by Ben Galley
‘Not going to let you down, Hark, nor the boy. They will not break me,’ he swore to the cold granite and the memory of his old friend. All he had to do was last long enough.
*
Outside the room, once the door was firmly locked, Fever clasped his hands and bowed to his new employer. ‘Well, my Lord, I have some bad news.’
Prime Lord Bremar Dizali looked down, lip already curling. Freelancers were always keen for more coins. ‘What is it, Rowanstone? I was promised quick results,’ he said, sternly. This man may have dealt with other lords and ladies of the Benches, but he had never dealt with the Prime Lord. Dizali could see it plainly, and it rattled him ever so slightly.
Fever smiled. ‘And they will be, my Lord. But what we have here is anger, outrage. These are very difficult to break through pain alone. With fear, that’s easier. Fear overcomes the man, and in time it kills anger. Always has, always will.’
Dizali sighed. ‘You talk too much for somebody I pay to conduct torture, Rowanstone. I expect the people I hire to do, not talk about doing it. Will he give me what I need, or not?’ he demanded brusquely.
Fever nodded, still playing at the fawning servant with his hands clasped tightly against his waistcoat. ‘He will, in time, my Lord. A week, maybe more.’
‘And I suppose that means your fee also increases?’
Fever bowed again. ‘We are paid by the day, Prime Lord Dizali. Some men cannot be broken that quickly.’
‘Oh, stand up straight, fool,’ Dizali snapped.
My Lord,’ interrupted a voice.
‘What?’
A soldier, armoured beneath his black cloak, stood in the doorway. ‘A letter, my Lord, delivered by a courier.’
Dizali growled, stalking up and down the corridor. ‘Can it wait?’
‘It is for your eyes only, my Lord,’ replied the soldier, ‘delivered just now. He’s waiting downstairs. He said you’d recognise the seal.’
‘Give it here,’ Dizali said, snatching the package away from the man. ‘Give me a moment, all of you!’ he ordered, and the corridor was swiftly emptied for him. What the Prime Lord wants, the Prime Lord gets. Being the Master of the Empire comes with some perks.
Dizali held the package up to the gaslight to read the seal. He recognised it indeed. It was the seal of a very secretive company, recently hired to peruse Witchazel’s office. Just a triangle stabbed in red wax, nothing else. He ripped open the packet and delved inside. He found a thick wedge of folded paper, frayed at the edges. Dizali dragged it out into the light.
‘The last will and testament of Lord Karrigan Bastion Hark, Master of the Emerald Benches, Lord of the Empire of Britannia.’ Dizali smiled. ‘I have you now.’
His eyes flicked quickly over the curving letters, written with a quill, such as all lawyers love to employ. The old pages crackled impatiently. There were numerous updates, alterations and appendices, but Dizali did not need to scour the whole damn thing, just one particular section, to confirm a suspicion—or a hope, dare he say. A hope that he was right. All he needed was a handful of words, and he would have his glory. He would have what he needed to pull the rug from beneath the Benches, and the Queen along with them. He would have his prize.
There.
Dizali’s fingers stabbed the paper, under article fourteen, the declaration of the law:
… and it is with great honour that I defer to the Clean Slate Statute should history review me as a betrayer of this Empire and found guilty of treasonous tendencies …
Like a rat in a trap, Hark. I have my death at last. ‘I may not have murdered the body, but I will murder your reputation, and build my empire on its ashes,’ Dizali hissed at the will, as if it were the embodiment of Karrigan Hark himself. He strangled the papers before stuffing them back into the packet. He held the seal up to the gaslight until it turned soft again and then pressed his ring down hard, until it set. Dizali shouted down the corridor for them all to return. They shuffled in, one by one, soldiers and torturers all.
He turned to the soldier first. ‘Take this and give it back to the courier. See that he is paid as well,’ Dizali pressed it into the soldier’s palm with a look that dared him to try stealing any, and then sent him on his way.
Dizali rounded on the torturer next. ‘You, Fever.’
The short man clicked his heels together and bowed yet again. Dizali let him have this one. ‘You have two weeks, and no more. And you’ll see your coin purse at the end of this, when he’s broken, and not a moment sooner. Do we have an accord?’
