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  Merciless Reason

  The Wildenstern Saga, Book Three

  Oisín McGann

  For Inga, Danu, and Oscar—

  three wonderfully mad kids,

  who keep me sane in a nutty business

  THE WILDENSTERN FAMILY: RULES OF ASCENSION

  With the intention of encouraging the qualities of aggression, strength and ambition, the family will sanction the act of assassination of one family member by another, under eight strict conditions—the Rules of Ascension. They are as follows:

  Number One: The Act of Aggression must be committed by the Aggressor himself and not by any agent or servant.

  Number Two: The Act must only be committed against a man over the age of sixteen who holds a superior rank in the family to the Aggressor.

  Number Three: The Act must only be committed for the purpose of advancing one’s position and not out of spite, or because of insult or offence given, or to satisfy a need for revenge for an insult or injury given to a third party.

  Number Four: All efforts should be made to avoid the deaths of servants while committing the Act. Good servants are hard to find.

  Number Five: The Target of the Aggression can use any and all means to defend themselves, and is under an obligation to do so for the good of the family.

  Number Six: Retribution against the Aggressor can only be carried out after the Act has been committed. Should the Aggressor fail in his attempt, and subsequently escape to remain at large for a full day, only the Target of the Aggression and no other person will be permitted to take Retribution.

  Number Seven: No Act of Aggression or Retribution must be witnessed or reported by any member of the public. All family matters must be kept confidential.

  Number Eight: Any bodies resulting from the Act must be given a proper burial in a cemetery, crypt, catacomb or funeral pyre approved by the family.

  A COMPENDIUM OF THE CHARACTERS

  Edgar Wildenstern (deceased)—Patriarch of the family and Chairman of the North American Trading Company. Murdered at the dinner table not long after the death of his eldest son.

  Miriam Wildenstern (deceased)—Wife to Edgar and mother to Marcus, Berto, Nathaniel and Tatiana. Committed to a mental asylum, then later imprisoned in the house until her death.

  Marcus Wildenstern (deceased)—The eldest of the Wildenstern siblings, murdered while in the process of planning his father’s assassination.

  Berto Wildenstern (deceased)—Next in line after Marcus; served briefly (and reluctantly) as Patriarch before his own untimely death.

  Nathaniel Wildenstern—Eldest surviving son of Edgar Wildenstern and rightful Patriarch of the family. Now missing, presumed to have taken leave of his senses.

  Daisy Wildenstern—Widow to Berto. De facto managing director of the family business, despite her disadvantages as a woman.

  Gerald Gordon—Nathaniel’s cousin. A scientific prodigy, acting as Patriarch in Nathaniel’s absence.

  Tatiana Wildenstern—Nathaniel’s high-spirited younger sister. The youngest of the Wildenstern siblings and Daisy’s closest friend and ally.

  Cathal Dempsey—A recently discovered young cousin of the Wildensterns, now living with them. Gerald’s protégé, but close friend to Daisy and Tatiana.

  Clancy—Nathaniel’s former manservant.

  Lieutenant William Dempsey—Cathal’s father.

  Elvira Gordon—Edgars sister, Gerald’s mother. Oldest living Wildenstern female.

  Gideon Wildenstern—Edgar’s younger brother.

  Oliver Wildenstern—Gideon’s son.

  Elizabeth Wildenstern—One of four ancients raised from the dead some years ago. Her brothers, Hugo and Brutus, and sister, Brunhilde, died in the conflict that followed.

  Leopold Wildenstern—Illegitimate son of Elizabeth and Nathaniel.

  Detective Inspector Urskin—Police officer with the Royal Irish Constabulary, tasked with combating Irish revolutionaries.

  Eamon Duffy—Irish revolutionary and self-made businessman.

  Red—Career criminal and Gerald’s chief enforcer.

  Thomas ‘Harmonica’ Radigan—A bounty hunter from the United States.

  The Irish Republican Brotherhood (the Fenians)—Irish revolutionary group.

