‘He fences stolen goods?’ Chalkhill asked.
‘Didn’t hear it from me,’ Nathalis said piously. ‘But a nod’s as good as a wink to a quiet bullfrog, so they say.’
Chalkhill frowned. Brimstone couldn’t be trying to shift stolen goods: he was too recently left the asylum to have any. Maybe he was trying to buy some. But what? And why? ‘Any other little sidelines?’ he asked.
‘This and that,’ Nathalis told him unhelpfully. He clipped off another tiny lock. ‘Still in the glue business then, Mr Chalkhill?’
‘Not any longer,’ Chalkhill said.
‘Couldn’t stick to it, eh? Ha-ha. What do you do now, if I may be so bold as to enquire, sir?’
‘I’m an assassin,’ Chalkhill said.
‘You’re an assassin, are you, sir? Kill people for a living?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Chalkhill said.
‘Business good, then?’
‘Can’t complain.’
Nathalis hesitated. ‘Not on a job at the moment, are you, Mr Chalkhill?’
‘One or two things in the pipeline,’ Chalkhill said. He let the man sweat for a moment out of badness, then added, ‘But not at this precise minute, no.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it, sir.’
‘You were telling me about Mr Tarquinius’s little sidelines,’ Chalkhill prompted him.
‘Forgery,’ Nathalis said quickly.
Chalkhill raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Money?’
‘Documents. Travel documents, usually. Passports, destination slips, ID cards, that sort of thing. Good at it too, so I’m told. Goes with the artistic temperament, I suppose. Not a long walk from drawing a tattoo to drawing a new passport.’
‘Costly?’ Chalkhill asked casually.
‘Not too bad if you’re desperate. You could get the full set for under five hundred.’
Which was just the sum he’d given Brimstone up front. ‘Interesting,’ he murmured.
Nathalis set down the scissors and sprayed something smelly on Chalkhill’s head. ‘Thinning a little on top, I notice, sir. Would you like me to use some of our magical hair restorer? We find it gives excellent results, and no extra charge for you, sir, on account of you used to be in business on the Lane.’
Brimstone came out of the tattoo parlour clutching a brown paper bag and headed back up Seething Lane in the general direction of Cheapside.
‘No thank you, Nathalis,’ Chalkhill said politely. ‘The baldness is part of my disguise.’
‘Thought you said you weren’t on a job at the moment, Mr Chalkhill?’
‘I lied,’ Chalkhill told him.
When Chalkhill left the barber’s shop, he strolled across the street to the tattoo parlour. The walls were lined with illustrations of dragons, anchors, hearts, flowers, manticores, haniels, machine parts, swords and weapons, with a scattering of exotica like a London bus and a plate of Analogue fish and chips. A swarthy, broad-shouldered man, naked to the waist, was the only person in the shop. He was cleaning a set of needles with an oily rag.
‘Ah, Fens!’ Chalkhill greeted him easily. ‘You don’t mind my calling you Fens, do you? It’s just that I think Feniseca is such a stupid name.’
Feniseca blinked, then began to climb to his feet. ‘Now, just a minute, Smartass -’
Chalkhill caught him in a ninja nose-hold and stuck a stimlus in his ear. ‘Listen carefully, turdface,’ he whispered. ‘A client of yours just left here a couple of minutes ago with a brown paper bag and he sure as Hael didn’t look tattooed. Old boy, smells of rotted demons. I want to know what you sold him and I want to know it now.’
Feniseca was frozen with terror. ‘Travel documents,’ he said promptly. ‘Full set.’
‘Destination?’
‘Analogue World.’
‘Specifically?’
‘London, England. Well, place near it: I don’t remember the exact name. Have to look up my records. Listen, would you mind taking your finger off the button on that thing? They fry your brains if they go off accidentally.’
‘Only if you have brains to fry,’ Chalkhill said cheerfully, keeping his finger exactly where it was. ‘You going to look up your records for me?’
‘Absolutely, sir,’ Feniseca told him.
Nineteen
It wasn’t like the old days.
