Imperial Black

by David Bishop

  Dante nodded. It was much as he had expected. "Who's going to be our guide dog then? Some crusty old Sherpa with fewer teeth than wits?"

  Look who's talking, the Crest chipped in. A man with fewer wits than teeth.

  "I will be your guide." The voice was female, the tone severe. Dante didn't need to look round to know who had spoken. It was the same woman who had wished him dead in the Geisha House of the Rising Sun; the same woman who had threatened to execute him in the same room the previous day; the same woman who had been reading his thoughts since he got here. "Correct," she replied.

  Flintlock watched Dante and the new arrival glower at each other. "You'd almost think these two used to be lovers," he whispered to Spatchcock.

  Dante heard the comment and smiled. He let his eyes wander down over the woman's body, mentally removing her from the skin-tight jumpsuit. She rewarded him with a slap across the face.

  Dante cried out, nursing his wounded cheek. "Diavolo! At least take your jewellery off before you hit me like that."

  She retaliated with a smile. "I was only using your own emblem against you." She held the ring in front of her face, a smear of blood visible on the metal band. Fixed into the gold was a tiny yellow circle with a double-headed eagle inside - the symbol of the Romanovs.

  "Where did you get that?" Dante demanded.

  Uncertainly clouded the woman's beautiful features. "I don't know."

  "Crest, can you identify the origins of that ring?"

  No. I've never seen its like before.

  "But that is the Romanov symbol, yes?"

  Yes. Beyond that, I can tell you no more.

  "You'll have plenty of time to talk about this en route to your destination," Zhukov said. "Your flyer will be ready to leave within the hour. Might I suggest gathering your equipment and then all meet back here? Mai Tsai will escort you back to the dormitory, gentlemen."

  The beautiful Oriental strode from the room, Spatchcock and Flintlock hurrying after her, both with their eyes fixed on the bounce of her pert buttocks. Dante followed, still rubbing the side of his face where the Romanov ring had grazed his skin. He waited until they were all in the dormitory before speaking, a wicked glint in his eye. "Forgive me, I missed your name when Lord Zhukov said it before. What did he call you?"

  The woman's eyes narrowed as she replied. "Mai Tsai."

  Dante couldn't keep the smirk from his face. "Your name is My Sigh?" He winked at Spatchcock and Flintlock. "I'll make her sigh alright."

  Another slap resounded against his cheek. "Fuoco, I wish you'd stop doing that!"

  "And I wish you'd stop insulting my intelligence and drooling over my body," she snapped back. "At least with your two colleagues I can choose to ignore their lecherous expressions and furtive glances, I don't have to listen to their thoughts as well. I lack that option with you."

  Spatchcock frowned. "Hang on... You can read his mind, but not ours?"

  "Correct."

  "So if I thought of the most disgusting, perverted thing I can imagine..."

  "Nothing out of the ordinary then," Flintlock commented, getting a glare from Spatchcock for his interruption.

  "...you wouldn't know what I was thinking?"

  "I only see into Dante's mind," Mai replied. "Crawling through the sewer of his thoughts is bad enough. I have no wish to sample your cesspit as well."

  "Ah, Spatch. You've only just met and already she knows you so well."

  Dante and Mai went outside while Flintlock and Spatchcock's argument descended into a frenzy of hair pulling and verbal abuse. Dante closed the door on his comrades. "Ignore those two," he said. "They fight like cats and dogs, but their hearts are in the right place. Mostly."

  Mai nodded. "They followed you halfway across the continent. That shows great loyalty. It is a useful asset for where we are going."

  "How well do you know the Himalayas?"

  "I believe I was born there."

  "You believe? Don't you know?"

  "There are many gaps in my memory, things I do not understand or cannot explain." Mai twisted the gold band on her finger. "The origin of this ring is one such example. My ability to read your thoughts is another fact I cannot explain. I believe this journey may help find answers to these and other questions that trouble me."

  Dante nodded and smiled. "Well, it shouldn't take long. I mean, how hard can it be to find the Forbidden Citadel?"

