The Iscariot Sanction (30 page)

Lillian pulled the stitch tight, wincing as Arthur struggled not to scream. Blood flowed down her arms, making her hands slick and the work she did even more difficult. The tiny back room of the post office smelled of rubbing alcohol, which was all she had been able to find to disinfect the wound.

Arthur bit down hard on the wooden handle of a postmaster’s stamp. His pain was writ large across his face. He grunted and wheezed. When at last she tied off the final strand of waxen thread, Arthur’s head thudded back to the tabletop with relief.

‘Is it… done?’ he asked, his voice very thin. The pain of Lillian’s somewhat amateurish surgical skills had at least brought him from his delirium and restored some lucidity, though now he was weaker still.

‘It is,’ she said. ‘Hush now. Thankfully the bullet passed straight through, and the wound is closed, but you need to stay as still as possible. You need a real surgeon.’

‘That should not be a problem,’ he said, forcing a smile upon his ghastly pale features. ‘I feel as though I have been kicked by a mule. No… an elephant.’

Lillian smiled back, trying to ignore her own throbbing ribs. ‘Rest easy, Arthur. I must attend to other matters.’

‘Lillian… I cannot let you carry all the burden. What can I do?’

‘There is nothing you can do, unless you feel able to build a barricade. I must send a telegram to the Order, and inform them of what has transpired.’

‘Let me do that, at least. I have always been better at writing code.’ He winked. She appreciated it took him a great effort to appear light-hearted. The Other had invaded his mind, if only for a moment, and had clawed its way into the real world because of him. That would scar him, perhaps for life, if what she knew of Majestics was correct.

‘If you insist. It will have to be done from memory… Are you sure you are in the right frame of mind?’

‘Lillian, I am fine, I assure you. The… episode… has passed. I can no longer feel the presence of the Riftborn, and must assume that the Knights Iscariot have banished them.’

‘At least they weren’t lying when they said they had that power. But it means they shall be after us sooner rather than later,’ Lillian said. ‘Here, take these, and hurry.’ She handed him a copybook and pencil, and helped him to sit up against the wall, before beginning the important work of barricading them in the little post office for the night.

No one had answered their pounding on the door, and they had broken in to find the building deserted. There were four rooms downstairs—the shop itself, an office, a large kitchen that appeared to double as a storeroom for medicines, and a tiny, unkempt lounge by the back door. Stairs led off that room to an attic bedroom and wardrobe. Lillian assumed that the accommodation was not often used; perhaps the postmaster lived elsewhere, and did not often stay overnight.

She did not feel in a fit state for physical exertion, but set about her duties with as much enthusiasm and efficiency as she could muster. First she washed down the makeshift operating table around Arthur, and scrubbed her hands and arms scrupulously free of blood. She closed and locked the shutters at the bedroom window. She upended the bed and pushed it down the stairs, blocking the back door. The mattress followed suit. Once she had fought past her handiwork to return to the kitchen, she toppled all of the furniture behind her, to make the porch completely inaccessible, either from the back yard or from upstairs, without a struggle. There was a key in the rear kitchen door, which she turned as soon as she had finished in the back.

‘How is the message coming, Arthur?’ she asked.

‘Almost there—it is not easy without the cypher, as well you know.’

Lillian had struggled in her code-writing lessons at the academy. Though she knew enough to get by, Arthur had far more experience, and she was thankful that he was up to the work. Apollo Lycea used various systems of code when sending telegrams or letters, depending upon where the operation took place. On British soil, the Burmese system was preferred, for hardly anyone in Great Britain was familiar with the language of Myanmar. Messages were first translated into Burmese, and then carefully transcribed into a standardised, phonetic form. This in itself could be transcribed once more into numerals, using a substitution code, which was far harder to crack than one written in a familiar language. Anyone who got that far without a cypher would not only need to understand Myanmar, but also recognise it from the Romanised form.

Arthur only needed to write a line or two to convey their dire predicament to headquarters, but it was painstaking work. She shifted uncomfortably as he scrawled, listening carefully for any noise from outside.

