The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  Was he Cain, holding the rock? Or was he Abel, lured and duped? Merion was not sure. Yara wanted him on the main stage, and he had not seen that coming. Boyish lust for excitement obscured his suspicions, made him doubt. But doubt has an antidote in truth, and truth, he hoped, was currently loping towards him across the dust.

  It took its sweet and merry time in coming, that was for sure. Rhin slid from the shadows of the platform and whistled to the boy as he approached. Merion crouched down, and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘That was too close. I thought she got you.’

  ‘She may be Yara the Lightning, but I’m still faster,’ Rhin hissed. ‘That rat’ll never trail a faerie again.’

  ‘I don’t think it’ll be doing much of anything again. But enough about rats. What did you find?’

  Rhin ran a hand through his jet-black hair. ‘Does an eagle carrying a tiger into the sun mean anything to you?’

  Merion bared his teeth, a grimace drenched in hatred. ‘Dizali.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ Rhin sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘You were right.’ And there they were: three simple words, bittersweet to their core. ‘There was a letter on the table. Didn’t see what was inside but I saw the seal.’

  Merion took a moment to wander in angry circles, fists clenched, teeth grinding. ‘I had secretly hoped I wasn’t.’

  ‘Of course you did. We all did. Especially me,’ Rhin replied. There was a screech out in the desert, likely an owl cheated of its supper. The faerie flinched, his hand flying to something tucked into his belt.

  ‘You’re jumpy.’

  ‘Can you blame me?’

  Merion had to agree. ‘No, I can’t.’

  Rhin shifted the subject. ‘What are you going to do?’

  The young Hark was already fiddling with the inklings of a plan. Several, to be exact. He said as much. ‘I haven’t decided yet. They’re trying to trap me, that’s for certain.’

  ‘What would your father have done?’ Rhin ventured.

  Merion fixed him with an odd look. Rhin usually stayed far, far away from that subject, all things considered. The boy thought hard. ‘Have his lordsguards rip this place to pieces, put Yara in chains, maybe put her neck in the noose. Other than that …’ he trailed away. ‘I don’t know. We’re very far from home.’

  ‘There’s an old saying where I grew up. I’ll spare you the dialect, but it goes like this: woe to the soldier who ignores the bed before the battle. Sleep on this, Merion. You’ll get nowhere with a tired mind.’

  It is a curious trick of nature that whenever a person mentions sleep to a tired body, it will always yawn. And so it was with Merion. He yawned wide and hard before kicking at the dust with his shoe. ‘Fine. We still have a few days.’

  ‘Plenty of time for a good plan,’ Rhin replied.

  Merion wore a stern face. ‘Then they’ll see what a Hark is made of.’

  *

  Lurker was drunk. Not the most surprising of situations, but this was a different sort of drunk from his usual. Lurker drank to drown memories, he drank for the taste, and sometimes he even drank to pass the time, but this type of drinking was new to him. Or, to be more exact, so forgotten it felt new.

  Lurker was drinking because he was mighty angry.

  Anger comes in many forms, but there is none more sour than a jealous anger. It was a trait that Lurker despised, for he had seen it breed thieves and murderers in the war, seen it stoke him to darkness far too many times before, and yet here he was, nurturing it like an artist tends to a masterpiece. He swirled it around his mouth with his moonshine, let it burn alongside the fire that trickled down his throat. And all the while his eyes searched the shadows of the camp outside their tent, looking for something to hurl it against instead of washing it down with drink. Moonshine can only do so much.

  Lurker sniffed at the air, sucking in the scents of the night and the railroad station: the ever-present smell of musty canvas; the tang of metal rails and tent-spikes; the resin of sun-baked wood, and rat faeces. Swaying more than he would have liked, he stared up at the fat moon as if challenging it to a duel.

  He had brought the Mistress with him. He did not know why, but he had. Perhaps it was the familiar feel of a gun nudging against his gut that he needed, after losing Big Betsy. He shrugged and swigged down another fiery mouthful.

