Faerie Lord fw-4

by Herbie Brennan

  Still looking into the eyes of the young man, Henry suddenly knew, beyond doubt, that this was Blue’s new love. Oh, Henry, I’m so sorry. So sorry I took you at your word. So sorry I didn’t wait. So sorry I found somebody else. So sorry we’re to be married?

  ‘Blue…’ Henry croaked, then stopped. What was he going to say? You should never have listened when I turned you down?

  ‘I know you came as soon as you could,’ Blue said.

  The young man, his eyes still on Henry’s, said inconsequentially, ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

  Henry said, ‘No.’ His voice was small.

  The young man gave a brief, bleak smile. ‘Comma,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Comma,’ Henry echoed. Comma? Blue’s peculiar, sneaky, chubby little brother? ‘Comma?’ It couldn’t be Comma. Nobody could change that much, even in two years. But now the name had been spoken Henry realised the young man had Comma’s eyes and the turn of Comma’s jaw. It was incredible.

  Comma nodded. His face was sober. He had a well-modulated voice and an air of sophistication Henry couldn’t match. ‘I’m sorry we meet again in such dreadful circumstances,’ he said.

  But really Henry couldn’t take his eyes off Blue. Why had he ever let her go? What was there in his life now that came even close to…? He gazed at her adoringly, vaguely aware he must look like a puppy, and felt a rising excitement that came out of nowhere. Maybe it isn’t too late!

  Blue said, ‘What will you do now?’

  Henry stared at her, not really knowing what she was talking about, not really caring. He allowed himself to smile a little. ‘What?’ he asked.

  Then he watched it happen in a sort of ghastly slow motion. Blue’s tears dried and a look of horror crawled across her face. Her eyes grew wide. ‘No one’s told you!’ she said. She glanced around with growing anger. But the faces that looked back were just as puzzled as Henry’s own. ‘No one’s told you,’ she said again, not angrily this time, but quietly, with shock. She looked him in the eye, her face a wooden mask.

  ‘Henry, Mr Fogarty is dead,’ she said.

  Seventeen

  ‘My guess is they plan to kill you once the money is paid over,’ Madame Cardui said calmly.

  They were in a standard Security Chamber, a purposeful confusion of hanging drapes and full-length mirrors that reflected her cloaked and hooded figure scores of times. Chalkhill shivered. He had a feeling she might be right, but that didn’t mean he wanted to face up to it. ‘I’m sure my old partner will protect me,’ he said without much conviction. And if he doesn’t, you will, you old hag, he thought. You’re the one who got me into this.

  Madame Cardui snorted. ‘Silas Brimstone? He would sell his own mother for sixpence. No, I’m afraid your only hope is to expose the Brotherhood before they move against you.’

  The trouble with a Security Chamber was you never knew where to look. Which was the whole point, of course. All the reflections duplicated the person you were talking to and the curtains deflected their voice so you couldn’t even follow the sound. It meant assassins didn’t quite know what to attack, but it was hael trying to carry out a sensible conversation. He selected a reflection of Madame Cardui at random and wailed at it, ‘But that only gives me to the end of the week!’

  ‘Can’t you ask your bank to slow the transfer?’

  ‘I’ve already done that,’ Chalkhill told her. ‘Standard clearance is seventy-two hours. They’ve pushed it back to six days – a working week. But they won’t go any further. They say more delay would ruin their reputation.’

  ‘Such a shame,’ said Madame Cardui.

  The deep hood meant he couldn’t see her face, but he sensed she was smiling and felt a sudden chill. She’d sounded so plausible when she first approached him and frankly her proposition had appealed hugely. But there’d been no talk of killing then and especially no talk of killing him. He began to suspect the old witch had a hidden agenda. All the same, he felt compelled to venture, ‘Can’t you do anything?’

  ‘My deeah, I would if I could – you know that. But I can’t. My hands are tied. We’re all supposed to be friends with those ghastly Faeries of the Night these days.’

  Chalkhill was a ghastly Faerie of the Night himself, but he let it go. For better or worse, Madame Cardui was his paymaster now. However tricky she proved, she couldn’t be more dangerous than Hairstreak and he’d survived for years as Hairstreak’s spy. Besides, he knew that whatever she said, she wasn’t likely to let him be murdered while he remained a valuable asset. At the moment, he was the only asset she had. No one else had managed to infiltrate the Brotherhood.