‘We do, your Lordship,’ Fever shook the Prime Lord’s gloved hand and tried not to wince at the strength in it.
‘Then do what you must, Mr Rowanstone. But remember, I need him alive. I do not like to be disappointed. Do you understand me?’
‘Perfectly, my Lord.’
‘Wise man,’ Dizali replied, before disappearing down the corridor. He was done skulking in the shadows. A Prime Lord cannot be seen to be skulking too much. The occasional skulking is necessary, acceptable even, but making a habit of it had dire consequences.
Dizali skipped down the steps to the street, quick and nimble. His carriage was waiting outside the door. The coat of arms and some of the gold trim too had been painted black. He spent a moment tutting at the mud and muck sprayed across its exterior. He was so disgusted by it, he did not notice the hooded figure lingering in a doorway further down the street, leaning out to stare at him.
‘I want this cleaned off!’ Dizali shouted at the driver before clambering into the carriage and shutting the door, abruptly cutting off the driver’s reply.
‘Of course, my L—’
Inside Dizali breathed a sigh of relief as he reclined into the plush velvet. It was all so tiring, trying to rule most of the known world, trying to get ahead in life. Dizali rubbed his eyes and felt the sleepiness creep up on him. After a while, he gave in, and his head lolled as the carriage bounced and rattled around him.
He awoke to a polite knocking on the carriage door. Dizali cleared his throat and pushed it open. The sky was now pitch-black, starless. Several of his butlers were waiting with lanterns. The Prime Lord dismounted and strode through them, causing them to spin and follow in his wake like autumn leaves in a gust.
‘Have you eaten, my Lord?’ asked the first.
‘No, and I don’t care to tonight.’
‘Will you require the sitting room, my Lord?’ asked another.
‘No, just privacy.’
‘Would you like a book, as usual, my Lord?’ enquired the third.
‘Not tonight. Tonight I will just sit and think.’
‘A fine choice, my Lord,’ they chorused, each then peeling off through separate doors and down hallways. Clovenhall was quiet and still. Dizali took the main stairwell and spiralled upwards. A short walk led him to the northeast wing, where a small tower jutted out from the brickwork and coiled upwards into a point.
The door was locked to all except him and one of the butlers, the one he trusted most. Dizali fished the key from around his neck and slid it into the lock. He slipped inside, quick as a cat, and locked the door after him. He stood there for a moment, in the shadows, and took a long, slow breath.
The stairs curled up to one circular room, then another with an ornate wooden ceiling, its rafters spinning an intricate pattern. The first room was a small sitting room, complete with fireplace, armchair, and a small bookcase. The upper room was a bedroom lit by small candles in jars, almost burnt down to their wicks. Dizali scowled at that as he trod softly up the stairs. He would have them seen to.
In the middle of the upper room was a wide bed, laden with white sheets and white pillows, as though a small iceberg had come for a nap. Dizali shook his head and dragged the sheets and blankets back. ‘Give you some air,’ he said quietly.
With great ceremony, Dizali fetched a small, three-legged stool and positioned it carefully next to the bed: not too close, and not too far. Sitting, he reached into the mound of pillows a
nd retrieved a very thin and very frail hand. The wedding ring on it was loose, sliding back and forth, trapped between the knuckles. Dizali lifted the hand gently to his lips.
‘I shall tell you a different story tonight, my dear,’ he said quietly, as if afraid to disturb the rhythm of shallow breathing coming from between the pillows. He did not dare look. He did not like to see her eyes, empty and wide as always, staring at whatever was placed before her. For now, as it had been the past few years, it was the ornate ceiling.
‘I shall tell you what I have planned for this city, for this Empire. I will tell you a story of what I will achieve, because I know you will be proud of me when you hear it all out,’ he said, listening to the breathing for a while, as if waiting for a reply. ‘It will be as you dreamt.’
Dizali went on, telling her of every strand in his web of politics. It was a tale that roved from dusty America to the black beaches of the Ottoman Empire and beyond. His gripped her hand tighter and tighter as he spoke, laying it all out before her, as if somewhere deep inside her broken mind, behind that glass-like gaze he could not meet, his wife remained, and was listening, huddled in a cell, smiling for him.
