'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.
CHAPTER 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.'
CHAPTER 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?'
'What's an obsidian maze,' Comma echoed. He was staring down at the body with fascination.
'It's a game,' Pyrgus said. 'The maze is filled with lethal tricks and traps, demons, wild animals, that sort of thing. You put somebody in it and the game is to see if they'll survive.'
Nymph stared at him. 'You make a game out of watching somebody fighting for their lifer
Pyrgus shook his head. 'We don't. It's illegal. Has been for a long time - centuries. I can't remember when it was made illegal, it was so long ago.'
'Except,' Blue said sourly, 'our friend Hairstreak seems to have built himself one.' She looked at Pyrgus. 'I wonder why there haven't been rumours - I never heard so much as a whisper.'
'Obviously has good security,' Pyrgus sniffed. He was staring down at the broken body of the little wizard. 'What are we going to do about Ziczac?'
'He's dead, Pyrgus - there's nothing we can do.'
'I meant about the body.'
'Oh,' Blue said. They stared down together.
Nymph said sharply, 'I'll get it if you're squeamish. He was my friend.'
Pyrgus said, 'He was a friend to all of us, Nymph. But most traps in an obsidian maze have double triggers.'
'What's that mean, Crown Prince?' She was looking at him angrily.
Blue said, 'It means that if anybody tries to go down there, it will trigger a second trap, more lethal than the first. It may even seal off this segment of the maze, flood it with poison gas, something like that. Ordinary traps can be avoided if you're careful, but the rules of the game are that secondary traps can be built with no way out.'
'You know a lot about this game, Princess Royal,' Nymph said.
'Blue knows about all sorts of stuff,' Comma said. He was still staring into the pit.
'I studied it in my history lessons,' Blue snapped.
Nymph's face was expressionless, but her voice softened a little. 'We shall have to leave him where he lies - we cannot endanger the party further. It is a warrior's death.'
Henry came up beside them. 'Except he wasn't a warrior.'
'He was our only way out of here,' Blue said.
They all turned to look at her.
Blue said, 'Without Ziczac, we can't pass through walls. We may have to fight our way out of Hairstreak's mansion.' She glanced around.
Comma said quietly, 'If we survive his obsidian maze.'
Brimstone looked at the tome with something close to wonder. It was written on sheepskin and was more than seven hundred and fifty years old. Cautiously he opened it at random.
Trinitas, Sother, Messias, Emmanuel, Sababot, Adonay, Atbanatos ... The words crawled across the page. There was a diagram of a magic circle.
Mr Ho was hovering anxiously by his shoulder. 'Is it what you wish, Mr Brimstone?'
It was what he wished all right. Exactly the grimoire Beleth had told him to find - the ultimate black book of the Analogue Realm, the most diabolical work of dark magic ever circulated. And written by a Pope! He turned another page. He would have to study it very carefully.
'This is perfect, Mr Ho,' he said. 'But in addition, I shall want a large sheet of virgin parchment.'
'I have it,' Ho said. 'You shall have it.'
'And a black cockerel.'
I can get it,' Ho said. 'You shall get it.'
'Three pints of human blood.'
'Which group, Mr Brimstone?'
Brimstone blinked. 'Group?'
'Which blood group do you need, Mr Brimstone. They will ask me when I buy it for you from the Blood Bank.'
They had Blood Banks in the Analogue Realm? How very sensible. Saved all the bother of finding a victim. Might be a business worth starting at home.
'Doesn't matter,' he said to Ho, 'so long as it's fresh.'
'Consider it yours, Mr Brimstone! Anything else?'
'A private room to study this fascinating text, Mr Ho.'
'At once, Mr Brims
tone.'
'And a place to carry out the working. Say tomorrow, or the day after.'
'An abandoned church, Mr Brimstone, with its graveyard intact? I noticed one for sale in the property section. A short taxi ride from the city.'
'Admirable,' said Brimstone.
Ho waved the card and smiled. 'All on American Express, Mr Brimstone?'
It never ceased to astonish him how people in the Analogue World imagined a ridiculous little bit of plastic had the same value as gold. Brimstone smiled. 'All on American Express, Mr Ho,' he confirmed.
CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE
'I want to show you something, Jasper,' Hairstreak said. He was beaming smugly - one of his least pleasant expressions.
'Yes, of course, Your Lordship,' Chalkhill said, trying desperately to look interested.
Hairstreak stood. 'Come with us, Cossus,' he invited.
The Gatekeeper bowed his head slightly and the three of them left the chamber. Chalkhill's nerves were getting to him badly, but at least they were leaving that ghastly golem behind.
Hairstreak took them down several winding sets of stairs and Chalkhill's nervousness increased as he realised where they were going. This was clearly the dungeon area of the mansion - cells surrounding a central torture chamber in the classical great-house design. You could never tell with Hairstreak. He could be all smiles one minute and the next you were on the rack with a red-hot poker cooling in your -
Hairstreak took a key from a hook on the wall, opened a cell door, then stood back. Chalkhill approached more nervously still. The cell was small, dark and windowless and there was a smell coming out of it as if something had died in there. Was this how it would end? It was his own fault, of course. He never should have listened to that stupid worm.
Chalkhill swallowed. 'Your Lordship -' he began. Then stopped. There was already somebody in the cell, a crumpled figure squatting by one wall. It was, Chalkhill realised, the source of the smell.
'Recognise anyone?' asked Hairstreak cheerfully.
