Doctor Who_ St. Anthony's Fire - Mark Gatiss [41]
He regarded her coolly with his pinprick eyes.
‘Very well, child. You may look upon me.’
The woman lifted her head.
De Hooch noticed the rather cruel line of her mouth and the potential of fire behind her eyes. He rather liked that. She had promise.
‘I am honoured indeed, Parva De Hooch,’ said the woman in a reverent whisper. ‘To be seen by the Magna’s second is…’
‘Yes, well, never mind about that,’ muttered De Hooch with some irritation. ‘It is not of the Magna that I wish to speak.’
The woman looked at him. ‘No, my lord.’
De Hooch twisted around on his cushions, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brick‐like forehead. ‘I want to talk about you.’
The woman felt a thrill of alarm run through her, mixed with unease and not a little excitement.
De Hooch criss‐crossed his fingers. ‘I’ve been watching you, and you have made excellent progress. In the very short time since your initiation you have studied hard, prayed hard and done great service to the Chapter. You are to be congratulated.’
‘Thank you, my Lor –’
‘Were not the notion of personal gratification completely alien to our way of life,’ concluded De Hooch with a fat little smile.
The woman bowed her head. ‘Of course.’
De Hooch hopped off his chair and walked towards her. He strutted about on the cold stone floor, hands behind his back, gazing appreciatively at the woman’s firm arms and the suggestion of flesh revealed by her rough hessian robes.
‘However, in recognition of your progress, I have decided to confer this upon you.’
His fat hand stole to his gown.
For a moment the woman flinched, then her face relaxed as De Hooch produced a small, simple wooden box on a heavy pewter chain.
He pressed it into her hands until she felt the edges digging into her skin.
It is a holy relic, child. One of the most precious in my collection.’
‘My Lord?’
De Hooch slid open the lid. Inside the box was a strange, gnarled black lump.
‘It is the sacred, uncorrupted tongue of Saint Anthony,’ breathed De Hooch excitedly. ‘Wear it with pride and do not disgrace it.’
He ran his hand over her thigh. ‘You will serve the Chapter well, my dear. Rest assured.’
The woman shuddered in spite of herself and looked down at her feet, closing the lid of the box in silence.
The dwarf gave a sickly little smile and returned to his chair.
‘You may go,’ he said loftily, turning his attention to the pile of parchment on the broad desk before him.
The woman bowed low and walked backwards out of the room. The metal‐banded door closed after her with a solid clunk.
De Hooch rocked back and forth in his chair, sucking his fat little fingers.
* * *
The first suggestion of a gale was rippling through the jungle, setting the trees swaying in agitation. Lightning flashed across the darkening Betrushian sky, illuminating the rain‐washed Cutch trench.
Imalgahite looked up briefly and then back down to the tracking device. The beeping signal was now extremely faint.
The thin soldier at his side gave an angry sigh. ‘Fading fast, I’m afraid, sir. She must’ve moved on.’
‘Yes,’ said Imalgahite slowly, ‘but she was in one place long enough for me to be sure. The Ismetch base must be at these co‐ordinates.’
He waved a scrap of paper in the soldier’s face.
‘Get the cartographers onto this and pinpoint the exact location. When we’re sure…’
The thin soldier’s eyes widened in expectation.
‘When we’re sure,’ continued Imalgahite, ‘then we go in, in force.’
He began to move off into the trench, calling over his shoulder as he waded through the filthy water.
‘If we’re going to lose this war we might as well take as many of those bastards with us as we can.’
The thin soldier watched his commander disappear, his face suffused with pride. This was the Cutch way. No armistice for them. Only death or glory. He ducked inside, the precious co‐ordinates held tightly in his claw.
* * *
The Doctor had climbed half‐way up the shrine, his hands splayed wide on the smooth marble facade, his feet placed gracelessly on