by Oisin McGann
'We're walking out of here and you're not going to stop us,' Berto was saying.
'No, I don't think you're going anywhere,' Hugo replied.
Berto tightened his grip on Elizabeth's neck and pointed the gun at Hugo, firing off a shot. The bullet hit the wall over Hugo's shoulder.
'I only need one hostage,' Berto warned him. 'The next shot will take you between the eyes.'
Hugo spared his sister a glance and she managed a strained smile as she gasped for breath. His eyes flicked back to Berto's.
'You're not a killer, Roberto,' he said. 'You show your weakness in every move that you make, every word that you say. Your father said you always lacked nerve. You won't hurt my sister.'
'The hell I won't!' Berto yelled, his voice a little too shrill.
Even from beyond the grave, it seemed that Edgar was undermining his sons. Daisy gripped the handle of the poker, sidling up behind Gideon, whose attention was fixed on the hostage situation. If anyone made a move towards her husband, Gideon was going to get it over the back of the head.
'Give me the weapon, Roberto,' Hugo said gently, holding out his hand. 'You don't want it to go like this. Think of your sister. She could get hurt.'
'I can look after myself,' Tatiana informed him tartly.
'We're getting out of here,' Berto said tightly, but he sounded less confident now.
He went to move, but Elizabeth would not walk and he nearly tripped over her.
'Move!' he cried.
Elizabeth looked to her brother. His face was expressionless. He gave a barely perceptible nod. Her cloak let out a rising hum and then burst into pieces. Dozens of leaf-lights, each one no heavier than the page of a book, swept back over Berto, their paper-thin edges cutting gashes into his skin and clothes. Elizabeth knocked his gun-hand aside and stepped away, making a pushing motion with her other hand. The leaf-lights obeyed, whirling in a loop and coming at him again. He disappeared in a blizzard of blinding white movement, letting out a panicked cry as he was carried backwards and thrown through the window with a great crash of glass and wood.
He tumbled backwards, screaming into empty space, thirty storeys above the ground.
Daisy gave a gasp, dropping the poker and rushing towards the window. Hugo stepped into her path, catching hold of her and pulling her to his chest.
'It's best you don't look, child,' he said in a soothing tone. 'Best that you don't look.'
She shrieked like an animal at him, clawing at his face, but he was too strong. Grabbing her wrists, he gripped them in one hand as he used the other to press her face against his shoulder, and she burst out into helpless sobs.
'Shhh. It's all over now,' he whispered.
It was. She had no more fight left in her. She didn't even have her dignity left. Collapsing against him, her body shook as she cried for her dead husband, her best friend.
The others crowded towards the window, but Tatiana reached it first. From somewhere below the window came a long, fearful moan.
'He's not dead!' Tatty exclaimed.
Daisy caught her breath. She felt Hugo's grip relax as he looked over in surprise and she pushed away from him, rushing to the window. Elbowing her way through the Gideonettes, she leaned out through the broken glass. In the light of the windows two storeys down, she could see Roberto suspended out in the darkness as if by magic.
But then she saw what had saved him. He was bent backwards over the broad neck of a gargoyle and was hanging on precariously to one of its horns.
'Hold on, my love!' she called to him. 'We're coming for you!'
He was obviously in severe pain and could only answer with another moan. She tried to get out past Gideon and his sons, intent on making for the stairs. They held her, turning to Hugo for instructions. He grinned, tugging at his moustache.
'Let us save the young whelp,' he laughed. 'This is the most entertaining night I've had in centuries!'
Despite the hindrance of their hooped skirts, Daisy and Tatiana were first to the door and led the charge down the stairs to Roberto's floor. Only Brunhilde stayed to watch from above. Leaning her hands on the glass-strewn windowsill, she stuck the top half of her body out of the window and opened her mouth wide, letting a thread of spittle drip from her tongue. Then she became completely still. Roberto stared up at her in bewilderment until he realized what she was doing. She was pretending to be a gargoyle.