At last, Arthur handed back the copybook. Lillian tore out the finished message—a series of numbers—and placed the rest of the book in the kitchen stove and lit it. Once she had sent the message, she would do the same with the page she had, in case the Knights Iscariot had the means to understand the code.

She went to the shop floor and, with one eye on the window, installed herself at the telegraph. It did not take long to send the message, after which she returned to the kitchen and, with no small effort, moved the dresser to the door, toppling it so that it was firmly wedged between the door and the dining table. Finally, she stoked the kitchen stove in the hope of bringing some warmth to the room. With that, she could do no more, but slumped into a chair, so exhausted that she shook.

‘Lillian, I am sorry,’ Arthur croaked.

‘For what?’

‘I could have done more. I should have predicted what Ewart would do. I should not have got myself shot. Most of all, I am sorry that you are the one protecting me, rather than the reverse.’

‘Stop it, Arthur. You understand our roles as well as I. Much as it may challenge your notion of the gentler sex, I am the “muscle” in this partnership.’

Arthur’s laughter rattled in his chest until it turned into a hacking cough. Lillian forced herself to her tired feet and at once brought him water, which he gulped thirstily.

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Arthur said once he had recovered. ‘Do you remember what happened in Paris?’

‘Please, Arthur…’

‘No, let me finish. This has gone unsaid for too long. I promised you then that you could always depend on me, and I meant it. I have been distant, aloof, in the time since then, but my feelings have not changed. I have not denied them because of your father; I want you to understand that. I have merely buried them deep, out of duty, and because I want to protect you.’

‘Protect me from what?’ Lillian asked, cradling Arthur’s head, drawing near to him.

‘From me,’ he whispered. ‘From the danger that surrounds me. You saw it in Paris—it is why your father disapproves of me so.’

‘If I remember rightly, we escaped the Riftborn, and saved a hundred people that day.’

‘At great cost! At too great a cost, some would say. I took a risk in Paris, and I took that risk because I saw you were in danger, and all I could think about was saving you, while I should have considered the consequences. Lillian, you have seen tonight why I can never lower my guard; I can never find love like an ordinary man. At any moment my life can turn on a sixpence—I could descend into madness, or be torn from this world by things beyond our ken. I could be cursed to walk the Eternal Night for ever. And anyone… close to me… would be taken with me.’

‘Perhaps… that would not be so bad,’ Lillian said, softly. ‘Perhaps it is not something you should face alone.’

‘There is no other way to face it, my dear Lillian,’ he said. ‘We who were awakened must walk this path alone, in this life and the next.’

Lillian took his hand in hers. ‘Arthur, I want you to know that I care about you very much. Let us just see this night through, before we speak of the afterlife.’

‘You hesitate to say that you love me,’ he said. He sounded rueful.

‘Is it fair to say anything of the sort, given the circumstances? And is it fair to expect such a thing of me, given what you have told me?’

‘No. It is not fair; it is selfish. You are younger than me, and you are free of this curse that lesser men call a gift. I cannot offer you the life you deserve; I cannot offer you a bright future. And yet I wish I could, and I wish to God I could hear you say that you desired it also.’

Lillian’s eyes turned downwards. How often had she wondered if this moment would ever come? How many times had she questioned her own heart on the very complicated matter of Sir Arthur Furnival? She did not know her own mind, and that made her feel very foolish. And so she squeezed Arthur’s hand, and he tried to return the gesture, but weakly.

‘I can forgive your selfishness, Arthur. And I am sorry I cannot give you what your heart desires, not yet. Perhaps, if you will be patient, there may yet be a future for us. But for now, we must simply survive this night, and pray that the new dawn brings us sanctuary.’

Arthur nodded. He was a sickly shade from the blood he had lost, and his eyelids drooped as he fought to stay awake.

‘Sweet Lillian, you are ever the stronger one of us, and you are right, I ask too much, and the moment is inopportune. Forgive me.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. Will you sleep, Arthur, please? Take some rest, and we shall talk more when the danger is passed.’

He nodded. ‘Yes… I think I shall. Please wake me when it is my turn to take watch.’ His words were already slurring as he grew drowsy.

‘I will,’ Lillian promised, knowing full well that she would not.

