Until the End, page 11
The convoy turned into the gated compound, and Temper drove by and pulled in at a safe distance. He got out and Tanith joined him.
“They make any stops?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No stops, no doubling back, no nothing. He has no idea we’re coming for him.”
“Well, OK then.”
They hurried across the road and Tanith walked up the wall, helping Temper up after her. Once they’d dropped down the other side, she slipped into the shadows and he lost sight of her. Temper stayed where he was, in the bushes. Listening.
After seven minutes, he heard a chirp, and crept forward, past the deactivated security cameras, stepping over the unconscious forms of Boon’s security detail. Boon’s house was big, and the patio door was open, and Temper walked straight in. Tanith was sitting on the couch, watching the news on the huge TV on the wall. From elsewhere, a toilet flushed, and moments later Pericles Boon walked in, his shirt undone.
“Pericles,” Temper said, smiling, “could we have a word?”
Boon wheeled round, but Tanith was already leaping backwards over the couch to block his exit.
“This doesn’t have to get ugly,” Temper said.
Boon clicked his fingers and summoned flame, and Hansel shot out of Temper’s palm and bit Boon’s thumb. It was barely more than a nip, but came close to severing the digit, and Boon reeled away, howling at the blood and the pain, the fireball extinguished before it got going.
Tanith took hold of Boon and steered him to the couch, letting him collapse back on to it while they stood over him.
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Tanith said.
“My thumb’s hanging off!” Boon cried.
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” said Temper, feeling Hansel curl up contentedly in his forearm. “We just want to have a quick chat with you.”
Boon shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t speak to either of you. The Supreme Mage will find out.”
“Nonsense,” said Tanith. “He’s way too busy to take notice of what happens to some random Elder. We’re fine.”
Boon glared. The pain was making him sweat. “You can threaten me all you want, I’m not going to betray the Faceless Ones.”
“This isn’t about betraying the Faceless Ones,” said Temper, “this is about the people who’ve betrayed you.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Uziah Kudos.”
“You mean Grand Mage Uziah Kudos.”
“That’s right. Your boss. When China Sorrows made him Grand Mage, he made you an Elder, right? He got you into this position of power. Finally, after hundreds of years, you achieved your dream.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“We know a bit,” Tanith said. “We know you and Kudos were friends once. Partners. Then rivals. You’d get the upper hand, then he would, then you’d pass him by, then he’d overtake you, all the way up through the ranks, both of you with your eyes on the Grand Mage position.”
“But then China made him Grand Mage,” said Temper, “which must have been a kick in the teeth, right? Still, at least Kudos turned round and appointed you as one of his Elders. That’s a nice consolation prize, isn’t it? A nice runner’s-up medal?”
“I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to drive a wedge between us. It won’t work. Yes, we were rivals, but Uziah didn’t have to make me an Elder. He did so out of respect, and I owe him a debt I can never repay.”
Tanith hunkered down. “China was going to make you Grand Mage,” she said.
Boon blinked at her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You were her number-one candidate. But Kudos heard about this and told her of an incident involving you begging a witch for your life, back in 1610, or thereabouts?”
It might have been the blood loss, but Boon went deathly pale. “He didn’t.”
“I’m afraid he did. All those secrets you divulged? Those compromises you made? I mean, you betrayed a whole lot of people back then—”
“I didn’t betray anyone!” Boon snarled. “I wasn’t even conscious! It was Kudos who begged! Kudos who told her everything she wanted to know! Afterwards, he made me swear to never tell a soul what he’d done and I kept it to myself for all these years—”
“A lot of people died because of that witch,” said Temper. “Everyone knew someone had betrayed them, but no one ever found out who. Uziah Kudos told China it had been you.”
“He’s a liar. He’s a liar and a coward.”
“And he’s Grand Mage,” said Tanith, “when really you should be Grand Mage and he should be just getting out of prison.”
Boon cradled his bleeding thumb.
Tanith stood. “You were right when you said we came here to drive a wedge between you and your Grand Mage. That’s exactly why we’re here. We have secrets like this about every Council of Elders around the world, and we’re driving wedges left, right and centre.”
“But that doesn’t mean that Kudos didn’t stab you in the back to get to where he is today,” Temper said. “So the question, Pericles, is what are you going to do about it?”
And they left him there.
At precisely 9.43 am, Commander Silvano Hoc left the Vault – the ugly, functionally squat concrete headquarters of the City Guard – and strode to the Dark Cathedral. He could have taken a car, but he preferred to walk. It was important, he felt, to be seen out and about on the streets of the city he was responsible for protecting. It was also important that the people see him walk into the Dark Cathedral, knowing he had business with the Supreme Mage himself.
He ignored the Cathedral Guards who bowed to him as he passed, and gave a curt nod to the priests on their way to deliver the sermon in the nave. He took the elevator to the very top floor, his heels clicking pleasingly on his way from the elevator to the doors of Damocles Creed’s office.
“You may enter,” said the man at the desk outside. “The Supreme Mage will be with you shortly.”
Hoc entered.
