This time it was Brimstone who looked up at the ceiling. A decent pause, the final legalities, then off to the woods to kill her.
It was a very happy wedding day.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
The worm was more like an eel or a snake, except it was segmented and protected by a natural, glistening armoured shell. It stared at Chalkhill with black, beady eyes from the bottom of a heated glass tank. There was a sandy floor to replicate the desert of its natural environment and a few desiccated plants to keep it company. Slices of ordle had been scattered on a flat-topped rock.
Chalkhill looked at the Facemaster.
'It's a symbiote,' Facemaster Wainscot explained. He clearly caught Chalkhill's blank look for he added, 'A creature that works in cooperation with another creature to mutual benefit.' He sounded as if he were reading from a reference book. 'It will assist you to walk properly.' He blinked, then clarified, 'So you look like Lord Hairstreak.'
Chalkhill peered at the worm. It was nearly seven inches long and exuded some sort of foul-smelling slime over its armoured scales. 'Let's get this straight,' Chalkhill said. 'This thing is going to help me walk like Hairstreak?'
The Facemaster nodded soberly. 'Yes.'
'And what do I do for it?'
'Pardon?'
'You said it was a symbiote. Mutual admiration society. Tit for tat. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.' Chalkhill understood symbiote all right - it was the way he'd functioned most of his life. 'What's the quid pro quo?'
'The worm takes a little of your pigmentation to use in its mating ritual.' He caught Chalkhill's expression again. 'Apparently female worms prefer male worms to have white spots. This one doesn't, so it will extract some of your skin colour to make them.'
'What effect does that have on me?' Chalkhill asked suspiciously.
'You'll look a little pale.'
'Is it painful?'
'Not even slightly.'
It didn't sound too bad to Chalkhill. 'What do I do? Keep the worm with me in my pocket? Something of that sort?'
The Facemaster hesitated. 'Ah ... not exactly. The symbiote must be absorbed into your body.'
Chalkhill's jaw dropped. 'I have to swallow it?'
The Facemaster shook his head. 'Human saliva is toxic to the species, I'm afraid. Consequently the insertion must be made in one nostril. The worm slides down your throat, crawls through the stomach into the large intestine, thence to the small intestine and, ultimately, the bowel, where it takes up permanent residence in your bottom.'
Chalkhill stared at him in horror. 'Are you out of your mind?' he asked incredulously. 'You want me to stuff that thing up my nose and let it crawl down through my guts?'
'It's no fun for me either,' said the worm.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Despite everything, Pyrgus slept late next morning. The others must have been exhausted too, for none of them came to wake him. He woke to sunshine and a feeling of dread. After a moment he knuckled the sleep from his eyes and climbed out from under the layer of woolly endolgs who acted as both inner guards and eiderdown. 'Morning, Boss,' they chorused cheerfully.
'Morning,' Pyrgus grunted. He grabbed the towels someone had laid out for him and headed for the cleansing cubicle. He was never very good first thing in the morning, but this morning was much worse than usual. Last night's discussions had lasted almost until dawn and produced nothing in the way of a solution.
'Good morning, Your Royal Highness,' purred the soft, spell-driven voice of the cleansing cubicle. Pyrgus groaned. Even this damn thing must have heard the latest developments: it had been calling him Emperor Elect since his father's murder. The news had to be all over the palace by now.
The cubicle filled with hot mist as he stepped inside and pseudo pods extended to scrape sweat and impurities off his back. Small streams of perfumed water oozed up around his feet, insinuated themselves between his toes and began to curl around his legs. Soothing music crept along the edge of audibility, extracting stress from his shoulders and neck.
What to do? There was another meeting scheduled in -
'Seventeen minutes and thirty-eight seconds,' the cubicle told him. It wasn't sentient or even really telepathic, just expensive. He often felt guilty just using it. Life was hugely simpler when he had hidden among the people and had nothing more to worry about than fights with his father.
