Faerie Wars

by Herbie Brennan

  There was a grassy bank on the inside of the wall, which made it even easier to climb. Henry reached the top of the bank first, pulled himself up on the wall, then dropped back down again at once, dragging Pyrgus with him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Pyrgus asked.

  ‘There’s a copper talking to Bernie.’ Henry pulled himself up and peered cautiously over the top of the wall again. A patrol car was parked behind Bernie’s famous Ford and a policeman was engaged in conversation with him at the driver’s window. From this distance, Henry couldn’t hear what was being said, but, as he watched, the policeman stepped back, Bernie gave him a cheery wave and drove away. The policeman climbed back into the police car, which pulled away as well.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Pyrgus asked.

  ‘Bernie’s gone,’ said Henry.

  ‘How do we get back to Mr Fogarty with the stuff?’

  Henry thought about it for a moment. Then he said, ‘We walk.’

  Seventeen

  The Situation Room was a modified cavern deep in bedrock underneath the palace. It was safe from attack – even magical attack – because the surrounding granite was unusually high in quartz, but the trip down took nearly twenty minutes, even using the suspensor shafts. Apatura Iris hid his impatience. It was important for the Purple Emperor to maintain the appearance of calm at all times, whether he felt it or not.

  In fact, he felt anything but calm. There was still no word about Pyrgus, nothing to show whether he was alive or dead. The House Iris portal had yet to give up its secrets. Machine parts still lay strewn about the chapel. Technician priests still worked round the clock to try to find out where Pyrgus might be. So far with no result. Apatura had abused them all roundly this morning, but he was aware it was no more than a token show. The men were all as anxious to find out what had happened as he was. They had never lost anyone in a portal before. They took the disappearance of their Crown Prince as a personal affront. If anyone could get him back, it was these men.

  The only question was whether they could get him back in time.

  The Purple Emperor had spent hours with the Senior Medical Priest learning everything there was to know about triptium. The action of the substance could be stopped, but only if caught in time. The treatment was a painful injection and full recovery might take days, but it was preferable to having your head explode.

  How long did Pyrgus have before that happened? How long? How long? It was the only thing Apatura could think about at a time when he should certainly have been thinking about a dozen other things. The realm was edging steadily towards the most dangerous crisis in its history and its Emperor had to force himself to pay attention.

  Which was probably what Hairstreak had planned. Apatura had no doubt at all Lord Hairstreak was behind this whole affair, although as yet he had no way of proving it. Nor was he sure – yet – of Hairstreak’s motivation, but what had happened had his stamp all over it. There was no doubt at all now that the House Iris portal had been sabotaged, no doubt the only reason it had been sabotaged was to make sure Pyrgus died. How exactly that would benefit Hairstreak Apatura had still to discover, but the convoluted planning by someone who could reach into the palace itself meant this was no amateur operation. It required the sort of resources only Hairstreak could muster.

  It also required traitors in the palace.

  Without traitors, no one could have done what had been done to the House Iris multi-portal. The Chief Portal Engineer now knew exactly what had happened, even if he was still not in a position to say where Pyrgus might have gone. The sabotage required subtlety and a deft hand. So someone who knew what needed to be done had to be smuggled into the palace and protected from discovery while he carrried out the job. Then all signs of his work had to be hidden.

  But that was only half the operation. The other half, the more important half, was ensuring Pyrgus was poisoned. And poisoned at exactly the right time he could be spirited away beyond help. This meant access to stores, knowledge of vaccination procedures and, again, split-second timing, since the medical priest who administered the injection might have selected any one of a dozen ampules. In fact the whole thing was carried out with such sophistication that Apatura was far from certain any outsiders were involved at all, except in the planning. Surely it would make more sense to suspect the whole thing was an inside job?

  That was certainly the way Palace Security were thinking. Apatura knew they were working on the theory no outside agent was involved. Apatura himself wasn’t quite so sure, although he was certainly leaning in the same direction. What worried him was the level of treachery. Whoever was involved would have had to move freely throughout the palace, including the most secure areas. That meant someone at a high level. Apatura didn’t want to think the palace harboured a high-level traitor.

