‘Ma’am,’ asked Pyrgus quietly, ‘are we your guests or your prisoners?’
The tone was polite, but the question unexpected. Fogarty glanced across at him in surprise. The boy hadn’t talked to Cynthia yet, so he didn’t know. All the same, it was an intelligent opening that went right to the heart of things. Maybe Pyrgus had more political nous than he got credit for.
The Queen smiled.
Madame Cardui put in a little hoarsely, ‘My deeahs, Queen Cleopatra ordered your rescue at my request.’
‘You are our guests,’ the Queen said.
Fogarty had a lot of other questions he wanted answered. Who exactly were these Forest Faerie who’d managed to stay hidden for so long? How had Cynthia known about them? And how was it she had persuaded the Queen to risk her subjects’ lives—and, more importantly, the secret of their very existence—in a rescue bid?
‘The question we must decide now,’ Madame Cardui was saying, ‘is what to do next.’ She was looking at Blue rather than at Pyrgus, but it was Pyrgus who answered.
‘What made you think we needed rescuing, Madame?’
Fogarty suppressed a grin. The operation had been harder on Pyrgus than the rest of them. He’d been knocked out cold by one of the forest soldiers.
Madame Cardui’s eyes swung back towards him. She’d changed out of the hooded cloak into one of her more flamboyant gowns. The spell coating of rainbow serpents was in huge contrast with the sober outfits elsewhere in the room. ‘Hairstreak did not intend to let you live, whatever your poor deluded half-brother may have wished. He sent soldiers after you.’ She looked soberly from one face to the other. ‘If the Forest Faerie hadn’t acted, you would all have been dead within the hour.’
Pyrgus’s head was whirling. Not for the first time he felt swamped by the situation he was in. But the Forest Queen was right. The question was what now? Before he could speak, the Queen said, ‘Our friend the Painted Lady has explained your situation. My people are willing to help.’
Why? Pyrgus wondered.
‘How?’ Mr Fogarty asked.
The Queen gave him that odd sidelong glance of hers. ‘In any way necessary, Gatekeeper. Up to and including military assistance.’
Pyrgus felt himself stiffen. Military assistance? The Realm had only recently avoided civil war. Now they were talking about another one. He couldn’t allow it. But he couldn’t allow the present situation either. He’d known that all along, however little he wanted to face it. Even as Comma had sent them into exile with their father’s authority, he’d known he must do something. But he had assumed he would have time to make his plans in Haleklind.
‘Why?’ asked Mr Fogarty, echoing Pyrgus’s earlier thought.
‘Why?’ repeated the Queen. She sighed and her gaze moved from Mr Fogarty to Pyrgus. ‘Crown Prince Pyrgus, for generations my people have cared nothing, nothing at all, for the conflict between your Lighters and Nighters. We have used our arts to remain hidden. And most successfully. The deep forest is a dangerous place—few from the outside venture far into it. Any who did saw only what we wanted them to see—a handful of Forest Faerie living rough, surviving as brigands.’ The smile came again, tinged with a steely glint in the eye. ‘We became known as feral faerie, little better than the other wild animals of the forest.’
‘Queen Cleopatra, no —’
She waved Blue’s words away. ‘No offence was meant—I understand. It is of no consequence. These ideas suited our purpose. They meant no one knew the truth, no one envied us, no one investigated us, no one made war on us. We were left alone — a precious gift indeed; at least a gift my people hold precious. But we will not be left alone much longer. One of your nobles has recently built himself a forest estate. We tried to discourage the move, but there was a limit to what we could do without revealing our presence. The estate is extensive, but might have been tolerated—there is still a very great deal of forest for us to hide in—but this noble has opened up hell pits beneath his new home, and that we cannot permit.’
‘Hell pits?’ This from Blue, leaning forward, frowning.
The Queen’s voice grew heavy with disgust. ‘Some form of entertainment.’ She shook her head. ‘The forest cannot tolerate demons. They would wreak havoc in our living space. We have guarded the periphery for centuries, but this … creature has introduced the possibility of an invasion from within.’
‘The Hael portals are closed down,’ Blue murmured.
