquemada, for I possess other powers which will humble you and all of your kind. I say again: I am sent by ABBA to reclaim the Demi-Monde from your foul embrace.’
‘Thou liest!’ Torquemada screamed. ‘Thou art a foul impostor and false prophet, and must be doubly burned, once here in the Demi-Monde and then in the everlasting pyre that is Hel.’
Ella’s toast. All Torquemada wants to do is torch her.
‘By the power vested in me by the Committee of Public Safety and in the full and safe knowledge that I perform ABBA’s will, I sentence thee, the Shade known as the Lady IMmanual, to—’
‘Be silent!’
Every eye in the room turned towards Ella, and as Norma studied her a change seemed to come over the girl. It was as though she was emitting a power that forced those in the room away from her, that made the hairs on the back of Norma’s neck bristle, and her skin pimple with goose bumps.
Fucking hell.
Again Ella stabbed a long finger in the direction of the Grand Inquisitor. ‘Know this, Lord Torquemada, I am the Lady IMmanual. I am the one who opened the Boundary Layer. I am the one who allowed the citizens of Warsaw to escape to the Great Beyond and from the evil clutches of Reinhard Heydrich. I am the one Mengele tried to cow with his galvanicEnergy, but who survived. I am the Messiah sent by ABBA to lead the people of the Demi-Monde. And mark this well, Tomas de Torquemada, all those who defy me will perish.’
Face red with fury, Torquemada sprang to his feet. ‘Take her! Burn her! Burn this abomination of a Daemon!’
15
The Bastille: Paris
The Demi-Monde: 13th Day of Spring, 1005
And the Master said, ‘The Messiah will be the living embodiment of wu wei, the action without action that will realign the Kosmos towards the perfection that is Ying, the merging of Yin and Yang.’ Then, seeing the confusion on the faces of his students, he explained, ‘Wu wei is like water: yielding, compliant and ever mutable. Wu wei is the ultimate expression of Yin, but when roused it has the power to gouge Mantle-ite. Such will be the quiet force of the Messiah: she will be like a flood that will cleanse the Kosmos.’
‘And how should we prepare for the flood that will be the coming of the Messiah?’ asked a favourite student.
The Master smiled. ‘Make fucking damned sure you own a boat.’
The Fourth Book of the BiAlects, Verse 98
The Quizzies lived up to their hateful reputation. Armed with steel batons, they waded into the ranks of the UnScreweds, clubbing them down with a savage ferocity, smashing the women to the ground and then trampling on them with their ironshod boots. They had dogs, too, horrible things that looked like they’d been bred in the darkest part of Terror Incognita, their teeth ripping and tearing great chunks of SAE out of the legs of the women.
For a moment, the UnScreweds – shocked and stunned by the brutality of the Quizzies – nearly broke, but then Odette and her girls from the market counter-attacked. Odette had warned her girls that there was a chance that they would be facing the Quizzies but rather than frightening them, all this had done was stiffen their resolve. They had witnessed what these bastards had done when they had cleared the troubadours out of Les Halles, and were determined not to go to ABBA quite so easily. So they had come well prepared, and now they conjured knives, blackjacks and lengths of chain from their cloaks, fighting fire with fire and steel with steel.
Later Odette could never quite decide who was more shocked by the attack of the market girls: the leaders of the UnScreweds with their petitions and smiles, or the Quizzies themselves. But as the stabbing, spitting, swearing girls smashed into the Quizzies, the shock on both sides was palpable. Now it was the Quizzies who began to crumple to the cobbles, and once they were down there was no getting up. Now the dogs began to howl not with ferocity but with fear as they were stabbed in the eye or had their throats slit by an expertly wielded razor-knife. Now it was the Quizzies’ turn to waver.
The colonel commanding the Quizzies obviously sensed that the tide was running against them. Odette saw him haul out his Colt. ‘Inquisitors,’ he bellowed, ‘fire at—’
They were the last words he ever spoke. Odette had come to the demonstration heeled, and now she dragged her Ordnance revolver out from where it was holstered on the back of her belt. She had no chance to take aim, but being only two metres from the colonel she had little chance of missing. She cocked the revolver and squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked and when the mist of powder smoke had cleared she saw she’d hit the man square in the face … or what was left of his face after it had been mashed by the lead slug. Without thinking, she turned the gun, cocking and firing it at the other Quizzies.
Outnumbered, outfought and now outgunned, the Quizzies broke ranks and ran towards the open doors of the Bastille, with the enraged women of the Quartier Chaud following hard on their heels. The Quizzies did their best to close the gates behind them, but they were too late. The UnScreweds barged the gates aside, and the horde of screaming, cheering women stormed into the prison.
The Bastille was theirs!
Even as the two guards moved to obey the Grand Inquisitor and arrest the Lady IMmanual, Machiavelli strode into the room with Sister Florence bustling in his wake. Automatically – old habits died hard in the Quartier Chaud – everyone in the room bowed and a goggle-eyed Quizzie announced in a shaking voice, ‘Make way, make way for His Excellency, Abbé Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli, most favoured Emissary of Her Most Reverend Excellency, Doge Catherine-Sophia, and Plenipotentiary Extraordinary of the Venetian Republic.’
