Fallen Angels. Bernard Cornwell

new silk robe was cold on Chemosh’s thighs. He was still shaking from the effort of killing the girl. Her eyes, wide and bulging, still stared in his brain.

      Lucifer drank water, then the silvery cowl turned to the newcomer again. Neither of the other two hooded men had spoken yet. Like Chemosh, they listened to their master’s voice. ‘We are going to take a fortune in Britain, Chemosh, and your task is to help us.’ His voice was bitter and dry, soft and sibilant, yet even Lucifer could not hide the pleasure of his next words. ‘We are going to take the Lazen fortune.’

      Lazen! Chemosh knew of Lazen. Did anyone not know of the richest earldom in England? Lazen, with its sprawling great house and its London property and its estates in every shire, was rumoured to have a greater income than that of most kingdoms. Lazen! He said nothing, but he wondered how, in Reason’s name, these few men would take the fortune of Lazen.

      Lucifer, his hands gloved in silver, told him how.

      The Earl of Lazen was sick. He was dying. It was said he could not live another winter, that, indeed, he had almost died a few weeks before when the stump of his amputated leg began bleeding in the night. He would die, Lucifer said, and when he died the fortune of Lazen, with the title, would pass to his son, Viscount Werlatton. Lucifer turned to his left. ‘Moloch?’

      The robed man opposite Chemosh pushed back his hood. He smiled at the newcomer.

      Chemosh was suddenly frightened. He was staring at a face that had been lampooned by half the caricaturists of Europe. He was staring at a heavy, powerful, brooding, knowing face that was the very symbol of the French revolution. Moloch was Bertrand Marchenoir, the ex-priest who now preached his gospel of blood.

      Marchenoir leaned forward, lit a cigar from one of the candles, then took up the tale. ‘Werlatton was in the British Embassy in Paris. He’s an adventurer and up to his bloody neck in spying.’ Marchenoir blew smoke over the table. Chemosh saw how his black and gold robe was filthy with wine stains. The Frenchman gave a grim smile. ‘He was due to get married; you might remember the fuss the London papers made? We killed his bride and stopped him spawning more heirs. I now hear that he wishes to return to France, seek me out, and take his revenge.’ He laughed.

      ‘We shall pray he does,’ Lucifer said.

      ‘And when he does,’ Marchenoir went on, ‘and after his father’s death, I shall kill him.’

      ‘After?’ Chemosh asked.

      The silver cowl of Lucifer looked at him. ‘We do not want the Earl to change his will. The father will die, and the son will follow. The son is a fool. He should be rearing a family already, but he cannot resist adventure. So he will die, and the earldom will pass to a cousin. Belial?’

      Chemosh knew who Belial was. He was another politician, a member of Britain’s House of Commons who was famous for his impassioned speeches against the French and their revolution. Valentine Larke preached war against France in public, while in private he worked for Britain’s defeat. Larke had sponsored Chemosh for the Fallen Angels and now he turned his hooded face towards his protégé. ‘The cousin is called Sir Julius Lazender. We have no problems with Sir Julius. Soon all that he will inherit will belong to us.’

      ‘How soon?’ Lucifer asked.

      ‘Two months? Maybe three.’

      The silver cowl nodded. ‘You see, Chemosh, by how slender a thread the fortune hangs? The Earl, his son, and then it is ours. All of it. Except for one problem, a problem that you,’ and here a silver gloved finger stabbed at him, ‘will solve. Tell him, Belial.’

      Valentine Larke, MP, leaned back from the table. ‘There is a daughter. Her name is Campion.’ He said the unusual name slowly and scornfully. ‘She is, for a girl, remarkably well educated. At present she has all the responsibility for Lazen. Her father is ill, her brother absent, and she governs. She does it, I am told, well.’ He paused to sip wine. ‘Our problem, Chemosh, is simple. The Earl knows how slender is the thread. He knows his son has no heir. He knows that Sir Julius might inherit and Sir Julius is a gambler. Lazen is in peril, and we believe that the girl is his answer. One. She might inherit, though I doubt it. Two, she might inherit part of the fortune, though I doubt that the Earl will divide his inheritance. Three, and most likely, is that whoever inherits will find themselves still under her thumb. The estate, in short, will be entailed and she will have the governance of the entail.’ He shrugged. ‘We can’t kill her now, because the Earl will change his will, just as he would if the son died, so we must do something else.’

      ‘You must do something else.’ Lucifer spoke, and again his finger stabbed at Chemosh. ‘Your task, Chemosh, is to ensure that the Lady Campion Lazender is no threat to us. Specifically she is not to marry.’

      Chemosh understood that. If she married, then her husband would take her property and would have the governance of the entail or the estate. Her children, if her brother and cousin died, might inherit. ‘I stop her marrying?’

      ‘You stop her marrying by any means short of death. Later she will die, but not until her father is buried.’

      Chemosh had his task now, he had earned it, and he was part of a conspiracy that would twist the history of the world into a new, clearer future. He felt privileged to be in this place where decisions were made which, like those which had led in secret council to the fall of France, would now lead to Britain’s downfall. He was Chemosh, the name of the Fallen Angel that demanded human sacrifice, and he had escaped death by inflicting death. He understood now why they had made him kill for this initiation, for only a man without pity and who understood that Reason’s servants are above man’s petty laws was worthy to be a Fallen Angel. Chemosh’s elation lasted as Lucifer gave his last instructions. He, Chemosh, was to take his orders from Valentine Larke, while Larke would communicate to France through Marchenoir’s messenger. Yet to Chemosh these were mere details that were swamped by his exhilaration at this privilege.

      Finally, Lucifer stood and the movement shifted the cowl for one second, and Chemosh saw again the glitter of eyes deep in the shadow. It seemed that even Lucifer’s eyes were silver, then the hood settled back and the dry, rustling voice spoke again. ‘We are done. I shall go, the rest of you will follow in ten minutes. I wish you all a safe journey. I do not need to wish you success, for we are followers of Reason and therefore cannot fail.’

      Then, with a shimmer of his robes, he turned and went down the passage at the back of the chamber.

      Marchenoir waited till their leader’s footsteps had faded to silence, then stood, stretched his massive arms, and went to the painted, curved doors and pulled them apart. Chemosh saw that the body of the girl was gone. The marble floor glistened.

      Marchenoir grinned. ‘Watch, Chemosh.’

      ‘Watch?’

      The Frenchman jerked his head towards the empty, circular chamber.

      There was silence. Chemosh gave a puzzled look to Valentine Larke who, now that Lucifer was gone, pushed his hood back from hair that, despite his fifty years, was still glossy black. It was rippled like the hard sand on a creek bed. Beneath the hair was a broad, flat, intelligent face, an impressive face even, a face of such judiciousness that any free-holder would think this man worthy of a vote with or without the election bribe. His eyes stopped his face from being handsome. They were of a blandness so unnatural as to be frightening; dark eyes in flattened sockets. They were the eyes of a quiet, watching man, but they were also eyes of horrid implacability. Valentine Larke did not forget or forgive his enemies. Now, though, he smiled and gestured towards the main room of the shrine. ‘Watch!’

      Chemosh turned to the brilliantly lit chamber where he had killed the girl.

      He saw nothing strange, but then, deep in the building, he heard the rattle of a chain, a creaking sound like the windlass of a well, and to his astonishment he saw that the brightness of the gleaming shrine was dimming. A shadow seemed to flow down the walls like blood, like an artificial twilight, a shadow that flicked over the statuary, became darker and then, with an awesome finality, extinguished the last flicker of candlelight within the huge room.