Smythe could not believe the size of the tower that she was pointing to, it was the biggest building he had ever seen in his life, even considering the buildings that had sprung up in Manchester to house all the new inhabitants. It was massive, even at seven hundred yards’ distance, it literally and figuratively towered over this part of the city. He imagined the shower that it would cast over the houses at its base when the sun was out, how the very atmosphere would be affected by its presence, a constant reminder to those below of those above. The display of what he viewed to be sheer arrogance of the ruling cast took his breath away. When, not if, the Slavs ever rise up, these people are going to have a massive fall from grace. I just wish I could be there when it happens.
Unlike the Sidhe city, this tower practically clawed its way up from the ground. It was not a thing of beauty, it was a statement of power, of brutal strength and of death. Gibbets hung all over the tower. In some the inhabitants could be seen moving, those closer to the ground could be seen lowering their shoes on the laces in a pathetic attempt to beg for food, living on a shoe string. Those higher had no such opportunity and many of the higher gibbets held nothing but bones and rags. What passed for birds in this strange world pecked at the rotting flesh of the inmates, stripping them of anything edible. When the wind blew the stench was indescribable, forcing him to cover his mouth whilst pretending to cough.
“Looks like the one ruling here doesn’t bother with the velvet glove; no wonder the poor souls around here are so broken!” Gubbins spat to clear his mouth of the taste in his mouth, rubbing the back of his hand over his lips afterward. Smythe knew exactly how he felt, it was rare that he felt true pity but, even those people were technically his enemies, he felt nothing but pity for those that he had seen.
After looking at the tower for a few minutes, discussing possible entry points on the tower itself he turned his attention to the wall. The walls of the enclosure were painted the same colour as the tower, another proclamation of power. Twenty foot high, they were crenelated with firing slits at ground level, and eight feet above that. Guards walked the walls, barely glancing over the side, their head and shoulders poking above the top of the wall.
The main gatehouse was an example of functional simplicity, although two large cherubim - true cherubim, not the winged babes of Christianity - faced inwards, blackened mouths agape. A large cage hung suspended over the gate, crammed with yet more people. All of them wore any colour bar red, with most wearing the dull grey of what Smythe had begun to think of as the disenfranchised. It was clear that there was some sort of caste system, but he had neither the time nor the inclination to work it out.
Only those with some form of red on their clothing were admitted. The poorest of those entering merely had red strips tied about their arms, that was all that seemed to mark them, and there was no attempt to examine them, challenge them, or even acknowledge that they existed.
Rubbing his hands together, Smythe drew the others around him, rubbing his hands as the temperature started to drop, “Right, well it’s going to be easier to get in than I first thought when I saw all those chaps with the nice threads. Pondersby, Gubbins, scare up some red rags. They shouldn’t be too hard to obtain. Make sure you’re quiet and subtle. If I read things rightly, there’s no love lost between the enclosures and any disappearances will be marked down to internecine killings. Pondersby, slip up and if Gubbins doesn’t kill you, I will. You need to come up to scratch on this. Understand?”
Pondersby gave a stiff nod, eyes shifting towards Gubbins, swallowing hard and grimacing as if he had just sucked on a lemon. At the other man’s signal they ambled off after their first targets.
“Right, we can’t loiter for too long so we’ll recce the whole wall. We might not be able to make it out of the gate on the way out, so we need to find other exit points.” So saying, he and the others split up, searching for any possible way they could find to get out of the city.
Over half an hour later, they were all sporting armbands of some sort. Pondersby was all the more reserved and his top lip trembled as Lady Ashdown dabbed some blood from his face, talking gently to him. Smythe could hear the odd word and sentence, and the one that stuck in his mind was “of course you’re not a murderer, these people…” she lowered her voice even more and he did not hear the rest.