Nathaniel knew that Slattery would be coming after them, so he led Francie cross-country, winding through the fields and narrow lanes, stumbling over the rough ground in the dim light from the sky. He couldn't stop thinking about Clancy, sure that his manservant must be dead by now. Gerald had taken one look at the wound and shaken his head, but Nate had urged him to do everything he could. Nate nearly tripped on a rabbit hole in the middle of the field and was brought back to his own predicament. He and Francie had been on the move for nearly two hours, but as the sky began to brighten, any hope of making the train station at Kingstown before dawn slowly faded with the darkness. From there he could catch a train to the south and seek refuge with some relatives in Cork.
They were descending a grassy hill, wet and muddied from their flight through the countryside. They could see lights in the windows of one building on the road. It was a pub, and Nate turned towards it, hoping he could borrow or buy a horse from someone within.
As they drew closer, they could hear the sounds of singing voices, fiddles, tin whistles and the beat of bodhráns. There appeared to be a party going on within.
'Must be a wake, to be goin' on at this hour,' Francie said. 'I wonder who for? I know this pub – it's Hanratty's. We're near Stepaside.'
'Hanratty's. That's a Fenian pub, isn't it?' Nate asked.
'Aye, I don't think yeh'll be too welcome there, sir.'
'We'll see about that,' Nate declared, striding ahead.
Francie hurried after him.
'Sir, you can't just walk in. It'll all be just family and friends in there. They won't take kindly to strangers bargin' in.'
They reached the end of the field and climbed over a stile. Once on the road, they found it was only a couple of minutes' walk to the front door of the pub, a small stone building with a thatched roof. Nate, who was not accustomed to being refused entrance to drinking establishments, opened the door and stepped inside. Francie followed him reluctantly.
If Nate had hoped to be discreet, he was sorely disappointed. The music faltered and stopped, and every face in the room turned to stare at him. For a moment he didn't know what to do… so he just stared.
Most of the musicians, about six or seven of them, sat in one corner of the room. More than sixty other people were squeezed in among the tables, either sitting on beaten-up benches or stools or standing against the wall. The air was thick with pipe smoke and the smell of stout and whisky. The scent of drink made Nate realize how thirsty he was himself. Most of the people were peasants, dressed in their paltry Sunday best for the funeral, now looking all the more worse for wear after an all-night drinking session. There were a few of the middle classes there too, their clothes and hair of a better cut.
Some of the people stood up when they saw that Nathaniel was a gentleman; perhaps they even recognized him. Others stayed in their seats. Some of them glared at him in open hostility. In the centre of the room, resting on two tables, was a cheap coffin. It was closed. He had never been to a wake before, but he had heard that it wasn't uncommon to have the box open so that the corpse could take part in the proceedings. He wondered if there was a reason the lid had been kept on. Sitting on the lid was glass of whisky, presumably for the corpse, should he want it.
'What… What can we do for you, sir?' a small, mousy-haired man with spectacles asked.
He was standing with a tray of drinks in his hands, obviously in the middle of serving. Nate felt everyone's eyes upon him.
'Pardon my intrusion,' he said, only just remembering his manners. He should show some sensitivity to the mourners before trying to wangle a horse out of them.
'What is the name of the deceased?'
'Duffy,' the landlord replied. 'Eoin Duffy.'
Nate drew in a sharp breath and his face dropped. Off to one side, Francie went pale.
'The moneylender?' Nate asked.
'He had a number of businesses,' another man in a grey tweed suit answered him. 'I'm his brother, Eamon. May I ask why you are interested, sir?'
Slattery had disobeyed him. Nathaniel had walked out of the dungeon and the bailiffs had completely ignored his instructions to release the moneylender. And now the man was dead. Nate put a hand to his brow and closed his eyes for a moment. He seemed to be surrounded by death, and he was sick to the pit of his stomach with it all. Looking up at the unfriendly faces around him, a thought occurred to him. He had no intention of obeying the Rules of Ascension any more… or any other laws for that matter. He just wanted to rescue Tatty, Berto and Daisy. Gideon and the rest of the older generation had too much influence with the British for Nate to trust the authorities, but the Fenians hated his family almost as much as he did. Perhaps his enemy's enemy could be his friend.
'How did your brother die?' Nate asked, ignoring Duffy's question.
'He was murdered,' the man told him. 'He was found floating in the Dodder River with the guts hanging out of him. Now what can we do for you, sir?'