Machiavelli acknowledged the greeting with a careless bow. ‘I must apologise, Lord Grand Inquisitor, for this interruption, but I am here at the request of the Doge.’
For a moment Sister Florence thought – hoped – that Torquemada would have a seizure, but finally he gained enough control of his anger to splutter out a reply. ‘Is there no surpassing thy impertinence and audacity, Machiavelli? Thou knowest, full well and true, that thou art trespassing most grievously on both the property and on the good nature o
f the UnFunDaMentalist Church. By this disdainful act thou hast polluted this sacred Chamber. As a vile and bitter enemy of UnFunDaMentalism, thou art not welcome here. Get thee hence with all haste, lest I unleash my guards on thee.’
Typical man, decided Sister Florence, always so vulnerable to the choleric promptings of MALEvolence. She was just grateful that, standing as she was behind the Abbé Niccolò, she was shielded from the full force of Torquemada’s bile and hate, but still it discomfited her.
‘As a Plenipotentiary Extraordinary of the Venetian Republic, I have diplomatic immunity,’ countered the Abbé Niccolò in a calm voice. ‘If you use force against me, it will be viewed as an act of sedition.’
‘I care not for thy “immunity”, Machiavelli. In this chamber my will prevails, and therefore thou and thy scampering, simpering lapdogs …’ It was then that he noticed Florence. ‘Is’t thy intent to royally insult me, Machiavelli? Dost thy depravity know no bounds that thou hast brought that most profane and hateful Whorealist Sister Florence in accompaniment of thee?’
Though Sister Florence had expected Torquemada’s reaction to her presence in the Chamber to be extreme, even she was taken aback by his anger. A nimbus of bright yellow flamed around his head, signalling his fury. But being a supreme exponent of fiduciary sex, she retaliated by arching her body in order to reveal just a little more naked flesh. Unfortunately, such was the extent of Torquemada’s rage that he seemed impervious to her blandishments.
‘Knowest thou this, Abbé Niccolò, that the Inquisition has declared all such Whorealist witches to be abominations in the sight of ABBA, and as such, those venturing from beyond the confines of their Convents shall have their heads severed from their bodies, their immoral remains burned and their ashes scattered.’ He stabbed a finger towards Sister Florence. ‘Guards, arrest this witch.’
‘Wait!’ bellowed Machiavelli. ‘Sister Florence is protected by a warrant granted under the personal seal of Her Most Reverend Excellency, Doge Catherine-Sophia.’ Machiavelli conjured a roll of parchment from the sleeve of his frockcoat, and proffered it to Torquemada.
The Grand Inquisitor was less than impressed: he brushed the warrant away with a disdainful flick of his fingers. ‘Such warrants are of no import within the Medi …’
‘Then think on this, Lord Torquemada. Violate this warrant, and the lives of all those Medi CitiZens who are currently residing in Venice will be forfeit.’
That stopped Torquemada in his tracks. There were enough Medis in Venice that if the Doge decided to make life difficult for them, then life could be made very difficult indeed. The threat found its target. When he spoke next, Torquemada was more conciliatory in tone.
‘Verily, then, speak, Abbé Niccolò. What dost thy presence here portend?’
‘My Lord, as you know, despite the Great Schism it is still undecided who shall have the final word regarding spiritual matters in the Quartier Chaud. My own opinion is that it is Her Most Reverend Excellency the Doge Catherine-Sophia whose opinion is pre-eminent in these matters, and hence the fate of the Lady IMmanual must be decided by the Doge, and by the Doge alone.’
‘Not so,’ protested Torquemada. ‘This wench is a self-confessed witch, and by the laws of the Quartier Chaud, all of her foul kind must be cast into the fire. And mark you well, Machiavelli, this is a civil matter, not an ecclesiastical one: today has been signed a pact between the Medi and the ForthRight which requires and demands that all fugitives be apprehended so that they might be tried, sentenced and executed. The Lady IMmanual is such a fugitive, a criminal wanted by the ForthRight for the practice of the most base and Lokic of witchcrafts.’
Although his aura showed that he was shaken by this news that the Medi and the ForthRight were now formally united by treaty, Machiavelli rallied. ‘What has the ForthRight got to do with the internal affairs of the Quartier Chaud?’
‘By the ForthRight having two hundred thousand soldiers camped outside the walls of Paris, and that should this witch be released into thy care it will be viewed as a casus belli. It will be seen as an act of such provocation that the ForthRight will have no alternative but to declare war on the Medi.’ Torquemada smiled an evil smile. ‘Welcome to the realm of realpolitik, Machiavelli.’ He signalled to the guards. ‘Take them all. Take them and burn them. Scorch the evil of this witch and her disciples from our land.’
It was at that moment that the doors of the hall smashed open.