It was always a thrill stepping into this office. No matter the temperature outside, Damocles Creed’s room was always cold, never comfortable. Upon the massive desk was a small box made of black wood mixed with black metal. Hoc picked it up, examined it. Each side was carved with sigils in a language he didn’t recognise.
“You’ve found her prison,” said the Supreme Mage, walking in.
Hoc replaced the box on the desk and turned, standing to attention. “Sir?”
“I call it the Cage,” said Damocles Creed. “It will be enough, I think, to hold her. To hold her many times over, I should imagine.”
“To hold who, sir?”
The Supreme Mage didn’t say anything. Hoc knew why. It was because Damocles Creed didn’t answer questions he viewed as stupid. So the answer must have been obvious, and in a way it was, though Hoc still didn’t understand.
“Would an Eternity Gate not suffice, sir? We have Mevolent in one. Surely one could be fashioned for Darquesse?”
“Eternity Gates slow time,” said the Supreme Mage, “so it takes a thousand years to form a single thought. What do we do when a single thought from Darquesse could destroy the world, Commander? No, no – a new prison is required.”
Hoc nodded. He had so many questions, not least a very practical one. Darquesse was a six-foot woman with broad shoulders, and this box was barely as long as Hoc’s hand.
The Supreme Mage, as usual, seemed to have anticipated Hoc’s confusion. “I want you to push her past her breaking point. I have taken note of your readings, and I want you to increase the output another one hundred and twenty-five per cent.”
Hoc paled. “Sir?”
“I want Darquesse’s physical form destroyed. I want her reduced to mere energy. That energy you will trap in the Cage. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Supreme Mage sat behind his desk. “Report, Commander.”
“Sir, we have found and arrested Nefarian Serpine. He was hiding out in the Humdrums, hoping to evade our Sense Wardens. He is now in our custody, and I can promise you that justice will be swift.”
“Valkyrie Cain wants to handle the investigation,” said the Supreme Mage.
Hoc faltered. “Sir? We … He’s in custody, sir, and we—”
“If Valkyrie Cain wants to assert jurisdiction, Commander, then you acquiesce. Are we clear?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Any updates on our search for Obsidian?”
Hoc hesitated. “That is a most difficult operation, Supreme Mage. I’m afraid I am unable to make any sort of estimation as to when that threat will be neutralised.”
“Then it’s a good thing Valkyrie Cain and Skulduggery Pleasant are on this case, too, wouldn’t you say?”
Hoc bristled. “Yes, Supreme Mage.”
“What about these Obsidian obsessives I keep hearing about?”
“The Nulls, sir, yes. They are increasingly a worry, I’m afraid. Largely made up of disaffected citizens, known troublemakers and anti-Faceless Ones activists, their numbers, thankfully, remain low – we estimate there are no more than thirty Nulls at present.”
“But they are dangerous.”
“They are responsible for several attacks throughout the city, yes.”
The Supreme Mage sighed, squeezing the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “Leave me,” he said. “I must pray on this.”
Hoc’s salute was as keen as his fervour.
China watched the normal people in their normal world, jogging and walking and sitting in the park, and felt overdressed.
It wasn’t what she was wearing – a skirt and sensible heels, a simple off-white blouse and an elegant yet understated jacket – and it certainly wasn’t her make-up because she wasn’t wearing any. It was, as it always was, her face.
People stared. People had been staring for most of her life. Sometimes she welcomed it, sometimes she enjoyed it – but most of the time she endured it. Even now, sitting on this bench, her hair down, the biggest sunglasses she owned failing to disguise her cheekbones, they stood around, sneaking glimpses, pretending to talk on their phones, some of them just openly gaping. It was why she didn’t go out in public an awful lot any more. Well, that and she was a wanted fugitive.
A man walked up, sat beside her. He didn’t profess his love for her, his devotion, he didn’t offer to leave his partner for her – not like four other men and three other women had done so far today.
“Hello, Grantham,” she said.
Grantham Arrant sat back, crossed his legs, eyes flicking to each of her admirers as they stood there and glared. “I thought we were meant to be keeping a low profile. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Sometimes that’s harder than it sounds,” she responded. “You’re looking well.”
“I’d return the compliment, but we both know how redundant that would be. You’re taking quite a risk, aren’t you? I could have gone straight to Creed when you got in touch.”
“You could have.”
He smiled at her. “I’m assuming there are at least two snipers who have me in their sights even as we’re sitting here?”
“Grantham,” China said, “you wound me, you really do. I’ve known you for centuries and I trust you as much as I trust anyone.”
He grunted, amused. “What can I do for you, China? If you’re about to ask me to join your resistance, I’m afraid I’m going to have to be one of those strange, foolish people over the years who have said no to you. I have dedicated my life to working within the Sanctuary system, but I do not involve myself in Sanctuary politics.”
“A fact of which I am well aware, fret not. No, Grantham, I’m not here to recruit you – I’m merely here to chat.”
“About what?”
“I’ve heard rumours, and then I have had those rumours confirmed, that you and your fellow Hosts are searching for ways to sabotage your own Doomsday Protocol.”
