Faerie Wars 02 - The Purple Emperor

by Brennan, Herbie

  Pyrgus took a deep breath and told her.

  CHAPTER NINETY EIGHT

  Pyrgus had slipped away from his royal bodyguards somewhere between Cheapside and Northgate. He entered the teeming warren of narrow alleys that led into Pushorn, a hand on his newly-purchased Halek blade. This was one of the roughest districts in the city and, while he'd never had much concern for his own safety, it would be a nuisance to lose his purse at this point. He'd a feeling he was going to need every scrap of gold he was carrying.

  With the long dusk gathering into darkness, the torches were lit in Pushorn. No glow globe streetlamps here. The local council claimed poverty, but the truth was glowglobes never survived long, even with magical protections. The inhabitants were an opportunist mix of Nighters, the scum of Lighters, Violet Trinians, half-civilised Glaistigs, semi-feral endolgs and a sprinkling of addicted Halek wizards who found simbala music cheaper here than in the licensed parlours of Northgate. Every one of them preferred to hide in shadows than have their activities examined by the lawful authorities.

  The smell was distinctive: a mix of sweat and pitchblende. Pyrgus felt his nose wrinkle as he pushed through the throng that emerged after dark in search of illegal entertainments.

  "Oo do you think you're pushing?' growled a bruiser in a cracked leather jerkin.

  'Sorry,' Pyrgus muttered, hurrying past. He kept his head down, but at least he hadn't been recognised. A minimal illusion spell distorted his features and changed his hair colouring.

  He'd memorised directions, but the narrow streets were confusing and he dared not ask the way, so that it took him almost an hour to find Gruslut Alley. While the rest of Pushorn was dimly lit, Gruslut wasn't lit at all beyond the flickering light that seeped through cracks in shuttered windows. He stopped, allowing time for his eyes to adjust, and after a while was able to see reasonably well.

  What he saw was not encouraging. Like much of Pushorn, the houses were three- and four-storey buildings that had seen better days. Now they were all cracked plaster and peeling paint. Some seemed to have shifted foundations: their walls bulged alarmingly as if threatening to fall into the street. He still wasn't absolutely sure he was in the right place - part of the sign-board had rotted so that the first three letters were missing - but he moved into the alley all the same.

  Gruslut was known as a street where certain commodities and services might be bought, but there were no shops here. A few of the wooden doors had discreet nameplates, but nothing that gave a clue to what might be on offer. He had almost given up hope when he stumbled on the blue door he'd been told to look for.

  Pyrgus licked his lips nervously. As he reached across to knock, he realised what he was about to do wasn't merely illegal, but hideously dangerous. Whatever - he still had to do it. Despite the brave front he put on with Blue and all the rest, Pyrgus knew he could never become Emperor. He wasn't suited and he didn't want the job. He'd never wanted the job. That was why he'd fought with his father so much when he was alive. His father had always insisted he should behave like an Emperor in Waiting when all he'd really wanted to do was lead an ordinary life. Pyrgus knocked.

  For a long time nothing happened. He was reaching out to knock again when he heard the first footfalls inside. Someone was approaching at a slow, deliberate pace. Pyrgus withdrew his hand and waited, his heart suddenly pounding. The door swung partly open. Two glittering black eyes stared at him from the gloom.

  Pyrgus swallowed. 'Are you -' he began. 'Are you ... Pheosia Gnoma?'

  The voice that answered was like the rustling of dead leaves. 'Come in, Your Majesty,' it said. 'We've been expecting you.'

  The blue door opened into a narrow corridor that plunged almost at once down a flight of rickety wooden steps. Pyrgus followed the stooped figure into a poorly-lit basement room smelling of dust and mould. There were no glowglobes here either, just rushlights and a smoking, fly-specked lamp. Books of arcane lore lined the whole of one wall. An open cupboard displayed a collection of skulls. There was alchemical equipment on a bench in a corner. Beside it Pyrgus noticed a kangling trumpet carved from a human thigh bone.

