Cardinal Black

by Robert McCammon

  Julian drew a ragged breath. “You see, Matthew? To them…I was Fate incarnate. I was the killing cough…the lost position…the crushed hope…the death that comes riding in on a golden summer’s afternoon. I was everything that was ever wrong in the world, and they had had enough of wrongs. I understood that later, but not then. Just then, I was only thinking of getting my stumbling legs moving, because I did not want to die. What I wanted to live for, I didn’t know…but…there had to be something. And down an alley, with them closing in on me…I found it. A door in a wall opened and a man came out. He was holding an axe handle. He had seen it all from a window. In there, he said, and he motioned toward a dark room. He hit two or three of them as they got up closer. They retreated. I went into that dark room, to save my own life. It was the only choice Fate gave to me.”

  Julian offered nothing more for a while, which prompted Matthew to ask, “This man worked for Mother Deare?”

  “Far from it.” There was another long hesitation, while Julian obviously decided to go on with these revelations or not. Then: “He offered me protection and a job. Not much at first, just as a messenger. He was a rough, ugly man…but smart…and he saw that I could go places he could not. I could mingle with the wealthy. I could talk. I could hold a shilling in my palm and make someone see it as a sovereign. That was my gift, to blind people with their own greed. In time I met other people who were interested in me. They wanted me for other things. To talk my way into a room and steal something there…or use the knife or the pistol on someone’s enemy, to settle old scores. I did those things. I was paid well. I had a purpose.” He gave Matthew a tortured smile. “I’m a very fast learner,” he said, “and I became better skilled in time.”

  “And one afternoon,” he continued, “I had a visit from a man who introduced himself as an associate to a certain woman of business who had heard my name and wished to interview me for the possibility of future employment. That sounded like I would be taking a job at the permits office, sitting behind a desk marking in a ledger. It didn’t sound like killing at Mother Deare’s demand and whim, did it? But it was. More money, power over underlings, the excitement of the hunt…the deadly brew. Well, I’d been drinking it for a long time. It became my life’s water. And what of it? Why shouldn’t I take what I could, while I could? Nothing lasts forever, I know that. Why shouldn’t I use my talents? Then Mother Deare began lending me out to Professor Fell, and I got in with that crowd also. I belonged. I still belong. When I do a job, I do it to the best of my ability. I am relied upon and I have a reputation. I am someone in this world. You see?”

  Matthew took his time in answering, weighing what he would say against the possibility of Julian Devane flying at him to take him apart. At last he said, “It sounds to me you decided that if being a good man was closed off to you—by what you consider to be Fate—you would be the best bad man you could be. Perhaps you’re a walking contradiction, but there it is.”

  Julian did not respond. Matthew tensed, ready for anything.

  Then Julian laughed, and it was genuine.

  “Yes,” he said. “I like that.”

  Matthew stood up, realizing the bedtime story had come to its end. Dawn was approaching, though again it looked as if the sun would be shrouded behind clouds for another day.

  Julian yawned and stretched. “I think I can get some sleep,” he said. “I didn’t realize how tired I am.”

  Matthew nodded. He thought that Julian had likely never told this story in its entirety to anyone else in the world, and even if he’d related parts of it to his criminal friends he had certainly never revealed any of it to a law-abiding stuff-shirted prick such as had listened to it this morning. Maybe that made a difference, or maybe not, but already Julian was settling himself back on the sofa, his head on one of the pillows. He stretched out to full length and closed his eyes. Julian’s hands were clasped across his chest in a way that Matthew thought was nearly an attitude of prayer, but he didn’t dare voice that because he wanted to keep all the teeth he currently possessed. Matthew recalled that at the tower near Adderlane Julian had said he did not mourn the dead.

  It seemed, though, that he did mourn at least one.

  “We’ll get in and out,” Julian said with his eyes closed. “We’ll find the book. Tonight. In and out. We’ll take that book and then we’ll find a chemist. Kidnap him, if we have to. We will.

