From the Deep of the Dark j-6

by Stephen Hunt

  Behind Charlotte, the second darkship, already badly damaged by the rotor-spear strike she had slipped beneath its defences, turned in the ocean and vanished at speed.

  ‘Those who stand together are rarely beaten by evil.’ Elizica’s words slipped across her mind. ‘Evil relies on its victims acting as selfishly and supinely as it must to prosper.’

  But there are always losers. Charlotte looked down at the commodore sprawled at the foot of his ravaged submarine, dozens of seanore bodies floating past mutilated, corpses held in the embrace of the currents. Did carrion care which side won or lost after they passed along the Circle, or was there just the empty void where their life had been? A gap in the lives of all those who had known and loved them?

  I’m going inside the wreck to get my sceptre.

  ‘Be quick, girl-child. The enemy know you have fought here, they will return to this camp with equipment sensitive enough to pick up and track the trail of the sceptre’s radiations.’

  There are more of those things?

  ‘The darkships will return with the gill-neck fleet, with everything they hold in their power, if it allows them to seize the sceptre.’

  Gemma Dark prowled behind the chair at the head of the table, growing increasingly irritated at the petty sniping between the nobles sitting at the dozen seats dotted along its oblong length. Like much of the furniture in the gill-neck capital, the table was moulded from a single piece of transparent crystal, allowing her to observe the nervous twitches of the exiled royalist lords’ hands and legs as they argued back and forth. There had always been a Star Chamber in the centuries since Parliament had seized power inside the Kingdom, maintaining the increasingly slim fiction that it was the true Jackelian government, ruling in proxy for a long-deposed line of kings and queens. Had the Star Chamber always bickered and fought as fiercely as this? It was no wonder the fleet-in-exile had eventually been broken and defeated when these chinless wonders had been leading it.

  ‘It’s simply not on,’ pronounced Boris Jola, the present Baron of Ranfshire. ‘We are only two weeks away from beginning the raids on Jackals’ harbour towns, and now the entire Advocacy fleet is being sent away? Does that fellow Walsingham understand the first thing about war? To defeat your enemy, you must first engage him. Not go charging off, chasing after some damnable will-o’-the-wisp.’

  ‘He has his reasons,’ said Gemma. ‘I did not detect any reluctance to go along with Walsingham’s plans when he offered you and your crew a way out of the prison camp on the Island of Ko’marn. But perhaps you prefer picking gillwort fruit to fighting Parliament? Perhaps you prefer having the Advocacy hunt you down as pirates, rather than helping you sink Parliament’s wheel-ships?’

  ‘I always said it was dangerous to put our trust in Walsingham. Fellow’s a turncoat, only after his own ends. No blue blood in that fellow, no breeding, I’m sure of it.’

  Angry calls to concentrate on the invasion of Jackals came back at Gemma. When Gemma had come in here, she had arrived cheered by the news that her brother’s precious submarine had been left a holed wreck on the seabed in the seanore hunting grounds. That traitorous dog Jared, that stain on their family’s name, possibly dead — well, she would only believe it when she saw his corpse — but now her good mood was slowly being sapped by the inane prattle of these titled fools. Everything they had, they owed to Gemma and her allies, to her luck. And here they were, banging the diamond surface of the council table they sat at solely through her cunning and artfulness. Talking about unilaterally moving the forces of their allies, partners who only suffered the royalist cause through Gemma’s contrivances. If ever there was a proof of absolute monarchy’s worth, these twittering blowhards were it. The Jackelian throne had waited an age for a true queen to sit on it once more, an authentic queen, not Parliament’s amputated puppet. When Gemma assumed her rightful seat, this council would be as much a thing of the past as that prattling chamber of robbing industrialists who occupied the House of Guardians. Parliament would never be swapped for this council of fools, not while she drew breath. But for now, I need them.

  ‘The retrieval of the last surviving crown jewel would be a powerful totem I agree,’ said the Countess of Stokesay, usually one of the more reasonable members of the Star Chamber. ‘But worthy of the complete diversion of the Advocacy war machine, surely not? I’m still waiting to hear news that Parliament had declared war against the Advocacy in retaliation for the sinking of their convoy and the blockade of the new sea route.’

