Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'Poison?' yelled Renard, striding around the fallen Destine like a lion reviewing its prey for the best angle of attack. 'What a simply wonderful idea, Mother.' Renard reached into his jacket pocket, squatting down at Destine's side. She slowly rolled onto her back, her long wet dress clinging to her as if it were made of tar. 'Unlike my father, I shall have the luxury of watching you die,' Renard said, baring his teeth. He brandished a small glass vial in his wet hand.

Shards of rain-filtered moonlight bounced off its glass surface, and Destine squinted through the rain. 'What…is that?' she whispered.

Renard glared proudly at the half-full vial of clear liquid. 'Although a fool of a priest believed this to be an elixir of immortality, it is not any longer. Now it is the most potent poison ever concocted by man or nature, and it is the means of your death. I only wish I could spare more, but this stuff is in short supply. You're only getting dear old Bishop Courtney's leftovers, but it's enough to do you harm.'

'You…you came all this way to poison me? Tell me, Antoine, do you loathe me that much?' wept Destine. Her son was now truly lost to her, lost to rationality, lost to reason.

'Don't flatter yourself, Mother. My business in England brings me just a few short miles from here in Whitehall…you are merely a bonus.'

'Your business? What business do you speak of?'

'Do you really expect me to sit here and run off at the mouth until your prodigal son turns up? I'm afraid not, Mother…but I will let you in on a little secret…soon the River Thames will run with this poison, killing anything it comes into contact with. Mixing the stuff with salt water will augment its potency a hundredfold, and it will spread like wildfire, tainting not just the dockland districts, but it'll seep everywhere, right into London's heart. Not even the great Cornelius Quaint can stop what is in motion this time.'

Destine shivered as the icy hand of dread stroked against her spine. If this poison Antoine gloated about could cause so much damage in a body of water the size of the Thames…what horrors would it inflict upon her?

Holding Destine by the throat, Renard uncorked the vial with his front teeth and waved it under her nose like smelling salts. Destine tried to twist her soaking wet face from his grip, but Renard easily overpowered her.

'You…you are still just a killer at heart,' Destine spat, 'no matter how grand you make yourself out to be.'

'With respect, I am a lot more than just a killer,' said Renard. 'Killing is easy. On the other hand; murdering is a much more skilful business.' The Frenchman held a finger to his ear as a loud crash of thunder exploded around them. 'Do you hear that? That is your death knell sounding, Mother.'

Destine tore her eyes away from him, staring through the drizzle into the distance. She was listening to an ominous rumbling sound, not just crashing in the skies above like thunder, but travelling against the wind. It echoed all around her from all sides, a droning, booming noise that grew ever louder. Destine began to grin to herself, as raindrops pelted her face.

'Accepting your fate at last, non?' Renard said.

'Non, Antoine,' said Destine. 'I am accepting yours.'

'What are you talking about?'

'That sound you hear is not thunder,' Destine said.

Galloping towards her at a furious pace through the liquid walls of rain was a horse. Sitting astride the horse-the moon-bathed light giving him a shining, silver aura-was Cornelius Quaint. As the rain pelted against his hard face, his black eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, and he fixed his sights upon his target. Quaint dug his heels hard into the horse's flanks, feeling the creature lurch forwards, and he gripped the rope around its neck tighter. Renard, kneeling by his mother's inert form, was only a matter of yards away from him, and the sight re-energised his rage. The Frenchman was tantalisingly just out of his reach.

'C'est impossible! Quaint? You witch!' Renard snapped. He grabbed Destine by the scruff of the neck, and tipped the vial's contents forcibly into her mouth. 'But you shall die long before I do, Mother. I have the only antidote, and unless you consume a cure within one hour-you are dead!' Renard gloated, discarding the empty vial onto the grass. ' Au revoir, Madame Destine.'

The Frenchman turned and sprinted towards the exit from the park where the Bishop's driver was sitting waiting for him-it was a sin to let that transportation go to waste, now that the Bishop could no longer make use of it.

Destine gagged, rolling over on the soaking wet grass, over and over again, fighting for breath. Her throat burned as the liquid made its way down. She tried to close it off, but it was useless. The poison would soon be in her system and there was not a damn thing she could do about it. Her vision was already beginning to lose cohesion, and the curtains of rain didn't help. She reached out her arm towards the shadow thundering towards her, screaming Quaint's name into the rain-filled wind, before unconsciousness stole her words, and she slumped onto her back.

Within a fraction of a second, Cornelius Quaint arrived at Des-tine's side, and pulled the huge shire-horse to a halt. He leapt from the creature's back, skidding onto the grass next to Destine, and snatched up her wrist, wiping the soaking strands of hair from her face. He pressed his cheek to hers. She was so very cold.

'Destine,' he shouted above the din of the downpour. 'Destine, speak to me!'

He fell to his knees, cupping the Frenchwoman's head in his hands. Her breathing was shallow, and her eyes rolled. He looked around frantically for assistance. Lifting Destine up into his muscular arms, he cradled her close to his chest. Quaint's mind was flowing like quicksilver as he tried to think clearly, but he had no choice but to watch helplessly as Antoine Renard climbed into the rear of the carriage, less than two hundred yards away. Quaint fought every urge in his body. He wanted to give chase, but Destine shifted and moaned within his arms, snatching him back to reality. For once in his life, Cornelius Quaint had no idea what to do for the best.

'Help! Help me,' Quaint yelled into the darkness. 'Ruby! Jeremiah! Anyone, quick,' his voice boomed once more. The rain fell relentlessly, and sparkles of liquid pelted Destine's pale, cold face. 'I've got to get you out of this rain,' Quaint said, holding his coat over her, offering a modicum of protection as he took her into her tent, laying her onto her camp bed.

In the distance, Quaint saw the faint glow of a lantern, and he yelled again for help, announcing himself. A few seconds later, a group of Quaint's workers joined him inside the tent.

'Harry! Bert!' Quaint snapped, not even looking the men in the eyes. 'Get the tinder-burner in here, pronto. And we need some hot soup…and water,' he said, noticing the specks of perspiration appearing on the surface of Destine's skin as a shiver ran through her body. 'Christ, she's got a bastard of a fever…run and get Nurse Madoc, we need her skills here, right away! And can someone please go outside and check on my horse.'

The group of men exchanged confused glances.

'What's up with her, boss?' asked one of them.

'God knows, Harry, I can't see any sign of a wound…so I'm thinking maybe it's her heart…but that fever…she's burning up good and proper,' Quaint said, scratching at his sodden locks. 'Plus, I know who was just here…I saw the bastard run off into the night. His appearance was probably enough to put her into shock.'

Destine suddenly awoke and clutched at the air frantically, her arms and fingers outstretched as if electricity were animating her entire body. She screamed from the pit of her stomach, and arched her back. Her pale blue eyes rolled into the top of her head until only the whites remained, and her mouth trembled. Quaint shuffled himself forwards, taking her hands in his. Tenderly mopping at her brow with his handkerchief, he leaned closer.