The Romulus Equation Page 2
I have done what I can to keep him occupied, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for him to follow so that I may deal with his interference myself. He’s a tenacious bugger, just like his old man – but then we both know what happened to him.
Which begs the question: what does Cornelius know? I need not remind you of the consequences if he has uncovered the truth about his father. You must warn Adolfo to be on his guard just in case. A Quaint is not to be underestimated – as you know to your cost.
George.’
‘This interloper in Egypt… was Augustus Quaint’s son?’ gasped Remus.
Sirona nodded. ‘Which means that George’s death was no accident.’
‘So this is why he was so eager to speak with me? But, Sirona… I fail to see the need for concern. Quaint is dead.’
‘Are you mad, Adolfo, he is nothing of the sort!’
‘But Nadir’s report—’
‘Was falsified on my orders!’ barked Sirona. ‘If the inner stratum suspected the truth, they would take an immediate interest in Cornelius Quaint and I cannot permit that. That is why I have gone to great lengths to ensure that Nadir’s tongue is silenced permanently… yet he is not our only problem. Cornelius must be dealt with too – as quickly and cleanly as possible. We currently have an operative in London who seems to be the ideal candidate for the job, does he not?’
‘Him?’ gasped Remus. ‘Sirona, are you mad? In his present condition, he is hardly fit for an operation as sensitive as this! He is too much of a risk!’
‘And we know all about risks, Adolfo,’ Lady Sirona snarled. ‘The ghosts of our past must be exorcised once and for all… preferably before they come back to haunt us. Send word to Dr Chang in London. Inform him that he has a resurrection to arrange.’
Chapter II
The Devil’s Right-Hand Man
London, England
Limping through the Limehouse district, the gaunt man was no stranger to the shrouded backstreets and dingy alleyways, and he pushed his way past baying whores and bragging tavern owners towards his goal. His pale face was flecked with scars, as if he had stared into the heart of an explosion. As he arrived at a dimly lit doorway adorned with Chinese symbols, he thumped his bloodstained and bandaged lump of a fist upon it. Behind this door he would be reborn, as would his revenge.
A pair of oriental eyes peered out of a slot fitted into the door.
‘We are closed,’ clipped their owner.
‘I’m here to see Chang,’ said the scarred man. ‘Remus sent me.’
The oriental eyes lowered nervously. ‘In that case… I shall inform Dr Chang at once of your arrival.’
The scarred man made his way down the narrow hall and up four flights of stairs to the attic. Flickering candles made shadows dance across the walls, each one decorated with more Chinese symbols. The light was dim in the enclosed space and a stench hung stagnant in the air. He flopped, almost collapsed, onto a cot bed and looked around, grasping what he could of his surroundings. A moth-eaten curtain separated him from a large open room filled with rows of beds occupied by pale-faced ghouls, smoking opium through long rubber tubes. They were laid out like wretched corpses, a hair’s breadth closer to death than life. The stench came from them, the unmistakable bouquet of urine and defecation. The scarred man was distracted by the scuttling approach of a Chinaman with crooked spectacles perched upon his snout-like nose. He was dressed in a long, stained white coat and he carried a wooden tray. Placing the tray upon the table by the side of the bed, with no word of greeting to the scarred man, he removed several utensils one by one. A scalpel, a bone-saw, a pair of scissors, a magnifying glass and most curious of all – a metal glove, similar to a medieval knight’s gauntlet.
‘I am Chang,’ said the Chinaman. ‘I assume you understand the bindings of the contract? And you understand that this operation is not without pain? I have opiates to minimise your suffering, but they will not be enough.’
‘Pain and I are well acquainted, monsieur,’ said the scarred man, lifting his bloodied stump of a hand.
‘Ah, yes. Might I inspect the wound?’ asked Dr Chang.
Using the pair of scissors, he began cutting away at the mitten of filthy bandages. The blood-soaked material cracked open like an egg, and the scarred man hissed in pain as the wound tasted fresh air – as fresh as the air could be in the clouded fog of opium fumes.
