The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  ‘There you have it, Hardwick,’ Lord Cherleten said, a self-satisfied smile accompanying his overly familiar address. ‘Your secret project will have to wait. The Riftborn increase in power daily, it is true, but the Knights Iscariot are the more immediate threat—and a global threat, too, if Mr. Tesla’s story is accurate. They are organised, powerful, and according to Smythe’s initial assessment, they have transformed the north of England into a lawless waste right under our noses. Do not fear, you can have Mr. Tesla back for your “great work” soon enough. A few weeks in the armoury should be sufficient for a man of his talents.’ He spoke as if the argument were already won. John could scarcely believe that his sister’s testimony had swung the argument in Cherleten’s favour. If it truly had, John made a mental note to steer well clear of his father for a while, as the old dragon would be like a bear with a sore head for the foreseeable future.

  ‘Of course, we are lucky indeed that Mr. Tesla brought his talents to London at all,’ Lord Hardwick said, throwing an accusatory look in the direction of his offspring. ‘It appears he saved himself, in the end, by virtue of his genius.’

  ‘Come now, Lord Hardwick,’ Sir Toby said, ‘they acquitted themselves as well as could be expected, given the circumstances.’

  ‘We almost lost Mr. Tesla, and it was not superior intelligence that alerted the enemy to their position.’ Lord Hardwick turned and fixed his daughter with an icy stare. ‘Within these walls, with the Nightwatch on hand, I would wager we are safe from the predations of the Knights Iscariot. But otherwise it would appear that you draw them like moths to a flame, and for how long this breach of security will be manifest is unknown.’

  ‘I… it is passed. I am certain. It is all to do with this blasted wound. But it heals by the day, and I have felt no further adverse effects.’ Lillian faltered, and reddened.

  ‘We have nothing but your intuition for that,’ he replied. ‘An advantage that you have over your male counterparts, perhaps, but not enough to stake the safety of our prized assets upon.’

  ‘If I may speak,’ Tesla interrupted again, helping himself to a biscuit from a nearby plate. ‘In my experience, the influence of a Majestic wanes over time. It is a battle of wills, which the lady seems well equipped to win.’ For a second, Tesla averted his eyes bashfully, and shoved the biscuit whole into his mouth.

  What is it about my little sister that makes such asses of men? John mused.

  Sir Toby and the two lords looked first at Tesla, then at Lillian. Cherleten spoke first.

  ‘Agent Hardwick is likely correct in believing that her wound is the cause of her lapse in mental defences. From my studies, I would say it was possible, although I have never seen it in practice. But then, this de Montfort is a most unusual foe. That cabman—Dresden, was it? When my people delved into his thoughts, they found residual psychic controls in place that prevented the man from revealing de Montfort’s true designs. I have never seen anything quite like it. A truly remarkable—’

  ‘What do you suggest, Lord Cherleten?’ Lord Hardwick interrupted.

  ‘Get that wound healed. Have Agent Hardwick observed by the Nightwatch.’

  Lord Hardwick nodded and spoke curtly. ‘This is what I think too. You are dismissed, Agent Hardwick. We may have made a grave mistake in admitting you to this meeting at all, and we shall not discuss concrete plans until we are certain you are free from the enemy’s influence. When you leave here you will submit yourself for examination by the Nightwatch before undertaking any further duties.’

  ‘Now, let’s not be hasty!’ Sir Arthur spoke up.

  ‘I hardly think—’ Lillian started.

  ‘Do I make myself clear?’ Lord Hardwick snapped, silencing them both.

  Lillian ignored Arthur, and instead looked to John for support, but he could offer little; instead he nodded at her, urging her to comply.

  ‘Perfectly clear… Father,’ she said.

  John wondered if their father had a point, although he had never known any Majestic to exert such power over another across great distance. And through a simple wound? The suggestion was ludicrous—that one creature could transmit some psychic force to another being through a scratch, as if it were some contagion?

  Lillian stood. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said. With that, she turned and made for the door without another word.

  Their father was unreadable, as ever. Sir Arthur cast his eyes downwards, jaw tensing and fists clenched by his sides. John watched his sister, wondering whether there was time to say something. He did not have to. Lillian barely made it through the great polished doors when she stepped back sharply. A man blocked her path, flustered and breathless. He stopped only to apologise, before darting into the room. It was Carrington, the club secretary. John had barely recognised the man, such was his unusually troubled demeanour.

