Ketty Jay 04 - The Ace of Skulls (30 page)

Frey picked himself up and checked on everybody. Pinn was staring out of the window with a puzzled look on his face. He looked even more vacant than usual. Jez was in a corner, crouched, her teeth bared. Pelaru squatted before her, hand raised, like a man calming a skittish dog. He looked over his shoulder at Frey.

‘The Lord High Cryptographer,’ said Pelaru, and for once there was visible emotion on his face. ‘He’s—’

‘A daemon,’ said Frey. ‘I got that.’

‘She doesn’t take it well when there are daemons about.’

‘I got that too.’

Malvery clambered through the hatch, and sat down on the floor against a workbench to catch his breath. Frey went to the window and looked down into the chamber. The Awakeners were still in the doorway; they hadn’t even come in yet.

‘What did they say?’ Ashua asked Malvery.

Malvery stared at her with a look of such despair that even Frey was affected. It took a lot to knock Malvery down, but this had rocked him.

‘Give me the earcuff,’ he said to Ashua. She dug it from her pocket and lobbed it to him.

‘We have to get gone, Cap’n,’ Malvery said. ‘We have to tell someone.’

‘We’re going, Doc,’ said Frey, clipping on the earcuff. ‘Just let me check on Trinica . . .’

His voice tailed off as the sounds filled his ear. They were fuzzy and indistinct, but the words didn’t concern him. It was the tone. Shouting. Protests. Alarm. He heard an impact and a crash. Trinica cried out, and it stabbed through the confusion and pierced him.

They saw it on his face. ‘Cap’n . . .’ said Malvery, a warning in his voice.

‘She’s in trouble,’ he said. He looked about wildly. ‘She’s in trouble!’

‘Cap’n, we have to go!’ Malvery insisted.

‘You go,’ said Frey. ‘Get out of here. I’m going after her.’

‘This is too important!’ said Malvery.

‘Yeah,’ said Frey. ‘It is.’ And with that he pulled open the door and headed off down the corridor.

Malvery swore. Ashua looked from the doctor to the departing captain in confusion.

‘Are we just gonna let him go on his own?’ she asked.

‘Y’know, I hope he rescues her, I really do,’ Malvery snarled as he got to his feet. ‘That way I can punt her pasty arse to the moon.’

He stormed out of the door in pursuit of his captain, and the others had no choice but to follow.

Twenty

The Groundsman – Family Ties – Accusations – Up on the Roof – A Long-Expected Admission

C
rake pushed open the door of his brother’s house, and looked out onto a battleground.

Guns cracked and snapped in the cold winter night. Trench-coated Shacklemores fired lever-action shotguns from cover, their breath steaming the air. Men were clambering over the wall that surrounded the grounds, their shadows long in the light of electric lamps. Folk from the village, from the countryside; folk who’d once been glad of the wealth and prosperity that Rogibald Crake had helped bring to the area, the amenities he paid for and the school he funded.

Crake felt outrage as well as fear. They were attacking the manor? They were actually attacking the manor? But he couldn’t deny the evidence of his eyes.

The main mass of them had gathered behind the gates. He could hear the incoherent roar of their fury. Shacklemores shot at them from behind fountains and garden walls. Crake saw one man go tumbling back into the arms of his fellows, but those behind him pushed on, undeterred. The gate was stout and thick, and wouldn’t give way easily. Several men were wrapping a chain around the ironwork, no doubt hoping to drag it down. Others fired back through the bars, keeping the Shacklemores busy.

There were so many of them. So many, and more coming over the wall. Some were killed, but Crake saw others drop to the ground and go scurrying away across the night-shrouded lawns, rough-dressed men carrying clubs or pistols.

Condred was at his side, leaning on him, supported by his arm. He heard his brother groan, a sound of weary despair from the depths of his being. In the flat light from the house he was haggard and wan. He was barefoot, and his red silk gown was no protection against the chill. In his face there was something like acceptance, as if he’d long known this day would come.

‘They’re here for you, ain’t they?’ a voice snarled. Crake turned and saw one of the groundsmen, a man he didn’t know, advancing along the side of the house. He was a stocky, unshaven man with a cloth cap squashed down over his ears. He had a spade in his hands, and was holding it like a weapon.

‘Daemonist!’ he spat. Then he looked at Condred. ‘And you, his puppet! What black art brought you back when no doctors could? Whatever you once was, you ain’t no more.’

