The equivoque principle cq-1

by Darren Craske

  'Now it's your turn to beg, Renard,' hollered Quaint, holding on desperately by his left hand. 'Call a halt to this insane plan of yours now-before it's too late!'

  'Cornelius, you self-righteous old fool…it's no good appealing to my conscience,' Renard said. 'I don't have one.'

  Renard swiftly produced his pistol from underneath his body. Quaint's eyes widened. As the Frenchman pulled the pistol's trigger, his face was briefly illuminated in a glare of amber light. The bullet struck his shoulder…The shoulder of the arm attached to the hand that held the fingers that gripped the roof rack of the carriage…and Cornelius Quaint fell. He fell clumsily, and he fell hard.

  Seeing the lifeless figure of his fallen enemy lying in the middle of the street, Renard saluted. 'A valiant effort, Cornelius…but in the end, was there ever any doubt as to which of us would be the victor?'

  CHAPTER LI

  The Endgame

  THE FREEZING WIND chilled the cobbled stone gound, and as Cornelius Quaint tried to lift his battered and wounded body, its surface clung to his cheek. Wincing in agony as he put weight upon his shoulder, he slowly pulled himself up off the ground, like pulling a bandage from an open wound. Quaint lost his balance, and crashed back down onto the wet stones. After what seemed like an immeasurable amount of time, he finally managed to force his body to obey his commands, and he rose to his feet.

  It had been precious seconds since Renard had shot him, but the dull ache barely even registered. It was the endgame, and he only hoped that he could make it in time to prevent Renard from fulfilling his plan. Pushing the physical pain to the back of his mind, he continued the pursuit, making good use of his determined, single-minded ability to focus upon his quarry.

  'You're going to pay for the pain you have wrought, Renard,' Quaint said, as he picked at his tattered and ripped clothes with a limp hand. 'Or, at the very least, you'll pay for my bloody suit.'

  After an arduous quarter-mile hobble, Quaint was less than fifty yards from the now battered and beaten carriage, when he saw Melchin tying up the coach's horse outside the huge Weir House. A bemused Quaint felt a small semblance of energy creep back into his body at the sight. The conjuror's unconquerable doggedness might just give him the edge he needed.

  Sneaking as low as he could, Quaint scuttled through the long dark shadows and grabbed Melchin by his collar, dragging him to the ground. The man was flustered and cowardly, but Quaint was in no mood to play nice.

  'Please don't hit me,' Melchin yelped. 'I don't want no bother, sir! I'm just a driver!'

  'Run,' Quaint sneered, his face up close to Melchin's. The poison was evident now on his face, the excited blood vessels creating red blotches on his cheeks, and he had rims around his eyes, accentuating his rage in a truly demonic fashion. 'As fast, and far away as you can,' Quaint thrust his face closer to the quivering driver. 'Go!'

  Melchin scrambled to his feet, and did as Quaint had ordered. He ran as if his life depended on it down the street, his footsteps echoing into the distance like castanets.

  Quaint painfully removed his overcoat, and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. He folded it into a square swab, and pressed it hard onto the bullet wound on his shoulder. Feeling the nub of the iron projectile just beneath his flesh, he winced. He was loathe to scream-he would not give Renard the pleasure. Quaint wiped a trickle of blood from his nose with his cuff, and stared towards the Weir House as if it were the Devil's residence itself.

  'That's the hors-d'oeuvres done with…now for the main course,' he said.

  The outside of the Weir House building was a completely different affair than inside. It was essentially a large, warehouse-like containment building, with tall, vertical windows set high into the walls, and huge wooden struts that ran the length of the white building, leading down to the elongated jetty that ran parallel. Inside the building were housed over twenty mechanical weirs; small, metal plates with V-shaped notches cut into them, designed to measure and regulate water depth at certain times of the year. Each plate was fitted to spiralling metal domes housed in the water. The noise both within and without was tremendous; small wonder then that the only tenement buildings located nearby were one step shy of Cheapside, London's fleapit not too far up the river, a haven for users and abusers of opiates, absinthe, petty crime and prostitution.

