The Purple Emperor fw-2

by Herbie Brennan

  'Who?'

  'Pyrgus.'

  'Pyrgus isn't here.'

  'He isn't?'

  'Of course not.'

  Henry blinked. 'Then why did you bring me here?'

  Quercusia looked up and studied a corner of the chamber near the ceiling. 'You said you wanted to go to his room.'

  Henry's unease increased. He frowned, then gave a small nervous smile. 'Actually, what I meant was I wanted to see Pyrgus. I'm sorry.'

  The sloe-black eyes were back en him again. 'You can't do that. Pyrgus is in exile.' A look of pride crossed her features. 'My son is the Emperor now.' She blinked several times like someone waking from a deep sleep. Her face was suddenly very sober. 'I think I'll have you put in jail. You're such a horrid boy.'

  Henry felt a sudden chill. He swallowed and began to edge towards the door. 'Your Majesty -' he said to humour her.

  She rang no bell nor made no sign he was aware of, yet suddenly the room was full of burly men.

  'Lock him in the dungeons!' Quercusia screamed. Her eyes were wide and flecks of spittle rimmed her lips. 'Lock him in the dungeons and throw away the key!

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Since the ouklo had clapped out completely and refused to leave the graveyard, the Brimstones left for their honeymoon in a two-seater skim. It was an uncomfortable, ill-sprung craft, but cheap and surprisingly fast in open country – or so the man from the hiring company assured them. For Brimstone, the main problem was its size. There was no room to get away from Madame Brimstone, who clung to his arm and made satisfied trilling noises as he stared stonily straight ahead through the open window.

  The skim's built-in navigation system had been created for the city and handled the winding streets of Cheapside with ease. It even managed to negotiate Westgate, a notoriously difficult area for precision magic on account of the quartz content in the local bedrock. But once it left the urban confines, it ground to a halt and hung there, awaiting further instructions.

  'The lodge coordinates, Dearest Heart?' said Brimstone, forcing a smile.

  Madame Brimstone smiled back. '80-42,' she murmured.

  'Really?' Brimstone said. 'As deep in as that?' He leaned forward and repeated the numbers to the dashboard of the skim, which absorbed them for a moment, then moved off in a north-westerly direction towards the woodlands. Brimstone leaned back and admired the scenery while trying to ignore the pressure of Madame Brimstone's hand on his knee.

  They reached the lodge in something under ninety minutes. Brimstone felt a little better when they emerged in the clearing. He'd expected a log cabin, probably comfortable enough, but small. Instead he was facing an opulent house, wood-built to be sure, but architect-designed and spacious. A lot of money had been spent here and, without the need for illusion spells in so secluded a spot, it all showed.

  'Do you like my little place?' asked Madame Brimstone as she climbed down from the skim.

  Brimstone didn't answer. He was too busy calculating how much the building would be worth after he'd paid off the death duties on his late lamented wife.

  Despite a display cabinet full of elemental servants in pristine brass bottles, Madame Brimstone insisted on cooking supper personally. Brimstone was suspicious at once. It hadn't occurred to him that she might try to poison him on their wedding night – the usual thing was to wait a few weeks so it wouldn't seem too obvious – but he didn't like the look of this at all.

  Minutes after she disappeared into the kitchen, he strolled innocently after her in the hope of catching her out, but she shooed him away at once.

  'Not a man's place,' she cackled. 'Not my man's place, to be sure. You take yourself off and read an edifying book. There's a copy of The Knicker Ripper in the living room. You just leave it to me to serve up something delicious. No more bone gruel, Silas – no more bone gruel!'

  Brimstone went out again reluctantly. He wasn't quite ready to kill her yet – she had a brother so he'd have to make it look like an accident and that required a little planning – which meant he was going to have to risk the meal. Fortunately, really subtle poisons were expensive, so she probably wouldn't use them, the miserly old hag. With luck and good judgement he could probably spot the cheap ones she was likely to buy. The trick would be to avoid them without making her suspicious.

  He found the book and pretended to read. After a while, Madame Brimstone stuck her head around the door. 'All ready,' she trilled. 'I've laid us places in the dining room.'

