Ancient Appetites

XXVII

Dinner was especially lavish that evening, and the Duke was slightly less truculent than normal, failing to insult a single relative throughout the first course. He pointedly ignored his youngest son, but Nate hardly noticed. Sitting between Daisy and Gideon, Nate avoided conversation and picked at his food. He had no appetite. Elizabeth sat across from him and attempted to attract his attention several times, constantly trying to make eye contact. He rarely looked up from his plate.

Marcus's last message haunted him. His brother had tried to murder his father and had been killed in return. The thought made him physically ill. He was sick of it all – all the talk of conspiracies and threats and murders. It had surrounded him all his life so that he had grown up thinking it normal. Now he was jaded, worn out from the constant tension, the fear that had been instilled in him from birth that someone somewhere was out to get him. How could he have spent his whole life like this? How could he ever have thought this was a normal way to live?

Under the table, Elizabeth's foot touched his shin and he moved it away, avoiding her gaze as she forked meat into her mouth. He had made no attempt to tell his father about Hugo's plotting. He wanted no more part in any of this.

The second course was served, and there was much wondering over the reason for the Duke's uncommonly good mood. As the steaming platters of duck, pork, beef, pheasant and heaps of buttered vegetables and bread were all laid on the table, Edgar stood up and cleared his throat. There was immediate silence.

'We are faced with challenging times,' he declared. 'And now, more than ever, we must face adversity with all the strength we can command. I am happy, therefore, to welcome into our family four noble individuals whom God has seen fit to bring back from oblivion, and from whom much of our strength might originally have been drawn.

'Hugo, Elizabeth and Brunhilde… and let us not forget your unfortunate brother, Brutus.' He raised his wine glass and everyone hurriedly stood up and did the same. 'You are Wildensterns – you must consider this house your own, and all those within it as your kin. Welcome home!'

'Welcome home!' the family cried dutifully and drank the toast.

Hugo and his sisters stayed standing after everyone else sat down. They were at the head of the table on either side of the Patriarch; they had tears in their eyes and looked deeply moved. Elizabeth and Brunhilde hurried to Edgar's sides and knelt to kiss his hands, Brunhilde on his left and Elizabeth pressing her lips to the claw on his right. Nate lifted his head, looking first at Hugo then at his father, his blood going cold. It couldn't be. Not yet. Hugo bowed to the Duke.

'I have hoped for this moment since the hour of my awakening. Sir, you honour us!'

And as his sisters gripped Edgar's arms, Hugo snatched up a carving knife and plunged it into the Duke's chest.

The room erupted into furious motion; some of the women screamed, men shouted, chairs were kicked back and hands grabbed for any weapon within reach. Nate reacted on reflex, his hatred for his father forgotten. In an instant he was up out of his chair, a steak knife in his hand as he leaped onto the table and bounded down to the end of it. Edgar had fallen back over his chair, but if the blade had pierced his heart it appeared he had little use for the organ. A throwing knife appeared as if by magic in his left hand and he slashed at Brunhilde's abdomen, breaking Elizabeth's grip at the same time and seizing her by the throat with his claw. Hugo pulled his knife out and drove it in again and then a third time before Nate crashed into him, hurling him to the floor. The four Maasai servants were already there, leaping to their master's aid, two of them drawing pistols. But a gunshot rang out from the other end of the table and then three more in quick succession, and two of the black servants crumpled to the floor. Nate turned in shock to see Gideon and his sons charging into the fray, also armed with pistols. Gideon stopped and aimed, firing off a fifth shot that spun another of the Maasai round before a final bullet caught the servant through the head. Hugo used the distraction to elbow Nate in the face and lunged at the remaining bodyguard, who struck the ancestor's wrist with the edge of one hand, knocking the knife away, before delivering a stunning blow to the back of Hugo's neck. Gideon took aim again, but Nate kicked the gun aside, only to be pummelled into the floor by two of Gideon's burly sons. He saw Berto hit the floor beside him, fighting like a berserker against three more of their cousins.

