Ghosts of Albion: Accursed Page 34

  Though all club members had been able to attend the dinner for Sir Darius Strong, along with invited guests, only elite members were ever allowed into the inner sanctum. Haversham imparted to him in a whisper that it was the cause of a great deal of bitterness among the general membership. To those who were never invited into that room—accessible via a long hall that led into an adjacent building—the selection process seemed arbitrary.

  Yet it was anything but.

  Only true magicians—those with some skill in spellcasting and genuine knowledge of the occult—were invited to the inner sanctum. Most of the well-to-do members of the club were used to wielding the influence that came of age and wealth. But though there was a brotherhood that existed among those who practiced the art of illusion, they had no gift for real spellcraft. Thus, there were doors barred even to them.

  The inner sanctum was a huge room whose architecture and decoration were reminiscent of some of the more extraordinary ballrooms William had seen. The floors were marble, but inlaid with tile patterns that suggested a Moorish influence. The ceilings were easily twenty feet high, and all around were wide archways that led into an arcade that circumscribed the chamber. The columns supporting the arches boasted delicately carved woodwork, painted a startling white, as were the walls and the intricate friezes that went around the room above the archways. Oil lamps made of crystal and iron hung down from the ceilings on thick chains.

  William was amazed by the place, not merely because of the ostentatious quality of its décor, but because the combination of styles and influences should not have worked at all. An architect by inclination and training, he had a sense for such things, and it surprised him to find the room immensely appealing.

  It was shortly after he and Lord Blackheath emerged from the man’s study that the party moved into the inner sanctum. The entirety of the situation was surreal. Men who had witnessed his succumbing to the embarrassing effects of the drug behaved as if nothing at all unusual had taken place.

  All in all he was pleased. If they were keen to forget his embarrassment, he was all too willing to oblige, particularly now that he knew the reason for it all.

  They meant him no harm—that much had become clear. Quite the contrary. In the space of hours he had been transformed from outsider to a true insider. Not merely a member of the club or its elite, but of its ruling council. More than once while he mingled with those influential men, sipping sherry, a smile came unbidden to his lips, while he thought what Tamara might say when she learned that she was about to become the first female member of the Algernon Club.

  Her response would be something inappropriate. Of that he was certain.

  He was also amazed, standing in that room and discussing politics and public affairs, by the number of members of the Algernon Club who were allowed into the sanctum. Granted, they had gathered from across the nation, but his experience with other magicians was limited, and to realize that there were so many . . . it was a bit daunting. Several times he caught gentlemen staring at him with looks that seemed to speak of disdain, and even anger. It unnerved him enough that he wanted to ask Haversham about it, and so he sought the man out.

  William located him in a corner of the room, beneath one of those elegant archways. John was deep in conversation with a pair of men, one a seemingly ancient fellow with wispy white hair and a heavy cane, the other a broad-shouldered, ruddy-faced, fiftyish person who looked more like a dockworker or pugilist than a gentleman. Haversham gestured toward William as he spoke, and when he did, William caught his eye.

  With a nod and a smile, Haversham said something to the two men, and all three began to work their way across the room. William met them halfway. The older man had skin like parchment and moved with the pain of age, but his eyes were alight with nimble intelligence that made his mind seem like a wild thing trapped in a cage of frailty.

  “William, may I introduce you to Sir Horace Walpole and to the guest of honor tonight, Sir Darius Strong. Gentlemen, William Swift, Protector of Albion.”

  “Ah, yes,” William said, turning first to Sir Darius. “I hadn’t had the opportunity to make your acquaintance yet, sir. Please accept my best wishes on the occasion. A very happy birthday to you.”

  Sir Darius inclined his head in the slightest nod. “Thank you, Mr. Swift. It is an excellent birthday gift to learn that we will once again have the Protector as a member of the club.”

  “Protectors, Sir Darius,” John Haversham reminded him.

  The hulking man arched an eyebrow and lifted one corner of his mouth in the semblance of a smile. “Yes. That ought to be very interesting. Indeed, it will.”

  His companion, Sir Horace, grunted in outright derision. “Interesting is a wickedly sharp blade of a word, sir. It cuts friend and foe alike.”

  William flinched. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning, sir.”

  Sir Horace sniffed. “Ah, but I’m certain you do. Your grandfather did us a grand disservice, splitting the Protectorship this way. Shameful. Though I suppose he performed his duties to Albion ably enough. We may only hope that you and your sibling are half as effective.”

  “Come now, Horace, don’t be so hard on the boy,” Sir Darius said jovially.

  There was more to the conversation, but William began to drift. Despite his pique at the old man’s insult, his attention was drawn elsewhere. Even as Sir Horace had been speaking to him, William had caught sight of someone moving in the shadows of an arch off to his left, back in the arcade that ran along beyond it. The figure was vague and insubstantial, yet still it took him a moment to realize that he was looking at a ghost.

  Attempting to be inconspicuous, he took another look. There, little more than an outline, a flitting image in the gloom, framed within an arch, was the ghost of Lord Byron.

