The Ace of Skulls

Twenty

Crake pushed open the door of his brother’s house, and looked out onto a battleground.

Guns cracked and snapped in the cold winter night. Trench-coated Shacklemores fired lever-action shotguns from cover, their breath steaming the air. Men were clambering over the wall that surrounded the grounds, their shadows long in the light of electric lamps. Folk from the village, from the countryside; folk who’d once been glad of the wealth and prosperity that Rogibald Crake had helped bring to the area, the amenities he paid for and the school he funded.

Crake felt outrage as well as fear. They were attacking the manor? They were actually attacking the manor? But he couldn’t deny the evidence of his eyes.

The main mass of them had gathered behind the gates. He could hear the incoherent roar of their fury. Shacklemores shot at them from behind fountains and garden walls. Crake saw one man go tumbling back into the arms of his fellows, but those behind him pushed on, undeterred. The gate was stout and thick, and wouldn’t give way easily. Several men were wrapping a chain around the ironwork, no doubt hoping to drag it down. Others fired back through the bars, keeping the Shacklemores busy.

There were so many of them. So many, and more coming over the wall. Some were killed, but Crake saw others drop to the ground and go scurrying away across the night-shrouded lawns, rough-dressed men carrying clubs or pistols.

Condred was at his side, leaning on him, supported by his arm. He heard his brother groan, a sound of weary despair from the depths of his being. In the flat light from the house he was haggard and wan. He was barefoot, and his red silk gown was no protection against the chill. In his face there was something like acceptance, as if he’d long known this day would come.

‘They’re here for you, ain’t they?’ a voice snarled. Crake turned and saw one of the groundsmen, a man he didn’t know, advancing along the side of the house. He was a stocky, unshaven man with a cloth cap squashed down over his ears. He had a spade in his hands, and was holding it like a weapon.

‘Daemonist!’ he spat. Then he looked at Condred. ‘And you, his puppet! What black art brought you back when no doctors could? Whatever you once was, you ain’t no more.’

Crake saw fear and rage and murder in the man’s eyes, and he backed away into the foyer, pulling Condred in with him. But the groundsman lunged at him suddenly, made a feint with the spade. Crake jerked away, stumbled, and Condred’s weight brought him down. The two of them tripped and fell to the parquet floor in a heap.

The groundsman ignored Condred and went for Crake. He put his boot to Crake’s shoulder as he tried to get up, and shoved him back to the floor. He raised his spade, edge downward, aimed at Crake’s throat. Hesitated. Not so easy to kill a man. But Crake knew it was coming in a second or two, once he’d screwed up his courage.

A strange calm took him. He looked up at the grizzled face of the groundsman looming over him. His lips peeled back in a wide grin.

‘Hey. .’ he said quietly, though it hurt to speak with the man’s weight on his chest. ‘Hey, there’s no need for this.’

The groundsman stared down at him, and as he did so, his attention was caught by something. The glitter of a gold tooth. Crake saw the balled-up rage behind the groundsman’s eyes loosen a little.

‘Here. .’ he muttered. ‘That’s a nice tooth.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Crake. ‘Now why don’t you get off me and put down that spade?’

The groundsman regarded the spade as if he couldn’t quite work out how it had got into his hands. ‘Reckon I will,’ he said. He stepped back, tossed the spade aside, and gave Crake a sheepish look.

Crake began to pick himself up. ‘Good. Now why don’t you-’

The groundsman’s chest exploded, spraying Crake’s face with warm flecks of blood. He fell to his knees and tipped sideways. Standing in the doorway was a Shacklemore, a gaunt man holding a shotgun, a scattered beard on his long, hollow face.

‘You alright?’ he asked them, and pulled Crake up before he had a chance to reply. He went and helped Condred after. Crake wiped the blood off his face and looked down at the dead man on the floor. There was a wet hole in his back. A pool of red was spreading from beneath the body, running down tiny channels in the parquet floor.

Another dead man. Once the initial shock had worn off, he found it didn’t mean a thing. He’d lived long enough in the world to shrug at a stranger’s corpse.

