The One Little Thing
SIR GEORGE DRAY looked up from the table as a badly beaten Cornelius Quaint entered the audience chamber flanked by two Hades Consortium guards. The old man flashed a brief smile to himself at the sight. His enemy was broken and he had waited so very long to witness it. Without a word, Quaint took a seat at the large marble table opposite Dray. He sat bolt upright, his elbows on the table. His eyes were defiant and his spirit was not nearly as beaten as his body.
'Guards, you can leave us,' the Scotsman said, causing the two guards behind Quaint to exchange glances, as if they had both heard incorrectly. 'Don't worry, I've got a tight grip on his leash. He'll not be a bother if he wishes to see his Madame Destine alive again. Send in the maid on your way out too. It's so damn dry down here, I need a bloody drink!'
Cornelius Quaint sat in silence, staring into Dray's hooded eyes. The man had grown old. Like an exhumed corpse, his thin flesh hung from his fragile bones limply, as if it were dripping from them. But quite aside from his physical degradation, Dray's soul had decayed into something that went beyond misguided, beyond spiteful – beyond evil. The man was now the embodiment of festering contempt, lacking in any redeeming qualities whatsoever.
An Egyptian servant girl arrived from the tunnels carrying a metal tray containing a large carafe of dark, full-bodied Burgundy and two glass goblets. Dray silently observed the girl as she placed the goblets on the table and nervously filled them, her hands shaking with obvious anxiety. A single droplet of red wine escaped the neck and fell onto the marble tabletop. The servant gasped.
'Master, I-' she began.
Sir George waved her away with a decrepit hand. 'Think nothing of it, lass. Accidents happen, eh? Now off with you, this is grown-up talk.' He watched her swift exit with a twisted sense of satisfaction. 'You see, Cornelius…that is something that you'll never command,' he said, swallowing down a mouthful of wine. 'Respect!'
'Is that what you think that was?' Quaint asked. 'That wasn't respect, George – that was fear. Pure and simple fear.'
Sir George wriggled in his seat as if he was trying to get comfortable on a pincushion. 'You should try your wine,' he said.
'It's a little bitter all of a sudden,' Quaint replied. 'So why am I here, George? Why did you not just let your guards finish me off? They were just getting in their stride.'
'So I see,' Dray said, spying the many cuts, abrasions and bruises littering Quaint's face. 'I just wanted to set eyes on you one last time…to see if I can finally figure out what makes you tick. You intrigue me, Cornelius. You always have. Why would you knowingly risk your life to interfere with the Hades Consortium's plans yet again? Was the last time you and I tussled not enough of a warning? When we first met, you were an arrogant little snot sitting in such self-righteous judgement…if it hadn't been for my son standing up for you, you'd be dead.'
Quaint said, 'The last intelligent thing Oliver did.'
'You leave him out of this!' Dray yelled.
'You brought him up,' said Quaint. 'But you're wrong. I don't seek to judge you, George…a higher authority than I will do that.'
'Are you really so blind? Look around you…things have changed since the old days. The world has changed!' Sir George's eyes glazed over with an opaque, glassy sheen as his rage thundered forth from his mouth. 'No one needs heroes any more. They're a dying breed…the Hades Consortium has seen to that. You are finished, Cornelius, your job is done. Just like me, you're a man waiting to die.'
'Die? You?' Quaint laughed. 'Now that I'd like to see! The hourglass may be running low, but you're one of those types that have a nasty habit of surviving. Oliver was lucky that he never lived to see what a wraith you've become!'
Dray squinted, uncertain what he was hearing, as if the conjuror was speaking gibberish. 'What do you mean by that?'
'He was a victim, George!' Quaint snapped. 'His soul was poisoned the minute you indoctrinated him into this damned club of yours! His blood is on your hands, just like so many others.'
'His blood?' Dray replied in a whispering wheeze. 'What…are you saying?'
'Are you that detached from reality?' snapped Quaint, his physical body like a stone statue, his wrath peppering every syllable. 'George, don't tell me you don't even know!'
'Cornelius, you're not making sense,' said Dray. 'If this is supposed to be some sort of threat it is absurd.'
'Threat?' squawked Quaint. 'George, this is no threat! Has no one told you what happened in Crawditch?' He pushed his chair from the table, and it screamed an obscenity against the stone ground as he rose swiftly to his feet. 'Don't you know what happened to your son?' He searched Dray's face, trying to read the old man's expression but there were so many grooves, wrinkles and liver spots that it was hard ascertaining any sense of emotion whatsoever.
Dray looked at Quaint with equal curiosity. He knew Cornelius Quaint well, but he had never seen that look in his dark eyes before. It was not just anger. It was pity. The old Scot tempered his breath. 'You're enjoying this, aren't you? Getting your own back…playing me at my own game? Honestly, lad, I'm surprised that you'd stoop down to my level?'