  ‘Carrington?’ Sir Toby said, worry creeping into his tone.

  ‘Sir Toby, my lords, gentlemen… madam; please forgive this most improper intrusion,’ Carrington said, wringing his hands, ‘but this is a most improper occurrence. I must ask you all to come with me at once, for this is a matter for your most urgent attention.’

  John looked past the forlorn figure of Carrington at his sister, who stood in the doorway, a look of grave anticipation etched on her face. They all rose, and followed Carrington out, past Lillian, who fell in behind like a soldier. Her banishment was, for the moment, forgotten; John had a grim feeling that every agent would be needed for whatever lay ahead.

  * * *

  Arthur did not need to see the scene with his own eyes. He sensed death; it was redolent in the air, in the motes of spirit-light that spiralled from the great glass dome above them and down between the elegant columns that lined the marble hall. He assembled with the others on the balcony all the same, and peered down.

  In the centre of the hall was a box, a square parcel. Around it, in a wide circle, grey-haired clubmen gathered nervously, unsure what to make of this intrusion into their sanctuary. From the box, a dark pool of liquid seeped like oil, washing the polished marble floor a deep red-black as it ebbed outwards.

  No one spoke—not the old clubmen below, nor the Apollonian luminaries assembled beside Arthur. Carrington mopped his brow with his handkerchief, before handing a letter to Sir Toby.

  ‘It was delivered with the… package,’ he explained.

  Sir Toby took it, a look of distaste on his face as he noted the spots of blood upon the envelope.

  ‘Who delivered it?’ he said, opening the envelope.

  ‘I did not see them, sir,’ Carrington said. ‘The porter said it was a rough-looking man, a labourer or some such, who barged his way in, deposited the box, and said nothing. His manner was threatening. When the porter saw…’ His words caught in his throat. ‘He summoned me, and I thought it best to inform you directly.’

  Sir Toby scanned the letter, and looked up at Carrington. ‘You did the right thing, Carrington, though I would have preferred it if you had exercised more discretion. Please escort the ordinary members to the public rooms and ensure they receive the best hospitality. The hall is out of bounds until further notice.’

  Carrington patted his oiled hair into place and, looking something more like his usual self, flitted down the stairs to relay Sir Toby’s wishes to his staff. Soon the ordinary members of the Apollonian, who amongst their number counted some of the great thinkers, writers, theologians and reformers of London society, were shepherded away to have their frayed nerves salved with brandy and tobacco, leaving only the clique upon the mezzanine balcony and a few junior agents of Apollo Lycea in the hall, along with a few trusted servants. The agents looked up expectantly.

  Only when he was certain they had some privacy did Sir Toby pass the letter to Arthur.

  ‘Read it aloud,’ he instructed. ‘And… see what you make of it.’

  Arthur removed his gloves, somewhat hesitantly, and took the letter. He at once frowned and squeezed his eyes shut. The vision was fleeting—suspiciousl
y so for a Majestic of his power—but it was telling all the same.

  ‘This letter was written by a man in fear for his life,’ Arthur said. ‘He knew he would be executed after writing it, but he wrote it anyway, for his tormentor had some hold over him. The identity of that tormentor is hidden from me—that in itself suggests he was a Majestic, and a good one.’

  ‘I doubt there is anything good in this affair,’ muttered Sir Toby. And then, louder, ‘Read it.’

  Arthur cleared his throat and began to read.

  ‘Honoured gentleman, lords and ladies of the vaunted Apollo Lycea, I offer greetings from an order more ancient even than your own—the order of the Knights Iscariot. It would seem that our paths have begun to cross, and we already appear to be adversaries, yet this need not be so. Our goals may appear at first to oppose your own, but in truth we seek only a greater peace for the British Empire, and believe that we may yet reach a resolution that is agreeable to both of us. However, for that to happen, we would treat with you in person, tonight.

