Kultus

by Richard Ford

  He winced at the sudden, deafening report – he didn’t mean to, he just hadn’t been expecting it.

  Suddenly the tipstaff in his grip went slack, dead weight, and he couldn’t hold him up any longer. The man screamed, clutching his leg where he had been shot. Well, that answered whether she was acting or not!

  ‘I hate to have to repeat myself, but there’s nowhere to run to, Mr Blaklok,’ she said, lowering the carbine. Her man moaned on the ground, trying to staunch the blood flowing from his wound. ‘Shall we dispense with all this futile nonsense and return to the Ministry?’

  Blaklok considered her words, while his fingers absently traced the edge of the Key that was now secured in his trouser pocket.

  There was a sudden buzzing in his ears, an annoying dull noise like an engine. Blaklok had never suffered with migraines but he guessed this was what one would be like.

  Surrender was not an option. But this bitch was serious – serious enough to shoot one of her own men. She obviously hated losing just as much as he did. Maybe his theory about her wanting him alive was a bit premature. Maybe she would kill him after all if he kept on running.

  As he thought this, the buzzing grew louder, and Blaklok began to wonder if it was just in his own head. The expression on Amelia’s face gave him the answer.

  She quickly raised the carbine again as the sound became deafening. Her shot screamed straight past him, but Thaddeus was already moving, sprinting for the lip of the rooftop, ready to make his leap of faith.

  As his legs powered him out into oblivion he saw it, rising like a great, beautiful monolith, all round and smooth. The airship rose up fast, steam pumping from its churning engines as it ascended. Blaklok reached out, those big hands wide, hoping more than anything that they would find a hold.

  He started to fall, gravity sucking him towards the hard ground hundreds of feet below.

  Quickly he realised he was going to die.

  One hand squeezed tight against the lip of the open hatch, and his flicker of despair was instantly replaced with the heart thumping burn of relief. Looking over his shoulder he saw Amelia fumbling with the carbine, her man still squirming at her feet. She was shouting but he couldn’t hear a word over the airship’s engines.

  Allowing himself a smile of triumph, Blaklok pulled himself aboard, still staring, resisting the temptation to give the Indagator a jaunty wave as he sailed away.

  ‘Ah, Mr Blaklok.’

  The voice was raised above the din of the engine, but it was strangely familiar. ‘I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again so soon. I believe you have something that belongs to us…’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Blaklok turned slowly, but even before he saw the telltale cloth-of-gold robes he remembered where he had heard the voice before.

  Trajian Arkwright, the beardy little shit.

  He was standing, smiling smugly, surrounded by the other delusionals. They were lined up next to one another, Arkwright at their centre, grinning at him like a bunch of halfwits.

  ‘The Key,’ said Trajian. ‘Hand it over.’

  ‘You must have a fucking death wish,’ said Thaddeus, taking a step forward.

  ‘Ah, ah.’ Arkwright raised a tiny revolver.

  Blaklok stared at it, thinking hard about his next option.

  Could he cover the distance in time? Could he take a bullet from that little peashooter and still make his escape? Could he make it out of the open door behind him before Arkwright could fire? A quick glance over his shoulder ruled out the last option as he realised that the airship had ascended high over the streets of the Manufactory. There was no way even he could survive that fall.

  ‘Let’s not have any further unpleasantness,’ Arkwright crooned. ‘Now. The Key, if you please.’

  ‘What fucking Key?’

  It was a poor attempt at subterfuge but the best he could do at such short notice.

  ‘The one that’s bulging in your pocket, Mr Blaklok. Or are you just pleased to see me?’

  Bollocks.

  Blaklok reached into his pocket and pulled out the Key of Lunos.

  ‘Just toss it over here.’

  Thaddeus could see the eagerness in Arkwright’s eyes, matched by that of his followers. Something wasn’t right. How could they know anything about its power? A bunch of wannabe, demonist losers could not possibly have the arcane knowledge to come after the Key.

  Nevertheless, fact was they wanted it, and Blaklok was in no mood to simply hand it over.