  Explorers and treasure hunters have been searching for this lost fortress since before Mount Everest was conquered, more than seven hundred years ago. Nobody has found it. At least, nobody has found it and come back alive to tell the tale.

  "Ah, I see."

  Nothing ever easy with you, is it Dante?

  He looked at Mai and smirked. "Some things are harder than others, if you know what I mean."

  She lashed out at his face, but Dante caught her wrist and held it firmly. "I was goading you deliberately that time, to see how you would react. Unless you learn to control that temper, you're liable to get all of us killed in the mountains. Understand?" Mai nodded and he let go of her arm. "You don't have to like me, but we have to work together, okay?"

  "Don't worry," she snarled. "It's my job to keep you alive long enough to find the citadel. But the moment you've outlived your usefulness, I'll take the greatest of pleasure in executing you, you murdering bastard." Mai marched away, leaving Dante utterly perplexed.

  "I'd never met this woman until a few days ago and now she wants me dead already. I wonder why?"

  A good question, the Crest agreed. Most women need to spend a week in your company before becoming homicidal.

  The door to the private quarters swung open and Flintlock tumbled out, trying to appear relaxed, his bag of climbing equipment being thrown out after him. "I say, is it time to go yet?"

  Spatchcock emerged with a smile of satisfaction. He looked around. "Where's her ladyship gone? Don't tell me you've scared her off already."

  "Apparently she's planning to kill me once I've outlived my usefulness," Dante replied. "She didn't specify a particular reason."

  "Business as usual then," Flintlock said, getting to his feet. "Shall we go?"

  General Ivanov savoured the exquisite torment of his cat-o'-nine-tails as it flailed through the air. He had once heard an adage that "the first cut was the deepest." Nothing could be further from the truth with the lash. The first taste of leather upon skin, it was the most shocking, yes, but that was only the beginning of a long, seductive process that took place during a whipping. Repeated blows dulled the nerve endings beneath the skin, until the skin split open. As always, that moment brought tears, the pain almost unbearable for whoever was receiving the brutal treatment, as an involuntary cry for mercy would colour the air. The blow after the skin gave way -- that was the deepest, when the steel-tipped ends of each leather strand bit into the exposed flesh. Everything after that was an anti-climax; painful, yes, but more akin to a blow upon a bruise. Each successive impact had less effect than the last. To continue was useless.

  A rapid knocking took Ivanov's thoughts. He let the lash slip from his grasp to the floor, its leather tails stained crimson with blood. His face was bathed in sweat, such was the effort of his latest thrashing, but it had given him little satisfaction. "Come," he shouted, wincing at the effort.

  His second-in-command entered, stood to attention and saluted briskly. "General, the men are ready for your inspection."

  "Very well," Ivanov replied. "I've done all I can here."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Major, I'll need you to administer the final step of the punishment."

  "Of course, sir."

  The general gestured to a large jar of white crystals beyond his reach. "The salt is over there. I want you to pour it into the wounds. Don't stop until the jar is empty, no matter how much the subject may cry out."

  "Yes, sir." The Enforcer strode to the glass jar and removed its lid. He picked up the salt container and approached the general. "Now?"


  "Go ahead." Ivanov tensed himself, preparing for the screams that would fill the room.

  The Enforcer positioned the jar above the bloody back and began pouring, tipping every grain of salt over his superior officer's writhing body. Ivanov howled with rage and fury, his eyes bulging out in their sockets. Finally, when his self-inflicted punishment was complete, he gave a quiet shudder of delight.

  "Very good, major. I will be out to inspect the men once I have finished cleaning myself up. We leave for the mountains at dawn, so I expect to see everyone with all alpine kit and equipment, is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Very well, dismissed." Ivanov watched his second-in-command leave, before rising from the whipping stool. He picked up the cat-o'-nine-tails and held it lovingly against his face, inhaling the pungent, metallic odour of blood and sweat that had soaked into the leather. "You know how to treat me, don't you, my love? You know how I feel about you, your caress upon my skin, your pleasure and my pain. You know it all, don't you, my sweet?" Ivanov kissed the cat-o'-nine-tails, then laid it tenderly inside a specially made box of sandalwood, lined with red velvet and inlaid with his initials in gold lettering. "You rest now," the general whispered, his voice soothing, like that of a lover. "You rest, my beauty."

