Brotherhood of the Strange (Kingship, Tales from the Aether Book 1)

by Michael Richie

  “Are you sure?” Edward asked. “I know my brother’s arm is often in need of calibration. Surely you must have had an appointment set up to meet recently.”

  “We did,” she lied, “but he cancelled it abruptly.”

  “I see,” he said, clearly unsure whether to believe her or not.

  Cordelia, more out of propriety and a need to stay active, poured her father a drink from a crystal decanter. She handed it to him, a full three fingers worth of liquor in the glass, more than was customary to offer a guest.

  Edward took the drink and sipped at it. He then gave a cold smile. “Edradour,” he said. “One of the finest single malts in Scotland. I see you keep my brother’s favorite whiskey on hand.”

  Cordelia’s eyes narrowed, “It is polite to retain a reserve of favored spirits for guests who frequent themselves.”

  “I see,” Edward said flatly. He placed the glass down on the table. “Would you happen to have any Glenfiddich? I find the flavor more to my liking.”

  “My apologies, but as I said, I only keep spirits on hand for those who actually grace my doorstep with any frequency.”

  Peeking through the double doors Degory could clearly see his brother stiffen at his daughter’s jab. He wished she would be a little more cautious in her dealings with him. He was far more dangerous than she realized. He could not condemn her though. The dismal failure of both husband and father that was his brother gave the demure and ladylike Cordelia an edge brought out only on the rare occasions of Edward’s visits.

  “You really have no idea the stresses I’m under do you?” Edward asked. “I work for important people, with important tasks. Tasks that require someone of my intellect and skill to perform.”

  “Oh, is that a fact?” The mocking edge she put to her voice concerned Degory and seemed to anger Edward.

  “You silly, spoiled girl,” he began. “There are things in motion that are far bigger than you or I. The world is changing, and my work will help facilitate that change. Imagine, my daughter, a world where we no longer need to send soldiers to the battlefield to perish needlessly. A world that will soon be visited by those with the power to force a peace upon this ravished globe. I would wish it otherwise, but if tainting the relationship I have with you and your mother is the sacrifice I needed to make, then I would do it a thousand times over to sit at the right hand of this world’s rightful rulers and ensure peace. My fool of a brother lacks the vision and the commitment to be worthy of the Brotherhood of the Strange. He is weak.” These last words were spat with such venom that Cordelia took a step away from her father. Quickly she composed herself, an innate need to stand up to him.

  “Weak!” she exclaimed. While Degory admired his niece’s loyalty, he feared she might make her position worse with Edward. “You call a man who fought to the last protecting the leader of the Strangers, losing his arm in the process, weak?”

  Edward shot back, “His loyalty is far more in question than you think. I need to find him, with haste.” Then he added, “For his protection.”

  “Protection from whom?”

  “There are those who believe your dear uncle has betrayed the Brotherhood. They would like him to answer a few questions. They can be quite, shall we say, insistent when they ask. If he comes with me, it would go a great deal better for him. He can still prove his usefulness in my work. That’s why I’m here. I can also provide him a measure of protection, I have enough clout to ensure that at least.”

  “You just need him to find the Temporal Accelerator to get your precious Maxfield back!” Degory winced, no one who was not a Stranger was supposed to know that. The look on her face told him she knew she had just said too much.

  “I see my dear brother has been telling tales out of school, as it were,” Edward said, now with a deathly calm.

  Cordelia stood up tall, smoothing her dress, “I do not know where he is.”

  In a flash he grabbed her shoulders with both hands and gave her a shake, “Where is he?” he shouted, a blend of fear and anger on his haggard face.

  Breaking free she responded, tears in her eyes, “Get out! Mother demanded you vacate these premises as I do now. You were not a gentleman enough for her then and certainly have not improved with time. Now leave!”

  It came so fast even Degory didn’t anticipate it. Edward, for the first time, and Degory resolved last, struck his daughter. The blow staggered her, the high heels of her shoes and length of her dress adding to her instability. Before Edward could strike again, Degory burst in from the music room sword in hand, unsheathed from the scabbard of the walking stick.