'Damn it all, George!' yelled Quaint. 'No matter what you might be you need to know the truth…if only to awaken the embers of a conscience in you.' He strolled around the table, closer to the old man. Amazingly, his voice exhibited genuine grief, despite what a treacherous and evil creature he was facing. 'Your son is dead.'
Sir George looked at Quaint. He knew that parlour tricks were not part of Quaint's arsenal. In a duel such as this, his weapon of choice would be the truth, for it would wound far more deeply.
'Oliver is…dead?' he mumbled. 'But…he can't be!'
'It's true, George,' confirmed Quaint.
'What…what happened to my son?'
'You did,' Quaint replied.
Oliver Dray had been no saint, and responsible for many a crime of his own, most notably throwing his lot in with Quaint's enemy, Renard. Perhaps he deserved his fate. As Police Commissioner in the dockland district of Crawditch, Oliver had used his position to flout the very laws that he was sworn to protect.
'Cornelius, tell me what happened, I beg of you!' Dray pleaded.
Quaint whispered through a sharp intake of breath. 'You beg of me?' The conjuror took pleasure from Dray's pain. He was looking weaker and paler by the second as he tried to consume the information. Quaint wanted to prolong it. He resented giving the old man any sense of peace. He did not deserve it. But as Quaint looked into the eyes of the monster for the briefest of moments, he did not see a devil, no demon clad in human flesh – he simply saw a father, in mourning for his son. 'George, are you that detached from your conscience that you thought your machinations would never come back and bite you in the arse?'
Dray clawed madly at the downy hair on top of his balding scalp, drawing blood. 'I know what life I gave Oliver! I'm not that detached from my conscience…but he was a grown man…he could have walked away at any time. But I don't understand…how did it happen? How did my boy die?'
Quaint submitted to his own conscience. 'I can tell you the how, where and when he died…but you already know the why, don't you? The how: Oliver was murdered by a psychotic killer named Tom Hawkspear on Renard's orders. The where: Crawditch in London, in the yard of his own station. The when: around the end of November.'
'And no one even told me? How is it that I don't know? How is that it takes you – you of all people – to tell me of this?'
Silence manifested itself between Dray and the conjuror. They sat in a kind of restrained, unspoken conversation, as if waiting for something to happen.
'November, you say. And Oliver died…as a result of a Consortium plot in London? But that can only mean-' Sir George Dray sat back in his chair, as if an elusive equation had plagued him all day and he had just deciphered the answer. 'Tell me this is all part of your plan, Cornelius, please. Tell me this is you!'
Quaint shook his head vehemently. 'Once I'd found out just how deeply Oliver had been pulled into the plot, I went to him. I wanted to save him. But I was too late…too late to keep him from the rot that had set in…too late to save him from himself. He wasn't just killed, George – he was mutilated horrifically. He was hung by his entrails from his station, his blood painting the pavement, naked apart from his regulation jacket. Was that the sort of death that you wanted for him?'
George Dray snatched up his walking cane and hoisted himself to his feet, his green eyes aflame. He was remarkably agile, imbued with the potent medicine of vengeance.
'Where are you off to?' asked Quaint.
'To vent some anger!' snapped back Dray. 'I know who was running the plot in London in November…the one who was supposed to be holding Renard's leash…and I aim to find out exactly what she's got to say about it!'
'George, wait!' yelled Quaint, snatching hold of the old man's arm.
'I'll have plenty of time for waiting later. Right now it's answers that I want…that and a little revenge,' Dray seethed, the veins in his head pulsating under his flesh. 'Crawditch was Jocasta's project and I want her head on a pissing plate for this! She has to be brought to bear!'
'You want to settle a score, that's fine! I don't blame you…but you can do a whole lot more than just make her pay her penance. You can right a wrong…reset the balance of Oliver's death.'
Dray turned, his eyes almost looking through the conjuror. When he spoke, his words were sharp enough to cut diamonds. 'If you're trying to appeal to my conscience, you're wasting your breath. I'm detached from it, remember? But my vengeance, now that's another thing entirely…that I am very much in concert with. I'm sick, Cornelius. Dying to be exact. I don't know how much time I have left, but I promise you this…before I draw my last breath that bitch is going to pay!'
'George, listen to me…all I want is an end to this!' snapped Quaint. 'It's within your power, you know it is! If you're dying, then go out with some dignity…go out with some humanity, for God's sake, man!'
Dray shuffled on the spot anxiously. 'You could've let me squirm, twisted the knife in my guts even more. Lesser men certainly would have…I would have.'
'I didn't do it for you, George,' said Quaint.
'Aye…I know that,' muttered the old man. 'Whatever it was that poisoned Oliver, you and he were still friends once. Let's say I could even the score between us – and only this score, mind…we still have others to occupy ourselves with – what would you ask of me?'
Cornelius Quaint did not ponder long. 'Well, there is this one little thing…'