by Ben Galley
Merion gripped his glass tightly. Was this Gile a leech perhaps? His mind raced. It made perfect sense and yet none at all. The perfect bodyguard. But with so many vials, he could have also been a letter. What if he was Castor’s letter, and Castor was the rusher? A leech and a lamprey? Almighty. Merion’s thoughts tumbled down the slopes of what ifs, and all the while he fought to keep his face from betraying him. He had come here with a purpose. He would ride this wave of theirs and see where it took him.
‘Ah,’ said Gile, selecting a dark red vial from the bottom of his jacket. ‘Here we are. For you, sir?’ Gile was looking directly at Merion, as if this had all been staged and rehearsed.
Merion didn’t falter. ‘Indeed sir, thank you,’ he replied, catching the vial awkwardly with one hand. It clinked against the brandy glass. Merion took a deep yet surreptitious breath as he got to his feet. ‘I better make some room,’ he said.
*
‘What in shitdarn is it, Hosh?’
‘I ain’t got a clue. Let me have a look,’ replied a blustered Hosh. Red in the cheek and large in the belly, the locomotive driver was smeared from tip to toe in coal dust and engine grease. He looked as though he had just crawled out of an inkwell.
‘Bring us in to about ten feet, Jaspar. Ten feet and no more. Don’t want to set light to the thing do we?’
Jaspar nodded and worked his brake levers, gently squeezing the train to a halt, almost exactly ten feet from the smouldering fire that had been lit for them.
As Hosh leant out of the cab and put a greasy palm on the railing, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Jaspar wiggled the handle of a gun in his face. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Looks suspicious.’
‘Right you are. Keep her hot, just in case.’
‘Aye,’ Jaspar nodded again. He didn’t say much, did Jaspar, though he loved to curse and spit when the mood took him. Hosh throttled the little two-shotter and manhandled himself down the steps and into the dust.
Chuffing just like his very own steam engine, Hosh waddled forwards until he stood at the edge of the crackling fire. He scratched his head. He couldn’t make head nor tail of it, and after some more scratching and sighing, he decided he would tell Jaspar just that. Hosh hurried back towards the cab. They were already late. The Serped men would be waiting to unload their precious cargo, tapping their feet and checking their papers. Hosh wiped his sweaty bald head and hurried on.
‘Can’t make head nor tail of it, Jaspar, I—’ Hosh froze halfway up the steps. Jaspar was on his knees, and there was some sort of huge insect on his shoulder, wrapped around his neck. He knuckled his eyes with his dirty hands, but the thing was still there, all black and grey, with wings and a horridly human face.
‘What in hell is—Want me to shoot it, Jaspar?’
‘Not really,’ Jaspar hissed.
‘What he said.’ The insect thing spoke, and Hosh almost fell backwards off the locomotive.
It spoke again, and Hosh started to suspect this might not be an insect after all. Was that a sword he spied? Was that armour? His sooty eyes were getting confused.
‘Now be a good man and drop that gun of yours. Not in here, on the ground. Now,’ it ordered.
Hosh opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His baggy jowls hung loose like a bulldog’s.
‘Now. Or your brakeman here will soon find out what black Fae steel feels like,’ the thing threatened. It moved, turning its hand, and a blade became visible at Jaspar’s throat. There was already a little smudging of blood.
The gun thudded onto the sand.
‘Good man. Now. I want you to back up this engine, and drive straight through that burning brush, and then do exactly as I command. You will drive the locomotive. Mister Jaspar here will do the braking. That sound hard to you?’
Hosh was still trying to figure out what the blasted thing was when he realised it had spat a question at him. ‘Er … no?’ the reply came breathless.
‘And you, Jaspar?’
Jaspar shook his head despite the blade at his throat. He wasn’t the cleverest of sorts, was Jaspar.
‘Good boys. Now, if you please. Get this locomotive running, not too fast but not slow enough to bring people running. If you do what I say, your throats will remain unsliced, and when we’re all done here you can go back home to your wives, or your dog without a mark on you. Well, almost,’ the thing shrugged, wiggling the blade at Jaspar’s throat again.