  ‘What’s to stop me tossing it out of the door?’ he said, suddenly moving his arm and dangling the Key between thumb and forefinger precariously over the void.

  ‘It would be nothing more than an inconvenience for us, Mr Blaklok. It would just take a little longer to find. For you, I can promise, the inconvenience would be much worse.’ Arkwright brandished the revolver with menace. ‘Now, just pass it to me.’

  Trajian was getting annoyed, Thaddeus could tell. As much as he enjoyed winding up arseholes like this, he kind of got the feeling it wasn’t long before he would get shot. With a flick of his wrist he sent the Key spinning towards Arkwright. In a flash, one of his cloth-of-gold sycophants moved to intercept and snatched it out of the air.

  ‘President Valac appreciates your compliance,’ said Arkwright, with a leer.

  ‘Fuck him,’ Blaklok replied.

  Arkwright merely smiled. He had a plaster on his nose where Blaklok had hit him with the rusty canister, and Thaddeus only regretted not finding something heavier to throw back at the riverside.

  ‘Put those on,’ said Arkwright, signalling to one of his acolytes who brandished a set of shiny manacles. Blaklok stood impassively as the man approached gingerly, holding the manacles at arm’s length as though they were covered in pig shit.

  Now was Blaklok’s chance – taking a hostage would be the quickest way out of this mess; use a human shield, disarm Arkwright, take back the Key and be home in time for tea and biscuits.

  Before he was within striking distance, the man threw the manacles at Blaklok’s feet.

  Not a bad move, all things considered. Though there was fear in his eyes, the bloke wasn’t quite as stupid as he looked – had he got any closer, Blaklok would have had him.

  Once he put the manacles on he would put himself in an even more vulnerable position, but there was little choice. This was why he never planned anything; because once your plans went to shit your arse was left hanging in the wind. Since there had been no plan, and Blaklok had pretty much made everything up off the cuff, he could take a little solace in knowing he hadn’t fucked up. Not really. And whatever happened next was purely fate.

  It made him feel a little bit better about being at the mercy of a bunch of stuck up nobs.

  Reaching down he picked up the manacles, casting his eye over them to try and discern any imperfection he might be able to exploit later. Unfortunately they seemed very well made; the best money could buy.

  He really hated rich people.

  When he had snapped the manacles over his wrists Blaklok noted that some of Valac’s followers visibly relaxed, some sighing openly in relief.

  Who were they trying to kid? They obviously didn’t realise who they were dealing with. He could do just as much damage to these arseholes with manacled hands as he could without. Given half a chance he would bloody well show them.

  ‘Please feel free to sit, Mr Blaklok.’ Arkwright sounded jovial, almost friendly. As he was speaking he never took his eyes off the Key of Lunos, turning it in one hand, whilst keeping the revolver trained on Thaddeus with the other. ‘It will only be a short trip to our destination but you look rather fatigued. The events that have befallen you since our last meeting have obviously not been pleasant.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ replied Blaklok, remaining on his feet.

  ‘All will be revealed. In good time.’

  This was getting worse. Blaklok had a sneaking suspicion his earlier assumptions about this bunch being ignorant in
the Arts, or in the least the assumptions he had made about Arkwright, might have been wrong. Then again, he had only made those assumptions because they had been in the company of a certain back street bilker.

  ‘Where the fuck is Tarquin Bates? Is all this down to him?’

  Arkwright diverted his attention from the Key and stared Blaklok right in the eye. Then a wide grin crossed his face.

  ‘I can assure you, Mr Blaklok, Bates has nothing to do with this. He was merely the hired help. Though he may have thought he was using us, I can assure you it was quite the opposite. You see, certain obsequies have to be adhered to for our plans to work properly. Despite Bates’ lowly nature, he does have the requisite knowledge, which we would have found it difficult to procure elsewhere, particularly after the murder of our patron, Earl Beuphalus.’

  ‘Requisite knowledge for what?’ asked Blaklok, but part of him already knew the answer.

  ‘Why, to raise the President, of course.’

  At that, the rest of the gold-clad acolytes began to chant in unison: ‘Valac serviam. Valac dominus. Valac patrem. Valac omnipotentum.’