‘Lillian…’

‘Yes?’

‘I never got you a… birthday present…’

‘You can buy me an extra big one when we return to London. Now sleep.’

Arthur finally gave in and closed his eyes. Lillian sat back in the kitchen chair, checked her small, inadequate pistol, and leaned her head against the wall. She would stay awake; she had to. She only hoped that, should it come to it, she would have the strength to fight.

* * *

‘As I said, Lieutenant Hardwick, I am thankful beyond measure that we finally have government men taking an interest in our plight. But the simple fact is that we are but few here, and we cannot get you out of Hull by rail or road.’

John sighed. He had hoped for a more determined—and certainly more numerous—resistance effort. What he instead found was a crumbling warehouse occupied by a band of fishermen, some thirty strong, all in the employ of Christopher Pickering. The businessman was not so very experienced, perhaps not even in his fortieth year, although his face was well lined through worry and toil.

‘Mr. Pickering, you have heard Mr. Cottam’s statement that the royal train passed through Hull earlier today,’ John said.

‘Aye, we know all about it,’ Pickering replied. ‘Figured one of their royal highnesses was talking with our self-proclaimed masters. To what end, I’d rather not consider, given the short shrift the north has received this past year.’

‘Matters have come to a head, Mr. Pickering, and Prince Leopold himself has been sent to treat with the Knights Iscariot. I believe the prince wishes to wrest control of the north from their hands.’

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ Pickering said, furrowing his brow. He was not a boorish man, nor a rebarbative one, John had found, but he had a confidence that came from spending his days in charge of others, and dealing with the same. Added to his forthright manner, common amongst the men of the region, it made Pickering to appear somewhat gruff in his demeanour.

‘Nevertheless, Mr. Pickering, it is imperative that we catch up with that train. If anything were to happen to the prince, the repercussions would be grave indeed.’

Pickering stroked his beard. ‘We are hardly enjoying a time in the sun here, Lieutenant. I have worked all my life for the benefit of this city, and yet now I must endure the yoke of oppression, and watch my fellows live in fear for their lives. And while this shadow has fallen over us, not once have we received aid from London.’

‘We did not know the extent of your troubles until now, Mr. Pickering. My agency, among others, is only now taking matters in hand—’

‘Pish!’ Pickering snapped. ‘Do you think I have rested idly, boy? Do you think I have not sailed out of here myself to raise the alarm? We are not cut off from the world—we have telegrams and letters and ships and trains. For all my influence, there are a dozen powerful businessmen here who would deny all knowledge of the Knights Iscariot, and label me mad. Then there are the scores, if not hundreds, of councillors, magistrates, army officers, and eminent peers who would swear nothing is amiss, and that they are still loyal to the Crown. The resistance is too few to contradict the Knights Iscariot. From what I understand, there are traitors even in Whitehall, who would keep secrets from the government. Or perhaps Whitehall knows full well what is happening here, but have chosen to do nothing.’

John considered this, and his stomach knotted as he realised it must be true. He had suspected it all along, though he had not wanted to admit as much. Maybe, with the Riftborn providing a more immediate threat, it had been easy for the government to ignore the repression of a few villages, or the business dealings of a shadowy group who some accused of being vampires. But now that the great industries of the north had fallen almost into full control of the Knights Iscariot, action had been taken. He wondered how much the Order had known. Had they sent him to Cheshire to gauge how far the rot had spread? Had his father known about any of this, or suspected? He felt sick at the thought.

‘I say, that’s a rather nasty accusation—’ Smythe started, but John touched his arm and gestured for him to be silent.

‘We understand your position, truly we do,’ said John. ‘Whatever circumstance has rallied the Crown to your cause is no concern of ours—we are agents, soldiers, here to do our duty. But know that we are on the same side. I have no love for the Knights Iscariot, nor even for Prince Leopold, if truth be told, but I am here for a reason far beyond mere orders.’

‘Oh?’ Pickering said.

‘My sister is on board that train, Mr. Pickering. My little sister. And I believe—nay, I know—that she is in danger. I would find the royal train, and I hope beyond hope that you will help me do it, for there appears to be nowhere else to turn.’