When he had run out of air and machinations, Dizali released his grip and let the hand fall back to the bedsheets. He took a moment to stare at the hand some more, and then reached into his inside pocket. He withdrew a vial of dark, red liquid and uncorked it with a squeak. ‘Here, my dear, Avalin,’ he said, reaching over and finding her lips with his fingers. He poured, gently, hearing her gargle and then swallow, before lifting it to his own lips and finishing it off. He slid the vial back into his pocket and narrowed his eyes as the blood slid down his throat, making his skin prickle.
Dizali stood up straightened his waistcoat, and made to leave. He got halfway to the stairs before he mumbled an apology and went back to kiss her hand. He looked at her as he did so, encountering her vacant gaze. It was one of those glances where the eyes betray themselves, moving inexorably, like a toddler’s hand reaching towards a bright flame.
Dizali bit his lip as he felt his stomach sink. ‘Goodnight, dear,’ he muttered, and left.
Once the door was tightly locked and several determined breaths had been taken. Dizali marched back down the stairs.
‘Tea, my Lord?’ asked one of the butlers, leaning out of a doorway, as though he had been waiting to do so. Without breaking stride, Dizali plucked one of the empty cups from the man’s silver tray, walked several paces, and then let it smash on the marble floor.
‘I need something stronger,’ Dizali snapped, as he made his way towards his office. He had letters to write, many letters indeed.
*
Deep beneath the earth, where even the worms do not dare crawl, where the tunnels are carved from rock and the air grows hot, a Fae Queen was growing tired. Tired of the endless stops and starts. Tired of the constant clanking of the armour and rattling of wheels. Tired of waiting.
The Deep Tunnels were a legendary maze, eons old and craftier than a pickpocket. They delved deep into the earth where the old magicks still held sway, where creatures even more dangerous than the Fae still lurked. But Sift knew the safest route, thanks to the ancient lore passed down from queen to queen. It was etched into her brain, a song-map, learned by rote as a child: to call on the oldest foes of the Fae; those that had sworn an oath on the edge of extinction; to be called upon, whenever a Fae Queen has need.
And Sift had need. By the Roots, she had.
‘Take the left passage,’ she called out. She was even beginning to tire of her own voice, ordering the steps of the song in an ever-increasing monotone. The song-map was long, and complicated. They had been negotiating the Deep Tunnels for a day now.
Their only bother had been a mole, two days past. It was a savage beast, a true wild one, fuelled by the old bloodlusts. The Coil Guard had made short work of it, taking it down with spears before driving a sword through its neck. She had decided she liked this new captain she had chosen: a fine Fae if ever she saw one, not too far a cry away from that Rhin Rehn’ar.
Sift thumped her fist on the roof of the carriage. The soldiers flinched, looking around. ‘Left passage, I said,’ she hissed.
They journeyed on, slow and rattling, the spiders now tired. The guards had to walk to save their strength, so the carriage could only totter on at a walking pace. It would take them an age at this rate.
‘Faster, I say,’ Sift ordered.
Caol ran up to the side of the carriage and bowed. ‘My Queen, the spiders are worn out. If we drive them hard now, they may leave us stranded. It may take longer if we have to walk. Dangerous too.’
Sift’s eyes flashed. ‘I’m dangerous, Captain, and we’re moving at a walking pace right now! They’ll find some energy if they know what’s good for them. Whip them on,’ she snapped, as she retreated inside the carriage. She listened to the thuds of boots climbing aboard, and the crack of the driver’s whip. She felt the carriage lurch and smirked. That Caol was a brave one.
Another handful of hours slipped by, filled with Sift yelling directions, and the soldiers cracking the whip. Finally, the song-map was coming to an end. Sift sped them up for the final few lines, putting them far into the northern spoke of the Deep Tunnels.
‘One final left, and then straight on,’ Sift shouted, before demanding they stop and let her sit up front. The guards made way and the carriage sped on. Sift leant further forwards with every yard that rattled past. The air had grown cold, with a bitter taste to it. Sift’s wings twitched in anticipation.