Chalkhill had no idea what he meant, then realised he was talking about the figure in the cell. Chalkhill risked peering a little more closely. It was obviously some elderly derelict, a criminal perhaps, or more likely somebody who had crossed Hairstreak at some point and now faced a daily routine of torture, starvation and sleep deprivation. But who it was Chalkhill could not say. He suspected that didn't matter: Hairstreak was probably just showing what happened to anyone who irritated him - a little psychological pressure before the accusation of treachery. Why, oh why, had he listened to the worm?
'No?' asked Hairstreak. 'Hold your head up!'
For a moment Chalkhill thought Hairstreak was talking to him, then the wretched creature in the cell straightened slowly. Chalkhill caught his breath with an audible gasp. He was looking into the pain-soaked eyes of Apatura Iris, the late lamented Purple Emperor.
'Recognise him now?' Hairstreak asked.
Chalkhill nodded wordlessly.
'That's the reason you're here, Jasper. Strange are the ways of fate.'
Chalkhill glanced at Cossus, who stared back at him expressionlessly. He looked down at the floor. He didn't want to look at the Purple Emperor again, who was a truly horrific sight, and he was afraid to look at Hairstreak.
'You understand what's happened here?' Hairstreak said.
Chalkhill shook his head without looking up.
'This is a resurrection!' Hairstreak snapped. 'Any fool can see the signs of a resurrection.'
'Well, yes,' Chalkhill mumbled. Imean, I assumed it was a resurrection ...' The trouble with Hairstreak was you never knew what he was talking about until it was too late. By that stage you were either in deep trouble or dead. Chalkhill just managed to suppress a desperate little whine.
'That's the problem, isn't it?' Hairstreak said. 'One look and you know.' He pulled a short wand from the inside pocket of his jacket and used it to poke the figure in the cell. The Purple Emperor cringed away from him. 'You see? We're claiming Apatura never died at all. We're saying he went into a coma, but that he's woken up now and he's fit to make decisions on the future of the Realm. We've got away with it so far because we've kept him hidden most of the time, only gave a few people a glimpse of him, but do you think our story will stand up when he has to make a public appearance?'
What did Hairstreak want him to say? The wrong word here could mean jail or death or torture or ... Chalkhill looked desperately at Cossus again, who was still no help. His gaze was drawn to Hairstreak like a songbird fascinated by a snake.
'Yes,' he said. 'And ... no.' He waited, stomach tight and bowels loose.
'No, of course not,' Hairstreak said impatiently.
'He'd be spotted as a resurrection in a trice. And since resurrection is illegal, any proclamation he might make would be illegal too. Let me tell you, Jasper, we of the Night may have made some gains in the last few days, but we shall not hold them unless we do something about this problem.'
'What problem?' Chalkhill asked.
'It would be in your interests to listen more carefully,' Hairstreak said sourly. He stared gloomily at the huddled shape of the Emperor. 'You know there's only one thing that will fix this, of course.'
'I do?'
'A wyrm, you idiot! Specifically a mature wyrm transfer!'
Chalkhill wondered what a mature wyrm transfer was, but thought it safer not to ask. Instead he gave a vacant smile of encouragement to Hairstreak and nodded vigorously.
'Of course,' he said. 'Of course.'
Hairstreak sighed. 'Really, Jasper, if you didn't occasionally prove of some minuscule value, I'd have fed you to the sliths by now.'
'It's just -' Chalkhill hesitated. 'It's just ... well, I don't quite see how I ... ah ... actually might, well, fit in, Your Lordship.'
To his astonishment, Hairstreak smiled. 'It's not so much you fitting in, Jasper, it's more your wyrm fitting in. Fitting into the Emperor, that is. I've brought you here so we can transplant Cyril, your experienced wan-garamas.'
CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX
'We can't go north,' Nymph said. 'Don't you remember Ziczac said there was a forcefield?'
'North's blocked, Blue,' Comma said helpfully. If he was worried about their situation, it didn't show.
'Humour me,' Blue grunted shortly. She led them back along the corridor and they passed without difficulty beyond the point where Ziczac was stopped. Blue turned to face the others. 'The forcefield was just a device to send us south, so someone would trigger the spiked pit. Once the trap was triggered, the forcefield switched off automatically. It's standard game protocol. If you don't know about it, you assume you can't get north, jump the open trap and head south - where there are even more dangerous traps waiting.'
'So north will be easier?'
'Not much,' Blue admitted, 'but according to the rules of the game we're supposed to have some chance of surviving this way. South we'd have had no chance at all.'
'How do we know your Lord Hairstreak kept to the rules when he designed the maze?' Nymph asked.
Blue glared. 'We don't. But do you have a better way to play it?'
If this kept going they'd come to blows soon, Pyrgus thought. He moved to defuse the tension by stepping forward with a smile he didn't feel. 'Look,' he said, 'we're all in this together. We've lost a good man because we didn't know right away what was happening. But we know we're in an obsidian maze now and that gives us a chance. The other thing is that we're a team. These mazes are designed for just one victim. If we pull together and stick together, we can beat this thing.' He looked directly at the two forest soldiers with Nymph and realised he didn't even know their names. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I don't know what to call you.'
'Ochlodes,' one told him.
'Palaemon,' said the other.
'Ochlodes, Palaemon,' Pyrgus said, 'you have already proved yourselves fine fighters on this mission. We may well be called on to fight again before we get out of this maze, but it's even more important to use your head
and take care - most of the dangers here are from traps.' He looked at Nymph, Blue and Comma. 'That goes for you three as well - think before you do anything, take it slow and never assume anything is what it seems.'
After a moment, Blue said, 'I'd suggest we spread out. Spread out, but keep an eye on each other. That way if one of us does get caught in a trap, the others aren't likely to get caught as well, so we can help one another.'
Faerie Wars 02 - The Purple Emperor Page 24
