Chapter Thirty-One

“The attack in Hertfordshire was a failure!” cried Robert Graves. His face was flushed and his breath came in ragged gasps, evidence of the haste of his journey from Westminster to Marylebone.

“Be calm, mon ami,” LaFontaine chided. Graves was a man with too much sensibility and too little sense. It was that, along with his position as a clerk to the Superintendent of the Alien Office, that made him so valuable to suborn. He felt too keenly the humiliation and frustration of a genius forced to serve men with half his wit, solely because he was born without a gift. Every day he saw others striving to solve the challenges of overseeing the nation’s intelligence and counter-intelligence efforts during a time of existential crisis, while he was left to manage the minutia inherent in any burgeoning bureaucracy. “What has crossed the Superintendent’s desk this morning?”

“No, don’t you see? It is far worse than an any letter or memorandum. It’s that blasted crown magistrate, Darcy. He came to the office at first light with a report of a most alarming nature. There was a massive attack at a country ball. All the gentry from the area were gathered when more than a score of armed, and in some cases gifted, insurrectionists attacked the event.”

LaFontaine frowned at the man’s almost unconscious translation of lurid fact into the driest prose. It was a talent that served the man well in his clerical position, but was frustrating to his listeners. “I am aware of the attack. What was the result? It is apparent that Mr. Darcy survived.”

“He said that several people had been killed in the attack, but that at least three prisoners had been taken alive. During the subsequent interrogation, one of the gifted prisoners, a man named Reilly, had cooperated and revealed the name of the person … well, you.”

“I … see. That is most unfortunate.” LaFontaine considered the man before him. He was a direct link between the Frenchman and his illicit activities in the Alien Office. Removing him would sever that link. But if LaFontaine’s name was already known, that action was unnecessary. It was better to keep Grave’s complicity secret, as he might still be of use. “I believe it may be time for me to pursue a period of rustication. You will hear from me either directly or through an agent. The telltale will be Jacob. Do you understand?”

“I … Yes, I do.”

“Bon. In the meanwhile, I advise you to take care for your own safety. I believe it is time for Plan Armageddon.” Without further ado, the spymaster handed his agent a purse of gold and saw him to the door.

“Is this the end of LaFontaine?” he mused aloud. He wondered if this particular alias had fulfilled its purpose. The Frenchman had been born Claude Danton, grand-nephew of Georges Danton, the founder of the Committee for Public Safety. The murder of his famous relative by his own revolutionary compatriots had turned his family’s fervor from anti-monarchist to revenge on the system that betrayed their loyalty. Claude’s father Gerard had allied himself with a young general, Napoleon Bonaparte, and took an active role in the coup of 18 Brumaire. This guaranteed him a place, though not well known, in the First Consul’s favor.

Because of Gerard’s connection to a convicted traitor, it was thought best that he be sent on an extended mission to Britain, the eternal enemy of France. He emigrated with his family under the name Geroges deBussey, a descendant of a cadet branch of an old noble line. His mission was to create a network of agents and informants and report regularly to minions of Tallyrand or other French officials. Claude was raised as Jacques deBussey until his father’s death when Claude was twenty-two.

At that point he left Britain to travel on the Grand Tour, on which he was instructed to meet an Italian tutor, who helped him discover the extent of his somatic gift. When he perfected the ability to instill temporary gifts into nulls, it was decided in Paris that Claude would return to England. Once Jacques deBussey had secured the surprisingly large inheritance from his father’s estate, he disappeared and Mssr. LaFontaine made his appearance with a history similar to deBussey.

As LaFontaine, he reactivated the network created by his father and resumed the intelligence gathering all while looking for likely men and women to form his own gifted army to sow fear and discord inside his nation’s adversary. He found those that had suffered at the hands of the British gentry and offered them the opportunity for power and revenge. Many were already on the fringes of the Ordinary movement, involved in polemical discourse or more radical political actions. Some he found in prisons. Others in positions of proximity to power. A few were even susceptible to the more traditional lures of sex or money. He slowly gathered them all to his purpose.

It was unfortunate that his gift did not work on everyone. Only a small percentage of people could be given effective powers. For some, nothing happened. While others his gift transformed into grotesques, often driven mad with pain or grief. He had uses for these as well. But his gift was effective on enough people that he was able to field his first cell of ExtraOrdinaries. He sent them to Hertfordshire as a final vindication of his concept. They were meant to be a test, rather than the final implementation of the idea. The location was chosen simply because that was Dash’s home. The involvement of this Mr. Darcy and the damnable Bennet family had not been part of the plan.

Shaking off his untimely reverie LaFontaine realized he had much to do before he retreated from the City. He knew the forces from the Alien Office would be after him. They might already be on their way to his house. He had to act immediately to relocate to another location, unknown to the authorities. As he walked to the hidden door to his sub-basement, he decided that once his revenge on those forcing him from this most comfortable of existence was complete, LaFontaine would disappear and deBussey would re-emerge from his self-imposed exile.

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When he reached the ancient stone dungeons upon which the house had been built, he found the results of some of his early experiments with instilling gifts in animals. He walked between the cages looking at the terrifying collection of claw, fangs, fur, and scales that growled, barked, hissed, and gnashed at him. At the end of the chamber there was a door. He used a key from his ring to unlock it, then walked through. The door was thick metal and he dropped a heavy bar on the opposite side. He was in a roughhewn tunnel leading into darkness. There was a lantern hanging on the wall next to the door that he lit. It illuminated the tunnel. Several paces in, there was a lever on the wall. Setting the lantern, down he used both hands to pull the lever. It resisted at first; then finally, it moved, sliding slowly to the bottom.