Hosh had both a wife and a dog, and he suddenly realised he would very much like to see them again. He put a sweaty palm to a sweaty throat. He liked it how it was.
‘What are you?’ he asked as he clambered back into the cabin and began to paw at valves and wheels.
The thing had released Jaspar, but now he was standing directly behind him, its sword pointed straight at the back of his skull. Hosh was no surgeon, but he knew that was a nasty place to get stuck. His uncle got shot there once. He lived, but never walked again.
‘Fae,’ the thing uttered with a grey tongue. ‘You call us fairies.’
‘A fairy?’ Hosh could hardly believe his ears.
Jaspar was muttering something foul under his breath. The creature nicked his ear with the blade and the muttering soon stopped.
‘I’m the real kind,’ hissed the fairy. ‘Now plough through that fire, and let the track guide you. Do not deviate.’
Hosh was even more confused now. ‘You want us to go into town?’
The fairy shook his head. ‘We aren’t going into town, my good fellows, we’re making a little stop first. Just follow the track and do as I say.’
If Hosh had looked over his shoulder, he would have seen the fairy smiling. Hosh did not know it, but they would be sidling up to the Serped barn in a matter of minutes. All it had taken was a stout sword and a hard shove to move the lever that controlled the track direction. So easy, even a faerie could have done it.
*
When the clapping stopped, Merion let the magick seep into his bones and scurry away. He had only rushed a little, but he had still impressed his judges.
Castor rubbed his hands together and turned to Gile. ‘Would you like to try your hand, Gile? Put the red in your belly, as you call it?’
‘Indeed I would, your lordship,’ he said, and then winked at Merion. The boy stood where he was and folded his hands behind his back. This he had to see.
With great ceremony, ruined only by the beaming, gold-spattered smile across his face, Suffrous Gile reached into the other side of his jacket and brought forth two vials. What was curious about these was that they had been tied together with what looked to be a mile of twine, wrapping them close so that their mouths touched. There was even a little cord attaching the two corks. Suffrous hooked a finger underneath it and tugged. The corks came free with a simultaneous pop, and Merion was left with his mouth hanging slightly agape, despite his best efforts, wondering why nobody had told him it was possible to blend shades, and why Suffrous needed it all to be so convenient, so quick. That wave of theirs was building.
Suffrous threw his head back and emptied the twin vials into his mouth. One was dark red, almost brown, and the other an arsenic yellow. Merion was dying to know what they were. There was a moment of excitable silence as the man concentrated his efforts into controlling the shades. He was quick, Merion had to give him that. Like Merion, he too held his hands out like claws; a cage to pour the magick into.
The man’s fingers began to glow with a bright yellow light. It seemed to drown the room of all other colour as it pulsated and grew between his fingers. Soon there was a throbbing cloud of light stretched across his hands. He raised them up, puckered his lips, and blew gently on the light. It fluttered. Suffrous tensed, blowing harder. Thin trails of fire began to flit through the strands of yellow light, turning the room the colour of tangerines. More fire sparked, and from where Merion was standing, he could see the air in front of Suffrous’ lips shivering.
It was then the fire caught the light, and became one. Suffrous threw his he
ad back as the cloud of light became an orb of fire, and he held it out, as if offering to Merion. The young Hark tried to smile as politely as he could, despite the burning jealousy within him.
Castor must have seen it, for he held up a hand and called for Gile to stop. The manservant squeezed his hands together and clapped out the flame, just like that. Such control, Merion marvelled.
Castor clicked his fingers. ‘Do you have the papers, Master Gile?’
‘I do sir. All like you asked.’
‘The newspapers, first.’
First. A minute slip from Castor. There was architecture here, Merion could feel it. He was being bricked into a corner. Merion fought the urge to swallow. Whatever Castor had in mind, what mattered was whether it aligned with Merion’s. Merion retook his armchair, and leant over the table as Castor spread the papers across the table.
‘The front page will tell you everything you need to know,’ Castor instructed, turning it around to face the boy.
Merion scanned the headlines and felt a sweat growing under his collar.
Dizali Takes the Benches by Queen’s Word Alone! said one.
A New Prime Lord Announced! Cobalts Keep Control! crowed another.
