by Ben Galley
Asha took her sweet time in thinking up the first one. ‘Lord Tibbish, from Kaspar.’
‘Mhm.’
‘And his mistress, Esmeril.’
‘No,’ Gavisham sighed, noticing that Asha was smirking. ‘Never mind, let’s keep walking. No more questions.’
A small church sat just outside the town, a white-painted building that was missing half its modest spire. Their path curved to its door before snaking off into the shimmering heat of the dying day. The two of them walked in silence, each examining the church’s tumbledown features. A small boy sat on the dusty steps, playing with something shiny. An old woman stood in the doorway, eyeing the strangers with a curious face, as wrinkled as a prune.
Gavisham felt it polite to tip his hat, and so he did. The old woman nodded and the boy waved before going back to his toy, something made of glass, like a tiny bottle. Asha just stared. Gavisham stared down at the gravestones and tried to pick out the names carved there, already scorched by wind and dust. He knew none of them, but still he read on, until he came to the final one.
There was a little falter in his step. It was plain and obvious. Asha had noticed it, and her eyes followed his down to the gravestone. She clenched her jaw and snapped her head forward. Gavisham saw it. He held his lips tightly together, knowing that any word would betray him. Asha knew what the Star meant. Gavisham began to feel that horrid itch again, the one he could not scratch to save his life. It was fiercer now. If this girl was a maid, he was a clown.
As they walked on, not a word passed between them, not until the church was but a dull smudge in their wake. Only then did Gavisham break the silence, which had been solely occupied by the crunching and thumping of boots and tired legs until now.
‘Getting dark,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better find a place to camp.’ Gavisham looked up at the bruised sky, slowly slipping from blood red to coal black. A few bold stars were already daring to pierce the epic canvas. There was no sign of the moon. It would be a dark night tonight.
He looked down at Asha and found her shrugging, staring right back at him, eyes hopping from one eye to the other. People always do that, as if they can’t ever decide which one they like more, he thought. But there was a curiosity in them, a suspicious glint, and Gavisham already knew he shared the same quality in his eyes.
‘Well, get on with it then,’ she said, and they broke their gaze. Gavisham aimed for nearest craggy hill, hoping for a hollow or a cave. Asha walked by his side in silence, occasionally whistling to add a little something to the silence, like a child will when its hand has been in the biscuit tin.
Gavisham listened to her tuneless warbling, letting the jumbled notes wrap around his thoughts, harmonising with them perfectly as he went over the fractured possibilities in his head once again. Tap-tap went his teeth, gold on enamel, every few seconds or so.
*
Calidae was drumming her fingernails on the rock. It looked to be driving Gavisham absolutely mad. That was probably why she enjoyed doing it so much.
A few more minutes, and he cracked. ‘Right!’ he hissed. ‘No more of that, Asha, or I’ll tie all your fingers together.’
Calidae smiled sardonically. ‘I’d like to see you try,’ she muttered, goading him just a little more.
Gavisham laughed hard and harshly, before going back to the stick he had been angrily whittling. ‘Don’t test me, girl.’
‘Yeah? What makes you so special?’
His mismatched eyes shot her a look that simmered with meaning. Calidae sat up and jabbed a finger at him. ‘I knew it,’ she hissed. ‘I knew you’d seen that gravestone.’
Gavisham hacked at his stick a few more times, obviously peeved that one of his secrets had been tugged from him. ‘And that means you know it too, don’t forget. We both need to start spilling some beans before we go pointing fingers, or sharp sticks,’ Gavisham made a show of miming a stabbing with the carved stick and narrowed his eyes at her. ‘I want to know how you know of the Star.’
‘It’s the eyes,’ Calidae told him. ‘Like Lord Serped’s manservant.’
‘So you knew Suffrous.’
‘No, but I saw him around,’ Calidae lied, trying not savour it too much. She had been knitting this yarn together for several hours now. ‘And I knew what he was.’
‘And what exactly is that? Do tell.’
