The Iscariot Sanction (28 page)

She breathed and tried to calm herself. She could not allow herself to be defeated. Granted, she was far from home, on the edge of an inhospitable moor, with no money or food, and only the clothes on her back, one concealed blade, and a tiny derringer. She squinted against the darkness, looking about and seeing nothing but scrub and field for miles. She could not recall how long ago she had noticed the last station they passed—it had been nothing more than a hut-like station building and a distant church spire. What was it? Commonford? Commondale? It was miles away, regardless.

Lillian knew she stood upon the fringe of the moors. She could follow the rail tracks west, which would give her surety of direction, but would in essence lead her towards her enemy. What if they came back for her?

With bitterness, she reflected that John would know what to do. He always had a plan. She’d often told him that requiring more than one plan was the same as expecting to fail. How she regretted that now.

She would, she decided, do as she always did, and take one step at a time. She was shivering now, and knew she had to find shelter rather than wander the moors in soaking wet clothes. But even before that, she had to search the area for any sign of Arthur.

* * *

‘Get back, Smythe, for pity’s sake,’ John hissed.

John yanked Beauchamp Smythe into the shadows as a black-clad creature stalked past them. The surgeon squeezed himself flat against the rough brick wall of the station waiting room, and looked rather sheepish.

As soon as the coast was clear, John slipped from their hiding place, beckoning Smythe to follow, treading along the platform silent as a cat to the little ticket office. He froze momentarily, Smythe almost bumping into him, as the creature up ahead stopped to sniff the air, turning its head from one side to the other as if dimly aware of some hostile presence. When the bald-headed guard continued on its way, John quietly clicked open the door to the ticket office and crept inside.

The office was small, cramped, full of papers and copybooks, and unoccupied. The entire station was deserted, except for the Knights Iscariot, whose agents were seemingly everywhere. John pointed to another door near to the side of the office.

‘Keep a watch,’ he whispered. He ducked low behind the little ticketing window, and shuffled the papers on the desk, looking for the most recent documentation. There was nothing to suggest the passing of the royal train; John had not really expected as much. Even if the station had been running as usual, the arrival of Leopold’s delegation would have been a state secret. John sucked at his teeth as he considered what to do next.

There came a soft thud from behind the side door.

‘There’s someone in there,’ Smythe whispered.

John crept to the door, and signalled to Smythe that he would open it, and that Smythe should be ready to shoot whomever came out of it. Smythe readied a pistol dutifully.

John opened the door quickly, pressing himself against the wall, expecting Smythe to shoot. The surgeon did not, but almost instantly lowered the gun. John stepped from behind the door and looked inside a dark store cupboard, in which was sitting an old man with white whiskers, wearing a railway uniform that had seen better days. He was tied to his chair, and gagged with a kerchief.

‘Well,’ said John. ‘This explains why things are so quiet around here.

The old man looked up at the two agents of the Crown pleadingly.

‘All right, old boy,’ said Smythe. ‘Just keep quiet, and we’ll get you out of here in a jiffy.’

* * *

‘I don’t care if they find me, sir, I’ll not be going back there. Upon my oath!’ The old stationmaster, Cottam, was stubborn as a mule, and rightfully angry at his predicament.

‘There now, old fellow,’ said John, ‘no one is going to make you go back. But those men on the platform are going to be more than a little confused when they find you’re no longer their prisoner.’

‘I couldn’t care less, sir, beggin’ your pardon. And they ain’t what I’d call “men”, neither.’

‘Quite,’ said John. He slurped his tea.

They sat in Cottam’s meagre flat, overlooking the murky waters of the River Hull. A sea-mark chimed softly in the distance. The stationmaster had explained to the two agents that he had been forced to turn a blind eye to the dealings of the Knights Iscariot for long enough. When he had refused to put the entirety of the station at their disposal, they had subdued him until their work was done.

‘There’s a fog dropping,’ John said, gazing through the small window.

‘Sea fret,’ said Cottam. ‘Rolls in along the ’Umber, fast as you like. Some days you can’t see your hand in front o’ your face when the fret’s up.’

‘Fortunate,’ said John. ‘We might need to move about the city discreetly.’