  He walked through to the dining room and found that not only were places laid, but the appetiser was already on the table.

  'Sit. Sit,' said Madame Brimstone eagerly. She was looking at him strangely, with a glint of anticipation in her eye.

  Brimstone sat down and stared at his appetiser. It was some sort of grey, jelly-like substance flecked with curdled bits of white flesh. The old bat might be making an effort, but this dish hadn't turned out much better than her bone gruel. It looked as if a cat had been sick on a lettuce leaf.

  'What is it?' he asked.

  'Fish mousse,' said Madame Brimstone, sitting down. T leave the skins on for economy.'

  It might make him ill, but would it poison him? Brimstone glanced across at her plate. 'You've only given yourself a small helping,' he said.

  'Woman's helping, woman's place,' said Madame Brimstone, quoting an old faerie proverb.

  'But my dear, we can't have that!' said Brimstone heartily. 'You cooked the meal. You deserve the larger portion.' He forced his features to contort into something she might take for a smile.

  Still smiling, he switched his plate for hers. Let's see if she eats it now, he thought.

  Madame Brimstone stared down at the plate. Was it a look of dismay? Did she realise she'd been hoisted with her own petard? But then she looked up to give him a dazzling smile. 'Why, thank you, Silas. How very thoughtful of you.' She picked up her fork and began to shovel fish mousse into her mouth.

  Brimstone followed suit. To his surprise, it tasted good.

  The second course was roast pork and, despite himself, he found his mouth watering as she carried the joint to the table. It was done exactly as he liked it, with crispy crackling, stuffing, and a boat of aromatic gravy.

  Madame Brimstone was suddenly holding a vicious-looking knife. 'How would you like it?' she asked menacingly.

  Brimstone half-started from his seat, then realised she meant the pork. He opened his mouth to answer, but she went on brightly, 'A slice or two from here perhaps?' She pointed with the tip of the knife, then, without waiting for an answer, began to carve.

  The poison would only be in part of the joint, so she could calm his suspicions by having her share from somewhere else. 'No, no,' said Brimstone quickly. 'Not there. I'd like some from here.'' He pointed.

  She didn't seem in the least perturbed, but dropped the slices on to her own plate and began at once to carve where he had indicated. So the joint itself was not poisoned.

  'Crackling?' asked Madame Brimstone. 'Ixpect you like a nice bit of crackling. Can't have it myself – plays hell with my digestion.'

  It was in the crackling! It had to be in the crackling! He was supposed to eat it while she did not. What cunning! He loved crackling!

  'Can't have it either,' he said quickly. 'Gives me gout.'

  If she was disappointed, it didn't show. 'Stuffing?'

  'If you're having some.'

  'I surely am,' said Madame Brimstone. 'And potatoes, carrots, minted sinderack and peas. Always believed in eating well, me.'

  Brimstone stared at his laden plate. Perhaps he had misjudged her. No poison here, unless she was prepared to swallow it as well. A thought struck him. Suppose she was using a special poison. Suppose she had already taken the antidote. Suppose…

  It was rubbish. He was letting his imagination get the better of him. The old bat was too stupid and too mean for anything of that sort. Anyway, it made no sense for her to poison him on their wedding night. Not with five notches already on the bed-post. F
ar too suspicious. She would surely wait a month or two before making her move. But by a month or two, it would be too late.

  'I'm sorry, My Dear?' Brimstone murmured. She'd said something he hadn't caught.

  'A toast!' Madame Brimstone repeated.

  He realised to his horror there was a full glass of wine in front of him. He hadn't even seen her pour it. That's where the poison had to be! She'd have added it to his glass while he was distracted. How was he going to get out of this one without showing her he knew what she was up to?

  'Here's to us and those like us,' said Madame Brimstone cheerfully. She raised her glass and waited expectantly for him to drink.

  Brimstone scowled. What sort of toast was that? And where had that glass of wine come from?

  'What sort of toast is that?' he asked, desperately playing for time. A heavy cut-glass claret decanter had appeared on the table and he assumed this was where the wine came from.

  'Do you have a better one?' demanded Madame Brimstone irritably. She was staring at his glass.

