They met in a certain old house, in a blind court at the summit of Fishwife Hill. Though the exterior of the house looked weathered and shabby, the interior was furnished in a luxurious oriental style conducive to the drinking parties, the orgies, and the other decadent amusements which kept the Knights occupied and out of worse mischief during most of the year. But there was a large chamber at the back of the house all draped in purple velvet and black satin, and in that room was an altar consisting of a long marble sarcophagus supported on two gilded pedestals, where the Knights of Mezztopholeez practiced their demonic rituals.
This night they were met in the altar chamber in full ceremonial attire: jeweled masks, elaborate curled wigs in the style of the previous century, and hierophantic robes embroidered with stars and suns and planetary emblems and other mystic signs. Though they claimed to model their ceremonies on archaic fertility rites, they were, in fact, far more devoted to the form than to the original intent of the rituals—which more often than not centered around the death and mutilation of a beautiful young woman.
They had selected as victim a young prostitute, not more than seventeen, who lay now upon the altar, as still and as pale as death. She had come into the house bound and drugged, and though her bonds were gone, and her dirty rags had been replaced by an expensive gown of cream satin and blond lace, the effects of the drug had not worn off. The Gentlemen had dressed her, taking their time about it; they had powdered her, and perfumed her, and tenderly combed out her long golden hair, all in preparation for the sacrifice.
So secret was the brotherhood that members never met but when they were masked, and each man's identity (at least in theory) was known only to three others: the Grand Master and his two original sponsors. Each new member was recruited by abduction, led hoodwinked into the altar chamber, and offered the choice: join or die. Most joined, for the brotherhood chose its initiates carefully; occasionally, however, they misjudged their man. In that case, the candidate suffered a sudden (and invariably fatal) attack of scruples, and the body was marked with the sign of the apostate and left for the Watch to find.
By now, all was prepared and ready for the sacrifice, save that three members of the brotherhood had not arrived: Gentlemen rejoicing in the pseudonyms Avarice, Debauchery, and Mortal Sin. The appointed hour had come and passed, and the girl on the altar began to stir in her sleep and make little sounds indicating that she was about to revive.
At last the Grand Master lost all patience. "May the Hag swallow them up . . . we'll wait no longer!" he proclaimed, striding toward the altar. He nodded to his acolytes. "Bring me the athame, the bowl, and the chalice."
Being thus provided, the Master unsheathed the dagger and spat upon the blade. "I consecrate thee in the name of Mezztopholeez and all the dark spirits of the earth."
Just then, there was a stir of movement by the door. The Master looked up to see a willowy figure, in a gorgeous robe of sapphire satin and a tremendous white wig, entering the room. The man known as Mortal Sin stopped and looked around him with a great affectation of surprise. Then he bowed a deep and elaborate bow. "I do crave your pardon for the interruption. It would appear that I have mistaken the hour."
The Grand Master grinned at him, baring even white teeth beneath his green velvet mask. "I had thought, perhaps, a failure of nerve."
"No indeed," replied the newcomer. "I do assure you, I would not have missed these festivities for all the world." As if to confirm his words, he moved closer to the altar and peered over the Master's shoulder with a great show of interest. "Such a delicious little thing as she is, it almost seems a waste."
As he spoke, the girl awoke and looked around her. Her eyes widened in disbelieving terror, as she took in her surroundings, the circle of masked sybarites, and the long gleaming knife.
"Ah, yes, my dear," the Grand Master assured her, "you have fallen into the hands of the Knights of Mezztopholeez. This is no nightmare, but grim and earnest truth, and the fate that you fear shall indeed be yours."
He raised the dagger and began to chant the sacrificial hymn. The others moved closer in anticipation.
But: "I think not," said a light, affected voice in the Master's ear, and suddenly the barrel of a tiny hand pistol was pressed against his left temple. The soft voice took on a steely edge. "If you cut the girl, make a move, or speak a single word, I will blast your brains out."
The Grand Master froze obediently in place.