  “Stand down, Brother!” Degory exclaimed, leveling the point of his narrow sword in Edward’s direction.

  Without delay, Edward shifted his focus from his daughter to his estranged sibling. He dashed to the entrance of the room where he had left his walking stick, nearly identical to Degory’s and drew his own blade. Cordelia stepped back, behind the sofa, a mixture of fear, confusion, and rage vying for dominance on her reddened face. The two Priests circled each other, Edward taking up a defensive position near a window. He glanced outside for a brief second. Degory shifted the sword from his mechanical right hand to his left. A lifetime of fencing had imbued him with the instinct to draw with his right, but the jerky movements of the arm were unable to match the mental swordsmanship of its owner.

  “Do you really believe you have a chance against me left handed, brother?” Edward asked pointedly. “I have no desire to cause you harm, that’s why I’m here.”

  Degory snorted, “You have no desire to cause me harm, yet you would turn me over to the Hand of Paris without any reservation. I find your concern touching.”

  “It’s not that simple. How far do you think you can run before they will find you? I have work that needs doing and you will be of tremendous assistance. Getting Maxfield and Pandora’s Box back are of supreme importance to the us. You are the key to finding them.”

  “I told you,” Degory began as he inched closer toward his opponent, “I have no idea where or when the Temporal Accelerator will reappear.” He took a quick slice at Edward, who deftly parried it.

  “I wish I could believe that. You have aroused suspicion with very powerful people. My influence could protect you, if you cooperate.”

  “You really believe you matter to these madmen?” Degory demanded. “You are a pawn in something of which you cannot see the truth or magnitude. I’ve only seen a fraction of what they are up to and, quite frankly, I don’t understand the half of it. However, this is not what the Brotherhood is meant for. We’re here to guide and protect civilization, not rule them!”

  Edward stiffened, obviously offended. “I will tell you one last time Brother, for your safety, come with me.”

  Though the situation was deadly serious, Degory could not help but bait his brother. “Edward, you should know, even left handed, I’ve always been better than you.”

  The duel commenced. Each combatant thrusting, slashing, and parrying as one tried to best the other. What Degory had said was indeed true, he was a better swordsman than Edward, as he had always been from the time their father had enrolled them in a fencing school at the ages of twelve and ten. Edward was always frustrated at being bested consistently by his younger sibling. It was something Degory could now use to his advantage. In truth, it was more difficult using his left hand and he had to use his brass arm to block an incoming thrust. Steel rang on steel for a full minute that ended with Edward bleeding from a minor slash in his arm. Before the duel could proceed any further, several burly men burst into the room carrying the smell of the sea and the burly look of dock-workers. Cordelia screamed as one of them, a beady eyed man with a tattered bowler hat, held a plasmatic pistol to her head.

  “Stop!” exclaimed Edward. “Degory, please, do not make me hurt my daughter.”

  Though he had clearly lost all perspective regarding to whom he had his allegiance, the plea regarding Cordelia seemed
genuine. Even had it not been, he had endangered the niece he loved as his own daughter far too much already this evening. Without a second thought Degory dropped his weapon, it gave a dull ring as it hit the carpeted floor. Two of the burly thugs held him fast, searching him for other weapons. Edward sheathed his sword in his own cane and the man with the bowler hat lowered his pistol. Degory observed the pistol was far too expensive to be in the hands of a run-of-the-mill hireling, despite his appearance.

  “You can’t take him! Please Father!” Cordelia sobbed, rushing to Degory and embracing him.

  “Cordelia, listen to me,” Degory said calmly as they were dragged apart, “There’s nothing more to be done. If going with your father keeps you safe, it is a course of action I embrace.” Turning to his brother he said, “She knows, Edward. Your daughter now knows exactly who her father is. I do hope you can live with yourself.”

