The Professor was waiting for them in the dock of the Club, hands clasped behind his back as if he was still a lecturer of anthropology at King’s College Cambridge. He barely waited for them to alight from the barge that had carried them along Bridgewater’s Canal before striding forward to greet them.
“Gentlemen, Lady Ashdown, good job. Sounds as though you had a successful, albeit explosive encounter.” He turned and led them deeper into the Club, waving aside the two armoured guards stood before the double doors of the main corridor.
Smythe smiled to himself as he followed in the man’s wake. Professor Clayton Dextor was short and wiry. He did not fit the usual stereotype of a bookish scholar removed from the reality of the world by a barrier of books from the past. A keen fencer he was one of the most feared blades in England, a true Maister of the art, and since the arrival of the Horde had been instrumental in reviving the strong martial arts traditions that had started to be lost in England. Smythe’s hand still smarted from the Professor’s handshake, and the feel of a swordsman’s callouses still lingered.
As they walked, Smythe took the time to look at the one man he truly respected. Dressed in a black frock coat, Dextor looked like any other man of his age. The cut of the clothes he wore marked him out as a man of station, but that was all. Smythe thought that the saying of never judging a book by its cover was particularly apt.
The Professor casually waved a hand as they approached another door, barely pausing to allow it to open fully. Such an absent-minded demonstration of his power reminded Smythe once more that Dextor was also one of the strongest aethermancers known. Personally appointed by Her Majesty Queen Victoria to run the Sanction, he was on one of the first expeditions through the Crystal Palace Aether Gate and, because of his survival, quickly became established as an expert on the Horde and aethermancy.
As they continued down the corridor, Smythe caught a glimpse of gold on the Professor’s collar. Not one for ostentatious displays, this was the one indication that the Dextor was a member of the Knights Garter, for services rendered to the Empire. Smythe felt a lurch in his stomach as he remembered the services that the Professor had actually performed.
The London Times, bloody daft name considering they’re not in London anymore, had printed a graphic account of how Dextor had killed a number of Minor Vampyres in a single encounter. And now, after a private interview with the Queen following further services, he was Head of the Sanction. Smythe thought that as they made their way into the meeting chamber, “room” was too small a word. Formally a storage cellar it was over sixty feet long with a tall domed roof. His eyes roamed over the fine plasterwork covering the ceiling, and down to the walls lined with heavy mahogany bookshelves that stretched the full length of the chamber. He felt his shoes sink into the plush Persian carpet on the floor, they helped not only to keep it warm, but also to ensure that the harmonics of the chamber were kept muted. In these times of aether, vibrations of any sort were best kept to a minimum.
He continued to look around the room. No matter how many times he returned to the Club he always looked to see what had changed. Moving around as a child, and then as an adult in the armed forces, he had come to relish the ability to put down roots. But still, there lurked uncertainty, and so, every time he repeated the same ritual.
He ran his fingers over the forty-foot table that dominated the centre of the centre, chairs arranged along it at a uniform distance from both each other and the table. The one chair at the end of the table, facing the entrance, broke the symmetry.
Trailing his fingers off the smooth, almost marble-like table, he followed the others as they approached one of the clusters of leather armchairs with small tables and even smaller table lamps that were to either side of the table. Smythe loved the fact that the ambience of the chamber was like a Gentleman’s Club. For him, the presence of two white jacketed attendants, ready to provide anything required only served to enhance the feeling.
From the way that the room was set-up, it was clear that whilst business was a necessity of life, there was no reason why it could not be done comfortably, leisurely and whilst enjoying the odd good meal and drink or two, something that Smythe heartily agreed with.
Smythe relaxed into a comfortable armchair, the leather crunching as he settled in. He waited until everyone else seated himself or herself before briefing the professor on the events of the day, pausing as his companions gave their support, or expanded on the action from their point of view whilst the professor listened and asked the odd question.
Taking a sip from his Glenlivet, Smythe nodded as Lady Ashdown described the appearance of the torque, the keys of the stenography machine adding their distinct rhythm to the conversation.