Dizali: The New Hand of the Crown! said yet another.
Understanding was nailed home. Not only had his father suffered an untimely death, he had been replaced. Forgotten. Merion felt as if he were holding that wiregram again. The wave was curling over, and Merion was swimming right in its shadow.
‘As you can see, Lord Hark has a successor. Second Lord Dizali has become the first Prime Lord in history to ascend in the wake of a predecessor’s murder. There is no precedent.’
‘Impressive,’ whispered Merion.
Castor reached for another piece of paper. ‘What you might not find as impressive, Master Hark, is what his first move is,’ he said. He held it to his chest and waited for an answer, even though he hadn’t asked for any.
‘And what is that?’ Merion gave in, like a condemned man asking to examine the noose.
The paper landed in front of him. It was a letter from a minor Lord to Castor. He spoke as Merion read. ‘On behalf of Victorious, Prime Lord Dizali has petitioned the Benches that while there is no eligible heir, your father’s vast estate be placed under the protection of the Crown and the Palace of Ravens. To keep it from withering, or turning rotten at the core of the Empire,’ Castor informed him.
The wave came crashing down, foaming fangs and all. There Merion was, washed up on the shore, numb and breathless. ‘But they have no right,’ he croaked. He took another sip of his brandy to distract himself from the confusion and anger.
Ferida seemed put out by his words. ‘It is the Queen’s right, young Hark, and you would do well to remember that. She is law.’
Castor nodded as he spoke. Calidae hadn’t even blinked yet. ‘The Hark estate may be yours in name, but until you have come of age, you are merely a bystander, with power of signature alone. The Queen and Crown sadly do not need your signature to take it under their wing, if they deem it vital to the ongoing success of the Empire. Unless …’ Castor paused here to take a sip of his own.
‘Unless what?’ asked Merion, numbly.
Castor sat on the edge of his armchair and leant forward. ‘Calidae informs me you came here tonight to ask for my help. I had it in mind to turn you away, and yet, despite my doubts, you have somewhat proven yourself and your word to us. I am prepared to help you if I can. And I believe I have a way of keeping your estate out of the Queen’s hands.’
Merion could not make his mind up whether Castor was being earnest or theatrical, but at that moment he did not care. ‘I’m open to suggestion,’ he replied.
Castor snapped his fingers again. ‘Gile,’ he said, and another sheaf of papers was pressed into his hand. Castor gave it straight to Merion. ‘If your estate, in its entirety, were to be transferred to another, more suitable, ward, then the Crown would have no right to take it, unless by force, and that would have the Benches up in arms.’
‘And who would be suitable?’ Merion still hadn’t looked at the paper.
‘A Lord of the Benches perhaps, or one with a business history comparable to your father’s. A man who could run your estate well and keep it waiting for you. A man who can be trusted to hand it back over when the time comes.’
Merion was starting to see the face of this man already. It was sitting right across from him, and staring hard. Silence reigned, save for the crackling of the bothersome fire.
Chapter XXX
BLOODSUCKERS
‘Today I managed to sneak aboard the royal barge. I don’t even think that needs an explanation. Merion is furious, but I know he secretly finds it hilarious.’
6th June, 1867
‘Nice and easy,’ whispered Rhin, tickling the back of Jaspar’s neck with the tip of his sword. The man kept flinching away, making the locomotive squeak and lurch.
‘Easy, I said,’ Rhin reminded him, with a sterner jab. He turned to Hosh. ‘Do what you need to do to turn this engine off. It’ll coast from here.’
‘Aye,’ Hosh said. He was an obedient sort, now that Rhin had got through that thick skull of his. Hosh’s hands moved over the valves and levers again, cutting the chuffing of the engine to a loud hiss, loud enough to wake the dead. Rhin flinched and accidentally stabbed Jaspar a little deeper than he would have liked. The brakeman cursed and clapped a hand to his neck to feel the blood dripping.
‘Bring it up to the barn door, brakeman, like I said,’ Rhin ordered. Jaspar nodded, not wanting to get stuck again.