At that signal several things happened. The doors to the cages in the room he had just traversed opened, releasing the monsters into the chamber. And the walls of the stairs leading to the house collapsed, opening the passage wide enough for the monsters to manage easily A heavy stone barrier slammed down, blocking the door to his escape tunnel. And the first several paces of the tunnel collapsed inward. Now safely separated from the havoc he had just unleashed LaFontaine made his way into the subterranean maze that lay under the metropolis.

“Cranmer! Open up!” LaFontaine, now clean shaven and close cropped, pounded on the door of his associate’s modest accommodation. They day was still young, and the defrocked priest was not an early riser. Eventually he did come to the door.

“What are you doing here.” Even in his confusion, Cranmer knew well enough not to use any names.

“Perhaps I might come in?”

“Of course. Please.”

Once inside the room LaFontaine went to the cupboard where his host kept his coffee. Preparing two cups, the Frenchman handed the heady brew to his heavy-eyed companion. “Drink. I need you awake for this.”

After a moment Cranmer was aware enough to notice the details of his guest’s new appearance. “Something went wrong,” he deduced.

“Rather. Reilly has betrayed us. Most of the rest are dead, but Reilly survived and was captured. He has decided to cooperate with the government. They know my name, but he never knew yours.”

“I … did not see this.”

“No. I asked you for the best time and place for my forces to attack with the best chance of killing the gentry and sowing terror. I did not ask if my forces would succeed.”

“And I could not have told you that anyway. Only times and places.”

“Indeed. And I have consulted you too recently for you to be able to answer another question. So, we must muddle through on our own wits.”

“You are running?”

“I am making a tactical retreat. I think it is time I saw some of this beautiful country. I may not be back to London for some time. On the other hand, it may not be safe for anyone for the next month or more.”

“Armageddon?”

“Might I suggest that you relocate as well, possibly to Hertfordshire. There is something I wish for you to do there.”

“What is that?”

“Our efforts there were stymied, to the extent that they were, largely by members of the Bennet family. They have proven distressingly competent, well beyond expectations. Mr. Bennet’s unanticipated connection to the Superintendent, in particular, is very disturbing. I find it likely that, unchecked, they will continue to impose themselves into my concerns. I wish to prevent that. You may recall from Dash’s ramblings about the family that the middle daughter is a hollow.”

“And very politically active. I have seen her letters to the editor in more than one Ordinary leaning publication. It is somewhat shocking that a maiden would thrust herself into the public discourse in such a manner.” Cranmer nodded.

“I think she is our way in. I want to you to begin a correspondence with her, eventually leading to a tête-à-tête where, if possible, you will recruit her to our cause. At the least I want her to be our ear on the inside, so you will need to subtly steer the conversation to the investigation and her family’s part in it.”

Cranmer pondered for a moment, LaFontaine gave him time, knowing the man was a thoughtful one, who deliberated on any decision. “I believe I can do that. May I use my gift for this mission?”

“I will not need to ask you anything for several weeks. Feel free to question yourself, but only in the next … to be safe … two weeks. I may need your answers sooner than I anticipate.”

“I’ll leave for the St. Albans house forthwith. I shall travel under the name Henry More, I believe.”

“Beware clever allusions, mon ami. Smart men are too often brought down by their own intelligence.”

Before he left, LaFontaine took a moment to pen a missive to Lieutenant Wickham.

Dear Sir,

I applaud your performance in your duties. I encourage you to continue your efforts. I am happy to hear you have made such good friends as the Bennets and the Bingleys. Please give my particular regards to those dearest to my heart.

Your Friend

X

No reason not to use what tools are in place, he thought to himself as he asked Cranmer to post the letter from St. Albans.

LaFontaine chose to make one more stop before beginning his sojourn to the north. He found himself in a dilapidated dwelling hidden in the labyrinthine alleys of Southwark. “Comrades, it is time for Armageddon.”

The seven men and three women looked at him with the fervent light of fanaticism bright in their hollow eyes. “It is time for you to strike back. The gifted maintain that they deserve suzerainty over the nulls because of the protections they provide. I want you to expose to the world the gross calumnies these claims are! You will rampage, unchecked, through the population; demonstrating the impotence of those that assert their power over the people.”

“Won’t that mean good, normal people will die?”

“And each sacrifice will raise the awareness of the hypocrisy inherent in the system. If you feel so inclined, you may also target the ruling class. But only one attack in ten, no more. And when you do, leave this sign.” He handed them a card with XO written plainly. He assumed that the Alien Office knew the term ExtraOrdinary that he used for his forces. But these men and women were illiterate. The X was more familiar and easier to draw than the E. He left a pile of the cards. “Never leave these at the site of an attack on the normal populous. Instead, use these …” He opened a bag with dozens of red feathered arrows. “These are the sign of the New Mohocks.”

“Ohhh…” The name of the infamous street gang brought a reaction from the listeners. The Mohocks had been delinquent young gentlemen who terrorized the city in the last century.

“The assumption that their assailants are of the nobility will only increase the unrest of the common man.” Once LaFontaine was certain the group understood his instructions, he spent several hours activating their new gifts. After that he took a circuitous route towards the north. As he traveled, he paused to imbue gifts on passing mongrels, moggies, oxen, and rats. Most would perish in the change. But London was facing a plague of monsters.

As he journeyed, he mused on his destination. He decided that, as Mr. Darcy had interfered with his initial experiment, Derbyshire seemed the ideal location for his next round of trials. Pemberley in particular.