Of course We’re bloody murderers. We kill anybody and anything we’re told to in order to keep the Empire safe and sound. What that fool doesn’t realise is that if they’re not part of the Empire, then they’re fair game. He was happy enough to kill all those lads back at the estate. Probably believes it was a fair fight. I truly wish I could go back to being that fucking naive! Smythe felt a sharp pain in his jaw and realised that he was clenching it, grinding his teeth so hard it was starting to cramp.
They split into pairs, with Gubbins taking Lady Ashdown’s arm as if they were together. Von Adin took Magnus and Smythe took Pondersby, determined to keep an eye on the man. The man’s turning into a right coddes head since I shot those civilians.
They mingled with the crowds as late evening turned into early night. Aether lamps glowed, their element getting hotter and hotter before they burst into life. A great bell started to toll and there was a sudden push to get into through the gate. Those without armbands ran to the nearest building, banging on doors that would not open.
“Well, I think that the time for being subtle has gone, time to run old chap.” Said Smythe as he grabbed hold of Pondersby’s arm, striding out and forcing the younger man to either keep up, or fall flat on his face. Taking advantage of the crush desperate to get into the enclosure, they elbowed their way through the ever-narrowing gap as the great gates began closing, gouts of steam billowing out from vents set in the top of the wall. At last they found themselves inside as behind them the gates clanged shut, mimicking the alarm bell that was still ringing.
The immediate crush of people died once the crowd was fully in, and he was able to see that the enclosure was full of slightly better appointed dwellings. The nearer the houses were to the tower, the taller and better built they were.
*
“Don’t tell me, the spoor leads right up the street and into the tower?” Magnus leaned back with a frown on his face, looking at the others as they sat around a table in an inn. Magnus had come more than prepared and had coins from the local currency, apparently the Emperor had united everything beneath him; something that Queen Victoria had yet to enforce.
“It certainly looks that way, although the street curves at the end, most likely to deny attackers a straight run at the doors.” Lady Ashdown grimaced as she sipped what passed for wine. A flush spread down her neck, “Oh my this is strong stuff! Very ... warming.” She smiled and her eyes took on a slightly glazed look.
“Perhaps you should lay off imbibing any further. We need you as sober as a judge. A good judge that is!” Magnus leaned over and plucked the glass from her hand, “I can’t abide licentious behaviour.”
Sitting back down he continued, “It appears that the curfew doesn’t apply to those living within the enclosures, once they’re in they appear to be free to continue about their business.” he waved his hand at the crowds of people still on the streets, “So I propose that we see just how much closer we can get. Same pairs, fifty or so yards apart. Remember, we don’t get involved if one pair gets into trouble.”
He was about to rise when Lady Ashdown clasped his hand, causing him to plonk himself back down, “The spoor is getting stronger. Good grief, there he is!” He glanced over his shoulder, looking to where she was pointing.
It was true, Magnus saw. Lord Miles was walking along the street with what passed for a well-dressed man and woman. All of them wore aether-born clothing and Miles looked very comfortable with his surroundings.
Smythe leaned forward quickly. “Gubbins, Pondersby, get ahead of the bastard and stay ahead. Well flow from behind. If they turn off behind you, follow from behind and Karl and I will take the lead. Bishop, Clara, wait here. If we lose them, they’ll hopefully come back past you. Move everybody.” Magnus nodded, happy for the more experienced Major to take the reins, he watched as Gubbins and Pondersby moved off.
=====
Smythe waited a minute or so for Gubbins and Pondersby to get into position before he and Von Adin got up, walked towards and past Lord Miles and then turned back, following at a discreet thirty yards or so. Ten minutes later he watched from the shadows as the trio entered a large residence. It was neither luxurious, nor was it poor, a perfect hallway house in all senses. Smythe sent Gubbins to retrieve the Bishop and Lady Ashdown whilst he scanned the area, looking for others who might be watching the house, or guarding it. When Gubbins came back he had the others position themselves along the street.