‘You get bumblin’ about out there in the fret,’ said Cottam, ‘and ye’ll as like run in t’ one of
them
. They’ll kill you sure as God made little green apples.’

‘You’re lucky they didn’t kill you,’ said Smythe. ‘I’ve seen them butcher men for less.’ Smythe was keeping his tone steady, but John could tell he didn’t trust the old timer.

‘Pah!’ spat Cottam. ‘What’s the use o’ killin’ an old man like me? Besides, they can’t just go around killin’ folk, can they, well, not folk who keep the trains runnin’ and the ships sailin’, and the docks loadin’. They threaten us, they control us. But when they go too far, they find that a man’ll fight back, ’specially if they’ve took everything from him.’

John frowned for a second, and then followed the old man’s gaze to the cluttered mantelpiece, where a faded watercolour of a woman took pride of place. It was the kind of daub that a street artist would do for a penny, but the man’s reverence for the portrait was unmistakeable.

‘Mrs. Cottam?’ he asked.

The old man nodded. ‘My Maud. Took ’er a year ago. Said at first they was ’oldin her at Scarrowfall, but as time went on I knew she were dead. No one’s goes to Scarrowfall ever comes back. Everybody knows that.’

‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Cottam,’ John said. He was struck by a sudden sadness as he thought of this old man, alone in the world thanks to the Knights Iscariot’s cruelty, now clinging to a penny-portrait as if it were a masterpiece; the only thing he had to remember her by. It made him angry.

‘Mr. Cottam, we need to follow the royal train, to ensure it reached its final destination. You are certain it left via the western route?’

‘The Moorlands Line,’ he said. ‘Aye, I’m sure. And it were bang on time an’ all. I heard it leave at a minute past the hour, an’ there’ve been no other trains today.’

‘Do you know when the next Moorlands Line train will leave?’ John asked.

The old man shook his whiskered head. ‘There’s a train first thing in t’ morning, but the station’ll be crawlin’ with them devils. Always is when the trains come in, even in the daytime. You’ll not get by them.’

John wasn’t so sure about that, but he certainly did not wish to create a commotion needlessly. For now, secrecy was their greatest ally.

‘Then we need another way out of Hull,’ John said.

‘Do you know of any coachman who might be trusted?’ Smythe added. ‘Or perhaps an ostler who might have horses we can buy?’

‘No one who’ll risk his neck fer the likes o’ you,’ said Cottam. ‘Not without Pickering’s say so.’

‘Pickering?’ John asked.

‘Aye. He’s the only man who’s not been cowed by the Knights ’scariot. Anyone round ’ere who’s true to England answers to Christopher Pickering.’

‘Wait, I know of him,’ said Smythe. ‘He’s the shipping magnate, is he not?’

‘Aye. His fleet controls most o’ the trade in Hull. He survives because the Knights can’t afford to lose him. Mind you, if they only knew what he got up to behind their backs, I imagine they’d cut their losses.’

‘And what does he get up to?’ asked John.

Cottam allowed a satisfied grin to cross his wizened features. ‘He
resists
, Lieutenant. ’Im and ’is fleet, and as many men’s he can summon. He resists.’ He nodded knowingly.

‘A fleet is hardly the thing we need right now,’ Smythe said, almost to himself. ‘But the man must have considerable resources, I suppose. Perhaps he could help us.’

‘I’ll be going to him as soon as I can, sirs,’ said Cottam. ‘Figure there’s no one else will help me now, ’cept Mr. Pickering. I’d advise you to come with me—I doubt you’ll be safe elsewhere.’

‘I daresay you are correct,’ said Smythe. ‘And besides, it would be remiss of us to enter enemy-occupied territory and not show our support for the resistance, eh, Lieutenant Hardwick?’

‘Indeed, Agent Smythe. Most remiss indeed.’

* * *

Arthur woke. He was not dead; at least, he did not think so. He certainly could not see anything, except perhaps crawling shadows on the edge of darkness. A sweet smell drifted to him, comforting almost, the night-scent of flowers, mingled with damp earth. He was cold.

When the voice of the Other came, it was almost a relief. If it pursued him still, then he was alive. But that it had found him meant that his relief would be fleeting.

You are ours now, little blood-sack.

