The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  ‘That day is a very long way off, Agent Hardwick,’ said Cherleten. ‘Before then, there is much more we need to do. We have caught you in time—with the help of my doctors and my Nightwatch, you will remain your own woman. You may experience a… loss of empathy, and some physiological changes, but I believe we can keep you on the side of the angels.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said John. ‘Are you saying that Lillian may lose control of herself because… because of what they did to her?’

  ‘He is saying that I may have already lost control,’ Lillian said. ‘That if it were not for this facility, I would be relaying my location to Lord de Montfort even now, and perhaps have killed everyone here while I waited for him to take me away.’

  ‘That is not quite what I said, Agent Hardwick,’ Cherleten scolded. ‘I merely referred to your loss of memory, and wondered if you might have let… someone… in, during that time.’

  ‘Memory loss?’ John asked.

  ‘Your sister remembers nothing after the death of Sir Arthur, save for waking up on a canal barge in your company. We do not know how much the enemy may have gleaned from her unconscious thoughts during that time.’

  ‘I know only that I owe you a great debt, brother,’ Lillian said. ‘You and Smythe saved me, perhaps from myself. But I tell you this: if I really am to recover, I will use my new-found strength to return to Commondale and exact my revenge.’

  ‘Revenge?’ John asked.

  ‘Yes. It is a village of traitors. I remember taking refuge in the post office, but the postmaster was hiding in his cellar. He crept out while we slept and knocked me unconscious, then turned us over to the enemy. He will be the first to feel my wrath.’

  ‘Galtress?’

  ‘Was that his name? I forget.’

  ‘Lillian… he is dead.’

  ‘Dead? John, have you denied me my rightful vengeance?’ Her tone was inappropriately playful.

  John remembered Lillian’s savagery on the edge of the moors; he remembered her eagerness to kill, and the terrible manner in which she had done it. After everything he had seen in his short career as an agent of the Crown, Galtress’s demise stayed with him more vividly than anything else. He wanted to tell Lillian a lie, to do her a kindness, but he hesitated a moment too long, his eyes downcast to his shuffling feet.

  ‘So, I killed him,’ she sighed. ‘A pity; I would have liked to confront him with my wits about me. But, it is as well—I should rather not return to that godforsaken place.’

  She did not bat an eyelid. If anything, her eyes glimmered brighter for a moment, and the corners of her pale lips were upturned. She seemed pleased with herself, but quickly—deliberately—hid her glee. She assumed instead an uninterested posture.

  ‘Lillian, I—’

  ‘Lieutenant,’ Cherleten interrupted, ‘I must ask you to bring your visit to a close. Our patient needs time to recover from her ordeal.’

  John nodded. He felt sick.

  ‘A kiss, for your sister,’ Lillian said, her voice taking on a strange, musical lilt.

  John felt some unkind emotion rise within him. Not revulsion, he hoped, but something akin to it. The longer he stood in Lillian’s presence, the less he felt that he had brought anything of his sister back from Yorkshire. Dutifully, however, he stooped to kiss her cheek. And she whispered in his ear, so quietly that he almost felt her voice rather than heard it.

  ‘Help me, John. I cannot abide it here.’ It sounded heartfelt. Her mask slipped, almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Lillian… I shall return as soon as they allow it. You will not be alone.’

  Her face became impassive, but her eyes moistened. John knew in that moment that his sister was herself still, somewhere within this marble-white form.

  ‘I… I cannot feel,’ she whispered.

  John saw in Lillian’s face confusion and helplessness. It instilled in him such anguish that he could barely keep from shaking.

  SEVENTEEN

  The vase smashed against the tiled wall, sending fragments of glass tinkling across the floor of the hospital ward. Beauchamp Smythe stepped back to what he thought was a safe distance. Lord Cherleten stood firm.

  ‘Three days!’ Lillian shouted. ‘Have you not ascertained all you need by now? Or am I to remain a prisoner here for ever?’