  The specter of the poet beckoned to him with an upraised finger, then darted from sight into the shadows of the arcade, flowing across the air as though carried by a gust of otherworldly wind.

  William frowned. Whatever Byron’s purpose for showing himself there, it was obviously urgent.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, interrupting something Sir Darius had been saying, and not caring a whit. He straightened his jacket, back stiff, allowing his annoyance at Sir Horace’s insinuations to show on his face. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just seen an old acquaintance to whom I ought to say hello. It was a pleasure meeting you both.” He nodded at Haversham. “John.”

  “Oh, yes, by all means,” Sir Darius said.

  But Sir Horace only scowled, and John Haversham eyed him curiously. William ignored them both and strode away, going directly to the arch where he had seen Byron. He passed beneath it and into the shadows of the arcade.

  There were lights there, but they were dim, pitiful things that cast little illumination. The arcade ran along the entire length of the sanctum’s outer wall. There were doors set into that wall at regular intervals, and within were rooms at whose purpose William did not take the time to wonder. He heard footsteps behind him, and the buzz of voices, and turned to see a man approaching as though to engage him in conversation. Beyond that, he saw Haversham talking animatedly with Lord Blackheath.

  William ignored them all, turning again to search the shadows.

  A spectral hand emerged suddenly through the carved wood of a closed door. Byron’s face pushed from the wood, and he looked at William, beckoning once again, then putting a finger to his lips to hush him. Though already the man who was approaching seemed about to speak, William strode quickly through the arcade and opened the door. He stepped through, quickly closing it behind him and turning the lock.

  “Well, I say, that was terribly rude,” came a man’s voice from the other side.

  William felt sorry for having closed the door in the man’s face like that, but only a very little. He might be a member of the club now, but these men had drugged him, after all. And he had been stung by Sir Horace’s snide comments. If they regarded the Protectorship so highly, they were
going to have to make him feel a bit more welcome.

  The room he had entered was a small, private office with a pair of high windows protected by heavy drapes. It was dark, save for the glimmer of a street lamp through a slit in the curtains. What little light it offered was muted by the drapes, but it saved him from complete darkness.

  “Byron?” William whispered.

  His pulse raced, and his skin prickled with the feeling that he was an intruder in this room. When the ghost materialized beside him, flickering with an ethereal glow, he started.

  “Do not sneak up on me like that!” he rasped.

  Normally Byron would have been amused to have upset him, but tonight the poet only executed a half bow in apology. “I’m sorry to disturb you, William, but you’re needed.”

  “What’s happened? Is Tamara all right?”

  “Quite. At least for the moment. This crisis seems to be building. We’ve located the Protector of Bharath. He is our ally, not our enemy. But trouble is brewing. Tamara has asked me to fetch you and return to the docks.”

  William sighed and glanced down at his formal attire. “Wonderful. I don’t suppose I have time to change?”

  Byron raised an eyebrow. “Shall I meet you outside, then?”

  “Yes. I’ll be along in a moment, as soon as I can make my apologies.”

  It was only after he’d left the room and was slipping through the arcade into the brightness of the inner sanctum that he realized the insouciant stable boy wasn’t due to return with his carriage for at least another hour. He would need to translocate to the docks, of course, but it wouldn’t have been acceptable for him to simply disappear from the midst of the party, and certainly not without bidding his host goodbye.

  So he paused just inside the sanctum, glancing about. Several gentlemen stood in a group to his right, one holding a pipe whose smoke swirled and eddied above him. They nodded a greeting toward him, and William returned the gesture.

  You’re a member now. Grandfather was a member. They’re here to help you, he thought.

  Yet what did he really know about any of these men? To enter this room they had to have some degree of skill at casting spells, at manipulating the magical energy that existed as an undercurrent to the entire world. But that did not necessarily make them his allies. Even if the Algernon Club itself had been founded with benevolent purpose, might there not be less altruistic men among them? No, William doubted he would be willing to invest unreserved confidence in the Algernon Club without first getting Tamara’s opinion of them. Her intuition was generally far better than his own.

  Concerned for his sister’s welfare, and worried that the action might begin without him, he moved in among the men, some of them jocular enough, but others grim-faced and leaden. The drone of conversation and the clink of glasses filled the room and echoed up to the high ceiling. He pushed through a cloud of cigar smoke and soon found himself within arm’s reach of Haversham and Lord Blackheath.

  “John,” he said.

  “William. There you are, good fellow. I was about to set the dogs after you. Where have you . . . I say, is everything quite all right?” Haversham peered at him curiously.

  “Not entirely,” he admitted, glancing at each of the men in turn. “I’m afraid I have to cut the evening short. I have a pressing engagement elsewhere.”

  Lord Blackheath’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something brewing? We’re at your service, you know. Might we send some of our spellcasters along to aid you, in any—”

  “No, no, that’s quite all right. It’s a small thing, really. My sister has asked me to have a look at some documents she’s found. Shouldn’t be any trouble at all.”

  Haversham and Blackheath both looked dubious. William had never been a good liar. But he simply did not trust these men yet. He wanted to. It would be comforting to know they had such allies in the war against the darkness. But it would have been foolhardy to throw in with them without due consideration.

