The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle) (14 page)

‘The lad can keep a secret,’ Lyle said quickly.

Fornaio sat down, laying his hands flat on the vestry table and looking at each pair of eyes in turn. Finally he said, ‘There are only rumours, but Isalia is ... sometimes whispered of. The monks there keep things that the Vatican doesn’t want in the world. It is a place of protection - protecting us from
them
.’

‘Who’s
them
?’

‘I don’t know. You sometimes hear stories of . . . things leaving Isalia. Strange men or creatures, dogs grown to the size of a man or men shrivelled to the size of dogs. Stories of men and women with bright green eyes who talk the sweetest, most seductive words -’

‘Green eyes?’ Lyle’s head snapped up. ‘Tall, thin people, pale skin, emerald green eyes? Certain allergy for iron and magnetic fields?’

‘I don’t know.’ A shard of fear was visible behind the priest’s eyes. ‘You haven’t had contact with . . . I mean to say, you aren’t . . .’

‘Does the word “Tseiqin” mean anything to you?’

‘No. Who are they?’

‘They are usually
them
,’ said Lyle darkly.

Tess’s head rose from its usual slouch and she sat upright, eyes wide. ‘
Them?
There’s
them
again? But they were all dead, we beat ’em good an’ -’

‘Enough, Teresa.’

‘But Mister Lyle, he said how that they -’

‘Teresa! Enough!’ Tess met Lyle’s eyes. Just for a second she saw the fear that had been stewing deep, deep down inside, the fear of a rational man confronted with something inexplicable by any normal laws of logic or reasoning, and remembered bright green eyes and the thunderstorm when Lyle had fallen too long and too far, and hastily closed her mouth.

Lyle coughed and said quietly, ‘Forgive me. Let’s talk about something else. Does the name Father Ignatius Caryway mean anything to you?’

Fornaio shook his head.

‘We think he’s a Roman Catholic priest, possibly the one who arranged for the Captain to go to Isalia. Possibly American, about . . .’

‘American?’

‘You know him?’

‘Not by name, but I met an American with the Captain, once. He did not tell me his name, but he shook my hand most warmly and commended me on my sermon.’

‘This was here?’

‘Yes, at evening Mass. With a lady who sometimes comes in the evenings.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Shorter than you, with auburn eyes and a very intense gaze. Auburn hair too, good skin, worn hands, strong grip.’

‘When was this?’

‘Just before the Captain sailed, I think - yes, I remember the weather had just started to turn bad.’

‘Who was the lady?’

‘That I do know. Lady Diane Lumire. She comes quite a lot - but only in the evening.’

‘Does Lady Diane live near here?’

‘I never asked. We get people from many places.’

Lyle was already on his feet. ‘Thank you, father, you’ve been most helpful and generous.’

Thomas was ahead of him at the door, Tess not much further behind. Her face was lit up with the sweet, tantalizing prospect of that most magical of wonders,
a clue
. Tate darted between their legs, racing out into the nave of the church. Lyle turned to follow and ...

‘Mister Lyle?’

‘Yes?’

‘Mister Lyle, you must understand, there are things in men’s lives beyond our control. Call it magic, call it God, call it luck, call it fate; we cannot control it, we do not even know what it is. You are already afraid of secrets that you know, the things that you cannot explain or control, the things that come out at you from nowhere and which you have to fight though you cannot explain them or say why you have been chosen. Please understand. ’

Lyle hesitated, then nodded. ‘Thank you, father. We’ll take no more of your time.’

CHAPTER 9

In a room plush with decadence, a man with auburn eyes, a voice like rich maple syrup and an accent distinctly American, a man who may or may not travel by the name of Ignatius Caryway and may or may not wear a small golden cross on a chain underneath his black shirt, slammed a newspaper down on a nearby table and snapped in a voice slightly louder than usual, ‘Henton!’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I read that there was another murder in the docks last night.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Of a potential witness?’

‘So I hear, sir.’

‘I thought you said you were with his grace all last night.’

‘I was, sir. Perhaps her ladyship . . .’

‘Her ladyship is a child of nature, Henton! She would not understand the sacrifices demanded by the cause.’ His voice darkened. ‘
How
did his grace do it? I saw him kill the captain and the spy . . . but how did he leave in the night and kill that witness? Unless he . . .’ The voice trailed away. The auburn eyes widened. ‘Where is his grace?’

‘In the cellar, father. Hiding from the light.’

‘And her ladyship?’

‘In her room.’

‘Good. Inform me if she leaves it.’

And the man with the eyes that burn with a bright, auburn fervour and who walks with a determined step, stood up, and strode from the room into a long, gloomy corridor, dully illuminated by the occasional candle. His face was set in a cold expression, and his feet clicked on bare stone as he trotted down a flight of stairs, then padded across deep burgundy carpet. As he descended, the air got thicker and colder; his breath steamed. Down he went to the darkest part of the house, where he picked up a lantern glowing feebly by a heavy wooden door, inserted a slim metal key in the lock and turned it. Light crawled weakly from a single high window, forming a small rectangle on the floor. Behind it, in total darkness, a shape, long and wide and powerful, sat utterly still.

‘Your grace.’

The shape didn’t move.

‘Your grace, I trust you are well.’

Something gently raised itself up from its hunched position. Eyes gleamed for a second in the darkness, catching the orange lantern light.
‘I was re-examining this city. There are some things you have neglected to say, Father Caryway.’
In the tight, claustrophobic darkness, the sound was almost overwhelming.

‘Such as?’

Did Father Ignatius Caryway feel, just for a second, a moment of fear, or a moment of guilt about the inevitable? Perhaps, but he hid it well behind the lamplight. ‘Your grace, I would like to ask you a few questions.’ Silence. ‘I am looking for the blade.’ Silence. ‘I found a reference to Selene. The most beautiful woman of her age, they said. Emerald green eyes and a voice like warm marble, cold and passionate all at once. They said she never grew old. There was no mention of the blade.’

