Merciless Reason (9 page)

Number One: The Act of Aggression must be committed by the Aggressor himself and not by any agent or servant.

Number Two: The Act must only be committed against a man over the age of sixteen who holds a superior rank in the family to the Aggressor.

Number Three: The Act must only be committed for the purpose of advancing one's position and not out of spite, or because of insult or offence given, or to satisfy a need for revenge for an insult or injury given to a third party

Number Four: All efforts should be made to avoid the deaths of servants while committing the Act. Good servants are hard to find.

Number Five: The Target of the Aggression can use any and all means to defend themselves, and is under an obligation to do so for the good of the family.

Number Six: Retribution against the Aggressor can only be carried out after the Act has been committed. Should the Aggressor fail in his attempt, and subsequently escape to remain at large for a full day, only the Target of the Aggression and no other person will be permitted to take Retribution.

Number Seven: No Act of Aggression or Retribution must be witnessed or reported by any member of the public. All family matters must be kept confidential.

Number Eight: Any bodies resulting from the Act must be given a proper burial in a cemetery, crypt, catacomb, or funeral pyre approved by the family.

Leo clapped his hands as the young man and woman clashed blades, watching with rapt attention as the well-matched opponents glided around the floor.

They were using épées: swords with thin, triangular-sectioned blades that were wielded with small, sharp movements, designed to develop speed and fine accuracy. Tatty had been training with this weapon for longer, and she had a natural grace that suited this style of fencing. But Cathal had the agility of a cat and astonishing reflexes. What he lacked in technique, he made up for in savagery. And, Daisy noticed, the two were learning from each other. Even their fighting styles were becoming very alike.

“You still move like a donkey,” Tatty informed Cathal as she lunged forward, aiming a strike at his chest.

Cathal took a step back and parried her blade. He was breathing heavily behind his mask, but showed no signs of slowing down. With two quick steps, he darted back along the line of her lunge, nearly landing a strike to her stomach. She deflected it and danced sideways.

“And you repeat yourself like a parrot,” he replied, waiting for her to make the next move. “Pipe down and fight.”

“What's the matter, can't you talk and fight at the same time?” she asked breezily, circling him, waving her sword in the air. It was difficult to see her expression through her mask, but her body language said it all. “
I
can. I can do
lots
of things at the same time.”

“It's true,” Daisy spoke up. “There was one time, after a party, that Tatty maintained a lively conversation while throwing up several times in quick succession. She hardly needed to pause for breath. It was something to behold.”

“Daisy!” Tatty exclaimed. “My God! How could you tell him that?”

“I prefer the time when we spent that week in Brittas Bay,” Cathal said, poking his sword at Tatty and forcing her to put up her guard properly. “She was bathin' in the sea and started talkin' to a crab as she walked after it along the sand. She followed it into the sea and I kept pace with her. She was still talkin' after her head went underwater. You could even see the bubbles coming out of her mouth.”

“That's not true!” Tatty protested. She jabbed clumsily at Cathal and he sidestepped, tapping his blunt blade against her fingers where they held the sword. Tatty pulled away with a petulant motion and stabbed towards the inside of his thigh. He laughed and jumped away. They started dueling more aggressively, as they so often ended up doing. Daisy pointed at them and whispered in Leo's ear:

“It's funny how people sometimes fight more when they like each other, isn't it, Leo?”

“Can I have a sword?” Leo asked. “There are lots of people I like. Can we go to the seaside?”

“Perhaps you can have a sword when you're older,” Daisy told him. “And we'll go to the seaside someday soon, I promise.”

“Can Uncle come?” Leo added, looking up into her face with an expectant expression. “Mother said he'll be very busy, but I know she'd like him to go to the seaside with her. She hasn't seen him in so long.”

Daisy regarded him for a few seconds before answering. There were no brothers left alive on either side of Leo's parents.

“I'm sure Uncle can come if he wants,” she answered lightly. “We often go with others from the family. Do you mean one of your cousins, Leo? Or do you mean Great-Uncle Gideon?”

Leo laughed as if this was the daftest thing he had ever heard.

“No! Uncle Gideon's
silly,
and he has funny hair!” He giggled, as if these were reason enough to rule him out. “No, I mean
Big
Uncle!” His smile faded slightly and he leaned in closer to Daisy. “Mother says we love him, but I think he's a bit scary. And he never smiles at me. He has big feet and he walks funny. I don't think he's as big as a house, but he hit his head going through the door once, so he's definitely bigger than a door.”