  The filter had been repaired. That proved to be a simple job. The Chief Portal Engineer had also assured him the portal itself could be made safely operative within a matter of hours. But that was only after they discovered where Pyrgus had gone. Until then, the machinery had to stay dismantled for the ongoing analysis. It was a hideous frustration and one Apatura could ill afford when he needed a clear head to deal with all the other problems.

  Two uniformed guards snapped to attention as he stepped from the shaft and shrugged off his harness. They fell in step beside him as he moved off along the starkly lit passageway. At other times he would have waved them back – he had never much liked the formalities of his office – but now even that small effort seemed beyond him. Besides, he might even need their protection. If his own son could be poisoned underneath his nose, who knew what else might happen in the palace?

  Two more guards opened the door of the Situation Room at his approach and Apatura stepped inside, already dreading what he might be about to see.

  The Situation Room, like so much of the palace these days, was a buzz of activity. The banks of crystal globes had been linked directly to the spy cameras of the Imperial Espionage Service so that all pictures were updated on a second-by-second basis. In the centre of the room was the huge operations table, with the entire landscape of the realm available, in three dimensions, when the proper chant was voiced. Just now, only a segment of the land was visible, recognisable by the indigo marking flags of Night Faerie. Young women moved briskly between the globes and the table, constantly rearranging the display. Three of Apatura’s top military commanders were already in the room. So was Gatekeeper Tithonus.

  The military men came to attention as he entered and Tithonus hurried across to greet him. ‘What news?’ Apatura asked.

  Tithonus frowned. ‘I fear the situation looks increasingly grave.’

  ‘Is an attack imminent?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Tithonus dropped his voice. ‘Any news of Pyrgus, Majesty?’

  The Emperor shook his head. He walked over to the crystal globes. They were all displaying different viewpoints on what appeared to be a mass rally of Night Faerie troops. Apatura selected a low-level aerial view and forced his body to relax. In a moment he felt the familiar sensation as the globe drew him in.

  He was looking down on a vast stadium packed with a cheering throng. Black-uniformed troops marched in tight formation to create a torchlit serpent winding its way into the stadium to the insistent beat of drums. The lead contingents bore the insignia of House Hairstreak, but others following wore uniforms of various other Night Houses. Most were members of the old Nightside Alliance, but, in a worrying development, some additional Houses appeared to have joined them. Lord Hairstreak, it seemed, was growing in popularity.

  The update from the Imperial Espionage Service gave the scene a jerky, unreal quality, but, even so, Apatura watched with growing unease. The marching soldiers looked like grim-faced robots and their discipline was impressive, as doubtless it was meant to be. They split into several streams and wizards marching with each one changed the colour of their torches so that they became a rainbow throng. The colours spun and danced as the men
marched, then, with breathtaking speed, became a living insignia of House Hairstreak. The drumbeats reached a crescendo as spotlights picked out a single figure on the rostrum.

  The soldiers halted, the drumming ceased, the vast crowd fell completely silent. After a moment the figure spoke, his words carried by amplification spells throughout the stadium. ‘Behold,’ he said, ‘the might of Night Faerie. May our enemies beware!’

  Apatura thought briefly it must be Black Hairstreak himself, but now he realised it was Hamearis, the Duke of Burgundy, Hairstreak’s closest ally. He looked more impressive in public than Hairstreak and was an infinitely better speaker, which was probably why he was addressing the crowd now. But there was another possibility. Hamearis had been to the forefront of the negotiations lately. His appearance on the rostrum may have been designed to send a signal: take me seriously or else!

  Apatura had not the slightest doubt this rally was meant to be seen by himself and as many of his people as cared to watch. There had been no public announcement, but nor had there been the slightest attempt at secrecy. A few relatively simple spells would have discovered most of the Espionage Service cameras, a few more put them out of action. Yet not one had been touched. The conclusion was obvious.

