by Oisin McGann
The old Patriarch persisted in demanding a heavy sword, pointing first at a Scottish claymore, then a cleaver-like falchion, and then finally a six-foot two-handed sword, which sent Nathaniel into fits of laughter. He could barely hold that one up himself. Instead, Nate took down a pair of épées; light and blunt and ideal for training. He handed one to Hugo, who looked at the flimsy sword in disdain.
“Do people commonly fight with knitting needles in this new age?” he grunted.
“It’s built to develop speed, not to chop horses in half,” Nate replied. “Let’s see what you remember.”
Clancy, who was standing nearby, invisible as all good servants should be, helped the two gentlemen into their padded jackets, gauntlets and wire-mesh helmets and then stood aside to watch.
Nate raised his blade in front of him in salute, then took up the en garde stance, blade extended, his free hand above his shoulder. He nodded to Hugo, eager to see what his opponent would do. The Normans were masters of the battlefield in their day and he had no doubt Hugo was a seasoned warrior. The old man nodded back and held his sword horizontally at head-height in a pose that Nate recognized from medieval fighting manuals. Nate gave a resigned sigh; his opponent was determined to learn the hard way. Nate lunged in with an attack.
At this point all pretense at formality went out of the window.
Nate scored two strikes while Hugo was still making his first swing. The older man had clearly used a sword before, but he made big, sweeping moves that telegraphed his intentions and left him wide open. He wasn’t used to the tighter, quicker style of modern fencing.
“Stop using it like a big sword,” Nate told him. “Small movements … short and quick!”
He deflected Hugo’s blade again and thrust the point of his sword into his opponent’s chest. Hugo snarled and stamped on Nate’s toe.
“Aagh!” Nate yelped.
Hugo pinned Nate’s foot down long enough to smack him on the side of the helmet with his blade. Nate gave a curse and pulled free. He parried the next blow and jammed his point into the protective pad on Hugo’s chest again. Hugo grabbed the blunt blade with his free hand and kicked Nate in the shin. Nate was so surprised, the old man managed to get two more kicks in with the other foot before swinging his sword so hard against the younger man’s side that the blade bent.
Nate grunted in pain. He should have called a halt to it there and then, but his temper flared and he swept Hugo’s sword aside and jabbed his point into the man’s mask. Hugo staggered back and Nate followed, lunging after him to whip the thin blade across the man’s unprotected thigh—going for pain rather than points. Hugo let out a scream and jerked away, lashing wildly with his crooked sword.
They both came forward, clashing again, and Nate scored several more strikes as Hugo fought like a whirling dervish, his frantic efforts all the more comical because of his pathetically weak limbs. Nate would have laughed, but the old man was taking it so seriously. Nate leaned onto his back leg as Hugo came at him again, avoiding the thrusting point, and with a neat spiraling motion, whipped the blade right out of Hugo’s hand.
That should have been the end of it, but even as he was disarmed, Hugo grabbed Nate’s wrist. Wrenching his mask off, he whacked Nate over the head with it and then sank his teeth into the young man’s arm, provoking another yell of pain. Only the material of Nate’s sleeve saved him from broken flesh.
They pulled apart, breathing heavily. Hugo was wheezing through gritted teeth, clutching his chest, looking frighteningly absurd as he snatched his sword from the floor and tensed up his weak, aged frame, raising his bent weapon in a guard position.
“This is not how we practice fighting,” Nate growled. “You have to use more control.”
“Any warrior knows you gain control by winning,” the old man panted. “Perhaps you should practice less and fight more?”
He charged forward to make another sweeping attack with his sword. But Nate had run out of patience; if the old relic wanted to play dirty, that was his own lookout. With a flick of his wrist, Nathaniel parried the clumsy strike and stepped aside to let Hugo’s momentum carry him past. Nate brought his knee up sharply into the other man’s ribs, doubling him over and sending him crumpling to the floor.