His tone was polite but insistent. He was a square-built man with a stern face and grey hair flecked with black. A silver watch chain hung from his waistcoat pocket. He stood taller than Nate and with the confidence of a self-made man. It was clear he was a figure of authority in this room.
'He was killed by Patrick Slattery,' Nate told them, watching for their reaction. There was precious little. A few of the women exchanged puzzled glances, but nothing more. Everyone's expression seemed frozen in place.
'We know,' said Duffy. 'And it's a strange admission coming from you, Mr Wildenstern, seeing as it's Slattery who does your father's dirty work.'
'My father is dead,' Nate replied. 'And Slattery is working for his murderer. If there are men here who will aid me in my fight against the traitor, I will give you Slattery in return.'
That caused a stir. A wave of mumbling carried around the room. Duffy held up his hand and there was quiet again.
'Slattery will pay for his crimes – come hell or high water, he'll get his,' Duffy said. 'But why would we want to help you? Your family can simply hire a dozen more like him. Nothing will have changed.'
Nate bridled at the man's stubborn attitude. It sometimes seemed to him that the Irish peasant cared more for the dead than for the living. Perhaps that was the reason why so many of them seemed so apathetic about their lot in life.
'This is in your own interests!' he appealed to the people in the room. 'There have been some terrible changes in my family over this last night. The man who has taken over our estates is a fiend of the worst kind. He has taken my sister and sister-in-law as hostages and I am sure he means to kill my brother. They are all I care about. I can get you past the guards and into the house, do you understand? You can strike a telling blow for your cause by assassinating him and anyone who defends him. It's in your own interests. This man will make life a misery for all those beneath him. He has no conscience and his greed knows no bounds – he will bleed you dry! If this tyrant is allowed to gain control of our businesses, you will all be reduced to living in misery!'
His plea was met with a brooding silence. Then a woman's voice piped up from the far end of the room.
'Sure, the British will protect us!'
The crowd burst into a roar of raucous, drunken laughter. Even Francie was trying to suppress a smile. Nate stood there helplessly as the hysterics lasted nearly a full minute before everyone settled down and wiped their eyes. Duffy rubbed his red, sweating face with a handkerchief and gave a final chuckle, followed by a sigh.
'It doesn't sound to me like anything will change at all, Mr Wildenstern,' he said. 'Not a thing. Your family have always gone about your bloodthirsty ways and the rest of us have endured one tyrant after another for centuries. Another change won't mean anything to us.'
'I know… I know that my father was not always fair,' Nate pleaded with them, to a chorus of snorts and stifled laughs. 'But whatever you think you've endured before, this will be much worse. This man is a fiend, I tell you. An absolute monster. You have to help me!'
'We have to do no such thing.' Duffy shook his head. 'Now if you'll excuse us, sir-'
'I understand that life is hard here,' Nate cut him off. 'But I-'
'You understand nothing! Duffy snapped at him. 'What do you know? You think because you've seen a ruined cottage or two on your rides through the country, or taken a tour through the inside of a factory, that you know what life is like on your estates? You have no idea.' His face twisted in a grimace of hatred. 'You – who takes his sugar in lumps and each meal in a different room, and has his footman take the warming pan to his bed-sheets before retiring for the night, and has a freshly pressed change of clothes laid out for him every morning. What do you know-?'
He was interrupted by the sound of horses' hooves clattering across the ground outside. The landlord peered out of the window.
'It's Slattery and two of his louts!' Hanratty growled. 'One of 'em's goin' round to the back door.'
Nate pulled the revolver from his jacket pocket.
'Help me or stand back,' he said, his jaw tight with tension. 'I'm going to put an end to the bloody cur right now'
But Duffy stood up and gently pushed the gun towards the floor.
'Show some respect for the dead,' he said sternly. 'Hanratty here'll hide you. We'll see them off, don't you worry. But there'll be no shooting here this morning.'
Francie melted into the crowd as Nate allowed himself to be led to a door behind the bar that opened into a storeroom. It had only one tiny window that offered no escape. Hanratty closed the door behind him, just as Slattery strode into the pub. Nate knelt down and peered through the keyhole.