  Spatchcock and Flintlock were first to emerge from the Parliament of Shadows' underground headquarters, finding themselves back in the frozen graveyard. Mai bounded up the steps into the cold air of morning, following them outside. She scanned their surroundings with practiced ease, her sidearm ready to fire, while the two men joked with each other. "Back in the cemetery again," Spatchcock noted. "Hope this doesn't become a habit."

  Dante was last to emerge, a hefty backpack laden with climbing equipment slung over his shoulders. As he glanced about for their transport, a chill of recognition crossed his face. "I know this place. Crest, isn't this...?"

  The Romanov Necropolis, it confirmed. It's the final resting place for generation upon generation of your adopted, noble family.

  Dante had been here only once, before the war. The Romanovs had gathered for a hunting party, a tradition among the Russian aristocracy for centuries. It was supposed to be a way for families to get closer, bonding through the butchery of innocent animals. For Dante the experience had been a sobering one. He found himself acting as bodyguard to the Romanov matriarch, Lady Jocasta, when three hired assassins tried to kill her. The hitmen died in the effort, but Dante learned two cold, hard facts that day. All his siblings had been the product of an incestuous relationship between Dmitri and Jocasta, albeit one consummated by science, not between the sheets. Sickening as that was, Dante was more disturbed to discover it was Dmitri who hired the assassins to kill Jocasta. She was a barrier to the ruthless ambition of the Romanovs, as well as its progenitor. From that moment Dante had known he could never truly be part of such a family. That was a few years ago. So much had happened since then. So much pain, so much suffering. He had returned to the graveyard of the Romanovs once again and he felt no different. For the most part he was glad they were dead.

  "How can you feel that way?" Mai demanded. "I would give anything to have my family back."

  "Do you have to eavesdrop on every thought I have?" Dante demanded angrily. "Bojemoi, it's bad enough having the Crest is my brain all the time-"

  Charming!

  "I don't need you in my mind as well!"

  Mai strode towards him, shaking her head. "You think I want to be inside that slime-infested rat hole you call a brain? Every whim, every notion that passes through your perverted cranium gets transmitted into my mind too."

  "Well, try keeping your comments to yourself then," Dante suggested through gritted teeth. "The last thing I need for the rest of this mission is you imposing your morality on me, okay?"

  "Morality? You don't know the meaning of the word."

  Spatchcock and Flintlock exchanged weary looks of resignation. "I guess we're not leaving just yet," the Brit muttered out the corner of his mouth.

  "You think they want to be alone?" the smaller man asked.

  "Not yet. They too busy hating each other at the moment," Flintlock replied. He sat down on a nearby tombstone, Spatchcock following his example.

  Dante and Mai were still arguing, their voices getting progressively louder. "Don't lecture me on right and wrong," Dante snarled. "You know why I'm half-Romanov? Because my father raped my mother and I was the result. They called me the bastard of the family, but I couldn't hold a candle to the rest of them."

  "Didn't stop you taking their name during the war, did it?" Mai snapped. "Didn't stop you claiming Rudinshtein as your own private fiefdom, did it? Didn't stop you abandoning its people and those who tried to defend them?"

  "Were you there?" he hissed. "Did you fight on the frontline? Did you experience one moment of that battle?"

  "No," Mai admitted, "but my brother did. And he died because of you, you murdering bastard!" She burst into tears, slumping to the snow-covered ground.

  A long, painful silence was eventually broken by the sound of an approaching flyer. Spatchcock stood up and smiled. "Well, I think it's time we were going."

  Flintlock nodded. "Absolutely. Nothing like a crying woman and an angry Dante to make any journey fly by." He started towards the flyer, which had landed on a nearby hilltop. "You two coming with us or not?"