The cold ring of a gun barrel was pressed against Nate's forehead and he froze, a growl rising from his throat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his father struggling to regain his feet, blood spurting from one of the wounds in his chest and making the floor slippery beneath him. Gideon drew a short sword from under his jacket and strode towards the Patriarch.

'No!' Nate screamed. 'Don't you bloody dare, you-'

The barrel of the gun pulled away and slammed across the side of his head. As his vision swam, he rolled over, trying to crawl free, but too many strong arms held him. He watched helplessly as Gideon seized Edgar by the hair and pulled him into a kneeling position. Edgar roared, punching his claw up into Gideon's groin. Gideon howled and collapsed to the floor, dropping the sword and clutching his injured privates.

'You always were… an embarrassment… you… treacherous cur,' Edgar snarled at his younger brother, blood gurgling in his throat.

Hugo picked up the blade. Edgar glared up at him, his left hand vainly trying to stem the lifeblood bubbling from his chest.

'Get on with it then,' he grunted.

Hugo nodded solemnly and cut the Duke's head off with a single powerful blow.

The head landed on the tiles with a thump and bounced once and rolled, finishing up on its side. His expression was no less belligerent in death than it had been in life. An unnatural calm settled over the room and for a few moments nobody moved.

The room had divided into three groups: there were those who had joined Hugo's conspiracy – mostly Gideon's family and allies. They had come armed and ready, and had positioned themselves to block those who had risen to the Duke's defence – his sons, some of the servants, Gerald, Silas and Daisy. The rest stood motionless, waiting to see which way the tide would turn. For those few moments after the beheading, nobody breathed.

Then Edgar's lifeless body slumped forwards and fell over and Hugo gave an audible sigh. Dropping the bloodstained sword by the corpse, he righted the chair at the head of the table and sat down. Taking up Edgar's fork, he began to eat from the Patriarch's plate. After a few mouthfuls he sat back and gazed at the stunned faces around him.

'Be seated,' he told them. 'Let us offer thanks to God for the food he has provided for us.'

Nobody moved. Still charged up with the fury of battle, their hands and legs shaking, their weapons clutched tightly, they did not know what to make of this. Some of them exchanged bewildered glances. Brunhilde, still clutching the wound in her abdomen, sat down at her brother's side and began to eat with one bloodied hand.

'Praise be to God,' Elizabeth exclaimed.

She sat down next to her brother and smiled beatifically at her new family, beckoning them to sit down. One by one, they obliged. All the uninjured servants returned to their positions at the edge of the hall. Eventually only Nathaniel, Roberto, Daisy and Tatiana remained standing. Nate did not look at Gerald; he knew his cousin was playing the game. It would be wiser to feign loyalty and bide their time, but Nate had no stomach for it.

'If you are not with me, you are against me,' Hugo said without looking at them.

'If you think that, you have a lot to learn about this family' Nate replied coldly.

With that, he turned his back on the new Patriarch and, leaving his father's remains where they lay, led the others out of the room.

Nate's mind was racing as he stood in the elevator, watching the arrow turn around the dial. How much time did they have? Would they even make it out of the house? The bell chimed, and the boy dressed in smart livery sitting by the levers tipped his hat as the doors opened onto Tatiana's floor.

'You have fifteen minutes,' Nate told his sister. 'Pack a couple of changes of clothes – only what you need to travel. Don't dither.'

'There's nothing to dither about,' Tatty replied tartly as she strode towards her room.

He was amazed at her composure. She seemed to be taking their father's murder in her stride. He suspected the sheer scale of what had happened would not hit her for a while yet and he intended to use that time.

'We stick together,' he said to Berto and Daisy. 'We gather what we need and we leave. Don't trust your servants – do everything yourself. We don't know who's loyal to whom.'

Even as he said it, Patrick Slattery walked round the corner. He gave a gold-plated grin and leaned his head back round the corner.

'They're here!' he bellowed.

'Berto,' Nate said quietly. 'I'll handle this. Get them to safety.'

