Merciless Reason (25 page)

Elizabeth did not look pleased.

“They should at least be questioned,” she urged her brother. “Surely you are not letting them off so lightly? You do intend to interrogate them before they are released? Brutus?”

“The decision has been made,” Brutus said. “Sentence has been passed.”

Elizabeth made an exasperated sound and lifted her hands in a gesture of dismissal. Daisy could see the frustration in the older woman's eyes. She was not happy, but it was not her place to question her brother's actions. At least, not with others present.

Men emerged from hiding all around the small strange group—concealed behind the monuments and crypts. Daisy felt an icy fear run through her, afraid that these were more of Oliver's conspirators. Or was this part of some complicated trap to have her condemn one of the family and pay the price for her betrayal, as so many women had? She recognized the men as some of the Wildensterns' enforcers, the hard men who were party to some of the family's more illicit dealings.

“I summoned them before I called for you,” Elizabeth told her. “They are here merely for security, now that Brutus has subdued the aggressors.”

Six of the men came forward, nodding in respect to Daisy, and took Brutus's three attackers by the arms. Oliver and his lackeys were led away like common criminals. Their departure would be ensured; they would be watched until they had boarded their ship and sailed over the horizon.

Daisy wanted to be sick, but she maintained her composure in front of Brutus and Elizabeth, who stood watching her, as if waiting for her to show the chink in her armored reserve. She turned her face from them, and noticed for the first time who occupied the grave that had formed the center of this drama.

It was the grave of Miriam Wildenstern. The marble kerb with its bent black rail framed a gravel rectangle. Above it stood a white marble headstone carved into the base of a tall Celtic cross. Daisy had been surprised by the symbol when she first saw it—it was a strange choice for a Protestant woman—and by the fact that she had not been interred with her husband. She had later learned that the Patriarchs were often interred alone, their wives commonly placed in the graves nearby. Though Miriam had been a committed Christian, she had delighted in gathering old Celtic myths and legends, even inviting traditional storytellers to the house to entertain her and her guests. The Celtic cross had been Berto's idea and Edgar had, in a rare act of generosity, agreed.

Daisy wondered what Brutus had been doing out here in the first place—the only people he would have known in this modern world, apart from Elizabeth, were his dead brother and sister. His brother's body had never been found, and his sister was buried on the far side of the graveyard. Perhaps he had decided on the scene for this meeting after defeating the three men. Perhaps he thought she needed a reminder of what could fall a rebellious woman in Wildenstern Hall.

“It will get easier, my dear,” Elizabeth's voice said from behind her, “These are the kinds of decisions one must take when one holds the reins of power. Gerald has passed those reins to Brutus for the moment, and Brutus decided that you needed to momentarily feel the pull of the horses, in order to better understand the responsibilities of the driver.”

Then it's just as well that I'm going to be jumping out of the coach, Daisy thought. It only remains to be seen if I survive the landing.

XXVI

THE STUFF OF LEGEND

CATHAL WOKE ON A NARROW BED
to a wooly, befuddled reality. He was aware of a distant but profound throb of pain in his arm. It took nearly a minute for him to remember what had happened to it, and then he was sure that the injury could not have been as serious as he remembered, for he could still feel the
shape
of his right hand through the pain. He could almost open and close it, he could flex the fingers.

Then he raised his head and saw that his right arm ended in a bandaged stump a few inches below the elbow. His head sank back onto the pillow and he started to cry. He lifted his head again, hoping that it might not be as bad as he thought. It was. He took a bit longer to study it this time. Part of him, the part with a passion for science, and particularly anatomy, was fascinated by the macabre sight. His hand was completely gone, and Gerald had clearly trimmed the bone, cleaned and sewn up the stump. The hinge joint of the elbow was intact, and enough of the radius and ulna bones—and their sheath of muscle, sinew and ligament—remained below to make the use of a prosthetic easier.

His breath came in short gasps, his chest shook with growing sobs. It was bizarre to find that the pain in his arm was still
hand-shaped
. If he closed his eyes, he would have sworn his hand was still attached. This was a phenomenon known as ghost pain, and was common in amputees. That was a label that applied to him now—he was an amputee. He thought of Tatty, and wished she were here to say something inane and funny. He needed her to hold him and tell him she would still love him, hook and all. His thoughts were slow and cumbersome and he realized that Gerald must have drugged him to ease the pain. God only knew what it would be like once this laudanum-induced haze cleared.