Before Daisy could find out anything more about this mysterious new uncle, Tatty and Cathal let out simultaneous yelps as she struck the side of his head and he stamped on her toe. Siren saluted the moves with a burst of trumpets, as if to say ‘Ta-da!” They had just started bickering again when Gerald walked in. The bird-like engimal swooped down and fluttered onto Tatty's shoulder. Engimals behaved nervously around Gerald now, as if they could sense the cold-blooded, destructive nature of his interest in them.

“Cathal,” he said, “it's time to get back to work.”

Cathal said nothing for a minute, letting his breathing calm down. He pulled off the mask to reveal a round, freckled face set with a slightly belligerent expression and topped with a damp mop of wavy red hair. Ignoring Gerald, he wiped the sweat off his neck and forehead with a towel provided by one of the footmen standing nearby, and pretended to study the balance of his sword. Gerald watched him patiently—if he felt any irritation at being made to wait, he didn't show it. He treated Cathal differently from anyone else in the family, but it was not always in a good way.

“I'm tired of all your proddin' and your tests and needles,” Cathal said at last. He spoke with a lower-class, Dublin accent. It was a mark of his old life that he had held onto despite Tatty's insistence that he take elocution lessons. “I'm not one of your engimals, to be cut up and studied.”

“That's a ludicrous statement,” Gerald declared. “I have never cut you. Even when I use a hypodermic, I rarely draw more than a couple of fluid ounces of your blood—and you have said yourself it has no effect on you. You have also said you are eager to learn about your physiology.”

“I haven't learned anything from you that I couldn't dig out of any half-arsed biology book,” Cathal retorted. “I could read
Henry Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body
and lose a lot less blood in the process. Most of what you know about engimals and intelligent particles, you keep to yourself. And to be quite blunt, Gerald, I think you're losing your grip on reality. And I don't want to be near you, or your knives, when you finally lose the last of your marbles.”

Everyone else in the room was holding their breath. None of them would have dared to speak to Gerald like that—even Siren had tucked itself in against Tatty's neck. But Cathal stared straight back at Gerald with bare-faced defiance. This confrontation had been building for some time. Cathal had Wildenstern blood, but he was different from the rest of the family. He was almost sixteen, the son of a Wildenstern woman—a woman who had been exiled from the family. As a result, he had grown up beyond their influence. A secret society called the Knights of Abraham had killed her in their efforts to learn the secrets of
aurea sanitas,
the quality in the Wildensterns' blood that gave them almost supernaturally good health. So Cathal, like Gerald, had become interested in the intelligent particles that gave the family their power.

He was also the only other person who had been treated by the same serpentine engimal that had saved Gerald's life. The only other one, that was, except for Nathaniel. This mysterious creature had changed all three of them, and Gerald was determined to learn how. The only raw materials he had to work with were his own blood, and Cathal's. These limited resources were a constant source of frustration to him.

“I'm sorry we've had our disagreements,” Gerald said in an even voice. He turned towards Leopold. “Leo, your mother is waiting for you. Come with me and I'll bring you to her.” Then he looked back at Cathal. “I can see that you're tired. You should take some time to recuperate before joining me downstairs. I'll be waiting.”

He spun on his heel and walked towards the door. Leo slid down off Daisy's lap and hurried after him.

“You'll be waiting down there a shockin' long time,” Cathal called after him. “I'd have a bed made up if I was you!”

But Gerald was gone. Tatty and Daisy were staring, eyebrows raised, at the young man. He looked back at them, taking in their reaction, and shrugged.

“I'm worried I might have hit you too hard on the head,” Tatty said to him. “Or is the loss of one's marbles an infectious condition?”

“I'm tired of pussy-footin' around him,” Cathal told her. “I'm not some put-upon little gutty he can study like a kept animal. And don't think I'm the only one he's got his pins stuck into. This whole place has become like an experiment for him. You're all involved. He's got us wound up so tight you can hear our hair squeak. I reckon it's time to pull out some pins and do some stickin' of our own before we all start snappin', one by one.”

“This isn't the way,” Daisy cautioned him. “You can't take him head-on like this, Cathal. You're not thinking this through.”

“That's been the problem, Daisy,” he sighed. “I've been thinkin' this round in circles so much I've got myself convinced there's nowhere to go. I've never been a great one for strategies. And I can't face livin' under his glass for the rest of my life. Enough is enough. If he wants my blood, he'll have to take it all in one go or not at all.”