  More than a totem, countess. But Walsingham’s power is my power. Sometimes it was harder to remember that fact than it should be.

  ‘Surely we can try to convince the rulers of the Advocacy that is in our mutual interest to defeat the Kingdom first?’ The countess asked, her voice full of prudence and reason. ‘When we reign again, we can flush out the sceptre and take our pick of any of the old relics Parliament stole from our ancestors.’

  ‘Enough!’ Gemma jabbed a finger at the council. ‘The gill-necks’ laws only allow them to assist a legitimate regime, and we need the sceptre as a token of that.’ How easily the lies tripped off her tongue, she really had been associating with Walsingham and his friends for far too long.

  ‘A different interpretation of the law can be arrived at, perhaps?’ said the countess. ‘Isn’t that why the Advocacy have a council of four princes, so they may consider different points of view?’

  ‘My Countess Stokesay,’ snarled Gemma. ‘When I found you, you and your retainers were growing barley under assumed names in the colonies, barely better than indentured labour. And you, Lord Moray, a slaver for hire trying to scrape enough coins together to refuel your u-boat and feed your crew in a Cassarabian port. You, Baron Knighton, a jobbing privateer for the God-Emperor of Kikkosico, reduced to begging for licences of marque at a foreign court. All of you were finished without me, without the assistance I have been able to secure. I brought the cause back from the brink of extinction. Me! By my will and my luck. You were all raised, like me, by our parents with stories of what was stolen from us, from our ancestors. If you want your birthright to become anymore than fancies you whisper in turn to your children, then you will let our allies do what they must do, and in return they will bring us back everything we have lost!’

  There was a silence as the impact of her words settled in. Gemma turned towards the transparent panel in the flat ruby-like stretch of wall in the tower so they wouldn’t see the tears in her eye. Most of them still had sons and daughters to pass their dwindling inheritance onto. Hers lay dead in a foreign grave, killed by her jigger of a brother, freed from prison to die for Parliament’s shilling and the greedy machination of the great Jared Black. Her brother had betrayed the cause. He had abandoned his life and his true name and his title and his family, living as a coward rather than dying as a hero. But Gemma wouldn’t. Never. It isn’t as if I’ve been left with anything else to live for, is it?

  After the Star Chamber cleared of nobles, a door at the other end of the room irised open, Walsingham entering. It was easier thinking of him as Walsingham rather than one of the Mass. Deceptions were always easier to maintain when it suited you to believe in what you saw.

  ‘You suffer their prattle with an ease I can only admire,’ said Walsingham.

  ‘I am their leader; they are my people. It is my duty to listen to their concerns.’

  ‘Unquestioning obedience suits my temperament better, but to each their own.’

  ‘I brought you to this point,’ Gemma reminded him. ‘I found you and released you.’

  ‘An accommodation still exists between us,’ said Walsingham. ‘After all, we are so alike. Both clawing our way back from the brink, both seeking to help our people.’

  ‘Do you really understand me, or are they just words of reassurance you believe I need to hear?’

  ‘Oh, I understand you perfectly. You seek dominion over your people and your land. It is the way of all things, the most natural of all the universe�
�s processes. Only that which is strong survives. All else whithers and is consumed.’

  ‘It is not just my rightful dominions I want restored,’ demanded Gemma.

  ‘Quite. When we are victorious, I will give you the blessings of the Mass,’ said Walsingham. ‘That is our agreement. You will have a life as near immortal as makes no difference. Your youth will be restored.’

  ‘My youth be damned, sir,’ said Gemma. ‘I need my womb functioning again.’

  ‘I can only imagine how hard it is to lose an only child,’ smiled Walsingham, coldly. There was very little empathy in that quick flash of white teeth. ‘After all, I have so very many of them.’

  ‘That’s what I need to have.’