  Brimstone leaped to his feet. 'Why, To happy married life, of course!' he exclaimed. He waved his arms about excitedly and contrived to knock over his glass. The wine flowed across the table like a river of blood. 'Dear me,' shrieked Brimstone, 'how very clumsy of me. Never mind, my dear, I'll pour myself another glass.' As he reached for the decanter he noticed the tablecloth begin to smoke and fall in shreds.

  Madame Brimstone pushed her chair back hurriedly and stood up before the liquid could splash on to her lap. 'I'll get a cloth to wipe that up,' she said shrilly.

  'In a moment, Dearest Heart!' squeaked Brimstone, pretending not to notice his wine was now burning through the table. 'First our toast, our wonderful toast!' He poured himself a second glass and skipped around the table to link arms with her. 'To happy married life!' he said again, then hit her with the glass decanter.

  Madame Brimstone went down like a stone.

  CHAPTER FORTY ONE

  The tree was very peculiar. It had the huge trunk of an ancient oak, but the branches were twisted like a monkey puzzle. Fogarty walked around it twice, tapping the bole, but could find no opening, which ruled out an illusion spell. And maybe it wasn't a spell at all. At the atomic level, matter was largely empty space, and the only thing that stopped the matter of your backside passing through the matter of your chair was an electrical field. So possibly they'd interfered with the field potential of the tree so the soldier's body could penetrate it. Which would explain the how but not the why. Why would anybody want to interpenetrate a tree?

  'You now,' said another green-uniformed soldier, nodding encouragingly to Fogarty.

  Fogarty didn't hesitate – he was far too curious to learn the secret of the tree. He stepped quickly towards the massive trunk, headed for the point the soldier had indicated, reached it, felt the wood rough and solid, yet somehow passed right through it. The sensation, oddly enough, was of sliding sideways.

  He was in a shaft. It was metal-lined and wide enough for him to stand, both arms outstretched, without touching the sides. There had to be some sort of dimensional shift. Probably not much, but enough to move the shaft out of phase and allow the tree to keep its heart. Fascinating technology. These people were a lot more sophisticated than they looked.

  He felt himself beginning to float upwards and recognised the familiar sensation of suspensor spells at work. In a moment he emerged on to a broad wooden platform high up in the branches of the tree. The young soldier who'd gone ahead – with a start Fogarty realised it was a woman – took his hand to steady him. He looked around and gaped in sheer amazement.

  There was an entire roadway system in the upper reaches of the forest.

  It was absolutely invisible from the ground, but here it snaked from tree to tree, its main arteries as broad as any motorway and served by scores of side roads, loading bays, parking bays, promenades and avenues. It was a monumental feat of engineering, created from a mix of wood and metal along with something else he didn't even recognise.

  Blue was already on the platform, staring around her with studied nonchalance. Madame Cardui and Pyrgus emerged a few seconds later, apparently none the worse for their little disagreement.

  'Did you know this was here?' Fogarty asked her at once. You could move an army down those roadways. He tried to calculate how far the forest stretched, but his Realm geography was still too weak to make the estimate.

  Madame Cardui nodded. 'Oh yes. I've known about it for some time.'

  'You never told me,' Blue said, with just the barest hint of sharpness in her voice.

  'Need to know, my deeah,' said Madame Cardui, voicing one of the basic principles of espionage. 'You didn't need to know.' She flashed a tiny smile at Fogarty. 'Besides, at our age one must always keep a little something back. As insurance, you appreciate.'

  Fogarty doubted if Blue did, but he appreciated the principle all right. 'Who are these people?' he asked Madame Cardui.

  'My deeah, they're called the Feral Faerie – can you imagine it? We've always believed they were primitives. Primitive forest-dwellers. What a camouflage! They have their own culture, their own social structures, their own governing system, their own defence forces. I was astonished when I learned about them.'

  'Are they Lighters or Nighters?' Fogarty asked.

  'Not relevant,' Madame Cardui said. 'They don't hold allegiance to either side. Sorry, Pyrgus.'

  Pyrgus, who was staring along one of the great tree-top roadways, hardly seemed to hear her. 'You could move an army down here,' he murmured, echoing Fogarty's earlier thought.

