The Purple Emperor fw-2

by Herbie Brennan

'Definite. Endolgs are smart, but we're not that strong. You should do it easily.'

  Henry looked at the grille. 'I don't have any gloves.'

  'Just my luck,' sighed the endolg. 'Twenty million people in the Realm and I get locked up with a wuss.'

  Henry took a deep breath, reached down to grip the grille (with his bare hand – yuk!) and pulled. He felt it move slightly and discovered the endolg was right – the surrounding flag moved too. But it was a long way off coming up easily.

  'Use both hands and brace yourself,' the endolg suggested.

  'What's your name?' Henry asked it quietly.

  'Flapwazzle,' said the endolg. 'Why?'

  'Shut up, Flapwazzle,' Henry said. He reached down with both hands and braced himself.

  'Use your legs,' Flapwazzle told him. 'Your legs are stronger than your arms.'

  Henry locked his grip and pushed hard to straighten his legs. For a moment he was certain nothing was going to happen, then the flagstone came up smoothly and fell over with a crash on the floor.

  Henry peered into the foul-smelling hole below. 'I'll never fit into that,' he said.

  'I'll go first in case you get stuck,' Flapwazzle volunteered. 'That way, at least one of us will escape.'

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

  Henry had an unhappy decision to make. He didn't fancy getting stuck head first down a narrow drain, especially one that people had peed in… and worse. But if he went down feet first and didn't get stuck, he was going to have to negotiate backwards all the way to the main sewers with nothing better to guide him than touchy Flapwazzle, who might, or might not, decide to go off on his own at any time. So which was it to be – head first or feet first into the dark?

  'Hurry up!' called Flapwazzle, who had already plunged into the pipe. 'I can't hang about all day – it's smelly down here.'

  Henry took his second deep breath of the afternoon and plunged head first through the opening left by the uprooted flagstone.

  He got stuck almost at once.

  'Push hard,' suggested Flapwazzle.

  Henry was loath to take the advice. He could still wriggle backwards and return to the comparatively fresh air of the cell, but each time he pushed forwards, he jammed solid. Pushing harder might get him stuck completely. Even a few feet in, the smell was appalling. He could think of absolutely nothing worse than starving to death while stuck in this ghastly puke-pong of a drain.

  'Stop holding your breath!' Flapwazzle advised. 'You're all swole up – no wonder you get stuck.'

  'It's my shoulders!' Henry hissed into the foul-smelling darkness. 'It's my shoulders that are stuck. They're not all swole – swollen up.' All the same he released his breath and tried, tentatively, to push forward again. There was a tiny movement, then he stopped.

  Somewhere deep in his heart he knew he wasn't pushing hard enough; or at least wasn't pushing as hard as he could. He was terrified of getting stuck fast, but on the other hand the endolg was quite right: there was absolutely no point in wriggling back to rot in a gloomy cell at the mercy of the lunatic Queen.

  The thought of the cell gave him an idea. 'I'll just go back and get the taper,' he said. 'We could do with a bit of light down here.'

  'Bring a flame into the sewers and you'll set off the methane,' said Flapwazzle calmly. 'Probably take out half the palace.'

  'All right,' Henry said sourly. Since he couldn't put off the moment any longer, he pushed forward with all his strength. And was stuck fast, stuck for ever, doomed, choking on the fumes, already dying in the darkness, before he suddenly shot forward like a cork popped from a bottle and found he had actually enough room to work his elbows and propel himself slowly forward.

  'Gets wider down here,' said Flapwazzle's voice encouragingly.

  'Glad to hear it,' Henry muttered. 'Any idea where we're going?' He'd only moved a yard or two and already it was so dark he could almost touch it.

  'Just follow my voice,' said Flapwazzle. 'I'll keep talking.'

  Henry frowned. 'Can you see in the dark?'

  'No, but I can whistle,' Flapwazzle said bewildering-ly. 'It'll be all right in the main tunnels. There's a luminous fungus grows on the crust of you know what. It's dim, but your eyes get used to it.'

  'How do you know all this?'

  'Been down here before.'

  Henry wondered why, but before he could ask, Flapwazzle said, 'Here we are. Corner coming up, Henry.'

  Henry had already discovered it by crawling into a wall. He rubbed his head. There was a faint glow to his right. He crawled quickly towards it and fell nearly four feet into a main tunnel just as Flapwazzle said, 'Careful!'