That amused half-smile of Grantham’s slipped from his face, and he took a moment. “Would I be wasting my time if I were to ask how you heard all this?”
“Indeed you would.”
“I can’t talk about it, China. You know I can’t.”
“And, of course, I would never dream of prying.”
“Thank you.”
“But pry I must. This is quite an alarming turn of events, and would indicate that something has gone quite drastically wrong. There’s a powerful Sensitive, named Solace, who has already attempted to distract me from whatever the Hosts are up to. She is obviously invested in the Doomsday Protocol – though whether she wants it to go ahead or she’s seeking to disrupt it, I do not yet know. It’s entirely possible that your group is being influenced without you realising it. Where are the Twenty, Grantham?”
“In a secret location.”
“And where is the vessel?”
He hesitated.
“Grantham? The last I heard of this ever-so-mysterious person or object, it had been lost, possibly destroyed.”
“It has since been recovered,” he replied unhappily.
“I see. And would I be right in assuming that the recovery has directly led to this somewhat undignified scramble to abort the Protocol before it can be activated?”
Grantham stood. “I’m … I’m sorry, China. I can’t talk about this.”
“What is the Doomsday Protocol, Grantham?”
“It’s always good to see you,” he said, already walking away.
The Vault was an ugly building. The cops glared at Skulduggery, but failed to meet Valkyrie’s eye as they made their way down to the interrogation room. Nefarian Serpine was already sitting at the small, notched table when they walked in. He was wearing prisoner orange and sporting brand-new bruises.
They sat down opposite.
“Really?” Nefarian said. “That’s what this is about? You try to kill one measly Arbiter and suddenly that’s an arrestable offence? If I had known that, I probably wouldn’t have done it. It’s just not worth the hassle.”
Skulduggery put his hat on the table. “Why don’t you tell us what you were doing at six o’clock yesterday evening?”
Nefarian frowned. “What? You know what I was doing.”
“We need you to tell us,” said Valkyrie.
“You’re seeking a confession? Since when are confessions necessary? The terribly unfair Sanctuary justice system means that a detective has to do little more than believe a suspect is guilty – for Arbiters, it’s even more weighted in their favour. Why would you need a confession? You know what I did.”
“Where were you?” Skulduggery asked.
A moment passed in which Nefarian glared, and then he shrugged and sat back in his chair. “At six? Oh, I remember – I was attacking you.”
“Attacking which one of us?” asked Valkyrie.
An arched eyebrow. “The thinner one.”
“So at six pm yesterday,” Skulduggery said, “you were attacking me?”
“Half-heartedly,” said Nefarian. “Let’s make that clear, all right? If I wanted to actually kill you, I would have succeeded. As it was, I saw you, I grew irate at the memory of that time you allowed a group of Necromancers to cut off my hand, and I let my temper get the better of me. Then we spoke, exchanged insults, you intimated that you wouldn’t be seeking retribution for the attack, and we parted ways. Obviously, you changed your mind, and sent those delightful City Guard officers after me.” He folded his arms.
“And what about me?” Valkyrie asked.
“What about you?”
“You didn’t attack me?”
“Of course not. You weren’t there. Even if you were, why would I have attacked you? You gave me a new hand. I’m on the verge of actually liking you as a person.”
Skulduggery tilted his head. “And what are your feelings towards Robert Scure?”
Nefarian blinked a few times. “The Sensitive? What does he have to do with anything?”
“Please answer the question.”
“My feelings towards Robert Scure border on the indifferent. He worked on some projects for Mevolent and one or two for me during the war, but always as part of a larger team. I wouldn’t particularly rate him as a genius scientist. He worked well with others, though, which I suppose could be seen as a strength.”
“So you harboured no animosity towards him? No ill will?”
“No will of any kind. Why?”
“He’s dead,” said Valkyrie.
“And?”
“And you murdered him.”
“I most assuredly did not.”
“You shot him three times yesterday at six pm.”
Nefarian watched her, then watched Skulduggery, and smiled. “Ah,” he said.
“Ah what?”
“You have a mystery to solve,” he said. “Someone has done their very best to frame me for a murder I didn’t commit – but Skulduggery Pleasant himself is my actual alibi, so you know I couldn’t have done it. Oh, this is wonderful! An attempt at framing me and I just happen to be around a witness whose account cannot be faulted! I couldn’t have timed this better if I’d tried! So who is claiming I did it?”
“Among others,” said Valkyrie, “I am.”
Nefarian’s smile faded. “I don’t understand.”
“I was with you when you killed him.”
“You …? You saw me do it?”
“I did.”
“You’re mistaken. Or you were fooled. It happens to the best of us.”
“I’m not mistaken, Nefarian. We’d been talking for fifteen minutes up to the moment you pulled out your gun, shot me, and then killed Scure.”
Nefarian looked at her and didn’t say anything.
“When was the last time, according to you, that we spoke?” she asked.
“Two weeks ago,” Nefarian answered. “You wanted to check up on me, see how my hand was doing.”
“And how did we end that conversation?”
“You said we’d meet again soon.”
“And then I sent you a message on Wednesday morning, arranging to meet you at the bar.”
