Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'So you were working for this Bishop character all along?' Quaint asked.

'When it suited me.'

'And the rest of the time working for the Hades Consortium, eh? No wonder you dragged poor old Oliver into this scheme of yours. Tell me; is Sir George still in the inner circle of the Consortium?'

'My, it seems you are remarkably well informed after all, Cornelius. I almost wish I had time to find out exactly how much you do know…but I've got a schedule to keep. Hurry up and drink the poison will you, there's a good chap.'

Quaint gritted his teeth, and measured up his situation. To save Destine, he would have to forsake his own life-that much seemed clear now. Renard was right; there was no choice, and no way out. The Frenchman was watching him like a hawk, his pistol trained at Quaint's head. There was only one way this would end, and both men knew it.

As Quaint raised the deadly vial to his lips, the stench of the acidic poison staggered him, scorching at his nasal canal. With one last glance in Renard's direction, he tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth. He instantly tasted the harsh, metallic-tasting liquid flow upon his tongue, tingling against the roof of his mouth. With a sideways glance at Renard's smug face, Quaint threw the glass vial onto the ground.

'Satisfied?' he asked bitterly.

Renard nodded. 'Very much so! I applaud your bravery, Cornelius.'

'The antidote, Renard, give it to me,' demanded Quaint.

'Take it…for all the good it'll do you. If Mother doesn't get that soon, she's dead, and you'll be following her not much later, so either way…I win,' he said, tossing the glass vial high up into the air. 'Catch!'

Suspended for an eternity, spinning in circles in the air, the antidote finally began to descend and Quaint threw himself onto the cobbles, and snatched up the vial before it hit the ground. He slowly unfurled one finger at a time to make sure the vial was intact.

'One day, it'll be just you and me, Antoine,' he said, watching Renard walk casually away towards the waiting coach. 'No tricks.'

'Coming from a conjuror, that's quite rich,' said Renard, skipping into the horse-drawn coach. 'I'll await your resurrection with bated breath, monsieur. I think I shall almost miss sparring with you. Wherever will I find a nemesis as worthy as you? Melchin…let's get going.'

Quaint winced as he felt an electric twinge wash over him from the pit of his stomach. The poison was already taking effect, as it had done so quickly with Destine. She was a woman in her seventies, more frail than she let on. She was in no position to put up a battle that was more about stubbornness and will-power than anything else. Fortunately for Quaint, he had those qualities in droves.

He rose unsteadily to his feet and stood in the centre of the street like a lost child, looking towards the area of Hyde Park, and then back down the street, as Renard's carriage melted into the shadows and faded from sight. Quaint watched his foe depart, with full knowledge that he was about to kill hundreds of people. Scratching furiously at his mop of curls, feeling the poison crawl slowly around his veins, Quaint looked up at the sky, feeling scattered raindrops pelt his face. He begged the grey clouds for guidance.

Quaint checked the time on his pocket-watch. 'Oh, well-in for a penny, and all that.'

CORNELIUS QUAINT IGNORED the acidic rush that flowed down his throat, and gripped the rope around the shire horse's neck tightly, literally as if his life depended on it. The word 'Az-Toray' had an amazing effect on the horse's stamina once more, and the thunderous beast galloped down Spinnaker Street like a streak of lightning, much to Quaint's discomfort.

Renard's coach was in sight, and had been far ahead for a good five minutes, but Quaint was unable to shorten the distance, despite the horse's best efforts. The chill wind grew more bitter the closer he got to the Thames, which Quaint took as a good sign, for it meant Whitehall was only minutes away, as was the Frenchman's plot to poison the river. The sooner Quaint caught up with him and defeated him, the sooner he could get back to Hyde Park. It was a credit to Quaint that it all sounded fairly straightforward-but then again, it wasn't as if he had spent any time actually thinking about the magnitude of his task. His mind was busy elsewhere, trying to guess where Renard might do the most damage with that foul poison in his possession.

Whitehall was a large district, often regarded as the heart of London, the main location for most of Parliament's ministries and governmental offices. A teenaged Quaint had spent some time there as a young clerk, working for one of the many Thames trade ministries, and his familiarity with the area enabled him to make a sudden rash decision. He wrenched hard on the horse's rope, stopping the animal clumsily as its hooves skidded on the wet cobbles.

'Sorry, old chap, but I can make better progress on foot from here,' Quaint said. He leapt from the horse's back and darted down an alleyway, his long coat trailing behind him like a pair of dirty wet wings.

The shops and merchant stores dissipated the further he moved into Whitehall itself, making way for row upon row of terraced housing buildings and waterfront storage facilities. If you knew where you were going and had a head for heights, by traversing across the rooftop highways, a man could easily shave valuable minutes off his journey and, if he were in pursuit, every second counted.

Taking advantage of the warren-like layout of the Thames-side buildings, Quaint sprinted through the narrow lanes, past delivery entrances and rear gardens strewn with rubbish. Using a stack of wooden planks, he vaulted up over a wall and his feet landed with a slap against the lane at the rear of a terraced tenement building. The sudden jarring of his uneasy landing sent a shock-wave of queasiness around him. Quaint wheezed, feeling every intake of breath bringing further waves of stinging pain. He leaned against the wall for support, desperately trying to catch his breath as a kaleidoscopic display of fireworks flashed before his eyes. The poison was spreading fast throughout his system now and he knew it. Was this to be his fate, then? To die a quivering mess in the garden of a squalid, urine-smelling building…and for Destine to die just as horribly in Hyde Park? Cornelius Quaint forced the pain to retreat behind his clenched teeth in stubborn defiance.

'I…won't give you the…satisfaction, Renard,' he hissed, coughing a spit-ball of bloody phlegm into the gutter. He palmed the spots from his eyes and regained his composure. He needed to conquer this ravaging beast before it consumed him from the inside out.

The touch of the cold glass vial in his breast pocket was small consolation. He reached into it, and pulled out the antidote. With just one mouthful he could put an end to Renard's plan for good. The Thames, and the Nile also, would be safe. Finally, Quaint would be able to close a chapter that had remained stubbornly open. But the price he would have to pay was steep…for it was nothing less than Destine's life.

A thought suddenly struck him, and he allowed it to wallow around his addled mind undisturbed. Unsure exactly what he was doing, Quaint quickly uncorked the vial and raised it to his lips. Surely half an antidote was better than none, and the liquid might just give him the extra push he needed to keep up the chase. He paused. If he drank the antidote…did that not prove that his hatred of Renard eclipsed his love for Destine? He hoped not. He could not allow the darkness to consume the light. But then the thought of Renard's plan drove into focus clearly in his mind. Many more could die-would die-if Renard had his way. Quaint was probably the only man alive who knew of it, and definitely the only man alive who would pursue Antoine Renard to the ends of the world to defeat him. He had no choice. He had to do something.