Crake saw fear and rage and murder in the man’s eyes, and he backed away into the foyer, pulling Condred in with him. But the groundsman lunged at him suddenly, made a feint with the spade. Crake jerked away, stumbled, and Condred’s weight brought him down. The two of them tripped and fell to the parquet floor in a heap.

The groundsman ignored Condred and went for Crake. He put his boot to Crake’s shoulder as he tried to get up, and shoved him back to the floor. He raised his spade, edge downward, aimed at Crake’s throat. Hesitated. Not so easy to kill a man. But Crake knew it was coming in a second or two, once he’d screwed up his courage.

A strange calm took him. He looked up at the grizzled face of the groundsman looming over him. His lips peeled back in a wide grin.

‘Hey . . .’ he said quietly, though it hurt to speak with the man’s weight on his chest. ‘Hey, there’s no need for this.’

The groundsman stared down at him, and as he did so, his attention was caught by something. The glitter of a gold tooth. Crake saw the balled-up rage behind the groundsman’s eyes loosen a little.

‘Here . . .’ he muttered. ‘That’s a nice tooth.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Crake. ‘Now why don’t you get off me and put down that spade?’

The groundsman regarded the spade as if he couldn’t quite work out how it had got into his hands. ‘Reckon I will,’ he said. He stepped back, tossed the spade aside, and gave Crake a sheepish look.

Crake began to pick himself up. ‘Good. Now why don’t you—’

The groundsman’s chest exploded, spraying Crake’s face with warm flecks of blood. He fell to his knees and tipped sideways. Standing in the doorway was a Shacklemore, a gaunt man holding a shotgun, a scattered beard on his long, hollow face.

‘You alright?’ he asked them, and pulled Crake up before he had a chance to reply. He went and helped Condred after. Crake wiped the blood off his face and looked down at the dead man on the floor. There was a wet hole in his back. A pool of red was spreading from beneath the body, running down tiny channels in the parquet floor.

Another dead man. Once the initial shock had worn off, he found it didn’t mean a thing. He’d lived long enough in the world to shrug at a stranger’s corpse.

‘Let’s get you to the landing pad,’ said the Shacklemore brusquely. ‘We’re falling back.’

‘I thought you were supposed to defend this place,’ Crake said.

‘There’s two hundred people out there, or I’m a blind man,’ said the Shacklemore. He took Condred’s arm over his shoulder. ‘We’re bounty hunters first, bodyguards second and mercenaries third. Martyrs ain’t on the list.’

‘What about our father? Rogibald Crake?’

‘The old feller? Someone’s taking care of him.’

But the man was vague, and Crake wasn’t convinced. And he knew his father.

‘Take my brother to the landing pad,’ he said.

The lines around Condred’s mouth deepened in disapproval. ‘Leave him, Grayther. You know him. He’ll do as we will.’

Yes
, thought Crake.
I know him well enough
.

But Condred saw his brother’s mind, and grabbed his arm. ‘You don’t have to make it up to him,’ he said. ‘Not to him.’

‘Go to Thesk,’ said Crake. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you there.’

Perhaps. And perhaps I’ll never see you again. Perhaps we’ll never again be able to look at each other without being reminded of Bess.

Crake looked long into his brother’s eyes, searching for something to say. Condred was thinking the same as he was. Neither knew what the future would bring. It was all too raw and new right now. In the end, he clasped his hand over Condred’s, and that was enough.

‘Get him out of here,’ he told the Shacklemore. ‘Keep him safe.’

‘Will do.’

Crake turned to leave, and then stopped and turned back. ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘You’ve a pistol in your belt. I’d better have that.’

‘Will you bollocks,’ scoffed the Shacklemore. ‘That’s
my
pistol.’

Crake grinned, and his tooth glinted. ‘I beg to differ.’

By the time he reached the mansion, the Shacklemores were in steady retreat. Groups of men shot at one another from cover. Bodies lay sprawled across herbaceous borders, bloodied hands dangling in ornamental pools. The fighting was still fiercest round the gates, but enough men had got over the walls to sow havoc among the defenders now.

I did this
, he thought as he ran.
They’re here for me
.
Seeing me take Condred to the sanctum was the last straw.