  Tonight…we will.”

  Julian was already drifting off. Matthew picked up the lantern and returned to the bedroom where he lay down on the beautiful bed with two dead men in the closet ten feet away and a tormented killer sleeping in the next room. He closed his eyes, but found that sometimes bedtime stories do not deliver peace.

  Tonight. In and out. Find the book.

  In and out.

  Tonight.

  fifteen.

  This was the plan agreed upon by the gentlemen in the first floor’s Grand Suite: pack weapons, hire a hack in front of the inn, proceed to the destination, instruct the driver to go ahead just past the last estate on Endsleigh Park Road and wait for two hours, the payment supplied for his patience to be substantial. Then past the guard at the gate with the invitation, and in that house somehow find that book. If indeed it was there. If indeed this was the right house, which they were not absolutely sure of. Getting out of the house with the book was another kettle of fish, and they both agreed they might wind up fried before they could get to the hack.

  Darkness had fallen, though the day had been so dark the disappearance of the meager sun hardly mattered. As Matthew readied himself in the white facial powder, wig and garb of Baron Brux—the same outlandish outfit he’d worn yesterday—he felt the immense pressure of the task ahead crushing down on him. It was truly a do or die situation; without that book, all was lost. So the plan might not be much, and certainly not to the standards that the Herrald Agency might have demanded, but it was all they had.

  During the morning hours Matthew had considered trying to contact Gardner Lillehorne for help, perhaps getting a ring of constables around the house or even—in desperation—raiding the place, but he’d dismissed the idea as unworkable. For one thing, time was of the essence and Lillehorne could not be counted on for speed in this matter. For the second thing, Matthew knew Lillehorne and certainly his superiors would wish to know why the book was so valuable, and he doubted that the legal arm of London would sit back and let it be returned to Danton Idris Fell, no matter whose sanity was at risk.

  And contacting the London office of the Herrald Agency? Again, unworkable in the frame of time they had. Matthew would still be explaining the situation at seven-thirty tonight.

  No, it had to be just himself and Julian, walking into that house dressed as Prussian clowns. He sorely wished Hudson Greathouse were here, if only for the benefit of advice…a better plan…anything to ease the tension that threatened to slow both his mind and his legs, and he had the feeling that tonight of all nights he would need them both to be quick.

  “Remember,” said Julian as he got into the polar bear coat. His face was powdered white up to the top of his skull and his cheeks were rouged. “You speak no English, correct?”

  “Ja,” the pallid-faced Matthew said, as he righted the wig on his head and secured the purple tricorn atop it. The last thing he did was pull on the calfskin gloves, and the Black-Eyed Broodies tattoo was out of sight. Beneath his sealskin coat, hidden away under the shiny mud-colored jacket, were his pistol and the ivory-handled dagger that had belonged to Albion. Under Julian’s coat, the four-barrelled pistol hung on a belthook. They were as ready as they would ever be.

  “Take along a vial of powder,” Julian advised. “If you sweat, your scar may show and you don’t want Black seeing it if he’s there.” As Matthew got the powder, Julian picked up the satchel containing the gold bars and the plans for the machine that resembled a winged dragon.

  “Ready?”
Julian asked.

  Matthew nodded, because for the moment his throat had tightened to the degree that no English could pass even if he chose to speak it.

  They left the room.

  On the way down the stairs, Julian nudged Matthew with an elbow in the side, though Matthew hardly felt it through the heavy coat. But Matthew understood the meaning, for here came Lord and Lady Turlentort up the staircase, both of them wrapped in furs and silks and chattering to each other like happy shoppers, their faces ruddy with the cold. One glance at the pair descending toward them, and the Turlentorts shut up like clams feeling the steam from a cookpot. Matthew saw Lord Turlentort roll his eyes at his lady and she disguised a chuckle as a polite little cough. Then they were past, and Matthew realized that if anything, the duo of Scar and the dashingly charming but ominously wicked teller of exciting tales in a pitching coach were completely unrecognizable.

