With her Ladyship freed, we haggled for several hours. Given her show of fortitude, it came as no surprise that she was a fierce bargainer. Her tactics were as sharp as her wit: She named a startlingly high price for our work, but then bargained it down with every piece of information she had that would assist us in her husband’s assassination.
Despite everything, I found that I admired the Lady Pawlett, or Glenda as she kept insisting upon, and the promise of a reward for killing her husband and the source of Chand’s misery invigorated me. Eventually, a handsome sum was agreed upon. The inn had become crowded as the evening became night, so once an agreement was reached, we escorted her Ladyship out the back.
My high spirits were immediately challenged by a kick to the crotch. The nauseating pain felled me. I only snagged a glance at the black boots and dressing of my assailant as I fell to the cobblestones.
Through the cloud of pain, I feared that somehow the Blackcoats had located us. I was dissuaded from this by the cudgels that fell upon me, their concussions preventing me from rising. Blackcoats always carried sword-breakers, as silver as the buttons on their tunics. The heavy wooden clubs left a different kind of impression. I was only able to open my eyes long enough to see Chand receiving the same treatment. Another two men grabbed a cursing Glenda and forced her into a coupĂ©, as black as their robes. As she was hustled behind one of the carriage’s curtained doors, I saw the men did not wear the caped uniforms of the Blackcoats, but robes like cassocks, each of them with their pale heads shaved to nothing but stubble.
The carriage driver cracked his whip and the horses pulled away as I writhed upon the ground, internal organs feeling as if they might explode. I was able to settle, though, when Chand laid a hand upon me and spoke soothingly. After his calm words allowed me to breathe through the pain, he patted my shoulder and took my hand. “Come on up, mate.” Looking at his face as he aided me to my feet, I could see he fared no better than I, bruises already forming on his neck and face. His top hat had now entirely disappeared, leaving his black hair to flop about.
I stared after the carriage and the wake of chaos its speedy retreat created. At this hour, the streets of Gallowsgate were crowded with the indigents, the driver scattering vagrants before him.
Watching this, Chand said, “Were those priests?” I shook my head in pain and disbelief. I knew the Ecclisarchy of Dunhill wielded great power throughout the Empire, but rescuing noblewomen was outside of their purview.
Chand leaned heavily on his sword cane as if testing it. “Are you able to move?”
I nodded, hands on knees, still breathing through my nausea. Chand was clearly accustom to physical pain in a way that I was not. Or perhaps he simply had the wisdom to fake more severe wounds so they left him with fewer bruises.
“We can’t let them get away with her,” I muttered.
Chand inspected me with a show of concern that made me yearn to forget this nonsense and take him back to my room in McDowell Hall. Instead I leaned heavily on his arm as he asked, “How do you suggest we do that?”
On the streets of Gallowsgate, with its crowds of paupers, ginhounds, and tramps, the carriage would not get far without having to slow even if it was willing to trample the masses. However, as I hobbled out of Chand’s grasp I knew that he was correct. I wrapped my cloak around me and donned my broad-brimmed hat so we too could disappear into the shifting masses of the lost and hungry. I avoided the streetlamps’ gas glow as we headed back to McDowell Hall.
Arriving home, it would have been difficult to miss the number of Blackcoats that were around the mansion. Surely, there were was always more in the wealthier neighborhoods such as Aldwych (few could be found in Gallowsgate), but even so the number was notable. Perhaps Inspector Rotella had deduced I rarely left except at night and scheduled his men to reconnoiter me accordingly.
Even with their increased numbers, Chand and I were able to enter through one of the many side-doors to avoid detection. We found Aaron and Erin counting out their loot from a night of thievery. From where he had his feet up at the grand table, Aaron inspected us. “You bumfuzzles get into trouble with the Blackcoats for buggering one another?”
Chand laughed out loud at his insolence while I scowled, and strode over with the intention of knocking his feet to the floor. Erin must have seen the anger in my eyes, though, as she interposed herself by holding up a crisp envelope, closed with an ornate red wax seal. “Some ugsome fish dropped this off at the main gate.”