  'You know who I am?' he asked.

  'Of course, Majesty. Your illusion spell has all but worn off.'

  It was impossible to guess Gnoma's age. He had the eye folds and cat's pupils of a Faerie of the Night. His head was completely shaven and he seemed to have filed two of his front teeth into points, giving his face an odd, vampiric look. He was wearing a tattered brown monk's robe that looked a shade too small for him.

  'Who else is here?' Pyrgus asked.

  'No one, Majesty.' The soft dry voice scarcely rose above a whisper.

  'You said "We've been expecting you." Who did you mean by we?'

  'My spirit helpers,' Gnoma told him.

  Gnoma was nothing like Pyrgus had expected. The man had a hungry look that was deeply disturbing. He never took his eyes off Pyrgus's face. Pyrgus pushed his nervousness aside. Best get down to business, then get out of here.

  Pyrgus said, 'Pheosia Gnoma, I want you to raise my father from the dead.'

  They sat facing one another across a lightweight wooden table. Gnoma placed a small glass before him and filled it with blue liquid from a swan-necked bottle. Pyrgus eyed it uncertainly.

  Gnoma smiled, showing his weird serpents' teeth. 'Libatrix wine. A simple herbal tincture that prolongs life and clears the mind.' He produced a second glass, filled it and drank it down in a single swallow. 'See,' he said, 'quite harmless. I have no interest in poisoning my clients.'

  Pyrgus watched him for a moment, then took a sip from his own glass. The liquid was cool, sharp and slightly sweet.

  Gnoma placed both hands, palms down, on the table. 'Resurrecting your father may prove difficult.'

  'I'll pay whatever you want.'

  Gnoma smiled coolly. 'It's not a matter of money.'

  Pyrgus didn't believe him. With Faeries of the Night it was always a matter of money. After a moment, he said, 'But you can resurrect him?'

  'Oh yes,' Gnoma said. A drop had been forming on the tip of his nose and he sniffed suddenly to get rid of it. 'There are methods. Unfortunately ...'

  'What?' Pyrgus hissed. 'Unfortunately what?'

  Silence stretched interminably. Eventually Gnoma said, 'The most reliable method is not lawful.'

  'I am Emperor!' Pyrgus told him firmly. 'I'll say what's lawful!'

  'You're Emperor Elect,' said Gnoma, 'but I take your point. However, I must warn you the method I have in mind runs contrary to spiritual law. That's quite beyond your ruling.'

  Pyrgus pushed back his chair so quickly that it toppled over. 'I must speak with my father!' he shouted wildly. 'As your Emperor Elect I order you to raise him!'

  Gnoma remained seated. He looked up at Pyrgus and smiled again, slowly. 'Then bring me your father's corpse,' he said.

  CHAPTER NINETY NINE

  Gnoma's laboratory was a sterile, windowless subterranean cube that smelled of Chinese wash. There was an alchemical furnace in one corner near a blacksmith's anvil and a selection of alembics in an open cupboard. Towards the centre of the room was a six-foot metal gurney underneath a set of high-powered glow globes. Beside it was an instrument tray that made the Royal Herticord's equipment look like toys.

  The crate was on the floor beside the gurney.

  'No one knows you brought it here?' Gnoma asked.

  Pyrgus shook his head. 'Except the coachman and he doesn't know what's in it.' He was feeling so nervous he could scarcely keep still.

  Gnoma said, 'I must ask you again, Pyrgus Malvae, if it is your wish to go through with this operation? Once the work begins, it cannot be stopped.'

  Pyrgus licked his lips. 'Let's get it over with.'

  Gnoma gave him a glance that might have shown contempt. 'There's a floater on the crate and contents?'

  Pyrgus nodded.

  'Open it,' Gnoma commanded.

  Pyrgus glared at him, but said nothing. He might be Crown Prince an
d Emperor Elect, but he was engaged in something so forbidden he could scarcely stand on ceremony now. He knelt by the crate and uttered a silent prayer for forgiveness. The lock was keyed to his touch and he pressed his thumb firmly against it. There was an oily click as the bolts slid back. Pyrgus looked up.