Astonishing to think that this whole conversation will be recorded, analysed and broken down into its key components, he looked around at the bookshelves, wondering where a librarian would then place the original on the bookshelves to join the thousands of pages already there.
“So, to summarise; The ghoul, a beast driven mad by its failed metamorphosis into a Vampyre and with an unquenchable thirst for souls, managed to make its way through what is essentially the West End of Manchester. It did so without being a single soul seeing it, hearing it and without massacring everyone in sight; and only attacked when it found itself cornered by the three of you. Furthermore, it was wearing a silver torque that, when removed, nearly killed all three of you in a massive surge of aether.”
Smythe marvelled at Dextor’s ability to take over an hour’s worth of discussion and boil it down to less than a minute-long summary.
He took another sip of his whiskey, chasing it down with ice-cold water. He relished the way the bite of the whiskey turned into honey, almonds and chocolate on his tongue. Not one to drink heavily he was still partial to the odd glass, especially after a day’s work such as this.
“Correct, Professor. From what I could tell the spoor led from the shop of Benjamin Abrahams, “Curiosities, Paraphernalia & Pawn broking” in the Bizarre Bazaar and to the warehouse.” Lady Ashdown took up the reins of the briefing, “Search teams have been unable to find any reason why the ghoul was there and the warehouse is owned by Her Majesty’s Government. No known Horde sympathizers work there. However, investigations continue on that front and Lord Miles, Quartermaster General of the North West, is being most helpful.”
The professor nodded at the name. “Yes, Miles is a good chap, went to Charterhouse you know. Instrumental in keeping things together when Tesla’s experiment failed back in 1888, and the Gates opened. Helped form the basis of the Curtain defences.” Dextor spoke in choppy sentences as if he was reading mental notes.
“Anyway,” she continued as the professor took a puff from his pipe, “the only lead we currently have is this chappy in the Market of the Macabre. I suggest we head over and have a quiet chat with him.”
The Professor nodded his head.
“Good idea m’dear, good idea. Get a feel for the place at the same time would you. The aether has been disturbed these last few days and my Piskies have been rather shy about going there. Makes it dashed hard to get any gen.”
Smythe nodded sympathetically. When Teslas Aether Relay Experiment of the Great Exhibition of 1880 had failed and the Aether Gates opened, the first things through had been less than friendly. The speed at which they had responded had been frighteningly quick; causing some to believe that his experiments leading up to the big finale had somehow pre-warned them.
The battles to hold the cities into which they had poured had been nothing less than apocalyptic. Hundreds of thousands had died, either at the hands of the creatures, or through disease and starvation. London had practically been lost from the moment they started to enter.
His stomach did a small flip as he thought of all of the friends he had lost in the numerous melees that had followed. Calling them all battles glorified them too much. There’s been far too much bloody glory to last millennia. The initial confrontations had been grubby, personal, and all too close up. Only when the British Army had become organized did the battles truly begin. By then, it was too late; the countryside around London had been overrun by creatures that the humans called aether-born.
Smythe remembered all too well the super-human effort of the Great British Public that had contained, and finally corralled the Horde, making it possible for Her Majesty’s Government to negotiate a cease-fire. The terms were simple, all aether-born outside of the curtain would obey the laws of the land, and all aether-born within the Curtain would live as they saw fit.
He sighed as he thought how impossible it was to tell from outward appearance as to who or what was evil, good, or just ambivalent. There were the obviously evil ones such as the ghouls, gargoyles and Vampyre Lords, but fairies, piskies, grotesques, slavs and even minor Vampyres could be benevolent. Indeed the government had a number of the latter working for the Sanction. The somewhat tricky matter of keeping their thirst for souls sustained was somewhat controversially covered by allowing them to feed off their own and, in-between actions, to be present at the execution of condemned criminals. He shuddered as he remembered one such execution, annoyed that he was still affected by the necessities of this new world. Just knowing that a soul-sucker had been stood next to him, drawing the soul of the condemned as they twitched and jigged at the end of the rope had given him the jitters. He swiped his hand across a suddenly clammy forehead, the things I do for Queen and country.