  Lillian had become more prone to fits of rage as time had progressed—in fact, she gave in to them willingly, for it was the only way she could feel anything at all. Anger, it seemed, was a powerful force. Since John’s visit she had been alone on the ward, examined hourly by Cherleten’s endless army of medical personnel. She had tried to leave several times, and had been greeted by barred doors, behind which stood armed guards. In the rare moments she was alone and not sedated, it was all she could do not to take her own life. She spent those moments ignoring the books that Cherleten brought for her, and instead hugged her knees, rocking back and forth in the darkness, praying that de Montfort could not hear her thoughts; praying that the Knights Iscariot would not come for her and make her a bride for their lifeless, Nameless King.

  ‘You are not a prisoner, my dear, you are a patient.’ Cherleten’s voice was steady, even though the nurses quailed at Lillian’s anger. When had he started to call her ‘my dear’ rather than ‘Agent Hardwick’? That irked her more than her confinement.

  ‘Your only patient,’ Lillian said. ‘And one who is kept under guard.’

  ‘For your protection, not ours.’

  Lillian looked to Smythe, whose face belied Cherleten’s assertions. ‘And why is Agent Smythe really here?’ Lillian asked. ‘He purports to be my visitor and brings me flowers, and yet he carries his surgical bag.’

  Smythe’s eyes moved to the flowers that were now strewn across the floor. He looked rueful. Lillian almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘We thought you might like to see a friendly face,’ Cherleten said, maintaining the charade. ‘And I confess that Agent Smythe’s singular expertise may be useful in the coming days and weeks.’

  ‘By “singular expertise”, you do of course mean his knowledge of cadavers.’

  ‘I would not put it so indelicately.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Lillian held Cherleten’s gaze with an impudence she had never previously dared. She had nothing to lose any more. ‘And will you have Agent Smythe prod and poke and slice at me, like the rest of your lackeys?’

  ‘In a manner, although I think Agent Smythe’s treatment will be of far greater benefit to you. And it is not as though you truly feel discomfort, is it, my dear?’

  Lillian scowled. ‘Only from the indignity. If I am to take up residence here, might I at least have my clothes?’ She looked down at her linen hospital gown disapprovingly.

  ‘It has already been arranged. There are not very many tests remaining, and then we can assess your… situation.’

  Lillian thought about this for a moment, and then turned to Smythe.

  ‘I will brook no more delays. Agent Smythe, if you have tests or treatments, then you will kindly administer them at once.’

  ‘I…’ Smythe glanced at Cherleten, who nodded assent. ‘Of course, Lillian.’ He reddened at the use of her Christian name. Lillian sighed and looked again at Cherleten.

  ‘Lord Cherleten, may we have some privacy? I really am tired of all this.’ She waved a hand at the staff.

  In the room at present, there were three nurses, a junior physician, an alienist, and the Nightwatch. The wasted Majestics were hidden from view; from all but Lillian. Their psychic emanations prevented most people from noticing they were there—one tended to look past them, or ignore them altogether. Lillian had had training to see through the Majestics’ tricks. Smythe had received that training too, though he pretended not to notice the presence of the two unsettling youths in the shadowed corner of the room. But it was not training that revealed the presence of the Nightwatch to Lillian. The previous day she had begun to experience strange visual phenomena. They began with coronas of violet light flashing before
her eyes, and at first she had complained of the sensation to the doctors, who exacerbated the situation by shining lights into her eyes. Eventually, the sensation became more muted, and Lillian saw that she was not only able to see well enough in darkness—a talent that had manifested itself immediately after her transformation—but could also see strange coronas and ghost-like manifestations around the people who visited her bedside. They collected like cobwebs around certain people; skeletal blue-white phantoms or orange-hued balls of light that followed doctors and nurses hungrily. Around the Nightwatch was an incandescent dull amber glow, which flickered outwards periodically, twisting into plumes of indigo smoke, from which leering faces and flashing eyes flickered occasionally, so rapidly that Lillian thought she had imagined them. It was only after two days of observing these phenomena secretly, saying nothing about what she saw, that she came to realise that the stench of the Riftborn hung around the Nightwatch at all times. She wondered if these were the ‘transmissions’ that Tesla had spoken of, and whether, if Sir Arthur had lived still, she would have seen the same manifestations around him.

