The Maleficent Seven (From the World of Skulduggery Pleasant) (2 page)

anguine had returned to the apartment to grab Tanith’s coat – he knew how much she loved it – and on the way back he’d snagged himself a prisoner. The man whimpered and cried a little, but otherwise didn’t do a whole lot, especially when Sanguine’s straight razor pressed against his throat. Beyond them, where the alley met the brightly lit street, a sorcerer called Clagge hurried by, talking into his phone, doing his best to co-ordinate the hunt from ground level. Sanguine would have loved nothing more than to step out after him and snap his scrawny neck, were it not for the fact that the street was probably filled with sorcerers and plain-clothed Cleavers. The sorcerer he had now, this whimpering little pipsqueak, was not integral to the Sanctuary operation, which was the only reason Sanguine hadn’t killed him yet. That, and he’d probably work adequately well as a human shield, should the need arise.

Sanguine moved back, away from the street, taking his captive with him. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Please don’t kill me,” the man blurted.

“You mind if I call you Jethro? You don’t particularly
look
like a Jethro, but I knew a fella who had that name, back in Texas. Ever been to Texas, Jethro?”

“No, I... I haven’t.”

“I’m from East Texas myself, but Jethro, the other Jethro, he was a West Texas boy. It’s drier there. I prefer the east, around Nacogdoches. Ever heard of Nacogdoches?”

“No.”

“Well, no matter. Point is, I’m calling you Jethro on account of how I once held this self-same blade to the throat of the first Jethro, the other Jethro, and he sounded an awful lot like you do now. Like he was scared I was gonna start cutting. Know what happened to him, Jethro?”

“You... you let him go?”

Sanguine chuckled. “I like you, boy. You got optimism in those bones. I like you so much that I ain’t gonna tell you what I did to poor old Jethro, the first Jethro, may he rest in peace, may they someday find his head. I’m gonna let you hold on to that little sliver of hope you got burning inside you, that I let him go, that he lived out the rest of his life in happiness and harmony.”

“Th-thank you...”

“He’d have to live it out without his head though, which wouldn’t be the easiest thing to do, but I’m gonna leave that little story open-ended for you. Because I like you. Because I want you to think you might survive this, as laughable as that seems. This your first time out, is it?”

“Sorry?”

“Out in the field, boy. You don’t seem like the battle-hardened type to me.”

“No,” Jethro said, “I’m not. I... I usually sit behind a desk all day.”

“Been passed over for promotion a few times, that it? Finally figured you ought to be climbing that corporate ladder, taking on a position of authority in the Sanctuary − would I be about right?”

“Yes. Yes, you would.”

“So you requested this assignment, did you? Figured with that many agents and Cleavers around, you’d never even have to get close to the action. Right?”

“Right,” he said, and sobbed.

“You figured hey, it’s only two people. Only two fugitives we have to apprehend, and you wouldn’t have to actually do anything, but it’d still be down on your record, yeah? You’d still be part of it. You’d still share in the glory.”

“Please don’t kill me, Mr Sanguine.”

“Don’t ruin the ending,” Sanguine snarled, and threw Jethro against the wall. Jethro covered up, expecting an attack. Instead, Sanguine just stood there.

“What do you do in the Sanctuary?” he asked.

“Different things,” Jethro answered, keeping his eyes down. “Administrative work. Nothing glamorous or... dangerous.”

“You know what I heard? I heard all you guys were planning on declaring war on the Irish Sanctuary, that’s what I heard. I heard the English Council and the German Council and the Americans and the French and most everyone else was planning on going in there and taking over.”

“I wouldn’t... I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“No? Pity. It’d have been something to talk about to delay the inevitable.”

Jethro swallowed thickly. “Inevitable?”

Sanguine nudged his sunglasses further up on the bridge of his nose. “Seems to be an awful lot of activity around here lately, and not just cos of us. Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I... I don’t know.”

“Just to inform you, lying right now would not be the best move you could possibly make.”

Jethro hesitated. “There’s a... It’s...”

Sanguine gave a little sigh. “Let me make it easy on you. It’s something to do with a prisoner, isn’t it?”

Jethro nodded. “An escaped prisoner.”

“Why, that just happens to be one of my favourite kind. The escaped prisoner in question wouldn’t happen to be Springheeled Jack, now would it?”

“You... you know?”

“Of course we know. Why d’you think we’re in town? Now, a guy like you, Jethro, an up-and-comer, if you will, he’d be inclined to keep abreast of developments in the search for said escaped prisoner, now wouldn’t he?”