  He fell face down in water – at least he hoped it was water – and scrambled to his feet, coughing and spitting wildly. The endolg was right: the tunnel was huge and he had no trouble standing upright. Flapwazzle was also right about the fungus. It grew in bilious green patches on the roof, casting an eerie glow that allowed him to see a yard or two ahead.

  'Where are you?' he asked, and listened to his words echo far into the distance.

  'Ahead and a little to your right,' Flapwazzle said. 'I'm floating. Try not to step on me.'

  Henry peered into the gloom. There was something dark floating on the water that might have been Flapwazzle or might have been something a lot less edifying. 'Are you sure you can find our way out of here?'

  'Fairly sure. I've a good memory for maps. Thing is, there are lots of ways out of sewers – garderobes, privies, drains. And if you miss them all, you just follow the flow and you come out in the river. The whole system drains into the river. Which would probably be our best bet for getting away from the plud. You can swim, can't you?'

  'Not very well,' Henry said.

  'Mmm,' said Flapwazzle thoughtfully. 'That could be a problem before we reach the river.'

  There was something in his tone that stopped Henry dead. 'Why before we reach the river?'

  'They flush the system every sixteen hours. Seven billion gallons of recycled water under pressure. Even strong swimmers don't usually survive that. In fact, I can't remember hearing anybody's ever survived that.'

  'Yes, but if it's only once in sixteen hours, we've lots of time to get out before it happens,' Henry protested.

  'Depends when they last did it,' said the endolg.

  CHAPTER FORTY SIX

  'The Wangaramas Revolution' wyrm Cyril announced inside the mind of Jasper Chalkhill, 'is potentially the most important political development within the Realm in the past five hundred years; indeed -'

  'Can't we just cut to the chase?' Chalkhill asked a little desperately. It was curiously companionable sharing one's mind with a worm, but the creature did tend to drone on.

  'Yes, perhaps that would be best, since time is of the essence. If we're agreed the Realm is in a mess – and from a glance at your thoughts I can see we are – then the Wangaramas Revolution is the way to clean it up.'

  'Doesn't tell me what it is, Cyril.'

  T was coming to that – you're extraordinarily impatient. You've no doubt heard of the world-famous Wangaramas political theorist Munchen -?'

  Chalkhill reached tiredly for the clinic's bell.

  'Wait! Wait!' shrieked the worm. T have to tell you this so you'll understand our offer. I'll be quick, I promise. We Wangarami have been the superior species on this planet for more than two point eight million years. Wangaramas philosophers have struggled with this question for generations, creating, examining and dismissing one theory after – DON'T TOUCH THE BELL! The thing is, a contemporary Wangaramas philosopher -'

  'Look,' said Chalkhill, I'm sure this is all very interesting, but frankly, my dear Cyril, I have better things to do just now, like getting on with the rest of my life, which does not, however, include any input from you whatsoever. So if you'll excuse me, I'll just set up the operation and get our little divorce underway. I'll try to see that you're not harmed, of course, and since you seem to have managed your life perfectly well without me in the past, I imagine yo
u -'

  'We'll make you Purple Emperor!' Cyril shouted.

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  The Great Hall was huge and Fogarty had not the least idea how they'd reached it. He was beginning to feel real admiration for these Forest Faerie: they had tricks up their sleeves nobody else seemed to have dreamed of. Besides, you had to admire a tribe that could hide away for generations without anybody suspecting they existed. Anybody except Cynthia, that was. He threw a fond glance in the direction of Madame Cardui, who was seated almost opposite him across the conference table. She threw a fond glance back.

  To the right of the Painted Lady sat Cleopatra, the Faerie Queen. Pyrgus was seated on the Queen's right, the traditional place of honour. To his right was Blue, her face expressionless. Then a pale Forest Faerie named Limenitis, who'd been introduced as Queen's Counsel, then Fogarty himself and finally the muscular Porcellus Hawkmoth, who'd led the assault on the ouklo and was obviously a military man. Fogarty noticed with some surprise that the Queen's Consort, Gonepterix, had no place at the table at all, although he was in the room. He stood near a window that presented an illusory view of an angry sea and was the only person in the room permitted to bear arms – the familiar hunting bow of the forest people. He was watching the Queen intently and, from his expression, warmly. Fogarty guessed they had a good relationship, although there was no doubt who was boss.

  'What now?' asked the Queen, to no one in particular. It was an interesting opening, Fogarty thought.

  '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 gets 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.'

  CHAPTER 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 be
en 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.

  CHAPTER FORTY NINE

  Chalkhill found a simbala parlour with a trendy 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.