The Brothers Cabal (47 page)

Horst decided he didn't need that comment explained, so distracted himself by picking out the smaller book where it nestled—matryoshka-like—within the larger volume. ‘What's this?'

Cabal looked up with the smallest possible interest. ‘Probably her notebook where she keeps a list of those she's made a bloody fool of. “Dear diary, today I manipulated Wall Street. Such fun”.'

‘It's not a diary. I'm not sure what it is. How good's your Latin?'

Wearily, Cabal gestured for Horst to hand it over. He opened it and noted the mark of the library of Krenz University on the inside cover. Beneath it was a ‘Restricted Collection' stamp. He frowned, and turned the page. Then his eyes bulged.

‘Gott!'

‘Something saucy?' asked Horst.

Cabal wasn't listening. He'd risen to his feet and was looking at the book as if an angel of the Lord had come down, put the Holy Grail in his hand, said, ‘Here you go,' pinched his cheek fondly, winked, and ascended once more.

‘Presbyter Johannes,' he said in a dreadful voice.

‘Lovely,' said Horst. ‘Who's that, then?'

‘
Being the One True Account of Presbyter Johannes by His Own Hand
. It exists?' Cabal's hand was visibly shaking. ‘It exists and it was in Krenz bloody Library the whole time? I stole the
Principia Necromantica
from there, and I could have stolen
this
instead? Oh, gods. Oh, gods.' He slumped back into the chair.

‘Hurray?' ventured Horst. ‘It's … good, then?'

‘Good?' Cabal looked up at him and Horst realised with a shock that his brother was crying. ‘It's everything. It's everything I have ever worked towards. It is the key. The very
raison d'être
of…' His mouth worked noiselessly for a moment, his vocabulary insufficient to express his emotion. Instead, he fastened upon metaphor. Or, at least, what Horst took to be metaphor. ‘You have surely heard of the Fountain of Youth? The Philosopher's Stone?'

‘Yes?' said Horst, wondering at his brother's state of mind.

Cabal said nothing more, but simply held up the book and nodded slowly.

And he smiled, beatific and filled with joy.

Johannes Cabal smiled.

 

 

AUTHOR'S AFTERWORD

The reader is advised to stop reading now. Everything is lovely and there is nothing further to worry about. All Johannes Cabal's Christmases have come at once, and we're all very happy for him, I'm sure. Go back to your life. Fare you well.

Alternatively, you may wish to read an epilogue. There are two. One is pleasant enough. Read that one.

JLH

 

 

 

THE NICE EPILOGUE

They met the conquering heroes in the entrance hall. It was all very muted for a triumphal procession. The newcomers were weary mainly with the tension of a possible catastrophic reversal. They had done their part of the plan—simply to hold their position and let the enemy come on to them—and done it well, but it might have gone badly at any stage. Indeed, when Maleficarus had unleashed his monsters, there had been an unvoiced sentiment that the game that had endured zombies and werewolves was now up. That they had not died, by and large, remained an unexpected turn of events that they were still too surprised to appreciate fully.

There were a few faintly cheery noises coming from their ranks on entering through the shattered door, the drawbridge beyond having been left down after the ill-fated lycanthropic sortie, but even these few died away when they discovered Johannes Cabal, bearing a stolen briefcase and a muttering hatbox, and Horst Cabal, bearing the body of Alisha Bartos.

Professor Stone made a wordless cry of shock and ran to them. He looked at her, then at Horst, and Cabal noted there was no accusation in his face. He only demanded, ‘Who did this?'

‘The
Ministerium
,' said Horst. He didn't bother to mention that it had actually been the doing of a bunch of doppelgängers wearing the faces of the
Ministerium
. He could explain that later. Professor Stone looked closely at Horst and an unspoken question passed between them. ‘No,' replied Horst. ‘They won't be hurting anyone else again.'

Stone waved over a couple of his Dee Society associates to take Alisha away. Horst started to protest, but his brother coughed and the protestation died at the inhalation. Horst knew all too well why Johannes was being circumspect; demanding to keep Alisha's body at that juncture would cause trouble, and what was the point when Johannes was so adept at stealing corpses?

Despite her loss, however, the mood was perhaps surprisingly light. The attackers had always considered the possibility of being massacred unpleasantly high, yet few had died. The entomopters had exterminated the majority of the defenders, but several undead and a few lycanthropes had escaped the aerial strike and reached the ranks of the attackers, causing a handful of injuries and casualties. The toll was far lighter than they had had any right to expect, and relief and some slightly unprofessional triumphalism was apparent among them.

Cabal regarded the leaders of the factions arrayed before him with the special disdain he reserved for those that meant him harm.

‘So,' he said. ‘Ladies. Gentlemen. The immediate menace is defeated.'

‘The immediate menace?' Atropos Straka regarded him suspiciously. ‘What do you mean?'

Cabal shrugged as if discussing an unexpectedly heavy plumbing bill. ‘I've done as you asked. The
Ministerium
is in retreat and in heavy disarray. Rufus Maleficarus is…' He glanced sideways at the hatbox he had requisitioned from the boudoir of Lady Misericorde. ‘Dealt with. The problem has not been permanently resolved, however. Only three senior members of the
Ministerium
are dead; the rest of the organisation remains extant. And, most important, their sponsor, Orfilia Ninuka, also known as the Red Queen, also known as'—he paused for effect—‘Lady Misericorde the Necromantrix…'

There were no gasps, but a few jaws dropped, which was good enough.

‘… remains alive and at large. She is the greatest threat both to the world in general and specifically to each of your groups. I know from recent experience that she takes her revenge very seriously. You have all now opposed her and thereby aroused her opprobrium. You should guard yourselves carefully.'