The Queen nodded. ‘Yes, and this has given us a little time to make our plans. But they will not remain closed for ever and when they reopen, we fear for our ancient habitat.’ She glanced at Limenitis. ‘My Counsel and I were discussing what to do when Madame Cardui approached us with a possible solution.’
‘You want us to help you destroy the hell pits in return for your help in restoring Prince Pyrgus to his throne?’ Mr Fogarty suggested.
‘Both objectives seem to be the same,’ the Queen told him bluntly. ‘The noble with the hell pits is Lord Hairstreak.’
‘ "The enemy of my enemy is my friend",’ quoted Mr Fogarty and grinned.
Pyrgus said carefully, ‘Why don’t you simply attack the Hairstreak estate yourself? From what I’ve seen of your army, you would have little problem razing the place to the ground.’
The Queen’s expression did not change. ‘Two reasons. The first, as I’ve said, is that we prefer to show ourselves as little as possible. If we are to help you, you will be under geis to tell no one of our origins. The second is that my advisors and I do not believe our security can best be assured simply by attacking Hairstreak’s forest estate and closing the pits. We have to remove Hairstreak from the picture altogether. That can only be achieved through an alliance with you.’
Mr Fogarty nodded. ‘Makes sense.’
For the first time since they had left the palace, Blue actually began to smile. She glanced appreciatively at Madame Cardui, then looked back at the Queen. ‘Your Majesty,’ she said formally, ‘your offer of help could not be better timed. I think you can take it that my brother and I—’
But Pyrgus was already on his feet. ‘Thank you for your offer, Forest Queen,’ he said shortly. ‘But a joint attack on Lord Hairstreak is out of the question.’
Forty-Eight
The body looked like a heap of discarded rags and didn’t weigh much more as he dragged it outside. Perfect place for a murder. Not a soul about and the crows would give him warning if anybody approached, although that was unlikely.
Brimstone looked around. It was his first chance to examine his new property properly. He could go through the inside later, but just now what he needed was a toolshed. If there’d been more wine, he could have dissolved her in the bath, but the dregs in the decanter didn’t look enough. (The table had fallen to pieces, though.) What he needed was a hidden grave and a stake through the heart to make sure no interfering busybody brought her back before she rotted.
He found a spade in the shed outside, grabbed his late wife by the hair and dragged her into the woods.
Light though she was, he began to tire after a few hundred yards, but fortunately found a spot beyond an ancient oak where the ground looked reasonably soft and began methodically to dig.
As the grave took shape, he let his mind turn towards the future. He was fairly sure her rotten brother would come looking for her eventually, but not before the honeymoon was supposed to be over, and probably not for a week or so after that. By then Brimstone could have the cabin looted and sold, with himself set up in a small country estate somewhere in Yammeth Cretch where he wouldn’t attract too much attention from the new Emperor Pyrgus. Perfect ending to a marriage.
When the hole was deep enough, Brimstone glanced briefly down, then threw Maura in. ‘So long, my dear,’ he told her cheerfully. ‘Don’t think it hasn’t been wonderful.’
He was about to fill in the grave when the crows exploded from the trees.
Forty-Nine
Chalkhill found a simbala parlour with a t
rendy outdoor terrace and ordered himself a thimble-sized shot. He sipped the liquid music gratefully, listening as it slid gently down his throat to expand into a fiery symphony that drained the tensions from his body.
‘Can I talk now?’ the wangaramas wyrm Cyril asked inside his mind.
‘No,’ Chalkhill said.
He allowed the music to wash over him, creating heroic visions. He saw himself in robes of imperial purple (rather more stylishly-cut, of course, than the sort of thing the old Emperor used to wear) dispensing justice, winning wars, counting his gold and, above all, telling people what to do. Jasper, the Purple Emperor—how proudly the words rolled off his subjects’ tongues.
‘Can I talk now?’ Cyril asked again.
The symphony was dying back, and while there was still some music in the glass, Chalkhill set it to one side and let his visions fade. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’m willing to discuss it. But I don’t want any of your lectures, Cyril. I know it goes against your nature, but let’s keep this brief.’
