by Ben Galley
‘That he does,’ Witchazel murmured. It all made perfect sense now. The lawyer reached into his breast pocket and brought out a silver shilling. Ten times what the paper was worth. He half-expected the boy’s eyes to pop right out of his little skull when he pressed it into his ink-stained palm and folded his skinny fingers around it. ‘Keep it out of sight of the other boys, lad,’ he said, before turning and hurrying away across the cobbles, the paper gripped tightly in his hand.
‘Thank you, Sir!’ A squeak followed him down the street.
*
A dockside inn was a strange place to see a lawyer, all trussed up in a fine suit with a top hat resting on the table next to him. This sort of place was normally reserved for the bilge stepping off the ships—the sort of place where gruff words were washed down with cheap ale and cheaper spirits, the sort of place where rats were just as welcome as the drinkers. This sort of place was perfect for quiet whispers and keeping out of sight of watchful eyes.
Witchazel kept his eyes down and his ears sharp, listening to the grousing of shipmates and gun crews that had found themselves adrift in London’s vast docks with a calloused handful of coins and far too many months of sea under their rope belts. Witchazel allowed himself a few quick glances over his cup, spying powder-burnt fingers gripping tankards, wiry, tattooed arms scorched by the salt and sea, and hard faces, busy with the talk of different captains, the war brewing in the Meditrani, and the quality of the local brothels.
They soon noticed his staring and Witchazel looked back down at his paper, folded neatly into a square from which Merion stared out at him, frozen in ink. He could not help but notice how different the boy looked from the one who had sat stiff and stern in his office, barely a few months earlier, how different from the tottering boy he remembered following Karrigan from room to room, having escaped his nursemaids once more. There was now a streak of man in him, and it worried Witchazel all the more.
The door banged against its frame and another figure entered. He was tall, with a grizzled beard poking out from the shadow of his hood. Under the curious and wary eyes of the sailors, and Witchazel for that matter, he sauntered to the bar and muttered something to the landlord, who was slumped half-drunk against the wall.
Witchazel turned back to his newspaper and read its lines for the twentieth time. He checked his silver pocket watch and frowned. The man was late, as always.
A shadow fell over his table in the lamplight, and Witchazel tensed.
‘Mind if I join you?’ asked a gruff voice.
Witchazel lifted his head to find the bearded man looking down at him, clutching a wooden cup in his hand. His hood was still low, and in the pipe-smoke gloom, his face was but a collection of shadow and edges. ‘I am waiting for somebody, actually.’
But the man didn’t seem to care. He grabbed the back of the opposite chair with a scabbed gang of fingers and dragged it out, making it squeak on the wooden floorboards. ‘Strange place for meetings,’ he replied, as he sat down with a huff. ‘Almost like you were trying to hide something.’
Witchazel squinted, leaning forward. ‘Is that … you?’ he asked, slowly.
The man huffed again, and shrugged back his hood. He was a bald man, with broken veins sneaking here and there across his scalp. He had a crooked nose, shattered some time long ago, and his beard was like an overgrown bush, black with a dash of grey loitering at the edges. His eyes were dark, impossibly so, and something fierce hid behind them, as if they would spew fire at any moment.
Witchazel was a little taken aback. ‘I know it’s been a while, but I barely recognised you,’ he whispered. ‘That disguise is exceptional.’
‘Necessary,’ the man grunted, tapping his temples. ‘What’s all this about then?’
The lawyer put a finger in the centre of the newspaper, right on Merion’s face, and slid it across the table. ‘Have a look for yourself,’ he replied. The man spun the paper around and hunkered down over it, as if his eyes were poor. Perhaps it was just the gloom of the tavern.
It took only a moment for the information to be digested. The man stared at the picture of the dusty, bloodied young Hark and hummed to himself. ‘Shit,’ was all he said.
‘Indeed,’ nodded Witchazel, and there was silence between them, full of the chuntering of the sailors, and the squeaking of the landlord cleaning glasses that were already far beyond hope.
The man lowered his voice and leant forward, dark eyes still. ‘What was his lordship thinking? Sending him out there?’