  Apatura withdrew. ‘Very impressive,’ he said drily. ‘Now, where is the real action?’

  Tithonus gestured to one of the technicians and at once the rally disappeared from the globes, to be replaced by a less spectacular but far more sinister scene. Only one of the realm’s twin moons had risen, so the light level was low – far lower than the torchlit rally – and it took a moment for Apatura’s eyes to adjust.

  This time there was no easy aerial view. Rather he felt he was standing on a hilltop, looking out across a grassy plain. This was one of the new Seventh System espionage units, virtually impossible to detect, whatever the expenditure on spells, but with some problems in its colour resolution. As a result, the scene took on a bleached appearance and fine detail was lacking. But all the same, he knew what he was seeing. A vast military camp stretched across the plain. Rows of black tents were laid out with geometric precision, silhouetted against a scattering of camp fires. There were soldiers here too, thousands of them, perhaps tens of thousands, but unlike the black dress uniforms of the rally, these men were in combat fatigues. They moved quietly, with a purposeful air. No drums were beating. No crowds were cheering. Indeed no sounds at all reached Apatura’s Seventh System vantage point, as if the whole scene below was covered by a deadly pall.

  Apatura closed his eyes. He knew the area. This was the Plain of Yammeth Cretch. The espionage unit itself was placed somewhere near the head of the Teetion Valley. He was looking into the Night Faerie heartland, that huge sweep of the realm which was virtually a state within a state, almost entirely populated by Faeries of the Night and absolutely under their control, whatever lip-service was paid to their allegiance to the Purple Emperor.

  Apatura allowed his consciousness to withdraw from the globe again and opened his eyes. The Teetion Valley marked the unofficial border between the Night Realm and the rolling farmlands of Lilk tended by the Faeries of the Light. He looked at Tithonus. ‘It’s almost like a threatened invasion by a foreign country,’ he said.

  ‘In many ways a foreign invasion would be easier to handle,’ Tithonus told him. ‘Civil wars are notoriously difficult. And bloodthirsty.’

  ‘You think it will come to that? Civil war?’

  ‘I pray not, Majesty,’ Tithonus said. But his tone of voice suggested he had little confidence his prayers would be answered.

  The crystal globes switched back to the rally and the powerful voice of Hamearis Lucina filled the chamber: ‘ – would say to the Purple Emperor that the old ways no longer serve us, that no longer will the Faeries of the Night be treated as second-grade citizens within the Realm, that no longer –’

  Tithonus waved the sound down, but something caught Apatura’s attention and he waved it up again. ‘ – shall not wait beyond two weeks,’ Hamearis was saying, ‘and less than that if our Emperor does not see fit to right the wrongs set forth in – ’ His final words were drowned out by thunderous applause and cheering from the crowd.

  ‘Did that sound to you as it sounded to me?’ asked Apatura as he silenced the globes completely.

  ‘An ultimatum?’ Tithonus frowned.

  ‘Yes,’ Apatura murmured. ‘Please arrange to have a full draft of Lucina’s speech delivered to my chambers as soon as possible. This is something I shall want to study.’ He walked to the operations table and hummed the note rather than waiting for a specialist to do it for him. At once the landscape flowed into a representation of Yammeth Cretch and the surrounding Light Faerie territories. Apatura turned to his nearest general. ‘Put up our forces, if you will, Creerful.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty,’ Creerful nodded. He stretched to touch a button on the side of the table and patches of bronze appeared on the map surrounding Yammeth Cretch. Some fine adjustments changed their texture and tone to represent familiar strengths.

  Apatura stared at the display for a long time. He was trying to remember something, but could not say exactly what. Then, suddenly, it came to him.

  ‘There’s something missing,’ he said aloud.

  ‘I’m sorry, Majesty?’

  Apatura ignored Tithonus and signalled the three generals to move closer. ‘Look at those patterns,’ he said, gesturing towards the table display. ‘What do they tell you?’