“You and I however, are going down that alleyway across the street to see if we can find a back entrance. I’ll be jiggered if I think we can retrieve the bastard so it’s a quick in and out. Kill everyone we see and get out. Are you up to the job, man? “ asked Smythe.
He watched as Gubbins’ adam’s apple bobbed a couple of times, adrenalin obviously making his throat suddenly dry.
“Yes sir. Reckon I am.”
Smythe clapped him on the shoulder once and sauntered across the street and into the alley. Once open to the sky, it was nearly pitch black due to the buildings on either side having subsided, leaning haphazardly towards the middle. At some places their roofs touched, completely blotting out the sky.
“Darker than a coal miner’s face sir,” Gubbins murmured as they fumbled their way down the alley. They came to a back alley, what looked like a tradesman’s alley and turned left. Here, to Smythe’s relief it was more open and lighter.
All the time they had been walking Smythe had been counting in his head. He stopped and murmured, “We’re there.”
The backyard had a small latch gate set into the wall. Standing stock still they did nothing but listen for two minutes.
Satisfied that there was no guard dog or any other form of nasty surprise lying in wait for them behind the gate, Smythe made a stirrup of his hands and boosted Gubbins up to the top; not wanting a rusty hinge to give them away at the last minute.
Gubbins shuffled his bottom along the top of the wall and held out his hand, pulling Smyth smoothly up as soon as it was grasped. Gently they dropped down into the yard behind the house. Looking around, Smythe was reminded of the slums back in England, although form some reason, the buildings here seemed to be worse. A rusty pump stood forlornly in the middle, moss growing out of the gutter.
Smythe gestured Gubbins to the back door, covering him with his pistol, adrenalin making his hands shake slightly. Easing down slowly to his knees, Gubbins put his ear against the door and listened.
“Nobbut going on that I can hear,” he murmured. He drew his knife and slipped it through the gap between door and frame. Sliding it slowly upward he lifted the latch, easing the door open inch by inch.
As soon as there was a big enough gap he poked his head in, paused a moment and then squeezed through.
Smythe waited for a count of ten before following him. The room beyond was a kitchen. As with the pump, the kitchen was looking very neglected. He froze as Gubbins put a finger to his lips, pointing with his other hand upwards.
Muffled voices came from above and floorboards squeaked as the trio moved about. Gubbins drew his own pistol, slotting his knife under the barrel. Reaching into his other pocket he withdrew the muffler, slotting it over the end. Not having a muffler of his own, Smythe holstered his pistol took out his knife, and drew his cane from its pocket, screwing the pieces together. Although he was proficient with knife and stick, Smythe found himself wishing that he could use his pistol, knife work could be intensely intimate, and was something he preferred to avoid if possible.
They made their way swiftly but carefully through the house. All of the furnishings were covered in dust and the house had the cold, unlived in feeling of a building that had not been inhabited for t a long time. It was as if someone had died and the house had been left empty ever since, there was simply no sense of life.
They paused as conversation drifted through the floorboards, Smythe straining to hear, but no words were clear enough to make out, ‘Move on.’ He murmured to Gubbins as he stepped off once more. Most people believed that whispers were the best way of preventing people from hearing things you wanted to keep private. What they did not know was that the sibilant sounds inherent to whispering carried much further than intended. A murmur however, because of the lower tones of the voice carried much less and could often be mistaken for background noise. He smirked as he realised that Gubbins had probably learnt the hard way whilst poaching up on Dartmoor.
He paused as he came to the start of the stairs, looking carefully for any obvious traps, as well as general signs of wear and tear. He could clearly see that the centre of the steps had been used the most, just as they would in any normal house. This meant that if there were going to be any weak points, or areas that would creak or squeak when stepped upon, they were going to be on the centre of the steps. Gently, he stepped forward onto the outside of the first step, motioning to Gubbins to do the same. Stepping on the outside of the steps on the stairs they crept upwards, ears and eyes straining, hearts thumping and mouths dry.
