The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  Witchazel templed his fingers and hid behind them. ‘Yes, but it has so much potential to grow,’ he offered.

  ‘Very small.’

  ‘You have to start somewhere!’

  ‘And forty miles from the nearest town.’

  ‘Think of the peace and quiet. Away from the hustle and …’

  ‘It’s literally the end of the line.’

  ‘Not for long, mark my words!’

  ‘And what does this say: desert?’

  Witchazel’s temple collapsed and he spread his fingers out on the desk instead, wishing the green leather would magically transport him out of this office. What a fate this boy had inherited. Whisked away to Almighty knows where. No mansion. No servants. No money … Witchazel almost felt sorry for him.

  ‘Desert, yes. It seems that the territory of Wyoming is somewhat wild. Deserts and mountains and, oh, what was the word …’ Witchazel clicked his gloved fingers, resulting in a leathery squeak. ‘Prairies, that was it. But surely that’s exciting, isn’t it?’

  Tonmerion had crossed his arms. His eyes were back on the lawyer, trying with all his might to drill right into the man’s pupils, to wither him, as he had seen his father do countless times. ‘Do I have any say in the matter?’

  Witchazel made a show of checking the papers again, even though he already knew the answer. ‘I’m afraid the instructions are very specific. You are to remain in the care of your aunt until such time as you are of age to inherit, on your eighteenth birthday. Until then all assets will be frozen in law, under my authority.’

  Tonmerion let out a long sigh, ruffling the strands of sandy blonde hair that stubbornly insisted on hanging forwards over his forehead, rather than lying to the sides with the rest of his combed mop. ‘And what manner of woman is my aunt?’ he asked. He had barely known of her existence until twenty minutes ago. Now he was staring down the barrel of a five-year exile, with her and her alone. He felt a lump in his throat. He tried to swallow it down, but it held fast. ‘Is she the mayor? A businesswoman?’ he croaked.

  Witchazel flipped through a few of his pages. ‘She is a businesswoman indeed, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

  Tonmerion sagged a little in his chair.

  Witchazel peered closely at one line in particular. ‘It says here that she works as an undertaker.’

  The boy came straight back up, stiff as a board.

  *

  It was a day for wanton staring, Tonmerion had decided. He may have escaped the body of his dead father in the surgeon’s basement, but now he was trapped by the dried pool of blood on the steps of one of the Harker Sheer estate’s many vast patios. The stone beneath was a polished white marble, which made the blood, even now that it had dried to a crumbling crust, all the more stark. Tonmerion watched the way it had settled in a thick, rusty crimson slick that dripped down the stairs, one by one, until it found a pool on the third.

  When Tonmerion finally wrenched his gaze from his father’s blood, he turned instead to the thin fold of paper he clutched so venomously in his left hand. He held the paper up to the cloud-masked sun and scowled: tickets for a boat to a faraway land. Tonmerion didn’t know which to hate more: the blood or his looming fate.

  ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked aloud. Unable to bring himself to utter a response, and having none to offer, he let the sound of the swaying elms and whispering pines fill the silence.

  During the coach ride home, Tonmerion had pondered every avenue of escape. Once his mind had drawn out all the possibilities, like wool spilling off a reel, neither running nor hiding had seemed too fortuitous. He had no money save what he had found in his father’s desk: a handful of gold florins, several silver pennies and a smattering of bronzes and coppers. That would not last more than a few weeks. He had given complaining a little thought too, but had come to the decision he’d done enough of that in the constable’s office. In truth – in horrid, clanging truth – Tonmerion was stuck.

  He was bound for America, the New Kingdom.

  That was the source of the hard, brutal lump wedged in his throat. He lifted a hand to massage it and tried to swallow. Neither helped. He took a gulp of air and felt immediately sick. The blood beckoned to him, but Tonmerion steered away from it. He was not keen to repeat the liquor episode.

  Remembering the water fountain at the bottom of the steps, he let his shaky legs lead the way. His wobbling reflection in the hissing fountain’s pool confirmed that he was indeed paler than a sheet of bleached parchment. Tonmerion put both hands on the marble and dipped his head into the water to let the cold water sting his face. It was refreshing and calming. He took in three deep gulps and felt the coldness slide down into his belly. Wiping his mouth, he stared up at the pinnacles of the pines.