  PROLOGUE

  THE LEVIATHAN

  THEN, AS IF THINGS WEREN’T BAD ENOUGH, a storm struck. The ship’s timbers groaned as the vessel clambered through the growing banks of water. Heavy waves slammed against the tired, wooden hull and crashed across her decks. Men were swept off their feet, only their lifelines saving them from being carried overboard. It was next to impossible to keep your footing on the heaving deck, the sickening motion made worse by the sudden, jarring impacts of the waves.

  Bushnell, her black-bearded captain, bellowed for more sail. Clinging to the wheel, the first mate, Pollard, automatically passed on the order at the top of his voice, the shout faltering as he realized what he was ordering. Able Seaman Jim Hawkins heard the shout with a sinking feeling in his gut. The rain glued his blond hair and beard to his lean, somber face.

  The ship was already taking on water, creaking ominously under the strain brought on by its current speed. Trying to catch more wind was madness. As it was, the gales were threatening to rip the sails from the masts.

  The Odin was a three-masted Yankee whaler out of New Bedford, Massachusetts. She was a tough old ship, purpose-built to be fast, rugged and self-sufficient for voyages of up to four years. She carried five longboats for hunting the whales, all equipped with Greener guns for firing harpoons. The ship had her own try works—a brick furnace just behind the foremast, for processing the oil from the blubber cut from the carcasses of the great beasts after they were caught and killed.

  But the fire in the furnace had long gone out. The huge casks in the ship’s hold were empty of oil. Her maintenance had become neglected as the captain had grown more and more irrational. Jim swore bitterly as he scrambled across the slippery boards of the deck, making for the bow. They had not caught a single whale after months of hunting. It had taken the crew a while to realize that Bushnell had no interest in running down the sperm whales that were their normal prey. He had spun them a yarn that there were rich pickings out in these dangerous Atlantic waters off the coast of New England. The rumors of sea monsters in this area were just fairy tales for scaring children to bed, he’d said. Pay them no mind.

  The first mate had whispered one of those stories to Jim one evening, when they were both on watch. Word was, Pollard said, that Captain Bushnell’s son had been on board a whaler sunk in these waters. She went down with all hands, watched helplessly by the crew of another ship. And she was sunk, Pollard added, by a monster of enormous size. His ruddy, broken-veined face betrayed his anxiety. Sneaking gulps of rum from a flask, the Odin’s first mate told Jim the story because he feared they were being led to their deaths. He was certain that the old man was out for vengeance.

  Now, after months of fruitless searching, they had found it. Or rather, it had found them. The first they knew of it, the creature had run up against their starboard side and stove in the timbers just aft of the surgeon’s quarters. The carpenters were struggling frantically to stem the leak as others pumped and bailed the water out. Even so, the ship was listing to starboard, leaning into the wind.

  It took courage to be a whaleman, and only the toughest dared to hunt the sperm whale, the most dangerous of all. But this creature was like nothing they had ever seen—a true leviathan.
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br />   The captain ordered them to give chase even as the storm descended on them.

  Bushnell’s roars were drowned out by the howl of the wind; it shrieked through the rigging, filling out the sails with a noise like giant doors slamming. Raindrops fell like bullets, sweeping down off the sails in wide sheets. Jim was thrown against the gunwale as the bow pitched into another wave, the water hitting him with the force of a predator, ice-cold jaws closing around him, swallowing him and gargling him in its throat. He felt the rope pull taut around his waist, grabbed it and reefed it in, pulling himself in against the foremast. Gasping for air, he was back on his feet even as the water washed away. He staggered towards the ratlines, the web-like rigging strung to the top section of the mast. It was lunacy to let out more sail, but the captain would not be defied. The scars on Jim’s back were still healing after the last flogging he had received.

