cloak draped on a dancing bear. His task was to care for the Chateau of Auxigny and its strange shrine, a task he did to the terror of the local children who spoke of strange things in the woods behind the Castle.
When Chemosh had been admitted to the chamber, and the doors had been closed again, Dagon took the body of the girl downstairs. He stroked it, and from his throat came strange noises. Later, when the Fallen Angels had gone, and when Dagon was again alone in the Chateau of Auxigny, he would take the body to the dark woods behind the shrine and he would leave it for the ravens and the night creatures and her body would be flensed and the bones scattered and the remnants covered by the falling pine needles. She was not the first girl to die in this place, for every new Fallen Angel was initiated with death, and Dagon, as he ran his huge hands down her still warm flesh, hoped she would not be the last.
* * *
Lucifer gestured with a silver-gloved hand at the wine. ‘Drink, Chemosh. You need some wine after that nonsense.’
Chemosh smiled. ‘Nonsense?’
‘Of course. Superstition! Yet we have to know if you believe what you say, that you believe reason is above the law, that you believe a reasonable man can do no evil. So we frighten you a little and give you a trifling test. Now you can forget it.’ He shrugged beneath the robes. His face was entirely hidden by the dipping cowl of his hood that made a black shadow from which his voice came so hoarse and low. It seemed to Chemosh to be an old voice, a voice that spoke from long and bitter knowledge. Once only, as the cowl was raised towards Chemosh, did the newcomer see the glitter of eyes that themselves seemed to be like two hard silver lights in the darkness.
Lucifer, his voice as dry as dead leaves in a cold wind, spoke of the purpose of the Fallen Angels.
He spoke of a war that would soon be declared between France and Britain. He spoke of the decision, by the Illuminati, to work for Britain’s defeat.
His business, he said, was not with armies. France would fight, and France would win, and France would take republicanism and reason to Britain. But first the Illuminati would rot Britain from within.
He spoke of the British Corresponding Societies that supported the revolution. They would need money, help, and arms.
He spoke of the British journals and their writers, the scribblers who would take any bribe and spread any rumour.
He spoke of that ‘mad, fat King’ who would be dethroned, of the scandals that would be spread in high places, of the foulness that would be smeared over Britain’s leaders and aristocrats, until the people of Britain had no trust in their government and would welcome the cleansing flood of republicanism.
And all this, Lucifer said, would take money. ‘More money than you can dream of, Chemosh. The task of the Fallen Angels is to provide the Illuminati with that money.’
The 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
