The Purple Emperor

by Herbie Brennan

  But the teeth weren’t the worst of it. Every so often the golem twitched. That was a fearfully bad sign. Chalkhill avoided black magic whenever he could, but he’d read in a magazine somewhere that a twitching golem was usually on the point of going berserk. Golems frequently went berserk and strangled their creators—one reason why making them had been illegal for five hundred years. Once freed from their creator, they typically went on a blood rampage, killing anything they could get their enormous hands on. The same magazine had claimed their favourite form of attack was dismemberment—tearing people limb from limb.

  Cossus had dressed his golem in a frilly apron. The man was clinically insane.

  The creature served Hairstreak first, of course. His Lordship drank pimento juice, as, in imitation, did his Gatekeeper. Chalkhill needed something stronger and had asked for gin. The golem set a brimming half-pint glass in front of him, stared into his eyes and twitched.

  The truly dreadful thing was, Chalkhill knew the golem was not the most dangerous entity in the room. He took a gulp of his gin and turned his eyes on Lord Hairstreak. The little creep smiled at him, his teeth stained by the pimento juice, then lifted the glass in a toast and said, to Chalkhill’s horror, ‘Here’s to the Wangaramas Revolution!’

  Nymph, who was lying beside Pyrgus, wriggled closer to him, then leaned across to hiss in his ear, ‘I still think we should have stopped off for reinforcements, Crown Prince!’

  Pyrgus turned his head. Nymph had a charming little nose, tilted upwards at the end. He came within a fraction of brushing his lips across her cheek as he placed them beside her ear. She had a very nice cheek, very smooth and inviting.

  ‘Element of surprise,’ he whispered back. ‘We agreed about that, right at the start.’

  She pulled her head away, waited until he turned his, then put her lips back to his ear again. ‘That was a different situation. You might expect to have help at the palace—from friends, people who know you. This is Lord Hairstreak’s mansion. All enemies here. And you don’t know your way around it like the palace. We’ve no idea what we might find.’

  ‘We’re all wearing Hairstreak uniform,’ Pyrgus said. ‘Except Ziczac and Comma, and we can pretend they’re our prisoners if we have to.’ The Silk Mistresses had stayed back at the palace on Pyrgus’s order. They weren’t fighters, and besides, he liked the idea that they might stir up some trouble for Hairstreak’s people. Everyone else had travelled directly to Hairstreak’s mansion.

  ‘We could have stopped on the way,’ Nymph said, ignoring him. ‘We practically walked through Queen Cleopatra’s camp.’

  It was news to Pyrgus, who still couldn’t spot the Forest Faerie if they didn’t want to be spotted. ‘Too late now,’ he said, a little gracelessly. The trouble was, Nymph was distracting him. He needed to keep his mind firmly focused on the job ahead. He didn’t even want to think about it, but he was terrified of what was going to happen once Blue and he found their father.

  ‘I could go back,’ Nymph offered promptly. ‘It’s not far. The rest of you could stay here, keep an eye on what’s happening. I could bring back enough people for a frontal attack if you want. I know the Queen would agree—she wants those pits closed.’

  For a moment Pyrgus was tempted, although not by the prospect of a frontal attack. He had his own agenda here and it was different from that of the Forest Faerie. But if Nymph did go back to her people, he could send Comma with her. Pyrgus suspected he would be much happier with Comma out of the way, preferably under lock and key. And they could certainly do with some reinforcements: not for a frontal attack, but simply because they were heading into real enemy territory now.

  He opened his mouth to put it to her about Comma, then shut it again abruptly. Hairstreak’s guards were marching off towards their barracks in fine order. Within a moment all of them disappeared, leaving the way to the mansion clear. Pyrgus made a snap decision.

  ‘No time!’ he hissed. ‘We go now!’

  Then, without waiting for her reaction, Pyrgus rose and, bent double, raced towards the mansion.

  Chalkhill suddenly stopped worrying about the golem. He swallowed, tried to stop himself speaking, then heard his voice gulp, ‘You know about the Revolution?’

  Black Hairstreak shrugged and grinned a little. ‘The worms have been revolting for years. Every generation their stupid plan gets more desperate.’

  ‘Every generation?’

  ‘Short-lived species,’ Hairstreak said, smiling now.