Daisy and Tatty looked at one another. They could understand how Cathal felt, but they both felt his wilfulness was getting the better of him. Daisy sighed and shook her head at the young man.

“I'd worry that Gerald might think that a reasonable proposition.”

X

ARROGANT, BUT WITH A SENSE OF STYLE

GERALD WAS IN HIS LABORATORY,
wiping down a blackboard. He rarely spent time here any more, not since moving the bulk of his research to the new site. But an idea had occurred to him, and he wanted to work out the permutations while they were still fresh in his mind. The tap of the chalk on the board often helped him order his thoughts, enabling him to focus his busy mind on the beautiful simplicity of a mathaumaturgical problem.

So it was with some irritation that he saw Gideon enter the room, his uncle's hands opening and closing in an expression of anxiety. Gerald took a long, slow breath and kept his eyes on the board, watching the numbers and symbols flow from his fingers.

He had been investigating the behavior of intelligent particles in human blood and engimals' bodies for years, but he had lately theorized that the mysterious particles might be found in the wider environment as well. If that was the case, he wondered if they might behave like the spores of a fungus when released into the open air, and he had just come up with a means of testing the theory. But first, he had to frame the theory in the right mathaumaturgical terms.

Whenever human beings tried his patience with their petty, irrational claptrap, he would often seek comfort in science.

“Gerald!” Gideon wheezed, making his way between the worktables. “This is no time for scribbling on blackboards—I have some grave news.”

“Do tell,” Gerald replied in a sullen voice.

“I have received word from one of the tailors we use in Dublin,” Gideon said, in the gruff voice he used to disguise any fear he might be experiencing. “The man told me of a telegram that arrived this morning. It was an order for a suit—to be made up on the family's account, but to be picked up rather than delivered. The tailor recognized the measurements. He says that though they have changed a little in the intervening years, he is sure the suit is for
Nathaniel
.'

Gideon took a step back, lifted his chin and opened his arms a little wider, as if expecting an explosive response. Gerald regarded him for a few seconds, glanced back at the board and then down at the floor. There was a faint smile on his lips.

“Gerald?” Gideon spluttered. “Do you hear what I'm telling you? This surely means that Nathaniel is on his way
here
! The tailor knows, of course, that the Duke of Leinster has been missing for years. He rode up here with this news himself. I have sworn him to secrecy, but … but … what do you make of it? If Nathaniel means to challenge you, he has made a foolish mistake in allowing his arrival to be anticipated in this fashion. He has shown his hand!”

“Not really,” Gerald smirked, rolling the chalk between his fingers. “The information I have been receiving had led me to believe he was back in Ireland—this merely confirms it. And he can only be back for one reason. He knows that I have my hunters out after him and, in characteristic fashion, he intends to get past all of them and deal out some harsh justice, at least as he sees it. So he has sent us a message to make his intentions clear.”

“A message?” Gideon scowled in confusion. “He sent the measurements for a suit!”

“It's a nice touch. Arrogant, but with a sense of style. His disappearance is one of the most notorious mysteries in Ireland, connected to the explosion in the church; a mystery that has led to an international search for one of the world's richest men. But anyone else who sees that telegram—it was transmitted from the south coast, I am sure, most probably Cork—anyone else who sees it will not understand that it means that the vanished Duke of Leinster has returned. Nate wants us to know, but not the rest of this gossiping country. Improbable as it might seem, Nate may well have developed some subtlety. He has certainly thrown down the gauntlet. It is like a challenge to a duel, Gideon. He is coming home, and it is up to us to stop him.”

“This is not good, Gerald. He hates this family. If he seizes control—and as Patriarch, it is his right—he will ruin everything. If he takes the reins, he will steer this ship right into the … the … the … eye of the hurricane. He and Roberto, and that interfering wagon, Daisy, nearly brought our house of cards crashing down on our heads like … like … like a greenhouse. And now the worst of the bunch is coming back. You know what he's like when he's got the bit between his teeth—he'll ride us 'til we shout stop.”

“Gideon, your ability to mangle the English language remains undiminished,” Gerald said with a smile. “But your judgment of character is as poor as ever. Nate has no interest in taking over the family. He never did. As you said, he hates the lot of us. He ran from his responsibilities last time, and he will no doubt shirk them once more when he has finished what he is coming here to do.”

“And what
is
he coming here to do?” Gideon asked.

“Kill me,” Gerald replied. “He has to kill me before I kill him, or vice versa—whichever way you want to look at it. It is a deliciously simple situation.”