The house suddenly chilled, their breath misting on the air, and there was a humming sound. Tesla coil! The realisation felt like a punch in his stomach. He and Gubbins looked at each other in amazement. With barely a word between them, they charged up the stairs as quickly as possible.
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The house continued to drastically chill, the air so cold that it hurt to breathe, and they rushed towards the room from where the sound was emanating, abandoning all form of stealth. They burst through the door just in time to see Lord Miles stepping through the gate. He turned before entering fully, a look of rage on his face, then fled, leaving his two companions in the room.
Unlike Lord Mile’s surprised companions, Gubbins did not pause. Even as he entered the room his pistol was coming up to bear on the first person he saw. Not a flicker of doubt crossed his face as he pulled the trigger. The pistol coughed and the back of the woman’s head erupted in a shower of blood and brains, splashing its contents over the man.
“Marissa!” the man howled the name as he lunged at Gubbins, both hands extended. Gubbins knocked the hands aside with his left hand whilst chopping downward with his pistol. The man gargled as his throat was cleanly slit open, blood gushing down the front of his shirt and merging with the rouge of the material.
He gently pushed the man away as he flopped into the ground. Air whistled in and out of his ruined windpipe, bubbles of blood forming around the wound. Gubbins knelt, rummaging through the man’s clothing. He gave a sudden tug and held up a necklace, hanging from which was the symbol of Torquemaster.
“No way of telling who these two were, but they were definitely part of Lord Mile’s top echelon.” He resumed rummaging through the man’s pockets, moving on to the woman when his search proved fruitless. Aside from a similar necklace on the woman, he found nothing that would identify them. “Nothing on this one either, sir.”
“Bastard! I can’t believe he’s made it out. Again! This is fucking absurd!” Smythe paced the room as he rubbed at his face. He was tired of gallivanting around, and had had his fill of death over the last few days.
“Go and get the others. We’re going to have to go through after him. Have Lady Ashdown send a whisper to the Motorcyclists, tell them to return to the other gate with the rest of the force.” He sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall, closing his tired eyes and trying not to see the deaths he had just witnessed playing themselves over and over again on his mind’s eye.
*
“All set sir. As soon as we step through, I’ll pull the cord, the shrapnels will then destroy the Tesla. No bugger will be coming through after us.” Gubbins stood carefully, taking every care to make sure that the string was not pulled by mistake. Taking one last look he reassured himself that the pins of all six shrapnels would be pulled at the same time. Because of the small size of the room, the blast would be nicely contained, amplifying the force and destroying everything within.
Pondersby stepped forward, approaching Smythe. “Sir, with permission I’ll perform a quick reconnaissance and see what we’re letting ourselves in for.” his tone was very formal, his eyes challenging as they met Smythe’s.
Gubbins could hardly believe that Pondersby was still being such an arse, especially towards a senior officer. To his surprise, Smythe was happy to let it slide, giving Pondersby a terse nod and an even terser order. “Very well Pondersby. In and back again.”
Pondersby straightened his jacket with a tug, drew his Webley and stepped through. Less than a minute later he was back, his brow slicked with what looked like sweat.
“Well it’s dashed hot wherever it is! Definitely earth from what I can see, but can’t tell where it is. Sorry I took so long but I tried climbing out of the valley where it opened.” Sweat poured down his face and he rubbed at it with a damp and dirty handkerchief.
“You were barely out of our sight dear chap. So long as it looks safe we’ll go through.”
“Safe sir, I’ll lead the way.” One by one they stepped through, following Pondersby into the baking heat on the other side.
Last one to come through Gubbins, made sure that they were all clear and crouched down as best as they could before yanking hard on the string. He turned and sprinted, arms pumping, ‘Shrapnels armed! Keep your heads down!’ he shouted as he threw himself forward on to the rocky ground.