  What was worse, and what made her wonder if she were simply going mad, was that a faint amber glow shone around her. She saw it when she looked into the mirror, pulsing about her head. She would have assumed it was some insight into the unique nature of the vampire, but for Lord Cherleten. She saw it upon him, too, and she knew not why. But to speak of it to him or anyone else would only prompt more tests and delay her release. She held on to hope that she would be discharged eventually, no matter how unlikely that seemed at present.

  Now, however, Cherleten relented. He had a nurse unlock a private examination room, allowing Lillian and Smythe to enter alone. Lillian noted with some dismay that Smythe looked the unhappiest of all about the arrangement.

  * * *

  Beauchamp Smythe’s hands trembled as he laid out his medical apparatus.

  ‘I hope you are not planning to operate on me with such unsteady hands.’

  ‘I… it’s just that…’

  ‘It is just that I am no longer the Lillian Hardwick you know. You have seen me kill in most unsavoury ways, and were even tempted yourself to end my life.’

  ‘Your memory…’ Smythe stuttered.

  ‘It is returning, slowly, in fragments. I am having trouble piecing those fragments back together, but I remember your willingness to shoot me well enough.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Do not worry, Beauchamp,’ Lillian said, gently. ‘I do not hold it against you. I might have pulled the trigger sooner—you know me.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ he said, avoiding her gaze.

  ‘Have you spoken to John?’ Lillian said, changing tack.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he say anything about me? Did he send any message?’

  ‘I am not supposed to speak of matters outside with you, Lillian. I am sorry.’

  ‘Beauchamp, please.’ Lillian hopped down from the gurney. As she stepped towards Smythe, he turned his back to the wall and edged away, nervously. She was a head shorter than Smythe, and slight of frame, but even before her transformation she had been more dangerous than he, certainly in Mrs. Ito’s dojo. ‘For pity’s sake, I have no intention of hurting you, Beauchamp. We have known each other for a long time. Have I not suffered enough without losing my friends also?’

  He beheld her for a moment, and then sighed, the tension draining from his shoulders. He looked ashamed.

  ‘I am your friend, Lillian,’ he said. ‘No matter what. I wish you really knew that.’

  Lillian reached deep inside herself, to recall what it was like to elicit warmth from another person. With every day that passed she found it harder to empathise, or even to speak to another human being without mocking at them. She hoped it was down to the company she was forced to keep, but she did not think that was the whole cause. Now, she took Smythe’s hand in hers, trying desperately not to show her dismay when he recoiled from her freezing touch. She concentrated on softening her features, so that the hard mask she had come to recognise as her own face might take on something of its old aspect. Finally, she spoke, as softly as she could, aware that her voice sounded more unlike her own by the day.

  ‘Beauchamp, I fear that Lord Cherleten seeks to keep me here for a very long time. I have seen my brother but once, and Sir Toby briefly, and no other friendly face but for yours. Even if I was so altered that I sought to betray you, my family, and my country, I would be unable to. The Nightwatch have erected a prison around my thoughts just as Lord Cherleten puts one around my body. I just wish to know that my family are well, that the Order endures, and that the monsters who inflicted this… this blasphemy upon me are to be punished. Please, Beauchamp, would you leave me here without hope, alone but for His Lordship’s lickspittles?’

  Smythe looked conflicted. She knew it was unfair to make him feel so, but she could not find it within herself to care, not truly. Eventually, Smythe seemed to resolve his inner struggle.

  ‘I would not,’ he said, in a hushed tone. ‘But I must be brief, for Lord Cherleten cannot know I am speaking with you of any matter beyond your medical examination. Please, take a seat, and I shall talk while I work.’

  Lillian obeyed, and Smythe busied himself, his hands finding their steel again. He took samples of the pale fluid that passed for Lillian’s blood these days, scraped tiny slivers of skin from her forearm, wincing as he did so even though Lillian felt not a thing, and finally, almost reverently, he took a lock of her hair. All of these things were placed into small glass phials, then filled with a brownish liquid.