Ignatius cleared his throat, telling himself he wasn’t nervous, though sweat was beginning to gleam on his face. ‘You say you have been exploring the city? How, your grace, have you been doing that?’

‘What are the stones saying?’

No answer. Then a tap, loud and hard, fingers tapping against a rough stone wall.
Tap, tap, tap-a-tap, tap, tap.
‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘There was a witness, to when you arrived, and there are people looking . . .’

Tap, tap-a-tap, tap, tap-a-tap, tap, tap.

The sound put Ignatius in mind of a rhyme he’d once heard, or possibly a chant, but when he tried to remember it, it seemed to dart out of reach, laughing a child’s laugh, and hide in the fog of memory.
Hark, hark
...

‘You are . . . stronger? I have found more stones, you said that you need stones to control and . . .’ Ignatius’s voice trailed away.

‘I do.’
Ignatius swallowed, then immediately wondered why.
‘Priest.’
The shadow had unfolded itself, risen to its full height. It moved forward. He saw brown eyes, dark skin, dark hair, fine silks cut in an oddly old-fashioned style, to a point where they were almost dramatic costume rather than clothes any more; he felt the shadow fall over him. ‘Your grace?’ He kept his face straight, his voice steady.

The figure moved towards him, but he held his ground, holding the lantern up at shoulder height. As it neared him, the figure passed through the tiny square of light from the window. Ignatius watched it travel up across his foot, his shin, his knee, and as it moved, the colours of the silk and the tiny hint of skin between trouser and shoe changed, dulled, turned old and hard and grey, and the bend of the joint as the light passed over the knee suddenly seemed old and crooked and stiff, instead of the fluid, powerful movement which had preceded it. The figure stopped, right in front of Ignatius, towering over him. The light fell on half his face, where smooth dark skin shimmered, dulled, drained of colour until it was grey and hard, worn rough with centuries of erosion. His features were frozen, his eye a dull grey fixed point, with just a tiny spot of blackness in the centre. He spoke through one side of his mouth only, the other unable to move, but now his whole shape seemed to vibrate with the sound, ringing out.
‘I have eaten the stones of the city, and hear its song. Do not think for a moment, priest, that you have tamed me. You serve me, priest, my purpose and my revenge. I am immortal, I am stone, I am unstoppable and indestructible,
and I cannot be tamed!
’

Now, only now, when it was arguably too late, did Father Ignatius Caryway feel fear.

 

A hansom cab, rattling through the streets of London.

‘Mister Lyle?’

‘Yes, Teresa?’

‘You gone all quiet, Mister Lyle.’

‘Yes, Teresa.’

‘You thinkin’ bad thoughts, Mister Lyle?’

‘Not now, Teresa.’

Tess sighed and turned her head to look out of the window as they passed Regent’s Park. ‘I got a bad feelin’,’ she muttered, idly tickling Tate behind the ears. ‘It’s all goin’ to be bad. An’ I’m hungry.’

‘Miss Teresa,’ said Thomas half-laughingly, ‘you have a remarkable appetite.’

Tess glared. ‘Don’t you be rude!’ As Thomas recoiled, she turned her glare on Lyle. ‘Can we ’ave food now, Mister Lyle?’

‘Yes, Teresa,’ murmured Lyle absently.

‘Lots of food?’

‘Yes, Teresa.’

‘An’ then . . . an’
then
can we go on holiday? Somewhere really far from this place ’cos I got a bad feelin’, Mister Lyle, it’s all goin’ to go really bad.’

‘Not now, Teresa.’

She hissed in frustration, put her chin in her hand and stared moodily out of the window again. The cab rattled on in silence. To Thomas, the silence weighed down oppressively, he heard each breath his companions made, each shuffle of Tate’s, smelt overwhelmingly the sweaty, dirty, coal-stained stench of the city, the rotting feet and the rotting teeth, heard the cry of the street-sellers and street-walkers and bobbies and thieves and horses and cabbies and felt as if the silence was going to suffocate him.

When Tess spoke again, it was quietly.

‘We’re bein’ followed.’

‘Yes, Teresa.’ Lyle’s voice could have announced a funeral.

‘I think we was followed yesterday too. Man in a red scarf. Saw ’im at the docks.’

‘Yes, Teresa.’

‘He’s a good ’un, sly an’ all. Thought I saw ’im when I was gettin’ coals, even though it ain’t no job for no lady . . .’

‘In fairness, Miss Teresa, I did the carrying.’

‘. . . especially no lady what has to deal with people complai . . . makin’ a fuss all the time. Anyhow, I thought he was there then. Tate’s been all nervous. Been barkin’ lots, like he was upset. Yes you ’ave, ’aven’t you, little Tatey-watey, little doggywoggy, coo-coo . . .’

‘Yes, Teresa.’

She glared at Lyle. ‘You ain’t listenin’ to a word I been sayin’, ’ave you, Mister Lyle?’

‘Whoever’s been following us, Teresa, gave Tate a biscuit to stop him barking.’

‘He what?’ Tess looked outraged. ‘Biscuits ain’t good for Tate!’

Lyle stared absently into the distance, his voice a monotone. ‘There were a few crumbs in Tate’s coat - the man clearly broke off a bit of biscuit to give it to Tate, and that left crumbs everywhere. Ginger biscuit, to be exact.’

Contemplative silence. ‘Mister Lyle?’

‘Yes, Teresa?’

‘We don’t mind how this biscuit person is followin’ us, do we?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s probably just one of Lord Lincoln’s spies sent to ensure that we’re doing our job. And if he’s not, then he might be useful in an emergency.’