'Well, if it isn't Eamon Duffy and his mob,' Slattery declared as he stood, looking around the room. Nate observed with some satisfaction that the bailiff was still walking stiffly 'And who's in the box, then?'
'My brother, as if you didn't know,' Duffy replied coolly.
The man who came in with Slattery walked past the bar and stepped in behind it to open the back door and look out. He was only a few feet from the storeroom door. Nate could feel the floorboards settle under the man's weight.
'I'm sorry for your troubles,' Slattery said, without a hint of sincerity. 'I'm looking for a tall blond gentleman about eighteen years old. The young Master Nathaniel Wildenstern. Has anyone seen him?'
'Aye, I've seen 'im,' a man said from the other side of the room. 'Up yer arse, pickin' daisies.'
There was some nervous laughter. Nate couldn't see the bailiff's expression through the narrow hole, but his tone told him all he needed to hear.
'That's Charlie Fitzpatrick, isn't it?' Slattery retorted. 'Sure, I never knew you were such a sparklin' wit, Charlie. Maybe you can spare some more of it when I come to collect your rent this Tuesday? You do have the rent money, don't you, Charlie?'
There seemed to be no more wit forthcoming. Slattery was silent for a moment, and Nate could guess that he was giving the crowd the evil eye. The man at the back door closed it and walked in behind the bar. Nate gripped his pistol, wincing as he pulled back the hammer as quietly as he could.
'Get on with your drinkin',' Slattery said at last, throwing some money on a table. 'Drink away your troubles. Drink away your worries and drink away your sad little lives an' all. The more you all drink, the easier my job is, so have a round on me. And put some into poor dead Eoin there as well, why don't you? Don't want him meetin' the Almighty without drink on his breath. Give the Irish a bad name.'
And with a shuffle of boots on the wooden floor, they were gone. Nate eased the hammer home on his pistol and let out long breath. Slumping down with his back against the door, he stared up a
t the light coming through the tiny window.
Listening to the sounds of the men mounting their horses, he felt as if he were in a daze.
'Master Wildenstern?' Hanratty's voice called through the door. 'It's all right, they're gone now.'
Nate did not hear the landlord. This latest turn of events had finally overwhelmed him. He had never known the dead man, and yet the news of Eoin Duffy's death had been more than he could cope with after everything that had happened. He had thought that all he had to do was get away from the family – go to some far-flung corner of the world where he and the others could stay out of the way of the Wildensterns and live their lives in peace. But it could never be that simple.
'He's not answerin',' Hanratty said to somebody else. 'Do y'think he's all right?'
'Maybe he's fallen asleep – he looked knackered,' somebody suggested. 'You should have a look in and see.'
Now Nate had a man's death on his hands because he hadn't cared enough to ensure his instructions were carried out. Servants were never permitted to think for themselves, but people like Slattery were given more slack. It meant the family could wash its hands of any inhuman acts that he committed.
'I'm not stickin' me head in there,' Hanratty exclaimed. 'He was bit jumpy with that pistol if y'ask me. If I woke him up, he might get a fright and start squirtin' lead all over the place.'
'Best leave him to wake up on his own, so,' the other voice concluded helpfully.
Nate had known how his family worked even as he stood in that dungeon looking at the battered face of Eoin Duffy. And yet he had turned his back and walked away. And Clancy too was probably dead by now, because Nate had been stupid and careless, and because he lived in fear. Sitting in that tiny storeroom, he swore to himself that was about to change. He understood now what Clancy had been trying to tell him. He had been born into a privileged position… now he had to earn it. It was time to claim his inheritance.
His eyes wandered around the little room with its shelves of boxes, cans and paper parcels. It was nothing like the huge cellars at home, with their massive stores of fine food and drink. A milk churn sat in one corner, with a bag of potatoes leaning against it, some of them already sprouting shoots out of their brown skin. The whole room had a musty smell of vegetables on the edge of decay. In another corner was a small meat-safe, a cupboard with a wire gauze front used for storing meat. The Wildensterns were one of the only households in the country with the modern refrigerators. On top of the meat-safe lay a few sheets of paper and a pencil. Somebody had been doing the accounts. They were very small numbers.