  The desperately unhappy lookouts clung to their perches at the tops of the masts. They had lost sight of the leviathan in the squall. If it escaped them, there would be hell to pay. Jim started climbing, his cold, numb hands clutching at the wet ropes. Looking across, he saw Zachariah, the boatswain, scaling the ratlines on the other side. One of the thousands of freed Negro slaves who had flocked to the whaling industry, Zachariah was a loud-mouthed bully, but a sound whaleman and utterly fearless. He let out a raucous laugh as he raced Jim up to the yardarm.

  “Thar she blows!” one of the lookouts cried. “Three points on the lee bow! A hundred and fifty yards!”

  Other voices carried the cry down to the captain. Jim looked forward and off to the port side, in the direction the wind was blowing. There he saw the twin jets of steam rising from the rolling sea: the leviathan, a massive silvery shape moving quickly away from them.

  “Keep your eye on him!” the captain shouted. “Mr. Pollard! Stand by to lower boats!”

  Even though they knew it was coming, the crew looked at one another in disbelief. Only a madman would take a whaleboat out in seas like this. The smallest of these waves could swamp it. Pollard and another crewman struggled to keep the wheel under control. The first mate was a Nantucket man, come from a long line of sailors, but there were some places even he would not follow his captain. As he began speaking, the leviathan disappeared beneath the waves.

  “Sir! We’ll never catch it!” he protested. “It’s turning into the wind! Even if we launch the boats, we’ll never be able to—”

  It was as far as he got before Bushnell’s fist caught him on the jaw, knocking him back across the deck.

  “Twenty lashes for you, Pollard, when I can spare the bloody time!” the captain roared as he took the helm. “Lower the boats! Let’s sink our irons into this demon!”

  Then something slammed into the bow of the ship, stopping her dead in her tracks, splitting timbers and hurling men into the sea, their lifelines serving only to break their backs before snapping like threads. All over the deck, men tumbled helplessly against walls and gunwales.

  Jim felt the initial jolt through the ropes before the rigging cracked like a whip, nearly throwing him out into the sky. He barely managed to hold on. The ratlines were still shaking when he heard a loud, cracking sound. There was another shudder through the rigging and he looked down to see the bow plunging underwater, the bowsprit splintering like a matchstick against something beneath the surface.

  But that wasn’t the sound that Jim heard. The foremast was starting to tilt over. It was cracking at the base and leaning drunkenly to one side, dragging sails and rigging with it. Jim and Zachariah looked at one another and then started to scramble down the lines.

  They jumped the last ten feet, just as the mast crashed down on the port side, driving a gash into the gunwale before toppling into the sea. The water caught it and twisted it back against the hull of the ship, pulling more rigging into the water. Jim, sprawled in a tangle of lines, saw a rope snake past him at high speed. Zachariah was on hands and knees, trying to free himself from the mess of ratlines.

  “Rope!” Jim yelled.

  But it was too late; a loop of rope closed around the boatswain’s hand. He tried to snatch it out but the loop jerked tight and tore away three of his fingers. He screamed and threw blood from the stumps as he flailed around. Jim rose and stumbled back, distracted long enough to step into a knot of other lines just as they were being dragged overboard by the weight of the mast. It took him by the ankle, jerked him off his feet and swept him over the side. The icy water stamped the air out of his lungs. The yardarm followed him off the deck, nearly coming down on his head, hitting the water by his shoulder.

  It took all of his nerve to suppress the panic as he searched for air. He was caught in a web of ropes, and the more he thrashed the more tangled he became. One of the jib sails had landed next to him and he was being drawn underneath it. That would drown him for sure.

  Pulling out his pocketknife, he cut his lifeline, still bound to the fallen mast, and then started sawing through the thicker rope around his ankle. It seemed to take forever. The blade slipped a couple of times, drawing blood, but he paid it no mind. Finally, with his lungs spasming, the last strands parted and he slipped through the gaps in the swirling ropes, striking out towards the dull light above him.

  He barely had time to get a breath before a wave crashed down on him. Jim lost all sense of direction, tumbling in the churning water. It was impossible to tell which way was up. Then he ran into a timber wall. The hull of the ship. He scrabbled up it, jamming the point of his knife in to try and get purchase, following the hull’s curve to the surface and heaving in breaths of air.

