The Purple Emperor

by Herbie Brennan

  Chalkhill felt worn out, as he always did by this stage of the mental conversation. ‘All right,’ he said aloud. ‘You win.’

  If a haniel ate him on his way across the lawn, it would be a blessed relief.

  Sixty-Two

  Henry’s head hurt, but not half as much as his hands and chest. He had trouble focusing his eyes, but even so he could see his upturned palms had turned to raw meat. He tried to move and his body protested with a howl of agony.

  Henry groaned but no sound came.

  There were people around him, but he couldn’t remember who they were. They swam into his field of vision, then out again, their voices rising and falling, approaching and fading. One of them looked like Blue. He hoped it was Blue because that would mean she wasn’t dead in the forest. He couldn’t see whether she was cross with him for being late.

  ‘He’s still alive. I think he’s still alive.’

  ‘Can you see breathing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought I saw him open his eyes.’

  ‘Reflex. You often get that with a fireball.’

  ‘The body reacts for hours after the heart stops. Energies keep working on the nerves.’

  ‘I saw one walk five paces once, dead as a coffin nail.’

  ‘He’s alive, you stupid cow!’ This from Blue. He was sure he recognised her voice.

  Henry tried to say ‘Hello, Blue’, but no sound came. His eyes were closing again, all of their own accord, so that he lay in the red, pain-filled darkness. It occurred to him that he was dying and he didn’t care.

  ‘He’s alive!’ Blue said again. ‘He’s breathing!’

  ‘I can’t see him breathing.’

  Somebody was taking his shirt off, the one the Silk Mistresses had given him. He heard a gasp of shock.

  ‘It always does that,’ said a cool female voice. ‘If he hadn’t been wearing spinner silk it would have burned through to remove his heart.’

  ‘It’s bubbling … Yuk, it’s oozing blood.’

  ‘Blisters. The skin is just blistering.’

  ‘It’s bubbling!’

  ‘I don’t like the look of this.’

  Henry felt something inside him relax. The pain seemed far away as he sank softly into darkness.

  ‘Do something!’ Blue hissed fiercely. She felt a terror welling up inside her. Her father had died like this. One day he was healthy and hearty, the next he was dead; and now it was happening again with Henry.

  Nymph frowned. ‘He needs new skin. It’s the only thing, really.’

  ‘Then get it for him!’ Pyrgus ordered.

  ‘We don’t have it. We’re not equipped.’

  Blue rounded on Ziczac. ‘You did this!’ she shouted. ‘Can’t you fix it?’

  The little wizard looked genuinely desolate. He started to shake his head.

  ‘Blue ...’ Pyrgus said.

  ‘You threw the damn thing! You must be able to do something. Reverse the spell. Heal —’

  ‘Blue ...’

  ‘I’m not a healer,’ Ziczac said. ‘I don’t even know much about military spells.’

  ‘Blue,’ Pyrgus said gently. ‘I think he’s gone.’

  Sixty-Three

  It was great to be back in the city. The countryside was too empty for Brimstone, too silent at night, even though he’d only been away for a short period of time. He waved cheerily at the guards on Cripple’s Gate and walked on a few steps before he realised they were Faeries of the Night. Well, well, well. Black Hairstreak was moving fast. There hadn’t been a Nighter guarding any of the city’s gates for the past five hundred years.

  He stopped and breathed deeply. He’d always liked the smell of the city—a mix of sweat and dirty laundry with a delicate counterpoint of sewage. Three hundred and twenty-two thousand seven hundred souls packed in a delightful labyrinth of alleyways and slums. There was nowhere like it in the whole world.

  A dancing procession wound sinuously past and he stopped to look at the jugglers. With a shock of delight he realised it was a celebration of the Night. Processions like this never used to take place outside of Nighter districts. Extraordinary how things had changed.

  The warren of alleyways that was Sailor’s Haven led him to the river. He walked slowly along the towpath, examining each set of wooden steps that reached down to the water. Eventually he found one with a hireboat at the end of it. The poleman was an unshaven ruffian, but Brimstone was wearing his demonologist’s shawl with the horned insignia, so he expected no trouble.