"Very good," said Mortal Sin, removing a second pistol from a pocket somewhere inside his robe. "And of course, should any of you others decide to play the hero, I will shoot you dead as well, for the filthy dog that you are."
It appeared this caution was unnecessary. They were not men of an heroic stamp, not ripe for martyrdom. Not one of the Knights so much as shifted his position; not one of them displayed the least inclination to sacrifice himself for the sake of his brethren.
When the slim figure in blue satin addressed the girl, his voice lost some of its edge. "If you feel well enough to rise, madam, I wish you would do so—incidentally placing yourself outside of this gentleman's reach."
When she did as he told her, he nodded approvingly. "I perceive that you are a very brave girl, and that my efforts on your behalf are not wasted."
And then, without warning, he calmly pulled the trigger, blowing the Grand Master directly to Perdition.
The Knights watched in rigid silence as the body of their preceptor crumbled to the floor and lay at the foot of the altar in a spreading puddle of blood and brains. Apparently unperturbed by this gruesome sight, Mortal Sin let the blood-spattered gun fall from his hand and fastidiously wiped his fingers on the purple velvet altar cloth.
One of the Knights finally gathered the courage to speak. "Traitor . . . you'll suffer for this," the man known as Malice whispered hoarsely. "There are still two among us who know your true name, and you have but one shot left."
For answer, Mortal Sin reached again inside his robe and produced a third pistol. He spoke to the girl: "Have you ever handled a pistol like this before?"
"Aye, sir." Her voice was low but steady. "Leastways, I had a lover once, he was a trooper; he taught me to shoot off his horse pistols. I suppose it was much the same?"
"You will find these much lighter and easier to handle," he said. "You can oblige me by taking these pistols and keeping them trained on my good friends here. You are doing excellent well. I see that your hand is steady, though you are still rather pale. Take a deep breath but do not close your eyes. Now, if you feel able—and without turning your back on the rest of us—walk across the room and stand in that doorway over there."
When the girl stationed herself according to his directions, he reached inside his robe once more. Everyone watched curiously, to see if he would produce yet another pistol. Instead, he brought out a tiny gilded box and flipped open the lid.
"Snuff . . . this will never do, he said, with a slight shake of his head. "It is the wrong box."
He closed the snuffbox and replaced it in his pocket, searched through the garments underneath, and eventually came up with another box, this one inlaid with ivory and pearls. "Sleep Dust," he explained, lifting the lid to reveal a fine crystalline powder. "It is very potent. The contents of this box tossed into the air should be enough to send you all into a deep slumber. Ah . . . you are kind to be concerned on my account but you have no need, no need at all, I do assure you."
"Curse your bones!" exclaimed one of the acolytes. "I suppose you mean to tell us us that you are immune to the mother-fornicating stuff?"
Mortal Sin sketched a tiny formal bow in his direction. "I regret to inform you that I became addicted to the powder at a very early age. Yes, yes, it is a filthy habit and you are right to condemn it—but one that serves me well in the present circumstance, you must admit. It would take a very large pinch inhaled directly to make me so much as drowsy."
He poured the powder into the palm of his hand and blew it into the air. So fine and light
was the Sleep Dust that it rapidly dispersed throughout the room. "You will all indulge me by taking deep breaths."
He spoke to the girl: "If I catch one of them trying to hold his breath, I will say the word, and you must immediately shoot him." But already, the Knights were growing drowsy. Despite their struggles to remain standing, they began to fall, one by one.
"Oh, and about my name . . ." some of them heard the voice of Mortal Sin, just before unconsciousness overwhelmed them, "my sponsors—our esteemed friends Avarice and Debauchery-- were unfortunately unable to join us. In all the excitement I neglected to make their apologies. I do beg your pardon. They were unavoidably detained . . . unavoidably permanently detained."
Outside on the dark street, he retrieved his pistols from the girl.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but . . . what happens now?" she asked breathlessly.
