by Oisin McGann
“You always were … an embarrassment … you … treacherous cur,” Edgar snarled at his younger brother, blood gurgling in his throat.
Hugo picked up the blade. Edgar glared up at him, his left hand vainly trying to stem the lifeblood bubbling from his chest.
“Get on with it then,” he grunted.
Hugo nodded solemnly and cut the Duke’s head off with a single powerful blow.
The head landed on the tiles with a thump and bounced once and rolled, finishing up on its side. His expression was no less belligerent in death than it had been in life. An unnatural calm settled over the room and for a few moments nobody moved.
The room had divided into three groups: there were those who had joined Hugo’s conspiracy—mostly Gideon’s family and allies. They had come armed and ready, and had positioned themselves to block those who had risen to the Duke’s defense—his sons, some of the servants, Gerald, Silas and Daisy. The rest stood motionless, waiting to see which way the tide would turn. For those few moments after the beheading, nobody breathed.
Then Edgar’s lifeless body slumped forwards and fell over and Hugo gave an audible sigh. Dropping the bloodstained sword by the corpse, he righted the chair at the head of the table and sat down. Taking up Edgar’s fork, he began to eat from the Patriarch’s plate. After a few mouthfuls he sat back and gazed at the stunned faces around him.
“Be seated,” he told them. “Let us offer thanks to God for the food he has provided for us.”
Nobody moved. Still charged up with the fury of battle, their hands and legs shaking, their weapons clutched tightly, they did not know what to make of this. Some of them exchanged bewildered glances. Brunhilde, still clutching the wound in her abdomen, sat down at her brother’s side and began to eat with one bloodied hand.
“Praise be to God,” Elizabeth exclaimed.
She sat down next to her brother and smiled beatifically at her new family, beckoning them to sit down. One by one, they obliged. All the uninjured servants returned to their positions at the edge of the hall. Eventually only Nathaniel, Roberto, Daisy and Tatiana remained standing. Nate did not look at Gerald; he knew his cousin was playing the game. It would be wiser to feign loyalty and bide their time, but Nate had no stomach for it.
“If you are not with me, you are against me,” Hugo said without looking at them.
“If you think that, you have a lot to learn about this family,” Nate replied coldly.
With that, he turned his back on the new Patriarch and, leaving his father’s remains where they lay, led the others out of the room.
Nate’s mind was racing as he stood in the elevator, watching the arrow turn around the dial. How much time did they have? Would they even make it out of the house? The bell chimed, and the boy dressed in smart livery sitting by the levers tipped his hat as the doors opened onto Tatiana’s floor.
“You have fifteen minutes,” Nate told his sister. “Pack a couple of changes of clothes—only what you need to travel. Don’t dither.”
“There’s nothing to dither about,” Tatty replied tartly as she strode towards her room.
He was amazed at her composure. She seemed to be taking their father’s murder in her stride. He suspected the sheer scale of what had happened would not hit her for a while yet and he intended to use that time.
“We stick together,” he said to Berto and Daisy. “We gather what we need and we leave. Don’t trust your servants—do everything yourself. We don’t know who’s loyal to whom.”
Even as he said it, Patrick Slattery walked round the corner. He gave a gold-plated grin and leaned his head back round the corner.
“They’re here!” he bellowed.
“Berto,” Nate said quietly. “I’ll handle this. Get them to safety.”
“I’m not leaving you—”
“I can take care of myself. You need to protect them,” Nate told him.
Berto nodded. Taking Tatty and Daisy by the hand, he led them at a run to the end of the corridor and disappeared round the corner.
“I’ve been waiting to settle with you for some time,” Slattery grunted, taking off his jacket. “No more Mr. High ’n’ Mighty any more. Just two fellas and their fists. I’m goin’ to break that stuck-up nose o’ yours and then I’m goin’ to break the rest o’ yeh.”
He carefully hung the jacket on the ornate brass of a gas-lamp and cracked his knuckles. Nate was afraid. For all his training, he had never been in a serious fight until today. He was still untested. Slattery, on the other hand, did this for a living.