‘A rusher, like you.’ Calidae said it, plain and clear. Then she propped herself up against a rock and watched him wedge the knife into the stick and snap a chunk off. ‘Lady Serped told me of it once, when she was drunk as a fart one night.’ Thank Almighty for eavesdropping on those maids, she thought momentarily. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ she asked with a cheeky smile, albeit a little crooked with the scarring. She could feel it in her cheeks.
Gavisham winked. ‘Right you are, miss. Bet you’ve been keeping that in for a while, haven’t you? It did cross my mind when I found you. So what of it? I ply my trade, just as he did. Work for a living, like him. I’m good at what I do.’
‘I bet you are,’ Calidae murmured, wondering where she could take this. ‘So I imagine it’s a lord who’s sent you here,’ she guessed.
Gavisham wagged his finger and shifted closer to the fire so he could burn the end of his stick as he spoke. ‘Now when I was a young lad, living in a place I guarantee you’ve never heard of, let alone know how to pronounce, I had three masters. Three wise old men with plenty of knowledge to share, and who were generous with their beatings too. They each had just one golden rule, you see, one they insisted must be obeyed. On the last day before I left, I was sent to each one in turn, to learn their rules. Now the first was pretty easy. Comes with the territory really. The first master took me aside and said, “Arrid, I have only one rule, and that is to never to abuse the blood.” I, of course, said “Yes Master, thank you Master,” and took my leave. The next was a little trickier. “Arrid, my boy, I have only one rule: that is never to slay a man you can’t collect the coin for.” “Yes, Master, of course, Master,” I said. The third master had always been the cruellest. Tell you the truth, I half-expected the final rule to be a fist to the jaw and a kick out the door. But no, he sat me down and towered over me. And he said “Arrid, there is but one rule, and that is to never piss in the hand that feeds you. Keep your bloody mouth shut.” I, of course, said “Yes, Master, I’ll remember that,” and took my leave. And you know what? I’ve lived by that rule ever since. It’s kept me alive, and it’s seen me good. Do you know what that means, Asha?’
Calidae was curious what the point of his story was. She sighed. ‘No, I don’t.’
Gavisham fixed her with a cold stare. ‘It means don’t go shouting your employer’s name around. Even to little girls. I’m paid for my skills and my discretion, not for naming names. Now stop asking.’
‘I’m not a little girl,’ Calidae hissed, leaning forwards again. She felt the heat of the fire on her face and flinched.
‘Yes, you are.’
The two fell silent and let the flames crackle and the knife bite at the wood. Calidae took a moment to sniff and pick at the dried sauce on the edge of the pan, which was sitting near the fire. ‘So you knew him, then?’ she asked. ‘Suffrous Gile?’
Another moment, though this time it was his. ‘I did,’ he replied.
‘How well?’
Gavisham kept his eyes on his stick. ‘As well as a brother should. We were raised together. Shared everything. The masters, the training, the skills. There were three of us. The Brothers Seventh. The oldest met his end years ago. Now Suffrous. I’m the last one.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Calidae offered her condolences, watching his face for any flicker of emotion, some tell-tale hint that she was getting somewhere.
‘Don’t be,’ Gavisham grunted. He twirled the knife in his hands and plunged its blade into the sand with a crunch. ‘Feel sorry for the one who killed him. The one I’m going to skin alive.’ The words were hard, and the way he kept his hand on his knife left no do
ubt in her mind he was serious.
Calidae felt the heat in her cheeks, the clenching inside her chest. ‘And who is that again?’
Gavisham snorted, but stayed silent. He stared at the flames. For a moment, Calidae thought she had hit another wall in the conversation, but then the man spat out a name. A name that she had chewed on for hours on end to the music of trudging boots. A name she had whispered to the cold night more times than she cared to wonder at. A name she had held close to her chest and strangled to death, over and over again in her thoughts.
‘Tonmerion Harlequin Hark, that’s who.’
Calidae could only nod. For one of those rare moments in her life, she did not trust herself to speak.
Gavisham fixed her with a look. ‘Was he one of the ones who sat at the Serpeds’ table?’
Calidae nodded again. ‘I remember the name. Though I didn’t see him. Who is he?’ she asked, to bide her time, and gain a few moments to drown in the fact of the matter. This man had been sent west to steal her vengeance from her grasp.