  A familiar laugh reached his ears, and footsteps too, getting closer. Lurker froze. He shuffled deeper into the shadows between the tents and listened. He had never been one for eavesdropping, but tonight he treated himself, already feeling the pang of something bitter rising up, separate from the heartburn the moonshine had gifted him.

  Footsteps again. Lurker sniffed again and caught the tang of blood on the night breeze. Only a letter smelled like that, and this time he could smell two. Lurker glowered.

  ‘One day, perhaps,’ said a female voice: Lilain Rennevie, and no mistake about it.

  ‘One day indeed. But you have to come in the summer. Prussian winters are foul and bitter.’ The second voice was low and deep. Lurker already knew its owner. ‘The wind’ll rob the breath from your lungs it’s so cold. One year, my entire stock was frozen solid. Eighty vials. Took me years to collect that,’ Sheen murmured.

  ‘Ugh,’ Lil grunted. ‘Chicago was the same. Have you ever been?’

  ‘Only once.’

  ‘They call it the City of the Winds. Gales blow in from the north across the lake, bitingly cold.’

  ‘And what, might I ask, took you to Chicago?’

  ‘A husband.’

  ‘Ah.’ A pause. ‘And what happened to him?’

  A snort from Lil. Their footsteps were getting closer now. Lurker crept backwards and crouched down.

  ‘Met his end.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Sheen offered, making Lurker scowl all the more.

  ‘I’m not. He had it coming to him: cheating, lying, gambling.’

  ‘Murder then?’

  ‘Justice more like. A hammer introduced itself to his skull three, maybe four times.’

  ‘You make it sound like you were there.’

  ‘I was,’ Lil replied, and said no more.

  ‘I’m sorry all the same.’

  They were close now, walking slower the nearer they got to the tent. Lurker held his breath as they moved across his small canyon of vision, between the tents. They were too busy with each other to notice him. Lurker took a sip from his flask and waited.

  ‘Are you looking forward to the Bloodmoon festival?’

  ‘In a way. I’m curious, more than anything. Never truly celebrated it before. Letters don’t have a reason.’

  ‘No, just more work to do,’ Sheen chuckled. ‘It’ll be a busy time. Shan and I could use some help in the next few days.’

  Lurker could almost hear the smile. ‘Whatever you need,’ she replied. ‘After all you’ve done for us it would be rude not to. Besides, any excuse to let. And on that note, I can hear my bed callin’. Goodnight, Sheen.’ The prospector heard the smack of a kiss on the cheek. He strangled his flask.

  ‘Goodnight, Lil.’

  Lil. Lurker ground his teeth together hard. That was Lurker’s name for her—it had always been his. Such a trivial thing, and yet it almost made his hand reach for the Mistress under his coat.

  Lurker waited for Sheen to walk away before he moved. For a big man and for all the years he wore, he could shift quickly when he wanted to, and silently too. The moonshine had given him an idea. The best or worst, he would have to see.

  Lurker made his way to the rail where the big wooden cars sat quietly, as if they too were sleeping the night away, keeping a watchful if not blurry eye on the camp, Lurker went from one to the next, looking for the Dolmers’ mark on the door, splashed in greasepaint like all the others.

  The doors were locked with a simple bolt. With a bit of wiggling, and wince-inducing scraping, Lurker had it free. Cirque Kadabra clearly did not fear any meddling from the nearby town. People knew better th
an to toy with magick.

  Inside it was as dark as an oil slick. Lurker’s nose was assaulted with the smell of blood and steel. He swayed in the doorway for a moment, trying to make sense of all the scents. It made his head whirl which, after the moonshine, was not very welcome. He sniffed gently, creeping inwards.

  The drawers and crates had been piled up around the edges of the car, making a walkway up and down between them. Lurker shuffled around, grunting in the darkness. He fumbled about, letting his nose guide him, though to what he did not know. Half of him wanted to lay waste to it all, but even for him that was too much. He was a bloodrusher, after all, and there was more than a hint of sacrilege in that. No, he wanted proof: some evidence of Merion’s suspicions. Something he could throw down at Lil’s feet.