  ‘At midnight, an emissary of the Knights Iscariot will arrive at the Apollonian Club. We request that all those in a position to hear his words, and to carry them to the highest authority, are present. We expect nothing less than the presence of representatives from the Cabinet of Whitehall, the royal family and household, the British Army, and, of course, Apollo Lycea. In return for your cooperation in this matter, we promise a full and frank exchange, so that our terms are not misunderstood. Our chosen emissary is but a humble diplomat, yet he speaks for the whole of our order. We presume that he will be afforded full diplomatic rights and protection.

  ‘Though it pains us to resort to petty threats, we understand fully that we are, rightly or wrongly, considered your enemy. That being so, we send to you a symbol of our utmost sincerity. In the box you will find what remains of one of your operatives—a spy—uncovered in our midst. If our terms are not taken seriously, or our emissary waylaid in any way, I can only promise you that a hundred more such boxes shall be delivered to the Apollonian, Horse Guards, and Buckingham Palace before the next day is through. And that will be but the start, for our influence is vast, and our supporters myriad.

  ‘But let us not dwell on such unpleasantness, for tonight, we shall parley, and put all of this behind us, for the good of all.

  ‘Yours, &c., Lord Lucien de Montfort, Master of the Knights Iscariot.’

  Arthur rubbed his temple and handed the letter back to Sir Toby. ‘What… who… is in that box?’ he asked, weakly.

  Almost as soon as he had voiced the question, Lillian Hardwick started down the stairs. She was halted at once by Sir Toby, who placed a hand on her arm.

  ‘Smythe?’ she asked. She had a look in her eye that was, Arthur thought, equal parts rage and sadness. That look usually preceded an act of folly or violence.

  Sir Toby turned instead to her brother. ‘Lieutenant, if you would,’ he said.

  With a nod, his complexion ashen, John Hardwick took the stairs to the marble hall. The junior agents and trusted staff gawped at him—for a young man, he had already made for himself a reputation for steadfastness and resourcefulness. But none of them had ever witnessed anything like this—the possibility that one of their own had been executed by an unseen foe.

  John stepped gingerly around the tendrils of blood, until he was able to grab the box and drag it towards himself, smearing crimson trails behind it. As John opened the package, Arthur observed Lillian leaning forward expectantly and, to his shame, realised he was doing the same.

  The view of matted hair and pallid flesh was unmistakeable. The box contained a severed head. Sir Arthur Furnival, never one for ghoulishness, stepped back.

  He heard John’s heels on the marble floor once more and then, finally, his voice.

  ‘It is not an agent,’ John called up. ‘His name was Massey—an innkeeper. He managed the safe-house in Hyde. Without him I would not have escaped so easily.’

  Sir Toby hung his head ruefully. ‘A humble servant. This will do more to sway the common man against us,’ he said. ‘It was calculated to show our supporters in the field that they are in mortal danger.’

  ‘But what of Agent Smythe?’ Arthur asked. ‘Do we know he is safe?’

  ‘We received vital intelligence from Agent Smythe only this morning,’ said Sir Toby. ‘It is no guarantee of his safety, but he is expected to return to London tonight, or tomorrow at the latest. Only then will we know for sure.’

  ‘Is he alone?’ Lillian asked.

  ‘No. We sent an apprentice with him—Hanlocke.’

  ‘The cracksman?’ Lillian said. ‘Forgive me, Sir Toby, but right now the north is no place for a novice.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Sir Toby, his patience clearly wearing thin. ‘Which is precisely why you are here, and not there.’

  Lillian turned away from Sir Toby sharply. It had not been an easy day for her. Arthur wanted to take her aside and offer some words of comfort, but now was not the time.

  ‘Come up, Lieutenant,’ Sir Toby called down to John. ‘Carrington—recall all of our agents from the field, no matter where in the Empire they may be. I want every one accounted for by morning. Find out if the late Mr. Massey had any family. They will need to be informed and well compensated. And arrange for this—for Massey’s remains, I mean, to be—I mean, with all due ceremony…’

  ‘Right away, sir.’ At a clap of the secretary’s hands, there came a flurry of activity as the club servants mobilised for duty.

  ‘What do you think, my lords?’ Sir Toby turned to Lord Hardwick and Cherleten.

  ‘I rather think I’d like to take this “emissary” by force of arms, and use Mr. Tesla’s inventions upon him until he tells us all we need to know,’ growled Marcus Hardwick.