'I'm not leaving you-'

'I can take care of myself. You need to protect them,' Nate told him.

Berto nodded. Taking Tatty and Daisy by the hand, he led them at a run to the end of the corridor and disappeared round the corner.

'I've been waiting to settle with you for some time,' Slattery grunted, taking off his jacket. 'No more Mr High 'n' Mighty any more. Just two fellas and their fists. I'm goin' to break that stuck-up nose o' yours and then I'm goin' to break the rest o' yeh.'

He carefully hung the jacket on the ornate brass of a gas-lamp and cracked his knuckles. Nate was afraid. For all his training, he had never been in a serious fight until today. He was still untested. Slattery, on the other hand, did this for a living.

'You're just a thug, Slattery,' Nate said in a tight voice. 'Always letting your gang do your work for you. Let's see how you do in a fair fight.'

'Who said anything about fair?' The bailiff laughed and suddenly there was a switchblade open in his right hand as he lunged at Nathaniel.

Nate stepped to one side and swept the knife-hand to the other with the back of his own hand. Slattery whipped it in and slashed backhand at him, forcing him to jump away. The bailiff kept coming, jabbing and slashing, changing the knife from blade up to blade down and back again with practised ease. Each time, Nate was driven backwards. Sooner or later he was going to run out of hallway.

Slattery thrust the knife at his belly and Nate sidestepped it, but this time he caught the bailiff's wrist. Before Slattery could pull it back, Nate swung it round and up and smashed it into the glass of the gas-lamp beside him. The flame guttered, but not before it had scorched Slattery's hand. The man snarled, dropping the knife but then swinging his left fist at Nate's face. Nate ducked and drove one elbow into the other man's ribs and then the other one up under Slattery's chin. The bailiff's head snapped up and he fell flat on his back. Nate managed to stamp on his knee and then on his groin before two of Slattery's men piled into him, bringing him to the floor. He grabbed the switchblade and jammed it into one man's thigh and was rewarded with a scream of pain, but the second man's fist caught him across the cheek and then scored another blow against his jaw. He tasted blood. He jammed his knuckle into the nerve cluster in the man's armpit, making him jerk away in shock, but his opponent did not let go.

'Hold him!' Slattery roared as he wrenched the knife from his man's leg. 'I'm goin' to cut the little guttersnipe's face!'

The injured man grabbed Nate's arms and the other bailiff held his legs. Nate shrieked defiance at them, thrashing to get free. Slattery limped up and stood astride him, leaning down, the knife held loosely between fingers and thumb.

'You got me a good one in the gonads there, lad,' he hissed. 'I'll take my time thankin' you for that.'

There came the sound of something bouncing down the hallway and they all turned towards it. A metal sphere about the size of a cricket ball rolled towards them, trailing a thin stream of smoke.

'Grenade!' Slattery shouted.

It exploded before it reached them, but there was no blast, only a billowing spiral of smoke. It enveloped them, blinding them and filling their nostrils and throats with acrid fumes. Nate coughed, struggling to free his hands so that he could cover his nose. There was a thump and the man at his head toppled forward. Nate pushed him aside as Slattery plunged into the smoke to tackle a dimly visible figure rushing towards them.

Everything was grey. Nate gagged as the smoke caught in the back of his throat. His lungs burned. Somebody got behind the remaining bailiff and brought a wooden club down on the top of his head. Nate shoved with his feet and the stunned man collapsed back against the wall. Even with his irritated eyes filled with tears, Nate could recognize the man with the club. It was one of the Maasai. A second servant helped him to his feet and he stumbled with his rescuers through the dissipating fumes. A third Maasai, his arm in a sling and a pistol in his good hand, waved them forward. All the rescue party had wet cloths across their noses and mouths. Slattery was lying semiconscious on the floor, with a gash in his forehead. He lifted his head as he saw Nathaniel passing him.

'Wait… wait,' Nate muttered.

Swinging back his foot, he gave the bailiff a sound kick to the head.

'You can thank me for that one later!' he called as they hurried away.