‘It was his aunt he was sent to, not the west. You know that, and you know why.’
‘Then she should bring him home, immediately.’
Witchazel pulled a wry face. ‘And this is why I called for you. It’s far from that simple,’ he said. He reached into his pocket and brought out a folded wiregram. ‘This came late last night.’
As the man’s eyes darted over the hastily scribbled words, the odd one would fall from his lips as he read, nothing but a whisper. There were untrustworthy ears in the highest and the lowest of places. ‘Who sent this?’ Those dark eyes flicked up.
Witchazel tapped the paper. ‘Look at the first letter of every line.’
‘Merion.’
‘The very same.’
‘So this was no accident? No attack?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘That means their game is already afoot.’
Witchazel sighed. ‘Karrigan’s fears have been confirmed.’
‘You would have thought the edge of the world was far enough away.’
‘Thank the Almighty the boy has his father’s stubborn streak in him.’
‘That he does,’ the man grunted. ‘Now I understand why your message sounded so urgent.’
‘If they have already tried to coerce him, then …’
‘Then they won’t waste their breath on another attempt. Not now,’ the man interrupted, stabbing a finger at the newspaper.
Witchazel ran a tongue over his teeth, tasting the residue of the cheap wine. ‘They would not dare.’
But the man shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. Don’t forget, I’ve seen more of the dark underbelly of the Emerald Benches than most.’
Witchazel drummed his fingers on the table-top. ‘Killing the heir resolves nothing. The estate would revert to his aunt.’
The man sketched a little cross over Lilain’s head with his fingernail. ‘And once she’s dead … Your point?’
The lawyer scowled. ‘My point is that the law will respect the line laid out in Karrigan’s will, until its end. Then it will become the property of the law, and Karrigan’s empire will be disassembled as per his contingency testament, and auctioned off. Most of it to charity. Classic Karrigan. No lord will want that.’
‘Then correct me if I am wrong, Witchazel, but aren’t you the end of that line?’ the man asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.
Witchazel’s scowl deepened. ‘If you’re trying to scare me, it is not working.’
‘I’m not trying to scare you, I’m trying to warn you. Get out of London. Get out of the Empire if you have to. Whoever is behind this will need to make it legal in the eyes of the Emerald Benches. That means they’ll need you once their dirty work is done, to stop it being dissolved.’
Witchazel leant back in his chair and crossed his arms defiantly. ‘Then the best of luck to them, I say. Whichever lord is behind this, they will need more than my signature to make anything legal. We both know the deeds are safe and sound in the Seed, and without them, the Emerald Benches will never accept it. Greed is not satisfied so easily.’
There was a pause as the man scratched his beard and mulled that over. ‘A small victory if we’re all dead,’ the man muttered. ‘Maybe we should both leave London.’
Witchazel hummed deep in his throat. ‘Would Karrigan have quit so easily?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t make a habit of it.’
‘Well, then.’
‘Almighty curse it. You’re a brave fool, W
itchazel.’
The lawyer leant forward, spreading his fingers over the table like cages. ‘You just might be the only hope that boy has of making it back alive, of stopping this farce.’
‘I gave that up.’
‘Nobody just gives it up. I may not be like you, but I know that well enough.’
The man muttered something incomprehensible.
‘Are you telling me that your loyalty died with Karrigan?’
Witchazel’s question was met with a fierce fire in those dark eyes. ‘Careful now,’ the man warned, getting up to leave.
The lawyer rose with him, and turned his fingers to fists. ‘Gunderton,’ he whispered. ‘Tonmerion needs you. I need you.’
‘You need to be far away from here, is what you need. If you’ve got any sense in you,’ Gunderton replied. ‘The boy …’ But his words failed him, and he hoisted up his hood and headed for the door.
‘He’s his son!’ Witchazel hissed, but to no avail. He sighed, and sat back down.