  ‘By the Roots, you’re white.’

  Upon hearing a voice speak out from the bushes, on an estate that was supposed to be emptier than a beggar’s purse, any other person would have jumped, or even squealed with surprise, but not Tonmerion. He did not flinch, for this was nothing out of the ordinary for him.

  ‘He’s dead, Rhin,’ he muttered, still staring up at the trees.

  ‘Speak up.’ The voice was small yet still had all the depth and resonance of a man’s voice.

  ‘It’s all going to change.’ Tonmerion looked over at the blood, stark against the marble, and nodded.

  There was a polite and nervous cough, and then: ‘I’m sorry, Merion, for your father. I truly am.’

  Merion’s gaze turned to the marvellous little figure standing in the dirt, half of his body still hidden by the shadow of the ornamental bush – no, not hidden, fused with the bush in some way. Merion did not bat an eyelid.

  ‘It’s all changed, just like that,’ he clicked his fingers, and the figure stepped out of the shadows.

  To say the small gentleman was a fairy would be doing him a great injustice. Contrary to popular belief, there is a great deal of difference between a fairy and a faerie. The former are small, silly creatures, more insect than human, and prone to mischief. The latter, however, are a proud and ancient race, the Fae. They are larger, smarter, and infinitely more dangerous than fairies, and bolder. For millennia they have lived unseen in the undergrowth and forgotten forests, just out of the reach of human eyes and fingers. They are now nought but folklore, wives’ tales, rubbish for the ears of children. No man, in his right mind, would believe in such a thing as a faerie. But here one stood, as bold and as bright as a summer’s day.

  Rhin stood just shy of twelve inches tall, big for Fae standards. He was long of limb, but not scrawny. Between the gaps in his pitch-black armour, it was easy to see that the muscles wrapped around his bony frame were like cords, tightly bunched.

  Rhin’s skin was a mottled bluish grey, though it was not uncommon to see him glowing faintly at night. His eyes were the only bright colour on his person, glowing purple even in the cloudy daylight. The thin metal plates of his Fae armour were jet-black, held in place by brown rat-leather. His boots, rising to just below the knee, were also black.

  And of course, there are the wings. Thin, translucent dragonfly wings sprouted from the ridge of Rhin’s shoulders and hung down his back, hugging the contours of his armour and body and glistening blue and gold. The Fae lost the power of flight centuries ago. Their wings are weaker now, but they still have their uses.

  Four years had passed since Rhin had crawled out of the bushes and straight onto Merion’s lap, bleeding and vomiting. Merion had been just a young boy, only nine at the time, and the sight of a strange grey creature with armour and dragonfly wings, sliding in and out of consciousness, would have frightened any child half to death, but not Merion.

  Rhin crossed his arms, making the scales of his armour rattle. He tapped his claw-like nails on the metal. It was in need of a polish. ‘It’s not right, what was done to your father. Roots know I didn’t know the man, but he didn’t deserve this, and neither do you. Neither do we.’ Rhin bowed his head. ‘Like I said, I’m
sorry, Merion.’

  The lump in the young Hark’s throat had returned, this time with vengeance. Maybe it was the faerie’s condolences, maybe it was the crimson streak in the corner of his eye, or perhaps it was the crumpled fist of papers by his side, Merion didn’t know, but he knew his lip was wobbling. He knew it was all suddenly terribly real.

  Real men cannot be seen to cry.

  More of his father’s parting words.

  Merion swallowed hard, and tucked his lip under his top teeth, biting down. He nodded and, when he trusted himself to speak without his voice cracking, he said ‘Thank you.’

  Rhin shuffled his feet and ran an absent hand through his short, wild hair. Jet-black it was, and thick, slicked back and cropped short at the sides. ‘Do they know who did it?’ he asked quietly.

  Merion stamped his foot and paced out a tight, angry circle. ‘Pagget doesn’t have a clue,’ he groused. ‘Nobody has any idea.’

  ‘That’s …’

  ‘An outrage. Yes, I know. And guess what? That’s not even the worst part.’