I took it, examining the seal. The symbol pressed into the red wax was a circle containing oddly shaped hands, like rakes spinning off an axis in the four ordinal directions. Staring at it for more than a few moments caused my head to throb from more than just the bruises, but I recognized it from some the of old letters my uncle had received.
I took out my dirk and cut open the envelope. Looking over my shoulder, Chand asked, “What is it?”
“It is addressed to my uncle. From the Priests of Trzciniec.”
“Bless you,” Chand offered at the last word.
I smirked despite the bruises and the foreboding the letter filled me with. “The Priests of Trzciniec are a splinter church of some power and ill-repute in Lechia. I recognize the seal from some of my uncle’s past correspondence with them.”
Chand raised an eyebrow. “Then they must be as corrupt as the Ecclesiarchy of Dunhill or the Papists. Neither of those tolerate competition in the confidence job of religion.” He now eyed the letter suspiciously. “Why would they endanger themselves by leaving their Continental province to come to the City?”
“They must not have gotten word that he’s missing.” Not surprising, considering if the Redcrosse Knights knew of something even as paltry as this communication, it could lead to charges of treason.
Chand shifted his weight under the pain of his bruises. “What would that band of miscreants want with your uncle?”
I stared at him levelly, feeling my wounds match the pain in my soul as I thought about my uncle’s many misdeeds, his abuse of anyone he had power over, his mystical learnings from the Nr and the Trzciniec. “My uncle was not a good man,” I answered.
“Was? You say he went missing.”
“Hardly important,” I said, putting aside thoughts about my uncle’s poisoned corpse rotting in his secret laboratory. “Especially as they do not know that.”
Chand looked askew at me, then came at the subject more directly. “So what is the letter about?” He grinned through the swelling corner of his mouth, “It looks fancy.”
The message was short, cryptic, and chilling. “It appears to be an invitation for tomorrow night. To a convivial society at Guillemin Hall.”
“A what?” Aaron asked. “What kind of bunkum is a convi – vi – “
“Convivial society,” Erin finished for him.
“Nothing to concern yourselves with,” I kept my eyes on the invite and away from Erin. I had learned her ability to sniff out a falsehood could put the best of the Blackcoats to shame. “It is a social function for adults.” Technically, this was true, so I excused Chand and myself to the parlor before more questions could be asked.
In the drawing room, Chand helped himself to brandy and a cigar from the mantle while I examined the invitation more closely. I sat in one of the voluminous chairs to stare at the image below the carefully calligraphied words. In comparison, the ink drawing was crude and indecipherable. It appeared, as best I could tell, to be a naked woman caught in a bramble of vines and leaves like hair, pulling her down into a briar patch of darkness.
“Take this,” Chand handed me a glass of brandy, “It will help with the bruises.” From my seat I absently sipped the wine, feeling it burn a split on my lip. When this did not take my eyes off the invitation, Chand asked, “So, we’re away from the children. What’s a convivial society?”
“It’s a euphemism for sexual congress.”
“You’re using a euphemism for a euphemism? Just say it – it’s about fucking.” Chand took a swig from his glass, stopped with the liquid still in his mouth, pausing to consider what had just left it. He swallowed, then through brandy-dried tones said, “Do you mean that your uncle has been invited to an orgy?” He laughed out loud. “An orgy thrown by priests?”
Such a gathering would break the laws of the Empire. At least for commoners. The Empire’s rules on temperance and virtue were often applied in a lop-sided fashion, particularly, I had learned, when it came to the matters of sex. However, the idea of any practice my uncle would take part in chilled my soul rather than thrilled my libido. Nonetheless, I gave Chand an honest answer. “It would seem so.”
Chand laughed louder. “Those dirty buggers!”
“I suspect much worse than that.”
“How do you mean?”
I tried to suppress the memories of my uncle’s nightly visitations to me, his murders, and his scheme to inhabit my body once he had deemed it ready. Those moments in darkness came flooding back, though, and I struggled to control my expression.