‘When did you receive this injury?’ he asked.
‘Four months ago… or thereabouts,’ replied the scarred man.
‘Hmm, not too bad then,’ Dr Chang said, taking the magnifying glass from the tray and inspecting the hand more closely. In truth, it was barely recognisable as a hand. It was just a stump of flesh, missing four of its five digits, each one severed cleanly near the knuckle. Only the thumb remained intact, albeit bruised and gangrenous at its base. ‘The majority of the nerve endings seem to be undamaged, although the tendons around the wound have superficial damage. You are actually lucky that it has not fully healed; it enables the grafting to occur that much faster.’
‘That is good news,’ said the scarred man, ‘because I am bleeding to death.’
‘I understand, sir… but this is still an experimental procedure. These things cannot be rushed.’ Dr Chang lifted the metal gauntlet from the table and presented it to the scarred man. ‘Once this glove is fixed in place it will bond with your injured nerves, tendons and muscles. The mechanisms will respond to your brain’s commands like flesh and bone. It will replace flesh and bone… but I must warn you that it comes at a price. Once the grafting has taken place, it can never be removed.’
‘You may dispense with the disclaimer, Doctor,’ said the impatient patient. ‘My employers have briefed me on what to expect.’
‘Of course they have.’ Dr Chang shuffled nervously about the bed, trying to find the right words to put in his flailing mouth. ‘The Hades Consortium… is a dangerous group to make such a bargain with. One day you may regret selling them your soul.’
‘It is a little late for that, Doctor,’ the scarred man said. ‘Just get on with it.’
Dr Chang inched closer and placed the metal gauntlet carefully onto the stump of a hand. Bustling over to a small, steam-powered generator, he pulled a ripcord from its side and it sprang to life, rattling and humming with power.
‘I advise a deep inhalation, sir,’ Dr Chang said, offering the scarred man a long rubber pipe connected to a glass vat of smoking opiates.
‘No, I want to feel every ounce of this pain!’ He pushed it away, grinding his teeth as sparks of electricity illuminated the flecked scars on his pale face. ‘Soon I will have a hand in Cornelius Quaint’s death… just as he had a hand in mine.’
Chapter III
The Advocate of Fate
As morning dawned outside Grosvenor Park station, shards of sunlight speared through the domed roof, bathing the gaudily painted steam train with golden caresses. The light forced itself into every carriage, determined to rouse the inhabitants from their slumber. But there was one onboard that needed no rousing, for Cornelius Quaint had not slept a wink all night. Decorated with theatrical posters on the walls, magicians’ equipment and costumes, keepsakes and heirlooms from his career, his office was usually warm and inviting – but not this day. This day the circus proprietor was not greeting visitors. He had closed the shutters on his windows and locked his door – a sign to all callers that he wished to be alone. Hearing a gentle knock, he knew exactly who it was.
‘I don’t wish to be disturbed, thank you, Madame.’
‘Are you going to open this door, or must we discuss our business within earshot of the whole troupe?’ Destine intentionally phrased her words as a request rather than the command it truly was. ‘You have been doing your best to avoid me for several days now, Cornelius, but this cannot wait any longer.’
Inside his office, Quaint felt his body compress. Destine was correct, as always. He had been avoiding both her and this particular conversation ever since his ret
urn from China. But he knew that he was only delaying the inevitable. The Frenchwoman’s sensitivity to others’ emotions always guided her right to him.
From her, he could never truly hide.
He reluctantly opened the door, finding Destine dressed in a flowing emerald gown with a corseted waist and billowing bustle. She was absent of her trademark veil; her porcelain skin taut and blemish-free. Although a fraction into her seventies, the elixir that flowed within her veins had endowed her with youthful vitality, a fact that caused Quaint much grief, for his own features remained as well trodden as before.
‘I’m a bit busy at the moment, Madame,’ he said, blunting the edge to his voice.
‘This cannot wait,’ replied Destine.
‘I see. In that case, you’d better come in then,’ said Quaint.