  As they crossed the lobby, the grandfather clock began to chime the hour of seven o’clock. Outside, the night once more was bitterly cold. It seemed that the crust of snow would not melt a flake before May Day. “A hack, sir?” asked the attendant on the street, who having received a curt nod walked out waving his arms to guide a carriage to the curb.

  When the carriage pulled up, the driver looked down at Julian from beneath his peaked cap. “Where to, sir?”

  “Number Fourteen, Endsleigh Park Road,” Julian replied, already reaching for the door. “And make haste, if you—”

  “My destination, as well,” a man said from behind them.

  Matthew spun around, startled by the voice so close to his ear.

  The man who had spoken wore a dove-gray greatcoat with a fleece collar and a gray tricorn adorned with a thin red band. He was tall and lean with a high forehead, dark hair, eyes so pale blue they were a shocking color against the deep brown shade of his face, a square chin and the kind of thin-bridged aristocratic nose with flared nostrils that seem to always be offended by odors from the lower classes, which contained everyone but his own ilk. Still, the man was smiling and there was no sense of either threat or snobbery. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, speaking with the trace of a foreign accent that Matthew found difficult to name. “But may I share your carriage, Count Pellegar?”

  Matthew was both terrified and impressed; terrified by the man’s use of the title and impressed by the coolness of Julian, who simply moved back and swept an arm toward the interior. The man placed a polished black boot upon the passenger’s step. Matthew saw he was carrying a similarly polished black satchel. The man pulled himself up into the carriage, and Julian gave Matthew a look that even through the white face paint and the rouged cheekbones of a clown said Be on your guard.

  Matthew and Julian sat across from the man as the hack started off. The interior’s oil lamp rocked on its gimbal, throwing elongated shadows.

  “It is a pleasure, sir,” said the man, still smiling. “And this is Baron Brux, I believe?”

  “The same. English is not his language. I have also the pleasure of addressing whom?”

  “Um…you may call me Victor.”

  “But not your real name?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “What is a name but something applied to one that colors an impression?”

  “And you know us how?”

  Opening the sail in dangerous waters, Matthew thought, but he could say nothing.

  “By your reputations, of course,” said Victor. “And your clothing. Let me rephrase that: your style. Your handling of the situation with Prince Powalaski—was it three years ago?—was masterful. I dare say I can’t think of anyone who could have gotten in there as you did, with all that security.”

  “Hm,” said Julian.

  “Well,” Victor said with another slight shrug, “I might have been able to.” His smile seemed now to Matthew to be more of the fixed grimace of a barely-contained animal, and the pale blue eyes burned with a frightening and powerful intensity. This, he thought, was a very dangerous man. A silence stretched, until Victor lifted his black-gloved hands in what might have been a suggestion of peace between nations edging toward the brink of war. “But in any case,” he said, still speaking with that accent Matthew could not define, “a job well done.”

  “My compliments for recognizing superior talent,” said Julian, who Matthew thought must have decided that he could not only out-act any of Shakespeare’s players but could also out-compose the plays themselves. He felt the pressing need for a chamberpot.

  Victor continued to smile. Then he reached into his greatcoat and his hand emerged with a pistol. Matthew tensed, Julian shifted his position just a fraction, and Victor proceeded to inspect the pistol’s barrel, cocking device and trigger as if he’d just bought the weapon. “Victor is not really my name, no,” he said. “I feel it is appropriate in the situation, because I intend to be the victor of this particular event.”

  “Hm,” said Julian, fast becoming the master of noncommittal utterances.

  “We are all brothers, in a way. Do you agree?” Victor didn’t wait for a response because it was obvious he didn’t care if Count Pellegar agreed or not. “Here we are, though, on a field of battle of another sort. This does not involve our usual talents. This involves the power of the purse, and I can tell you that the power behind my purse is quite substantial.”