*
The Market of the Macabre more than lived up to its name, thought Smythe as the three of them strolled through the crowd. Originally just a normal street market, it had grown massively with the Exodus to Manchester, the subsequent growth of Manchester and the influx of aether-born that followed it. Every time that Smythe entered the Bazaar, he struggled not to gawp like a tourist. Every race on earth was represented in the shops and stalls that covered over three acres of land. He moved aside to avoid being walked over by an absent-minded Troll dog that was carrying a cage full of trilling faeries, and very nearly tripped over a leprachaun.
“Watch where yer fecking walking you big gaboon!” The leprachaun leered at him, sharp teeth bared as it waggled its shillelagh at him. “Next time I’ll feckin” curse ya!”
Smythe tipped his hat and muttered an apology. Pausing to allow any of the crowd’s interest in the confrontation to ebb, he stopped to admire a particularly fine snuff stall. Snuff was something else of which he was particularly fond. The pause gave him the chance to make sure that they weren’t being followed by natural means. He took a pinch of a particularly fine-grained brand called “The General’s Vice”. It was much darker than those that he had sampled before and the head rush was stronger than ever. He entered a moment of extreme clarity. He could literally pick out the individual fibres on his coat sleeve, the pores of the exceptionally ugly hag in front of him.
She cackled at the look on his face. “It seems that sir is experiencing the Draw, very few earth-born experience it, just receiving the pleasure of using the snuff itself. Very good for mental and visual clarity it is. Aether-born use it to solve problems, aid them in hunting. The Draw doesn’t last long, but often lasts long enough to get the job done, if you see what I mean sir. The hangover can be a tad extreme if one over indulges however!” Smythe had never experienced anything like it. He turned to look down the avenue of stalls to the very end. Concentrating on the stall keeper of the last stall, he found that he was able to bring the man into sharp focus. He blinked as the pox-ridden features threatened to burn themselves onto his retina.
“Good God” he muttered, handing over three shillings for three boxes of the stuff. I can win every damned regimental shooting match for the next ten years with this stuff.
He cast around for Von Adin and Lady Ashdown, easily picking out the Prussian’s towering form. He realised with a start that in the bazaar the Prussian was not necessarily that tall at all. Granted he was an absolute titan when standing next to a faerie, a giant when standing next to a leprechaun and just bloody tall when standing next to a normal human. However, when he stood next to a Troll, an Ogre or even a Sidhe, he merely became normal - or indeed short.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“The spoor is starting to fade fast but it still definitely leads to that shop.” Lady Ashdown pointed to an old building, a sign declaring the shop on the ground floor to be Curiosities, Paraphernalia & Pawn broking. “Looks like he can’t quite make up his mind as to his trade. There’s a lot of aether-spoor there.”
“Thank you Clara. I think that We’re better off using a subtle approach with this chap.” He glanced around at the crowd, “You can’t be too careful in the bazaar, a melee would be a bloody disaster, there are far too many aether-born that would be harmed. A lady’s touch should more than suffice. Von Adin and I will wait outside whilst you go in alone. Shout and we’ll be inside as quickly as possible.”
*
Lady Ashdown had to push hard on the door as its warped frame jammed on her first attempt and she dodged aside with a small cry as the bell above her fell off its mounting, rolling in a small circle as she stepped over it.
“Yes my dear, I mean my lady. How can I help?” Whatever the state of the shop, Benjamin Abraham was most certainly what some would call a dandy. Clearly, a man of means, his clothing was the latest fashion, his hair cut in to follow the latest vogue and he was the spitting image of a dashing hero of the British Empire. She found herself being especially taken with his smile. Rather, she found herself being taken with the arrogance of a man who thought that a smile would make this woman’s heart all of a flutter.