  Blaklok suddenly felt cold, and it wasn’t just the cutting breeze blowing in through the hatch of the airship. ‘Tell me you’re not thinking of using that thing, are you?’

  ‘Why of course we are, Mr Blaklok. Why else would we have gone to all this trouble? We were going to bide our time in the beginning. After all, there’s no rush, the President’s not going anywhere. But word on the grapevine was that an attempt was going to be made on the Repository, so we decided it would behove us well to be waiting. And there you were. And here we are.’

  ‘You’ve got no idea what you’re fucking doing,’ snapped Blaklok, taking a step forward.

  Arkwright raised the revolver once more.

  Thaddeus could see in his eyes he would use it if he had to. There was a look of complete commitment, his dedication to a cause. Blaklok had seen that look in others many times, and he was sure plenty of others had seen the look in him.

  ‘On the contrary, I can assure you we know exactly what we’re doing. The Earl of Westowe had planned to procure the Key of Lunos legally from its current owner, but with him dead we had to make alternate plans. Not only that, but we also lost our codex. That’s why we needed to solicit the aid of Tarquin Bates. He was most helpful too, teaching the relevant rituals and summonation rites. So now we have the power and the knowledge, Valac will soon walk among us once more. His time is almost here. And with no small thanks to you. And Mr Bates of course.’

  ‘Fucking Bates,’ said Thaddeus quietly.

  ‘Oh don’t blame him. He was as much a pawn as you are. Only he won’t be taking as much of an active role as you will, Mr Blaklok. A front row seat has been reserved for you. I just know you’ll enjoy the show.’

  The droning chant of Valac’s followers continued, rising above the din of the airship’s engine and grating on Blaklok’s nerves. He pulled the manacles tight until they bit into his wrists, but it was no use. He considered striking forward, maybe he would be shot, but maybe he would still be moving, still able to finish Arkwright before he was finished himself. But then who would stop the rest of these fanatics?

  There was no one else.

  Bide your time, he told himself, breathing deep and trying to keep control. There was no need to unleash the beast yet. The opportunity would present itself in good time, and when it did, these fuckers were going to get just what they deserved.

  The airship droned onwards, just like the voices of the acolytes, and Blaklok soon found himself having to turn his back on them.

  Through the open door the view truly was breathtaking. Blaklok seldom took the time to appreciate the Manufactory, but then again, he rarely got the opportunity to view it from this angle. From up here you could not see the grime and filth of the streets, the wan and woebegone faces. All you could see from here were the rooftops and towers, the lights and the lanes and the riverbed as it meandered through the city’s centre like a great dead serpent. From here, you could also see the sky clearly, and not through the usual obscuring pall of smog that blanketed everything. He hadn’t seen the sky this clearly since he had been outside the Manufactory, only a year ago. Things had been simpler then, but he knew well how nothing stayed the same. Nothing ever stayed simple… not for Thaddeus Blaklok.

  You reap what you sow, someone had once told him. Of course, Blaklok had beaten the shit out of that fucker, but it still didn’t make the adage any less true. The sentiment was clear – Blaklok was cursed – and current events were only reinforcing that sentiment. Well, he would fight this curse, just like he fought everything else. And like everything else he came up against, he would win or he would die.

  Just let them try and stop him.

  Blaklok suddenly noticed that the airship was slowing down, the steam engines that powered it growling less intensely as it slowly turned, aiming itself towards one of the grasping towers that clawed up towards the heavens.

  The acolytes had ceased their chanting, much to Blaklok’s relief, and he turned to face them, seeing that Arkwright still had his revolver aimed and ready.

  ‘Well, Mr Blaklok. We appear to have arrived.’ Arkwright smiled.

  Blaklok didn’t think he had ever wanted to break someone’s teeth more.

  The airship cruised low over the tower, and slowly came to rest. Blaklok could see more cloth-of-gold clad acolytes securing mooring ropes on the ground. With a screech of rusty wheels, a set of metal steps were pushed toward the side of the airship and clanged against the gaping hull.

  Arkwright wafted his revolver at Blaklok.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said.