‘And what about us?' Miss Virginia Montgomery stepped forward, damply. She appeared have taken a bath while clothed. ‘We lost Daisy, two 'mopters, and now you're telling us we have a witch with a grudge on our tails, too?'

Cabal winced. ‘Necromancers are not witches…' he began.

‘You lost another entomopter?' interrupted Horst. ‘Which one was it?'

‘Mine,' she said. ‘The
Spirit of '76
had her last hurrah. It was a good one, though.'

‘But you're all right?' said Horst, looking at her from head to foot searching for injuries.

‘I'm fine. My bird's a wreck, though.'

‘Well, perhaps this will help,' said Horst, and produced a box from his pocket.

Miss Virginia accepted it, a little suspiciously. She opened it to reveal a mass of small items of jewellery: earrings, brooches, rings, pendants. This solicited a gasp where the revelation that Lady Misericorde and Lady Ninuka were one and the same person had not, slightly to Cabal's irritation.

‘I found them in Misericorde's …
Ninuka's
dressing table,' he said. ‘They may be costume jewellery for all I know.'

‘Lady Ninuka,' said Cabal pointedly, ‘would sooner wear an inexpertly tattooed mandrill's arse on her person as costume jewellery. Those are real, I'm sure of it.'

‘Will that be enough to buy you a new entomopter?' asked Horst.

‘Oh, yeah.' Miss Virginia Montgomery closed the box and put it away. She smiled lopsidedly at Horst and nodded. ‘Oh, yeah.'

‘As for her revenge, you should remain alert, but I suspect she regards you as hirelings, and thereby beneath her attention,' said Cabal. He considered his words. ‘I trust you take no offense at being referred to as “hirelings”?'

‘If it keeps us out of that lunatic bitch's attention, we are entirely fine with it.'

‘Alors,'
said Henri Palomer, Yellow Inquisitor. ‘Madame shows grace under pressure. Speaking of which, there will certainly be a counterattack to reclaim the castle,
mes amis
. We should scour the place for intelligence, and—why not?—any valuables that can fund our further activities, and be quick about it.'

‘He's right,' said Atropos Straka. ‘We don't have long.' She gave orders to her group and, without further consultation, they moved off into the body of the building.

Concerned that the Sisters of Medea might get all the good stuff, the other societies quickly followed, leaving the Brothers Cabal alone in the hall.

‘Should we just steal Alisha's body now?' asked Horst. ‘I'm a bit new to the whole body-snatching thing.'

‘No,' said Cabal. ‘I'll substitute a body in a winding sheet before dawn, if you'll help. One of the shapechangers is about the right build. They can burn it with my blessing.' He clapped Horst's arm reassuringly. ‘Let them have their good-byes. Staying on the right side of secret societies is hard work at the best of times without provoking them. Besides, the chemicals I took from Ninuka's laboratory will keep Miss Bartos's body in a perfect state of preservation for a few weeks. I shall have plenty of time to prepare a longer-term solution without alienating our clandestine friends.'

Unconsciously, his hand drifted to the pocket in which he had secreted the book
Presbyter Johannes
.

‘I have work to do,' he said. He looked at Horst a little furtively. ‘
We
have work to do. I can save them, Horst. I can save them both. And I think…' He looked at the floor. ‘I'm not sure. I don't want to raise hopes.'

‘Raise away, brother,' said Horst. ‘I could do with a new pastime. Is saving the world always this tiring?'

‘I once promised to try and reverse your condition.' He tapped his pocket. ‘This may be the key to that.'

Horst did not smile. ‘Perhaps,' he said slowly, ‘I no longer wish to be just a man anymore. Perhaps I have grown used to my condition. Perhaps … I even
enjoy
my condition.'

Now Cabal looked him in the eye. ‘Have you?'

Have you?
said a small voice in Horst's mind.

Horst laughed, and answered them both. ‘No!' He slapped Cabal on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. ‘Come on, Johannes. You said it yourself; we have work to do. And the sun's not going to stay down forever.'

So, gathering up the few items they had looted from the apartments of Lady Ninuka, and the muttering hatbox, the Brothers Cabal left the confines of Harslaus Castle. There would be trials ahead, they knew. Danger, difficult decisions, horror, and despair awaited them, as they always had. But they had one another, the ingenuity and knowledge of Johannes, the personableness and supernatural powers of Horst, plus the purloined book that might be the key to all their hopes, plus a muttering hatbox to add to Johannes Cabal's growing collection of talking boxes.

Plus, Cabal inwardly admitted, he had swapped a very disappointing nemesis for one worthy of the title. One is often judged by the quality of one's enemies, after all. He was still troubled that Ninuka had gone to such extents to drag him into play for no better reason than revenge, but was beginning to see that he might have misunderstood the method of that revenge. No matter how nice they were in life, vampires are rarely the most moral creatures in death. That was her revenge right there; to bring Cabal's own brother back into the world as a monster. That was why she had gone to the trouble of recruiting Horst rather than one of their home-grown vampires. Of course. Cabal berated himself for ever thinking it might be anything more complicated than that.

She had misjudged Horst sorely, though, and that was all for the good. It might be necessary to deal with Ninuka in the future, but he expected she would be too busy reestablishing her grip on power for the moment to cause him any trouble for at least a couple of years. With the secret societies now very aware of her, he doubted she would be given that time.

All in all, things conceivably might have been better for a jobbing necromancer and his vampiric brother, but they could also have been a great deal worse, and that was grounds for optimism in itself.

Thus, they walked from Harslaus Castle, and entered upon the unknown adventure that awaited them with the pleasurable sense that the unreachable had become the attainable, that the road had an end, and that end was only just out of sight.