“I’m merely browsing, looking for a gift. For my husband. A curio.” She drifted through the various aisles, looking the stacked shelves over. They were crammed with every kind of bric-a-brac. The front of the shop was choc-a-bloc with the usual tat that casual sightseers to the bazaar would buy, but as she made her way deeper into the shop, the shelves practically started to hum from the power of the items on their shelves. She walked her fingers over various items, letting her fingers lead her around the shelves. Every now and then, she would feel a slight tingle at the power stored within a knick-knack.
“If I may be so bold, your husband is truly a lucky fellow to have such a beautiful and considerate wife as yourself, ma’am.” She gritted her teeth at the patronising and slightly lecherous tone of his voice. Lady Ashdown hated the way men much less intelligent, much less powerful than her treated as she were nothing but a dim-witted child.
He walked over and together they browsed and discussed the virtues of many of the curios he had for sale. She chose some small cuff links that could store a small charge of aether, adding a little extra to whatever the user required. Willoughby will be pleased with these. The thought brought a pleasant tingle to her stomach. She owed that man her very life
“Thank you madam, that will be five pounds. I shall just wrap it up.” He paused, the paper part folded, and looked up suddenly, supposedly seeing nothing he gave a quick shrug of his shoulders and kept wrapping.
“Whilst I’m here I was wondering if you could help me with something else,” she paused to make sure that she had his full attention, “you see I couldn’t help but notice the fact that you’d had a ghoul in here and .. Oh my you do look pale! Perhaps you should sit down.”
She bit her lip to avoid laughing aloud, pale was giving Abraham a compliment, and it was somewhat like saying that Snow White needed to get some sun. He was gaping at her, his mouth opening and shutting like a guppy. “I assure you madam that I don’t know what you’re referring to. I would greatly appreciate it if ....” again he paused as if there was something at the corner of his eye.
Lady Ashdown Pulled hard on aether, chilling the room quickly and making the blood in her veins pound, “My dear, dear Mr Abrahams, I suggest that you listen carefully. Very. Fucking. Carefully. I have information from a very reliable source, - me - that you have somehow not only managed to be in the same building as a ghoul, but also lived to deny the tale. Do not vex me. You don’t want to see me vexed.”
The foul language seemed to have more of an effect than the sudden drop in temperature. His mouth shut with an audible click of teeth and he nervously reached up to smooth his moustache with thumb and forefinger. Lady Ashdown drew on more aether, causing their breath to fog. Her senses heightened even more, she could smell the rank sweat that was starting to bead on his head despite the cold, the garlic on his breath and the cologne on his neck. She held out her hands as if carrying a ball and allowed lightning to play between them.
A slight tensing of his shoulders was the only warning she got as he lunged for something behind the counter. She threw out her right hand and played a stream of lightning across his right shoulder. He screamed and tried to drop behind the counter, aborting his attempt to reach for whatever it was. Turning her hand palm up she made a claw of her fingers and raised her arm. The lightning ceased burning and lifted him up onto his toes.
“I said that you should not vex me. I cannot believe that a gentleman such as you would ignore the wishes of a Lady. I am, unfortunately for you, vexed.” she made a flicking motion with her left hand and small balls of aether, no bigger than the tip of a pencil lead, streaked into him. He drew breath to scream and suddenly found himself unable to breathe as she closed her claw, choking the scream before it was even born.
“Now, the people I’m working for would like to know how you met a ghoul and, more importantly, how you survived. I suggest you tell me.” More balls punched their way into him and he jerked and shuddered at their impacts. Blood started to well out of the holes created, and tears ran down his cheeks.
She released the aether gag and he sucked in a lungful of air.
“Please, you don’t understand, they’ll take my soul if I tell you.” His voice shook and she could smell the fear emanating from him, or more precisely running down his trouser leg.
“And I will burn you where you hang, from your extremities to your balls and then up to your head. You will take hours to die and the fact that you still have your soul will be of little consolation, you pathetic piece of traitorous shit!” She made as if to cast more balls at him.
