gurgling in his throat.
Hugo picked up the blade. Edgar glared up at him, his left hand vainly trying to stem the lifeblood bubbling from his chest.
'Get on with it then,' he grunted.
Hugo nodded solemnly and cut the Duke's head off with a single powerful blow.
The head landed on the tiles with a thump and bounced once and rolled, finishing up on its side. His expression was no less belligerent in death than it had been in life. An unnatural calm settled over the room and for a few moments nobody moved.
The room had divided into three groups: there were those who had joined Hugo's conspiracy – mostly Gideon's family and allies. They had come armed and ready, and had positioned themselves to block those who had risen to the Duke's defence – his sons, some of the servants, Gerald, Silas and Daisy. The rest stood motionless, waiting to see which way the tide would turn. For those few moments after the beheading, nobody breathed.
Then Edgar's lifeless body slumped forwards and fell over and Hugo gave an audible sigh. Dropping the bloodstained sword by the corpse, he righted the chair at the head of the table and sat down. Taking up Edgar's fork, he began to eat from the Patriarch's plate. After a few mouthfuls he sat back and gazed at the stunned faces around him.
'Be seated,' he told them. 'Let us offer thanks to God for the food he has provided for us.'
Nobody moved. Still charged up with the fury of battle, their hands and legs shaking, their weapons clutched tightly, they did not know what to make of this. Some of them exchanged bewildered glances. Brunhilde, still clutching the wound in her abdomen, sat down at her brother's side and began to eat with one bloodied hand.
'Praise be to God,' Elizabeth exclaimed.
She sat down next to her brother and smiled beatifically at her new family, beckoning them to sit down. One by one, they obliged. All the uninjured servants returned to their positions at the edge of the hall. Eventually only Nathaniel, Roberto, Daisy and Tatiana remained standing. Nate did not look at Gerald; he knew his cousin was playing the game. It would be wiser to feign loyalty and bide their time, but Nate had no stomach for it.
'If you are not with me, you are against me,' Hugo said without looking at them.
'If you think that, you have a lot to learn about this family' Nate replied coldly.
With that, he turned his back on the new Patriarch and, leaving his father's remains where they lay, led the others out of the room.
Nate's mind was racing as he stood in the elevator, watching the arrow turn around the dial. How much time did they have? Would they even make it out of the house? The bell chimed, and the boy dressed in smart livery sitting by the levers tipped his hat as the doors opened onto Tatiana's floor.
'You have fifteen minutes,' Nate told his sister. 'Pack a couple of changes of clothes – only what you need to travel. Don't dither.'
'There's nothing to dither about,' Tatty replied tartly as she strode towards her room.
He was amazed at her composure. She seemed to be taking their father's murder in her stride. He suspected the sheer scale of what had happened would not hit her for a while yet and he intended to use that time.
'We stick together,' he said to Berto and Daisy. 'We gather what we need and we leave. Don't trust your servants – do everything yourself. We don't know who's loyal to whom.'
Even as he said it, Patrick Slattery walked round the corner. He gave a gold-plated grin and leaned his head back round the corner.
'They're here!' he bellowed.
'Berto,' Nate said quietly. 'I'll handle this. Get them to safety.'
'I'm not leaving you-'
'I can take care of myself. You need to protect them,' Nate told him.
Berto nodded. Taking Tatty and Daisy by the hand, he led them at a run to the end of the corridor and disappeared round the corner.
'I've been waiting to settle with you for some time,' Slattery grunted, taking off his jacket. 'No more Mr High 'n' Mighty any more. Just two fellas and their fists. I'm goin' to break that stuck-up nose o' yours and then I'm goin' to break the rest o' yeh.'
He carefully hung the jacket on the ornate brass of a gas-lamp and cracked his knuckles. Nate was afraid. For all his training, he had never been in a serious fight until today. He was still untested. Slattery, on the other hand, did this for a living.
'You're just a thug, Slattery,' Nate said in a tight voice. 'Always letting your gang do your work for you. Let's see how you do in a fair fight.'
'Who said anything about fair?' The bailiff laughed and suddenly there was a switchblade open in his right hand as he lunged at Nathaniel.
Nate stepped to one side and swept the knife-hand to the other with the back of his own hand. Slattery whipped it in and slashed backhand at him, forcing him to jump away. The bailiff kept coming, jabbing and slashing, changing the knife from blade up to blade down and back again with practised ease. Each time, Nate was driven backwards. Sooner or later he was going to run out of hallway.
Slattery thrust the knife at his belly and Nate sidestepped it, but this time he caught the bailiff's wrist. Before Slattery could pull it back, Nate swung it round and up and smashed it into the glass of the gas-lamp beside him. The flame guttered, but not before it had scorched Slattery's hand. The man snarled, dropping the knife but then swinging his left fist at Nate's face. Nate ducked and drove one elbow into the other man's ribs and then the other one up under Slattery's chin. The bailiff's head snapped up and he fell flat on his back. Nate managed to stamp on his knee and then on his groin before two of Slattery's men piled into him, bringing him to the floor. He grabbed the switchblade and jammed it into one man's thigh and was rewarded with a scream of pain, but the second man's fist caught him across the cheek and then scored another blow against his jaw. He tasted blood. He jammed his knuckle into the nerve cluster in the man's armpit, making him jerk away in shock, but his opponent did not let go.
'Hold him!' Slattery roared as he wrenched the knife from his man's leg. 'I'm goin' to cut the little guttersnipe's face!'
The injured man grabbed Nate's arms and the other bailiff held his legs. Nate shrieked defiance at them, thrashing to get free. Slattery limped up and stood astride him, leaning down, the knife held loosely between fingers and thumb.
'You got me a good one in the gonads there, lad,' he hissed. 'I'll take my time thankin' you for that.'
There came the sound of something bouncing down the hallway and they all turned towards it. A metal sphere about the size of a cricket ball rolled towards them, trailing a thin stream of smoke.
'Grenade!' Slattery shouted.
It exploded before it reached them, but there was no blast, only a billowing spiral of smoke. It enveloped them, blinding them and filling their nostrils and throats with acrid fumes. Nate coughed, struggling to free his hands so that he could cover his nose. There was a thump and the man at his head toppled forward. Nate pushed him aside as Slattery plunged into the smoke to tackle a dimly visible figure rushing towards them.
Everything was grey. Nate gagged as the smoke caught in the back of his throat. His lungs burned. Somebody got behind the remaining bailiff and brought a wooden club down on the top of his head. Nate shoved with his feet and the stunned man collapsed back against the wall. Even with his irritated eyes filled with tears, Nate could recognize the man with the club. It was one of the Maasai. A second servant helped him to his feet and he stumbled with his rescuers through the dissipating fumes. A third Maasai, his arm in a sling and a pistol in his good hand, waved them forward. All the rescue party had wet cloths across their noses and mouths. Slattery was lying semiconscious on the floor, with a gash in his forehead. He lifted his head as he saw Nathaniel passing him.
'Wait… wait,' Nate muttered.
Swinging back his foot, he gave the bailiff a sound kick to the head.
'You can thank me for that one later!' he called as they hurried away.