  He decided the talk of death was just meant to put pressure on him, hurry him up a little, as if he hadn’t enough motivation already. Darkness knew Hairstreak had played the same game often enough. To move things along – perhaps even take control of the situation – he asked, ‘Any new intelligence?’

  A hundred hooded heads shook negatively. ‘Only confirmation of what we already know. The Brotherhood is up to something.’ There was just the barest hesitation before she asked, ‘Did you find out anything else, Mr Chalkhill?’

  For a moment he debated keeping it to himself, then decided against it. This early in the game he needed to ingratiate himself with Madame Cardui, reassure her he was loyal. Besides, what he had learned was little enough and of doubtful importance. ‘Hairstreak looked taken aback when I asked to speak to God,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ said Madame Cardui, as if he’d told her something interesting. ‘How did he respond?’

  ‘Brushed it off as a joke. "I’m the only God you’ll find round here" or some such. But I’m sure I rattled him.’

  ‘And your analysis?’

  Chalkhill opened his mouth and closed it again. Hairstreak had never asked for his analysis of anything in the old days. Madame Cardui was obviously a very different sort of spymaster. His eyes flickered from one reflection to another. The fact was he didn’t have much of an analysis. Everything he’d done so far had been prompted by greed and gut instinct. Plus some loose tavern talk. He doubted the Painted Lady would be impressed by that. ‘Well, it’s obviously a code-name…’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Madame Cardui cut in impatiently. ‘But what does it stand for? A person? Some important ally? Another country, perhaps? Or does it simply stand for whatever it is they’re scheming about – the name of their current project?’

  How am I supposed to know, you stupid old sow? Chalkhill thought. Aloud he said, ‘I don’t think that’s important. I -’

  ‘It most certainly is, Mr Chalkhill,’ Madame Cardui cut in again. ‘In my experience, people are often foolish enough to choose code-names that hint at exactly the thing they’re trying to conceal. For example, if "God" refers to a person, we might infer someone in authority, someone with power. Whereas if "God" is the codename for a project, we may be forgiven for assuming it was a grandiose project, something far-reaching and all-consuming.’ Her voice took on a steely edge. ‘Like a plot to overthrow the legitimate ruler of the Realm.’

  Chalkhill jumped as if stung. He’d been thinking much the same thing himself, which was why he was so interested in what Brimstone was up to. By playing both ends against the middle, he hoped to ensure himself a high position in the new order if the Brotherhood plot succeeded, or ingratiate himself with the old order if it failed. The trouble was he didn’t know what Brimstone was up to. He didn’t even know where Brimstone lived, although he hoped to remedy that soon. ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing like that, Madame Cardui,’ he said smarmily. Because whether it was or whether it wasn’t, it was better if he found out first. Cardui was too suspicious for her own good. He didn’t want her poking into things on her own account, oh no.

  ‘Why not?’ Cardui asked sharply. ‘Lord Hairstreak has tried that sort of thing before. Have you not heard the Analogue expression about a leopard and its spots?’

  Chalkhill wasn’t big on Analogue expressions, but caught her drift easily enoug
h. ‘Ah yes, Painted Lady, but that was Lord Hairstreak acting on his own account, acting politically, you might say. What we are dealing with now is the Brotherhood, which is, I suppose you might call it, a religious organisation, of which Lord Hairstreak just happens to be temporary head. Times have changed, as you mentioned yourself just a moment ago, and one may well act as a brake on the other.’ He realised he was making no sense at all, even as he said it, but hoped it might muddy the waters enough to divert her paranoia.

  It didn’t work. ‘You would call the Brotherhood a religious organisation?’ Madame Cardui asked incredulously.

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ asked Chalkhill innocently.

  ‘Not entirely,’ Madame Cardui told him. ‘I think of it more as – ’ She stopped as something flashed orange in the mirrors.

  Chalkhill drew back with instinctive loathing. Every mirror now showed a dwarf crouched at the Painted Lady’s ear. Chalkhill recognised it immediately, of course – that hideous creature Kitterick, with the toxic teeth. He shivered.