‘Let’s get you to the landing pad,’ said the Shacklemore brusquely. ‘We’re falling back.’

‘I thought you were supposed to defend this place,’ Crake said.

‘There’s two hundred people out there, or I’m a blind man,’ said the Shacklemore. He took Condred’s arm over his shoulder. ‘We’re bounty hunters first, bodyguards second and mercenaries third. Martyrs ain’t on the list.’

‘What about our father? Rogibald Crake?’

‘The old feller? Someone’s taking care of him.’

But the man was vague, and Crake wasn’t convinced. And he knew his father.

‘Take my brother to the landing pad,’ he said.

The lines around Condred’s mouth deepened in disapproval. ‘Leave him, Grayther. You know him. He’ll do as we will.’

Yes, thought Crake. I know him well enough.

But Condred saw his brother’s mind, and grabbed his arm. ‘You don’t have to make it up to him,’ he said. ‘Not to him.’

‘Go to Thesk,’ said Crake. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you there.’

Perhaps. And perhaps I’ll never see you again. Perhaps we’ll never again be able to look at each other without being reminded of Bess.

Crake looked long into his brother’s eyes, searching for something to say. Condred was thinking the same as he was. Neither knew what the future would bring. It was all too raw and new right now. In the end, he clasped his hand over Condred’s, and that was enough.

‘Get him out of here,’ he told the Shacklemore. ‘Keep him safe.’

‘Will do.’

Crake turned to leave, and then stopped and turned back. ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘You’ve a pistol in your belt. I’d better have that.’

‘Will you bollocks,’ scoffed the Shacklemore. ‘That’s my pistol.’

Crake grinned, and his tooth glinted. ‘I beg to differ.’

By the time he reached the mansion, the Shacklemores were in steady retreat. Groups of men shot at one another from cover. Bodies lay sprawled across herbaceous borders, bloodied hands dangling in ornamental pools. The fighting was still fiercest round the gates, but enough men had got over the walls to sow havoc among the defenders now.

I did this, he thought as he ran. They’re here for me. Seeing me take Condred to the sanctum was the last straw.

But no. He wouldn’t blame himself entirely. The Awakeners had riled them up, filled their heads with lies and nonsense, made them furious and frightened so the only thing they could do was hit out. Even the Shacklemore bullets didn’t stop them. All these deaths born out of hate and ignorance and superstition, and the bastards who started it were predictably nowhere to be seen.

He ran up the slope towards his father’s house, keeping to the edge of the lawns where there was some meagre cover, staying out of the light. A bullet chopped into the turf nearby and he saw someone aiming at him from over by the wall. He ignored them and kept going. After all his time on the Ketty Jay, he knew they were just wasting ammunition at that range.

What are you doing, Grayther Crake? What do you owe your father? The man never loved you.

But love didn’t matter. It was a question of duty. It was what a son ought to do. And maybe if Rogibald found out what Crake had done, maybe if he knew Condred was alright, maybe he’d smile and favour him at last.

Foolish, he thought. But he ran on anyway.

Crake reached the mansion and went skirting along its fac¸ade, sticking close to the building. As he reached the main door, a Shacklemore came running out of it onto the drive, a young man with slick black hair. He looked about, saw Crake, and then raised his pistol and fired twice. Crake covered his face instinctively as a stone vase smashed to pieces next to him.

‘Stop firing, you moron! Do I look like a bloody peasant? I’m on your side!’

He didn’t know where that peremptory tone of command came from. Perhaps his surroundings had brought out his aristocratic side. But the Shacklemore stopped shooting.

Crake glared at him. ‘Where’s my father?’

‘In there,’ said the Shacklemore, tipping his head. ‘He won’t move himself. I’m going for the landing pad. If you’ve got half a brain you’ll come with me.’

‘I’ll get him out,’ said Crake. ‘You hold those aircraft. Remember who’s paying you.’

