The Sunken (34 page)

“I simply do not see,” said Isambard, “why a man’s sect should determine his ability to invent something for the good of England, especially when the machine can save the lives of others and improve efficiency and performance.”

“You staged this, you rotten—”

“I set a Navvy shrine on fire and then put it out again? Does that sound like the kind of thing a Stoker would do?”

The men looked at each other. Finally, Joseph Locke, the Presbyter of the Great Conductor Sect and a staunch Navvy, stepped forward, shook Isambard’s hand, and squinted at the engine.

“Thank you for saving my men.” he said.

“You’re welcome,” said Isambard, smiling broadly.

“As to your engine, I don’t believe the validity of your claim this broad gauge will produce superior speed. In order to determine what should be done with you, we must first determine if you speak the truth about your locomotive. We shall have to see what she can do.”

He floated on a mountaintop, high in the Pyrenees, trapped in the swirling blindness of a snowstorm. Julianne was screaming, her dress covered in blood. He fumbled across the snow, trying to reach her, but with every step, she seemed even further from him. He took another step, but his foot never found solid ground. He toppled over the edge of a chasm and fell, the sheer rocks hurtling past him, Julianne’s screams ripping apart the night …

Nicholas woke with a start, finding himself not hurtling toward his death, but safe in his cold bed in the empty battery beneath the monastery, his blankets soaked with sweat.
It was only a dream. It wasn’t real.

The screaming, however, was real.

The sound pounded against the rocks above, striking him with the force of a physical blow.
Julianne!
Upstairs, somewhere, something was hurting her. He fumbled in the dark for a candle and, lighting it, drew his sword from its sheath and crept silently up the stairs.

It didn’t take long to locate the source of the screaming. Julianne’s cries faded to a whimper, but they led him directly to the chapel. The door was locked, but he kicked at the bolt with his boot ’till it gave way.

The sight that greeted him froze his blood. Julianne — her hands bound before her and tied to the heavy legs of the altar — was spread naked across their place of worship, her body contorted in pain. Thick red welts crossed her chest where someone had pawed at her, and ribbons of blood cascaded over her breasts and down her face. Jacques loomed over her, naked below the waist, a great grin on his face as he thrust harder and harder into her, while her blood splattered across his thighs.

“Nicholas!” he called cheerfully. “Do you care for a ride after me? I’ve warmed her up for you!”

Julianne met his eyes, wide with horror and shame. She tried to speak, but Jacques held his hand tightly over her mouth.

Nicholas’ stomach lurched. He coughed violently, and his anger rose along with the bile, welling up from the pit of his belly and coursing through every limb in his body. Remembering the sword in his hand, he held it in front of him and took a step forward.

“I wouldn’t.” said Jacques cheerfully, reaching behind the altar and grabbing his own sword. He withdrew from Julianne and took at step toward Nicholas. “Do you think the other men don’t know what goes on in here? Why, they’ve many of them had their turns with pretty Julianne while you’ve slept unawares. If you strike me, Nicholas, you’ll have thirty Morpheans upon you in an instant.”

“You— you—”

“I am the priest here. I rescued you —
all
of you — from a life of servitude to the false Christian gods. I gave you what you so ardently desired, Monsieur Nicholas — books, and learning, and great scholars who could test your skills. Should I not have something in return?”

“You hide behind the trappings of a learned man, Jacques, but you are a barbarian.”

“It is no different to the world you left on that boat. Locked up here as we are, with little diversion from our study, a man has urges. And I know you’ll agree — Danielle and Marie aren’t to everyone’s tastes. I have seen the way you look at Julianne — can you say with honesty you have not felt the same compulsion I exercise now? As an honest man, I do not deny my compulsions.”

“I am nothing like you.” Nicholas spat.

“And yet, you point a sword at me and ask who is the barbarian in this room?”

Nicholas sprang forward, striking at Jacques’ chest. But his thrust was wild, driven by anger, and Jacques blocked him easily. He knew as he flung out another thrust that soon he would slip, and Jacques would slit him open.

