The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set

by Tarn Richardson

  Another child called Antonio pushed forward and proffered a hand. Tacit surprised himself by reaching forward slowly and taking it. “We’ve been told what happened,” he said, looking hard at Tacit, his friends and then back at the new boy. “We’re sorry, all of us. But you’re safe now. The Church will look after you. We’ve all made a promise to look after you. We’re your family now.”

  TEN

  09:07. TUESDAY, 13 OCTOBER 1914.

  THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.

  “In God I trust,” Cardinal Bishop Adansoni muttered to himself, “but I don’t trust your time-keeping, Javier.”

  The elderly Cardinal’s shoes rapped hard on the pristine marbled floor of the Papal Palace, sharp clipped echoes bouncing about the arched dome high above. It had been many years since he had hurried anywhere. A sedentary life, once his missionary work had been drawn to a close, dedicated to prayer and careful reflection in the Vatican’s gardens, colleges and smaller churches, suited the seven-four-year-old Cardinal far more than the hurry and bustle around the labyrinth of corridors and halls of St. Peter’s Basilica the younger Cardinals and Priests so enjoyed.

  Breathing hard, he recalled the day the old Pope, Leo XIII, was close to death and Father Adansoni had been requested by name to hurry to his side before he passed on. There’d been no similar request for his presence at successor Pope Pius X’s passing. In truth, after what had been said and done in the final few months of Pius X’s reign, Adansoni had been relieved not to have been summoned that time.

  “I am late,” Adansoni accepted, raising his hands in admission to the Bishop waiting for him in the pillared vestry. “Cardinal Berberino,” he muttered, catching his breath, “you know how he likes to talk.”

  Warm sun streamed into the domed walkway, enriching the blood red of the tiles on the floor with its glow. Impassive, the Bishop turned the moment Adansoni stepped into the bright shards of light.

  “Shall we walk?” he called over his shoulder, “or do you require time to recover?”

  It was said as much as an insult as a question, its tone suggesting the Cardinal Bishop would be wise not to waste a moment longer in hastening to the council meeting. Bishop Attilio Basquez’s chief role within the Holy See was to ensure that meetings were arranged to suit the needs of the day, ran on time, and that any late stragglers were brought to the chamber without further delay; that, and other occasional more indelicate tasks put aside for members who momentarily stepped out of line.

  “No, let us walk,” Adansoni replied breathlessly, joining the younger man at his shoulder and relieved to find the pace leisurely. “I am sure the Holy See are all assembled?”

  “They are,” the ambitious Bishop replied, his dark eyes looking out over St. Peter’s Square. “They all arrived on time.”

  “And I would have too, if I hadn’t been delayed,” countered the Cardinal sternly.

  There was something about the short-statured Argentinian Bishop which reminded Adansoni of a snake. He moved with an ungodly silence and his eyes seemed to flicker rather than move with a natural easy manner. From the cloistered walkway running alongside the Apostolic Palace, Basquez directed the Cardinal Bishop, with a guiding hand on his elbow, away from the palisade towards the stairs down into the bowels of the Basilica.

  “I know where I am going!” Adansoni retorted, and then instantly regretted the sudden pique of anger. Basquez bowed his head dutifully, but Adansoni was sure he spotted the hint of a smile on the young man’s lips.

  He had attended Holy See meetings thousands of times but still the charge of adrenaline and anxiety snatched at his heart and teased his gut whenever he entered the Inquisitional Chamber. Beneath the flickering gas lights, strung on chains tens of feet above, the circular chamber rose up and around in perfect symmetry, seemingly pressing down on any who ventured inside it. He shuddered to think how an accused must feel when brought before the council of the Holy See, all seated at the arching wooden table circling the central dais in the very middle of the room upon which the defendant would sit.

  Places were set for twelve senior Cardinals, each one allotted a place on the council every other week, one seat for each month of the year and a thirteenth chair set at the head for the Supreme Pontiff himself. He rarely attended any but the most pressing of cases, his lavish gold seat even more imposing for its emptiness.

