Blue said cautiously, ‘So it wasn’t a cloud dancer?’
Loki smiled. ‘Oh, it was a cloud dancer, all right. Poetic justice, I imagine.’
She wanted to ask a lot more about that as well, but she had a feeling he was trying to divert her. ‘And why are you here?’ she asked.
‘I was called too,’ Loki said, but without the edge this time.
‘Brimstone called you both?’
‘Oh no, just Jormungand.’
Blue glared at him suspiciously. ‘Then who called you?’
Loki smiled smugly. ‘That peculiar little creature the Purlisa.’
The Purlisa? Why would the Purlisa call up one of the Old Gods – particularly this Old God – when he was so concerned about the Midgard Serpent? Surely one entity from that dimension was enough? Except, of course, she no longer knew what to believe about the Purlisa.
‘To make sure all goes well for you and Henry,’ Loki said as if he’d read her thoughts.
Eighty-Five
Lord Hairstreak was furious. And helpless, which made things worse. He glowered with impotent rage as the guards marched him from the ferry to the Purple Palace. He’d already suffered the indignity of a body search. Now he was escorted like a common criminal. On whose orders? he wondered. The guards had been more than a little vague about that. They were Palace Guards all right, which meant they were theoretically responsible to his niece, Queen Blue. But Blue was away from the Palace at the moment – he knew that for sure. Unless she’d just returned, of course. The possibility struck him as interesting, but why have him arrested? There was no way she could have got wind of his plans.
Not that he’d been formally arrested. He might have lost his political influence and most of his money, but he was still a Lord, still of the Blood Royal (albeit on the wrong side of the blanket), which meant he had been ‘invited’ to accompany the Guards. When he declined, they insisted, politely but firmly. Later, when he was searched, he knew even the veneer of courtesy had been abandoned.
The irony was that the Guard Captain was one of his own men – or rather what used to be one of his own men – a Faerie of the Night. Blue had instigated an ecumenical policy soon after her coronation: demons, Faeries of the Night … all were welcome to Palace service. It was supposed to help draw all sides together in a spirit of harmony and cooperation. Adolescent naivety, if ever he saw it, but the irritating thing was it seemed to have worked. There was a time when he could have counted on a Faerie of the Night to do his bidding absolutely. Now he couldn’t even get this one to give him a little information.
He made one more try. ‘Captain, what exactly is this all about?’
‘Couldn’t say, sir,’ said the Captain.
The dark bulk of the Purple Palace, long blackened by time, was looming over them now, and he noticed they were skirting the main entrance in favour of a lesser door, another indication that this was no formal invitation from his niece. But it was none of the usual business entrances either, not the way of the diplomats, not the way of the merchants, not the way of the petitioners. If his memory of Palace geography served him, they seemed to be taking him towards the cellars. Who had quarters in the cellars? No one, so far as he was aware.
In a moment they were inside and, sure enough, they were leading him downwards, through a series of descending corridors and stairways. The going grew gloomy as they entered the older quarter of the Palace, what had once been the original keep, and as they turned a brick-lined corner, Hairstreak suddenly realised he was not being taken to the cellars at all, but to the ancient dungeons.
The sheer insult almost took his breath away. Clearly someone had not only ordered his arrest, but his imprisonment. And not in State Quarters, but in some dank cell where he would rot for the remainder of his days while the world and its wiles revolved without him. It was so outrageous he could scarcely believe it. Nothing like this could have happened in the old days. The very suggestion would have sparked a rebellion throughout the Realm. But those days, it seemed, were gone. His old enemies could act with impunity now – or at least so they believed. The question was, which old enemy?
The Guard Captain opened a door and pushed him, none too gently, into a well-lit room. At once he had his answer. ‘Ah, Madame Cardui,’ Hairstreak murmured. ‘How kind of you to invite me.’