He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt and buttoned his waistcoat, tucking his neckerchief inside it. He rested his broad frame into his high-backed wooden chair and weaved his fingers, laying them in his lap. ‘Well?’
‘Should that not be my question to you, my sweet?’ asked the fortune-teller.
Quaint frowned. ‘I’m not sure. Should it?’
‘You have been locked away in your carriage ever since your return from China and we all know why. There is no need to distance yourself from the rest of the troupe, Cornelius. I know that you miss Butter, as do we all. He was always the beating heart of this circus, and there is an immeasurable emptiness formed by his death. But the troupe is still in shock. They are lost… directionless.’
‘What would you have me do, Madame?’ asked Quaint. ‘Buy them a compass?’
‘Speak to them!’ said Destine, fiercely. ‘Reassure them! As their leader, they look to you for guidance. Tell them that we must not dwell on painful memories… that we must pull together as a family and look to the future. They need to know that things will get back to normal!’
‘I’m not much of an expert on the subject these days,’ said Quaint. ‘Ever since you and I gained immortality, it seems that we’re constantly reminded of the mortality of those we care for. It’s as if their lives have suddenly become so fleeting. First Twinkle was taken from us and now Butter. Who’s next? Prometheus? Ruby? As we live for ever, how many more of our friends must we be forced to bury? Maybe I’d be doing everyone a favour if I just… disappeared.’
Destine froze. ‘You are starting to worry me, Cornelius.’
‘I am starting to worry myself!’ Quaint snapped. ‘After everything I’ve learned of late, who can blame me? Whilst I was in China I met this wise man that claimed to see the future, as long as you could decipher it from within his confounding riddles. You’d have liked him. He was called “The All-Knowing One”, which at first I took to be a self-imposed boast, yet later I had reason to believe that it was well earned. On my way back to England I had plenty of time to digest all that he told me… and now I know that he was right about something… which is a bit worrying, because if he was right about that then I can’t help wondering if he was right about everything else.’
Madame Destine cleared her throat. ‘Cornelius, might I say that I find it mildly insulting how you regularly disregard the premonitions that I supply, yet you believe this stranger so readily?’
Quaint smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re jealous.’
‘Curious as to what he could possibly have imparted to your deaf ears to have such an effect on you,’ said Destine. ‘And oui… perhaps a little jealous too.’
‘He said that my meeting Cho-zen Li was no accident, that our paths were destined to converge,’ Quaint explained, reaching into his waistcoat pocket, lifting out a fob watch attached to a gold chain. ‘The link turned out to be this old thing. It was a gift to my father. Apparently, he and Cho-zen Li were friends once, a long time ago. He engraved a warning inside, the name of the man that intended to kill my father, only the warning came too late. Now I know the name too, but not the rhyme or reason behind it. One link in the chain has been made, but it is far from complete.
If I really am to live an eternal future, I need to fortify the foundations of my past. I need to know why my mother and father were murdered… and to do that I need to find Adolfo Remus… if he still lives. I need answers, Madame, no matter what they may cost.’
‘You have changed, my sweet,’ said Destine. ‘I remember when you used to share all your troubles with me, no matter how trivial they were. What to have for breakfast, what elements of the circus programme need attention, what town we should visit next – even what colour tie to wear!’
‘With respect, I’d hardly call that trivial,’ said Quaint.
‘Please do not jest with me, Cornelius, not when I am trying to get a serious point across!’ snapped the Frenchwoman. ‘What has changed between us that now you close your shutters and lock your door?’
‘Nothing’s changed… or maybe everything’s changed, I don’t know,’ Quaint sighed. ‘I can’t just carry on with my life ignorant as to what I know. I must confront the Hades Consortium.’
‘But you of all people know that conflicts with those people never end well. The balance between good and evil is tipped squarely in their favour!’
‘That’s never stopped me before.’
‘Is that supposed to be your defence?’ asked Destine, sudden fury sparkling in her eyes. ‘Have you forgotten what they did to Antoine? The Hades Consortium twisted his mind, twisted his soul and in the end it consumed him. What if this pursuit of yours does the same to you? What if I lose you too?’