The barn door was open a foot or so, just wide enough for a faerie. As the locomotive hissed again, drawing to a halt, an evil baker’s dozen of faeries traipsed out to greet them. The Wit stood at their head, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
Rhin pressed his hands to the back of Jaspar’s neck and a jolt of magick flew through him. Light flashed, and Jaspar curled into a heap on the floor. He managed to mumble a quick curse before unconsciousness swallowed him. Hosh followed, barely moments later. Rhin jumped down the steps and strode across the dust and sand to confront Finrig. The look on the Wit’s face made him grin.
‘You’ve brought us a train,’ Finrig surmised expertly.
Rhin nodded. Steam leaked from the beast like wine out of an old skin. It gave their rendezvous a rather dramatic air. ‘That I have. Loaded with Serped coin,’ he replied, chest swelling.
Finrig pointed to the bodies lying in the cab. ‘And two useless sacks of meat. They saw you and they saw us. Here. You’ve made yourself a pair of witnesses, Rhin. And I don’t like witnesses.’
Rhin shrugged. ‘Nobody will believe them. They’ll think they’re mad, or covering up an inside job.’
Finrig sniffed. ‘Slim chance. Serped will come looking for his gold.’
Rhin narrowed his eyes. ‘Not if you’re long gone by then. As promised.’
Finrig spat, missing Rhin’s boot by a whisker. ‘In a rush, are we? We’ll look at the gold first, before making any rash decisions,’ he said, his voice as hard as nails. He whistled sharply, and the Fingers moved towards the two cars tethered behind the locomotive’s coal tender. They made no sound. Neither did Rhin and the Wit, as they followed in the shadows. The night was muggy, and it was making Rhin sweat.
The heavy padlocks were no match for tough Fae steel. The lock fell away in two disappointed halves, thudding into the dust. The sliding doors were yanked back, and the faeries looked upon their spoils. Rhin’s heart somersaulted when he saw it.
Lord Serped had not disappointed.
The first car was stacked floor to ceiling with bundles of coins. Rhin walked forwards to ogle some more. There was a queen’s ransom stacked before him, and this was only the first car.
Another shredded padlock hit the dust, and more doors were wrenched back by strong faerie muscle. Rhin went to see what else this train had to offer.
To his heart’s delight, yet another pile of coins. Not as
big as the first, but still sizeable, sharing its space with medical supplies and fresh tools.
Rhin turned around to the Wit and rubbed his hands. ‘Didn’t I promise a Hoard?’
Finrig spat again. He was impressed, and he didn’t like it. That dream of mounting Rhin’s body parts in viewing cases was starting to fade very quickly. ‘We’d better ask our very own Hoarder. Baelh? What do you think?’
One of the Fingers stepped forward, a lithe, long-haired fellow with a rapier rested on his shoulder. He bobbed his head from side to side. ‘Twenty, thirty tonnes, I reckon, if that first car is full to the brim, Wit.’
‘A Hoard if ever I seen one,’ Rhin asserted. ‘Sift will be pleased.’
Finrig stewed in his disappointment for a while before snorting. ‘Baelh, get to work. You lot, help him. Rest of you, with me.’ Finrig clapped a heavy hand onto Rhin’s shoulder and walked him back to the cab. ‘Let’s see to your two witnesses, shall we?’ he asked, almost jovially, as if a little murder was just what he needed.
‘I promised them they could go home alive,’ Rhin growled, shrugging him off.
Finrig gripped him by the collar and threw him forward. Two of the Fingers were on him before he could protest. ‘Well, you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Rhin. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?’
Rhin did not reward him with an answer. He did not like the way this evening was turning out.
Finrig waved to the two limp bodies. ‘Grab ’em by the legs and drag them out. Let’s put them in the barn with the other guests.’
Rhin’s stomach churned. ‘Others?’
Finrig flashed him a wink. ‘Oh, you’ll like this, Rhin, you really will.’
While the Fingers set to work manoeuvring the men onto the ground and into the barn, Rhin watched the Hoarder go to work on the spoils. The Fingers split the bundles and let the coins pour on the ground. Gold and silver poured onto the dust like the sloughed scales of some dragon. It may have looked insane, to those who have never seen a Hoarder’s magick in action, but there was plenty of method in this madness.