“Please, no! Listen. Just listen. Please.” He gasped the words out, barely able to contain himself, barely able to contain his fear.
“The Cog. You need to look for people bearing a cog, with a sword tip upwards in the middle and two bolts of lightning crossing behind. That’s all I know! They came to the shop and said that ...” he stopped again and looking to his right, gasping.
Lady Ashdown felt a thrumming feeling in the pit of her stomach and twirled to her left. She was just in time to see a multi-coloured swarm of creatures no bigger than her thumbnail as they flew towards her. She threw up a shield as quickly as she could, crossing her hands in front of her face. The faeries shied away from the power and continued on their original path. She watched as the cloud enveloped Abraham’s head.
He screamed shrilly, almost as if he was a woman and Lady Ashdown watched in horror as the swarm flayed the skin from his skull. Desperately she started to cast healing towards him, trying to reverse the damage done. Behind her, the door burst open, hinges snapping, as Smythe and Von Adin came crashing in to the shop, cursing as they alternatively bumped into and dodged around the various shelves.
No matter how much aether she poured into Abrahams, she realised that she was fighting a losing battle. What could only have been the remains of an eye fell onto the counter in front of her.
“No shot! I can’t shoot dammit! The fucking faeries are too close!” Both Smythe and Von Adin had their pistols out and stood in frustration as they watched Lady Ashdown desperately trying to save Abrahams.
His screams had turned into whimpers. Blood ran freely down his front, with flesh continuing to fly into the air. Patches of yellow bone were starting to appear and Abraham’s body started to shake more and more violently. As suddenly as the attack had started, it was over.
Von Adin turned, cursing as he caught sight of the remains of Abraham’s face. Flesh hung in tatters from his face, his lips were been eaten away and his eyes gouged out. His throat was a ruined mass, but it was the sight of faeries flying out of the top of his skull, that showed what had actually killed him. The swarm flew quickly through a hole in the floorboards above and disappeared.
Lady Ashdown sighed in frustration, and released the body. It dropped to the floor like a sack of meat, the bare bone of the skull clacking horribly on the floor. There was a buzzing sound, like that of a fly.
“Can you here that?” Smythe vaulted over the counter and knelt by the body, “It’s coming from the skull. I think one of the little cads is trapped in there! Clara, contain it! Quickly.”
She cast a quick shield over the head. They could all hear the hullabaloo of the crowd outside and she realised that they would most likely be facing a hostile crowd if they went back out into the bazaar.
“No time to get it out now, we’ll have to take it with us.” With that, Smythe quickly cut the skull free from the body and placed it into some sacking from behind the counter. “I think it’s best we leave out of the back.”
*
Back in the Club, Lady Ashdown led the way to one of the sanctums, her legs trembling as they made their way down the iron staircase. The exertions of their previous two encounters were finally taking their toll and she rubbed irritably at her tired eyes. Designed to contain aether - and especially to contain the aether-born - sanctums kept prisoners of the Sanction in more or less safe confines.
“Put the head over there please Willoughby.” Lady Ashdown shook her hands and did a quick set of small jumps on the spot, drawing aether as she did so. “Make sure the door’s bloody well sealed too please, Karl. This faerie is going to be more than a little upset at being trapped.”
She nodded as Smythe placed the head onto the iron table in the centre of the room. “Be prepared gents. As soon as that shield is down it’s going to come out like a scalded cat. I have no doubt that it will head straight for the door, so let it. I’ll catch it with another shield and then we’ll have a chat.”
She focussed on the skull and the buzzing that had never stopped since they trapped the faerie cut off with an ominous suddenness. A blur of light shot out of the hole in the skull and, moving faster than the eye could track, it headed straight for the door. Von Adin dived out of the way with a yell as a tiny but razor-sharp stream of aether cut across his cheek.
“Wichser, I’m going to smash you!” Blood flowed down the irate Prussian’s cheek, staining his ginger beard dark red.
“Hold Karl! It will drive you dizzy before you can even get a clear shot. Let me deal with the little bugger.” Lady Ashdown’s eyes never left the blur as it rocketed around the room, desperately seeking any exit it could find.