  ‘Not the worst …? What could be worse than …’ the faerie gestured at the slick of blood on the marble steps. ‘… that?’

  Merion turned and brandished the folded paper. ‘This! It’s an abomination. A disgrace. An insult!’

  Rhin looked worried. ‘Yes, but what is it?’

  Merion pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed again. Say it out loud and, who knows, it just might sound a little better, he told himself. ‘We have to move to America.’

  No, no better.

  Rhin’s lavender eyes grew wide. ‘The New Kingdom? Why?’

  ‘My father left instructions, Rhin. All of Harker Sheer, all of his other estates, all of his money. It’s mine now, but not until I turn eighteen.’ Merion aimed a kick at the base of the fountain. ‘And in the meantime I, we, have to go live with my aunt, in Wyoming.’

  ‘And where the hell is that?’

  ‘In the western deserts of America, the arse-end of nowhere, to put it plainly. Full of filthy rail workers, peasants, sand, and horses and cows, no doubt.’

  Rhin rubbed his chin. ‘It sounds perfect,’ he said. Merion was about to snort when he realised there hadn’t been the faintest tremor of sarcasm in Rhin’s words. He stared down at the faerie.

  ‘You’re serious?’

  Rhin shrugged. ‘It’s the perfect escape.’

  ‘Yes, for you maybe. I suspected you might like this god-awful fate of mine. Not all of us are runaways and outcasts, Rhin. I’m not in hiding. I have a future here, in London. I have a great responsibility to inherit, and a murderer to catch, for Almighty’s sake! My father must have justice. The Hark name needs protecting …’ Merion trailed off, flattened by the impossibility of it all. ‘I can’t just leave. I can’t just let it fall to the dogs.’

  ‘You’re thirteen, boy.’

  Merion flapped his hand. ‘But I’m the only one left! It’s my duty. And don’t call me boy, you know I hate that.’

  Rhin took a step forwards, eyes wide. ‘You would still have to wait until you were eighteen, even if you father hadn’t been killed.’

  ‘Murdered, Rhin. Murdered.’ The fountain received another kick. ‘And no difference, you say? Hah! At least if he was still alive, I could have lived my life in comfort, in society, within reach of the capital. But no, he was murdered, and now we have to go live in a shack in some place called Fell Falls. No dinners, no balls, no trips on the rumbleground trains, no visits to the Emerald Benches. Nothing. Sod all.’ It was at times like these that Merion wished he’d asked the kitchen staff to teach him more swearwords.

  Rhin was not convinced. ‘All I heard was no tedious ceremonies, no politics, and no father watching your every move, no offence. We can be free in America, Merion. Free to do what we want, safe in the knowledge that you can come back to this, to a fortune and a life in high society.’

  ‘In five bloody years!’

  ‘More than enough time to turn you into a proper man, to toughen you up. Not like one of these silk-clad dandies you idolise. A man with rough hands and bristle on his cheeks—ladies would love that.’ Rhin dared as much to wink. Merion pulled a face.

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘Trust me, I know. Listen to your elders.’ Rhin was over two hundred years old. He had a point.

  Merion slumped in every possible way a person could slump. He crumpled to his knees and then to his backside, letting his shoulders hang like loose saddlebags and his hands splay across the marble. ‘I just don’t know. I can’t put it into words. The world is upside down.’

  Rhin walked forwards to put a small hand on Merion’s knee. ‘It doesn’t have to be a punishment, Merion. It could be an adventure, something that could change you—put some fire into your belly. Five years isn’t that long a time.’

  Merion snorted. ‘Easy for you to say.’

  ‘Are we in agreement. Adventure?’ Rhin asked.

  With great solemnity, Merion lifted his head and stared up at the roiling grey skies, not a patch or stray thread of blue anywhere to be seen. Merion was going to miss these skies, and their rain, the staple of the Empire. He let the cold breeze run its fingers across his neck and face, savouring that moment. He swallowed one last time, and found that the lump had disappeared—for now, at least.

  ‘I’ll let you know when we get there,’ replied the young Hark.

  Chapter II

  TAMARASSIE

  ‘I’ve done it. I’ve bloody done it. What it’ll cost me, I don’t yet know. I’m out, but I can hear them shouting. They’re still searching. Got the rats out for me, and the moles.’