  ‘As soon as they get anything in place, half of them die off and they have to start again.’ His smile disappeared abruptly and he looked shrewdly at Chalkhill. ‘You didn’t take it seriously, did you, Jasper?’

  ‘Not for a moment,’ Chalkhill told him.

  Seventy-One

  It was nice to be back in New York. Brimstone looked up at the Church of the Transfiguration, marvelling at how accurately the potion had translated him to this spot. There was a woman screaming a few yards away from him, presumably because she’d witnessed his sudden appearance. Brimstone shouldered his bag and smiled at her. Thank God for New Yorkers. They thronged past, ignoring the screaming woman, ignoring him, ignoring the green-domed architecture of this delightful church, avoiding eye contact, locked in their own beleaguered worlds. If the woman told what she’d just seen, they’d think she was mad. But if they didn’t, they still wouldn’t care.

  There’d been some massive renovation on the church since the last time he’d translated, but the people streaming in suggested they were still holding a daily Mass. For a moment he was tempted to slip inside the quaint attempt at white magic always entertained him—but decided to get business finished with before he took in any of the city’s fine diversions. Besides, he still hadn’t quite decided how he would carry out his mission.

  In the old days he would probably have walked north on Mott Street, then turned right into the Bowery. But the Bowery wasn’t what it used to be. There were still lots of down-and-outs, of course, but it might be difficult to find two he could actually use. The trouble was even the worst scumbags were better off these days. They had cheap wine in their paper bags. None of them touched the metholated spirit that thinned the blood so beautifully. He could spend all day taking samples before he found anybody suitable. And after that, there was the whole nuisance of killing them. No, best to spend a little of Beleth’s funny money, put in an order and do it all the easy way.

  He crossed the road and headed into Doyers Street, the dear old Bloody Angle. There were fewer people here, as if people somehow scented the horrors of its past. Brimstone plodded along, a benign expression on his wrinkled face, sniffing the air—such wonderful air, so full of fumes.

  Moments later he had vanished into the lattice of streets and alleys beyond Doyers.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that!’ Nymph said sharply. ‘You could have got yourself killed.’ She was the first to join him.

  ‘We had to make a move sometime,’ Pyrgus said reasonably. The others were piling in at a run, led by Blue. He glanced at Henry, who seemed to be holding up all right, despite his recent brush with death.

  They moved as a group round the side of the mansion, well away from the barrack wing where Hairstreak’s soldiers had just disappeared. As they reached the rear, their luck still held—still no sign of any more guards. But perhaps that wasn’t surprising: the wall was of smooth, massive stone and toweringly high. Hairstreak must have thought he was impervious to attack.

  Pyrgus waited for Ziczac to catch up. ‘What do you think?’

  The little wizard looked around. There was a rocky outcrop that came close to the wall itself. ‘That looks interesting.’

  ‘It does?’ Pyrgus frowned.

  Ziczac chewed his lip. ‘Typical formation,’ he said, without explaining typical of what. ‘Does anybody know if Lord Hairstreak built cellars?’

  ‘Yes, of course he did,’ Nymph said a little impatiently. ‘Cellars and demon pits. That’s why Her Majesty wants
us to help Prince Pyrgus.’

  ‘You don’t know if he made them from a natural cavern, do you?’

  Nymph looked at him blankly and Pyrgus shook his head. Blue said, ‘You think there’s a natural cavern underneath?’ She glanced at the outcrop as well. ‘It’s the right geology ...’

  ‘Yes,’ Ziczac said eagerly. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘What are you thinking of?’ Pyrgus asked.

  Blue smiled suddenly. ‘He’s thinking of taking us underneath the building! Aren’t you, Ziczac?’

  The little wizard nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

  ‘Can you do that?’ Henry asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Oh, yes indeed. We’ll have to penetrate on a vertical axis rather than lateral, then move horizontally. It’s a bit tricky, but I can do it. Provided you all keep still, of course. In fact, I think I’d like you all to link arms and stay together until we break through.’

  ‘That means we can’t use our weapons if we’re attacked,’ Nymph said sternly.

  ‘This way, hopefully, we won’t be attacked,’ Ziczac told her patiently.

  ‘What do you think, Prince Pyrgus?’