  Madame Cardui stood up abruptly. ‘I am required elsewhere,’ she said without preliminary. ‘Report to me directly when you have more information, Mr Chalkhill.’ Then she was gone.

  With a whisper of hidden machinery, the mirrors changed position, leaving Chalkhill to stare woodenly at his own reflections.

  Eighteen

  Brimstone still wore his demonologist’s shawl when weather permitted. The horned symbol kept people at a distance – that or his body odour – even though the demons were tamed now. It suggested, he often thought philosophically, that once people were conditioned to a particular response, most of them were too lazy to rid themselves of it when it was no longer necessary.

  He was wearing the shawl now. It permitted him to move unmolested through one of the roughest districts of the docks, a favourite ploy when he wanted to avoid being followed. The ruffians might leave him alone, but anyone who tried to follow risked their gold, their limbs and possibly their life. Not that there were many ruffians about at the moment. They seemed to be just as nervous of the plague as everybody else. All the same, he didn’t think he was being followed.

  In fact he was sure of it. Brimstone stepped to the river’s edge and flagged down a passing water-taxi. The driver pulled in warily. ‘Where to, Guv?’

  ‘Mount Pleasant,’ Brimstone told him loudly, which was nowhere near where he wanted to go, but he could change the destination once he was aboard. Meanwhile, anyone who might be listening would be sent off in the wrong direction. Couldn’t be too careful, even with the streets half empty. He made to step on the boat.

  ‘Got your cert?’ asked the driver.

  Brimstone glared at him. ‘Cert?’

  ‘Your chitty, Guv. Signed by a healer. Certifying you’re disease-free.’

  For a minute Brimstone didn’t believe it. He ratcheted the glare up a notch. ‘What are you talking about, you cretin?’

  ‘Can’t get on a public vehicle without your cert,’ the cabbie explained patiently. ‘New regulation. Proposed by the Mayor, passed by the Queen, God bless her.’

  ‘When did this happen?’ Brimstone asked, appalled. Every time he turned around, that royal trollop enacted something else that took away your freedom. No bear-baiting, no cock fights, no duels. You weren’t even allowed to poison someone in a vendetta any more. Now it was freedom of movement.

  ‘Hour ago,’ the driver told him.

  ‘An hour ago?’ Brimstone repeated. ‘With no public announcement?’

  The driver shook his head. ‘Oh, there’s been a public announcement all right, Guv. They posted a notice on the door of the cathedral.’

  ‘And how,’ asked Brimstone sarcastically, ‘do they expect somebody to arrange for a healer’s certificate if he’s a Faerie of the Night who isn’t allowed into the Lighter cathedral?’

  ‘Dreadful, ain’t it?’ agreed the cabbie sympathetically. ‘All the same, sir, that’s the law. I don’t make it, but I can’t break it, as the saying goes. I’m only following orders. I just work here. I’m not paid to think.’

  ‘Double fare?’ Brimstone suggested.

  ‘Hop in, Guv.’

  Brimstone climbed into the boat. It was nice to know some things hadn’t changed.

  He settled himself into the rear of the cab and pulled across the tattered sunshade. Not that there was any sun, but it protected him from prying eyes. The cabbie struck a spell cone, which spluttered for a moment, then flared into life. ‘Mount Pleasant, was it, Guv? The posh end, I suppose?’

  ‘Whitewell,’ Brimstone told him shortly. ‘The one past Cripple’s Gate.’

  ‘Could have sworn you said Mount Pleasant,’ the cabbie muttered. ‘I must be getting senile.’

  Brimstone closed his eyes as the boat began to gather momentum. Queen Blue’s latest law was disturbing as well as inconvenient. Any imbecile could see it would be wildly unpopular, especially with those who didn’t have Brimstone’s access to funds for bribes. The Queen was answerable to nobody, but the Mayor was running for re-election next year. The fact he’d proposed it showed how bad the time plague had become.

  If he wasn’t careful, it would be completely out of control before he could exploit it properly.

  Brimstone opened his eyes and leaned forward. ‘There’s an extra seven groats for you if you ignore the speed limit,’ he told the cabbie.