After a strangulated pause, the wyrm said, ‘Yes, OK.’
‘You’re offering to make me Purple Emperor? I didn’t misunderstand that?’
‘No.’
‘How?’ Chalkhill asked bluntly. ‘How are you going to make me Purple Emperor? The short version, please.’
It wasn’t all that short, but it was a lot more interesting than most of Cyril’s waffle. The wyrms, who seemed to have developed some sort of collective consciousness since they established their mental Net, had formed more symbiotic relationships in the last year than in the whole of their recorded history.
Not only that, but the nature of the symbiosis had undergone a striking change. In the old days, the wyrms linked with their hosts more or less at random. Now the links were carefully selected. With a rising mixture of delight and alarm, Chalkhill learned the wyrms had infiltrated the highest councils in the land.
‘I volunteered to join with you because of your political connections,’ Cyril said. ‘You’ve worked for Lord Hairstreak, you’ve met Prince Pyrgus and Princess Blue, you’re a wealthy man who moves in high social circles. You can get us places no one else could.’
Chalkhill wasn’t so sure of that, but he carefully shielded his thoughts from the wyrm. ‘Do the others you’ve linked with know about your plans for revolution?’
There was a long pause before Cyril said, ‘Not all of them ...’
‘How many of them?’
There was another long pause. ‘Just a few. We have to pick them carefidly. It’s a matter of trust.’
‘Why pick me, then?’ Chalkhill asked suspiciously. He couldn’t imagine why anybody in their right mind would decide to trust him, given his track record.
‘You’re one of the few we’ve found who hasn’t any scruples whatsoever,’ Cyril told him cheerfully.
Fifty
The endolg Flapwazzle climbed a smooth sewer wall to peer into a drainage passage. ‘Know what?’ he said. ‘I think we’re lost.’
‘I thought you remembered the map,’ Henry said accusingly.
‘I do, but this part of the system doesn’t seem to be on the map. I think we’re lost.’
Henry said, ‘Doesn’t matter—we’re trying to get to the river anyway. We’ll just do what you said and follow the flow until we reach the outlet.’
Flapwazzle slid back down again to floor level. ‘I like you, Henry,’ he said. ‘I thought you were a nice-enough sort the first time I met you, even if you were a dreadful liar. But now I’ve got to know you better, I think you’re even nicer. Not many people would take getting lost so calmly. They’d scream and shout and try to blame me for everything. You know we endolgs have a proverb—Blame the endolg. Three of the truest words ever spoken. Everybody blames the endolg. But not you, Henry. You stay calm and never lose your common sense and take things as they come. I really like you, Henry. I think you and I could be good friends.’
‘Well, I like you too, Flapwazzle,’ Henry said, which was actually true. They’d been wandering in the sewers for over an hour now and his companion had been unfailingly cheerful and entertaining. He could see why so many faeries took to keeping endolgs. Their truth-sense was useful, but their personalities were great.
‘Look down before you say that,’ Flapwazzle told him in a comic drawl that suggested he was imitating some Realm celebrity Henry didn’t know.
‘Pardon?’
‘Look down,’ Flapwazzle said in his normal voice. ‘Then tell me if you still like me.’
Henry looked down. ‘What am I looking for?’
‘Something that isn’t there,’ Flapwazzle said. ‘The flow we’ve been following.’
‘It’s dried up!’ Henry said. ‘What do we do now?’
‘Keep moving,’ Flapwazzle said. ‘Hopefully we’ll soon find somewhere that looks familiar.’
They moved forward together. The tunnel loomed endlessly before them. After a few hundred yards, Henry said, ‘Why do you think it dried up?’ The liquid flow had been pointing their way to the river since they entered the main tunnels.
‘That’s what I don’t like,’ Flapwazzle said. ‘Only time the water withdraws is when they’re about to do a flush.’
Henry stopped, his heart suddenly thumping. ‘You mean you think they’re about to flush the system now?’
‘I can’t tell a lie—I think they may be.’
From somewhere behind them, Henry heard a distant rumbling sound. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked in sudden panic.
