Chapter 7: Poor Silly Half-Brained Things
“Jacob’s Island,” Turcov mutters, tugging at the curtains. “The Sabbat are getting back in touch with ancient history - indulging in the Vaulderie in the ruins of their old strongholds. It’s a symbolic gesture to the packs, I assume. Evidence that they seriously intend to reclaim past triumphs. They’ll be cropping up in the Devil’s Acre or Cripplegate before we know it.”
The drawing room is almost empty. The Pell-Mell Queen was the last to leave, snatching Earl Godrick by the hand and dragging the doddering Ventrue out into the night, protesting, to waltz with her upon the pavement.
Eda Sly has not said a word since you announced to the little group the results of your interrogation, but sits, eyes on the carpet, mouth pursed. It’s difficult to tell if she appreciates your discretion. Shaul Artzi is pacing up and down close to the doorway, clearly nervous.
“I rather think Lambeth is more of a concern,” he says, after a moment. “Don’t you, Turcov? The Sabbat have always craved the mysteries of Lambeth - they’ve had their greedy eyes on it since Ashmole passed away, and it’s on the dangerous side of the river, close to their dens. I’ve often suggested to you the possibility of creating a new chantry on the northern banks, perhaps close to St. Paul’s or even-”
“Artzi-”
“I apologise for even raising the subject, I understand that the Tremere must be seen to be given short shrift for the present time, not to be granted any favours, a kind of ritual stockading for the benefit of the rabble, but if we at least began to plan-”
“Artzi, even if it was a serious priority for me, in the midst of chaos and city-wide violence, to indulge your desire to move the seat of your clan in London to a nicer neighbourhood, I could not consider it. The creation of a new chantry is a matter for a Prince. Do you understand? None of us can begin to move forward until we have a Prince, and it’s damned unlikely that we’ll get one while the Sabbat and bloody hunters are running about thumbing their noses at us.”
Artzi looks a little hurt and prods his round spectacles back up against the bridge of his nose.
Eda Sly looks up.
“It will be my responsibility,” she says, with a certain amount of determination, “to investigate this den of the Sabbat. Assuming Somerset’s information is accurate, they have taken a step into my territory. A step they shall most surely regret.”
Behind her, Turcov makes a face.
“I would advise you, Eda,” he says, “to place watchers to ensure that the building has been cleared out, and perhaps to lay traps to dissuade the Sabbat from returning. It seems highly likely that they will be long gone, and that they will have left some nasty surprises for any Camarilla investigator attempting to track them. If you must send somebody, send a ghoul.”
Her hideously sharp cheekbones pucker as she inhales.
“Well, how kind of you, Turcov,” she snaps, without turning to face him, “to advise me on my business in my own native city. How very, very kind of you. I suppose all of you Russians live in fear of the common rabble. After all, they ransacked your palaces and sent you scurrying away, as meek as mice. In my city, however, we are accustomed to being a little more bold."
Turcov takes a deep breath. He hisses at her, with a quiet, burning wrath that cuts through the sudden silence,
“What did you just say to me?”
Artzi interjects, unnecessarily loudly, giving you a nervous, pleading look that indicates he'd very much like you to help him stop all hell from breaking loose,
“And what about this Ketch, eh? Why’s his name cropping up again all of a sudden? I thought that wretch had left London for good.”
"I'd heard he was confined to Amen Court," you add, "an act of penance on account of his failures."
“The headsman has never been reliable,” Turcov murmurs. He unclenches his fists and, slowly, draws his gaze away from Eda Sly. “Perhaps their new leader made him an offer that pleased him. Perhaps he has his own plans. Chuzhaya dusha potyomki...”
“Speaking of unreliable,” you venture, “what of the Pell-Mell Queen’s request?”
Turcov clasps his hands behind his back and returns his attention to the windows.
“We can’t stop her from prating,” he says. “She’ll have the damn Stone, and she can make her prophecies whenever she likes, but I’ll not be there to see it. You may all do as you wish, but nothing that comes out of that Malkavian’s mouth has ever led to any good, and I suggest all of us stay well out of it. In the meantime...I shall consult with the Sheriff, and we shall begin to co-ordinate efforts towards a raid upon the Sabbat. I’ll be in contact with each of you once we have settled on the likeliest location and a plan of attack. Please see yourselves out - not you, Sommers. You stay.”
Eda Sly glances sharply from Turcov to you as she leaves the room; Artzi, on his part, keeps his head bowed and pretends to be intently polishing his spectacles. The door slams behind the pair of them.
“Tell me, Anthony,” Turcov says, turning back to face you,“Should Eda send one of her prized lieutenants charging into Jacob’s Island and the poor bastard ends up dead, or worse, in the hands of the Sabbat...do you think she’ll try to pretend it never happened, or will she merely blame you for telling her what she should have already known?”