  ‘Folly,’ said Cherleten, still utterly calm despite everything. ‘The insinuation was that the Knights Iscariot have a hundred more targets in mind for decapitation, and there is no telling who they are. Would you want to be responsible for the Queen waking up to find her maid’s head in a box?’

  Lord Hardwick sighed. ‘Would that it were just a bloody maid.’ He looked about, his expression changing as perhaps he realised how callous he sounded. ‘Very well, we parley with these so-called “knights”, but we do so under strictest security. I’ll line the damned streets with soldiers: let them see what we can command at a moment’s notice.’

  Sir Toby nodded. ‘I will talk to the Prime Minister and see who he can spare to represent the Cabinet at this meeting. Lord Hardwick, you can no doubt speak for the army. But what of the royal family?’

  ‘There are three princes in attendance at St. James’s,’ said Lord Hardwick, ‘I may be able to arrange a favour. I will certainly not risk Her Majesty’s life in this venture—for all we know we are inviting a suicidal assassin into our midst.’

  ‘Do not tell the Queen of the danger,’ said Sir Toby. ‘She would not put even one of her sons in harm’s way if she knew your doubts.’

  ‘Agreed. But there is no time for discussion, and we must set to work. I shall not receive these creatures in this sanctuary of Empire without thorough preparations. Cherleten, can I entrust upon you to see to our… esoteric defences?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, Hardwick,’ Lord Cherleten smiled. ‘And more besides. I think these events somewhat prove my earlier point, do they not? The Knights Iscariot are indeed the immediate threat; Mr. Tesla belongs with me.’

  For a moment, Hardwick and Cherleten locked eyes like stags in rut, sizing each other up. Arthur was surprised when Lord Hardwick nodded, and turned away, looking back down to the scene below them.

  ‘Sir Arthur, might I request your assistance?’ Lord Cherleten said. Arthur grimaced inwardly; he knew what was coming.

  ‘Of course, my lord,’ Arthur replied. In truth, he wanted no part in assisting with the Nightwatch, which was almost certainly what would be required of him; but when called upon, he was a Majestic first and foremost, and his extended freedom came only th
rough voluntary service.

  * * *

  There was not a chance that the Knights Iscariot, nor anyone without full and considered membership of the Apollonian, would be allowed to the upper floors. The building had five stories, and a sixth that was hidden from view beyond the balustered rooftop. But the gleaming façade of the club was a mere illusion as to its true size—several secret rooms and one entire wing protruded from the upper floors, interlocking seamlessly with the imposing Regency buildings either side and behind. Lord Cherleten’s armoury was another case in point; no mere field agent knew for sure how many levels of tunnels, laboratories, storerooms and workshops stretched beneath the clubhouse, but there were always more personnel down there than anyone ever saw admitted by the main entrance, and some said that, should one sit in the tranquillity of St. James’s Square after midnight and listen carefully, the distant, muffled sounds of industry could be heard rumbling and buzzing ceaselessly until the dawn.

  Tonight, all of the civilian functions that were once the heart of the Apollonian were closed. The dining rooms and public bar, the ladies’ room and picture gallery, the billiards, music and drawing rooms, the famous library, the gymnasium and swimming pool, the snugs and bedrooms. Things felt very different; different from any time Lillian had ever known during her short association with the Apollonian.

  The walk along Pall Mall had been eerie. No one, not one member of the various clubs from the Reform to the Athenaeum, was on the streets at half past ten when Lillian returned to the Apollonian. Outside every door was a soldier on sentry duty. Soldiers and policemen were stationed at intervals along both the parallel roads of Pall Mall and Piccadilly, all the way from Regent Street in the east to St. James’s Palace in the west. Inside the club, the armoury had equipped every available agent with weapons, and they made themselves very visible now; some pretended to be servants of the club, or casual members; others were very much playing their role as combatants, ready at a moment’s notice to take up arms against hostile intruders. Lillian was relieved to note that the blood of the Cheshire man, Massey, had been removed without a trace. Somewhere behind the scenes, connected to life-assisting machinery invented by Intuitionists like Nikola Tesla, were the Nightwatch. They, undoubtedly, would feel the resonance of the unfortunate Massey’s death for some time to come. Given the current state of emergency, Lillian had not submitted herself to their scrutiny, nor did she intend to.