"What happens next depends on you," he said, concealing the guns in some inner pocket. His voice and his manner had changed; all the elegant affectations were gone; he was now brisk and business-like. "You must run in search of the Watch, bring as many of them as you can back here with you. No, I cannot accompany you. My continuing ability to function effectively would be hampered were I to reveal my name and my purposes to our stalwart constabulary. Your testimony, along with a search of the house, ought to convince them that an arrest is in order.
"After that—" He shrugged his shoulders. "After that we can only hope that the Chief Constable will know what to do. If he is wise, he will deal with them secretly and efficiently, rather than run the risk of a public trial. Otherwise . . . I fear that my former colleagues are all of them wealthy men, men of some position in the community. Brought to trial, such men might use their influence to win their freedom."
The girl took a deep breath. "The man with the knife—the one as you shot, sir—I knew him. I recognized him as soon as he spoke. He was . . . was a steady customer of mine."
The man narrowed his eyes behind the mask. "You do not surprise me," he said. "For a man of that sort, knowing you in advance would increase his enjoyment of the entire situation. You may also be known to some of the others—which is not a comforting thought, for it places your safety directly in the hands of the Chief Constable."
He was silent for a moment, as if considering what to do. "We may hope that the Constable will prove wise enough to rid us once and for all of these pernicious rascals—but were I in your place, I should not depend on it." He reached inside that capacious robe of his and withdrew a small money purse. He extracted a large note and pressed it into her hand.
"Once you have summoned the Watch, try to slip away home, gather together whatever you own, convince anyone whom you hold dear to accompany you, and leave Thornburg for good. But should none of this be possible—if you find yourself in desperate straits—a message left with any Glassmaker in the town directed to me under the name of Robin Carstares will eventually find me."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." The girl accepted the money he offered her, tucked it down the neck of the ivory gown. "But I don't see how I can tell them constables any sort of believable tale, without I tell them all about you. And then they'll be wanting a description. What do you want me to tell them?"
"As to that," he replied, "I will leave that up to you. You must reply as your conscience dictates."
The girl took another deep breath. "All very well—and I hope you won't think me ungrateful for asking, as you did save my life—but you wasn't really one of them, was you? You ain't—you ain't as murderous bad as them others?"
"I am very little better, for I killed three men in cold blood this night, and I cannot say that I regret a single one of them."
"But one of them you killed, that was to save my life," she reminded him.
"I was in the process of saving your life at the time, but I am afraid that I killed him simply because he knew my name, and was therefore a danger to me," he replied with disconcerting candor.
"Yes," she said. "But you . . . you never . . . what I want to know—"
"What you would really like to know, I fancy, is whether the blood of some other poor girl, shed under similar circumstances, is on my hands or my conscience," he furnished graciously. "By my sacred oath, it is not."
"Well then," said the girl, "I think I'll tell the Watch that you was uncommon tall, sir, and built like a carthorse. And what I could see of your eyes and your skin, I'd say you was as dark as a Spagnard."
Behind the velvet mask, he seemed to smile. His old manner returned, at once elegant and ironic.
"You have excellent powers of description, I perceive," said Mortal Sin, taking the young prostitute's hand and bowing over it, as if she were the greatest lady in the town. "Describe me just so to the men of the Watch, madam, and I shall be infinitely obliged to you."
CHAPTER 12
Being of a more Lofty Disposition, perhaps, than any of the Former.
The great bronze bells in the churches of Thornburg were a source of civic pride. Ancient and melodious; they called the faithful to worship every day of the week and three times on Sundays. But Sunday morning worship at the cathedral, when five hundred wax candles burned behind the altar and the best families drove 'round in their painted and gilded carriages, was the fashionable service, and anyone with any pretension to style made a point of being there.
"Such a press, so tedious. One scarcely has time, these days, to do more than greet one's friends," said Clothilde Vorder, as she and her family rode up Cathedral Hill in the Vorders' lumbering coach. "I often wonder why I bother to attend."