“She should have the sense,” you respond, “to be prudent when it comes to investigating this matter. She's certainly old enough not to do anything foolish."
“You mustn’t put too much faith in age. I understand it’s been drilled into you, but...”
He falls silent for a moment, his fingers tapping at the back of the sofa, before continuing,
“When my sire offered me the Embrace, he told me that I would never grow old. Just another great lie amongst many. The fact that we do not age physically does not mean that we cannot fall behind the times. Mithras grew old, or, at least, he grew isolated, out-of-touch, and wayward; he refused to engage with the living city of the present, and his isolation diminished him. And Eda, on her part, has for a very long time allowed her pride and bitterness to cut her off from the real politics of the here-and-now - our true lifeblood, our damned ambrosia, only stuff that matters. Our Ventrue blood urges us to build palaces, and our palaces, in turn, swallow us up.”
“At times even I catch sight of my reflection,” he adds, tilting his head thoughtfully, “and, mistakenly, I think there are new wrinkles across my forehead and white amongst the grey hairs. I feel too old to look so young. And the world, curse it, will go ahead and change without even having the decency to ask our permission first.”
He’s staring into thin air.
After a few seconds, you feel yourself obliged to prompt,
“Rodyon, was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
The old Ventrue’s eyes settle on you.
“Something that struck me,” he says, “as you were suggesting to the others that the Sabbat hoped to disrupt our political process with their operations against us. It simply wasn’t right. Not that I blame you for it - you haven’t been amongst us for long enough to see the patterns, that they’ve done this before. And Eda wouldn't think of it, because her head’s filled with thoughts of, fuck knows how, becoming Prince and running me out of town on a rail, and Godrick loses himself in his childer and his outdated obsessions with that ridiculous Taurien Club of his, and Artzi simply wants to be closer to the Centrepoint tower so he can dredge up more material for his experiments, and even I was too concerned with Iacomo and who’ll be sitting in Knightsbridge by the end of the year for it to occur to me...that they’ve done this before.
“Provocation tactics. The year I arrived in London, with my sire, the Sabbat had already attacked several of the city barons. The Camarilla sat on its hands - less because of prudence, I seem to recall, than because Mithras was near-unreachable and the chain of command stalled. So the Sabbat turned their attention to the Kine instead. Random attacks in the open, forcing us to expend our resources on hushing them up, horrid acts of violence; we were fortunate, at least, that we could chalk the mutilated bodies up to the biplane bombings. Finally, there was the Silvertown explosion. At last Lady Anne threw up her hands and sent a hefty expeditionary force down into the sewers to find their damned court. The Sabbat was, of course, waiting exactly for that; they’d been crafting vozhd for some time. Vozhd can be tackled, of course, with the right weaponry, but in those days...and in the cramped underground...we should have seen it coming, of course, but there was nothing else to be done by that stage. Anne had to try and put a stop to them, in order to protect the Masquerade, and in consequence the Sabbat gained more ground that night than they had in the previous decade.
“I simply wonder,” he murmurs, stroking at his chin, “whether we’ve all been so obsessed with who takes the crown that we’ve missed something. Something important.”
*
In the nights coming up to the Queen’s ‘Babbling Seance’, as it comes to be known amongst the rabble of the city, you hear nothing more from Turcov, or the Sabbat, for that matter. A few prominent Kindred, including Eda Sly herself, venture into the Queen’s sea of black circus tents, set up on the barren plains of Hyde Park, presumably to curry favour; she’s scowling when she leaves. You’re accepted, much to Humphrey’s delight, onto the board of his bank, and immediately receive an impressive and utterly unearned signing bonus, as well as invitations to a dozen other social occasions.
Archon Iacomo, you hear, visits Weep-Not Sorley and gives him a dressing-down that leaves the old Nosferatu trembling with fury. Frank Biggs calls you immediately afterwards to tell you that he’s found Sorley’s refusal to play a team game in recent months ‘absolutely reprehensible’ and that he has half a mind to say as much to the Archon before the next Baron’s Council. He then immediately asks for your reassurance that your involvement with the West End banks won’t result in a conflict of interests with his own people in the Docklands, which you gladly give.
And before you know it, the night arrives, and once again you’re stepping past the doorman into the Pleasure ‘N’ Pain, weaving your way through the shimmering dancefloor and obscene bass-driven beat towards the back rooms, where the Queen and her lunatic prophecy await.