  Bit by bit, the smells began to make sense, dividing and untangling as Lurker stalked about, sniffing here and there. He had some matches on him, and every now and again he would light one, poke about, and move on once it bit his gloved fingers.

  He had no idea how long he spent there. The moonshine robbed him of time and clarity. All he knew was that he searched high and low, stopping every now and again to taste the air, trying to make sense of the shades surrounding him.

  Reptile had that acidic spike.

  Fish that salty undercurrent.

  Bird was too familiar to miss, musty in a way.

  Insect had a tang of bitterness.

  Myth smelled like soil.

  Mammal was confusing and muddled.

  And then that other smell. Maybe it was the moonshine toying with him, but he could smell something else, something that had never held a place in Lil’s basement, something he had been covered with and drenched in on the misty battlefields of his memory. Copper. Iron. Like old change sat in a jar for too long. Like swilling a penny around your mouth.

  Lurker flinched, turning to look at a sturdy crate buried at the back of the car. He could almost see its scent trailing through the air like a ribbon. He had it now, and latched on.

  Leather-clad fingers went to work, pulling the tacked lid just wide enough to fit a hand inside. Oh, if Lil could see me now. There would have been no end to her tirade. She’ll see, he told himself, nodding as he worked. ‘She’ll see.’

  His hand clasped a vial and brought it forth. A scrape and flare of a match showed it to him: a thin vial, more of a tube, full to the cork with crimson and label-less. Only a triangle scratched in the glass to tell him what it was, and even that swayed in his vision. Damn that moonshine.

  Lurker popped the cork and sniffed it, then wriggled off a glove so he could dip his little finger into it. It was unmistakable; the way it stung his tongue, the shiver it sent through his mouth.

  It was human.

  The creak in the floorboard would have made him jump up on any other night. But the moonshine and his discovery had colluded, distracting him, making his reactions sluggish. Lurker was barely halfway to standing when something collided with the back of his skull and sent him sprawling to the floor. Darkness seeped in and he fought it hard, but a kick to the ribs drove the wind from him. He heard the vial smash underneath him, felt the blood-scent filling his nose, before something heavy and solid caught him in the jaw, and escorted him swiftly into a black oblivion.

  Chapter XIX

  THE ORANGE SEED

  14th July, 1867

  The air of Clovenhall was warm and muggy. Dizali did not like muggy. Already, the summer heat was getting on his nerves. For that was the prerogative of the people of London: they complain about the bitter cold of the winter months, and as soon as the sun dares to smile, it’s too damn hot.

  Dizali lifted the handkerchief up to mop his brow and cheeks, his beard rasping on the cloth. He watched, frowning, as the maids busied themselves around the bed like bees around a flower. And what a withered flower it was, Dizali thought, instantly cursing himself for thinking it.

  As ever, Lady Dizali’s eyes were wide but vacant. The maids had only just wiped her mouth and already there was a bead of saliva gathering there. Skeletal were her limbs, the skin gaunt and a shade away from grey. He could see every bone in her face, and her hair … well. What had not fallen out was now tangled and lank, grey where it was once a flowing black. Dizali swore there and then that she would have the finest wig London had to offer when the time came.

  There was a timid knock from the butler standing in the doorway. He had a white envelope in his hands. ‘A letter, my Lord. Just arrived.’

  ‘Give it here.’ The Prime Lord snapped his fingers. He snatched the letter and tore the corner. Blue paper greeted him underneath. ‘What time shall I have your carriage ready, Sir?’ the butler piped up. Dizali reached into his breast pocket to fish out his pocket-watch, a family heirloom, and grimaced at the time. He stuffed the letter into his coat pocket.

  ‘Ten minutes. Now away with you all. Get out.’

  ‘Yes, Milord,’ the servants chorused, swiftly vacating the small room.