"But morning service is always so beautiful," Elsie said, in her sweet, quiet voice. "It always makes me feel so uplifted somehow, as though all my troubles were so paltry. I always feel stronger after it is over, as though I could bear any trouble, any pain, so long as I have Sundays to look forward to."
"Oh, yes, the service . . ." Mistress Vorder gave a negligent wave of her fan. "The sermons are, I believe, superior, and the choir unquestionably divine, but I do not understand why so many tradesmen are admitted. They quite spoil the tone of the entire proceeding."
"The nature of divine services has perhaps escaped you," said a bored voice from a corner of the carriage. Benjamin Vorder was a large, sleepy gentleman, who found his wife tiresome, his daughter's illness wearisome, and any foray into society a positive ordeal. "There is no question of admitting people or turning them away."
Clothilde sniffed resentfully. "Perhaps not. But people ought to know their place, and have the good sense not to intrude where they are not wanted."
In mild weather it was customary to alight at Solingen Park and stroll through the gardens, meeting and greeting one's friends, before climbing the broad stone steps to the cathedral to attend the first service.
"Oh, dear, I fear we must be dreadfully late, for the Duchess is here before us," said Mistress Vorder, as she stepped down from the coach and looked around her.
The little Duchess of Zar-Wildungen came to meet them, splendid in diamonds and heliotrope satin, and a cartwheel-sized hat loaded with plumes enough to outfit an army of ostriches. This hat all but eclipsed her escort, a short, shabby figure in a black coat and tinted spectacles, who walked at her side bobbing his head in a thoroughly obsequious manner. Trailing behind them on a leash, looking more woebegone than ever, was the Duchess's tiny indigo ape.
"She has brought Dr. Mirabolo with her," said Mistress Vorder. "How very odd that is."
The Duchess greeted them merrily and bestowed kisses all around.
"But I hear you do not like the treatment or the doctor which I have prescribed for you," she said to Elsie, raising her eyebrows with a look of playful reproach. "What a wicked ungrateful child it is who refuses to take her medicine!"
Arm in arm with Elsie, Sera felt her cousin tremble. More than one unpleasant scene had occurred in the Vorder household since Elsie had declared her decision to forgo further treatment.
"Indeed, Gracious Lady, I am not—not ung
rateful," said Elsie faintly. "But the nature of the treatment . . . and so horribly public . . . I told Mama that I simply could not."
"And I must suppose," said the Duchess, a little less playful, a little more reproachful, "that Miss Sera Vorder had some part in influencing your decision?"
Elsie shook her head. "Sera only encourages me to do as I think best."
"Nevertheless," said Sera, "I fail to understand how Elsie could benefit from a course of treatment, the mere contemplation of which—as she will tell you—causes her the most acute distress."
"Perhaps you are right," said the Duchess, with a return to her former sunny good nature. "And it does not matter at all, as you shall soon see, for we have another plan which ought to suit admirably." She looked around her, affecting mild bewilderment. "Now, where did Jarl Skogsrå go—he was with us only a moment since."
As if out of nowhere—but presumably from behind a nearby boxwood hedge—the Jarl appeared, exactly on cue. Like some demon spirit in a mock-opera, arising through a trap door in the stage, thought Sera. And indeed, there was something decidedly demonic in the Jarl's appearance, for he was dressed in red satin with black laces and fringes, and his boots had pointed toes. With a flourish worthy of his flamboyant attire, he whisked off his hat and proceeded to kiss the hands of all the ladies.
As always, when he touched her, Sera felt an instinctive shrinking, a strong desire to snatch her hand away. His manners had improved considerably since their first meeting—indeed, his expressions of admiration and respect were now so warm and so pressing, they made her absolutely uncomfortable—but her opinion of Jarl Skogsrå had not changed. Yet what did she know against him? She had no real reason to dislike or distrust him, could accuse him of no overt impropriety. There was only this odd intuitive reaction—and that Sera was staunchly determined to view as mere female vaporing, the sort of thing which any strong-minded woman must immediately dismiss.
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