The old witch was reclining on a suspensor cloud. Someone had mentioned she seemed to be using suspensors a lot these days, a possible indication that her bones were growing brittle. But brittle or not, it never did to underestimate her. She was wearing something long and flowing, with woven hypno-spells suggesting grace and beauty. She seemed very much at ease, which was a bad sign. The chamber was unfurnished except for the bank of glowglobes that gave it light and a heavy maroon velvet curtain that cut off a portion of its area near the back.
‘How kind of you to come,’ said Madame Cardui. She gestured to the guards, who withdrew at once, closing the door behind them, ‘I would ask you to sit down, Lord Hairstreak, but I seem to have neglected to provide a chair.’
‘No matter,’ Hairstreak said, ‘I imagine our business will not take long.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Madame Cardui told him. She gave him a hard stare. ‘Or cooperation.’
‘It’s all cooperation these days,’ said Hairstreak easily. ‘I was just thinking that on the way here.’ What he was thinking now was that, in an emergency, he might get away with killing her. The body search, while humiliating, had missed the stiletto implanted in his upper thigh. He could reach the weapon through a side pocket, drive its tip behind her ear and let the poison coating do the rest. With luck, the guards might imagine she was sleeping until he managed to get clear, and the poison, of course, was undetectable. It would be nice to have Cardui out of the way. But possibly not just yet. For the moment he needed to know why she’d had him brought here and what she wanted.
‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ Madame Cardui said. ‘In that case our business certainly will not take long.’
He waited. She had her hideous translucent cat with her, unhygienically curled up on the same cloud: the scabby creature must be nearly as old as she was and still refused to die. It glared at him malevolently, but at least it was too slow to act as her bodyguard now. Presumably she kept it out of habit or from some misplaced sense of gratitude. A great mistake. When something outlived its usefulness, you got rid of it.
‘Lord Hairstreak,’ Madame Cardui said gently, ‘why did you decide to start the time plague?’
So that was it. He’d wondered how long it would take her to become suspicious. To test how much she knew, he adopted his most bewildered expression and frowned. ‘The plague, Madame Cardui? I don’t understand …’
‘Of course you do,’ said Madame Cardui sharply. ‘This is no natural disease – we both know that. My Chief Wizard Healer confirmed it earlier today. It does not spread in the normal way, it does not react to any conventional treatment and it attacks its victims with an unprecedented ferocity. This is not a disease, Lord Hairstreak. It is a weapon. And I believe you are the one who is wielding it.’
Not bad, Hairstreak thought. Considerably less than the whole truth, but logical and pointing roughly in the right direction. Age hadn’t blurred her focus yet. But she was certainly less careful with her words than she used to be. I believe you are the one who is wielding it. Belief was not knowledge. If she had proof she’d have said I know you are the one …
So this was a fishing trip.
He spread his hands. ‘Madame Cardui, I appreciate that you and I have never been the best of friends, but where is the logic in your position? Time fever is an unconventional disease, I grant you that, but are you suggesting I somehow … manufactured it? And if I did, to what end? You use the term weapon. The plague has attacked Faeries of the Night and Faeries of the Light without distinction. What sort of weapon is that?’
‘A subtle one,’ said Madame Cardui. ‘This is not a direct attack on the Faeries of th
e Light; it is something designed to undermine the very foundations of the Empire, to create a crisis that will prepare the State for revolution – a bloody revolution led by you, Lord Hairstreak, in an attempt to regain the power you have lost.’
Rather a nice idea, Hairstreak thought. But considerably less efficient than the plan he really had in play. Clearly she had no idea about that as yet. So all that remained was for him to extricate himself from this little meeting and get back to more important matters. ‘An interesting notion, Madame, but one without the slightest foundation. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must – ’ He stopped. He had been about to turn on his heel and leave – she could not hold him without proof positive and he knew now she had no proof at all. But when he tried to move, nothing happened. He felt perfectly normal, yet his entire body was paralysed.
‘Lord Hairstreak,’ Madame Cardui sighed, ‘I don’t have time for this. None of us has time for this. The plague is increasing exponentially. Let me be frank with you. I have no idea about the details of your plan. I do not know how you started the plague. I do not know how to stop it. That’s why you’re here. Normally I would wait patiently for my agents to find out, but I no longer have that luxury. I need to know at once. And you will tell me.’