  With a motion of Edward’s head, there was nothing more to be said between the two, and Degory was escorted out. As he descended the stairs he could hear his niece demanding her father take his leave. He was looking for some manner of escape, but could think of none that would not endanger Cordelia. His best course of action for the time being was compliance. Confident she would follow his instructions in locating the Kingship, she should be able to locate and hopefully rescue him, wherever he was about to be taken. At least he now stood the chance of gleaning additional information regarding the Hand of Paris. Learning about the multitude of plans in the works might be worth any unpleasantries he may be forced to endure. At least that’s what he told himself.

  Roughly shoved into the back of one of the black steam powered carriages, Degory could see it was clearly expensive, of course Edward would settle for no less. He wasn’t able to take advantage of the comfort and luxury as a moistened cloth was held to his face upon entering. Within seconds he was lost to the sick, sweet smelling oblivion of chloroform.

  Chapter IX

  The thug with the tattered bowler hat sat quietly reading a three-day-old newspaper, apparently satisfied guarding a girl weighing no more than nine stone was not a task that required much concentration. His dirty, smelly clothes were ruining a white floral patterned wingback which had been a favorite of her mother’s before she moved to the country. In point of fact, Cordelia could not find blame with the man’s cavalier attitude regarding her newly enforced captivity. She had fallen apart as they led Degory away, demanding that her father leave, but her conviction gave way to sobs as the emotion of the evening took over. Upon leaving, Edward had left this nameless hired gun to, as he put it “keep her safe” till he returned. The realization she was a prisoner in her own home, at her father’s behest nonetheless, was nothing short of intolerable. For almost twenty minutes she sat on the sofa. The same sofa where she had tended to her dear beloved uncle’s arm less than an hour earlier. Wave after wave of grief-filled tears finally subsided to quiet shivers. Through it all, the burly, fragrant guard simply read, scarcely looking up at his prisoner. Cordelia still found it difficult to believe the actions of her father. He had never been what she would consider affectionate, but this was behavior unbecoming a gentleman of his high London stature. He had allowed a weapon to be pointed at her, and she feared he would lose little sleep had it been discharged. Even now, his motives and course of action were a mystery to her. Obviously he planned to return, the single guard could not watch her forever. When that would be she could not even hazard a guess, and her fear for Degory was increasing by the minute. She had never seen her uncle this afraid before. In her heart, though it pained her to admit, her uncle was in real danger because of her father.

  Glancing over at the Japanese vase on the mantle Cordelia was reminded of her uncle’s mandate to her. Fortunately, no search of her apartment had been made, though she guessed Edward would remedy that upon his return. She dared not go near it now, though everything in her small frame screamed the information therein must remain safe. Her gaze turned toward the door where the guard who was ruining her mother’s chair sat. Needing to act, she hadn’t the foggiest idea on how to proceed. The thug was three times her size. Even if were he not, Cordelia still would have been at a loss on how to handle him. Before this evening, fisticuffs had not been a skill she would have ever thought necessary. Nor was her upper-class London attire, requisite to the task. Still, there had to be a way. Clearly she was of superior intellect to a simple ruffian. It would be that intellectual edge that would allow her to best this detestable man. A plan began to form in her mind. A plan that, if successful would allow her to escape without resorting to violence.

  “My pardons, sir,” she began in as weak of a voice as she could conjure. “Would you be so kind as to allow me to play some music? After the events of this evening I feel the need to quiet my nerves.”

  Lowering the newspaper the thug looked suspiciously at her. “I don’t care what you do as long as I can see you.” He motioned to the phonograph on the end table near her, “Play whatever you want.”

  Cordelia rose and crossed not to the phonograph, but to the parlor where Degory had hidden. She had no sooner touched the latch to the door when the man stood and demanded, “Miss, where are you going? Your phonograph is there.”

  “Oh yes I know, sir,” came the quick, planned reply. “I wish not to listen to music but to play some myself. I do so enjoy it, particularly when I am feeling a little overexcited.”