‘The son of the late Prime Lord. Surely you’ve heard of him?’
Calidae shrugged, playing nonchalant. ‘It paid to keep your head down in the Serped house.’
The knife poked at the embers of the fire. ‘Well, he’s a traitor and a murderer. And he’ll get what’s coming to him.
‘So you’ve been sent here to kill him?’ she asked. Calidae needed to hear it.
Gavisham waggled his blade, black-tipped and smoking. ‘Let’s just say that some things in this world have an odd habit of becoming entangled, getting themselves tied and twisted. Entwined is the word. Such as inevitability and revenge, in this case. This time they just happen to paint the same target on the back of the same boy.’
‘Mmm,’ Calidae murmured, before making a show of yawning. ‘I’m tired. Wake me when it’s light,’ she said, in a quiet voice, almost strangled in a way.
Gavisham did not notice, and made no reply. Only the schnick, schnick of his knife on his stick bid her a good night.
Calidae rolled over and made a hollow in the warm sand. She rested her head on a spare shirt from Gavisham’s pack, bundled up into a pillow, and stared sideways out into the dark, moonless desert beyond the rock walls of their culvert.
She ground her teeth as she thought. She dug her fingernails into her palms as she dared to ponder the worst, and let it spill out of control in her head. She let the worry chill her, let the indignation rise, the fervour. She felt cheated. One brother did not equal a father, a mother, and a life. This would not do. Not one bit. Merion was hers to destroy, not Gavisham’s. And it would stay that way. She had killed to escape. Nothing said she couldn’t do it again for vengeance.
Chapter XIII
A TRAITOR’S BOY
6th July, 1867
London sang to the tiresome tune of constant, dripping rain. It had a heavy sky for company, grey and wet, drenching the world with every incessant, endless raindrop it had to offer. Everything had a sheen to it, splashed and soaked. Even the airships had given up, letting the storm hold sway over the city.
Prime Lord Dizali was not often seen walking alone, but on a day like this, with a low-brimmed hat, an umbrella, and one of his older greatcoats, he could pass for any fool braving the weather to go about their business. There were plenty of them. This was Britannia after all. They were used to rain.
Dizali tucked his hands deeper into his coat and breathed hot air into his scarf to keep his face warm. The rain was cold, and the breeze from the north did not help matters. At least that was slowly dying away. A classic summer’s day, he thought. They had been due a storm or two, with all the fierce weather they had been having.
Dizali’s mind was full of the past hour, and the words he and the queen had shared. It was at times like these he liked to wander, to order his thoughts and correct his clever path. The rhythmic purpose of his walking had the same effect as sipping whisky at the window, or steepling his fingers on his polished desk. It allowed his doubt to undergo its catharsis.
Dizali let the shudder of his steps fill him and thought long and hard about his visit to the Palace of Ravens.
*
Two hours earlier.
‘Prime Lord, this way please,’ the queensguard beckoned to him. Dizali swept from his carriage, his cane clicking on the steps and his top hat held tightly on his head to stop it from escaping. The breeze was fierce in the palace’s open grounds, even behind its sharp walls and fences.
Prime Lord Dizali had been summoned. That was all there was to say. There had been no explanation by the messenger from the palace itself, just the demand for attendance, forthwith. Well, of course, he was compelled to acquiesce and, knowing the queen, instantly.
Dizali wore the same face now as he had when the messenger had been ushered into his study: unimpressed, displeased, concerned. He tried to wipe the latter from his stern countenance as he strode up the spiralling steps, heading towards the high throne room.
He scratched at his neatly-trimmed goatee and wondered why the queen was demanding his presence. She was becoming agitated, it seemed. Madder still. That did not bode well. The queen was supposed to let the Prime Lord carry on as he saw fit, not harangue him at every turn. It set his face to snarling.
Or maybe she was onto him. Dizali stowed that thought away.
At long last they came to the doors, and the Prime Lord waited to be announced by a hollering servant in frilly garb.
‘Your Majesty. Prime Lord Dizali.’