  Quaint made his way to the rear of the building and climbed the wall up to one of the church-like windows, peering cautiously inside. A giant, cog-powered metal construct could be seen clearly, and standing on an observation platform at the rear of the building was Renard. He was scouring the weirs as if he'd lost something, searching for the optimum place to tip the poison. From the weirs, it would mix with the main-flow of the water and be dragged down the length of the Thames. Feeling the acidic rush flow over him again, like a million tiny red ants scuttling under the surface of his skin, he was suddenly appreciative of the weapon's power.

  With his back pressed hard against the rear wall of the Weir House, Quaint mouthed silently and counted upon his fingers. Renard had surely emptied that pistol of his by now…but had he reloaded it? He would be gambling with his life if he just strolled in through the front door. Quaint looked up at the roof of the building, but his pulsating left shoulder screamed against him doing anything even remotely strenuous, so an aerial entrance was out of the question. Quaint knew that a frontal assault was his best option…it was probably the last thing Renard would expect and, truth to tell, Cornelius Quaint did so love a good gamble.

  Inside the Whitehall Weir House, Renard held the small glass vial in the palm of his hand. Not much bigger than a fountain pen, the deadly liquid looked harmless to the naked eye, and even Renard himself had questioned its potency, until he had watched the Bishop's veins implode as the acidic parasitic liquid devoured him from the inside out. That was just the latest image in a long line of nightmarish scenes that the man had seen-and caused -during his adult life. This current plot would certainly be his most ambitious, but the only drawback was him not being able to see for himself the deaths that it would surely cause. He usually enjoyed seeing the fruits of his hard labour blossom in front of his eyes, but it was an acceptable loss.

  Renard was lost in this world of his. Above the din of the swirling weirs, he was oblivious to the sight of Cornelius Quaint stumbling into the Weir House through the two large wooden doors behind him.

  The circus-owner-come opportunist, come sometime conjuror-took advantage of his foe's fascination with the swirling waters. His face knotted into a grim mask of fury, Quaint slammed his sizeable bulk into the wiry Frenchman. Both men crashed to the metal floor of the house's observation platform. Quaint's shoulder lanced a spark of acidic fire as he hit the ground. Every molecule of his body cursed him, but still he pressed onwards, his fists flailing wildly as he pummelled the French mercenary with rapid, powerful punches.

  'Quaint? Alive?' Renard yelled. 'You're signing your own death warrant.'

  'No, Renard,' Quaint said. 'I'm signing yours.'

  'And what about my mother, hmm? You just left her to rot?' Renard said, trying to twist his body from under Quaint. He punched Quaint's wounded shoulder, and the conjuror screamed with an uncommon wail of agony.

  'There's more at stake here than just one life-even Destine's -what you propose is mass slaughter, Renard!' shouted Quaint, a spray of spittle forming between his clenched teeth. 'You're planning on killing hundreds of people.'

  'Actually, our analysts predict thousands.' Renard pulled at Quaint's coat, and kicked him aside. Getting to his feet, Renard towered over Quaint's hunched form. 'Do you really think you have it in you to stop me, Cornelius? Look at you-lying there…half-dead. You're a washed-up, middle-aged, has-been conjuror…fit enough only to run a bloody circus!'

  'Better what I am than what you are, Renard.' Quaint lunged with his fist towards Renard's face, but the Frenchman easily avoided it.

  Quaint gripped onto the metal railings of the platform and hoisted himself up to his feet.
The worrying thing was that Renard was right. Quaint was practically running on fumes, his energy reserves depleted.

  'You know, it's funny,' laughed Renard. 'You tell everyone that you're a magician…but in all the years I've known you, I've never actually seen you do any magic tricks,' Renard lashed out with his fist, catching Quaint another blow square in his wounded shoulder. 'You had a chance! You had a chance to save your precious Madame Destine…and you have squandered that chance. Now, both of you will die.'