  ‘And have it, you shall. An eternity to fill this world with your progeny. Every nation ruled by your children. Filled by them, too. You need only keep as many others alive as you need to feed the Mass and maintain a viable breeding pool. Queen of a new world; mother to it, as well.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gemma, the flush of excitement hard to keep from her voice. ‘That is how it will be. The countess was correct. We should set aside the matter of retrieving the sceptre for the moment. We’ve pushed the Advocacy and the Kingdom to the brink of war. Nudge them across the threshold and let them fight to the finish. In their ashes we will both prosper.’

  Walsingham gave a facsimile of a smile. ‘Our accommodation only stretches so far. It is not for the hunting hound to tell the shooting party what to take for supper. Leave the larger picture to us. You may still keep the scraps from the table.’

  Gemma took Walsingham’s own advice on unquestioning obedience, or at least the appearance of it, and said no more. Certainly not rising to the slight that to rule the Kingdom of Jackals could be considered mere table scraps. It was a dangerous thing to tie yourself to a shark. Sever the bonds of the saddle too soon and you might end up looking less like its rider and far more like its next meal. But Gemma’s luck had brought her this close to victory; she had to trust it to carry her the rest of the distance.

  Charlotte looked up as Jethro Daunt entered the control room of the Court of the Air’s extraordinary u-boat. While the submersible’s exterior was windowless, the craft’s bridge was appointed with strangely translucent viewing ports. They appeared as if you could reach out and touch the ocean, feel water streaming past your fingers. These curious portholes were fringed by light from red glowing strips that illuminated the ex-parson’s face, returning some colour to his pallid features. Between tending the ruins of Boxiron’s once proud frame in the vessel’s small surgical bay, Daunt had been wandering the u-boat looking increasingly washed out. Their surgical bay was growing cramped. Boxiron lay alongside Commodore Black, the old u-boat man tended by Maeva, who wouldn’t shift from his side. With the rest of the seanore gathering their forces for war, the grand congress’s survivors having tasted the bitter fruit of their ancient prophecy firsthand, Maeva’s presence here was tantamount to abandoning her position among the Clan Raldama. Charlotte doubted the commodore would approve when — if — he regained his facilities. She could almost hear his scornful tones now. There’s no love so foolish, as old love.

  Dick Tull stood up from his seat by the small chart table and Sadly turned around from the planesmen’s position at the front of the bridge, two pilots lying down on control couches as they guided and nudged the nest of control sticks and wheels at the fore of the vessel.

  ‘Has the steamman been stabilized?’ Sadly asked.

  ‘There’s little of him left to stabilize,’ sighed Daunt. ‘But I hope he will at least last until we reach the Court proper and put him in the care of your surgeons.’

  ‘You still haven’t paid for your passage, Mister Daunt,’ said Sadly.

  An uncharacteristic flash of anger crossed the ex-parson’s face. ‘I would say that Boxiron and the commodore have both paid plenty.’

  Charlotte realized she was standing ramrod straight like a sentry, clutching King Jude’s sceptre as though she held a rotor-spear outside a nomad’s seabed dwelling. She got the feeling it wasn’t going to be easy to relax here.

  ‘The great game is always played ruthlessly, says I. Bait’s meant to attract a nibble or two. You have my sympathy and more importantly, you currently have the surgical resources of my u-boat at the disposal of your friends. A little reciprocation if you please…’

  ‘Just tell him what you found out, amateur,’ said Dick. ‘It’s not as if I don’t want to know why my own people are trying to top me.’

  ‘That’s rather the nub of the issue,’ said Daunt. ‘They’re not your people anymore, sergeant. Walsingham and the commander of the convoy shared a curious trait with the prison camp commandant. None of the three gave off any of the tells which a Circlist priest would use to read their souls. They were blank of emotions, or rather, they were walking about as a rather hollow facsimile of the real thing.’

  ‘The graveyard back at the camp…’ said Sadly.