‘Get out of the main tunnels,’ Flapwazzle said, swivelling his eyes to look behind. He’d obviously heard the same sound Henry had. ‘We’ve some chance if we’re in a drain or something.’
Henry looked around him wildly. ‘I don’t see any drains.’
Flapwazzle said, ‘Neither do I.’
The roaring sound was getting louder.
‘So what do we do now?’
‘Run,’ suggested Flapwazzle.
Henry ran. The echo of his footsteps was swallowed by the roaring noise behind.
He’d covered several hundred yards before he realised he was alone. He stopped. ‘Flapwazzle?’ he whispered.
There was no sign of Flapwazzle.
‘Flapwazzle!’ he called, loudly this time. But with a mounting sense of horror he knew there would be no answer. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! He should have realised endolgs couldn’t move nearly as fast as human beings. They had no feet. They crawled along by wriggling their whole flat little bodies like a snake. He should have picked Flapwazzle up and carried him. With a surge of guilt he realised it would have been so easy: Flapwazzle couldn’t weigh much more than a few pounds. But Henry had been so concerned about his own safety he hadn’t even thought of it. He’d taken off like a frightened rabbit and left Flapwazzle to … to ...
‘Flapwazzle!’ he screamed, and began to run back down the tunnel.
Then he saw the wall of water rushing towards him.
Fifty-One
‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ Blue hissed furiously.
They were alone together in a small, insulated antechamber off the Great Hall. The Queen had assured them their privacy was guaranteed.
‘We can’t attack Lord Hairstreak,’ Pyrgus said. ‘He’s … he’s ...’ He shook his head helplessly.
‘He’s what?’ Blue snapped. ‘Come on, Pyrgus, pull yourself together.’
‘He’s working with our father now!’ Pyrgus blurted. He actually looked as if he might be about to cry.
‘He’s not working with our father!’ Blue snapped. ‘Our father is under his influence—it’s not the same thing. This is a great opportunity, can’t you see? If the Forest Faerie help us, we can put paid to Lord Hairstreak once and for all. Didn’t you notice what those elf-bolts can do? Once we have Hairstreak out of the way, we’ll have Daddy back. We can nurse him back to health, get him the best medical treatment. He can take the throne again—Comma will step aside, you know he will, and if he doesn’t
we’ll make him, or Daddy will make him. Daddy will be Purple Emperor again, just like he was before. It’ll all be like what it was before; only better, because nobody will have Hairstreak to worry about.’
Suddenly Pyrgus seemed to collapse in on himself. He looked grey and small. ‘It won’t be like it was before,’ he said quietly. ‘It can’t be like it was before, not now, not ever.’
‘Pyrgus, it can! We’ll make plans. We’ll call on the whole forest army if need be. We’ll —’
‘Blue, Daddy isn’t ill—he’s dead. It’s not nursing or medical attention—’ Pyrgus waved his hands helplessly. ‘He’s dead! That’s why Hairstreak can control him. Whatever we do, it won’t make any difference—he’s still dead.’
After a moment, Blue said, ‘It’s going to be all right, Pyrgus. We’ll make it all right. We’ll get Daddy away from Hairstreak—that’s obviously the first step. We’ll bring him back here—here to the forest. We can hide him here and take however long it needs to get him back to normal. Queen Cleopatra will help.’
She climbed to her feet and there was a steely glint in her eye. ‘It’s time we went back to the others,’ she said.
Fifty-Two
Henry flattened himself against the wall of the side drain and waited. He’d no idea if he was going to survive the next few minutes and part of him hardly cared: he felt so guilty about what he’d done to Flapwazzle. But another part, a greater part, cared very much indeed. More than anything else, he wanted to get out of these filthy sewers alive so he could find Blue and help Pyrgus out of the mess he was obviously in.
The rush of approaching water was so loud now it was almost deafening. The entrance to the main sewer tunnel was more than thirty feet away—far enough, he hoped, to keep him clear of any backwash. If he was right and he was lucky—if he was very, very lucky—the main force of water would sweep past so quickly that the side drain, which was on a higher level, might stay dry. But if he was wrong, he was dead.
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