“You’re just a thug, Slattery,” Nate said in a tight voice. “Always letting your gang do your work for you. Let’s see how you do in a fair fight.”
“Who said anything about fair?” The bailiff laughed and suddenly there was a switchblade open in his right hand as he lunged at Nathaniel.
Nate stepped to one side and swept the knife-hand to the other with the back of his own hand. Slattery whipped it in and slashed backhand at him, forcing him to jump away. The bailiff kept coming, jabbing and slashing, changing the knife from blade up to blade down and back again with practiced ease. Each time, Nate was driven backwards. Sooner or later he was going to run out of hallway.
Slattery thrust the knife at his belly and Nate sidestepped it, but this time he caught the bailiff’s wrist. Before Slattery could pull it back, Nate swung it round and up and smashed it into the glass of the gas-lamp beside him. The flame guttered, but not before it had scorched Slattery’s hand. The man snarled, dropping the knife but then swinging his left fist at Nate’s face. Nate ducked and drove one elbow into the other man’s ribs and then the other one up under Slattery’s chin. The bailiff’s head snapped up and he fell flat on his back. Nate managed to stamp on his knee and then on his groin before two of Slattery’s men piled into him, bringing him to the floor. He grabbed the switchblade and jammed it into one man’s thigh and was rewarded with a scream of pain, but the second man’s fist caught him across the cheek and then scored another blow against his jaw. He tasted blood. He jammed his knuckle into the nerve cluster in the man’s armpit, making him jerk away in shock, but his opponent did not let go.
“Hold him!” Slattery roared as he wrenched the knife from his man’s leg. “I’m goin’ to cut the little guttersnipe’s face!”
The injured man grabbed Nate’s arms and the other bailiff held his legs. Nate shrieked defiance at them, thrashing to get free. Slattery limped up and stood astride him, leaning down, the knife held loosely between fingers and thumb.
“You got me a good one in the gonads there, lad,” he hissed. “I’ll take my time thankin’ you for that.”
There came the sound of something bouncing down the hallway and they all turned towards it. A metal sphere about the size of a cricket ball rolled towards them, trailing a thin stream of smoke.
“Grenade!” Slattery shouted.
It exploded before it reached them, but there was no blast, only a billowing spiral of smoke. It enveloped them, blinding them and filling their nostrils and throats with acrid fumes. Nate coughed, struggling to free his hands so that he could cover his nose. There was a thump and the man at his head toppled forward. Nate pushed him aside as Slattery plunged into the smoke to tackle a dimly visible figure rushing towards them.
Everything was grey. Nate gagged as the smoke caught in the back of his throat. His lungs burned. Somebody got behind the remaining bailiff and brought a wooden club down on the top of his head. Nate shoved with his feet and the stunned man collapsed back against the wall. Even with his irritated eyes filled with tears, Nate could recognize the man with the club. It was one of the Maasai. A second servant helped him to his feet and he stumbled with his rescuers through the dissipating fumes. A third Maasai, his arm in a sling and a pistol in his good hand, waved them forward. All the rescue party had wet cloths across their noses and mouths. Slattery was lying semiconscious on the floor, with a gash in his forehead. He lifted his head as he saw Nathaniel passing him.
> “Wait … wait,” Nate muttered.
Swinging back his foot, he gave the bailiff a sound kick to the head.
“You can thank me for that one later!” he called as they hurried away.
XXVIII
MEMORIES OF THE DARK CONTINENT
NATE TOOK ANOTHER sip of the water and blinked his swollen red eyelids. He was sitting in a small room on the top floor of the tower that connected to his father’s rooms through a number of hidden doors. This was the living quarters of the Maasai. The room could not have been more than twelve feet square, but their entire private lives were contained within it. Nate had seen Clancy’s room a few times and was surprised that Edgar have given his servants less space than those of his children. The Maasai had made up for the lack of space by cluttering it with the focus of their passion. Africa.