There was a loud crack and a strange popping sound. Looking behind him, it seemed as though the gate had folded in on itself. He felt strangely disappointed at the explosion, having expected a lot more than a crack and a pop.
By God it’s hot! He thought. Sweat was already running down his back and face. The heat was amazing, the ground appearing to ripple as heat rose into the air. What sounded like grasshoppers chirruped incessantly.
“Well its hot enough for India, and I bloody hope We’re not there as all I have are bad memories of that place,” said Smythe as he turned to Pondersby, “so, what did you manage to see from the hill?”
“Not much I’m afraid sir. I could see what I thought was the sea, and a town. But the damned haze made it hard to see properly.”
Gubbins sighed, a typical bloody officer, Pondersby had obviously not thought it worth the time and effort to do a proper scout, he stepped forward and raised his hand. “I’ll go and have a look sir, I’ll blaze a trail that hopefully won’t have you lot sticking out like a sore thumb.” At Smythe’s nod he sighed again and set off.
Smythe gave Gubbins a good five minutes to get ahead of them before deciding it was time they moved on. “Clara, do you have a spoor?”
Lady Ashdown nodded, she had unbuttoned most of her jacket and the blouse beneath clung to her chest. Smythe found it indecently difficult to meet her eyes. They glittered and he realised she knew the effect she was having on him. She raised an eyebrow and he cleared his throat nervously. I feel like a damned virgin in a girl’s only boarding school. Again.
“Yes, the Aether from the gate was strong. He’s headed in the direction Nigel indicated.” Smythe’s stomach knotted, since when did she refer to non-members of the team by their first names if not necessary? He looked over and saw that Nigel was also having trouble looking only her face bastard! Smythe forced his anger down. He hadn’t felt like this about a woman for long time, not since Harjit. Swallowing the bitter memories, he willed his attention back onto the subject at hand.
“It seems to me that Lord Miles has had many years and a great deal of help to form his network. How he’s managing to obtain the materials to build Teslas I don’t know, but quite frankly I find it worrisome in the extreme! The threat to the Empire is immense, we’re going to put a stop to it.”
*
By the time that they finally managed to get to a position they could see the town clearly, Smythe was truly suffering from the heat, Worse than bloody India he thought for what must have been the umpteenth time, as he rubbed the coarse wool of his jacket sleeve across his forehead. His urine had started to turn dark, almost brown and he puffed his cheeks out with relief that they would soon be able to drink and get some liquid back into their parched bodies. We lost far too many men to far too little water in India. Let alone the natives and disease. From what he could see, the city was a port, and had its own Landing spire. Airships and sailboats drifted on and above the sparkling blue sea.
They kept walking, doing their best to keep the sun off their faces as best they could. Von Adin was clearly suffering the most. With fair skin and ginger hair, the big man was getting redder and redder by the minute, his lips were starting to crack, and instead of his usual stride, he had started to plod, head down.
Smythe squinted as the sun shone in his eyes, he shaded them and as he did so, a figure appeared in the distance. Because of the shimmer it was hard to tell how far away the person actually was.
“Make sure your weapons are free, we don’t know if Lord Miles has followers here or not” said Smythe as they drew closer.
“Ola, como esta?” the man was short, had deeply tanned skin and dark hair.
Spanish. Does that mean we ‘re in Spain or one of her colonies? Smythe shrugged, it did not matter where they were so long as they could get hold of the Sanction, and a cool drink of water.
Von Adin stepped forward and extended his good hand, whilst rattling off an intelligible string of words at the man. The man answered, laughing, “Espagne, Espagne”.
“He says we’re in Spain. The town down there is called Alicante.” his face was even redder now, making him resemble a roast beef. Smythe’s mouth would have salivated at the thought if he had enough salvia to do so.
“Never knew you could speak the lingo Karl. I’m impressed, pleasantly impressed!” And I bet you learnt it when Spain was fighting to keep Mexico in the second war. We heard rumours of Germans “advising” the Spanish.