  Nineteen

  Henry breathed a sigh of relief. It was a mistake. (It was a really stupid mistake, made by a really stupid nurse.) He looked across the room to where Mr Fogarty lay asleep on the bed, looking just the way he had when Henry left him. Somebody had taken that horrid tube out of his back, which probably meant he didn’t need it any more, which was more good news.

  ‘He’s just sleeping,’ Henry told Blue.

  ‘Henry…’ Blue said.

  ‘No, really,’ Henry told her. ‘He always sleeps like that. On his back. I mean, he was sleeping like that when I left him. It’s just that you can’t see his breathing. Lots of people would make the same mistake: he breathes very shallowly when he’s sleeping.’

  ‘Henry…’ Blue said again.

  ‘No, really,’ Henry repeated with a little smile. ‘Look, I’ll show you.’ He strode across the room. ‘Mr Fogarty,’ he said brightly. ‘Wake up, Mr Fogarty.’ The old boy would be cross about losing his beauty sleep, but at least that was better than this nonsense about his being dead. It had everybody running around like headless chickens.

  Mr Fogarty did not move.

  ‘Henry…’ Blue said.

  Henry reached down and shook Mr Fogarty’s shoulder. The old man’s head rolled loosely to one side and his eyes remained closed. Blue appeared beside Henry and gripped his arm. ‘He’s dead, Henry,’ she said gently.

  Henry turned to look at her, his eyes desolate. ‘He can’t be dead. I was talking to him just a few minutes ago.’ He turned back and seized Mr Fogarty’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. There was none.

  Blue said, ‘I think we should leave him now, Henry. The priests will look after him from here.’

  Henry stared at her. ‘Priests?’

  ‘They cast a spell to open his mouth.’

  ‘Why would they want to do that?’

  ‘To release his soul.’ Blue tugged his arm. ‘Come on, Henry. We should leave them to do their work.’

  Although he hadn’t seen them enter, the room was filled with wizards in their ceremonial robes. Some had Trinian servants carrying rosaries, thuribles and other religious equipment.

  ‘He’s not from your world,’ Henry said. He couldn’t think straight, but somehow it felt wrong that Mr Fogarty should have his mouth opened by a spell. Surely he should be in a proper coffin, ready to be buried in a proper grave? It occurred to Henry he didn’t know Mr Fogarty’s religion, or if he even had one. But people who were dead should go to the nearest Church of England, where the vicar would conduct a service and say nice things about them -

  He was a bank robber, but everybody l
oved him, said an imaginary vicar inside Henry’s head.

  – and then when everybody had paid their respects, they were carried to the churchyard and…

  Henry discovered there were tears streaming down his face even though he didn’t feel all that sad. He didn’t feel anything really, except perhaps numb.

  ‘He wanted our funeral rites,’ Blue said. ‘We discussed it days ago.’

  That was before I came, Henry thought inconsequentially. That was before I even knew.

  The room was swimming behind a veil of tears, so he allowed Blue to lead him out into the corridor and down the Palace stairs.

  Twenty

  It was like his very first visit to the Realm when he’d ended up in the Palace kitchens, fussed over by matronly women. Now Blue brought him here again and sat him at a scrubbed pine table amidst the bustle and the cooking smells. Someone plump in an apron brought them steaming mugs of what turned out to be tea – a kind thought because tea was expensive in the Realm, but they all knew where he came from and wanted to make him feel at home.

  Henry stared down into the amber liquid – they didn’t know about adding milk here – and watched ripples spread across its surface as a teardrop struck it. For some reason he couldn’t stop crying, even though it was unmanly and embarrassing.

  Blue sat on the bench beside him, so close that her thigh touched his. She curled her hands around her own mug as if to warm them. She had very long, slender fingers. He loved her fingers. She seemed more feminine than he remembered, probably because of the dress. He loved her dress.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Blue asked softly.

  Henry looked at a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. He should write and tell Mr Fogarty’s daughter that Mr Fogarty was dead, except Mr Fogarty’s daughter already believed Mr Fogarty was dead because Henry had lied to her on Mr Fogarty’s instructions. So he couldn’t write to her now. But he would have to go back and tell Hodge. Hodge would want to know.