There was no scent of a cone, no indication of a magical field, so it had to be one of the newly developed techniques of mind magic. Who’d have thought Cardui could have mastered the disciplines at her age? He could possibly fight his way free, if he could muster sufficient concentration, but it might be easier to use the element of surprise. So best pick his time. Pretend he was unaware of the paralysis as yet, distract her, lull her into a feeling of false security, then jerk free. Once he’d broken the spell, it would take her minutes to lay it on him again. More than enough time to use his stiletto.
He smiled easily and shook his head, ‘I cannot tell you what I do not know. I assure you, Madame Cardui –’
She made a small hand gesture. The curtain at the end of the room swung back and Hairstreak felt his blood run cold. He was looking at an Aladdin mind machine. The chair was prepared, restraints at the ready. The helmet was already flashing green. The viewscreen was blank, but would not remain that way for long. Worst of all, he could see the dangling lead with its metallic card.
‘I told you we had run out of time,’ said Madame Cardui.
His paralysis broke, but not her power over him. He felt his right leg rise awkwardly then push outwards to set one foot flatly on the floor. He teetered, regained his balance, then felt his left leg follow suit. Jerkily he began to walk towards the Aladdin, manipulated like a puppet on strings.
‘You can’t do this!’ Hairstreak screamed. The device was normally used on Trinians – the metal card slid into their skull slots – where it was a relatively harmless way to recover memories. But for a Faerie of the Night, or a Faerie of the Light for that matter, it drained the entire mind, leaving the victim in a vegetative state. Inserting the card was notoriously tricky too. The metal was phase-shifted for ease of insertion and the brain had no pain receptors, but even a slight misplacement resulted in disaster. He had to break her hold on him and break it fast.
‘I’m afraid I can,’ Madame Cardui told him soberly. ‘When the future of the Empire is at stake.’
His legs jerked again and he took another staggering step forward. Once she placed him in the chair he was finished. The restraints would hold him automatically and from that point on she was freed to work the machine itself. His plan, his real plan, was near the surface of his memories. She would have everything on screen and recorded within minutes – half an hour at most. Not that it mattered. By then he’d be a vegetable or a lunatic, beyond caring.
Hairstreak lashed out at the mento-magical controls that held him. The weakness in the system was that it relied entirely on the mental discipline of the person using it. Surely an old hag like Cardui would be no match for a man like him.
But the old hag forced him to take another step forward, then another. Her control actually seemed to be strengthening. He was only feet from the chair now.
He stopped trying to fight the magic and concentrated instead on taking back control of his own body, forcing it to go elsewhere. The manoeuvre must have caught her by surprise, for he spun round so he was no longer facing the Aladdin and even managed a faltering step in the other direction. But then she had him again and he was headed back towards the chair. Should he tell her everything? Abandoning his plan was almost unthinkable at this stage, but at least it was better than ending up a mindless husk.
Hairstreak stopped. Would she believe him, even if he made a full confession? What he’d done seemed impossible, even to him. And it could not be undone, not now, with Brimstone gods-knew-where and Chalkhill useless as ever. There was a dull thud behind him. She would never believe he was powerless to halt the process now, not without confirmation from her cursed machine. Which left him back where he’d started.
He realised suddenly that he had stopped moving. He was no longer lurching towards the Aladdin chair. He moved one arm experimentally and discovered it was back in his control.
Hairstreak spun round. Madame Cardui was lying huddled on the floor.
His mind raced. With luck she might have broken her neck. But her eyes were open and she was still breathing. What had happened here? The suspensor cloud was still in place, although no longer floating. Presumably it had cushioned her fall. But what caused the fall? Her eyes were glazed and beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead. She was no longer in control of the cloud or, more importantly, of him.
It didn’t matter. She was helpless. Hairstreak reached for his stiletto.
Eighty-Six
‘What kept you?’ demanded the charno.
‘You can talk!’ Henry said breathlessly. Despite his surprise, he found it comforting. Somehow a creature that could talk seemed a bit less likely to attack him.