*
The stage is empty. Usually, when the Camarilla gathers, there’s a sense of tension in the air, both because the news is so often dire and because the assembled Kindred tend to be too busy coldly watching their enemies than greeting their friends. Tonight there’s more of a carnival atmosphere; though, of course, that’s probably because of the Malkavians. You never knew your city held so many madmen. The hall is thick with guttural laughter and the excitable whisperings of the certifiable insane. And amongst them, you note, are Brujah and Nosferatu, the occasional Gangrel - the rabble of London, out in force. The few Ventrue and Tremere that have come stand nervously, alone and aloof, as their lowly brethren banter and yell friendly abuse at one another. Turcov is, as promised, nowhere to be seen.
“Busy, isn’t it?” someone says.
Andre Carabas, arms neatly folded, is standing beside you.
“So many Malks,” you reply. “Where the hell did they come from? Have the gates of Bedlam opened?”
“They’re here to see the Queen,” says Carabas. “Some of them have come down from Bristol or Birmingham, I believe - I know for a fact that Turcov’s been driven half-mad himself tonight giving them all permission to enter London. Their madness, uh, ‘network’...well, it exerts a pull on them, I believe. They like to be close to her.”
You glance across at him. His thin face is marked by a sneer of disdain.
“And why are you here?” you ask. “You didn’t seem particularly enamoured by the Queen when she presented herself to us.”
“I’m here to see what happens, the same as you. It seems to me that the Queen has already made up her mind to say whatever she thinks will shock us the most. I dread to think what that is, but I’ll be fascinated to observe it first-hand - ah.”
The lights are dimmed. A slow drum-beat begins from somewhere in the rafters. The assembled Kindred fall silent.
The Pell-Mell Queen enters through the double doors; on either side, her acrobats march, their faces painted with bloody tears and bruised lips, holding their Chinese lanterns aloft. The crowd parts to let her pass.
She’s holding something large and wrapped in silk, cradling it in her arms like a great lumpen baby. You have to stand on your tip-toes to make out the London Stone, pocked, eroded limestone. As the Queen cradles it, she hisses, in a sing-song stage whisper, the familiar refrain,
“Wood and stone will fall away, fall away, fall away, wood and stone will fall away, my fair lady-”
She climbs the steps to the stage, walks to the very centre, and, with an air of absolute concentration, drops the London Stone. It lands with a smack, wobbles, and lays still.
There’s one audible cry of outrage, then an outburst of murmuring. A couple of Kindred laugh.
“The stone altar of Brutus,” the Queen calls, silencing the hubbub. “It was upon this hunk of rock that our hallowed ancestor, consecrating the birth of a new land, performed the ancient sacrifices of blood. He drew the lines of hill, valley, and spring, marking the boundaries of London that great Mithras built upon, the sites for the dark chapels of Erkenwald. Tonight we pay homage to these, our great fathers.”
She sits on the Stone, a little fussily, drawing her skirts around her. More laughter, this time; a few Brujah begin to applaud.
“Fucking hell, it’s pantomime stuff,” Carabas mutters, from beside you.
The Queen frowns.
“Tonight,” she says, raising her arms, “this city is in turmoil. Mithras is lost, and we have no Prince to watch over us. I am come to bring counsel from the darkness, reason from the madness. I shall speak to the past, and the past shall answer for our future. Someone in this room has their legs crossed. Please uncross them - done? Good; we can begin. Thank you.”
The acrobats dim their lanterns. The Queen is sitting, alone, in a pool of light in the centre of darkness.
She lowers her head. Her lips begin to move, first slowly and in silence, and then more loudly and with an ever-increasing speed until the gibberish is a siren wail-
“-terema-suremi-ki-si-janda-o-et-tera-o-te-tre-e-o-te-o-rasau-relidzi-quaquaqua-si-kajanda-te-o-tre-o-te-the-plains-in-the-mountains-by-the-seas-the-great-deeps-the-great-cold-sea-in-the-abode-of-stones-kera-ba-who-comes-knocking-biabi-ba-tru-who-is-this-I-hear-knocking-who-comes-knocking-”
A thump, that seems to come out of from somewhere just behind your left shoulder. Another, louder thump. All around you, Kindred are glancing about, looking to see where the sound is coming from. The Queen’s voice is shifting, taking on a cracked, itching, child-like tone,
“-it-is-I-who-comes-knocking-of-quick-breath-and-cold-fingers-back-to-the-Quick-back-to-the-world-bloodsuckers-fucking-cunts-fucking-bloodsuckers-let-me-loose-let-me-loose-I-must-be-loosed-round-and-round-the-garden-like-a-teddy-bear-”
“Pathetic,” Carabas mutters. He puts his hands to his mouth and calls, audibly, “Ask it if there’s a John in the audience!”
He is ignored. The Queen is on her feet, head still bowed, arms clasped around her like a straitjacket, shivering,
“-the-babble-the-babble-calls-the-babble-o-te-o-etera-o-te-o-tre-otetotera-father-dark-father-from-out-of-the-dark-no-father-from-out-of-the-dark-no-no-no-”
Someone shouts,
“No! Not him! Not him, Queen! Send him back! Send him back!”