  ‘Twenty-seven groats,’ said the man, trying it on, but pushed the craft off without complaint when Brimstone handed him six.

  The river had always been the easiest way to get around the city. Brimstone took a seat in the prow and watched contentedly as the rows of warehouses gave way to office buildings, then looming residential houses. He was feeling … how was he feeling?... he was feeling good. He’d made his peace (and his new bargain!) with Beleth. Pyrgus was no longer headed for the throne. Hairstreak had taken over. The Faeries of the Night were now in charge. Life was sweet. The future, once so confined to Widow Mormo’s grubby lodgings, opened up to panoramic vistas.

  ‘Few changes lately,’ he ventured smugly.

  The poleman looked like one of the few products of Lighter-Nighter interbreeding. But even without that, his occupation meant his loyalties lay with the highest bidder. ‘Reckon,’ he said laconically.

  Brimstone looked around him. There were changes on the river too. General traffic seemed heavier and several of the boats were sporting pennants, indicating a tendency towards piracy. Time was when the water police would have sunk them without trace (sensibly only asking questions afterwards) but there they were, bold as brass. There was even a big pleasure vessel—or at least something he thought had to be a pleasure vessel: there was a multicoloured walrus on its flag. If he was right, it was the first time the trulls had taken to the water in four decades.

  The houses on the river bank opened up on to a broad, stone-paved piazza leading to the ancient Church of Saint Batwits. Batwits was a Lighter saint, much venerated for eating wasps, but now there was a bustling market right outside the church door! A small group of white-robed pilgrims was trying to push through the throng, bemused looks on their faces. They were halted by a fire-eater who declined to stop his act to let them past. In the old days, the Churchwardens would have swarmed out to beat him with their sticks, but today nothing happened. The new dispensation was taking hold everywhere.

  The boat pulled in at the Cheapside docks. ‘This do?’ asked the poleman, reaching for a rope.

  ‘Admirably,’ said Brimstone cheerily. He even considered giving the man a small tip, but decided that would be pushing a good mood too far.

  Cheapside was busy as ever and there seemed to be even more low-life about than usual—especially fizz-heads for some reason. Brimstone drew the shawl a little closer round his shoulders and stepped into the throng, immediately and immensely pleased with the way people gave him space. The insignia did it, of course. Even with the Hael portals closed, people respected anyone who commanded the infernal hierarchies. Most of them probably suspected the portals would not stay closed for ever.

  By the time he reached Seething Lane, Brimstone’s mood was bordering on the ecstatic. There was no reason why he should not take up his old lodgings. The old Emperor was dead, Prince Pyrgus was in exile, Beleth was placated—what had Brimstone got to fear? He could move back in and start some very pleasant wheels in motion. Like selling off his late wife’s property. Milking some more money out of Chalkhill. Taking up his old position at the glue factory. Searching for —

  There was something wrong. Seething Lane didn’t smell right.

  Silas Brimstone stopped, appalled. Chalkhill and Brimstone’s Miracle Glue Factory had disappeared! The end of Seething Lane was no more than a pile of rubble: he could see the twisted iron gates from here. An errant breeze from Wildmoor Broads carried in the citrus scent of prickleweed.

/>   Brimstone glared down Seething Lane. Somebody had destroyed one of the most profitable businesses he’d ever had.

  And that meant somebody would pay.

  Sixty-Four

  Peach Blossom said, ‘We might be able to use silk.’

  Pyrgus was leaning over Henry’s body, his fingers gently probing one side of his neck. He looked stunned. ‘I think it’s too late,’ he said. ‘I can’t find any pulse.’

  Blue said, ‘How can we use silk?’

  ‘It’s too late,’ Pyrgus said again. He looked round at Blue, then Nymph, his eyes brimming.

  ‘I think he’s right, Blue,’ Nymph said.

  Blue said, ‘Shut up, both of you.’ To Peach Blossom she repeated, ‘How can we use silk?’

  Peach Blossom licked her lips thoughtfully. ‘We can fuse it to living tissue. We do it sometimes over a small area to make a garment hang properly. Temporarily, of course, but there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be permanent. Or cover his entire chest,’ she added as an afterthought.