He clumsily raised his arm up in front of his face, and the stump appeared even more horrifying as he looked at the empty space where his hand should have been. A whimper slipped from his lips. He estimated that he had lost nearly twelve inches from the length of his arm. Hah! he thought to himself, letting out a hysterical giggle. I've lost a foot from my arm!

“It should not have happened, and I'm sorry,” Gerald said to him.

Cathal turned his head to see the older man sitting in a chair by his bedside. The room was somewhere in the mine, and, judging by the furnishings, was Gerald's bedroom. Cathal's vision swam as he moved his head and the room spun. He should have hated Gerald but he didn't. His emotions too had been numbed by the laudanum.

“Bas'ard,” he managed to say, and the effort it took convinced him that it would have to do for the moment.

“Red was terrified of what was happening to you,” Gerald explained. “He closed the leviathans mouth out of fear. That was not part of the plan.”

There was a plan, Cathal mused, tipping his head back to stare blearily at the ceiling.

“Pip?” he asked.

“Safe,” Gerald replied. “You saved his life. Though he was petrified of you too. It was quite a sight to behold, your transformation. The injury seemed to interrupt it, but you were on the verge of becoming … something else, Cathal!” Gerald's face lit up as he recalled the wondrous event. “In Irish mythology, such a thing is referred to as a ‘warp spasm,' I believe. An uncontrollable lust for battle, according to legend, experienced by only the greatest warriors. It was clearly an instinctive reaction on your part, but it must have been triggered by the conflict of your will against mine—you could feel that too, I'm sure.”

Looking past this man he despised so much, Cathal saw a glass tank on a sideboard near the bed. Inside were two snake-like engimals. In fact, they were two parts of the one engimal, whose name was Apple. Here was a portion of the creature that had saved him from tuberculosis nearly four years ago. Could they …?

“Their power is exhausted,” Gerald told him. “Whatever ability they had was used in repairing my body. After Nate left the country, they became next to useless. There is perhaps one more purpose they can serve, should the opportunity arise … But the key part of the serpentine, Apple's
core,
if you like, ha ha—!”

Cathal gave him a profoundly sour look.

“Sorry.” Gerald gently patted his maimed arm. “Anyway … the piece that can perform such miracles on the human body is with Nate. I'm not sure even that wondrous creature could replace your hand. I have made an extensive study of these sections, and have come to the conclusion that they are of no more use to me. If Nate doesn't show up with Apple's, third section soon, I'm going to have to dissect them.”

Cathal wondered if there was a chance that Gerald might be shutting up any time soon.

“You know, it might not seem it at the moment,” Gerald went on, dashing Cathal's hopes, “but this injury of yours is a superb opportunity to learn more about the possibilities of reconstructing the human body. When you changed, I could have sworn you
grew—
you
added mass
to your body. I can't work out how this is possible. But if it is, Cathal … if it is, there might be the hope that we could re-grow your hand. Perhaps the intelligent particles can trigger some kind of chemical reaction in our cells, and then feed them as they grow at this tremendous rate …”

I wonder if I could make my body explode like a bomb, thought Cathal. If he mentions ‘intelligent particles' one more time, I think I could manage it.

“If they
are
like seeds or spores, as I suspect,” Gerald chattered, “they could contain some kind of store of energy, along with instinctive instructions for how to build cellular structures. With a large enough reservoir of energy, they could form their own structures without causing those of their host to rot. Imagine it as a fungal parasite or a bacteria that, instead of destroying your flesh,
rebuilt
it with materials that
it
provided! The possibilities, Cathal …”

Cathal was becoming convinced that his drug-induced haze was wearing off. The pain in his arm was becoming unbearable, and his mind was actually trying to make sense of Gerald's blatherings. Then Gerald's monologue was cut mercifully short by the appearance of Elizabeth, who pushed open the door to the room.

“What have you done to him?” she exclaimed, her noble face a mask of thinly veiled consternation.

Gerald frowned and glanced down at Cathal.

“It wasn't me—it was an accident,” he began. “The escape attempt took place as expected and—”

“Not
him,
you conniving weasel!” she snapped, dismissing Cathal with a wave of her hand. “Brutus! What have you done to
Brutus
?”

“You mean, apart from bringing him back to life?” Gerald asked. “Elizabeth, Cathal and I have reached a pivotal breakthrough in my research. Can't this wait?”

“Whah 'ave you done to Brutus?” Cathal demanded, his voice slurred, thumping his left hand on the bed.