“I’ve married her, you know.” said Jacques, expertly parrying another swing. “I’ve performed the Morphean rituals, and we are in every sense man and wife. But this is no Catholic church — I’m a generous man, and I’ll share my wife with my brothers. Auguste has his turn this evening, but you may have tomorrow, if you wish—”

Nicholas feigned left and thrust for Jacques’ chest, but Jacques stepped back and directed his blow down, throwing Nicholas’ shoulder and head forward. Up flicked Jacques’ blade, slicing through the skin on his cheek. Blood gushed from the wound, blocking his vision, and pain filled his head. He lost his balance and lurched forward.

Jacques caught him, twisting him upward so Nicholas could see the thin point of Jacques’ rapier pointing at his throat. His head swam, the pain stinging like a bee, draining him of strength.

“Very well.” Jacques’ face twisted into a grin. “Unfortunately, you must understand that I cannot allow you to remain a free scholar here, for if you managed to escape down the mountains, you could easily report our position to the authorities.” He snapped his fingers, and Auguste stepped forward and grabbed Nicholas under the arms. “Perhaps you may think about my offer in your confinement, yes?”

Auguste dragged him down a flight of narrow, poorly fashioned stairs, much deeper into the mountain than his battery. At the foot of the staircase was a single dark room. Auguste shoved him inside and slammed the door. “Sometimes the monks would go mad up here in the mountains with nothing but their prayers. This is where they kept those men — some dangerous, some simply pathetic.” He laughed as he slid the bolts shut. “I know which one you are.”

His footsteps disappeared up the stairs, leaving Nicholas alone in the darkness. They’d given him a blanket and a stale loaf, but he had no appetite. He touched the cut on his cheek, sending a wave of pain through his head. It was a clean cut, but he had nothing to cauterize it. He tore the sleeve from his shirt and held this against his face in an effort to stop the bleeding.

The darkness pushed against him, silence embracing him like a wild river, rolling over him and tossing him about, so he didn’t know where was up and down. He slept fitfully, waking covered in sweat, his cheek stinging. He tried to pace out the room, but it wasn’t even high enough from him to stand without stooping, and if he stretched his arms out wide, his fingers scraped the stone walls.

He passed time in the gloom — it might have been days, or only hours. Twice more, bread was pushed through a slot in the door, the faint glimmer of a torch casting a thin shadow on the rough stone floor. He hammered on the door ’till blood dribbled down his fists, calling for someone to help him, but no one came.

He listened to the voices of the mountain, hoping he might find a mind he could use to help him escape. But all he could hear so deep in the earth were worms and creatures of the dirt and rocks. He hadn’t the energy, the power, to form a plan.

He slept and woke again, nightmares clinging to his body. Sweat clung to his clammy skin. There was a noise outside the door.

Footsteps — not slow and careful, but rushed — slipped on the steep steps leading down into the stone passage. A key turned in the lock, and to his surprise, the door swung open and a bright light thrust itself inside his prison.

He closed his eyes against the glare and the imposing shadow that towered over him.
I hope they kill me quickly. I hope Jacques has no use for torture
—

“Nicholas?”

I must truly be ready to die, for I can hear the voices of angels.

“Nicholas!” The angel sounded impatient. He rubbed his eyes, squinting against the bright light as his eyes adjusted. The figure came into focus, hazy at first, a mere shadow. But the light illuminated her height, the curve of her hip, and, finally, her face — scarred and bloody, but utterly beautiful.

“Julianne!” he collapsed at her feet, touching the hem of her dress. “You’re alive. Alive! How did you—”

“Ssshh.” She knelt down beside him, her delicate fingers wiping his matted hair back from his face. Tracing the wound on his cheek, she pulled his chin up so he could look at her face, and she held her finger to her lips. “I have killed Auguste, so it was nothing to take the dagger from his belt and the key from his pocket. Look at you — you’re weak and starving.”

He pulled her down, breathing in the scent of her. Her skin felt cold and clammy, as though she were not a woman at all. He ran his fingers over her cheeks, laced with abrasions. When she pulled away, wincing, he saw the bright pink bloodstain splashed across the front of her dress.

“You are hurt?”

“Yes.” It came out as a croak. “But this blood is not all mine. We must leave now.”

“But how — how long have I been here?”