  ‘Living tissue,’ Nymph emphasised quietly. She looked compassionately at Blue.

  ‘Do it!’ Blue said.

  Peach Blossom was staring down at Henry’s ruined body. ‘If he does survive, he’s going to look strange … ‘

  ‘How strange?’

  Peach Blossom frowned. ‘Fusion silk is multi coloured. You can never tell the exact hue or pattern until the process is finished. We’d have to wrap his entire torso. Thank heavens his face hasn’t been burned, but if he ever takes his shirt off his chest will be like a rainbow tattoo. And look at his hands. We’ll have to make him fusion gloves. The silk becomes his new skin. He’ll have hands that reflect the sun like oil. They won’t be covered. Everyone will see them.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Blue snapped testily. ‘If you don’t do it, he’s going to die!’

  ‘If he isn’t dead already,’ Nymph murmured, staring at the body.

  Blue rounded on her in a fury. ‘Another word and you’ll be dead! It was your wizard who did this—don’t think I’m going to forget that. Now shut your mouth and see if you can help.’

  Nymph said nothing. When Blue turned back, two Sisters of the Silk Guild were bending over Henry unwrapping a bolt of silk so fine it floated towards him like thistledown.

  Sixty-Five

  ‘These people are dangerous,’ Fogarty murmured quietly.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Madame Cardui.

  They were back in the forest, seated together on a mossy bank beneath the bole of a great tree. Beyond them, in a clearing, Forest Faerie were dancing by a curious bonfire to the hauntingly hypnotic music of drum and pipes.

  ‘I don’t like their spell technology,’ Fogarty said soberly. ‘Portals to other planets … weapons that can pierce any armour ... ability to pass through solid walls … Put those together and nothing in the Realm can stand against them.’

  ‘They are our friends,’ said Madame Cardui mildly. ‘They have proven themselves to be our friends.’

  ‘They are now,’ Fogarty sniffed. ‘But can you guarantee they’ll stay that way?’

  Madame Cardui said nothing.

  ‘And just look at that bonfire,’ Fogarty said. ‘Heat to keep them warm, but black flames. Can you believe that—black flames!? Hardly any light emission so their enemies won’t find them, won’t even suspect they’re here. We could never duplicate that sort of magic.’

  ‘It won’t burn greenwood,’ said Madame Cardui.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The bonfire, my deeah—the black flames aren’t so you can’t see them, they’re so the bonfire won’t burn greenwood. So it can’t set fire to the trees.’

  ‘Bully for them,’ said Fogarty, frowning. ‘But what’s that got to do with anything?’

  Madame Cardui shrugged. ‘They love their forest.’

  After a moment Fogarty said, ‘Ah, I see what you’re getting at. You think they have no interest in moving against us.’

  ‘Alan,’ Madame Cardui said, ‘I’ve known these people for years. They have no interest in moving against anybody. All they want is to be left alone. The only reason they’re helping us attack Lord Hairstreak is because his stupid demon pits have threatened their forest. If we leave them alone, they’ll leave us alone.’

  Fogarty looked unconvinced. ‘Maybe.’ After a moment he said, ‘I wonder how they’re getting on?’

  ‘Blue and Pyrgus? You wish you were with them, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do. Growing old’s no fun.’

  They sat in silence for a while, listening to the plaintive music.

  Madame Cardui said, ‘Tell me how you got here what … fate ... led you to the Realm?’

  ‘Thought you’d know that already, Cynthia. From your sources.’

  Madame Cardui smiled slightly. ‘I’d like to hear it in your own words.’

  Fogarty stared into the middle distance and smiled a little too. ‘Damnedst thing,’ he said. ‘Once I passed eighty, I started to let things go: well, you do, don’t you? House turned into a tip. So I thought I’d better get a housekeeper before the Health Authorities had me condemned. Except I didn’t want some old char three times a week poking about in my stuff ...’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I met this kid. Henry, his name was—Henry Atherton. Looking for his sister in the mall. Got sidetracked at one of those computer shops: I found him looking at some sort of music machine. Attention span of a gnat—you know what teenagers are like—but something about him … sort of likeable. And he looked sturdy, hard work wouldn’t kill him. Struck me he was exactly what I needed. Kids that age only ever think about two things—sex and pop music. He’d never have any interest in what I was doing. So I offered him a job.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Took it, of course. He was saving up for something called an MP3 Player—some sort of game thing I think so he needed the money. I put him on trial and he was perfect. Arrived on time, did his work, shut his mouth and never tried to jerk me around. Then one day, damn me if he didn’t walk in with a fairy in a jam jar.’