‘I am not your son, Destine,’ said Quaint. ‘I didn’t expect you to condone what I’m doing, but I’d at least hoped you’d understand.’
‘Understand?’ cried Destine. ‘Ask of me anything that you wish, but never ask me to understand why you keep sticking your head in the lion’s mouth!’
Quaint grinned. ‘Is that a circus joke, Madame?’
‘This is no laughing matter!’ said Destine. ‘If you are fixed upon this course of action, and by that I mean if you do eventually find this Remus, what do you think will happen?’
‘One of us will die,’ said Quaint. ‘Obviously, I’d prefer it to be him.’
‘How can you be so flippant?’ asked Destine. ‘Have you not learned by now that digging up the past only leads to pain? I urge you to reconsider this course, Cornelius. The circus needs you. I need you. Now more than ever it is not the time to do anything reckless!’
Quaint frowned. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why did you say ‘now more than ever’? What’s so special about now?’
Destine closed her eyes. ‘I… I am not certain, yet I sense something… something elusive. It feels as though you are hiding something, Cornelius. Something that you do not wish me to know.’
The fortune-teller was as astute as ever. Quaint was using his own needs to mask his true intentions, and his reasons for doing so were most ironic. Usually it was Destine that steered him out of harm’s way, but this time the boot was on the other foot and for Quaint the fit was an uncomfortable one. It was not easy keeping secrets from a clairvoyant.
‘Destine, I want you to do something for me,’ said Quaint. ‘I want you to promise that you won’t follow me to Rome.’
‘Rome? Why should I ever—?’
‘Promise me,’ said Quaint, forcefully. ‘This is my choice, my fate, and my life… and this journey is one that I take willingly. Considering how I saved Her Majesty’s life recently, I’ve called in a little favour with Buckingham Palace. A vessel is already prepared and waiting to take me to Italy. I want your word that no matter what happens, you won’t try to follow me. Are we absolutely clear on this?’
Madame Destine pondered his request for only a moment. There was clearly no room for compromise. ‘We are clear,’ she said, softly. ‘Whatever demons you are to face – and face them you shall – I swear that I shall not intervene. You are at least resigned to the fact that you are in danger. That is a start.’
It was a cold morning and Cornelius Quaint buttoned his overcoat to the top. He tapped his stout top hat into place and stepped down onto the platform of Grosvenor Park station. Wisps of smoke gushed from the underside of the locomotive, and they parted for him reluctantly, as if eager to delay his departure. The circus troupe was busy preparing for a performance, and with their attention elsewhere, the conjuror’s egress went unnoticed.
By all but one.
Madame Destine pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. ‘I promised that I would not follow you towards your destiny, my sweet, but I said nothing about sending someone else to watch over you… if only he receives my plea in time.’
Chapter IV
The Grave Question
Before his journey to Rome could begin, Cornelius Quaint was compelled to make a minor detour. He asked the driver of his cab to wait, and jumped down into deep snow. Quaint ploughed his way through it, damp to his ankles within moments. The sky above him was as white as the ground, blending the world into one. The conjuror pulled his top hat down further onto his mass of silver-white curls and pushed open a pair of tall iron gates leading into a cemetery.
With his black cloak pulled tight around his body, Quaint walked the familiar yet seldom-trod path. The cemetery was completely empty, and the chill gnawed at his bones, but still he kept on walking. He had put off this visit for many years, perhaps too many, and nothing was going to alter his course this time.
He soon came upon an ivy-shrouded mausoleum nestled within a circle of barren trees, far from the main cemetery. The stone had aged considerably since his last visit and it looked at home in its surroundings now, as if it had always been there. He had lost track of exactly how many years it had been. More than ten, at least. If he was being honest, it was probably closer to twenty, and he felt a sudden stab of guilt. He was not the type that liked to be reminded of what he had lost, and he needed no mausoleum to remember them, choosing to grieve his own way, on his own terms. Reacquainting himself with old ghosts was always something he left to people with a more spiritual outlook on life (and death), people like Destine.