“Are you alright, mate?” Chand laid a hand on my shoulder. For the first time, I revolted against his touch, shrugging his hand away. He left it, suspended in air, as if he could feel the darkness around me.
“No. I suspect our friends in black were the same said priests. This invitation says the bacchanal is to be held at Guillemin Hall with her Ladyship as the primary host.”
“No wonder they were in a hurry to get her Ladyship back.” Chand rubbed a bruise on his chin. “Otherwise with their charm, I suspect an orgy would just be a pile of cocks.”
“I suspect your father will be among them, that the Duke’s departure to Glevum was a ruse so none would discover his association with the priests. Duke or no, the Queen would not look well upon such transgression. Regardless, I cannot imagine a scenario that this is taking place at his residence without the Duke’s knowledge.”
Chand sipped brandy, winced, then asked, “Why would a man want his own wife at an orgy?”
I turned the invitation to him, giving Chand his first good look at the awful caricature. “I fear it is not what she wants.”
Chand leaned forward to inspect the blasphemous image and revolted, nearly spilling his drink. “I’m all for melting moments, but that doesn’t look like sport I’d want a part of.”
“Likewise.”
I rapped the letter on the rim of my glass.
Chand watched me for a time, then, “What are you thinking, mate?”
The increased danger of the situation somehow made me more irritable. “Well, Muffin,” I emphasized the term of affection, knowing it would annoy Chand as his constant use of ‘mate’ was riling me. “I’m going to go have a conversation with the Blackcoats.”
I stood, steadily now, but Chand gripped my bicep. “What’s come over you? You’re acting like a prig of the first water. The Blackcoats don’t have words that anyone wants to hear.”
Feeling his touch calm me, I managed a smile. “Why Chand,” I gazed into his eyes with something I hoped might look like flirting. “Do you have feelings for me?”
Even with his honeyed skin, the blush that came to his face shone. He attempted to stutter a reply and I let him go on, savoring his discomfort. I smiled further as no refusal came from him, but more verbal searching.
I laid a hand on his arm, mirroring his gesture. Even with all the carnal thoughts I had of him, I resisted the urge to pull him into an embrace and said, “I’m not about to walk into waiting arms of the Blackcoats. I just need to speak with a particular one.” Seeing I hadn’t lost my mind, Chand wound down his stuttering and withdrew his grip. I left him in the study, brandy in hand, cigar tucked solicitously between his teeth.
I climbed a spire of McDowell Hall that at its top had wide, round windows in each cardinal direction, affording a view of the city and the area surrounding the manor. The streets below glowed with islands of gas lamps floating amongst the smog. Single Blackcoats wandered near these, dark blots against the flickering of civilization. Eventually, I noticed another, taller and more sinewy than the rest, the silver buttons on his cape polished till they gleamed in the chalky dark. Seeing this one, I pushed open the turret window and used every lesson in physical education I received to make my way down the tiles of the roof, stopping at a rain gutter to climb the downspout.
As the figure made his way from one Blackcoat to the next, I found a spot in his predictable path that allowed me to be hidden in the night and fog until he was practically upon me, the silver insignia of the Inspectors division the only thing visible beyond his rough shape. I stopped him with, “Inspector Rotella.”
The tall figure halted, a smudge in the darkness. “Young Master McDowell,” Rotella answered. He spoke as a man who happens upon an associate in the street rather than to a suspect he had been hunting.
“I believe I’ve discovered where my uncle is.”
“Indeed? Then why are we discussing this in the black of night rather than in a civilized manner?”
“Because the answer to your query may ruin the McDowell name.”
I could feel Rotella’s stare on me, heavy and wondering. “Let’s take a walk to a pub, then.”
“Let’s,” I added, moving up beside him, keeping a careful eye on our way in case he led us to a group of his cohorts. Whether it was his confidence or curiosity, though, he did not attempt to lead me into an ambush, but down the boulevard away from McDowell Hall.