  A gentle murmuring welcomed Adansoni to the chamber and he raised his hand by way of acceptance and apology.

  “Cardinal Korek was just updating us with news from Russia,” announced an orange-robed Cardinal, skull cap tight to his balding head, “whilst waiting for you to arrive.”

  “The war,” the pointed-faced Korek elaborated helpfully.

  Adansoni nodded, correcting his robes as he made himself comfortable in his chair. Naturally, the war was of great concern to the Church, the Eastern Front being of particular interest.

  “As you will no doubt know, the Russian Second Army was utterly destroyed at the Battle of Tannenberg, the First Army all but obliterated,” the orange-gowned Cardinal Bishop Casado revealed for the elderly Cardinal Bishop’s benefit. “The Germans have pushed the Russians all the way back to their borders and beyond. We have just heard that the Germans have reached the Vistula and are laying siege to the town of Ivangorod.”

  “But for the main, there is stalemate on the borders,” Korek added.

  “A situation similar to the Western Front then?” Adansoni suggested, bowing his head with a shake. “This confounded war!”

  “Indeed,” muttered Cardinal Casado, clearing his throat, as if he was about to commence with a long sermon. He flicked at a spot on the left sleeve of his cassock. “Anyway, now that you’re here, Javier, we’ll deal with the main business of the day.”

  “There’s been a murder,” he announced without additional ceremony. “A few hours ago. Inside the Church.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” replied Adansoni, aware that all eyes were on him. Whilst murders within the Catholic Church were not uncommon, considering the nature of the Church’s work and the enemies against which they were set, there was something about the way the council looked at him that he found unsettling. He swallowed and pulled at the collar of his gown. “Where?”

  “Arras. In the Cathedral.”

  Adansoni turned his head to one side and leaned forward. “I’m sorry, you will need to remind me of the Cardinal there. My memory’s not what it was.”

  “It’s not the Cardinal who’s been murdered,” Casado replied, his small ferret-like eyes on the perspiring Cardinal Bishop. “It’s the Father. Father Andreas.”

  “And what makes you sure it’s murder?”

  “If you saw the body, you wouldn’t need to ask.”

  “Beaten?”

  “Torn apart,” Casado revealed, a sneer wrenching at his lip.

  “Do we have a suspect?”

  “It’s awkward. The Cardinal there, Cardinal Gérard-Maurice Poré, is making worrying suggestions concerning our problems of the past. We’ve warned him against saying such things in public. To name such abominations.”

  “The offspring of our work keep wanting to return home, do they not?” Adansoni replied, fighting the urge to look around the individual faces of the council members. He nodded. “I understand the delicacy of the situation. You’ve sent an Inquisitor to investigate no doubt?”

  “We have one in the city already.”

  Adansoni was impressed. He knew there was barely a town or city in the world which didn’t have the eye of the Catholic Church upon it, or the feet of its agents on its streets and boulevards. No country could compete with the strength of the Catholic faith, no army had the resources or the power to overwhelm and destroy a nation quite like the Catholic Church. But an Inquisitor sent to the scene within a few hours of a crime? His admiration and unease at the Church’s might swelled in equal measure. He was about to ask why it was so important that they waited for him to tell their news, but then a dread crept once more o
ver him. He feigned an uncertain smile, cocking his head expectantly.

  “It’s Tacit,” said Casado.

  “Oh,” Adansoni replied hollowly, feeling his soul sink inwards. “Heavens.”

  “Indeed. We thought you’d want to be told.”

  “What’s he doing there? I thought he was in Turin? Sorting out the coven of witches?”

  “He was. He’d finished with that.”

  “Eradicated them?”

  “Eradicated them?” scoffed a Cardinal to Adansoni’s left, even more heavily set than the old Cardinal was. “When our agents eventually went in, there was nothing more than a small collection of finger bones and a plate-sized remnant of their cauldron.”