“I’m a great believer in practice myself,” Nathaniel breathed, relishing the adrenaline rushing through his body. “It’s how I win.”
Hugo lay on the floor, struggling to get his wind back, the ache in his side etched in lines across his face.
“Indeed,” he gasped. Then, looking up at his opponent with a grimacing smile, he added: “So … same time tomorrow?”
XXII
ETIQUETTE AND THE RULES OF ASCENSION
DAISY POURED THE tea under the judgmental eye of her Aunt Eunice. Elizabeth and Brunhilde sat on a sofa on the other side of the small table, one a picture of absolute stillness, the other chewing her thumbnails down to the quick, her eyes darting suspiciously around the spacious drawing room. Daisy knew that her conversation skills were about to be tested to the limit.
“You won’t have had tea before,” she said. “Might I suggest a little sugar and milk?”
Neither woman answered, so Daisy decided for them, handing their cups across the table before serving herself and Eunice.
“Daisy and I have been asked to introduce you to life in the modern world,” Eunice began, pressing a hand to her ample bosom; a gesture that implied that she was the only one they need listen to. “I was thinking we might begin by telling you about the prominent members of our family.”
Brunhilde picked up her cup of tea, sniffed it curiously and then took a large gulp.
“Oh, mind that!” Daisy exclaimed. “It’s very ho—!”
There was an explosion of tea across the table as Brunhilde spat out the burning liquid, spattering some of it over Eunice, who was unfortunate enough to be sitting opposite her. A maid, who had been standing unobtrusively in a corner, scurried forward to clean up the mess. Brunhilde wiped her mouth with her sleeve and glared furiously at the offending cup. Elizabeth cast a concerned glance towards her sister but did not move. Eunice let the maid finish and then waved her away. She examined her dress and checked her makeup and decided both were still in a fit state for them to carry on with the proceedings.
“Yes, perhaps we should start instead with some simple dining etiquette …” she muttered stiffly.
“Perhaps they could tell us about their world first,” Daisy suggested. “We could—”
“All in good time, dear.” Eunice put a heavily ringed hand on her niece’s knee. “All in good time.”
And so Eunice launched into a tedious lecture about how to behave at the Modern Dinner Table. Daisy sat fuming with impatience. These two women were from another century; there was so much that could be learned from them, and yet this biddy wanted to talk about which fork to use for your salad. Any time Daisy tried to interject, Eunice either cut her off or just ignored her completely. The old bag was intolerant of anyone interrupting while she was listening to the sound of her own voice.
“… and of course, one should never put one’s elbows on the table—”
“Is this a God-fearing house?” Elizabeth asked suddenly.
There was complete silence for a moment as Eunice sat with her mouth open. These were the first words heard uttered by either of the ancient women. Brunhilde leaned forward and slurped some tea. She dug her fingers into the sugar bowl and added several more lumps.
“Y—yes, of course.” Eunice gave a faltering smile. “Why, we have helped finance the building of three churches in Ireland in the last ten years alone! We have our own chapel on the grounds of the estate.”
Elizabeth seemed to be digesting this, looking towards the window with a distant expression. Eunice was about to expand on the family’s religious credentials, but was interrupted again.
“Do women have power in this new world?” Elizabeth inquired, turning to hold Eunice’s gaze.
The questi
on was gentle but insistent, and Daisy noted that the woman had a smooth, sonorous voice.
Eunice struggled to answer.
“Well, there is Queen Victoria, of course, although she must abide by the will of the government. Women are responsible for the home, and … and … and play a great part in the culture of—”
“Under British law, women are controlled by their husbands or fathers,” Daisy said sharply. “We cannot own businesses or property, we cannot vote and we can play no part in government. But we’re working on changing that.”
Elizabeth nodded her thanks but said no more. Brunhilde continued to slurp her tea. Eunice struggled to find a subject on which she could lecture her uninformed ancestors.
“There are many women’s movements—” she began.