The room had no windows and was lit by a small lamp. A speaking tube by the door allowed the Maasai’s master to summon them any time of the day or night from anywhere in the house. Maps hung on the walls, along with an old sword, an assegai spear and a shield. Nate was sitting on the bottom bunk and could see a beaded necklace adorning the narrow headboard of the top bunk facing him. On a shelf was a modest collection of books on the Dark Continent, and various other tourist souvenirs lay scattered around. But these servants had never been back to their homeland since being taken from it as children. He was quite sure they had never been out of the house unless they were accompanying the Duke. Nate wondered how they had managed to collect all this junk.
“People have been kind to us, sir,” the man opposite him said, as if reading his mind. He spoke with the cultured tone of an Oxford graduate. “It is our dream to visit our homeland again some day.”
Nate nodded, but he knew there would be no chance of that now.
“You saved my life,” he said. “I’m in your debt. I’m sorry … but I don’t … I don’t know which of you is which.”
“When we do our jobs properly, sir, people should not notice us at all,” the man said, smiling. “I am Abraham. The one with the wounded shoulder is Isaiah and the one with the bandage on his arm is Jacob. Our brother, Joshua, was shot dead in the dining room.”
“I’m sorry,” Nate said again. “Servants are supposed to be protected by the Rules of Ascension.”
“It is the one rule the family does not follow to the letter,” Abraham told him. “They will justify it to themselves later. Are you feeling better, sir? Isaiah has gone to fetch Mr. Clancy; they will be here soon.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Nate replied. “I have to get out of here and find my brother and sisters. At least we bought them some time to escape.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Abraham said mournfully. “They were caught moments after they rounded the corner by the Duke’s brother and his sons. We chose to aid you … we had a greater chance of success and you were in the more imminent danger. I’m afraid Master Roberto and the ladies are in the hands of the enemy, sir.”
Nate cursed under his breath and put his head in his hands.
“They will not kill the ladies, nor your brother while you still live, sir,” Abraham told him. “Jacob is following them by the secret ways to see where they are being held. We will free them, but the enemy will not rest until they have found you. You must flee the house—stay alive and find more allies.”
He leaned forward, his eyes lowered, careful not to meet Nathaniel’s gaze out of respect for his position.
“We have no purpose but to serve the rightful Heir … and his brother, Master Nathaniel,” he said in a low voice. “We failed our master, but we won’t fail you. Let us be your vengeance.”
“This isn’t your fight,” Nate said gently.
“The enemy took our master. The Duke was a hard man, but he was the sun around which our earth revolved. If you will forgive me for saying it, sir, he was like a father to us.”
“That’s more than he was to me.” Nate snorted at the irony of the remark. “You can have your own vengeance, Abraham; I need none of it. I want to get out of here and take my brother and sisters with me. And that’s all I want.”
“So be it,” Abraham said, and his eyes hardened. “When Mr. Clancy arrives and Jacob returns, we will go and free the hostages.” He made it sound so simple. “Then you must go your way, sir, and leave us to do our duty.”
Nate thought he detected a rebuke in the man’s tone. Looking around the room, he realized that without their master, these men had no identity, no purpose. Not like Clancy; Clancy was his own man. They had been plucked from their home and, as black men, would never be fully accepted by the other servants here. They dreamed of going back to Africa, but after a life in an Irish manor house, they would never be accepted by their own people either. Abraham saw him staring at the books on the shelf.
“You have been to Kenya, sir?” he asked eagerly. “Did you encounter the Maasai? Please tell me about them.”
“I didn’t see much of them—I wasn’t there for very long,” Nate replied, relieved to talk about something other than conspiracy. “They are a proud people; tall, like you—even the women! I remember their loud laughs and booming voices. The tribes wander with their cattle … They treat their cattle with the utmost care. They mourn when one is slaughtered.” He racked his brain to remember more. It seemed to mean so much to the footman. “The warrior class call themselves moran and they are known throughout Africa for their bravery and ferocity.”