  General Vanelke, always the first with an opinion, leaned forward frowning. ‘That our defences are well placed,’ he said. ‘We have them contained.’ He glanced at his colleagues as if daring them to contradict him.

  ‘I see nothing missing, Majesty,’ Creerful added. On his right, General Ovard nodded.

  ‘Stop thinking of our forces,’ Apatura said. ‘Put yourself in the place of the – ’ he almost said ‘enemy’ but caught the diplomatic gaffe in time ‘ – of our Nightside citizens. Assume for a moment that really was an ultimatum we just heard from Hamearis Lucina. An ultimatum is useless – even counterproductive – unless you are prepared to back it up. So far, all the indications have been that House Hairstreak plans to back it up by force of arms. Now ask yourself, gentlemen, if you were commanding Hairstreak’s forces and not those of your Emperor ... would you be happy with the disposition of your troops in Yammeth Cretch?’

  There was a long moment’s silence, then General Ovard said, ‘By God, Majesty – no I would not!’

  ‘You would not, Ovard,’ the Emperor echoed. ‘Nor would you, Creerful: nor would you, Vanelke. The numbers are wrong. I thought as much when I was using the vision-globe, but I had no immediate comparison then. They have deployed too many men for defence, but not quite enough for attack! Make the calculations for yourself, gentlemen. The posture is not defensive – we are all agreed on that. Their front lines seem to be in place for an attack and they could certainly mount a few successful sorties – hit and run tactics, modified guerrilla warfare, that sort of thing. But they could never back up the sort of ultimatum I believe Hairstreak has just delivered through his monkey Hamearis Lucina.’

  ‘You think they are bluffing, Majesty?’ Tithonus asked quietly.

  ‘I think there is a missing element,’ Apatura said. ‘Can they have concealed troops we have not yet discovered?’

  ‘Impossible!’ Vanelke exclaimed.

  Ovard said, ‘Our intelligence is excellent, Your Majesty. Besides, as you saw, they are making little effort to hide anything.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Apatura, ‘they appear to be making very little effort at concealment. Which is, of course, part of their political strategy. What I want to know is whether or not it is possible they have actually concealed quantities of troops and munitions of which we are completely unaware.’

  Before the military men could speak, Tithonus put in, ‘It is possible, but extremely unlikely. Bear in mind, Majesty, that we have been watching them long before the current crisis.’
>
  ‘Can they count on military aid from any source beyond the Nightside?’

  ‘Difficult to imagine where,’ Tithonus said.

  Which was precisely Apatura’s problem. Hairstreak’s military deployment simply did not match his political strategy. There was a missing component of his attack force. If he had not hidden it – and like his generals and his Gatekeeper the Emperor doubted that – it was difficult to imagine where he might get it from. Yet Hairstreak was no fool and his military advisers were at least the match of the Emperor’s own. So what was Hairstreak up to? Where was the missing component?

  The Emperor was still trying to puzzle it out when the message arrived from his Chief Portal Engineer.

  Apatura and Tithonus arrived in the chapel at a less than dignified run. The first thing Apatura noticed was that the portal was in place again. Beside it, the Chief Portal Engineer was making some final adjustments with a flexible spine-wrench. His hands and face were black with oil, but it did nothing to hide his smug expression.

  ‘You’ve done it?’ Apatura asked, grinning despite himself.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘You know where this damn thing sent my son?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. He reached the Analogue World all right, but not the island we targeted.’

  ‘And the portal’s working properly again?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  Apatura’s grin faded to a sober expression. ‘Right, Tithonus, let’s put a party together to find out what has happened to Pyrgus.’ He turned to look at the portal, already beginning to glow slightly as it entered its initial warm-up cycle. ‘We leave in fifteen minutes!’

  Eighteen

  ‘Where have you been?’ Henry’s mother asked crossly. She was buttering bread for sandwiches on the kitchen table. Their old picnic basket was open on the worktop behind her, already well packed with fruit, soft drinks and what looked suspiciously like her ghastly vegetarian Scotch eggs.