Any Other Name

by Emma Newman

  “William, do you have an answer for Lord Poppy?”

  “I do, and more, my Lord.” He’d predicted Lord Iris would want to know why Cathy was there in the first place and decided that a lie as close to the truth as possible was the best solution. “Catherine was in Mundanus to spend time with a child, something I arranged in the hope it would ignite excitement about our starting a family.”

  “Why?” Lord Iris tilted his head as he scrutinised Will. “Her excitement isn’t a prerequisite. You will have a family regardless of how she feels.”

  “Forgive me, my Lord, but, having fallen in love with Catherine, I place a great deal of importance on how she feels.” It was a gamble but he had been told by his father that Lord Poppy was a romantic. If Will appeared to be the hapless love-struck husband, it might serve the dual purpose of placating Poppy whilst convincing Iris he was committed to having a child.

  “You love her?” Poppy asked, bending to peer closely at Will. “Truly?”

  “I do, Lord Poppy.” It seemed to be working.

  “Then why put her at risk?” the Fae shrieked, his face contorting with rage. “Why not keep her at home? She could paint pictures and skip from room to room, saying funny little things and being surprising.”

  Will doubted Cathy had ever skipped in her entire life. “Paint, my Lord?”

  “Poppy, how they choose to spend their time is irrelevant as long as marital duties are performed.” He looked back at Will. “Continue.”

  “There was no way to predict such a brutal attack, my Lord,” Will said. “I’ve been tireless in my efforts to identify the individual behind it and I’m here to seek your blessing in dealing with them.”

  “You know who tried to kill my favourite?” Lord Poppy had shifted from fury to excitement faster than Will could take a breath. “Tell me who it is and I will peel the–”

  “Poppy,” Iris interjected, “you will not act without my sanction. Catherine Reticulata-Iris is mine and how this is dealt with will be my decision.”

  Poppy’s lips pressed tight together and he inclined his head at Iris. “Of course, dear Iris, of course. Forgive me.”

  Both of the Fae looked to Will expectantly. “The assassin was sent by Bartholomew Semper-Augustus-Tulipa in an attempt to sabotage my pursuit of the Ducal seat.”

  “A Tulipa!” Poppy straightened. “Really?”

  “That’s surprising,” Iris said. “I don’t like surprises.”

  “I positively adore them, usually,” Poppy said. “But this one is simply confusing. Are you sure?”

  “I wouldn’t say it were I not sure, Lord Poppy. I found it difficult to believe myself but evidence from an Arbiter and a trusted third party have proved it to be true.”

  “This Bartholomew is the one Lord Tulip has been boasting about,” Lord Iris said as he stared out into the clearing. Will felt himself relax now Iris’s attention was elsewhere, as if his patron’s gaze had been physically holding him. “I never thought the noble Tulipas would sink so low.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Poppy said firmly. “There must be a mistake.”

  “The assassin confessed to a trusted source and an Arbiter confirmed the presence of a Tulipa at the scene.” Will feared he would be accused of ineptitude.

  “Interesting,” Lord Iris said. He looked at Poppy. “One can hardly doubt an Arbiter. You have no doubts, William?”

  “None, my Lord.”

  “But Tulip hasn’t–” Poppy began but Iris silenced him again.

  “We all know how much the Tulipas have coveted the Londinium throne. They see it as theirs by right. I imagine this Tulipa would do anything to be Duke. Sometimes a desperate man does desperate things, wouldn’t you agree, William?”

  Will nodded, chilled.

  “Even resort to stabbing a woman married into a powerful family known to be a favourite of a prominent Lord. If that doesn’t embody desperation I have no idea what could.” He looked at Poppy. “We have been insulted, have we not?”

  Poppy nodded. “More than insulted, wounded. I expect compensation.”

  “That will be discussed.” Lord Iris redirected his gaze back to Will. “I should imagine you are most aggrieved.”

  “Indeed, my Lord. I beg your permission to address this insult.”

  “It would start a war,” Iris said.

  “That’s why I seek your blessing, my Lord. Whilst I’m keen to act, I’m also aware of the political instability in Londinium.”