“Are you ruled by this Queen … Victoria?” Elizabeth spoke again.
“Edgar has a poor view of the Queen unfortunately,” Eunice said apologetically. “He knows her personally, you see, and we are distantly related … His position is that we are Irish first and British second, but above all we are Wildensterns—”
“And the British Empire, can go hang if it thinks it can tell him what to do,” Daisy finished for her.
Elizabeth nodded approvingly.
“And what rank will Hugo hold now, in this family?”
Daisy hesitated. They needed to be careful here. It would be very easy to say the wrong thing.
“Let me explain,” Eunice said, smiling. “There has never been a situation like this … ever. So there are still a lot of matters to be worked out. You can be assured that you are welcome here … but … well, the family has a firm structure and it is governed by some very strict rules. Edgar … the Duke is the Patriarch and will be until his death. He will decide what Hugo’s position shall be.”
“And his will is never questioned?” Elizabeth asked innocently.
“By the time one becomes Patriarch,” Eunice told her, “one will have earned the right to govern. Of course, I’m forgetting—you didn’t have the Rules of Ascension in your day, did you?”
“Aunt Eunice …” Daisy said softly.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and shook her head, leaning forward slightly.
“Ah,” said Eunice. “Then I shall enlighten you, so that you can understand our … special arrangements.”
“Aunt Eunice …”
“It’s all right, Daisy dear. I have this well in hand,” Eunice assured her. She sat up straighter and readied herself for her recital. “Now, Elizabeth, Brunhilde. With the intention of encouraging the qualities of aggression, strength and ambition, the family will sanction the act of assassination of one family member by another, under eight strict conditions—the Rules of Ascension. They are as follows:
“Number One: The Act of Aggression must be committed by the Aggressor himself and not by any agent or servant.
“Number Two: The Act must only be committed against a man over the age of sixteen who holds a superior rank in the family to the Aggressor.
“Number Three: The Act must only be committed for the purpose of advancing one’s position and not out of spite, or because of insult or offence given, or to satisfy a need for revenge for an insult or injury given to a third party.
“Number Four: All efforts should be made to avoid the deaths of servants while committing the Act. Good servants are hard to find.
“Number Five: The Target of the Aggression can use any and all means to defend themselves, and is under an obligation to do so for the good of the family.
“Number Six: Retribution against the Aggressor can only be carried out after the Act has been committed. Should the Aggressor fail in his attempt, and subsequently escape to remain at large for a full day, only the Target of the Aggression and no other person will be permitted to take Retribution.
“Number Seven: No Act of Aggression or Retribution must be witnessed or reported by any member of the public. All family matters must be kept confidential.
“Number Eight: Any bodies resulting from the Act must be given a proper burial in a cemetery, crypt, catacomb or funeral pyre approved by the family.”
Eunice nodded and sat back, looking pleased with herself. Daisy was covering her face with her hand. Roberto had been made to recite these rules from the age of ten. This family was insane, and she had been mad to marry into it.
“And rank in the family is decided by bloodline?” Elizabeth pressed her tutor.
“Of course,” Eunice said. “So Roberto is the Heir, as the Duke’s eldest remaining son. Then Nathaniel and after him Gideon, as Edgar’s eldest remaining brother.”
“I’m curious to know then,” Elizabeth went on, “why the Duke allowed Hugo to live?”
“Oh, heavens,” Eunice tittered, her bosom quivering with incredulous mirth. “You’ve only just come back from the dead—we can’t go sending you off again! It’s not like your brother’s a threat, now, is he?” Her laughter faltered. “Is he?”
Elizabeth gave her a demure smile.
“My brother is just happy to be alive, as are we. We are born again, through some miracle of God, and our efforts will be devoted to praising Him, living worthwhile lives with this new time He has given us, and praying for the awakening of our brother Brutus. You have nothing to fear from us.”
“Of course not, dear,” Eunice sighed, patting the woman’s knee.