  As he worked, he spoke quietly. The prince was still missing, and there was no word from the Knights Iscariot. No messages had so far reached the north, and even Pickering’s fledgling resistance had gone quiet. Lord Hardwick had surfaced from his secret project only that morning, carrying a dire message to the palace. As a result, the Order was preparing for the worst; the Queen would leave London that very day, for a secret destination. As for John, he remained at the Apollonian, stationed there by their father so as to be out of harm’s way, for it was widely believed that the Knights Iscariot now had even greater reason to further their vendetta against him. Lillian smiled when Smythe told her that John had already been reprimanded twice in a short space of time for trying to harangue his way into the armoury’s subterranean facility.

  Smythe took a roll of instruments from his case, along with a phial of yellowish solution. The roll contained numerous scalpels, lancets and coils of wire, and Lillian shifted uncomfortably despite herself.

  ‘I have had a good many samples taken from me these past days,’ she said. ‘But it seems you are about to make a subcutaneous injection.’

  ‘Most astute, Lillian. Let me explain. Lord Cherleten has most crudely alluded to the decomposition of your flesh over time, but he paints only the direst picture of your situation. In truth, it will take months before any signs of necrosis will be noticeable, by which time we will have it well under control.’

  ‘How… comforting.’

  ‘I have here a concoction of my own devising. It is primarily a preservative—mostly formaldehyde, truth be told—but it also contains not only bleaching agents to keep the skin looking flawless, but also several new innovations created by the Order’s best medical Intuitionists. For want of a better term, an elixir to encourage the skin’s healing process even when blood is… ahem… lacking.’

  The mention of blood brought stabbing pangs of hunger, and Lillian felt sick at the thought, and betrayed by her own body at such a revolting instinct. She knew all too well that the degeneration of her flesh would be slowed by imbibing blood, but that the degeneration of her mind would only be hastened by it. The ‘curse of the vampire’, Cherleten had called it.

  ‘You wish to… embalm me alive?’ Lillian could not keep the dismay from her voice; this was one indignity that she could endure with neither smile nor scowl.

  ‘I… I am sorry Lillian. Today we only wish
to get you accustomed to the idea. We do not have to administer the chemicals if you do not wish it. But eventually…’

  ‘Eventually I will need it, and increasingly often.’

  Smythe nodded. An awkward silence passed between them.

  ‘If it is not strictly necessary, I would rather not. Not today. I do not think I can face it.’

  ‘Of course. It is a lot to get used to, on top of… everything else.’

  ‘What else is in the bag?’ Lillian sniffed, with apprehension.

  ‘I, um, that is…’

  ‘Please, Beauchamp, spit it out.’

  ‘Very well. I was asked, while I was here, to fit you for a wig.’

  ‘My… my hair?’

  ‘Not for some time,’ Smythe said hastily. ‘It is just a precaution, and better to prepare you for the eventuality now, Lord Cherleten said.’

  Lillian thought she should feel more sorrow than she did, but somehow she resisted any temptation to cry. In fact, she admitted to herself, there was no temptation at all. The longer Smythe talked, the more inured she became to any feeling whatsoever. Except for the hunger; that remained very real.

  ‘Can that wait for another day, also?’

  ‘Of course. It will not be necessary for a while.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Months, at least. Perhaps as long as a year.’

  Lillian took a deep breath. That did not seem a terribly long time at all. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Ah, yes. But this is good, I think, if a little uncomfortable at first.’ Smythe produced a small silver case and opened it up so that Lillian could see within. It contained two eyes; or, at least, two pieces of thin, coloured glass designed to look like eyes. ‘You wear these over your eyes. You will be able to see through them perfectly well, I assure you. And it will, um, disguise the… you know.’

  ‘You mean I shall be able to pass for human without frightening small children in the street.’

  ‘Not just children,’ Smythe joked, but the weak laugh died on his lips when his eyes met Lillian’s. ‘I am sorry. If you will allow me?’