  Daunt nodded. ‘Filled with the corpses of Jackelian notables. The machine Walsingham and the commodore’s sister used on me back on the island wasn’t just designed as an interrogation device, it was designed to rip memories out of my brain and implant them in something ensconced inside in a similar machine. I don’t doubt there’s now an enemy walking the streets of Middlesteel which is perceived as identical to me, a creature that carries enough of my memories to fool most of the good people of my acquaintance.’ He pointed at Dick Tull. ‘It was your story of the events at the mansion of Lord Chant that first saw my suspicions tickled. Your partner did see Lady Florence’s murder. Doubtless she had questioned some form of behaviour on the part of the thing she believed was her husband that seemed out of character. She was murdered, a facsimile of her ladyship inserted in time to make you, good sergeant, appear like a fool. Your young partner was murdered to cover the affair up, while you made the perfect scapegoat to frame for the crime and be executed as an enemy of the state.’

  ‘Why not just replace me with one of them?’ said Dick.

  ‘I rather think our enemy is limited in number. That is how you make sense of this absurd war brewing between Jackals and the Advocacy. The most powerful state beneath the waves set against the most powerful nation on the continent. Who stands to benefit? Only a third party which wishes to soften up both sides. Simple enough to arrange, I would imagine, if you have infiltrated the government and military of both sides and-’ he indicated Dick, ‘-the secret police.’

  Sadly’s brow narrowed. ‘Who is the enemy then, asks I?’

  ‘Not who the Court believes is responsible, good agent,’ said Daunt. ‘Cast your mind back to when the camp commandant’s corpse changed and then spontaneously combusted back on the island.’ He smiled at Charlotte. ‘In his ashes I found this.’ He produced a crystal from a side pocket in his tattered waistcoat.

  Charlotte reached out to confirm the Eye of Fate hung around her neck. It was still there, yet the ex-parson was holding the amulet’s identical twin between his fingers.

  ‘I am willing to wager, good agent, that up to now the Court of the Air had been assuming the infiltrators are Cassarabian spies? A logical deduction, given the caliph’s womb-mages are reputed to be able to warp their spies’ blood code and give them the ability to change their features. And of course, the Kingdom has been trading shells and sabre parries with the empire along the southern frontier for years now.’

  ‘They’re always good for a spot of mischief, are the caliph’s boys,’ admitted Sadly.

  ‘Quite,’ said Daunt. ‘But a Cassarabian shape-switcher wearing my face would still give away all the subtle tells of the race of man. The reason why there are infiltrators walking around like living blanks is that they haven’t assumed the shape of the victims they replaced.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘It is our perception they have stolen. A trick that Charlotte Shades, Mistress of Mesmerism is also renowned for. That gem around your neck aids the mesmeric process I assume? The enemy walks ar
ound as they are, but we see only what they want us to see.’

  ‘It’s mine, honey,’ said Charlotte, touching her gem protectively.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Daunt. ‘Rather, let us agree that you’re presently holding onto it for the spirit of the land and those who are to follow us, are you not? Please, damson, don’t bother to dissemble. No one knows better than I how uncomfortable it is to be haunted by ancient things best forgotten. The church was willing to forgive much about me, but believing in gods was one heresy more than even they were prepared to tolerate. I have caught a few glimpses of what our enemy is, but you, or rather the spirit moving you around the land like a chessboard piece, has faced this threat before. There were hints in the history texts back at Tock House. An earlier war between the gill-necks and the Jackelians long before the last ice age. The way your gem defended you when you were attacked, your fever afterwards. The manner in which the seanore were practically falling down on their knees and worshipping you when we picked you up from the clans’ gathering. You’re not who you once were, your body language betrays you. It’s as if you are two people sharing a single frame.’

  Elizica’s voice echoed in Charlotte’s mind. ‘It is time. Have them place their hands on the gem at the top of the sceptre.’

  What are you going to do?

  ‘The sceptre’s gem carries echoes of its old purpose. Do as I have told you, girl-child.’

  The party did as Charlotte bid them, the sceptre’s jewel pulsing under her palm, the warmth of the others’ bodies mingling with hers. Charlotte felt a dizzying sensation, but she didn’t fall. It was as if she was becoming the sceptre, joining with what the gem on its cap had seen, the jewel’s history unravelling in reverse order before her mind’s eye.

  The sceptre secure in the mausoleum beneath the speaker’s chair in Parliament’s chamber. Being polished by the Keeper of the Vault, an ancient title but little more than a janitor now in the great functions of state.