  “I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”

  She opened the door. “And where, good sir, would I go? You can see for yourself the room is small and has no other means of exit.”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he entered and scanned the small room. There was little in there but a piano, a hutch, and a glass cabinet filled with a menagerie of clockwork birds. The third story window offered no egress to the streets below. Apparently satisfied the lithe girl could cause him no more trouble in here than in the drawing room, he shrugged and resumed his post by the stairwell door.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Cordelia took her seat at the piano. Needing something to play she glanced at the open sheet music already in place, Beethoven's “Ode to Joy”. That would suffice, though Cordelia found the choice a little ironic given the present circumstances. Truth be told, she had played this piece so often in her youth she had little need of any scribed reminders to guide her dexterous fingers across the keys. As she played, the thug relaxed, again picking up his newspaper and disappearing behind it. This was exactly what Cordelia had been hoping for. Continuing to play, the final workings of her plan found their place in her mind. Glancing down she looked at the brass and wood box that held the machinery which allowed the old family heirloom to act doubly as a player piano. She had built it herself and even improved upon the design after seeing a beautiful Chase and Baker model on display in the city. Fortunately, the device was fully wound and had a punch roll already mounted. Playing the last notes to Beethoven’s opus, she reached down and flipped the switch that activated the player box. The scroll began to turn and, within seconds, Debussy’s “Clair De Lune” began to emanate from the piano. The keys rose and fell with each sound as though some ghost were occupying the space where Cordelia had just sat. Knowing the piece was only a few minutes long, the young lady began to hurry. The newspaper still occupied the thuggish guard, which was the crux of her plan. Should he tire of reading, and his gaze fall upon her in the next few minutes, all would be for nought. Approaching the cabinet where the mechanical menagerie was kept, Cordelia chose a small brass hummingbird from the two dozen avian devices. She had built all of them, mostly for her own amusement and interest in clockwork technology. Some had been part of her thesis at Oxford, their minute machinations had paved the way for the creation of Degory’s arm. The bird she chose now had been crafted while she was doing her medical rotation in the Royal London Hospital in White Chapel. The beak of this clockwork hummingbird was in fact a syringe, one capable of injecting medicine, usually powerful sedatives, into u
nruly or lunatic patients from a safe distance. Though it had been used by her and lauded by the hospital staff on numerous occasions, the shear cost and intricate construction ensured mass production would never be achieved. A hastily measured dose of powerful opiates was loaded into the beak-shaped syringe and the bird wound. Cordelia then placed it on the piano. Noticing the news from three days ago still shielded her from unfriendly eyes, she also retrieved her hydrocrystalophone from the same cabinet. Called a glass armonica by many, it was a curious musical instrument consisting of stacked crystal bowls lying on their side. These rotated via a gear and spring mechanism. With the judicious application of moistened fingers, the device produced ghostly, ethereal sounds. Like the piano, Cordelia was a more than competent player and had cleverly designed her birds to be operated and controlled remotely with the sounds of the instrument. It was this accomplishment that had earned her a seat on the Oxford Board of Clockwork Design, no small achievement for a woman as young as she. Cordelia switched on the device, moistened her fingers in the included reservoir of water, and began to play as the piano ended its rendition of Debussy’s masterpiece.

  The tones of the hydrocrystalophone were so different from the familiar sounds of a piano that the thug lowered his paper to see the source of the new sound. Any concern at seeing his captive playing some form of rare instrument was eclipsed by his observance of a mechanical bird flying towards him. He leapt from his chair and with a gruff voice shouted his surprise.

  This shook Cordelia and she almost lost her nerve, hitting a wrong note and nearly sending the hummingbird crashing into a wall. Choosing not to respond, she regained control and flew it towards her target. The thug took a swing at the bird but the diminutive size, combined with Cordelia’s skill, bested him as it weaved past his arm and impaled itself in his thick, sweaty neck. The concoction of opiates acted quickly. The thug took several steps towards Cordelia, each one becoming more uncoordinated than the last. Trying to draw his pistol, he fell to his knees before collapsing into a deep unconsciousness on the carpeted floor, the plasmatic weapon only half drawn.