Even though it was already beginning to give him heartburn, he stayed to finish his wine, swilling it around the cup as he mulled over the words he had just traded. Somewhere outside, deep in the stinking docks, a ship’s horn rang out. Witchazel looked at the door and pondered Gunderton’s warning. Maybe he should run, he thought, and protect the Hark estate that way. He tapped his teeth in thought, playing out all the possibilities in his head.
A battle cannot be won from the hill above, but must be won on the field below, with swords and rifles. Karrigan’s words echoed in his head. They had a habit of doing that.
Witchazel gulped down the last of his wine, wrinkling his nose at the sediment, and left. After slamming the tavern’s door behind him, he began the winding walk through the gloomy capillaries of London’s dockland streets. The sunlight seemed reticent to touch the filth of the world trapped between those tall, close buildings. Witchazel felt the same, and his quick steps lead him north, away from the grey river full of ships and hulks and into the bustling centre of the biggest city on earth.
Had the lawyer not been immersed so deeply in his thoughts, had he spared a moment to listen to the world instead of his mind, he might have heard the echo in his footsteps, the clacking of boots on cobbles a score of paces behind, following his every twist and turn.
*
Elsewhere in the Empire’s core, far out of reach of the eager summer sun, where darkness holds sway and tree-roots tangle, where humankind have never dared to tread, a different kind of footsteps rang out. Impatiently, irritably, they echoed against marble and black steel walls as cold and as harsh as the footfalls themselves. Queen Sift was being kept waiting, and she did not like to wait. Fae had been beheaded for less.
She strode to the window at the far end of her throne room to stare out at the gloom of the fortress of Shanarh. The Fae capital sparkled with countless blue lights: glow-worms and fungi caught and trapped in crystal spheres. She could see the shadows of her subjects on the spiralled and winding streets below, going about their business. Sift scowled. She did not care for any of them. She cared only for one, and he was far from the streets of Shanarh, and the corridors of the Coil of Cela’h Dor.
Rhin Rehn’ar.
Sift wanted to spit that name onto the marble.
There were few animals in the world that the Fae trusted, but birds often had their uses. News travelled fast on their wings, even across the Iron Ocean. It had been a week since the network of pigeons, sparrows, and other feathered beasts had brought the news of the Wit’s broken body to the Fae Queen, and since then, her thoughts had been consumed by the traitor. His grinning face had taunted her in her dreams. His audacity had stoked the fires in her black heart. Not in all her ancient years had any Fae dared to defy her as Rehn’ar had.
It was not just his defiance and betrayal that filled her with rage. The Fae are covetous creatures, and Rhin’s theft of her Hoard angered her just as much. A Hoard can take decades to build, whereas skinning a faerie alive only takes days at the most, depending on how skilful the torturer was, of course. Sift would see Rhin sing before she put an end to him. Revenge always tastes sweeter when it’s laced with gold.
And she would have hers, even if she had to march across the ocean to get it.
There came a knock at the door, timid though it was loud, and rightfully so. Sift swept to the centre of the throne room, her black gown rustling against the marble floor. She crossed her wiry arms across her chest and barked for the knocker to enter.
The grand doors swung open and a dozen soldiers marched into the room, holding their heads as high as they could. Sift let a contemptuous smirk curl on her lips. Even the most hardened soldiers quailed in her presence, especially when they were late.
Sift waited for them to arrange themselves in a long line in front of her, their short spears and black boots tapping on the marble as they marched into place. Her purple eyes stared at each and every one, daring them to match her glare. Only the captain satisfied her. Sift prowled around him, looking him up and down, regarding his intricate grey plate armour with its silver trim, and the emblem of the Coil Guard etched into his breastplate and back. The faerie stood stock still, trying to calm his breathing.
Sift prodded a finger into his armoured chest, her sharp fingernail making the metal chime. She spoke to the soldiers either side of him. ‘Take this one away. Throw him to the wranglers. Perhaps he can redeem himself in the eyes of the Hollow’s crowds.’
There was not an iota of hesitation. As the captain’s mouth hung agape, and panic filled his expression, his two comrades seized him roughly by his arms and dragged him from the throne room. Despite the horror of the sentence, he let himself be removed. To have protested would have meant death, right there on the marble. In the Hollow, against the blind moles, with the cheering of the bloodthirsty crowds, at least he had a chance—albeit the slimmest of chances, but perhaps the Roots would favour him. That was the only solace he could muster.