“He would. I mean, I would. Yes. Please don’t kill me.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Jack’s on the run, and you folk are closing in on him. I wanna know where the search is being concentrated. And don’t bother lying. As you can see, some facts I already know, so you better be sticking to them ’less you want me in a bad mood.”

Jethro swallowed, and did his best to stand a little straighter. “Let me go. You let me go and then I’ll tell you. You can’t... you can’t threaten me. I have the information you want and… and you’re not going to kill me before I tell you. You’re just trying to scare me.”

“People scare better when they’re dying.”

Jethro stopped trying to stand straight. “The East End,” he croaked. “Spitalfields. We have it closed off. Nothing can get by the cordon without us knowing about it. He’s trapped. He’s got no way out.”

Sanguine grinned. “Jethro, you have been a most helpful captive.”

“Are you... are you going to let me live?”

Sanguine’s grin grew wider. “Not even remotely.”

With Jethro, the second Jethro, lying dead in the alley amid the junk and the debris of London, the ground cracked and crumbled beneath Sanguine’s feet and he sank into the cold embrace of the earth. He moved down to absolute pitch-black, to a darkness no human eye could penetrate, and he watched the dirt and rock shift before him, the individual grains undulating in streams, like a school of fish, flowing round him and allowing him through.

He stopped for a moment, listening to the vibrations that spoke to him louder than any voice, then burrowed sideways. He slowed as the ground parted, opened for him like a door, and harsh light spilled in against his sunglasses. Sanguine had no eyes to hurt, and he stepped on to the train platform, feeling the wall close up behind him. The platform was almost empty, five people waiting there, not one of them having noticed his arrival.

The rumbling beneath his feet intensified, told him where the train was, how fast it was moving. Then he heard it approach, and moments later, he watched it appear, brakes whining as it slowed. The doors opened. People got off, people got on. Sanguine brushed a few flecks of dirt from his shoulder and slipped through the doors before they closed. The carriage was empty, and he sat.

He looked at the leather coat in his hands. He wasn’t worried about Tanith. She’d get away. He knew she would. She’d probably led those Cleavers a merry dance, then disappeared, leaving them floundering, with only her mocking laugh to assure them she’d been there at all. He’d meet up with her soon enough and he’d give her back her coat, and they’d kiss, and he’d stroke her hair, and she’d tell him about all the Cleavers she’d killed. She was everything he’d always wanted in a woman. Beautiful, smart, tough, twisted.

Sure, she was utterly devoted to this Darquesse person, this woman that all the psychics had dreamed about, the one that was going to end the world. Tanith had glimpsed the future, and the Remnant part of her was looking forward to all the devastation and destruction that was on the horizon. Was it healthy, loving someone who wanted to help end the world? He freely admitted that it probably wasn’t. And he knew that there was
something
she wasn’t telling him. Some little nugget of information she’d been holding back about who this Darquesse was or where she’d be coming from. He let that go. He didn’t mind that. People have secrets, after all. He had secrets. But apart from all that, they were a match made in heaven. Soulmates. Partners in crime.

And when this little caper of hers was over, he was going to ask her to be his wife.

he steps leading down were stone, old and cold and cracked. The walls were tight on either side, and curved with the steps as they sank into darkness. The girl’s parents didn’t say much. Her father led the way, her mother came behind and the girl was in the middle. The air was sharp and chill and not a word was spoken. Her mother hadn’t been able to look at her since they’d arrived at the docks. The girl didn’t know what she’d done wrong.

When the steps had done enough sinking, they came to a floor, and it was as good a floor as any, she supposed. It was flat and solid and wide, even if it was just as cold and old as the steps had been, and the walls, and the low ceilings that kept the whole place from caving in around them. The girl didn’t like being underground. Already she missed the sun.

Her father led them through a passage, turned right and walked on, then bore left and kept going. They walked on and on and turned one way or the other, and the girl quickly lost track of where they’d been. It was all sputtering torches in brackets, feeble flames in the gloom.

“Remain here,” her father said once they’d come to an empty chamber. She did as she was told, as was her way, and watched her parents leave through another passage. Her father held himself upright and seemed suddenly so frail. Her mother didn’t look back.

The girl stood in the darkness, and waited.

And then she waited some more.

Eventually, a man wandered in, dressed in threadbare robes and broken sandals.

“Hello,” he said. Even with that one word, he didn’t sound English. The girl had never met a foreign person before.

“Hello,” she answered, and then added, “pleased to meet you,” because that was what you said to strangers upon first making their acquaintance.

He stood there and looked at her, and the girl waited for him to say something else. It wouldn’t have been right for her to speak. She was a child, and children had to wait for their elders to initiate a conversation. Her father had been very strict about that, and it was a lesson she’d learned well.