  Pyrgus hadn’t the least idea what the wizard was talking about, but he’d got them into the palace safely, so presumably he’d be able to do the same here. ‘I think we should do what Ziczac says.’

  Nymph shrugged resignedly.

  Henry moved quickly beside Blue and waited for everybody to start to link arms. Blue gave him a fond look and said quietly, ‘You all right?’

  ‘Never better,’ Henry said. He wanted to ask her what exactly was happening, but wondered if that would make him sound like a wimp. Or stupid. Or both.

  It almost seemed as if Blue caught the thought because she said, ‘Ziczac can get us through walls.’

  ‘With magic?’

  Blue nodded.

  ‘Cool!’ Henry exclaimed.

  ‘Well, we’d better do it then,’ Pyrgus remarked to no one in particular.

  Ziczac did something and they all dropped into darkness.

  Seventy-Two

  They stepped into a roofless corridor. High walls and floor seemed to be made from obsidian blocks, but beyond where the ceiling might have been there was a vast open space, then, in the gloom, a vaulting dome of rock, as if the corridor had been constructed on the floor of a gigantic cavern.

  ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ Pyrgus said at once.

  The others said nothing. They stood without moving, looking around to get their bearings. The corridor ran straight in both directions, turned right at one end, turned left at the other. Floating high above them was some sort of platform, walled with opaque black glass.

  ‘I don’t have much sense of direction,’ Henry said. And what little he did have had been completely confused by the passage downwards through apparently solid rock. But at least he didn’t want to throw up.

  ‘That’s north,’ said Ziczac confidently, pointing.

  ‘Is that a suspensor spell?’ Pyrgus asked, his eyes on the floating platform.

  Ziczac glanced up. ‘Yes.’

  There was a light source, although it wasn’t obvious. They could see each other quite plainly, yet there were no glowglobes, no ornamental torches on the walls.

  Blue said, ‘I agree with Pyrgus—this place is creepy.’ She half turned. ‘You can let go now, Henry.’

  Henry released her arm sheepishly. To cover his embarrassment, he said, ‘Can you hear something?’

  They all stopped for a moment, listening.

  ‘Like running water?’

  Henry nodded. ‘Yes. There may be an underground stream.’

  Nymph said to Ziczac, ‘Where are we? Do you know?’

  ‘Under the mansion,’ Ziczac said. ‘We were right about the cavern.’

  ‘Why are we walled in? I mean, why would Hairstreak build an open corridor on the floor of the cavern?’

  ‘Maybe it’s not finished,’ Blue suggested, frowning.

  ‘Looks finished to me,’ Pyrgus said. He hesitated. ‘There’s something not right here. Can you take us through these walls, Ziczac?’

  ‘Not sure,’ Ziczac said. ‘Depends on their thickness.’

  ‘So we’re trapped here?’

  ‘Oh, no, Princess Blue,’ Ziczac said. ‘I can always take us down again and across. But I’d prefer a more direct route.’

  ‘Through the walls?’

  ‘Yes. I think I might try to find out how thick they are.’

  ‘Nymph’s right,’ Blue said. ‘I’d like to know why Hairstreak built this sort of structure on the floor of a cavern. And why use volcanic glass?’

  ‘There’s something about volcanic glass ...’ Pyrgus murmured. He looked at Ziczac. ‘I think I’d better try to find out the thickness of the walls.’ He drew his Halek blade.

  ‘Can you do a mystical triangulation?’ Ziczac asked.

  Pyrgus shook his head. ‘I don’t know what that is.’

  ‘Then I’d better do it,’ Ziczac said. ‘The best place would be at the corner. I think perhaps the rest of you had better stay put.’ He began to walk briskly north, but halted abruptly after just four steps. ‘There’s some sort of forcefield here.’ He reached out cautiously with both hands and patted the air in front of him.

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ Henry said foolishly.

  ‘Neither can I,’ Ziczac said, ‘but I can feel it.’

  ‘Come away, Ziczac,’ Nymph said anxiously.

  ‘It’s all right—it’s just a barrier. I can get us through it if I have to.’ The wizard backed off and turned. ‘Let’s see if we’re trapped the other way.’ He walked past them, headed for the southern corner of the corridor.