  'You know me better than most, Renard,' said Quaint, glaring menacingly at his foe as he nursed his bloodied shoulder. Red trickles of blood oozed between his fingers. 'You know I'll stop you…even if it costs me my life.'

  'Well, you've got about five minutes, if you last that long; I've seen lepers who look more healthy.' Renard stepped closer and looked Quaint up and down. 'If you could only see yourself, Cornelius, you are nothing but a husk. A mere shadow of your former self, monsieur! It is almost unsporting of me; I think that maybe I should shoot you like the lame old nag you are, non?' Renard reached into his mud-stained jacket, and pulled out the revolver. 'You may have got lucky before, but at this range, even you can't pull a vanishing trick.'

  'I won't have to if I've counted correctly,' said Quaint dryly.

  'Enough pithy conversation, Cornelius,' Renard said. 'Au revoir.'

  Renard pulled the pistol's trigger.

  An empty snap sounded out around the Weir House.

  He squinted at Quaint, and then the gun. He pulled the trigger, again and again. The pistol's hammer struck nothing but an empty chamber. Quaint's gamble had paid off-luckily for him. Renard threw the gun furiously at Quaint, who side-stepped out of the way. His legs almost gave way beneath him, his muscles still unsteady. He gripped onto the railings for balance.

  'You are a tired old man, and I hardly need a gun to finish you off,' Renard said, edging slightly closer to Quaint. 'It looks to me as if you are already dead.' Renard crossed his arms, and a smug grin emerged on his gaunt face. 'That poison's not eating away at your insides already, is it? I told you this was potent stuff.' He removed a vial of the poison from his pocket, and waved it in the air. Quaint clutched at it drunkenly, miles off target, and Renard snatched it from his flailing grasp. 'You're lucky that poison you consumed wasn't mixed with water, Cornelius, or it would be ten times as strong. You will soon have a front row seat to watch its effects!'

  'You monster…I'll stop you!' said Quaint.

  'How, mon ami? Look at you! Look at your hands. You are shaking like a leaf in autumn.'

  Quaint stared down at his quivering hands. Renard was right. They were gradually shifting from side to side, blurred into nightmarish mutations, replaced by mirror images of multiple hands, each one seeming to emanate from his wrists. This was the poison inside of him, transfixing his vision, betraying his eyes. His stubbornness alone had battled its effects so far, but now, in his weakened state, the poison was gaining the upper hand. It was reaching a crescendo inside of him, and his strength had finally given up the ghost. It was pointless to fight a battle you could not win…

  He collapsed onto his knees, trying desperately to decipher what was reality and what was illusion. His mind was feeding his eyes falsehoods. His ears were hearing non-existent sounds all around him. Up was down and down was up, and the room was spinning like a feather in a hurricane. The more he tried to focus, the more blurred his sight became.

  'If you think you are in trouble now, mon ami, just imagine what it would be like to drink a whole one of these vials,' Renard gloated, tapping the vial with his fingertip, watching Quaint's face change from aggressor into something akin to a child experiencing pain for the very first time. 'But you should be proud of yourself for getting this far, Cornelius.'

  Quaint looked up in confusion. 'You'll hang for this.'

  'They will have to catch me first,' said Renard with a vicious grin, strolling around behind Quaint. He snatched at the conjuror's scalp, wrenching his head back sharply, and he sneered close to his ear. 'I may have been dead to you, these past fifteen years, but that doesn't mean you've been dead to me. I've kept an eye on you, Cornelius. Oh, yes! And were it not for you choosing now of all times to bring your circus here to London, our paths might never have crossed again.' Renard let Quaint's head go, and it nodded limply. 'And now…I really must conclude this little tete-a-tete of ours. I have more pressing things to do.' Renard uncorked the glass vial, and held it teasingly over the side of the observation platform.