- seventeen minutes and thirty-eight seconds and something had to be sorted soon. There was no way he was going to let Lord Hairstreak get away with this, not now, not ever, even if he had to ... had to ... had to what? It was no use waiting for the others to supply him with a plan. He had to come up with one himself. Something swift, decisive and utterly ruthless. He had to take the initiative!
The trouble was his mind just wouldn't function.
The cubicle sensed his dilemma and slammed a blast of ice-cold water against his naked body. Pyrgus yelped and leaped outside. But as he reached for the towels to dry himself off, he had to admit his head was clearer now. Perhaps he could refuse to acknowledge the pact, claim his father was still dead and Hairstreak had forged his seal and signature. What could Hairstreak do about it?
He could produce the Purple Emperor, Pyrgus thought. His father was a slave to Lord Hairstreak now.
He dressed slowly as depression seeped over him like grey-black ooze. In situations like this, there was only one consolation:
Things couldn't get any worse.
Pyrgus walked into the meeting to discover things were getting worse.
'What are you doing here?' he asked at once.
It was Gatekeeper Fogarty who answered. 'Your half-brother has something to tell you.'
Blue said, 'I explained you had important things to do, but he insisted. He won't tell us what it is.'
Pyrgus glared at Comma, who seemed to be growing fatter lately. 'Well, what is it?' He noticed Madame Cardui wasn't present. Perhaps Blue had sent her off somewhere. And there was still no sign of Henry. He'd have liked Henry to have been here. Somehow he felt better with Henry around.
Comma said, 'That's no way to talk to your Emperor Elect.'
'Apparently I'm not Emperor Elect any longer,' Pyrgus told him drily. 'That's why I don't have time -'
'I know you're not Emperor Elect,' Comma said. 'I'm Emperor Elect - that's what I just said.' He glared at Pyrgus as fiercely as Pyrgus had glared at him. 'You never told me Father was still alive, you big pig!
'Comma -' Blue tried to put in. Suddenly she was looking at Comma more sympathetically than she had done in months.
But Comma was not to be diverted. He looked angry and tearful at the same time. 'You pretended to me he was dead. So did you, Blue. You ganged up on me and told me my father was dead!
'Nobody ganged up on you, Comma -' Fogarty began.
Comma ignored him. 'Well, he isn't dead!' he shouted at Pyrgus. 'He was never dead. And now he wants me to be Emperor.'
For a long moment Pyrgus could do no more than look at him. Then he said, 'So you've been told already.'
'He wants me to be the next Emperor. Not you, Pyrgus - me! Father doesn't want to be Emperor any more because of his deformity. He wants me!'
Suddenly there was too much going round in Pyrgus's head. How had Comma found out so soon? The Duke of Burgundy had undertaken there would be no announcement until Pyrgus formally stepped down. And beyond the immediate questions there were others. What was he, Pyrgus, going to do about it? What was he going to do about - ? He couldn't even think about it properly.
It was Blue who asked, quite gently, 'Who told you about Daddy, Comma?'
And Comma said triumphantly, 'Lord Hairstreak!'
Mr Fogarty tried to rescue the situation. 'This isn't the way you think it is,' he said. He glanced across at Pyrgus as if wanting him to explain.
But Pyrgus couldn't explain, not properly. How could he explain a spiritual abomination to somebody Comma's age? How could he explain the animated shell that was now controlled by Lord Hairstreak
? How could he explain all that to a boy who just wanted his father to be alive? After all, it was what Pyrgus wanted too.
Blue said, 'Lord Hairstreak tells lies.'
Comma rounded on her, eyes blazing. 'Is he telling lies about Father being alive?'
Blue shook her head. 'Not exactly. What he -'
'What do you mean, Not exactly} Father's either alive or dead. He can't be not exactly alive. I used to think you were better than Pyrgus, Blue, but you're not. You're just as bad as he is. Father is alive. You didn't want me to know that because you didn't want me to be Emperor. But your rotten scheme didn't work. You're not my friends. You've never been my friends. But Lord Hairstreak's my friend now.'