Cathal was on edge as he walked back to his room. The corridors, normally familiar territory, had taken on a menacing air. He had not noticed before the large number of paintings in the hallways that featured violent scenes. It had felt good to stand up to Gerald, but here in these dark corridors Cathal was beginning to feel less sure of himself.

He stopped at the door to his rooms, but did not touch the handle. First, he checked the single hair that he always left stuck across the jamb of the door. If anybody used this door, it would be broken, but it was not. There could still be someone waiting for him in the room; they just hadn't used this door. Or perhaps someone had been and gone, and somehow replaced the hair?

Shaking his head at his own paranoia, he went to grasp the handle—but then stopped. Instead, he moved down to the next door along the corridor. This room was vacant, but he had a key. He let himself in and found his way through the gloom to the full-length mirror mounted on the wall. He reached up and pressed a catch on the top of the frame. The mirror swung open, revealing a doorway, and he stepped inside. It was an entrance into a secret passage that ran between the walls of his bedroom and this vacant room. Closing the hidden door behind him, he felt around in the darkness, finding the barrel of the revolver. It was rigged to fire at anyone trying to break into his bedroom from this passageway. He detached the tripwire, slipped past it, unlocked the door and opened it. Then he reattached the wire after him, ensuring the booby-trap was armed again.

“You'll be trying to sleep with your eyes open next,” he muttered to himself, shutting the tall oil painting that hid the door.

He sensed the movement to his right before he saw it. Dropping his head down and to the left, he just barely avoided the leather cosh that swung at his skull. It clipped him across the ear, but he was already rolling to the left. His roll took him right into the legs of a second intruder—Cathal drove his heel straight up, hoping to catch the man in the groin, but the man had stepped aside. Cathal rolled again, trying to stay out of their reach until he was out into the open floor of his bedroom.

He should have been expecting the third man. Gerald would not send less than three against him. Rising to his feet on the momentum from his tumble, he lunged straight into the waiting fist of another attacker. It caught him across the left cheek, bursting sparks across his vision. Reeling from the blow, he took a step backwards and someone grabbed his right arm. He slid back further, elbowed the man in the sternum, pulled his hand free, and drove a sidekick into the man he knew would come from his left. The kick connected with a thump and a wheeze.

His eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, and he was able to dodge the next blow from the man in front of him. If they had come expecting the easy seizure of a fifteen-year old boy, they were in for a shock. Cathal ducked to his right, pulling away from the man to his right and sidestepping the man in front of him. One long leap took him onto the bed, another got him to the window. They hurried after him, tripping and stumbling in the unfamiliar room. He reached out to a bookshelf without looking, grabbed a solid teak book-end in the shape of a lion's head, and hurled it at the nearest attacker, hitting him square on the head.

The man went down, and the one behind fell over him. The third one kept coming. Cathal grasped a heavy hardback off the same shelf, used it to block the cosh that swung at him and grabbed the man's upper arm with his free hand. He rammed the rigid spine of the book into the man's ribs, jabbed it into his throat and then slammed it against the bridge of his nose. The attacker went down like a sack of potatoes.

The last man crept forward more carefully. He reached behind his back and brought forth a short but evil-looking knife.

“Let's get this over with,” Cathal snarled at him.

“Right you are,” the man replied.

Something crashed down on the back of Cathal's head with a force that made his skull feel as if it was splintering. A heavy weight, that might have been his own head, dropped him to his knees and the room rolled around him, getting steadily darker. A sack was pulled over his head and shoulders, he was pushed forward onto the floor and his hands were tied behind his back. He wanted to struggle, he wanted to throw up, but more than anything he wanted to get away from the terrible pain pounding through his head.

There were four of them. He should have expected four. Gerald always played it safe. Cathal's breath was forced out of him as someone sat down heavily on his back.

“Yeh haven't changed, lad,” a voice said in his ear. “Still all piss an' vinegar. And dey've turned yeh into a proper little pug, with dose quick fists of yers, haven't dey, by Jaysus? But I've got yer measure, young Cathal. I've been some time waitin' for this, so I'll be takin' me time and me pleasure with yeh. Not to worry, dough, I'm not here to kill yeh. But by dee end, you might be wishin' I was.”

Even in his stunned state, Cathal recognized the voice. But the man's presence here made no sense. And there would be no time to reason it out—Cathal felt something soft pressed against the sackcloth covering his face. He smelled ether, and then his head swam down into oblivion.