“Does the spoor continue into the town Clara?” at her nod he thanked the man and started to walk.
*
It took another half hour before, to Smythe’s heart felt relief, they finally entered the town. Spain hadn’t suffered at the hands, teeth and claws of the Horde, so entering the town was pleasantly easy. There were still guards, but they were relaxed and chatted with people as they came and went. Their uniforms were black, with white chest guards, white gloves that flared up to their forearms, knee-high white boots, white epaulettes and wide-brimmed white leather tricornes. White sun goggles protected their eyes from the dust that was being whipped up by the wind. For weapons, they had a strange mix of halberds, pistols and slung rifles.
They were waved through with barely a glance, although there were more than a few sniggers at the sight of Von Adin’s beet-red face, which only served to make it even redder still. Muttering, the German led his friends to a hotel, sitting with a loud sigh in the shade offered by large parasols.
Smythe pulled out a golden shilling, and a waiter appeared as if from nowhere.
“Order us some chilled beer, wine, boiled water, and some of that lovely looking chicken with bread please, Karl. And see if they have some rooms. We need to rest, recover and plan. We can’t afford to let Lord Miles slip through our fingers again. Clara, please send a whisper to the professor. If there are any Sanction near, now would be a good time to know!”
Over the next two hours, they did nothing but eat, drink and relax. Even Pondersby started to unwind as the alcohol and food took effect. Finally, over coffee and cigars, Smythe leaned forward.
“First things first. We need to get some more clothes, we stand out like a sore thumb, or a red beetroot” he raised his glass in a salute to Von Adin as the others laughed, “Clara has received word from the professor who confirms that there is a Sanction presence near here, and the Bishop has also received confirmation of a church presence. We have two days to look around the town, find Lord Miles and plan how we’re going to get our hands on the bloody traitor.”
*
The next day, Von Adin had the inn’s owner request that a good tailor attend them in their rooms. Much to Gubbin’s obvious delight, the man came fully equipped with yards of fine cloth, and the latest patterns. Von Adin watched as a man who had once only had his uniform and a few other sundries to call his own, revelled in the Sanctions supposedly bottomless pockets, and had some of the finest suits any of them had ever seen made. Ever practically minded, Von Adin made sure that the three of them were given sufficient extra pockets in which to secrete anything they needed to carry about their persons without drawing undue attention. Whilst the tailor was doing that, they also took advantage of some off-the-shelf suits he had brought with him, under the agreement that their new clothes would be ready within twenty-four hours.
After a couple of hours, Von Adin and the others were relaxing in their new clothes when they heard Lady Ashdown shout “just do what I want you awful little man!” the door to her room slammed open and she strode into the room wearing nothing but a corset and sundry underwear.
“Karl! Please be kind as to inform that blasted coddes head that I don’t care what the latest fashions in the Imperial Court are, nor how indecent he thinks women wearing trousers is, he is here to do what I bloody well want!” that last was screamed in the hapless tailor’s face who had been unwise enough to follow her. The poor man shrank against the wall, eyes wide as he stepped away from the fury evident in her face.
She stood panting whilst the others stared aghast. “Certainly Clara, however if you could….” Von Adin gestured at her clothing.
She looked down and with a “For God’s sake you’d think I was fucking naked!” stormed back into her room.
Von Adin crossed over to the tailor, a delicate man, who was trembling and looking close to tears. “I’m sorry,” he said in Spanish, “our companion is tempestuous to say the least. She enjoys the freedom that such clothing gives her when not in a formal setting, so please humour her. Accept this as a sign of my gratitude.” he fished out another of the shillings and pressed it onto the tailor’s hands whilst shaking them. With a sigh so heavy it seemed he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, the tailor nodded and signed to his assistant to follow him. With feet dragging, they re-entered the room.