  “I see,” said Julian. He smiled, which was grotesque on the painted face. “I am relieved to know this does not concern the size of one’s gun.” So saying, he pulled his own deadly weapon from its belthook and went about inspecting it as Victor had done his own. Matthew saw Victor’s eyes narrow just a fraction, and with a satisfied and quiet grunt the man put his pistol away.

  The rest of the trip was done in what Matthew felt was a tense silence. When the carriage stopped, Victor was the first one out. There stood the grand house beyond the gate with the guard at his post, the manse itself illuminated with lanterns in its windows as if for a party. Victor stood next to the carriage as Julian and Matthew disembarked, and at once Matthew realized there was no way to inform the driver to wait for two hours just past the last estate. The driver climbed down to be paid. Victor said, “Allow me,” and handed over the coins with an extra amount as incentive for his next statement. “We shall need a return to the Mayfair Arms. I expect the business should be done by midnight.”

  “Yes sir, as you say, and thank you kindly.” The driver got back up on his seat, flicked the reins and started off, and Victor was already producing his invitation on parchment to show the guard.

  “Christ,” Matthew heard Julian mutter beside him. As the carriage went, so went the means of escape. They were caught here until midnight, for better or for worse.

  Julian showed the invitation, which even though the same had admitted Victor still was subject to the guard’s scrutiny. With a nod the guard released them. As Matthew and Julian walked a few paces behind Victor toward the manse’s imposing front staircase they heard the solid metal clang of the gate behind being closed…and Matthew thought that now they were well and truly imprisoned, and this place might make the dangers of Newgate appear to be wraiths of fantasy.

  Up the staircase, with its thick concrete bannisters on either side, and to the front door, where Victor was already using the knocker. Brass in the shape of a ship’s cannon, Matthew noted. Almost at once the door opened and the man of the night before stood there, wearing a dark blue uniform with white epaulettes at the shoulders. His face was as grim as a closed tomb. He looked at the invitation Victor offered, then the one offered by Julian, they were admitted to the house and the door was shut behind them. Matthew’s heart was pounding and his pulse raced and he was sorely glad he’d brought the vial of powder because he was going to need it.

  Matthew had just time enough for fleeting impressions in the entrance foyer—rich dark wood flooring, sky-blue painted walls, the aroma of a bittersweet incense in the air—before he sa
w before them the white-suited Owl standing beside a sturdy oak table which supported a large wicker basket. Just beyond the Owl were two more men in dark suits, both of them looking as if they could bite the heads off poisonous snakes for supper.

  “Weapons in the basket, please,” the Owl said to Victor, who obliged by giving up not only the pistol he’d shown in the hackney, but a second smaller pistol and a curved dagger that Matthew thought might be of eastern European origin and some clue to his nationality. But Victor was not yet cleared to go through, for one of the two dark-suited men stepped forward, said, “Remove your coat and hat, hang them there and raise your arms.” Hooks on the wall were indicated, which already held two tricorns, a bright red peaked hat of unknown origin, and three coats including one floor-length item made of a tawny animal skin. The second man grasped hold of Victor’s satchel, took a key that was offered, unsnapped the satchel and peered inside.

  Victor obeyed, revealing gray streaks at the sides of his ebony hair. The man commenced searching him from back of neck to back of boots before the satchel was returned. By this time Julian was depositing his pistol into the basket, and then came Matthew’s turn. As Matthew gave up his pistol and dagger he noted that a number of other guns and knives were already in the basket, including a thing that looked like a knuckle-duster studded with small nails.

  “One moment,” said the Owl. He placed a pale hand upon Matthew’s chest.

  Matthew tried to stand very still, but his knees began to tremble. The Owl’s protuberant golden eyes were unblinking, the eerie gaze moving here and there over Matthew’s face. Matthew felt himself being examined down to the white-powdered pores.