‘In,’ echoed her voice, stern and harsh, like the cackling of crows.
‘In you go,’ whispered the servant, bowing and shuffling away.
‘Why thank you! However would I have known what to do?’ hissed Dizali. The Prime Lord of the Empire was not in the mood.
The queen was not either. Dizali could hear her shuffling back and forth like a caged bear eager to smell its home again. He set his jaw, raised his chin, and strode up to the heavy velvet curtain that cut the throne room in half.
‘Prime Lord Dizali,’ scraped her voice. She sounded angry.
‘My Queen,’ Dizali replied, removing his hat and bowing low despite the curtain. Somehow she could always tell if you did not.
‘Is there no paper in the Empire? Have we used up all the trees?’
‘No, Majesty,’ replied Dizali, in as flat a tone as he could manage. He had already cottoned on, and bore it out.
‘And what of all the ink? Have we run dry?’
‘No, My Queen.’
‘Then we must have run out of wax, with which to seal these absent letters.’
‘No,’ Dizali held back a sigh. ‘Your Majesty.’
The queen shuffled forward. He could see the shadows moving under the hem of the curtain. ‘Then explain to me why it is I must call you here to have you update me on our progress?’
Dizali took a breath. ‘My Queen, my utmost apologies. I had assumed you would rather me spend my time seeing to the executor, and building favour for the Crown with the Cardinals and Cobalts, as I have been, rather than constantly bothering you with letters.’
There was a most un-human growl. ‘Do I sense a hint of sarcasm in your words, Prime Lord?’
‘No, Your Majesty,’ Dizali bowed again. ‘It was purely my assumption.’
The queen hissed her words. ‘To assume is to say you do not know, and not to know is to be wrong. Do I make myself clear?’
Not particularly. ‘Yes, my Queen.’
‘Report, then. Tell me all.’
‘The Rosiyans have moved further south, and are camped on the edges of the Obsidian Sea, moving through Persia. They have struck some sort of agreement, it seems. The Romanian Principalities have also consented, even allied with the Rosiyans. After the last war, and our distrust of them, I expected that would happen,’ Gavisham explained.
The queen shifted and the shadow fell away. Her voice had calmed slightly at least, though she breathed heavily, rattling as if she were still seething. �
��And what are you doing about it?’
‘I have half the navy off the coast of Greece and Cyprus. The Huns are still skirmishing with the Prussians, but they have allowed us passage from our strongholds in Francia. Our third and fourth airship navies are moving in over the Obsidian Sea within the next two weeks.’
‘And what of Karrigan’s estate?’
The Prime Lord paused for a moment, wincing at the sound of the queen rasping at something. ‘It appears both the executor and the deeds have escaped London, my Queen. Without them, the Benches will not accept our claim, even if we paint his son as a traitor.’
A hiss and a scrape emanated from behind the curtain. ‘How could this happen?’ came the question.
Dizali played his cards one by one. ‘Easily, My Queen. It seems he may have done so weeks ago, before you asked me to find him.’
‘The Benches will yield.’
Dizali shook his head. ‘With all due respect, Your Majesty, they will not. Many are as eager to grasp Karrigan’s estate as we are, and the longer it goes unclaimed, the more eager and desperate they become.’
He could hear it in her voice: anger of course, but something else, something desperate. ‘Then we shall declare a state of war,’ she demanded.
Dizali stepped forwards and raised his voice a fraction, as much as he dared to. He had to choose his words carefully, or risk angering her too much for sense. ‘But we are not at war yet, Majesty, and I will not rush in without the necessary funds or resources. This must be a war we can win. It may break us, here, at home, before we lose it. The Emerald Benches will not stand for it. They will call a re-election. The new government may not share the same visions as you do, My Queen. We will lose our grip on the east and the west.’
There was hesitation from behind the curtain. The queen had seen the truth he had laid out for her. Expertly done, if he might say so himself. Dizali resisted the urge to smile. She may have had others waiting in the wings—he was not naive of that, but she was scared of delay. He could see it now. He was the only option she had, to kindle her wars, to seize back the world.