“Five days, though it feels like centuries,” she said darkly, and a shadow passed over her face as she recalled her own horrors. She pressed a bottle against his lips. “For strength. Please, we must hurry, before Jacques discovers what I’ve done.”

He gulped hungrily, the warm alcohol returning some strength to his bones. “But how did you—”

She put her arms under his shoulders and pulled him upright, swinging his arm over her neck and leading him, hobbling, to the stairs. “There was a fight amongst the men for who would be the next to defile me, and Auguste broke the mirror above the altar. Shards of glass rained down on me. I hid one in my hand and later, when the men had retired, I used it to cut the rope. Auguste was charged with guarding me, but the brute was snoring, and I had no trouble at all slitting his throat. I’m going to kill Jacques, too, before this night is done, and I am not ashamed to say I will enjoy it.”

The climb seemed to stretch on for days, each lurch of his body sending fresh pains through his aching limbs. Julianne, he knew, was in even worse condition — her dress torn right up the middle, and her legs caked in blood. But she set her face firm and pushed him onward, her determination fueling his own returning strength.

“We will escape.” he whispered to her. “We’ll go quietly into the night, Julianne. No more blood. No more death. We’ll go away somewhere—”

“Where?” She sagged against him as her bloodlust left her body. She shivered against his coat, and pulled him upward, toward the thin shaft of light that marked the hall leading to the chapel.

“We’ll go to the Dirigires in the north, and work passage to England, somehow. The north is the stronghold of Catholic France, so he will not follow us there, not wanted as he is.”

“But if we leave—” she shuddered. “He will do this again. It will be some other girl. You have seen his charisma — he will soon have more men. He will turn this church into something evil.”

“Men always do. Look — I can see the light of the tunnel above. We must be silent now, and move with haste. We don’t have much time.”

No one stirred as they crept through the tunnels toward the staircase leading to the courtyard above. Julianne sucked in her breath as they passed Jacques’ chamber, but the heavy snores emitting from within didn’t change as Nicholas pushed Julianne up the stairs.

They took the steps as quickly and quietly as they could, knowing a guard would also be stationed in the courtyard. When they reached the top they stood in the dark chamber for a few moments, catching their breath.

Moonlight streamed in through the gaps in the crumbling walls, and the harsh pinch of winter cold tore at him through his tattered coat. He gripped Julianne’s trembling hand and passed into the shadow of the porch that framed the eastern edge of the courtyard.

“Who’s there?” a voice called. It was Ramée. Nicholas froze.

He was close, only a few feet away, leaning against one of the upright columns. In the stillness of the night he couldn’t have missed their footsteps on the stone.

“Is that you, Auguste?” He turned his head toward them, and Nicholas saw a flutter out of the corner of his eye. Julianne was upon him before he could blink. Nicholas saw the glint of a dagger in the moonlight, and he rushed to her aid.

She stood back, panting. Ramée slumped against the wall. In the darkness Nicholas could not see any blood, but as he reached down to remove the man’s sword, a warm, metallic-smelling substance washed over his fingers.

Julianne was already running across the courtyard. Nicholas stood to follow her, and caught a snatch of sound coming up the stairway.
They’ve discovered we’re missing,
he realised. He ran after Julianne and grabbed her hand, pulling her down the path to the bridge.

Winds whipped up from the valley below and circled the bridge, and the ice and snow had piled up on the surface, making their crossing a dangerous affair. But it was the only way. He went first, plunging into the ice on all fours, keeping as low as possible. The winds curled up around him, driving him sideways, trying to suck him below.

“Be careful!” he called back to Julianne, but the wind tossed his words into the maelstrom below.

Inch by inch he crawled across that perilous structure, every muscle taut, fighting against the force of the wind. He wanted to turn around, to see if Julianne was safe, but if he moved his neck he’d be spun off into the abyss below. His muscles screamed as he pulled himself onto the road, collapsing against the side of the mountain to recover his breath. The frigid wind bit into his skin. Julianne fell down beside him.

He glanced back over his shoulder, and caught a glint of light in the darkened courtyard. He rubbed his eyes, straining to see. Yes, there it was again. They had been discovered!