Desperately trying to reload her revolver as she ran, Odette Aroca screamed out her orders. ‘Adélaide … find the armoury … take it … distribute the guns to the rest of the UnScreweds.’ The huge woman peeled away, taking twenty or so girls with her. ‘Sabine … search the third and the fourth floors … find Jeanne Deroin and Aliénor d’Aquitaine and release them. Sophie’ – the dancer from the Maison d’Illusion sprinted up close to Odette – ‘you do the same … search the first and second floors. Be quick … before more Quizzies come.’
Where she was going with the rest of her army, Odette had no real idea except that she had read that the most important of the Bastille’s prisoners were interviewed in a place called the Great Reception Chamber, so there was a good chance that they would find Deroin and d’Aquitaine there. The problem of where in the muddle of narrow corridors the Chamber was located was solved by a GrandHarm they found cowering in a darkened corner. A quick prod of the point of Odette’s razor-knife in his groin and he was only too eager to tell them how they might find the place. He even wished them bonne chance.
Five minutes later, Odette’s breathless band rounded a corner and found itself facing two huge doors guarded by two huge Quizzies. The guards never stood a chance. With cries of ‘Vive ImPuritanism’ and ‘Liberté, Egalité, Fornication’, the women were on them and the great doors were barged open, the sheer momentum of the attack driving Odette right into the room. And there she was confronted by a strange scene. The Grand Inquisitor himself, Tomas de Torquemada, was standing beside his throne at the end of the room, his face purple with anger, pointing towards a tall slim Shade girl standing in the middle of the floor. When Odette smashed her way into the chamber, his mouth dropped open in shocked amazement, and he stood seemingly paralysed in mute disbelief, obviously stunned that anybody could have forced their way into the supposedly impregnable Bastille. He didn’t stay stunned for very long.
‘Those are UnScrewed terrorists,’ he screamed towards the guards stationed around the room. ‘Kill them!’
As Odette began blasting away with her revolver, she had to admit to feeling a certain excitement. Storming prisons was a bit like sex: stimulating and sweaty and great fun. Unfortunately, in her case, these two activities had a similar frequency. As she reloaded her Ordnance, she wondered if that funny Anglo she’d met in the bar would be tempted to make a call on her later that evening. That, she decided, would make a perfect end to what had been, in her opinion, a pretty perfect day.
For a moment, as bullets pinged around her ears, Sister Florence stood paralysed with fear and indecision and it took a shouted warning from Machiavelli to shake her out of her fugue.
‘The Lady IMmanual is in danger. Protect her.’
Stung into action, Florence reached across, grabbed the girl by the arm and desperately looked around for an escape route. It was then, to her amazement, that an Inquisitor came to their rescue.
‘If you want the Lady IMmanual to live, follow me!’ the man yelled, pointing to a door he had opened in the wooden panelling of the hall.
For an instant Sister Florence hesitated, unsure whether she could trust a Quizzie. It was the Lady IMmanual who made the decision for her, pushing her towards the door and into the pitch-black corridor beyond. As soon as she, the Lady and Machiavelli were through, the Quizzie barricaded the door behind them and then used a match to ignite a torch.
‘This way,’ he ordered, and then plunged off into the darkness.
‘Hold fast, Inquisitor,’ snapped Sister Florence. ‘Who art thou, and why dost t
hou aid thy master’s enemies?’
‘Don’t worry, Sister,’ said a breathless Machiavelli as he clutched at his arm, where he’d taken a bullet fired by one of the Quizzies. ‘This man is the Marquis de Sade and he’s an agent of the Doge.’
Hearing the name, Florence flinched back: the Marquis de Sade was one of the most reviled names in Venice. He was an abomination to ImPuritanism, a man exiled for acts of gross carnal cruelty.
Even in the darkness, de Sade must have seen the expression of disgust on her face. He laughed. ‘I am also, good Sister, the man who can lead you out of this place. I’m very adept at negotiating dark, tight and smelly passages.’
When the UnScreweds attacked, Vanka’s natural instinct was to get to Ella and spirit her to safety. But as the room descended into chaos he saw her being grabbed by a tall Visual Virgin and bundled towards a door on the other side of the room. He made to follow, but a Quizzie wielding a steel baton got in his way and would have trepanned him if one of the UnScreweds hadn’t shot his attacker square in the chest. But in that instant any chance he had of reaching Ella was lost.
Now he had to look out for himself and Norma. It was difficult to see where they should run to: several of the torches lighting the room had already been extinguished, the air was thick with gun smoke, and everywhere around him was a wrestling, gouging, kicking and screaming mêlée of Quizzies and UnScreweds.
In the end it was Norma who saved him. ‘Vanka, over there!’ she yelled, and when Vanka looked to where she was pointing he saw, not twenty feet away, a side door flapping half off its hinges.
Dodging and weaving, they managed to duck and dive their way to the lee of the doorway, and once they were safe, Vanka tore open the lapel of his jacket, extracted the picklock he had hidden there and began to work on the chains the Quizzies had fitted them with when they’d taken them from their cells. ‘Product of a failed career in escapology,’ he explained to Norma.
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