  'Open it,' Gnoma repeated, more quietly this time. His eyes were gleaming.

  Pyrgus discovered he was holding his breath and released it explosively. He pushed back the lid of the crate which fell over on its hinges with an horrific and unseemly crash. His father's body lay inside on a cushion of clean straw.

  The stasis spell held corruption at bay, so the only smell was that of fresh, cold meat, but not all the application of the embalmer's art could repair the ravages to the face of Apatura Iris. Henry said the weapon used to kill him was something called a shotgun, which caused an explosive charge to propel several hundred violent beads of lead. It had been used at close range. Merciful tears swam before Pyrgus's eyes to soften the image.

  'Place the body on the operating table,' Gnoma said.

  He had expected something of the sort. Eyes still streaming, he reached inside the crate. It was the first time in years he'd put his arms around his father and the floater spell rendered him unreal, like thistledown. Pyrgus stood up, the corpse cradled in his arms. Shuddering with sobs, he placed it gently on the gurney.

  'Face downwards,' Gnoma said.

  'Is that necessary?' Pyrgus asked sharply. It was improper for a Purple Emperor to lie prone.

  'We must have access to the luz,' said Gnoma firmly.

  Pyrgus turned the body.

  'Please stand clear,' Gnoma said. 'Your work is done.'

  Pyrgus stepped back. With a massive act of will he held himself steady, but emotions were pouring through him like a torrent. He could no longer understand why he had fought so long and so hard with his father. The disagreements seemed unimportant, even silly. The body on the table was so small, so helpless, so ... empty. But perhaps he could make amends now. Perhaps he could make it all right.

  Gnoma took a massive pair of tailor's shears and inserted them into the back of the Emperor's formal purple jacket.

  'What are you doing?' Pyrgus demanded in sudden panic.

  'Be quiet!' Gnoma hissed. 'You ordered this to be done. Now leave me to do it!' The shears ripped through the material as if it were a cobweb.

  The Emperor's naked back came into view. Pyrgus stared at the butterfly tattoos that were now matched by his own.

  Gnoma reached for a scalpel.

  'What are you going to do?' whispered Pyrgus.

  'Remove the luz,' said Gnoma shortly. He plunged the scalpel into the Emperor's spine.

  It was a small piece of bone, about the size of a thumb joint, shaped a little like a vertebra, but without the typical protuberances. It gleamed white now that Gnoma had wiped it.

  'That's it?' Pyrgus asked in wonderment.

  Gnoma held the bone between his thumb and forefinger, eyes gleaming. 'Watch,' he said softly. He took two steps across the room and placed the bone gently on the anvil. Then he opened a drawer in the bottom of the albemic cupboard and drew out a large, short-handled hammer. The metal head writhed with serpentine energies.

  Gnoma glanced at Pyrgus, then smashed the hammer down with heart-stopping violence. The sound was like a thunderclap. Trapped lightning exploded from the hammer-head.

  'No -' Pyrgus screamed. He moved to grab Gnoma's arm.

  The anvil shattered into fragments under the impact of the blow. Gnoma tossed the hammer to one side and reached down casually into the debris. He held up the bone, still in one piece, unharmed. 'The luz is indestructible,' he said.

  Pyrgus stepped forward to examine the bone. It was not so much as scratched.

  'It is the bone used by God Himself to resurrect a man on Judgement Day,' Gnoma whispered.

  Pyrgus closed his eyes.

  'It is the bone I shall use,' Gnoma said, 'to resurrect your father.'

  Pyrgus heard the distant footsteps and felt very much afraid.

  For lack of a chair, he was perched on an old wicker trunk in a room jam-packed with dusty theatrical equipment. Life-sized puppets slumped from their strings like grinning corpses. There were several cabinets displaying crudely-painted flames. Decorative masks watched him blankly from the walls. The room was at street level. Gnoma said it was dangerous to meet the dead underground.

