George Mann - The Executioner's heart

“This man,” continued the Queen, “would take what is ours, Alberta. He works to undermine our power, to expose us so that he might claim our throne for his own. This insurrection will not be tolerated.”

Alberta nodded. What would the Queen do, to this, her own son? Surely he would not hang like a common criminal?

“However, we are not, Alberta, wholly without mercy,” said the Queen, as if reading her thoughts. “He shall not hang.”

Alberta felt no relief at these words, simply a cool, collected interest. The effect on the Prince, however, was immediately visible. He slumped back in his chair and ceased his struggling. His demeanour softened. Alberta could see the relief in his eyes.

“No,” went on the Queen. “For him, we have a different solution in mind.” She glanced over her shoulder, into the looming shadows. “Warrender?” she called.

Alberta heard footsteps from behind her. The doctor apparently had also been lurking in the shadows. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, his voice giving little away. Alberta shuddered.

“Have the traitor removed to a comfortable room at Bethlehem Hospital,” she said. “I wish to hear of him no more. We shall suffer no mention of the man, and hear no reports of his progress.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” said Warrender, as the Prince began again to buck wildly in his chair.

The Queen, as if unprepared to witness this distasteful display, wheeled herself backwards, allowing the darkness to swallow the Prince once more. “You see now what becomes of traitors, Alberta. You must remember this moment. The time will come when you, too, will be forced to make such judgements.”

“I understand, Your Majesty,” she said again. Today, it seemed, she would avoid punishment. The appetite of her adoptive mother for such things had clearly been sated.

“Very good,” said the Queen. “Now, run along. Return to your rooms. Your tutors will be wondering what has become of you. There is still much to be done.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Alberta.

She turned and hurried from the audience chamber, pretending to ignore the sounds of struggling men as they fought to contain the Prince’s desperate thrashing, and the sickening, vindictive cackle of his mother.

The Gare du Nord was as imposing as any of the major London railway stations, Amelia decided, as she stood on the bustling platform, jostled by the surging crowd of fellow travellers.

It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was slanting in through the half-moon windows that lined the upper walls of the station, falling in great columns upon the multitudes below. Dust motes swirled and danced on eddies high above their heads.

The air was filled with the cloying scents of steam and smoke, and the clamour rang loudly in her ears: the hiss of pistons and the screech of whistles; the exhalations of the sighing engines; the chatter of a thousand or more people gathered beneath one roof.

Amelia glanced at Newbury, who looked broodingly handsome in his tailored black suit and top hat. His complexion, however, was almost as pale as his collar and cuffs, and he was thinner than she’d ever seen him. He did not wear his concern lightly. Behind him, a struggling porter fought to maintain his composure beneath the weight of their bags.

She studied the engine at rest at the platform before her. It was like nothing she could have imagined: a feat of engineering so miraculous that it might well have been born of a feverish dream, rather than designed on a drawing board by men of science. The gargantuan train snaked the entire length of the platform and beyond, its dark wooden panels and gold livery resplendent. The carriages themselves were two-storied and twice as tall as Newbury, even wearing his hat. Row upon row of gleaming windows reflected the sunlight, making it difficult to see into the cabins inside.

Earlier, she had watched in awe as the engine had arrived at the station, raging along the platform as if it were a fabulous mechanical beast at the close of a hunt, steam dribbling from the corners of its mouth. Now, even from where she was standing on the platform, she could still feel the intense heat of its furnace. She felt for the fire men who would feed such a thing as it dragged its huge payload across the Continent towards Russia.

Amelia couldn’t help but feel a pang of trepidation at embarking on such a journey. Nevertheless, Veronica, in her comatose state, was relying upon them. There was little choice. “Confirm to me again, Sir Maurice, that this journey is absolutely necessary,” she said, seeking reassurance.

Newbury looked over, his expression firm. He put his hand on her arm, gripping it intently, and she wondered for a moment if he wasn’t clinging to her as much for his benefit as hers. “Amelia, it is entirely necessary. If we are to help Veronica, then we must undertake this journey. Only the artisans of St. Petersburg can provide us with the intricate mechanisms we need to replace your sister’s heart.” Amelia nodded. “And,” continued Newbury, “if I am to take such a journey, you understand that you must accompany me. It is the only way in which we can continue with your treatment. We will be gone for some weeks.”

“Very well,” said Amelia, forcing herself to smile. “Then we must continue as planned.”

“I have booked us adjoining cabins,” said Newbury, “that open into a shared living room. We should be comfortable.” He smiled. “Come on, let’s try to settle in whilst our fellow travellers board.” He gestured to the porter, and the man, now sweating profusely, struggled across the platform towards the train. Newbury held the door open for Amelia, and together they boarded L’Esprit du Paris for the onward leg of their journey.

* * *

Across the platform, unseen by both Newbury and Amelia, a figure emerged from a recess by the ticket office. He was dressed in a black suit, and bore a distinguishing scar across his lower jaw, puckering his bottom lip. Within his pocket he clasped a dagger in his fist, its blade hewn from a shard of human femur, and around his throat he wore a necklace fashioned from the finger bones of the sacrificial victims he had killed with that very weapon.

He watched Newbury and Amelia as they boarded the immense train. Then slowly, purposefully, he crossed the platform, clambered up onto the shuddering vehicle, and located his own cabin.

Soon the Cabal would have their revenge against Sir Maurice Newbury, and he, the Keeper of the Blade, would reclaim for his brothers what was rightfully theirs. Not only that, but in so doing so he would be granted the honour of adding two further totems to his collection. His power, and his standing, would increase amongst his brothers.

The man’s hand strayed unconsciously to the string of bones around his throat, and he smiled.