There was a shrieking noise from across the grounds. They both looked out over the lawns and saw the gates being torn off their hinges. Their attackers were using chains and a tractor to pull them down. The villagers came swarming in, and the last of the Shacklemore resistance broke.

‘No pockets in a shroud, my friend,’ the young man said. ‘You’d best be quick.’

He sprinted off, and Crake went up the porch steps into the foyer. He knew exactly where his father would be. He hurried through the mansion to the study, and pushed open the door.

The fire had reduced to glowing embers. It had been burning all night. His father stood by the window with a glass of brandy in his hand, looking out. The decanter was on a silver platter on a side table, mostly empty.

‘Father,’ he said.

‘Grayther,’ he replied.

‘Father, we have to go.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘They’ll kill you.’

‘Damned if I’ll run.’ His hand trembled on his glass. ‘Damned.’

Crake came into the room. Even now, the study inspired respect and awe in him. His father’s own sanctum, sacred and forbidden.

‘Condred is awake,’ he said. ‘You did the right thing calling on me. The Awakeners caused the coma.’

Rogibald sipped his brandy.

‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’ Crake said.

‘It takes daemons to fight daemons,’ said Rogibald. He motioned to the window. ‘And here is my reward.’ He turned his head and stared at Crake levelly. ‘At least I have my son back. That’s all I wanted.’

It was a pointed singular, pitched to wound. But Crake was no longer the man that had fled this place three years ago. His father’s barbs were blunt now.

He walked over to stand next to Rogibald. Beyond the window, the gunfire continued. A pair of Shacklemores ran past. Here inside the study, he felt strangely insulated from it all. He wondered if that was how his father had always felt when he looked out on the world.

‘Don’t throw your life away, Father.’

Rogibald didn’t reply.

‘Look at me,’ said Crake, and his father did so. Crake gave him a smile. He felt the cold suck of the daemon as it sapped the energy from him, saw his father’s gaze move to the gold tooth. Crake hadn’t slept, and using the tooth so much had weakened him, but he felt strong enough for this.

‘Live to fight another day, Father. Do it for your son. The one you do care about.’

Rogibald watched his reflection in the tooth, then slowly raised his gaze to meet Crake’s. . and dashed the brandy in his eyes. Crake recoiled, spluttering. Rogibald regarded him with naked hatred.

‘Get out!’ he cried. ‘You’re no part of me! You’re no son of mine! You were weak from the start and now you’re fouled. Run! Save your own life, coward! I’ll fall with my house, and Condred will have all that’s left, but you? You’ll have nothing. You’ve brought ruin upon us!’

Crake retreated before the barrage. He’d never heard his father speak that way. It shocked him and shamed him, but it hardened his heart as well. What did he care for a man who’d never cared for him? What accusation could he face that he hadn’t already accused himself of? He’d done his duty; he’d tried his best. That was more than he owed this man.

He drew himself up and mustered as much dignity as he could with brandy dripping down his face. ‘Goodbye, Father,’ he said.

Rogibald turned back to the window without a word. Crake opened the door and left. It seemed a weak way to bid farewell for ever, but then, they’d never had much to say to one another.

He heard smashing glass as he hurried back through the house, and quickened his step to a run. He’d wasted too long on Rogibald already. It was time to look after himself.

Coward, his father had called him. Well, if he’d learned one thing from his captain, it was this: cowardice was always the last insult thrown by the brave, just before they got shot in the face.

Damn you, Father. Die if you want. I’m done with you.

He reached the foyer, headed purposefully for the door, and stumbled to a halt. Through the panes of leaded glass on either side, he saw men running up the drive towards the mansion. Men with guns and clubs, faces distorted with hate.

Already they were at the door. Seized with the fear of their vengeance, he ran in the opposite direction, up the wide staircase of polished wood. They burst in behind him, a shouting horde. Someone yelled when they saw him. Crake fled upward, and a dozen men followed. The rest scattered throughout the mansion, smashing and destroying anything they could lay their hands on.