'Hairstreak isn't your friend,' Mr Fogarty said shortly. 'Hairstreak isn't anybody's friend.'
But Comma ignored him. 'Look,' he said excitedly. 'Look at this!' He pulled a parchment scroll from the pocket of his jerkin. It looked eerily like the scroll the Duke of Burgundy had carried with the details of the pact. Comma pushed it towards Pyrgus, waving it underneath his nose.
Pyrgus took the document with a heavy heart. Somehow he knew, he just knew, what it would contain. He looked at Comma for a moment longer, then glanced down at the parchment. His eyes skimmed the writing with a sense of horrid expectation.
'What's it say?' Blue asked quietly.
Pyrgus took a deep, rattling breath. 'It's an official authorisation for Comma to become next Purple Emperor with Lord Hairstreak acting as Regent until he comes of age.'
'Little git!' Mr Fogarty grunted explosively. Presumably he meant Lord Hairstreak.
'See who signed it?' Comma shouted. 'Read out who signed it, Pyrgus!'
Pyrgus said quietly, 'It was signed by our father.'
'You see? You see?' Comma asked no one in particular. He looked shrewdly at Pyrgus. 'It's no good tearing it up, Pyrgus - I have other copies and so does Lord Hairstreak.'
Pyrgus dropped the paper to the floor.
Blue said, 'Comma, Daddy doesn't know what he's signing now. This is all Lord Hairstreak's doing and he only wants you to be Emperor so he will become Regent.'
A thought occurred to Pyrgus. Hairstreak could kill Comma before he came of age. Certainly Hairstreak would never relinquish the throne once he became Regent.
'He told me you'd say that,' Comma said. 'He told me you'd try to stop me becoming Emperor.'
'Of course you can't become Emperor,' Blue said firmly. 'There's no question of your becoming Emperor. Can't you see what Hairstreak is up to? Can't you -'
'He told me you'd say that as well, Blue,' Comma said. 'And he told me what to do about it. Are you going to let me be Emperor, Pyrgus?'
Pyrgus started to shake his head. 'Comma -'
Comma darted to the door and jerked it open. 'Quickly!' he called excitedly.
General Ovard stepped into the room. Behind him marched a full contingent of Palace Guards. Pyrgus noticed Ovard was wearing formal uniform as if dressed for a State occasion. The old General looked pained but determined. He glanced sternly from one face to another.
'They won't let me be Emperor,' Comma shouted, his voice high. 'I showed them the Order. Pyrgus just threw it on the floor!'
General Ovard focused on Pyrgus. 'It's a properly executed Order, Crown Prince. Signed by your father, stamped with the Imperial Seal.'
'It's a plot by Hairstreak,' Mr Fogarty sniffed.
'I don't like the bit about Hairstreak becoming Regent any more than you do, Gatekeeper,' the General said. 'But I swore an oath, and if that's what my Purple Emperor has ordered, that's what's going to happen.'
'The Purple Emperor is dead, Ovard. You saw the body.'
'I saw a body in stasis,' Ovard said. 'Alive or dead, they all look much the same like that. But he looked alive enough to me when he handed me the Order.'
'Daddy's still here?' Blue exploded. 'Here in the palace?'
'He was at the barracks. Lord Hairstreak was with him. I don't know where they are now, but I do know this is a legal Order, Serenity.' Ovard seemed troubled, despite his words, but determined.
'I don't want any more talking!' Comma shouted suddenly. 'No more talking, any of you. You have to listen to me now, and do what I say!'
Pyrgus glanced at the ranks of soldiers lined up behind Ovard.