  Quaint's beleaguered eyes scanned around for something to use as a weapon. He suddenly spotted a mechanical command console, which he guessed would be used for maintenance work and sifting flotsam from the water. An embryonic plan formed in his mind, which was quite a triumph considering how much of a mess it was inside there.

  'Cornelius…this is the end,' Renard said.

  Quaint gripped the metal railings of the platform and rose unsteadily to his feet. His lip had been split by Renard's flailing elbows, and he touched the wound gently, noting the blood. Instead of many blurred images of the blood spot, he could now see just one-and he knew instantly what that meant.

  The antidote was working.

  'You don't have to do this just to get revenge upon me, you know,' he said, trying to steer Renard's attention in his direction.

  Renard threw back his head and rocked with laughter. 'You? You egotistical old man! Do you honestly think this has something to do with you?'

  'Think about what you're doing-it's madness,' said Quaint, edging forwards.

  'I know, but it is inspired madness!' Renard said. 'You put in a valiant try for a dead man, Cornelius…but do not forget…I inherited some of my mother's gift for foresight. I predicted my victory!'

  Antoine Renard stared deeply into Quaint's wide eyes, his nostrils flared with delight…and he tipped the vial into the churning waters below. The Frenchman held up his arms and punched the air, a look of pure wonder on his face. He had done it. He had poured the vial into the Thames…and Cornelius Quaint had been unable to do a damn thing to avert it.

  Quaint looked at the distracted Renard. He took his chance, and dived for the maintenance console. Before his enemy had a chance to work out what was happening, he wrenched the machine's lever with all his might into operation, and instantly, the machine obeyed with a grinding of metal gears. A mechanical arm sprang to life at the side of the observation platform, and swung out furiously over the water, striking Renard full in the chest-the Frenchman toppled over the railings into the thrashing waters below.

  Quaint pushed the well-greased lever into its nook, setting the brake. The grating screech of metal against metal could be heard slowing down around the Weir House, as one by one, the mechanical weirs slowly ground to a halt and the brown-grey water calmed. Quaint peered over the side of the railings of the observation platform. Renard was splashing about in the water, trying desperately to climb on top of the dome-like weirs.

  'This is pointless, Cornelius…the poison's already in the river. There's nothing you can do to stop it,' Renard screamed through mouthfuls of frothy water. 'In a few short days; a third of the population of London will either be dead or dying.'

  'Sadly for you, that's not true,' said Quaint, reaching into his overcoat's pocket.

  He pulled out a glass vial between his thumb and index finger.

  'What the hell is that?' Renard spluttered.

  'This is the poison. The real poison, I mean. You said earlier that you'd never seen me perform any magic tricks,' said Quaint with a confident grin. 'Any decent illusionist will tell you that the real magic is never letting your audience know they've been tricked until the last minute.'

  'I…I don't understand,' said Renard, clinging to the side of a weir. 'The poison!'

  'Is safely in my possession,' said Quaint, trying his best not to look too smug-even though it felt wonderful to see the look on Renard's face. 'When you poisoned Destine, you left the empty vial behind. A scavenger like me never
knows when something may come in handy, and so I took it…and filled it with rain water. All I had to do was wait for the opportune moment to switch it for the poisoned vial-and you kindly showed me earlier which pocket it was in.' Quaint dropped the glass vial onto the platform, and stamped his heel down hard, shattering the vessel. 'As a Frenchman, Renard-surely you must understand when you've had your Waterloo.'

  Renard's face contorted in the tumult of the water. 'You…you're lying.'

  'Do you really believe that? Think about it…if that really was the poison you just tipped into that water, shouldn't you be dying right about now?'

  'I know you, Quaint, remember? I know you,' protested Renard, trying to clamber up on top of one of the weirs. 'You're not just going to stand there and watch me drown.'

  'You're absolutely right,' said Quaint determinedly. 'I have to go and save your mother's life.'