  “I’m pleased by your restraint,” Iris said. “Well-directed passion is a formidable force. See how well I chose a match for your favourite, Poppy?” Iris regarded the trees and flowers, deep in thought. “We cannot allow this to go unpunished. Catherine is important to us both, is she not, Poppy?”

  “You know how I feel, as much as you deride me for it.”

  “William,” Lord Iris said, “you will have my permission and my help too. But you need to be committed. If you accept, once this begins you must see it through. There will be no opportunity to reconsider and no possibility of withdrawal.”

  Will bowed his head lower, caught between the thrill of being offered a boon without any involvement of his father or Patroon, and the fear of what it could be. “I’m yours, Lord Iris. If you believe me to be worthy of your aid, then I’ll seek perfection in its execution.”

  28

  The gargoyle said nothing as Max went downstairs to answer the summons from Mr Ekstrand. Max had slept well, like he always did, and once he’d had another dose of painkillers from Axon he felt ready to tackle whatever task the Sorcerer had for him.

  Axon directed him to the ballroom and he entered after his knock was answered. The mirror was once again at the centre of concentric circles of wards. Ekstrand was wearing his cloak and held his silver-tipped cane.

  “I’m going to open a Way to the castle,” Ekstrand said. “You’ll arrive just inside the curtain wall, in Mundanus. It’s night there so it’ll be locked and should be empty of innocents. Use your Peeper to look into the outer gatehouse – it will be directly in front of you. If it’s empty, the Moot is over. Report back to me immediately. I’ll keep the Way open.”

  “Yes, sir,” Max replied and pulled the Peeper from his pocket.

  He stepped through once Ekstrand had opened the Way. The air was fresh and cool against his skin after several days of being in the Nether. Max walked as fast as his limp permitted towards the wall of the inner gatehouse. The high limestone curtain wall kept him out of sight of the town and any innocents still on the street.

  Rushden Castle had been the location of the Moots for centuries but Max had never actually been there. It was the first time he’d set foot on the Isle of Man. It was independent of any of the seven kingdoms in the Heptarchy and therefore considered neutral enough to provide a location for the Sorcerers to meet. The medieval castle was remarkably well preserved because none of the Sorcerers wanted the mundane anchor of their meeting-place to degrade. The innocents got a museum and heritage site and the Sorcerers had one fewer thing to squabble about. On balance, Max considered it to be a good deal.

  Max placed the Peeper against the wall and twisted the soapstone circles that housed its lenses in opposite directions until the deep amber glow of torchlight shone through. He peered into the small stone room and didn’t see anyone at first glance. He was about to pull the Peeper away when it occurred to him to move it down the wall. When he saw the dead apprentice lying near the door he removed the Peeper and stepped back through into the ballroom. Ekstrand closed the Way.

  “The Moot’s over,” Max said. “There’s a dead apprentice in the gatehouse.”

  Ekstrand said nothing as he stood there, staring at the tip of the cane. “We go through,” he finally said, “the three of us, to the reflected castle.”

  “Yes, sir,” Max replied and the gargoyle came closer as another Way was opened.

  They followed Ekstrand through into the inner bailey, this time in the misty grey light of the Nether. T
he building looked exactly the same, both it and the curtain wall made of the same limestone; the only difference was the torchlight shining out of the arrow slits and tiny medieval windows.

  The gargoyle went to the corner of the keep, nose to the ground and sniffing like a hound on the trail of a fox. It ran its heavy claws lightly over the stone. “There are cracks here.”

  “Just like at the Cloister,” Max said as Ekstrand inspected them.

  “I need to know whether the Sorcerers are still here,” Ekstrand said. “I expect they’re already dead, and that whatever foul sorcery Dante worked here is done, but I won’t take the risk of going inside.”

  “I understand.” Max headed towards the door.

  “Wait. The wards on the Keep will kill anyone who’s not one of the seven ruling Sorcerers of the Heptarchy. It will take me a long time to break them alone.”

  “They would still work against an Arbiter?”