  The Odin should have been long gone, leaving him in her wake, but he wasn’t going to complain. He screamed for help over and over again. The ship was side-on to the wind now, leaning away from it at a perilous angle, brought almost to a complete halt. Surely they were waiting to rescue their drowning men? The captain must have come to his senses and stopped the chase. But something made Jim turn round. Out there, not far off in the roiling darkness, he saw a metallic grey, serrated dorsal fin rise from the water, approaching the ship at terrifying speed.

  The first time the leviathan had struck the ship, it had been a glancing blow. The second time, when the mast fell, it had crippled the vessel. The Odin would not stand a third strike. Jim kicked away from the hull and started swimming. He spotted a coffin-sized wooden sea-chest floating in the water ahead of him and made for it. Grabbing on with difficulty to the box with his frozen hands, he turned to look back at the ship.

  The monster left a tumultuous white wake trailing behind it as it charged towards the vessel. The dorsal fin must have been nearly forty feet behind the head, for it was still in clear water when the deep bass crunch of the impact carried through the air. The fin kept going, sinking below the surface and disappearing.

  As he was carried up onto the crest of a wave, Jim saw air belch from the belly of the ship, saw shattered ribs and protruding beams in the waist of the vessel as the water rushed in to fill the Odin’s carcass.

  The dorsal fin broke the surface again, coming back towards him. It was slower now, as if calmer, having despatched its enemy. There was no way he could escape it. The sea bulged over the leviathan’s back, trailing strands of foam outside of the clear white V of the fin’s wake. Jim saw two clusters of pale green lights beneath his feet as its head passed under him. Its eyes. Around them, he spied long spines, like whiskers or feelers.

  The creature was at least as long as the Odin—probably longer. It was by far the largest engimal he had ever encountered, much bigger than any land behemoth. As the hump of its silver-grey back rose under him, Jim found himself wading, as if walking up a moving beach. Unable to stay on his feet as the water dropped around him, he let the massive back come up under him and carry him and his wooden chest for some distance. The leviathan’s skin appeared to be some kind of soft, flexible metal, dotted with clumps of barnacles. The rema
ins of harpoons jutted like spines from its hide. The scars of a hundred battles crisscrossed its skin, along with triangular markings of darker grey on the silver, mimicking the broken surface of an unsettled sea. Jim ran his fingers over the netted texture.

  The creature started to submerge again. Jim slipped off its back. It was only then, when he had returned to the water, clutching his box again, that he spotted the line of faint circular lights along the leviathan’s side. Almost like … almost like windows, he thought.

  Then it was gone, a last flick of its tail flukes tossing spray into the air. Treading water to face the oncoming waves, Jim had no choice but to let them toss him and drop him while he put his faith in his trusty sea-chest to keep him afloat. Whenever he got the chance, he turned his attention back to his ship.

  The Odin was almost on her side, the ragged remnants of her sails dipping in the water. Her crew—what was left of them—were struggling to launch the longboats. By the time they saw the huge wave, it was too late. Like a moving mountain, it rushed towards the stricken ship, curling over and collapsing on her, burying her in water and leaving nothing but scattered debris. It continued on towards Jim, bearing down on him. He hugged the wooden box, closing his eyes as it loomed over him, its heaving wall lifting him, carrying him upwards, a mere speck on its surface, before the top of the watery cliff face broke into foam and fell upon him.

  I

  THE MISSING DUKE OF LEINSTER

  HMS SCAFELL WAS A SHIP-OF-THE-LINE, carrying seventy-four guns. Her gun deck alone was over one hundred and eighty feet long. Built to be powerful but nimble, she was one of a breed of ships that made up the backbone of the Royal Navy. With elegant lines, sturdy construction, her intimidating firepower and a highly-­disciplined crew of more than five hundred men, the Scafell repre­sented all the qualities that had enabled Britain’s navy to rule the seas for more than two hundred years.