I stopped under a lamp that banished the night enough that one might read by it. Rotella stopped after a few steps to look back to see me holding forth the invitation. I had not attempted to reseal it, but the graven signet was only ruined by a single crack.
Without word, Rotella took it. Before opening it the Inspector observed the seal. “I recognize the symbol.”
I feigned ignorance. “What does it mean?”
Rotella eyed me from under his hat, his eyes blazing from under its chimney-pot. Whatever conclusion his inspection of me reached, he looked back down at the letter. “It is the Hands of God. It’s the symbol of a great enemy of the Ecclesiarch, the Priests of Trzciniec.” He flipped it over, then back again. “It is not addressed to anyone.”
“It was delivered to McDowell Hall. The messenger asked it be given to my uncle.” Recalling Erin’s words, I said, “He was an ugsome figure; black robes, heavy boots, a shaved head under his black cowl.”
“That does indeed sound like one of their acolytes.” To me it would have sounded like any monk, but those holy men had the wisdom to stay away from Dunhill.
He extracted the letter from the envelope. His brow furrowed as he read over the text, the consternation on his face telling me when he reached the illustration. “It would appear both your uncle and Guillemin are in league with the Queen’s enemies.”
Having been a victim my uncle’s insidious touch and knowing how they tied into his heretical designs, my concern regarding the plans at Guillemin Hall were for Glenda. The Inspector was clearly more concerned with the event itself.
As if I had not considered this facet, I affected a gasp. “I thought this was merely proof of my uncle’s moral bankruptcy. I didn’t,” I stopped, stuttered and grasped my hat by its broad brim to doff it. “I didn’t know his sins included heresy.”
“Sin can destroy an empire,” Rotella intoned. “You speak of your uncle’s moral failings. If you did not refer to his vilifying himself with the Trzciniec, what did you mean?”
My false concern became very real then. To tell Rotella of the years of pedophilic abuse at my uncle’s hand would only mark me as an accomplice to his crimes in the eyes of the Empire. The story must be modified. “Uncle…that is Lord McDowell made his fortune in trade across the Empire. I recently came upon correspondence of his with a tribe in the Sulaiwest, called the Nr. It spoke of certain…rites. Not the Lord’s spreading of the Queen’s glory, but those of a horrifying and base nature he learned from the savages. To prolong life was there intent. I began to fear he planned to involve me in his machinations, but then he left. Perhaps in preparation,” I waved at the invitation, “for whatever this is.”
Rotella vanished the envelope into his cloak. “Has he returned since?”
“No,” I answered honestly. Gods willing, he never would.
“Then I must hurry. I will need to alert the Redcrosse Knights. Any matter involving the nobility will grind the gears of the Dunhill justice to a near halt if they are not properly protocoled.” As if echoing his words, the mills of Dunhill sounded out there low growls from across the city.
I had some idea, but keeping to my role of artless heir, I asked, “The Redcrosse Knights? What will they do?”
“This is a matter of her Majesty’s security. Her Majesty’s intelligencer Lord Elphinstone will decide how to act.”
I fiddled with the brim of my hat, looking about into the smog as if in fear. Rotella settled his eyes upon me again in their intense examination. “What of my uncle? What if he is involved in all of this?
The Inspector’s evaluating gaze mellowed a bit, as if self-preservation were the only sacred duty of Dunhill’s nobility and my question naturally fell into this role. “This letter and seal appear authentic enough that if Lord McDowell’s name appeared on it he, and possibly all his family, would meet with the Requiter’s ax. However, it does not. If he should make his appearance at Guillemin Hall at the appointed time, and there are Priests of Trzciniec commingling with he and Guillemin.” He stopped, whatever sympathy that might have been there turned to stone. “None shall be spared.”
I donned my hat again, casting my face into the shadow of the gas lamp. “I see.”
“I hope you do, Master Cole,” Inspector Rotella said.
I kept the smile from my face. “I wish you all of the Queen’s success, Inspector.”
See the author’s published work here.
To read the previous chapter, go here.
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