  “Absolutely. Security would be horribly compromised otherwise. The wards aren’t dependent on the illegal entrant having a soul, they’re dependent on there being critical differences in parameters we use to identify ourselves and the person trying to enter. However…”

  He looked at the gargoyle, which stopped sniffing the wall and then shrank against it. “What?”

  “The gargoyle might be able to go through.”

  “Might?”

  “If it isn’t possible, you’ll simply be unable to progress. There’s no risk.”

  “Oh, good. So at best I’ll be able to go inside the building of doom. Brilliant. I’m so thrilled.”

  “We have to try,” Max said. “We need to know now.”

  “And it isn’t as if you have to worry about your heart being turned to stone,” Ekstrand added. “You don’t have a heart and you’re already made of stone. Perfect. In you go.”

  With a wrinkled muzzle and quiet grumbling the gargoyle made its way towards the door. Ekstrand unlocked it with a huge key covered in formulae and then stepped back. The gargoyle gave Max one last look before it reached for the handle, opened the door and went inside.

  “Well, I’m not dead,” it called out after a moment. “Or… less animated than I should be. I can’t hear anyone either.”

  “Go to the Lord’s Presence Chamber,” Ekstrand said. “That’s where they’ll be if they’re still there.”

  As they waited Max inspected the cracks in the limestone and Ekstrand paced. It wasn’t long before the gargoyle came back to the entrance.

  “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  “What?” Ekstrand marched over.

  “OK, the bad news is that they’re all dead. Maybe that’s good news, I don’t know.”

  “What’s the good news?” Max asked as Ekstrand covered his eyes and sagged a little.

  “It isn’t all of them.”

  Ekstrand dragged his hand down his face. “Who’s missing?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never seen them before. But there are only five.”

  “It makes sense,” Max said. “Dante killed them and left.”

  “Bring the bodies out to us,” Ekstrand instructed the gargoyle and it went back inside the keep.

  “We shouldn’t stay here too long,” Max said. “Dante may expect us to return.”

  “If he’d left a trap, we would be suffering already,” Ekstrand replied. “Check for any residues whilst the bodies are brought out.”

  Max wound the Sniffer as the gargoyle deposited the first body at Ekstrand’s feet. “Northumbria,” he said, and crouched down to close the dead Sorcerer’s eyes. “Could be jolly on a good day. Excellent watchmaker.”

  Max kept an eye on the Sniffer as it whirred gently and sucked the air through the funnel on its top. Before it returned the results the second body had been brought out and laid next to the first.

  “Sussex.” Ekstrand closed the eyes with some reverence. “Strange fixation on tadpoles and astute mathematician. I won’t miss his bad breath.”

  Max read the Sniffer at the sound of the tiny ping. “Rose, sir, like before, very strong.”

  Ekstrand nodded, grim-faced, and the third body was carried out to him.

  “Kent. Cantankerous old fool with very strange ideas about underwear. Never should have been one of the seven, in my opinion.” His eyes were still closed gently.

  Once the Sniffer had retracted and was in his pocket Max looked at the dead Sorcerers. They looked like sleeping old men, not some of the most powerful individuals in Albion. All had grey hair, all were grey-faced, all had large noses and ears with bunches of wiry hair growing from them.

  The fourth body was laid down and Ekstrand closed his eyes. He was younger than the others and had more hair, mostly brown. “East Anglia.” Ekstrand sighed. “Young pup, only held the throne for three hundred years or so. Fascinating chap, if you’re interested in coastal defences. Which I am, on Thursdays.”

  Max had never heard Ekstrand talk about the other Sorcerers like people before. He knew there had been wars over the centuries and as a result practically no trust existed, but somehow they still functioned as a collective. Now there would be Chapter Masters all over the country without the guidance and resources of a Sorcerer. The only party who could benefit from the inevitable chaos would be the Fae.

  “Why would Dante do this?” he asked Ekstrand, but received no reply.

  “This is the last one in that chamber,” the gargoyle said, and eased the body off its shoulder onto the ground.