But Daisy listened to Elizabeth’s words with a faint feeling of dread. The woman had been very deliberate in her questioning for somebody who just wanted to live a “worthwhile life.” They all lapsed into an awkward silence, and as Brunhilde started to shove sugar lumps into her mouth, Eunice suggested they have some more tea.
With everything that had been going on, Nate had neglected his investigation into Marcus’s death and he had made up his mind to get to the bottom of it all. There was something about the idea of rebels killing his brother in order to attack his funeral that just didn’t ring true. The rebels had never shown that kind of cunning in the past. They tended more towards near-suicidal assaults on public buildings, goods shipments or the occasional army barracks.
The one thing that they all had in common was that they invariably failed—but they had always acted with a rough kind of honor too. There was no honor in blowing up a funeral, and it was bound to cost them much support in a country where the dead were often held in higher regard than the living. If the family really was dealing with the Fenians, then these were a new breed, and Slattery was obviously no closer to tracking down the culprits.
Nate was certain that the answers lay in the Mourne Mountains, where Marcus was supposed to have fallen. He would go and see the spot for himself—climb the same route up the cliff if need be—and question everyone who was there.
But first he was determined to find out just why his brother had left the mysterious message about finding Babylon. If Marcus had wanted to leave a clue to the truth about his death, he could have provided something more helpful.
Marcus’s rooms took up a whole floor of the tower, and since Roberto and Daisy had not asked to move into them, they had not yet been disturbed. Nate had already been up here since the funeral, but if there were any clues to find, so far they had eluded him. He paused before the door into the living room and then opened it hesitantly.
Marcus had style; everything from the carpet to the plasterwork on the ceiling was evidence of his modern but refined tastes. There were numerous artifacts from his travels too: Japanese swords and armor, Chinese fans, Russian furs and even a Mongolian saddle. There was a clutter of alien objects that Nate had always delighted in. He ran his fingers over a buffalo hide from the North American plains that hung on the wall. Marcus had bagged the animal himself—he had been a keen hunter. Nate had always been more fascinated by engimals than flesh-and-blood animals. And there was far more to be gained by capturing them alive.
He had asked Winters to join him. The manservant was being transferred to the service of one of Nate’s cousins, but Nate had pull
ed rank so that the man could help him in his search. There was no dust anywhere; the rooms were still immaculately clean—the servants kept them that way—and yet they felt stale without his brother’s presence.
He was surprised to find Marcus’s climbing gear had been brought back and placed in its cupboard—it had not come back with the corpse and Warburton had told him it had been destroyed. It was slightly surreal to see all the ropes and bags of pitons hanging up, knowing Marcus had died using them. Nate examined everything carefully. It all looked intact, but he was struck by the fact that the crampons were still attached to the boots. In fact, he wondered why the ill-fated equipment had been brought back at all, seeing that everyone seemed so eager to brush the whole affair under the carpet.
Over the next two hours they slowly and methodically pulled the place apart. Winters was uneasy about disturbing his master’s things, but Nate was merciless. They pulled out furniture, overturned mattresses, emptied wardrobes, cupboards and drawers, lifted up rugs and pulled back the edges of the carpets. All the secret panels were opened and examined, the entrances to secret passages exposed and the passageways searched. Nate went through Marcus’s papers, reading the most significant and putting the rest aside for closer analysis later. By the time they were finished, his older brother’s home looked as if it had been hit by a typhoon; and they were no closer to solving the mystery of Babylon. Nate flopped into an armchair and let out a frustrated curse, rubbing his face with his hands.
“What the hell did he mean?” he burst out. “What the bloody hell has Babylon got to do with anything? What kind of stupid … stupid …? Oh, for God’s sake!”
He threw up his hands in exasperation and then sat in silence for a few minutes, playing with the rings on his fingers. Winters stood nearby, his face carefully neutral. Nate’s gaze fell on the cupboard that held Marcus’s climbing gear. He wondered about the crampons on the boots again.