He sprinted wildly down a corridor, not knowing where he was going, desperate only to escape from the pain and death promised by his pursuers. And yet even through his terror there was a cold sense of inevitability, a closing-in all around him. The ground floor was occupied; the landing pad was cut off. How was he going to get out now?

One villager, particularly fleet of foot, sprang up the stairs and came thumping down the corridor after him. He was skinny and blond, a chair-leg club in his hand, his teeth gritted and his face red, drunk on the blind hatred of the mob and the sense of togetherness it brought. Crake heard him coming and knew he couldn’t outpace him. Instead he planted his feet, pulled out his revolver and aimed it square at his pursuer.

The villager skidded to a halt, blanching as he realised his predicament. Crake didn’t even think of mercy; he was too frightened. He fired, three times at short range.

They stood looking at each other in disbelief. Then the man turned and scrambled back the other way.

Crake looked at his gun as if there was something wrong with it. But no, it was just his aim. I should give up firearms altogether.

Three more men came rushing up the corridor, shoving the fleeing man aside. Crake didn’t dare gamble that the threat of a gun would keep them back. He turned tail and ran.

He pulled open a door and darted inside, slamming it behind him. A narrow stairwell led up and down: the servants’ stairs. He hesitated: perhaps he should descend to the ground floor? Could he get out that way? But instinct wouldn’t let him. It drove him away from danger, without regard for sense or logic. So he went up instead.

The door burst open below him, and there was a shout. He fired two shots down the stairs, the revolver deafening in the stairwell. The third time the hammer fell on an empty chamber. They pulled their heads in, but it wouldn’t keep them back for long. He reached the top of the stairs and came out on the upper floor of the mansion.

He shut the door behind him. If only he had his thralled skeleton key, he could have locked it, kept them back for a few more precious moments. But the Shacklemores took it when they captured him, and it was gone now.

He fled down the corridor. Voices ahead of him. They’re coming up the main stairs. He skidded to a halt, heart banging against his ribs. There were too many to escape. He was outnumbered and trapped. Nothing he could do would prevent the end. He’d die at the hands of a filthy lynch mob, beaten to death in a flurry of blows, bones snapping as they stamped on him, teeth kicked in, a blinding jumble of agony to see him out of the world.

He searched for a way to delay the inevitable, and found a door he didn’t recognise. It took him a moment to pull it from his memory. It had been repainted since he saw it last. He’d walked past it a thousand times, but had gone inside only once. He’d been a child, and he’d been beaten for his trouble.

There!

He seized the handle and turned it. It was locked. In desperation, he put his boot into it, hard. He kicked twice more, until the door frame split and it hung by a hinge. With one last kick, he was through.

The door to the servants’ stairwell opened at the same time. A bearded man aimed a gun at him and loosed off a wild shot. Crake darted into the room he’d opened.

It was tiny, barely big enough to contain half a dozen boxes of tools and sundries. A wooden ladder, fixed to the wall, led up to a hatch. The roof access. He climbed the ladder, shoved the hatch.

Locked.

No, no, no!

There was a bolt on the inside. Sense cut through his panic. He slid the bolt across, pushed the hatch, and it came open. Up he went, and out into the night. He dropped the hatch behind him and backed away, looking about for something to pile on top of it.

He was near the edge of the roof. A mountainous landscape of skylights and chimneys, lit from beneath, blocked his view. Down below he could see that the grounds were aswarm, the invaders racing over the lawns. There was the occasional crack of gunfire, but the Shacklemores were nowhere to be seen.

Closer by was Condred’s house. The lower windows had been smashed, and smoke was churning out of them.

They’re burning the place. Those ignorant bastards are burning my home.

The sound of rising engines drew his attention to the landing pad. Already several craft were high in the sky, small with distance. The last one was taking off, under fire from a few villagers who took pot-shots at it with their pistols.

Sudden hope ignited inside him at the sight. Surely one of the Shacklemores he’d met would remember that Crake was at the mansion? Surely Condred would tell them? He ran along the edge of the roof, waving his arms.

‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Heeey! I’m still here!’

The aircraft swung around lazily above the landing pad, turning towards him, and for a moment he’d thought they’d seen him. But it kept on turning, swinging round to follow the other craft towards Thesk, and its thrusters lit and pushed it away. Crake watched it dwindle, and the hope in his breast burned to ashes.

The hatch burst open behind him. Crake turned and aimed his empty pistol at the burly man who came climbing through. The man hesitated at the sight; but when Crake didn’t fire, a slow and wicked leer spread across his face. He kept on coming, slowly, as if to say: I dare you.

Crake lowered his weapon. It had suddenly become too heavy for him. His limbs were leaden. He couldn’t run any more. He didn’t see the point.

I should never have left the Ketty Jay, he thought. I should never have left my friends.

He walked to the edge of the building and let his pistol fall from his hand, over the side. It tumbled through the air and smashed to pieces on the driveway.

He closed his eyes. More men were coming through the hatch, but he didn’t care. They were too far away; they wouldn’t have him. He’d not be meat for the savages.

The wind blew his hair across his forehead. He felt it keenly, as if for the first time. He’d miss the wind. It seemed to get louder as he listened to it, rising to a scream in his ears as the world narrowed to a single sharp moment and his senses focused on one final and all-consuming task.

Take a step, he thought, and he felt himself become light. Even in the exquisite sadness of the end, he knew this was the right thing to do.

He sucked in his breath, put out his foot over the edge, and then the roar of the biggest damn autocannon he’d ever heard scared the shit out of him.

His eyes flew open and he recoiled from the edge, throwing himself down with his hands over his head. The rooftop was chewed up all around him; slates and gutters were smashed, skylights exploded, shards of stone went wheeling into the sky. The wind whipped at him and the bellow of engines filled his ears. He saw the men from the village throw down their weapons and flee wildly from the onslaught.

Then the cannon stopped, and he heard a voice over the chaos.

‘Are you comin’ or what?’

He raised his head. Hovering just beyond the edge of the roof was a shuttle. He saw the masked and hooded face of Morben Kyne through the cockpit windglass. The side door was open, and the huge bearded figure of Colden Grudge stood there, his legs planted apart and an autocannon at his hip. Next to him, leaning out and reaching with one gloved hand, was the owner of the voice.

Samandra Bree.

The sight of her brought new strength to his limbs. He surged to his feet. The shuttle swayed alarmingly towards him, driven by a gust of wind; but Samandra’s hand found his and they clasped. She yanked him up with a strength greater than her size would suggest. His feet found a step, and Colden grabbed him by the shoulder. He was pulled inside, where he tumbled to the floor in a heap, tangled with Samandra.

‘Shift it, Kyne!’ she yelled, and the shuttle pulled away. Samandra kept an arm tight around Crake’s chest as they ascended. Grudge kept his autocannon trained on the villagers on the roof until the mansion had dwindled beneath them. Then he reached across and flung the door shut, sealing them in with the sound of the engines.

Crake climbed to his feet dazedly, still disorientated. He’d committed himself to death; it wasn’t easy to pull back from that. He staggered to the side door, slapped one hand against it to steady himself, and stared out of the window. Beneath him, the Crake family manor was getting smaller. He could see smoke coming from his father’s mansion now, as well as Condred’s house. They hadn’t even waited for their companions to get off the roof before they started burning.

‘You okay?’ Samandra asked, picking herself up. Grudge watched him steadily.

‘They’re burning my home,’ Crake said, his voice hoarse. Then, because he knew it had to be true, he added:

‘They killed my father.’

Samandra walked over to stand next him. She looked out, following his gaze. ‘Rough,’ she said at length.

He turned his head towards her. In amid the shock and the numbness, he felt something new, breaching the waters of his mind with a clear and inarguable certainty. He knew there was no time to waste, no time for anyone to waste, and that all things might be snatched away in a moment.

‘I’m in love with you,’ he told her then. ‘I want you to know that.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Duh,’ she said, and put an arm round his waist.