Sift watched him until the doors swung shut before turning to the other soldiers. They looked straight ahead, unflinching. None of them particularly thirsted for a similar fate.
‘You,’ Sift prodded the next soldier along, the swirls and runes on his pauldron marking him as a sergeant. ‘Your name.’
‘Caol Cullog, My Queen,’ came the quick reply, accompanied by a smart bow.
Sift nodded. ‘Congratulations are in order, Caol. You are now the captain of my guard. And if you do not want to follow in your predecessor’s footsteps, and join him in the Hollow, I suggest you never make me wait again.’
‘Yes, My Queen,’ Caol replied. He clearly had no desire to do anything of the sort.
Sift prowled around them, weaving figures-of-eight between the remaining soldiers. ‘I summoned you here for a very specific purpose. You’re to escort me on an excursion, one that no Queen has undertaken in many years.’
Caol nodded for his men, eyes riveted on the far wall.
Sift continued. ‘You’re to escort me into the Deep Tunnels. I have business there, and I don’t wish to be delayed by anything.’
If the other soldiers were taken aback by the Queen’s wishes, they did not show it, to their credit. Nobody had business in the Deep Tunnels of Undering. Not even a Fae Queen. They were long abandoned, shunned and locked behind stout Fae steel doors so thick that even a troll couldn’t gnaw through them.
Only their freshly appointed captain dared to repeat the queen. ‘The Deep Tunnels, My Queen?’
‘Did I stammer, Caol?’
‘No, My Queen,’ he replied quickly, before falling silent again.
‘Good. Because I would hate for my orders to be difficult to understand,’ Sift told him. ‘We shall leave immediately. Summon me a carriage, Caol, and be quick about it. I want to be travelling within the hour. It will take several days to reach our destination.’
And so it was. The soldiers left the room in single file, armour clanking softly and spears tapping. Sift spent the next hal
f-hour trying to wear a groove in the marble with her pacing, fantasising about all the different things she would do to Rehn’ar once he was caught. It had become a pastime of hers.
Another knock interrupted her murderous thoughts. It was time to leave. Caol and three of his faeries escorted her down the winding steps of the Coil, her elaborate black gown twirling behind her. Sift’s fists were tightly clenched in anticipation. She had been nurturing this plan for several days now, shaping it and teasing out all the intricacies, rifling through the old scrolls and picking the dusty brains of her druids. Sift knew what she needed to do, the old rules be damned. The Deep Tunnels would be reopened.
Outside the Coil, the underground air was cool but humid. A row of glow-worm lights lined a path across black flagstones leading to Sift’s carriage: a twisted cage made from Fae steel, ornate silver, and blue glass. Four giant spiders pulled it, each a milky-white colour, their eye-clusters covered with grey silk. Their bodies glowed faintly in the bluish light, exoskeletons creaking as they stamped impatiently.
Her guard took their places on the roof of the carriage, all nine of them. Caol alone held the door open so Sift could climb in. She did not thank him, and quickly shut the door behind her. He clambered up to the driver’s seat and gripped his spear firmly as the spiders felt the whip upon their carapaces. They lurched forwards across the courtyard of the Coil, their clawed legs clattering noisily together in a strange, hypnotic rhythm.
Caol felt a tap on his back and turned to find one of the other guards flashing him a wary look. They did not dare speak. The Queen’s bat-like hearing was legendary in the Coil. Many a tongue-wagging servant had disappeared over the years, locked behind the grand doors of Sift’s chambers, their screams their only gravestone. Caol simply tapped the point of his ear, and turned back around.
The captain kept a wary eye on the Fae who had gathered along the streets to watch their queen rattle by. Sift was not one for public appearances, and this was the first time in several years she had ventured outside the Coil. He knew they were curious, instead of adoring. Some were even fearful, worrying that if they did not show their faces for their queen, soldiers might come knocking.