“Do you have questions?” the man asked in that strange accent that clipped every word.

“Yes. Thank you. Where am I, if I may ask?”

“You do not know?”

“I’m here with my parents. They—”

“Your parents are gone,” said the man. “They went away and left you here. This is where you live now.”

The girl shook her head. “They wouldn’t leave me,” she said.

“I assure you, they have.”

“My apologies, but you’re wrong. My parents would not leave me.”

“They got back on the boat an hour ago. This is your home now.”

He was lying. Why was he lying? The girl had inherited her manners from her father. From her mother, she had inherited other attributes. “Tell me where they are or they’ll be very cross,” she said, using a voice that brooked no argument. “My brother will come looking for me, too. My brother is big and strong and he’ll pull off your arms if he thinks it would make me smile.”

The man sat on a step. He had an ordinary face. Not handsome, but not ugly. Just a face, like a million others. His dark hair drew back from his temples and was flecked with grey. His nose was long, his eyes gentle and the corners of his mouth turned upwards. “Did they give you a name?” he asked. “They didn’t? Nor a nickname? Well, that might get annoying in the next few years, but you’ll pick a name for yourself sooner or later and then we’ll have something to call you.”

“I’m not staying here for the next few years,” said the girl, firmly acknowledging that the time for manners was at an end. “I’m not staying here at all.”

The man continued like he hadn’t heard her. “My name is Quoneel. It’s an old name from a dead language, but I took it for my own because of what it means, and what it meant, and it is my name now and it protects me. Do you know how names work?”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m eight, not stupid.”

“And you have magic I take it?”

“Lots,” said the girl. “So tell me where my parents are or I’ll burn you where you sit.” She clicked her fingers and flames danced in her hand.

Quoneel gave her a smile. “You are indeed a fierce one, child. Your mother was right.”

“Where is she?”

“Gone, as I have said. I have not lied to you. They have left you here, as they once left your brother.”

The girl let the flames go out. “You know my brother?”

“I trained him. We all did. As we will train you. You will live here and train here and grow here, and when your Surge comes, you will leave as one of us.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Quoneel.”

“But what do you mean? Who will I be when I leave?”

“Who you will be, I do not know. But what you will be... If you survive, if you are as fierce as you seem, then you will be a hidden blade. Invisible. Untouchable. Unstoppable. You will be as quick and as strong as your brother, and as skilled and as deadly. Do you want that, little girl?”

It was as if he could see into her dreams, into her most private thoughts. She found herself nodding.

“Good,” said Quoneel, and stood up. “Your training starts today.”

They called her Highborn, the other children. They used it as a weapon to wound her. One of them, a girl with dull brown hair, but a sharp cruel tongue, was too vindictive to cross, so the others flocked to her side. The cruel girl was the first one of them to take a name, and she chose Avaunt.

Quoneel took the girl for a private lesson one day. “Do you know why they call you Highborn?” he asked.

“Because they don’t like me,” the girl said. The practice sword was heavy in her hands.

“And why don’t they like you?”

“Because Avaunt doesn’t like me.”

“And why doesn’t Avaunt like you?”

The girl shrugged, and attacked, and Quoneel stepped out of the way and struck her across the back of the knees.

“Avaunt doesn’t like you because of the way you speak and the way you look and the way you walk.”

The girl scowled and rubbed her legs. “That seems to be a lot of things.”

“It does, doesn’t it. You are well-spoken, and that points to breeding and education and privilege. You are pretty, and that means men and women will notice you. You walk with confidence, and that means people will know to take you seriously. All of these are admirable qualities in a lady. But we do not train you to be a lady here. Attack.”

The girl came forward again, careful not to fall into the same trap as last time. Instead, she fell into an altogether different trap, but one which was just as painful.

“We are the hidden blades, the knives in the shadows,” said Quoneel. “We pass unnoticed amongst mortals and sorcerers alike. The privileged, the educated and the beautiful cannot do what we do. You must lose your bearing. You must lose your confidence. You must lose your poise.”

His sword came at her head and she blocked, twisted, swung at him, but of course he was not standing where he had been a moment ago. He kicked her in the backside and she stumbled to the centre of the room.

“They call you Highborn because that is what will get you noticed,” Quoneel told her. “You must learn to mumble your words, to shuffle your feet, to stoop your shoulders. Your eyes should be cast down in shame at all times. You are to be instantly forgettable. You are nothing to the mortals and the sorcerers. You are beneath them, unworthy of their attention.”

“Yes, Master Quoneel.”

“What are you waiting for? Attack.”

And so she did.