And, you sense, for the first time, fear is rippling through the crowd.
“-dark-father-no-no-e-otera-blood-blood-must-prevail-dark-father-no-father-no-father-no-father-no-no-NO-”
The Queen’s head jolts up. Her eyes are pure milky-white. A trickle of blood dribbles down from out of her left nostril. She convulses, once, twice. In front of you, a large Brujah turns, pushes you to one side, and hurries out of the room. It takes a moment for you to recognise him as one of Robert Griddle’s young acolytes.
A voice emerges from out of the Queen’s mouth, though her lips are barely moving. A deep, bass voice, with whispering echoes that seem to wriggle out from the blackest corners of the room,
“A broken hall, a bloodied crown.
A London Bridge come tumbling down.
A Prince will rise, a city falls,
A bloodied crown, a broken hall-”
All around the room, swaying as if in a blissful trance, ignorant of the panic all around them, the Malkavians add their voices, soft and rapturous, to the chant,
“A broken hall, a bloodied crown-”
And the deep voice seems to grow louder, ever louder, filling the room, to a shriek that surely must pierce through the ceiling and into the club above,
“A broken hall, a bloodied crown,
A London Bridge come tumbling down-”
Something creaks, and snaps. The great spotlight above shatters, spraying glass across the stage, plunging the room into darkness.
There’s a single moment of absolute confusion; then the Kindred closest to the stage, finding their senses, rush up to help the fallen Queen to her feet.
They have to lift her bodily up; she rests limply in their arms, her eyes returned to their natural pale blue, staring into the thin air, whispering, over and over,
“...bloodied crown...broken hall...”
Near the doorway, a short, bearded Malkavian suffers a manic episode, laughing frantically and scratching with an animal fury at the walls, and has to be physically restrained.
*
Somehow, you find yourself walking out into the cool Soho air alongside Andre Carabas. The pair of you stroll southwards, towards the casinos of Leicester Square, in a thoughtful silence.
“Well, that was dramatic,” he says, after a little while. “What did you make of that?”
You bite down on your lip, considering.
“Once,” you begin, “I met a Malkavian - a pet of the Anarchs, actually - who, it was claimed, had visions of what the future held. Certainly she was very convincing, but it was only later that I began to consider her predictions and whether or not they might have held true. But that does not mean that we should believe in every Malkavian’s babblings without question. We know that the Queen is a trickster. When she began to scream that ghastly rhyme, like so many there, my spirit quailed - but unlike so many there, my reason rebelled. It was all so pat, with that knocking and the business with the spotlight - and she mentioned London Bridge, too, like the rhyme she sang to that damned stone, and the rhyme about, uh, going ‘around the garden’-”
“Like a, ahaha, like a teddy bear.”
“Precisely, like a fucking teddy bear. As if she was thinking in rhymes before the ‘babble’ even began, as if it was only her own thoughts, going around and around in her head, and nobody else’s.”
Carabas nods, approvingly.
“It’s something to bear in mind, isn’t it?” he says. “I mean, what better way to cause a stir? A lot of dark hints that the next Prince of London will be the one to lose London. Suddenly the job’s a poison chalice, and the rabble will look to her to come up with a solution to her prophecy in her next ‘seance’.”
Your phone is humming away from inside your jacket pocket. You bid Carabas good night, part ways, and answer.
William Horn.
“Ahm, Sommers, listen, that business with the, uh, religious fanatics-”
“You’ve found them?”
“Yes - look, we’re all getting rather worried over here. We, er, think we’ve traced them to the residence of the Bishop of, uh, Oxford. The Bishop’s office claim he’s on holiday but, uh, look, we can’t find a trace of him. There’s a suspicion that this might be a hostage situation, er, they seem to be holed up there. Special Branch have been watching the house for the past day, they say the trespassers have automatic weapons. We have troops on stand-by, ready to go in-”
Fuck.
“You were supposed to track them down,” you snap, “and then let me know when you’d found them. Not saddle the fucking cavalry without informing me first.”
“Yes, I know, I know, but they’re, ah, in the Bishop’s palace, old man. It’s being treated as a potential act of terrorism. I cannot conduct an entire surveillance operation by myself, and the officers I put in charge simply deemed it prudent to have an assault force prepared to go in.”
A) Tell him to send them in, but that they will need to be highly trained and prepared for heavy resistance. Better not to give the hunters the benefit of a foe they’re actually prepared for.
B) Have your ghoul squad take out the hunters instead.
C) Tell Horn to do nothing for now, and contact Iacomo about the hunters’ location.
D) Tell Horn to do nothing, but keep watching the house. You may be able to make use of these hunters, now you know where they are...
