The Iscariot Sanction (14 page)

She had barely reflected on this when the coachman rapped on the window again.

‘All done, sir, miss.’

‘Very good, Mr. Selby,’ Lillian replied. ‘Let’s make hay while the sun shines.’

Selby grinned and hopped back into the driver’s seat with an agility that belied his stout frame, and the coach jerked into motion once more, rattling from the cobbled courtyard and picking up speed at an alarming rate as soon as the gates were cleared.

‘A minute and a half to change the team,’ John said. ‘He’s taking his time today. But this is where you’ll see Selby in action.’ John had a boyish look about him. ‘According to
The Times
, he achieved twenty miles per hour on this next stretch during the record-breaking run. We should be lucky if he does that today!’

Lillian looked through the window as the uniform terraces of Streatham rattled past, the greenery of the old village poking between them at intervals. Though she would not admit it to John, there was something romantic about taking a stagecoach; a hearkening back to a simpler time when the fastest a body could travel was on the back of a horse. A time before Majestics and Intuitionists, etherium and Riftborn. The great march of progress and the downfall of the natural order had gone hand-in-hand, it seemed. Indeed, the rise of the Intuitionists had seen much of the world industrialised faster than had been thought imaginable just a decade prior.

Before long the London outskirts gave way entirely, first to rough wasteland and then to fields and dark forests, the crimson caste of the sky mellowing to a golden hue, almost dawn-like. The great airships that monitored the meteorological conditions of the burning sky were specks on the horizon behind them; the last perambulator passed by the coach, its range insufficient to take it further beyond the city limits. The driver of the ‘automobile’ waved to the stagecoach, as if Lillian, John and Selby were adventurers, taking the path less trodden into unknown territory.

‘Next stop, Godalming,’ John said. ‘Almost seems like a bit of a jaunt, eh? Wonder how Smythe’s getting on up north? And Sir Arthur, for that matter.’

‘Perfectly well, I’m sure,’ Lillian replied. Though in truth, she was not at all sure. Arthur had been retained by Sir Toby after their last meeting, and although she had sent him a note on Sunday morning inviting him to tea, he had not responded. The secrecy of the club made forming bonds of friendship inadvisable; any one of the thirty-two active field agents of Apollo Lycea could find themselves in deadly pursuits at the drop of a hat. John was right—their current assignment did seem like a jaunt, and she only hoped that, while she and her brother rattled through sleepy countryside, Sir Arthur Furnival was not in danger.

Sir Arthur held back a respectable distance, though endeavouring to keep in stride, and earshot, of his estimable host. The Queen walked slowly through the gardens of Frogmore, towards the great ornamental lake, with Lord Hardwick at her side. The old soldier was tall, straight of back and broad of shoulder, striding slowly with Her Majesty, hands folded behind his back. He stooped respectfully to bend his ear to the diminutive monarch, and spoke only when spoken to.

To Arthur’s left, her presence felt even when it was not seen, walked Kate Fox, the royal adviser. The catalyst, or half of it, at least. The American was slender and fey; her dark eyes bore into the back of Arthur’s head when he was not looking at her—even, he fancied, when she was not looking at him either. And when he did turn to her, to show diligence or exchange some pleasantry, he was forced each time to look away hastily, lest the myriad crawling things that slid into his peripheral vision and surrounded the woman drive him to distraction. She was a conduit for spiritual energy, the mother of all Majestics, and she alone remained untouched by the persistent attentions of the Riftborn. Or, if not untouched, at least unharmed.

‘And you are sure, Lord Hardwick, that the Earl of Beaconsfield is agreeable to your plan?’ the Queen asked. ‘He was most agitated when last we spoke, and I could not sanction any course of action that the Earl did not support. As he would say, the people would not have it.’

‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ Marcus Hardwick replied, his demeanour more respectful than Arthur had ever seen. ‘I have apprised the Earl of Beaconsfield of the situation, and will meet with him later today.’

‘And you are sure it will work?’

‘I am afraid there are no certainties in this world any longer, ma’am. All I know is that what I saw in Alaska gives me hope. Hope that there is a way out of these times of darkness, and a brighter future ahead. My experiment will, one way or another, settle the matter.’

‘And this Intuitionist is the key to your experiments?’