  “All right,” Lord Blackheath said, nodding. “But you know where we are, should there be anything at all we can do to help.”

  “Of course. And thank you, my lord,” William said. Blackheath gave him a firm handshake.

  William turned to Haversham. “John, it was an unexpected pleasure.”

  The man’s face seemed to have grown a bit pale as the night wore on, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. William wondered how little sleep John had been getting of late. When they shook hands, he found Haversham’s skin cool, and a bit damp. It was entirely unpleasant.

  William turned and made his way back into the main rooms of the Algernon Club, retrieved his coat from the same curmudgeonly servant at the door, and then at last was back out on the street again. He set off at a brisk pace; only when he was out of sight of the club did he step into the dark threshold of another building and call for Byron.

  The ghost appeared instantly. “Shall we, then?” the poet inquired.

  “Where, precisely?”

  Byron propped his hand beneath his chin and described their destination. William had not spent much time around the docks, but that was the advantage of using magic. With that little description, he knew he could trust the translocation spell to get him within yards of the spot.

  “The ship is called Sea Witch, appropriately enough,” the ghost added.

  William nodded, glanced around to be certain he was not observed, and raised his hands. “Under the same sky, under the same moon—“ he began, intoning a spell that had become almost second nature to him by now, something the William of half a year ago would have been hard-pressed to imagine.

  His entire body trembled with the magic that came up from within him, enveloping him in a strange glittering sheath of light. That discordant sound that accompanied powerful magic rang in his ears, rattling his teeth as though the noise were in his own head.

  A flash of brilliance blinded him for a moment, and he felt the dislocation that always accompanied this spell, a moment in which he seemed to be floating and sensed around him nothing but unending, unyielding darkness. The ether. And out there in the ether, it felt as though he was not alone. In all the times he had translocated, William had never once tried to determine what else might be there with him, for he feared the answer.

  It lasted only a moment, and he was glad.

  He felt something solid beneath him, and staggered forward a step, shoes scuffing on wood. He blinked to clear his vision and found himself on the deck of a ship, presumably Sea Witch. The sway of the deck forced him to take a moment to adjust, but then he glanced around quickly.

  There were other ships moored nearby, and he could hear the voices of sailors coming to him through the night. A light fog had begun to swirl up off the Thames, carrying with it a stink that churned his stomach. But there was no one else close around.

  “Tamara?” he said, keeping his voice low.

  William walked warily across the deck. In the fog he saw several figures lying there, unmoving, at the base of the main mast. When he drew closer, he realized they were Rakshasa, charred to little more than ragged flesh and bone, one of them decapitated. His mind ought to have been eased by this sight, but it only made him more nervous. The corpses did not steam in the chill night air, so they weren’t exactly fresh. But there might have been others where these came from, and—

  “In the hold, dear boy,” came Byron’s voice.

  The ghost resolved out of the fog as though he were a part of it, spectral mist from river mist. William had grown quite used to the sight of the wandering spirits of the dead, and Byron himself was a jester and bon vivant . . . yet the poet’s appearance sent a shudder through him.

  There was a sound of footfalls to accompany the creaking of the old ship, and William turned to find Tamara emerging from the hold. A smile of relief washed across her face. In the fog he could not tell for sure, but he thought her clothes were torn. Her hair was a wild, unkempt mess.

  “I thought I heard you up here. Come on, then, we�
�ve got work to do, and precious little time.”

  William grinned as he strode over to her, feeling absurdly happy to see her. “Haven’t I heard that before? Seems to be a tradition for us.”

  There was movement behind her in the fog, and William saw a familiar face appear, the old Indian man who had aided them against the Rakshasa in the streets of Shadwell. Nigel was just behind him, the last to climb from the hold of the ship. When William glanced at Byron, he saw that the ghost of Lord Nelson had materialized in the mist, as well.

  “Tipu Gupta, I presume?” William said, nodding toward the old man.

  “Indeed,” Tamara said. But her gaze was intense, leaving no room for niceties. “And he has provided all the missing pieces to this terrible puzzle.”

  William listened in growing horror, his stomach tightening anxiously as she revealed to him the sinister tale of madness and betrayal that had led to their current circumstances. Their enemy was a young woman no older than Tamara.

  “But what is it all for? Creating all these monsters, rallying them to her, she must be building to something. If she truly believes she can destroy the Empire’s hold on India, she must plan some hideous act of rebellion and—”

  “Oh, she does,” Nigel said, his voice dark and velvet like the night. He slipped up to William and Tamara in the fog, but then turned to look at Tipu Gupta.

  The old man hung his head in shame. “Yes. My daughter’s madness has reached grand proportions. This very night, I believe she will muster her forces and take the final step in her plan. Before midnight, she will assault Buckingham Palace.”

  William choked on the cold air and his own horror. “She means to kill the queen?”

  “Not merely the queen,” Tamara replied. “If Mr. Gupta is correct, Priya means to kill everyone at the palace, including the queen, her servants, and her entire family.”

  “Only together do we have a hope of stopping her,” the old man rasped, leaning now on Nigel for support.