Arthur blinked against the night, trying desperately to come to his senses. Shadows moved around him, the icy cold numbed him. His fingers closed around something wet and slimy; he at first recoiled, but then identified clumps of vegetation. He felt now the damp seeping through his clothes, felt needle-sharp pains all over his body, and the sticky warmth of the bullet wound, from which his strength seemed to flow into the cold ground.

Relinquish the spark of life and come to us, blood-sack.
The Other cajoled him, the voice in Arthur’s head sounding soothing, alluring.

He tried to shake it from his thoughts, but it was there still, scratching at the inside of his head. Arthur realised that his limbs would barely move, that he must be injured badly. He knew that if he lay there too long, so suffuse with etherium, the Other would claw its way after him greedily. He willed his body to move, willed his hands to grip the coarse bushes beside him and his arms to pull him upwards. His wound burned like fire, his own blood feeling impossibly hot in the freezing air. He crawled at first, wriggling and undignified, every inch of ground covered causing him more pain than he’d thought possible.

Where are you running to, little blood-sack? We hunger.

Arthur’s vision swam. Slowly but surely he began to make out shapes and colours; a dark sky, a pale pink horizon, foliage washed with purple hues, picked out by the weak light from a cloud-covered half-moon. He pushed with his legs, his crawl becoming a clamber. His feet sank in deep puddles of mud, making every step laborious.

We will find you, and we will snip-crack your bones…

He could see the Other in his mind’s eye now—a half-glimpsed mass of writhing terror, upon which his thoughts could not linger lest he be dragged to madness. Arthur steeled himself, his freezing fingers poking into his pockets, fumbling for his syringe case and the phials of etherium. It was still there, but he would not use it unless it was absolutely necessary.

Snip-crack; snip-crack; snip-crack…

Louder and louder, closer and closer, the Other stalked him. Arthur knew he had taken too much etherium. In the cradle of the Tesla field he had felt safe, knowing that his powers would need to be increased tenfold if he were to combat de Montfort. But now, out here, he felt more vulnerable than ever. He was a candle in the darkness, a feast of rotting flesh for the lord of flies.

That thought spurred him onwards—if he were to die, it would be on his own terms. He knew he could outrun them, at least for a while—the Other would try to break through the veil, to create a Rift within the fabric of the universe, but that would take time and energy that the Riftborn often failed to muster. By staying on the move, a Majestic could lead the Riftborn a merry dance until finally, he hoped, the demons lost the energy to break through. If he were to tire before them, however…

Where are you? Blood-sack, blood-sack… where are you?

There were other options. He fingered the syringe case, but knew that it was a desperate gambit, a last resort. Mundane etherium. Not etherium at all, but something perhaps more sinister, dressed up with a fanciful name to make its use more palatable to the general populace. No, the source of mundane etherium must remain a closely guarded secret, known only by the Nightwatch and their masters. Arthur pushed such thoughts from his mind—all thoughts, indeed, for only a clear head could hold the Other at bay. But he was in no state to bar the doors to his psyche. He could feel long, probing fingers picking away at the psychic defences he had so hastily formed. He had to keep moving.

Where are you?

The voice was louder now. A sharp pain jabbed at Arthur’s skull, and he felt the trickle of blood from his nose. The after-effects of etherium were often violent. The attentions of the Other more so.

The ground became less even. Arthur scrambled up a steep bank, grabbing clumps of tough heather to pull himself upwards. His vision began to return to normal, the dark moors coalescing into focus. The cold night air pricked at him relentlessly.

Where are you?

Arthur reached the top of the bank, and a stronger breeze pushed at him. Before him was a wide bed of heavy gravel, and a pair of rail tracks. His memory flooded back to him, piecemeal at first, then faster. He remembered the creatures aboard the royal train; the Tesla pistol—where was it now? He remembered falling from the train. He knew he was lucky to be alive.

Arthur straightened up as best he could, and the agony of his wound almost forced him to his knees. He could not bear to touch it, for he knew he might pass out, and there was no telling what would happen then. He locked his mind, visualising ironbound doors and barricades, fortified against the raging demons beyond. They hammered at his mental defences, and howled with hatred.

‘Where are you?’

The voice was loud, and close. Head spinning, Arthur steeled himself for a confrontation with his old enemy. The cat-and-mouse game they had played since the Awakening was almost over.