Gerald regarded him with a frustrated expression and stood up to face Elizabeth.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“The problem is that Brutus is not behaving like Brutus!” she replied sharply. “Only this morning, we were attacked by Oliver and two of his toadies … and he let them live! Then he binds them and discovers a paper on them revealing that they were to target Daisy next. My brother has me fetch that scheme-weaving trollop and bring her to him, so that
she
can decide the fate of
our
attackers! It is an outrage!”

Cathal listened with interest, trying to block out the pain that burned up his arm.

“I'm at something of a loss,” Gerald admitted. “Again, what is the problem?”

Elizabeth strode up to him, her contorted face only a foot away from his. She was as tall as he was, and despite her womanly curves, there was no denying the strength in her frame. Most men would have taken a step backwards. Gerald remained perfectly composed.

“My brother was born for the battlefield!” she snarled. “He had four loves in his life: violence, women, drink and food—violence being his clear favorite. Hugo was the eldest of us; he was a thinker and a leader. But Brutus was a giant—a beautiful, primal beast! He did not
plan
, he did not
ponder
or
reflect
. He did not show mercy to his enemies, and if that question should ever arise he absolutely, most definitely did not seek
the opinion of a woman
in the matter!”

“Then perhaps my ministrations have enabled him to evolve beyond the beast that you remember so fondly,” Gerald responded. “This is a science you cannot hope to understand. You are intelligent, Elizabeth, but you lack a curiosity about anything in the world that does not contribute to your power games. I did not need a warrior to control the Wildensterns, I needed a general. That is what Brutus has become.

“If you are disappointed that he has not turned out to be the dim-witted oaf for whom you hold such affection, I apologize. If, on the other hand, you are disappointed because you hoped to be able to manipulate him, then that is your hard luck. I'm certain you played him like a puppet when you knew him before, but now Brutus answers to me, and only to me. Your brother is much improved, in my opinion, but those improvements have come at a price. Without me, he is never more than a few days from death's door. You should remember that, Elizabeth. I can assure you that Brutus can never forget it.”

Elizabeth had murder in her eyes, but her fear of Gerald and her need for him were too great for her to allow her rage full rein. She stood up straighter and took a deep breath, composing herself.

“He is kind to Leopold, at least,” she admitted. “I'll grant you that. The old Brutus had no time for children. And his manners have much improved. It is … it is just disturbing for me to see these changes in him. His memories of our old life too are extremely vague. He is reluctant to discuss them. I blame those journals you made him read. He really does not have the capacity to absorb all of that information. I think it has confused him … and that combined with the trauma of his death.”

“It's natural that he should find his old life difficult to recall,” Gerald said gently. “I warned you of that. He was dead for centuries, and his recovery was much longer and harder than yours, his injuries much more grievous. You cannot expect him to be the same man, Elizabeth.”

Gerald took her by the hand and led her to the door.

“Go back to your son,” he told her. “I will be home very late tonight. I have to run an errand in town.”

She was barely out the door when Gerald closed it behind her and strode over to sit down at Cathal's side again.

“Where were we?” he asked. “Ah, yes—seeds that rebuild flesh—”

“You knew we were going to escape?” Cathal interrupted him, his words clearer now.

“I knew you were going to
attempt
an escape,” Gerald corrected him. “Did you really think I didn't see you taking the whistle from under the desk? Honestly, Cathal; your baiting of Red was hardly subtle, and your sleight of hand is not what you think it is. Once I saw that, I knew an escape was imminent and informed Red. We didn't tell the other guards; their acting skills could not be counted upon. I stood ready at the entrance with my fiddle. I was confident that Moby would pose an interesting challenge, and that—given your strong ethical foundations—you would put up a rousing fight for the freedom of the children. I wanted to see what would happen to you in the heat of such a vital struggle. I planned to wind it all up once I had made my observations.

“As I said, the loss of your arm was an unfortunate accident. Red has had it in for you since you got here—he's convinced you're the Highwayboy, the one who robbed him out in the hills last year, and gave him that scar. But I believe this was a genuine act of panic on his part. You aren't the rapparee, are you? Red claims he knew you by the way you spoke and the way you fought. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. He has already been suitably chastised and you will have no more problems from him, if you behave.”

“You let us try and escape,” Cathal mumbled. “Queg's dead, isn't he? A young boy was shot to death, Gerald. So … what? The whole thing was just some kind of experiment?”

“Cathal, Cathal,” Gerald sighed patiently, showing tolerance for a slow student. He shrugged. “That's why you're all here.”