  26th April, 1867

  What is remarkable about the human stomach is that, though small, when given the chance to vomit continuously, it can conveniently offer a seemingly endless supply of bile with which to facilitate the act. Merion discovered this fact of biology as he heaved his guts out over the railing for the hundredth time that day. You would have been forgiven for thinking that the sailors would have stopped laughing after the first day, or the second—perhaps even the fourth. But no, it was their sixth day aboard the Tamarassie, and the sailors still found his puking the very pinnacle of hilarity. Perhaps it was because he ruined so many of his good clothes.

  Merion winced as he felt the acid-burn on the back of his throat. His hands were slimy and his chin wet. Even without looking down, he could tell his rather expensive coat was already soiled. He closed his eyes and pushed himself to try and enjoy the gentle swaying and pitching and rolling … More laughter erupted from the bow as Merion introduced his innards to the sea once more. When he had finally finished, he stared up at the horizon, as Rhin had suggested. It hadn’t helped yet, but there was always hope.

  The Iron Ocean was a desolate place—a desert in its own right, only one of rolling granite-coloured waves, of whirling foam and drifting, sapphire-blue ice. The day was cold and grey, as it had been since they left Port’s Mouth. So cold and bitter was it that the sea spray froze in the blustery air as it rose up to sting Merion’s cheeks and knuckles where he hung over the Tamarassie’s rusted railing.

  Barely more than a converted tramp steamer, the ship was a bucket of rust and poorly-painted metalwork. A pile of iron and varnished wood, she sat low in the ever-heaving waters of the corpse-cold ocean, fat with cargo and passengers seeking fortune on the new continent. She didn’t steam so much as waddle towards the city of Boston, far, far away in the hazy, cloud-smeared distance. From where he stood, Merion could hear the slapping and deep resonant churning of the ship’s twin paddles, sticking out of the ship’s ribs like the fat wheels of a cart, buried to their necks in the water. A jagged-topped funnel sat squat behind the bridge, and the sickly soot-smell of the thick pillar of smoke it belched into the cold air was not helping Merion’s stomach one bit.

  It seemed his father had left little money for a luxurious voyage in his final will and testament. Perhaps Witchazel had cut a larger-than-normal fee. In any case,
the Tamarassie was a far cry from the ocean liners Merion had seen in the penny dreadfuls, or rising proudly against the murk of the Thames shipyards.

  Merion wiped himself as best he could and tottered across the metal and wood deck towards the door he had left open. He could still hear the tittering mirth of the sailors, who seemed to have spent the whole voyage lounging about on deck. Merion ignored them, and went below to his all-too modest cabin.

  *

  Rhin was enjoying a biscuit in his usual spot atop the edge of Merion’s largest trunk, where it was piled in the corner with the others. He had shed his armour, but still wore his little knife at his hip, no more than an inch-long shard of black Fae steel. To the innocent bystander, the faerie’s blade might have seemed insignificant, a pinprick. But the Fae had learned long ago which arteries, veins and nerves were the … tender areas of men, when humans had still been young and wild, before their gunpowder and their machinery.

  In Rhin’s hands the biscuit was as large as a dinner plate, but he was making a considerable dent in the side. Rhin had a sweet tooth—well, more of a sweet fang. Sugar to him was like rum to a sailor. His eyes were half-closed as he chewed and his crystalline wings fluttered.

  There was a bang and a thud on the wall outside the cabin, and Rhin fell back into the trunk with a soft thud. As the metal lock started to rattle, Rhin was already half buried in a dark blue shirt, skin and armour shimmering as it became translucent. Faerie skin is a marvellous thing. Its magic delights in tricking the eye, adapting to the colours and light. It is one of the oldest spells of the faeries, and their most coveted. Within moments, he was more shirt than faerie, and his black knife spared not a glint.

  ‘It’s me,’ said a hoarse voice, thick with phlegm and retching.

  There was a quick buzzing, and Rhin hopped up onto the lip of the trunk. ‘So it is. Feeling better?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. How long?’

  ‘One thousand two hundred and fifty-six miles to Boston. No, wait. Fifty-five. Four days maybe.’