  The footsteps reached the stairway and stopped briefly. For just the barest second he felt a flicker of relief, then there was the creak of wood as someone -something? - started to ascend.

  What was approaching on the stair?

  Gnoma's lodgings were deceptive. As well as the basement living room and the deeper subterranean laboratory, the ground floor of the house was a warren of corridors and chambers, most suspiciously locked. This theatrical storeroom smelt of grime and shimmered behind a watery curtain of tears that would not leave Pyrgus's eyes.

  What had he done?

  There was less than two weeks to go before the Coronation and after that there could be no going back. Nobody knew how that felt. Not Henry, not Mr Fogarty, not even Blue. Everyone expected him to do his duty. Everyone assumed he would want to be the Emperor. No one knew the fear.

  Although that fear felt like nothing set against the terror he felt now.

  What had he done?

  He couldn't become Emperor. He had no talent for it, none at all. They all thought just because he was his father's son it meant he was equipped to follow in his father's footsteps. But Pyrgus and his father had fought about everything. Everything.

  The trouble was he hated politics. He hated the lies and the deceit, the double-dealing and corruption. Yet he knew it was impossible to survive in high office without them. Even his father, an honourable man, had been forced into questionable acts from time to time.

  But his father had at least been ruthless enough to undertake them. Pyrgus knew he never would. He would try to hold firm to his principles and ruin the Realm in the process. How could he follow in his father's footsteps?

  His father's footsteps were coming closer.

  It was peculiar. He believed Gnoma could raise the dead - that's why he was here, that's why he'd subjected his father's body to ... to ... But at the same time he didn't believe, not really. Dead was dead. There was no turning back. Once the stasis spell was removed, his father's body would quickly turn to dust. There was no way to escape, no incantation that could ...

  Yet he believed in Gnoma. And something was approaching.

  The footsteps had reached the top of the stairway and were now on the corridor outside. Perhaps it was Gnoma himself, come to admit failure. The man would be full of excuses, full of reasons why he should keep his fee.

  Why was he moving so slowly? The tread was like a leaden procession. One step ... one step ... one step ... Not halting or feeble or stumbling or ill, but miserably, terrifyingly slow.

  Slow or not, the footsteps were close now. He could imagine the figure in the corridor and in his mind's eye he knew it was not Gnoma.

  What had he done?

  A dark shape loomed in the doorway. Apatura Iris stepped into the room.

  Apatura, once Head of House Iris, former Purple Emperor of the Realm of Faerie and Lord Protector of the Church of Light, father of Pyrgus Malvae, had been a striking man, not handsome exactly - his features were too coarse for that - but with charisma and appeal. He had carried himself with nobility and grace.

  Now he was a monster. His spine was twisted from the removal of the luz. No wonder he walked slowly -he could scarcely hold himself upright and his body seemed wracked by preternatural pain. But the real monstrosity was his face. The wax used by the morticians to reconstruct his features had fallen away once life returned, leaving almost all his head a raw and bloody open wound. One eye remained intact, glittering darkly from the mass of torn flesh. The regal nose was no longer there. The mouth was little more than a gash.

  'Father,' P
yrgus whispered. But this creature was no longer his father. It was an animated shell, driven by dark powers.

  It moved towards him and suddenly he imagined he could smell the stench of rotting flesh. It reached out a hand, the fingers curled like claws.

  What had he done? What had he done?

  'Kill me,' Apatura Iris said.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  'Why didn't you?' Blue demanded. 'If Daddy was so awful, why didn't you kill him there and then?'

  'I couldn't,' Pyrgus told her simply.

  'But -'

  Pyrgus seemed to gather strength from somewhere. 'Look, Blue, he may have been awful, but he was still Daddy. How could I kill him? I'd only just had him resurrected. I didn't know what was going to happen. I didn't know Gnoma would go to Hairstreak or how bad things would get. I thought I could take him home and have him healed - you know, have his face healed and anything else that was wrong - and it would be like it was before. He could be Emperor and it would be like it was before.'