‘It isn’t like the old days,’ Brimstone told George conversationally. In the oldest of the old days, when Brimstone was a boy, portals to the Analogue World were natural phenomena, generally caused by volcanic stresses, and only about five of them were known across the entire planet. Portals to Hael were a different matter: the magical techniques used for calling demons had been familiar – and used, despite their dangers – for centuries. It was only a matter of time before somebody thought of combining the natural phenomena with the magical techniques, and the result was the elaborate artificial Analogue World portals, so expensive to install and so costly to run that only the Great Houses of the Empire could afford them. These portals were directional… at least up to a point. You could only send somebody to a part of the Analogue World where a suitable node existed naturally or had been secretly established.
Then along came Alan Fogarty.
Brimstone had a sneaking regard for Alan Fogarty. He had a lot going for him when he first arrived in the Faerie Realm: he was old, he was bad-tempered, he was ruthless, he was paranoid, he was cunning. Now, of course, he had the additional advantage of being dead. But before that, he’d created the most revolutionary invention the Faerie Realm had seen in generations: the portable portal.
Some of his early prototypes had been a bit tricky. They couldn’t be used indoors, for one thing, on account of an intermittent flaw that caused buildings to collapse. They were also node-based like the Great House portals. But they still represented a big improvement: the controllers were small enough to carry in your pocket, so you could open up a portal anywhere, even if you were limited in where it would send you. And they were cheap.
It was the cheapness that caused the spread of portable portals. Even while Mr Fogarty was still alive, everybody wanted one, and while House Iris never authorised their mass production, black market engineers ripped off the design and churned out copies by the thousand. But the real problems didn’t start until after he died – a year or two after he died, to be exact. That was when a trainee engineer called Angelia Electrostrymon appeared on the scene.
Brimstone had a sneaking regard for Angelia as well, mainly because of her amazing name. Would she have invented her version of the portable portal if she’d been called Angelia Puddingbaker? He thought not. Any more than he would have become a demonologist if he hadn’t been called Brimstone. Or Chalkhill would have turned into a great pale heap if he’d been called Goldenspheres. Names had a profound influence, Brimstone thought philosophically. But whatever about that, Angelia created a version of the Fogarty portal that made Fogarty’s design look like it was nailed together from bits of wood. The great thing about it was that it didn’t need reception nodes. You could persuade an Electroportal to take you anywhere in the Analogue World just by setting the relevant coordinates. The other great thing was that it was even cheaper to manufacture than the old Fogarty controllers. Angelia licensed her patent to Consolidated Magical Services and had been counting her money ever since.
The new style Electroportals might have sparked a travel revolution in the Faerie Realm if the authorities hadn’t been quick to institute a clampdown. Couldn’t have people trolling off to the Analogue World any time they felt like it. Would have given them ideas above their station, as too much freedom always did. So, however easy it was to get there, travel to the Analogue World became illegal – on penalty of having bits cut off you – unless you had the relevant documentation, which was both difficult and costly to procure in a procedure that typically took so long you missed the best days of your holiday anyway. At the same time, the Empire’s State Public Relations Office, Propaganda Division, mounted a campa
ign designed to discourage spontaneous pleasure visits to the Analogue World, and the Royal Family set a good example by voluntarily using only their old-style node-based Family Iris portal with all its expense and well-known inconveniences.
‘You can see why anybody sensible just buys false documents,’ Brimstone told George, who sometimes listened in to his thoughts. He stored the last of his own forged documents in the various pockets of his travel suit. ‘Now, I want you to stay close behind me and move through as soon as I do: there’s only a small window of opportunity before the portal closes.’
George nodded.
Brimstone checked the coordinates. He’d taken them from an old Analogue World Ordnance Survey map and was by no means confident of their accuracy, but if he was off by a few yards, or even a few miles, he could still find his way to the exact location without too much difficulty: there was a sort of compass thing built into the Electroportal control that gave whispered instructions to the destination when needed.
‘You ready?’ he asked George.
George nodded again.
Brimstone squeezed the control and stepped through the portal.