The tunnel stretched on into the darkness. The guards’ combined light spells were waning from tiredness. It was plain to see in their narrowed eyes. But something about the chill in the air had woken them up. That, and Sift’s furious eyeballing, whenever the light dimmed. They shone with a renewed effort, wings humming acquiescently.
The air grew colder still, until they could see their own breath before them. Some of the rock turned to ice, and it spiralled around the tunnel, as if they were secretly falling and did not know it.
Sift pressed them on, faster still. She did not care how tired the men or the spiders were, she just wanted to get this over with. It would be unpleasant, she knew, for the bean sidhe were vile creatures, with hearts of ice. Sift hoped they would keep to their ancient oath. She would see to it that they did.
After an hour, the cold became unbearable. Not a single faerie on that carriage was not shivering. Even Sift, the strongest of the lot of them by a mile, the purple blood of queens in her, trembled a little.
A mist arose to greet them as the end of the tunnel loomed, marked by a huge seal depicting witches and shadows feasting on a table of small human children. A relic from millennia lost, by the look of it, dusty but not rusted. Sift’s eyes wandered over the haggard faces of the witches, fangs out and proud, and the claws of the shadows. She shivered against her will, cursing.
She stepped down onto the frozen ground and pulled her thick, fur-lined cloak tightly about herself. She had already seen the archway, leading into the darkness. Sift narrowed her eyes at it.
‘Captain,’ she hissed. ‘I need no escort from here on. I’ll go in alone. No questions. No protestations. No heroes. Just do as you’re told, do you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear, My Queen,’ replied Caol.
Sift raised her chin and marched forwards across the mist-carpeted ground. The archway swallowed her in darkness and she had to feel her way along the small tunnel. It felt like an age before she saw light—a faint glimmer, but light nonetheless. She began to walk faster, as if the darkness was closing in on her. When she burst out of the tunnel and into the cavern, she did so with a gasp.
As she brushed the dust from her robes, Sift glared about the cavern. It was choked with mist, and it swirled around the three pillars that held up the ceiling. Everything was dripping. Stalactites and stalagmites hung and sat like fangs, as if the cavern itself were the skull of some yawning monster. Sift eyed the warped ceiling.
That was probably not far from the truth. She took a breath and stepped forward, manoeuvring through the sharp teeth so she could stand in the centre of the three pillars. Her teeth chattered as she waited for something to happen. Anything. She did loathe to be kept waiting, after all.
Then there came a whisper, the shadow of a distant scream. The mist swirled around the bases of the pillars. The air grew even colder, almost too cold to breathe. Rag-wrapped bones, stark and grey, rattled as they plucked themselves from the soggy earth. Sift watched them come together, piece by piece. Their breath was the scraping of stones. Their faces were forged in mist, giving their stolen bones flesh. Their eyes were hollows with sharp specks of light hiding at their centres. It made her eyes twitch to meet their dead gaze, to stare too closely to their faces, where the mist coiled about their skulls, playing at being a lip, a nose, or an eye. Sickly green light rippled in their black throats as they yawned, wailing like needles across a slate.
Sift drew herself up to her full height. ‘I have to come to call upon the bean sidhe and have them honour their oath to serve the Fae Queens, forever and always.’
The banshees slid forward, bare bones brushing against frozen rock. The spectral faces smiled at her, a glimpse of death in the rotted flesh.
‘Centuries have passed since that oath,’ moaned one, its voice the sound of a dozen corpses all whispering as one.
It sent a shiver down Sift’s spine, put a stumble in the beating of her heart, and that irked her. Fae Queens do not have back feet, yet here she was, on hers. Sift bared her sharp teeth, her purple eyes glowing. Her wings had begun to freeze in the cold air.
‘Hence the part about forever and always, sisters,’ she replied, loud and clear.
There was a combined hiss. The banshees crept ever forward.
Sift raised a finger. ‘Do I need to remind you of the stories, sisters of when your kind slew the last Fae King in spite? Of how the Fae Queens vowed to hunt you down like moles, and forced you to the brink of nothingness? How we let you live, you three alone, in return for the occasional favour?’