  'Do they have treetop cities?' Fogarty frowned.

  Madame Cardui shook her head. 'Just this communications network. They're nomads – urban life would stifle them. They congregate in small communities actually within the living trees.'

  One of the green-uniformed soldiers now swarming on the platform murmured something in her ear.

  'They want us to move out now, deeahs,' she announced.

  'Where are we going?' Fogarty asked.

  Madame Cardui smiled broadly. 'To meet the Faerie Queen.'

  The transporter was a large wooden raft that floated some six inches above the surface of the roadway. It bobbed slightly, like a boat at sea, as Pyrgus stepped aboard. A green-uniformed soldier manned the single control, a large joystick set near the front. The craft was big enough to take almost the whole contingent, but by the time it was full, they were pressed shoulder to shoulder except for a small courtesy space around the pilot.

  'Brace!' the pilot called.

  Pyrgus was wondering what that meant when the raft jerked forward and sped off at a furious rate. He was thrown backwards and would have fallen were it not for the pressure of those around him. He noticed that everyone in green uniform was leaning forward to counteract the motion of the raft.

  He found his own balance in a moment and watched the upper branches of the trees flash by. He was finding it difficult to gather his thoughts. Too much had happened in the last few hours. The coup by Hairstreak. Comma on the throne. His exile along with Blue and Gatekeeper Fogarty. The attack on the ouklo, which everyone had thought was carried out by Hairstreak's men, but which turned out to be the work of the Forest Faerie. And now rescue. At least he supposed it was rescue. He needed to talk to Madame Cardui.

  Pyrgus half turned to find someone at his shoulder. It was the girl who had stunned him during the fight.

  ‘I want to apologise,' she said quietly. 'I didn't know you were the Crown Prince.'

  'It's all right,' Pyrgus said. For some reason he felt embarrassed.

  'Well, I'm not sure it is,' the girl said. 'But when you came at me with a dagger, I had to do something.'

  'Unh,' Pyrgus nodded. He wanted to talk to her properly, but something was making him converse in grunts.

  The girl stared into his face for a moment, then gave a little resigned shrug. 'Well, that's all I wanted to say.' She turned away.

  'What's your name?'
Pyrgus asked quickly, his vocal paralysis breaking at last.

  She turned back again and her expression was pleased. 'Nymphalis,' she said. 'Nymphalis Antiopa.' She hesitated, then added almost shyly, 'My friends call me Nymph.'

  'I'm Pyrgus Malvae,' Pyrgus said because he couldn't think of anything else.

  'Yes, I know.'

  The green uniform suited her, even though it was cut for a man. It certainly didn't make her look like a man. He couldn't imagine anything that would make her look like a man. It made her look… it made her look elegant. But then she had the sort of figure that would look elegant in a sack.

  'The, ah, the business with the, ah, wand in the ear and knee in the – the knee… and the knee: that really is all right, you know. I mean, I understand. Heat of battle and all that.' She just stood there, smiling at him. He wondered if she was a professional soldier. He wondered if she had a boyfriend. 'Do you ha- do, did, wha-' He started again. 'Is wondering why you attacked the ouklo?'

  Nymphalis looked surprised. 'You don't believe all that nonsense about the Forest Faerie being brigands, do you?'

  'No, no,' Pyrgus said hastily. 'Actually I thought you were Hairstreak's men.' It occurred to him she mightn't know who Hairstreak was, but pressed on. 'No, but I was really wondering why. Why you attacked us?'

  The platform lurched beneath their feet.

  'Ah,' said Nymphalis, 'we're here already.'

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  Henry had been in the palace dungeons once before -briefly – when he had tried to rescue Mr Fogarty, who'd been thrown in jail when everybody had believed he'd murdered the Purple Emperor. But that experience had been civilised compared to this. Now they'd thrown him into a dank, subterranean cell that smelled of someone else's pee and had no facilities for his own except a small grating set into the worn, cracked flagstones on the floor. The walls were stone as well, and the whole chamber had an ancient feel, as if it had been built at the same time as the original palace Keep. There were no windows. The only light came from a single rush taper that looked in danger of flickering out with every errant draft.