But no. He wouldn’t blame himself entirely. The Awakeners had riled them up, filled their heads with lies and nonsense, made them furious and frightened so the only thing they could do was hit out. Even the Shacklemore bullets didn’t stop them. All these deaths born out of hate and ignorance and superstition, and the bastards who started it were predictably nowhere to be seen.

He ran up the slope towards his father’s house, keeping to the edge of the lawns where there was some meagre cover, staying out of the light. A bullet chopped into the turf nearby and he saw someone aiming at him from over by the wall. He ignored them and kept going. After all his time on the
Ketty Jay
, he knew they were just wasting ammunition at that range.

What are you doing, Grayther Crake? What do you owe your father? The man never loved you
.

But love didn’t matter. It was a question of duty. It was what a son ought to do. And maybe if Rogibald found out what Crake had done, maybe if he knew Condred was alright, maybe he’d smile and favour him at last.

Foolish
, he thought. But he ran on anyway.

Crake reached the mansion and went skirting along its fac¸ade, sticking close to the building. As he reached the main door, a Shacklemore came running out of it onto the drive, a young man with slick black hair. He looked about, saw Crake, and then raised his pistol and fired twice. Crake covered his face instinctively as a stone vase smashed to pieces next to him.

‘Stop firing, you moron! Do I look like a bloody peasant? I’m on your side!’

He didn’t know where that peremptory tone of command came from. Perhaps his surroundings had brought out his aristocratic side. But the Shacklemore stopped shooting.

Crake glared at him. ‘Where’s my father?’

‘In there,’ said the Shacklemore, tipping his head. ‘He won’t move himself. I’m going for the landing pad. If you’ve got half a brain you’ll come with me.’

‘I’ll get him out,’ said Crake. ‘You hold those aircraft. Remember who’s paying you.’

There was a shrieking noise from across the grounds. They both looked out over the lawns and saw the gates being torn off their hinges. Their attackers were using chains and a tractor to pull them down. The villagers came swarming in, and the last of the Shacklemore resistance broke.

‘No pockets in a shroud, my friend,’ the young man said. ‘You’d best be quick.’

He sprinted off, and Crake went up the porch steps into the foyer. He knew exactly where his father would be. He hurried through the mansion to the study, and pushed open the door.

The fire had reduced to glowing embers. It had been burning all night. His father stood by the window with a glass of brandy in his hand, looking out. The decanter was on a silver platter on a side table, mostly empty.

‘Father,’ he said.

‘Grayther,’ he replied.

‘Father, we have to go.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘They’ll kill you.’

‘Damned if I’ll run.’ His hand trembled on his glass. ‘Damned.’

Crake came into the room. Even now, the study inspired respect and awe in him. His father’s own sanctum, sacred and forbidden.

‘Condred is awake,’ he said. ‘You did the right thing calling on me. The Awakeners caused the coma.’

Rogibald sipped his brandy.

‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’ Crake said.

‘It takes daemons to fight daemons,’ said Rogibald. He motioned to the window. ‘And here is my reward.’ He turned his head and stared at Crake levelly. ‘At least I have my son back. That’s all I wanted.’

It was a pointed singular, pitched to wound. But Crake was no longer the man that had fled this place three years ago. His father’s barbs were blunt now.

He walked over to stand next to Rogibald. Beyond the window, the gunfire continued. A pair of Shacklemores ran past. Here inside the study, he felt strangely insulated from it all. He wondered if that was how his father had always felt when he looked out on the world.

‘Don’t throw your life away, Father.’

Rogibald didn’t reply.

‘Look at me,’ said Crake, and his father did so. Crake gave him a smile. He felt the cold suck of the daemon as it sapped the energy from him, saw his father’s gaze move to the gold tooth. Crake hadn’t slept, and using the tooth so much had weakened him, but he felt strong enough for this.

‘Live to fight another day, Father. Do it for your son. The one you
do
care about.’

Rogibald watched his reflection in the tooth, then slowly raised his gaze to meet Crake’s . . . and dashed the brandy in his eyes. Crake recoiled, spluttering. Rogibald regarded him with naked hatred.

‘Get out!’ he cried. ‘You’re no part of me! You’re no son of mine! You were weak from the start and now you’re fouled. Run! Save your own life, coward! I’ll fall with my house, and Condred will have all that’s left, but you? You’ll have nothing. You’ve brought ruin upon us!’