She made a casting motion just in front of the faerie and it flew straight into the trap she had set for it. They all rubbed at their ears as an incredibly high-pitched scream made their ears pop.
“Gag it please Clara, the little swine is setting my teeth on edge!” Smythe shook his head, and dug into his ears with his fingers as the screams started up again, even higher than before. Lady Ashdown knew how he felt as the sound was like a thousand mosquitoes buzzing inside her ears.
“Consider it done, my dear Willoughby. Ahhh. Much better. Now little one. We need to have a chat. I am going to ask you questions and you are going to answer. If you do not I will start with breaking your shinbones. Then I am going to break your kneecaps, then your forearm, elbow and your upper arm. Finally, if you’re still not talking I’m going to rip your wings out and curse you to an earth-born life for as long as you live.”
It was as if she had drawn on aether; only this time the ice filled her veins. She knew that many viewed her as a beautiful English Rose, the epitome of genteelness. Ever since she had been taken, she knew that this person, the ice-maiden from hell was her real self. No matter how hard she tried she could not put aside this aspect of her character. Nor could she make sense of it. The contradictions, her duality, she remembered crying at the sight of urchins starving in the street, giving alms to charity and flaying the skin off her enemies, keeping them alive with her healing powers whilst she questioned them.
She released the gag and the faerie trilled at them, singing a soulful lament. Her head was filled with images, and her body flooded as with feelings as the faery wove the song with aether. She remembered how excited she had been the first time she heard a faery choir in Manchester Cathedral. The way they used the notes, the vibrations of the notes, conveyed feelings and drew images, a form of communication far beyond words.
Thoughts of a shadow that came from shadows, a darkness that filled her with dread, which made the very act of breathing difficult, filled her mind’s eye. More images of a shadow that offered a meadow full of flowers ringed by trees followed, and the smell of the morning dew and honeysuckle tickled her nose. The image disappeared with a shocking suddenness and was replaced with the shadow using silver that burned. Silver that made her need to do whatever the shadow wanted.
“Where was this shadow? Where did the shadow bind you?” Her voice was softer now; a kindly nurse had replaced the ice-queen.
Another song burst forth. As before, images filled her mind. An ugly place. A smelly place. A place of death packed with earth-born that hated their lives, hated what they had become and feared that worse was yet to come.
“New Town. The bustard’s in New Town.” No one who had ever been to New Town could ever forget the place. Her heart sank as she realised they would have to go there.
Von Adin cursed. “Even in Germany we’ve heard of that God-forsaken place. Gottverdammt I wish I had never come to this arschloch of a city! My apologies again Clara, I must admit to being somewhat...” he paused as if searching for the right word, “...disturbed by all of this. The Kaiser managed to disperse the Berliners across the country, and our forces don’t allow any of the aether-born through our Curtain. I haven’t had much exposure to them except when wearing my battle suit. I am not used to skulking in shadows. Ach, let the damn thing go and we’ll get a drink.”
“Ah, certainly Karl. Thank you little one for your information. Be free.” There was a shrill scream as the faerie burst into flames, its lifeless corpse trailing smoke as it fell to the table below, “Detestable little thing. You do know that faeries can sense evil? The little beast would have known what it was doing when it made the deal. I don’t believe a word of what it said about flowers and meadows ringed with trees.” She scrubbed her palms on her dress, grimacing as if they were coated in dirt.
“I do, however, believe the rest of the story. They were certainly bound by something that befuddled their true sight, and that it was done in New Town. We are facing a truly powerful adversary gentlemen. Truly powerful. Now, I do believe it is time for afternoon tea. Care to join me?”
She glided out of the room, thanking a stunned Von Adin as he held the door open for her. Smythe following in her wake.
“Sorry old boy. It is a bit of a shock I know, but the Sanction will do anything and use anything or anyone in order to do anything or anyone it needs to. She’s really a great gal if you’re on our side.”