They were also notorious among farmers for being cattle thieves, but Nate saw no need to mention that. Abraham continued to listen in fascination.
“They form bonds for life with the other men their age in the tribe—I think they even get circumcised together!” He paused, embarrassed, realizing that was hardly a suitable subject to discuss with servants. “And of course, to prove his manhood, a Maasai warrior must kill a lion—”
Even as he said it, Nate knew he had made a mistake. Abraham’s face fell. Nate tried to come up with some way to cover up his blunder, but he couldn’t. Abraham and his brothers were in their forties and had never even seen a lion in the flesh. There was a long and awkward silence.
“I will go to Africa,” the servant said solemnly, “and I will kill a lion.”
Nathaniel was saved from answering by the sound of someone in the passage outside. Abraham aimed his pistol at the door, but two sharp knocks followed by two more put him at ease. Isaiah walked in with Clancy behind him.
“I think it’s time to get you out of here, sir,” Clancy declared.
“We need to free the others first,” Nate said.
“Hugo and Gideon will count on your doing that, Master Nathaniel,” Clancy replied. “They will be waiting to trap you. You must leave and gather allies—perhaps in the south, or in England—and then come back in force. If you are taken, they will kill you and your brother both. But they won’t dispatch him until they have you, sir—not while they can use him as leverage against you.”
Nate knew he was right, but he couldn’t admit it out loud. He would have to leave his brother and sisters to their fate. His fists clenched so tight they turned pale and the muscles knotted around his jaw. The choice was almost more than he could bear. There had to be another way. There had to be.
“Goddamn it to hell!” he burst out, thumping the wall. “I can’t just leave them!”
“You must, sir,” Clancy said simply. “And you must do it now.”
There was nothing for it but to go. Nate allowed himself to be led along the secret passageways back to his room. He needed some ready money and the weapons he kept there. Clancy assured him that the Duke’s servants were the best men to have on their side in the house. They had been taught every hidden path and doorway and were extremely capable. Nate hardly listened—he should not have been relying on servants to save his kin. His face burned with shame.
The passageway did not go all the way to Nate’s room, opening instead through an eight-foot-tall oil painting of the Duke at the end of the corri
dor. They closed the painting behind them and walked quietly up the hallway.
“I left the room protected, sir,” Clancy told him. “They might expect you to come back here.”
Nate was deep in thought, wondering where he could go. They had cousins in Cork and Galway, and some in Belfast too. He knew there were a few he might count on. But Gideon would already be contacting them by the houses telegraph, warning them that Nathaniel was no longer to be trusted. Nate was engrossed in plans of escape and rescue when he reached his door, carelessly grasping the handle.
“Sir!” Clancy barked.
But it was too late. Nate flung open the door and walked through without pressing the safety catch in the handle. The next thing he knew, Clancy was slamming him against the door frame and he felt a sharp pain in his chest.
“Agh!” he yelled. “What the bloody hell’s got into you?”
He pushed the footman away, clutching his chest. That was when he saw the metal point sticking out of the breast of Clancy’s jacket. Clancy collapsed against the opposite door frame and slid down to the floor, groaning. The tail of the crossbow bolt sticking out of his back clacked against the floor. It had been shot from a crossbow mounted in the base of the sofa on the other side of the room; a booby trap meant to protect Nate … and he had walked right into it. It was the tip of the bolt he’d felt digging into his own chest, after it had embedded itself in his servant’s body.
“Oh God,” he whimpered breathlessly. “Oh God, no. Not you. Oh God, I’m sorry.”
He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and tried to stem the bleeding. Clancy struggled to sit up. “Stay down, man!” Nate urged him, his voice cracking into a sob. “I’ll get help. I’m so sorry. Gerald … Gerald can help you—”
“I’m dying,” Clancy replied with wet noises in his throat. “There’s no one can help that.”
He sounded furious. Nate caught his breath and wiped tears from his eyes. He couldn’t bear to have the man angry at him now, when they had so little time left.