  ‘The rest of you—’ Pyrgus began.

  There was a yelp and a peculiar squelching noise. Henry spun round. ‘Where’s Ziczac?’ There was no way he could have reached the corner already.

  ‘Stay back!’ Pyrgus snapped. He began to run in the direction Ziczac had taken.

  Both Nymph, Comma and Blue all ignored him and started running at the same time. They arrived together at the edge of a narrow pit that had opened in the floor of the corridor. Pyrgus looked down.

  Ziczac’s body was impaled on seven vicious metal spikes set into the floor of the pit. His eyes were open, but he was clearly dead.

  Seventy-Three

  Brimstone found the narrow stairway between a Buddhist souvenir shop and a tiny store that specialised in selling pickled eggs. The flathead on the first landing was seated on a wooden chair reading the National Inquirer, his jacket open to show the shoulder holster.

  He recognised Brimstone at once. ‘Ho?’ he sniffed.

  ‘Yo,’ said Brimstone, using one of the dreadful colloquialisms he’d picked up on an earlier visit to Spanish Harlem. Nobody here knew where he really came from and he preferred to keep it that way.

  The flathead jerked his thumb towards the next flight and went back to his National Inquirer.

  Two sweet little girls ushered him into Mr Ho’s offices on the first floor, giggling behind their hands. Mr Ho was seated in a cracked leather armchair, smoking something resinous in a long, clay pipe. He had the eye folds of a Faerie of the Night, but not the slitted pupils. He took the pipe from his mouth and favoured Brimstone with a benign smile.

  ‘Mr Brimstone,’ he acknowledged.

  ‘Mr Ho,’ said Brimstone, nodding. He glanced around the room, pleased to see Mr Ho’s shelves were still well-stocked with both books and supplies.

  ‘Excuse it that I do not rise in deference to your hugely advanced ancientness,’ Ho said. The benign smile again. ‘I am unable to revere you on account of extreme intoxication.’

  ‘Think nothing of it, Mr Ho.’

  ‘Tea, Mr Brimstone? Or a pipe?’

  ‘Neither, thank you, Mr Ho. May I enquire about the health of your granddaughters?’

  Mr Ho beamed. ‘Excellent, I can report. I note from the ring on your finger that you have recently married, Mr Brimstone. May
I, in turn, enquire after the health of your illustrious new wife?’

  ‘Dead,’ said Brimstone.

  ‘Ah,’ Ho said, nodding. ‘Her legacy?’

  ‘Substantial,’ Brimstone told him.

  Ho took another puff of his pipe and smiled. ‘Supplies then, is it, Mr Brimstone? Some items on which to spend your fortuitous substantial legacy?’

  ‘A grimoire, Mr Ho.’

  Ho’s eyes widened a little. ‘The Lemegeton, Mr Brimstone? Or the full Clavicle? Or perhaps the Grimoire Verum? Or shall I have my ladies find you the Boke of the Mervayles of the World?’

  They both laughed heartily. Mervayles of the World was a book of white magic. Brimstone shook his head. ‘No, no, Mr Ho. I need the Grimoire of Honorius the Great.’

  Mr Ho stopped laughing at once. ‘Are you serious, Mr Brimstone?’

  ‘Deadly, Mr Ho.’

  ‘I do not have it.’

  ‘But can you get it?’

  ‘The cost would be astronomical,’ Ho said bluntly.

  Brimstone smiled. ‘I have American Express platinum.’

  Ho’s eyes widened again. ‘May I see it, Mr Brimstone?’

  Brimstone rummaged in his bag and produced the card Beleth had given him. Ho took it, examined the magnetic strip on the back, then bit it carefully.

  ‘This seems to be in order, Mr Brimstone.’

  ‘So you can get the book?’

  Mr Ho held up a single finger. ‘One hour, Mr Brimstone. Permit me one hour.’

  Seventy-Four

  Blue was standing by his shoulder, staring into the pit. She looked as if she might be sick at any minute. Pyrgus said quietly, ‘You know what this place is, don’t you?’

  Blue nodded. ‘An obsidian maze. Hairstreak has built an obsidian maze. Pyrgus, that monster has our father!’

  Frowning, Nymph asked, ‘What’s an obsidian maze?’