‘Think so,’ said the charno. ‘Are you going to answer my question?’
‘You mean you were expecting us?’ Henry asked. He found himself wondering if life could get any stranger. He was in fairyland, halfway up a mountain with a little blue boy, talking to a giant hare.
‘Not him,’ said the charno, nodding towards Lorquin. ‘Just you.’
‘Why?’ Henry asked, bewildered. ‘Why were you expecting me?’ Or how? How could this creature be expecting him?
‘Purlisa told me to keep an eye out.’
Henry stared at it. After a moment, he said, ‘Who’s Purlisa?’
‘Holy man,’ said Lorquin. ‘He lives with the monks in the monastery.’
What monastery? Henry thought. But that could wait. He’d opened his mouth to ask something more relevant, without quite knowing what it would be, when the charno said, ‘Blue’s inside.’
‘Ah,’ Lorquin said.
For some reason it hit Henry like a thunderbolt. Although they’d been following what Lorquin believed to be Blue’s tracks, the confirmation brought a stark reality. Blue was inside and in need of rescue. He felt sudden, overpowering fear mixed with an almost overwhelming excitement. Above it all was a sensation he’d never experienced before. It was as if he’d become the focus of the universe. His entire life had coalesced into a single point.
Without a word he turned and began to walk towards the cave.
‘Serpent in there,’ said the charno.
Henry stopped. ‘Sorry?’
‘She’s in there with the Midgard Serpent,’ said the charno.
Henry stared. After a moment he asked, ‘What’s the Midgard Serpent?’
‘Big snake,’ said the charno. He glanced briefly at the sky and added, ‘Very big snake.’
Lorquin shook his head. ‘If the charno speaks the truth, we face one of the Old Ones.’
Henry didn’t like the sound of that. ‘How do you know this stuff?’ he asked almost angrily.
Lorquin shrugged. ‘The stories of my tribe.’ A sheepish look crept across his face. ‘Not a snake
but a sea serpent. I listened well.’
Not a snake but a sea serpent said the boy who’d never seen the sea. Blue was in there with one of the Old Ones in the shape of a … big … monster … thing … sort of Old One god serpent snake, which was insane except he realised suddenly it didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. However scared he was, it didn’t matter. He had to get Blue out. He loved her, that’s what mattered. He turned again.
The charno sniffed. ‘You tackling it without a weapon?’
Henry stopped dead. For the first time since they’d set off from the deep desert, he realised he was unarmed. It was incredible, but until this very moment the thought of weapons had never occurred to him. He had been thrown by Mr Fogarty’s communication, then utterly focused on Blue and the fact she needed rescue. How stupid could you get? What did he think he was going to do – steam in and fight the serpent with his bare hands?
Lorquin said, ‘I have our weapons, En Ri.’
Henry looked at the boy and was swallowed by a wave of pure and utter love. Of course Lorquin had their weapons! Lorquin was the child-man who survived the desert, killed the draugr, saw the trails, saved Henry’s life and thought of things like that. Lorquin was his Companion in this bizarre ordeal, just as Henry had been Lorquin’s Companion the day he became a man. ‘Lorquin has my weapon,’ Henry told the charno proudly.
Lorquin pulled two short flint blades from his pouch and solemnly handed one to Henry. It was only inches long. Henry stared at it. ‘This is my weapon?’ he said softly, as much a question as a statement.
‘The blade I used to gain my manhood,’ Lorquin said. He smiled fondly.
‘Won’t work,’ said the charno.
Lorquin’s eyes narrowed as he turned. Henry caught his arm quickly. ‘No, it’s all right, Lorquin,’ he hissed. Then, to the charno, ‘He killed a draugr with this knife.’ He looked down at the blade, feeling considerable sympathy for the charno. Henry couldn’t help feeling Lorquin had got lucky – very lucky. The blade looked as if it would give problems killing a rabbit. But he had enough on his plate without a hassle between Lorquin and the charno.
Faerie Lord Page 27