  “After that he had crossed over the border,” Casado continued, checking his notes in front of him.

  “France?” asked Adansoni, desperately trying to pick up the tangled threads of Tacit’s numerous missions.

  “Slovenia,” corrected Casado. “Slavs mobilised in the war trying to force out the Catholic Habsburg Dynasty from the west of country. Tacit processed the heretics and hung thirty-two of them from the main gate at Bovec as a warning to others.” The Cardinal looked down at his papers. “Now he’s in Arras. An assessment.”

  “Whose assessment?”

  “His.”

  Adansoni swallowed, understanding what the severity of an assessment meant. He tried to mask the noise that his dry throat made but he was painfully aware it was audible to everyone in that forsaken chamber.

  “Why choose Arras for the assessment?” he asked.

  “A suitable subject became available upon which to test Tacit’s faith,” Casado answered smoothly.

  “I don’t understand why he needs to be assessed?”

  “Really?” the senior Cardinal retorted, raising an eyebrow in mock surprise.

  “Even if we choose to ignore his past indiscretions and forays away from the path of truth, he recently beat a man unconscious,” another of the Cardinals explained, “at the witches’ coven.”

  “He’s beaten a lot of men unconscious,” Adansoni replied, defensively.

  “He was drunk,” the Cardinal spat.

  “Sadly he often is. But, so what? After what he’s achieved? Again, I don’t see why—”

  “The man he beat was a Bishop.”

  “Ahh, I see.”

  “They say the Bishop will never walk again,” growled a hooded Cardinal, away to Adansoni’s right. “If he ever regains his ability to speak, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “He’s bad, Javier,” continued the orange-robed Casado, his unmoving eyes boring into Adansoni. “Worse than ever.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with me?”

  “He’s your boy.”

  Adansoni could feel the back of his neck prickle with sweat. Now he felt he was the one being assessed. “I’d hardly call him a boy. And he’s certainly not mine. I didn’t make him what he is.”

  “You found him. You brought him into the Church. You know him best.”

  “That was twenty-five years ago! A lifetime for an Inquisitor. I don’t think anyone knows Tacit. Not any more. Certainly not me. Go and ask those who trained him within the Catholic Church. They made him what he is!”

  “They simply took what you brought to them.”

  Adansoni hissed at the accusations being constructed around him. But also he felt strangely protective of the child he found all those years ago in that mountainside hut, clinging to his dead mother, the child he’d brought up as his own son, at least for the first few years until the Church took him and honed him for the path he was eventually to take.

  “If there is something on the loose in Arras, we need an experienced Inquisitor investigating.” The Cardinal grabbed at his eye sockets and caressed the exhaustion out of them. “It’ll also provide us with an excellent opportunity to appraise Tacit in further detail.”

  “So one assessment isn’t enough for you then?!” Adansoni cried, no longer able to control his temper. “Tell me, what assessment had Tacit been set originally in Arras?”

  “Exorcism.”

  Instantly Adansoni cooled and shrugged. Exorcisms were a forte of Tacit’s.

  “A particularly difficult one,” Casada added, noting Adansoni’s impassive response. “Three Fathers died trying with this particular possession.”

  “What’s the date of the assessment?”

  “It’s already been completed.”

  “And?”

  Now it was Casada’s turn to shrug impassively. “He exorcised the demon.”

  Adansoni felt the breath he’d held inside of him slowly release. “So he passed?”

  “Questions are still being asked. Hence the reason we feel we need to evaluate him further.”

  “Questions such as what?”

  “He drank a lot of alcohol during the exorcism.”

  Adansoni shrugged again and looked around the table. “Who amongst us has not taken a little wine during a sermon? To oil the vocal cords?”

  “He emptied his full vial of holy water over the poor victim. The guidelines clearly state never more than five castings, not the whole bottle.”