Somebody’s house had fallen down. He was standing behind a small ornamental hedge, but could see the ruin quite clearly on the other side of the road. George arrived behind him, pushing him a step forward, an action that automatically closed the portal. There were people about. He recognised police uniforms. His instinct was to hide, but he fought it down: he’d done nothing wrong. This time. So far. The coppers had nothing on him. In fact, he’d actually taken a step towards them when he saw the two retreating figures. Brimstone stared until the man glanced back, then stepped swiftly behind a bush.
The man was Consort Majesty King Henry Atherton. The woman was Queen Holly Blue.
Twenty
Somebody’s house had fallen down. Chalkhill suppressed a giggle, but sobered quickly. This was no time to rejoice in someone else’s misfortune. He drew his shadow cloak around him and stepped into the shade of a nearby tree to evaluate the situation.
First off, there’d obviously been an accident, and a big one. His guess was that somebody in the ruined house had been running an illegal explosives factory. That sort of thing happened all the time in the Analogue World: since they couldn’t do anything by magic, they were obsessed about doing it by explosives. It was obviously an illegal factory, since there were policemen crawling all over the rubble looking for clues.
Next, why had Brimstone come here? Brimstone definitely had come here, since Chalkhill could see the old fool skulking behind a bush across the road. The answer had to be that Brimstone knew Mella was running an illegal explosives factory in the Analogue World. The question was, had Mella perished in the blast? It seemed entirely likely. Teenagers were notoriously careless, and teenagers who went into the explosives business frequently blew themselves to bits. The second question was, could Chalkhill turn this to his advantage?
The simplest course of action would be to take credit for her death, report back and tell Lord Hairstreak he’d blown her up. A simple body part, such as he might find in the rubble, would be sufficient proof. Then Chalkhill could claim his fee without having had to earn it, which would be extremely gratifying. The only drawback he could see was that Hairstreak had insisted the girl be assassinated in Hairstreak’s own castle. Was that stipulation negotiable? Hairstreak was not well known for his willingness to negotiate, but it was such a stupid thing to specify that he might. Especially if – reluctantly – Chalkhill dropped his fee a little.
But all this assumed Mella really was dead. And likely though that might be, it wasn’t absolutely certain.
A policeman strode past just a few feet from where he was standing, but the shadow cloak did its work so that Chalkhill remained unseen. He allowed his gaze to drift back to Brimstone. With his expanded senses, Brimstone probably knew whether the girl was alive or dead. The trick would be persuading him to tell… and tell the truth. Brimstone was no longer looking at the rubble: he was staring at something a little way along the road. Chalkhill followed his gaze and discovered a couple of Analogue worlders hurrying towards the police cordon. The woman was too old to be Mella and he almost lost interest at once. But there was something familiar about her. Something familiar about the man too…
Chalkhill almost choked. The woman was Queen Blue! He looked again. Impossible, yet there she was. Furthermore, now he had his eye in, he could see the man with her was Henry Atherton, her human Consort. And maybe that wasn’t impossible. They were Mella’s parents, after all. Nothing more natural than for parents to go looking for their little girl, even if they were King Consort and Queen. He frowned thoughtfully. If Brimstone was here and Mella’s parents were here, then it confirmed he was on the right track. Mella had to be here as well, somewhere close by, if she wasn’t dead, of course. All he had to do was find her, snatch her, portal swiftly back to Hairstreak’s Keep and slit her throat while His Lordship watched. Mission accomplished, payment received and on to the next job. Hey-ho the holly!
Another thought occurred to him, a dreadful, scary, hideously exciting thought. What sort of ransom could be raised for kidnapping Queen Blue? How much more would it be worth if you kidnapped King Consort Henry as well? Oh, what a thought that was! Riches beyond the dreams of avarice, but not beyond his dreams of avarice. On top of what he’d get from Lord Hairstreak for killing their daughter, it would make him the richest man in the entire Realm.
Chalkhill took three deep breaths to steady his nerves. One thing was certain: there would never be an opportunity like this again. Madame Cardui’s security system was legendary. One Purple Emperor, Holly Blue’s father, had been assassinated on her watch and she was determined that would never, ever, happen again. But even Cardui’s long talons didn’t reach into the Analogue World. Chalkhill suspected the headstrong Queen Blue had probably taken off impulsively without even notifying the old witch. Blue had a history of incognito jaunts. She might well be travelling with little security, possibly with no security at all. And while it would never do to underestimate King Consort Henry – he’d once killed a vampire with his bare hands – Chalkhill knew his own assassin’s training made him more than a match for anybody.