‘Nikola Tesla is, they say, the greatest Intuitionist in the world. His grasp of electrical engineering and his theories about the use of Rift energy are unparalleled, especially in one so young. He has some… eccentricities… but I believe he represents our best chance of success.’

Arthur strained his ears to listen to the conversation, giving only the most cursory replies to Miss Fox, who was making monotonous chit-chat. In fact, Miss Fox did not seem to be truly engaged in their conversation either, though Arthur was sure she was not eavesdropping on the Queen and Lord Hardwick like he was; no, it seemed to Sir Arthur that the dark-eyed woman’s mind was altogether elsewhere, and he did not like the thought of that at all.

‘I hope you are right, Lord Hardwick,’ the Queen went on. ‘It took a great personal favour from Emperor Alexander to secure Mr. Tesla’s release—and were it not for the Earl of Beaconsfield, the Russians may not be so well-disposed to us at all. They believe the young man in question to be a danger to all around him.’

‘Youthful exuberance, ma’am, I am reliably informed, nothing more,’ Hardwick replied. ‘Tesla has been granted incredible knowledge, undoubtedly by the grace of God, and such gifts in one so young have led to unfortunate accidents. In our facility he will be trained and kept in check, until his wisdom grows in accordance with his talents.’

Queen Victoria nodded thoughtfully, and appeared satisfied with Hardwick’s answer. Arthur, however, was more troubled than before. He had not previously heard of Tesla being a dangerous man, and as far as he knew no mention of this fact had been made to anyone in the Order. Arthur wondered if Lillian was aware what she was getting herself into.

‘Who is Lillian?’ Kate Fox asked, her voice flat, its rhythm slow.

Arthur cursed himself; between Miss Fox’s dreamy prattling and his own eavesdropping, he had lowered his guard, and his thoughts had been transmitted to the most gifted psychic in the world as surely as if he’d written her a note. And had he imagined it, but did Lord Hardwick’s ears prick up at the mention of his daughter’s name? By God, the man had the senses of a wolf. Had he not spent several years training within the secret service, Arthur might have blushed. As it was, he merely cleared his throat and said, ‘I’m sorry? Oh, a fellow agent—Lord Hardwick’s daughter, in fact. She and her brother are away presently.’

‘I cannot see her,’ Miss Fox replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to say.

Arthur looked at her, and shuddered as he saw a strange, shadowy black tendril whip up from behind the woman’s back and coil around her pale throat. And yet, when he tried to focus on the thing, it was not there. It remained in his mind’s eye nonetheless, as did the fingers that probed about her dress, and reached across to tug at Arthur’s sleeve. He dismissed them at once, and set about building his mental defences more firmly this time. Soon he could not see the creatures at all, but he fancied he could hear a voice in the back of his mind.

We shall take your woman and claw-gouge her eyes…

‘Tell me, Lord Hardwick,’ the Queen was saying, ‘what news from the north? I have received most disconcerting reports from my government.’

‘I cannot lie, ma’am, the situation appears less than satisfactory, though we do not yet have all the intelligence we require.’

‘I would normally hold you accountable for any lack of intelligence when it comes to England’s security, Lord Hardwick, but it appears on this occasion that even Miss Fox’s vision is clouded by the matter. Isn’t that so, Miss Fox?’ The Queen stopped and turned towards her adviser.

‘Forces are arrayed against us,’ Miss Fox replied in her dreamy, detached tone. ‘Whether they have shrouded themselves from me, or whether it is the Other’s doing, I cannot say. I see only shadow.’

The Queen nodded, and began to walk again, everyone else following suit at once. ‘There is another, is there not, who has previously helped us when Miss Fox was sadly unable? One who intervened when my dear Albert was almost killed. Can you perhaps not consult with him again?’

‘Alas, ma’am, I am afraid that is quite impossible. That man has not been heard from for some time.’

They’re talking of the Artist
, Arthur thought, though he shielded those thoughts from Miss Fox, whose shadowy familiars squirmed in his peripheral vision in ever-growing numbers. How the celestial would be able to assist the Order in this matter when Kate Fox could not baffled Sir Arthur.

‘A pity,’ the Queen said. ‘So what are we to do, Lord Hardwick? I hear that our ships are being turned away from our own ports, and that our army is facing worldwide shortages as a result of closed munitions factories. Why, the Prime Minister has even advised us not to travel to our beloved Balmoral for the foreseeable future. Am I, the Queen, not safe in my own country? This will not do.’