  “You also make it sound like you felt pity for the demon?” He shook his head and leaned his weight forward onto his elbows. “Tacit’s not designed for delicate work, such as a murder investigation. Send him out into the field, assess him from a distance.”

  Casada rocked his head from side to side on his shoulders, as if weighing up his options. “It would give us the opportunity to watch him closely. We have an assessor in Arras at the moment.”

  “How convenient. Who is it?”

  “Sister Isabella.”

  Adansoni chuckled disdainfully and shook his head, looking down into his lap. “So, you think he’s failing in other ways, do you? I’ve heard of this Isabella. A new recruit to the Holy See, isn’t she? Specifically trained to assess those confused with the weight of celibacy?”

  “Amongst other things. She has many assets.”

  “Yes. I know of which assets you speak. She’s young and inexperienced. You really think she can handle Tacit?”

  “She’s perfect for him.”

  “And she’s in the city,” another Cardinal added.

  “Father Strettavario’s in Arras as well,” Casado went on, “overseeing the original assessment. What do you say, Javier? Do we have your agreement to continue the assessment? We’d rather do this with your blessing.”

  Adansoni looked about the council members, pursing and unpursing his lips like a fish gasping for breath out of water. He sighed and sat back in his chair, raising a limp hand in resignation. “Very well, I agree to the assessment but I still think it’s unnecessary and foolhardy. I can’t believe he’s fallen. Not Tacit. He’s one of the best. If not the best we have. Lord help us if the likes of him stray from the path.”

  “I am sure you’re right, Adansoni,” assured the orange-cassocked Cardinal, passing around the order for the continuation of Tacit’s assessment to be signed, “but we know that all Inquisitors eventually do fail. After all, when you spend your entire life staring into the abyss, eventually you must fall in.”

  PART TWO

  “I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.”

  Revelation 6:8

  ELEVEN

  11:13. TUESDAY, 13 OCTOBER 1914. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  “Are you Tacit?” the woman asked him.

  She hadn’t needed to ask if it was him. She recognised him from the painting hanging in the Vatican, in one of the private chambers, of course. The Vatican didn’t like to publicise its Inquisitors.

  She asked the question nevertheless, hoping against hope that the rough looking figure would say he was not him. The painting of Tacit hanging unseen in Vatican City had captured a determined, dashing man in hi
s twenties, jet black hair, strong features and fierce blue eyes, full of passion and faith. This figure, whilst obviously him, displayed none of the vitality or spirit layered so deep within his painting. For want of another word, he looked damaged, like the city in which he drank.

  It was a dingy and morbid place, the bar – much like the figure of the Inquisitor – set several side streets back from the main streets of the city, desperately in need of a woman’s touch. Or demolition. She prayed that the German bombs would see to it sooner rather than later. It was ironic that a medieval tannery and adjoining stables next door to the decrepit, seedy establishment had been decimated in a recent barrage. Of course, every head had turned to watch her as she entered, dressed as she was in scarlet, her wild red hair surging around and down over her breasts, a cape of velvety crimson drawn tight around her shoulders and tied in a bow above the plunge of her cleavage. The bar and its clientele were not averse to having women in their midst. Whilst prostitutes and escorts were well received and welcomed at the bar, a woman like this, alluringly dressed, an air of confidence and majesty bound up in the way she moved, was of a type not usually seen in such a place. All eyes watched her as she stepped towards the corner of the room, tongues flickering greedily over fat lips, dark eyes watching her every move in the gloom of the bar. They spied the large dishevelled-looking Priest whom she approached with jealous envy, and exchanged filthy jokes about how even the Priests were now taking to whores in these dark, war torn days.

  Tacit shovelled a last morsel of food into his mouth from oily remains on his plate and sucked his fingers greedily.

  “I asked are you –”

  “Who wants to know?” he growled, his eyes fixed on the half full bottle of spirit and glass alongside. He reached his greasy fingers forward and gathered up the tumbler, necking the amber liquid in a single quick gulp.