  Thaddeus had little choice but to obey.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The grinding engines of the airship powered down, dying out like the last breath of some wheezing, cankerous monster. As they silenced, Blaklok could hear more chanting, the droning litany of President Valac being repeated, ad nauseum.

  When he reached the bottom of the metal stairs he was immediately surrounded by a dozen acolytes, their golden robes glinting in the bright sun. Some held carbines while others brandished hand weapons: knives, clubs, one even bearing a knuckleduster. While the acolytes’ weapons looked effective enough, their faces told a different tale. They were nervous, bearing little conviction behind the eyes, and Blaklok doubted they would bring themselves to use their weapons in anger. Unfortunately, he couldn’t guarantee that they wouldn’t use them out of desperation, and a shot fired in fright would kill him just as dead as one fired in anger.

  ‘Take Mr Blaklok to the chapel,’ ordered Arkwright, closely following him down the stairs from the airship. Blaklok glanced back, noting the revolver still trained on him.

  He was ushered away from the great grumbling vessel, and across the wide flat rooftop, high above the Manufactory. The sun was warm against his face and a fresh wind blew gently against his skin. Even in this moment of endangerment, Blaklok still appreciated the fact that he was, for once, high above the cloying streets, up in the relatively clean air and bathed in sunlight.

  ‘Magnificent, isn’t it?’ said Arkwright. Blaklok resisted the temptation to reply. ‘This is one of the towers of House Westowe. Pledged to us by its former owner. Truly magnificent what money can buy these days, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Blaklok’s fists clenched tighter. Money didn’t give them the right to this. Fresh air and the beauty of a cloudless sky should be the right of every citizen in the Manufactory, not the exclusive privilege of the rich.

  ‘Soon it will all be His. Valac dominatus. You should be proud that you will bear witness, Mr Blaklok. It is the dawning of a new era. A golden age, ruled over by a god. And we will be his lieutenants.’

  ‘You’ll be his fucking entrées, you ignorant prick,’ replied Blaklok.

  Some of the acolytes stared at him, shock written on their faces, but Trajian Arkwright merely laughed.

  ‘You are the ignorant one, Mr Blakl
ok. We have been promised a seat at his right hand. It has been foretold. Valac is beneficent with his rewards, and we will bathe in the shadow of his reign.’

  Now it was Blaklok’s turn to laugh, which seemed to compound the nervousness of those gold-clad acolytes that crowded around him. ‘You lot really have no idea, do you? You’re just pawns… less than pawns, you’re not even on the fucking chessboard!’

  ‘No!’ screamed Arkwright, suddenly enraged. Blaklok felt the tiny cold barrel of the revolver pressing into the back of his head. It appeared he had finally managed to hit the spot. ‘Valac loves us. He cherishes his followers, and we will be rewarded. We will stand by his side for eternity. Valac serviam!’

  His last words were repeated by the surrounding acolytes, and Blaklok realised he was wasting his breath. There would be no reasoning with these fanatics. He could only hope there would be a way to stop them before it was too late.

  He was led to a staircase that swept down to the floor below. Here Blaklok could immediately see that the followers of President Valac had already busied themselves with their preparations. The wide, circular chapel was surrounded on all sides by huge glass windows set in carved frames, depicting their demonic master. He seemed almost benevolent; a striding figure with the requisite horns and forked tail, but his face was serene. On every facet Valac was depicted performing some kind of gracious act – anointing his followers, blessing the land, sitting atop a gilded throne watching over his kingdom.

  Blaklok almost guffawed at the naivety.

  In the centre of the room had been carved a summoning circle. It was set into the marble floor, the pentacle carved in relief, the chthonic symbols gilded in silver leaf. Blaklok had never seen such ostentation in honour of a demon before. Communion was usually made in dank and dirty cellars, with charcoal sigils streaked across blood-spattered floors. This place really was fit for a king.

  Then he realised, with rising panic, that there were no safeties in place. No guards against a hostile summonation, no salt, no lead, no standby sacrifice. When Blaklok had been forced to make a dry conjuration it had been out of pure desperation, but this… this was simple madness.