  “This can’t be right! That’s Dante! That’s the Sorcerer of Essex.”

  “So Mercia is behind this,” Max said.

  “I should have known!” Ekstrand pressed his balled fists into his temples. “Bloody Mercia! It all makes sense now – he’s always coveted Wessex, he knew I’d call a Moot and that he’d kill me here. He just didn’t count on me staying away.”

  “But why kill all the others?” Max asked. “And why would there be corruption in London and nowhere else?”

  “That we know of,” Ekstrand replied. “For all we know, the puppets may be running riot in Mercia too!”

  Max looked down at Dante. His dead eyes were still open, reflecting the silver sky. He struggled to reach down and close them as Ekstrand cursed the Sorcerer of Mercia in several languages without drawing breath.

  “There’s no one else inside the keep,” the gargoyle said but Ekstrand didn’t hear it.

  “Look again,” Max said. “We need to be certain.” The gargoyle sloped off. Eventually Ekstrand paused to draw a breath. “What now, sir?”

  “Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?” Ekstrand replied. “War.”

  Will stepped through the Way Lord Iris had made for him at the edge of the clearing. “I expect nothing less than perfection,” his patron had whispered in his ear moments before and Will felt the pressure acutely.

  The Way closed once he was through and he was alone in a wide corridor, in front of impressive wooden doors. It sounded like a large gathering of people was in the room on the other side of them. Will took a moment to look around and then went closer to listen before entering.

  There was a round of polite applause and a call for quiet. “My first act as Duke of Londinium–”

  Will leaped away from the door. That was Bartholomew’s voice, without a doubt. There was over a week left, how–

  Then he realised Lord Iris had chosen the time and place of his arrival back in the Nether. Several days had passed during the few minutes he’d been with his patron and he’d been sent back into the Nether reflection of Somerset House, the location of the Londinium Court. The reason behind it was clear; Lord Iris still wanted Will to take the throne. He’d just given him a different means to do so.

  He stifled a burst of panic as the full extent of how he’d been used became apparent. After a few moments focused on his breathing, Will concluded that nothing had actually changed; Lord Iris had always intended him to make a play for the throne. The only thing that had altered was the way he
was going to do it and the fact that Bartholomew was already Duke.

  He had to focus on what Iris and Poppy had gifted him. There was no going back and no other option. His patron demanded perfection.

  Will opened the doors onto the throne room. The air was hot with the press of people and filled with a riot of perfumes. It was a grand space, two stories high, used by the mundanes as an art gallery. The walls in the Nether room were filled with framed mirrors instead of art as a precaution against the use of Charms in political discussions.

  At the far end of the room was a low dais with two gilded chairs upon it, one smaller than the other. The Tulipas sat as Duke and Duchess, and the head of the Digitalis family stood next to Bartholomew, holding the sceptre that indicated he’d thus far retained his position as Marquis of Westminster.

  “You’re late, Will!” Freddy’s voice boomed across the room, making everyone turn and look at him. “Shame you missed the best bit. I thought you planned to stand. Would have been a damn sight more interesting.”

  He chuckled and the rest of the room fell silent as they watched Will enter, his eyes fixed on Bartholomew. He thought of Sophia’s perfect skin scarred forever, he thought of the terror Cathy must have felt and the sight of her lying in the hospital bed, her jaw black, her chest in bandages. He distilled it all into a single sharp point and the men and women of the Court parted as he made his way towards the throne.

  “William.” Bartholomew smiled. “I was wondering when we’d see you. I too thought you’d be here earlier. I hope nothing untoward has delayed you?”

  Will suppressed a knee-jerk response to Bartholomew’s feigned ignorance. Instead, he walked up to the lowest step and said, “Bartholomew Semper-Augustus-Tulipa, I accuse you of the attempted murder of my wife Catherine Reticulata-Iris and demand your immediate resignation from the Ducal seat you obtained by foul means.”

  As his wife paled Bartholomew’s face was the perfect picture of shock and indignation. The crowd burst into a gabble of gasps, commentary and a burst of expletives from Viola, but Will ignored them all.