“I fear that our Lady has gone too far down the route of Lady Adventurer! Soon I expect her to be joining the missionaries and delving deep into the darkest Congo, or to Egypt to dig deep into the esoteric mysteries of the pyramids. God forbid she go to India!” Von Adin laughed at his own joke and took a sip of port. “Fine port, fine ports indeed. You English have a good habit of drinking this stuff.”
There was a knock at the door, a pause, and then the Hotel manager entered.
He rattled off a sentence, listened whilst Von Adin replied and then left the room. Less than a minute later there was another knock at the door and a shabby little man entered the room.
“Monsignor,” he knelt in front Magnus and kissed his ring, “perhaps we could talk in private?” he said in English and looked around the room as if expecting the others to get up and leave like any normal well-bred Victorian would do. His brow creased when he realised that no such thing was going to happen. The frown deepened even more as Gubbins draped a leg over the arm of his chair and smirked, taking a drag on his cigar and slowly blowing the smoke out of his mouth.
“Calm Branco, calm. These people can trusted, they are allies of the Church in this matter. Tell me, what have you learned about our quarry?”
Branco remained kneeling as he started to speak, “Lord Miles has left the city. He had friends here - we have marked their houses - who fed him, helped him get over the long walk here. He was as red as the giant you have,” Gubbins barked in laughter, taking a deep draughts of beer when Von Adin glared over at him, his shoulders continued to shake however, “they then put him aboard a ship. He set sail yesterday.”
“Do you know where he went? The name of the ship?” Smythe leant forward, his face showing that he could not believe Lord Miles might have slipped the noose yet again.
“If you would be so kind as to let me finish my report? Thank you. The ship was called the Santa Maria and is registered to the Island of Tabarca. It is part of Alicante but is actually closer to Santa Pola, five of your miles. It is eight miles from here.”
Bishop Magnus leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face. “That is not good news, not good at all. That island was heavily fortified to keep Barbary Pirates away from the coast. Up until around eighteen-sixty it still had a governor and a garrison. There’s even a fort just outside of the town and a lighthouse-cum-airship mooring station on the eastern end. Not only is it fortified, it’s also small, just over a mile in length and three hundred yards wide. Artillery can reach pretty much anywhere with ease and the best rifles can make approaching the town on the western end hazardous to say the least.”
He sat back, saying nothing as he stroked his top lip. The others were content to wait. He was clearly the subject expert on this and that was all they needed to know.
“Fine. Branco, I need to know which Church ships are near, and have the local Brothers put on alert. Any militia we might have would also be good. I want a unit of Inquirers here as well.”
At the mention of Inquirers Branco twitched, his eyes shifting to the others before returning to the Bishop, “Monsignor” the tone was a mix of awe, fear and reproachfulness, his mouth barely moved as he said it, and Von Adin almost believed that he had misheard.
“I’m sorry Branco, but for this, for this they must be used, and for this my colleagues will have to know of their existence.” Magnus sighed and stood up, pacing the length of the room before turning to face them all, “The Inquirers, my friends, are a sub-sect of the Unified Church. These men, and women, are dedicated followers of Christ who have taken oaths of chastity, poverty, obedience and martyrdom. Some even eschew flavoursome food and skin contact with other beings. They are our best killers. They can get in, kill and get out before anyone even knows that they were there. If they are discovered, any one and any thing that sees them is killed. They are a great source of pride, and shame to the Church. And, once Branco sends the message, they will be here.”
Von Adin could easily understand Magnus’ pride and shame. He too had been part of something that had achieved many things, achieved many good things. At the same time they had been forced to kill their own people, sometimes to save them, other times because they were preventing him and his men from accomplishing a mission that would save many others. Even now he could still see some of their faces, especially the faces of soldiers he’d knowingly ordered to their deaths. Boys, some as young as twelve, men, pensioners; all of them had looked him straight in the eye, knowing they stood no chance of surviving, and yet they had done their duty. Pride and guilt constantly warred with each other, a war that neither could hope to win.