  Dante looked down at the sobbing woman on her knees in front of him. She's only a girl, he realised. She's eighteen at most. I didn't think-

  "You never think," Mai replied, wiping her face dry with one sleeve as she stood. "You blunder in, causing chaos and hurting more people than you help. But when the going gets tough, you run and hide. That's who you are, Dante." She picked up her rucksack and hurried after the others.

  A little harsh, but not entirely inaccurate, the Crest added.

  "Don't you start," Dante spat. He ran after Mai, Spatchcock and Flintlock, catching up with them as they boarded the sleek, silver flyer. It rose into the crisp air and made a slow circle of the hills surrounding the graveyard. Inside the cabin Spatchcock took the opportunity to do some sightseeing.

  "Hey, what's that over there?" He pointed through a window at the remains of a mighty tower. Its structure was torn apart as if ravaged by a ferocious attack in the past.

  "The Winter Palace," Dante replied, his words without feeling. "It must have been destroyed during the last days of the war." He looked at Mai, who kept her gaze fixed out the opposite side of the flyer. "And that wasn't the only thing..."

  Beneath the graveyard, Lord Zhukov watched the flyer's departure on a screen. Satisfied Dante, Mai and the others were gone, Zhukov ventured out on to his platform overlooking the council chamber. The other members from the Parliament of Shadows were gathered on the black and white floor below, nervous faces betraying their fear. "You will be happy to know Dante and his comrades have left safely for their mission."

  One of the members stepped forwards to address him. Lady Nikita was the House of Zabriski's matriarch. She was a stern-faced woman in her fifties who normally shared the leader's platform with Zhukov. "Would you mind telling us what is going on? We were informed you wanted to speak with all of us before we left. Why have we been herded on to the chamber floor like subjects for interrogation?"

  Zhukov smiled at her. "Ah, Nikita. I knew I could depend upon you to step forward and confront me. For months you have coveted my position as leader of this assembly. Your ambition for power will be your undoing."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "All of you are just as guilty," he continued, addressing the other members. "At least she has the courage to challenge me."

  "You haven't answered my question," Lady Nikita said, refusing to be ignored. "What is the purpose of this gathering, Zhukov?"

  "Why, to make it easier for the Raven Corps to kill you, of course." He smiled at her like a benevolent parent explaining a simple truth to an obtuse child. "The soldiers will be here within minutes. They have orders to
execute all of you. The manner and means of your deaths is up to you. Those who co-operate fully, providing the names of other treasonous conspirators against the Tsar, will be slain in as quick and painless a manner as possible. Those who refuse to help will suffer all the torments and agonies we can inflict before their bodies give in."

  "The man's gone mad," Lady Nikita muttered. "Come down here this instant and explain yourself."

  "I don't think so."

  "In that case I will come to you." She strode to the nearest door. As her fingers touched the metal handle, electricity surged through Lady Nikita's body. White sparks danced across her and her face contorted into a mocking grimace. Lips pulled back from her teeth as if to smile. After several seconds, her fingers let go of the handle and her body fell backwards to the floor, still twitching and jerking. Then she laid still, a wisp of blue smoke rising from her corpse, a pool of urine slowly spreading out from beneath her.

  The effect on the other members was all too apparent. Several screamed, others took to praying and sank to their knees, sobbing uncontrollably. Once Lady Nikita was dead, her colleagues turned to face Zhukov one by one, compelled to see his response. Their leader was smiling broadly.

  "Simply shocking," he said, a slight giggle of hysteria betraying his words. Zhukov cleared his throat before continuing. "I regret to inform you all that the Parliament of Shadows was a trap, a ruse to flush out dissident elements within the Empire's noble houses. The clue was in the name. You see, this gathering was an elaborate shadow play to lance the boil of petty ambitions and conspiratorial discontent within the aristocracy. Left unchecked, such sentiment could one day have become sufficiently organised to create a significant threat to the Tsar. So he asked me to create the means for such a movement to find its voice and even provided the funding to create this underground headquarters beneath the Romanov Necropolis. Quite appropriate, don't you think? You will all die beneath the graves of those you would resurrect as rulers of the Empire. I can't think of a more fitting epitaph for the last pocket of resistance."