Comma caught the look and started to smile slyly. 'I'm Emperor Elect now and this is my first proclamation. Lord Hairstreak said if you tried to stop me, I was to put you all in prison and have you executed. But I'm not going to do that. You're my half-brother and half-sister. You're my family. So I'm not going to do that, whatever Lord Hairstreak says. But I can't have you making trouble and arguing with everything I say, so I am going to send you into exile. All of you - Pyrgus, Blue and you, Gatekeeper. I'm going to give you half an hour to get your things and leave the palace. General Ovard, I order you to see they do!' He tossed his head grandly and marched from the room.
There was a long, grim silence. Eventually Mr Fogarty said, 'Can he do that, General?'
'He just has, Gatekeeper,' said General Ovard.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
'Perfect!' called the Facemaster excitedly. 'Look, look, look at yourself in the mirrors!'
Chalkhill didn't have to. He knew he was walking like Lord Hairstreak now. Not just walking, but carrying himself like Hairstreak, making gestures like Hairstreak, even sounding like Hairstreak when he spoke. But there was a price.
His bottom was on fire, for one thing. His nose itched perpetually. His limbs were stiff and out of control, as if he were a puppet pulling its own strings.
But the worst of it was the voice in his head.
'Strictly speaking,' it was saying in a grating, high-pitched tone that was irritating beyond belief, 'we are no longer separate entities, but a fusion. Yes, a fusion of body and mind, some would say of spirit as well, spirit or soul, if those two are different, but here we enter into the realm of theology, don't we, since there are those - the Halek Clans, for example - who deny the spiritual dimension altogether. Thus we -' And on and on and on interminably.
Do be quiet, be quiet, be quiet! Chalkhill screamed inside his skull. The worm had talked non-stop from the moment it was inserted. If it went on very much longer, he was going to go mad. 'Why won't this thing shut up?' he asked the Facemaster.
'The worm? They do that, I'm afraid. Most people get used to it eventually.'
'Most people?' Chalkhill echoed. 'What about the ones who don't?'
'They usually hang themselves.'
'Which creates an interesting legal dilemma,' said the worm in Chalkhill's mind, having clearly eavesdropped on the spoken conversation. 'Should one bring a charge of suicide or murder? There are those lawyers who hold that the symbiotic relationship creates, in effect, a new entity, in which case hanging must be deemed an act of suicide. But there are others who would argue that the two sentient entities - wangaramas wyrm and faerie - remain distinct, if interlinked, in which case the suicide of one involves the murder of the other. In Jessup v. Trentonelf, however, Lord Justice Bedstraw ruled on the possibility of collusion by the wangaramas, which raises the spectre of assisted suicide, an offence in itself which, while carrying a lesser penalty than first degree murder, will nonetheless -'
'Can't they just have the worm removed?' asked Chalkhill, desperately ignoring the inner monologue. 'Can't I just have the worm removed?' He could just possibly survive until he slaughtered Pyrgus at his Coronation, but after that he wanted the worm out again within the hour.
'I'm afraid removal is a little more tricky than insertion. The procedure takes about six months.'
'Six months?' Chalkhill exploded. I can't have this thing rabbitting inside my head for six months!'
There was a small commotion at the door of the Practice Hall as a messenger in Hairstreak livery pushed arrogantly past the guards.
'All this, of course, represents the situation from the faerie perspective,' the worm was saying, 'but we may gain fresh insights by examinin
g the other side of the equation, so to speak. At the recent Wangaramas Grand Convention, or WGC as it is more conveniently known, there was a fascinating debate -
Facemaster Wainscot contrived to look sympathetic. 'Six months is actually a conservative estimate,' he told Chalkhill. 'But the only viable alternative is surgery, which I'm afraid kills one host in three. Not something to be recommended.'
'Which one of you is Chalkhill?' asked the messenger loudly.
'He is.'
'A simplistic question, but one which opens up what we wangarami refer to as a "can of men". What is at stake here is the necessity of defining identity, which may appear straightforward at first blush, but -
Faerie Wars 02 - The Purple Emperor Page 10