  Madame Cardui smiled broadly. ‘Pyrgus, of course.’

  Fogarty grinned. ‘Oh, yes. Didn’t know it at the time, but that’s where it all started. Funny old life.’

  ‘He came over to the Realm as well, didn’t he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Henry. I believe Pyrgus made him Knight Commander of the Grey Dagger.’

  ‘Not sure that was legal,’ Fogarty said thoughtfully. ‘Pyrgus was only Emperor Elect at the time. But he was grateful to Henry. Henry got him out of Hell. I suppose he thought he’d confirm the appointment after his Coronation. Didn’t expect the present trouble. None of us did.’ He stared out towards the black flames of the bonfire. ‘I hope he’s all right. Henry’s a decent kid—he doesn’t deserve to have anything bad happen to him.’

  Sixty-Six

  Henry swam up slowly from the warm, dark depths. His chest no longer pained him quite so much, but it felt tight so that he had difficulty breathing. He could see light, then shapes, but his eyes would not focus properly so he couldn’t tell what they were.

  ‘I think he’s opening his eyes again.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No. I thought I saw ’

  ‘Try for a pulse again, Prince Pyrgus.’

  Pyrgus was here! This was great. Pyrgus was here. Henry tried to say Hello, Pyrgus, but could not take enough breath in to form the words. He felt something brush against his neck, like the touch of a butterfly’s wing.

  ‘No—nothing.’ Was that Pyrgus’s voice? It didn’t sound like Pyrgus’s voice, but then everything was echoey and boomy.

  ‘Is the silk working?’

  ‘The fusion’s taken, Serenity, but that doesn’t necessarily mean ...’

  Serenity? Did that mean Blue was here? Henry made a massive effort and opened his eyes. The light blinded him.

  ‘We’re fitting the gloves now. His hands are in a much worse state than his chest.
He must have tried to protect himself.’

  ‘Fusion is automatic—it’s a property of the silk. It doesn’t mean there’s healing.’

  ‘Healing is a property of the body.’

  ‘Although a silk fusion will promote healing in some circumstances.’

  ‘Providing the body can support it.’

  ‘If the body can support it, healing can be quite rapid.’

  It wasn’t Blue. There was a woman bending over him, but it wasn’t Blue. It occurred to Henry he was ill. He couldn’t see properly, he couldn’t hear properly, he couldn’t breathe properly, his skin felt tight and there were stabbing pains in his hands and chest. That couldn’t be right. He wondered if he was coming down with flu.

  To one side of the woman he saw Pyrgus and tried to smile at him. But his face wouldn’t work either.

  A soft female voice said, ‘His eyes are open, Highness.’

  That was quite true—his eyes were open. Things were coming slowly into focus as well.

  Pyrgus reached out to touch him on the neck. ‘Henry,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me?’

  I can hear you, Pyrgus, Henry thought. I just can’t tell you I can hear you.

  ‘There’s a pulse,’ Pyrgus said. ‘Quite strong too.’

  ‘That cinnamon scent means —’

  Someone pushed Pyrgus and the woman rudely aside and bent over Henry. His eyes grew misty. It was Blue. It was definitely Blue.

  ‘Oh, Henry!’ Blue exclaimed and kissed him on the mouth.

  The pain was just as bad and he still couldn’t move, but Henry suddenly felt a whole lot better.

  Henry pushed himself to his feet. He could see clearly now, could even remember—more or less—what had happened, although what had happened didn’t make a lot of sense. He thought perhaps he’d been struck by lightning: a huge fireball had rushed towards him just before he blacked out. But if it was lightning, he’d somehow survived.