‘Of course not, Your Majesty,’ said Lord Hardwick. ‘You will pleased to hear, I hope, that agents of Apollo Lycea are in the north as we speak, and I expect their first reports any time now. Once we have intelligence, we will act swiftly and decisively, you have my word.’

‘Lord Hardwick, your word has ever been sufficient. I will speak to the Earl of Beaconsfield and advise him most strongly to lend you support in this matter. But we must have results, and quickly.’

Lord Hardwick bowed courteously. The Queen was impossible to read; Arthur wondered if he would be able to divine her true intent even if he were to use his powers. Of course, such a question was moot, especially given the presence of the formidable Miss Fox.

The circular walk continued, with the Queen commenting further on the state of the north, and Lord Hardwick holding his cards firmly to his chest in the most cordial manner possible. When finally they reached the courtyard of the country residence, they were met by several servants of the royal household, and a small gig was brought about to take Sir Arthur and Lord Hardwick back along the drive. Their perambulator awaited them a mile down the lane, for Queen Victoria would not allow the machines within earshot of her beloved horses.

‘We were glad to meet you, Sir Arthur,’ said the Queen. ‘The Nightwatch has ever been a valuable jewel in the Empire’s crown.’

‘I… that is, I am not with the Nightwatch, Your Majesty,’ Arthur replied, with a glance towards Lord Hardwick’s impassive features.

‘Indeed? Then perhaps Lord Hardwick and Sir Toby have finally seen sense and afforded their Majestics a more central role in the Order.’

‘Sir Arthur’s talents have proved indispensable, ma’am,’ Lord Hardwick interjected.

‘He is a great seer,’ said Miss Fox. Her interruption would have been indecorous, but appeared to be greeted eagerly by the Queen. ‘The Other takes great interest in Sir Arthur Furnival, but I foresee that his end shall not come at the hands of the Riftborn. Sir Arthur is too canny an opponent for such a fate.’

Lord Hardwick straightened. Arthur shuddered a little. He was not altogether certain he wanted to discuss the manner of his passing at all.

‘My lady is too kind,’ Sir Arthur said, and against his better judgement he took her—mercifully gloved—hand, and bowed. Though he was well guarded against involuntary visions or intrusions into his thoughts, there was an exchange of energy between them, like an electrical charge, and he heard Kate Fox’s voice clearly in his mind, though she did not speak aloud.

Take care of your lady. A time will come when all that she is will depend upon you. And if you fail, the Other shall be waiting…

Sir Arthur pulled his hand away, perhaps a little too sharply. No one else seemed to notice any form of exchange, but as Arthur looked up at Miss Fox’s dark eyes—rather sad eyes, he thought—he could have sworn he saw a whip-thin tendril of shadow unfurl itself from her throat, and retreat once again behind—or, rather, into—her back.

* * *

‘May I speak freely, Lord Hardwick?’ Arthur asked when they were safely away in the growling automobile.

‘I suppose you will do so anyway.’

It seems to me that I was brought along today for no better reason than to sweeten Her Majesty’s disposition.’

‘Oh?’ Lord Hardwick raised a bushy eyebrow.

‘Indeed. The Queen’s preoccupation with Majestics is well known. However, I resent being paraded before her, and not just her, but Kate Fox. That woman’s powers are quite beyond my own—to associate too closely with her is to court… unintended consequences.’

Lord Hardwick considered this.

‘I had presumed you were skilled enough to handle the matter,’ he said. ‘That is, after all, why Sir Toby spared you the rigours of the Nightwatch, is it not? You are right—in part at least. The matters I put to the Queen this afternoon were delicate ones, to say the least. And I confess I hoped that you’d provide some distraction to the Fox woman. You certainly succeeded on that score.’

Sir Arthur frowned at that. What he had seen—what he had felt—had been most discomfiting.

‘I said you were partly right,’ Lord Hardwick continued. ‘There was one other reason I asked you along today.’

‘Which is?’

Lord Hardwick leaned forward in his seat. Arthur heard the man’s leather glove squeaking as his fist clenched around his walking cane. His face was as stone, his stare intense—this was not the elder statesman, this was Britain’s war leader, until recently a decorated, serving soldier, forged in battle. He spoke to Sir Arthur plainly, in almost a growl, so there would be no mistaking his meaning.