Could he do it? Could he capture the entire Royal Family, Henry, Blue and Mella? Probably not alone – the logistics of an operation like that were almost certainly beyond one man. But he didn’t have to do it alone. He had one potential ally already, albeit a tricky one. Between them, they could do the job…
Heart thumping, Chalkhill ran across the road and decloaked beside his old business partner.
‘Yipes!’ exclaimed Brimstone, jumping back a pace. Then he leaned forward to peer closely at Chalkhill. ‘What are you doing here?’
There was no point in recriminations. Brimstone had lied to him, in all probability tried to cheat him, but it was no more than he’d have done to Brimstone had their positions been reversed. Now he needed Brimstone’s help and he was certain he could keep the old man in line. After all, he’d managed it in the past. He drew another deep breath. ‘Same thing as you – looking for Princess Mella. Did you know her parents are here? The two people in the entire Faerie Realm who are worth the most ransom.’
Brimstone may have been mad, but he wasn’t stupid. He stared at Chalkhill with sudden interest flaring in his rheumy old eyes. ‘You’re not after them as well?’ he asked.
Chalkhill gave a long, slow smile. ‘I am now,’ he said.
PART TWO
Twenty-One
‘Pyrgus?’
Nymphalis found him in the vineyard, on his knees, talking softly to a vine. He was so focused on the plant that he obviously didn’t hear her. ‘Pyrgus!’ she repeated more sharply.
Pyrgus Malvae turned his head slowly with the familiar, trance-like look he frequently got while he was tending to the grapes, then smiled his old, fond smile when he registered who it was. They’d been married seventeen years and the chemistry between them w
as as strong as ever. Except now wasn’t exactly the time for a romantic interlude or even a short walk down memory lane.
‘The manticore has escaped,’ Nymph said.
‘What?’ he gasped. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I’ve just been up to the sanctuary.’
‘Nymph, she can’t have! How?’
‘Does it matter?’
Pyrgus suddenly tuned in to the reality of what she was telling him. ‘Anybody at the sanctuary now?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Make sure it stays that way, Nymph. Nobody within a hundred yards – two if possible. We have to keep this quiet at all costs.’
‘If we can.’
‘I’m on my way,’ Pyrgus said.
The sanctuary was a low-slung wood-frame building with special light panels in place of windows. Pyrgus, who’d lived in the Analogue World for a time, liked to think of it as Scandinavian in design, but any actual resemblance was slight. He’d built it as a home for rescued animals and since he was prone to rescuing any disadvantaged animal he came across, their needs were varied. At the moment the sanctuary housed the usual contingents of stray cats and dogs, a mountain llama, a rare desert haniel, two porkines, a herd of apts and a niff colony. The spell costs needed to provide suitable safe and separate environments for each were substantial, but fortunately Chateau Malvae wines were proving popular so that the vineyards funded the sanctuary, with enough left over to provide a modest living for Nymph and Pyrgus.
He could see the problem at once. An area of the south wall had been smashed outwards, leaving a gaping hole that even now still crackled with spell energies. Through the gap he could see the pillared environment that seemed to calm the manticore, but not, apparently, enough. Despite everything, Pyrgus felt a surge of admiration.
He moved cautiously towards the building. He might admire the manticore, but he respected her even more. While Pyrgus loved animals, he was far from sentimental about them. The wilder ones could kill you or leave you maimed for life; and there was no wilder, more unpredictable beast on the face of the planet than the manticore. More to the point, his manticore was one of the early prototypes, created before the Halek wizards realised the need to build in safeguards. The beast had proven so troublesome, so uncontrollable – even with magical restraints – that they’d been about to destroy it when Pyrgus intervened. Not that he got any thanks for the rescue – or theft, as the wizards insisted on calling it – but once he’d transported the poor thing across the Haleklind border they hadn’t wanted to risk an international incident by following. Especially since he’d taken a problem off their hands.
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