  Dizali waited for the door below him to click shut before he approached the bed. They had changed her sheets and nightdress, but still the odour of illness and years spent floating amongst the bedsheets remained. Dizali doubted whether it would ever vanish now.

  ‘Avalin, my dear.’ The Prime Lord’s voice was whisper-soft, a snake’s hiss. A far cry from the bellowing tone he used in the Emerald House. What would they say if, like flies on the wall, they could spy upon me now? he inwardly grunted. As ever and always, she just breathed in, out, in aching slowness and feeble vigour. Dizali spoke to the shell, hoping the spark within her could still hear.

  ‘Today is the day,’ he said proudly. He reached to gently grasp her hand, as if she were paper-thin porcelain. She certainly had the colour. ‘You were right to push me, beloved. For all those years, you were the rock. And today I shall make myself the man you always knew I could be.’

  Silence, save for breathing. Dizali perched on the edge of the bed to hold her skeletal hand on his lap. Though he usually could not stomach her empty stare, he wanted to see something, anything. He wanted to know she had heard him.

  ‘All has been arranged. One last piece remains, and then we shall have the Empire we dreamt of, my dear. That you dreamt of.’

  A twitch? Or a foolish blink of his own? Dizali’s breath caught in his throat as he leant forwards to watch. There! There it was: a cautious tremor in the corner of her eye. The tiniest of movements, but for a woman who had not moved or uttered a word in three years, it was a dance. A cartwheel. A scream of joy.

  Dizali squeezed her hand, feeling his ring clink against hers. ‘Sleep well, my dear Avalin,’ he echoed, allowing himself one of his most rare and private smiles, before sweeping from the bed and adjusting his coat.

  ‘And now, I must go and lie to a queen.’

  *

  The throne room was cold, inexplicably so, given the hot sunshine that was busy roasting the city of London alive. There was a musty smell in the air, one Dizali did not care for. He wrinkled his nose and checked his pocket-watch for a third time.

  He had been kept waiting for half an hour now, left to sidle up and down the curtain, kicking at the floor and twiddling his thumbs. The queen was punishing him, he just knew it. Punishing him for his lack of contact. But he had much better things to do, Dizali smirked.

  There came the thud of a door and a shuffling of cloth and skin against stone. The queen had arrived. Dizali stood tall and bowed as she took her place behind the curtain. Somehow she could always tell; an absent bow, a roll of the eyes, she always knew.

  Victorious seemed out of breath. Her tired panting was loud even through the thick velvet. ‘Majesty,’ he greeted.

  ‘Prime Lord Dizali,’ she rasped. ‘Yet again I must summon you for a report. There are such things as messengers in this forsaken world.’

  Dizali bowed again. ‘My apologies, My Queen. With the nature of what we’re attempting, I thought secrecy would be the best policy.’

  ‘There is secrecy
and there is silence, Dizali!’

  ‘It will not happen again, Your Majesty.’

  ‘Spit it out then,’ she croaked.

  ‘Today is the day, My Queen. Now that Hark has been painted as a traitor, we have at last found the executor, Mr Witchazel. I have called a session of the Benches to witness your acceptance of the Hark estate, as you asked.’

  ‘Finally,’ came the hiss.

  ‘Finally indeed.’

  ‘My Presence will attend.’

  Baited and hooked. Dizali nodded. ‘Of course, Majesty. And I am confident in saying that through my hard work and continued efforts, the whole Cobalt cabinet and most of the Benches are behind you. Support is strong, despite what the papers murmur. The Hark estate will be in royal hands before the end of the day.’

  ‘Surprisingly, you have proven yourself useful, Prime Lord Dizali.’

  ‘I’m honoured, Majesty.’

  ‘You may even prove worthy.’

  ‘Soon, I hope.’

  ‘And of the deeds?’

  ‘I have those in my custody.’ A lie, but necessary.

  There was more shuffling. Dizali watched the shadow moving. ‘Good. It shall be a fine day. A fine day to start my wars. The Red Tzar and that western pretender shall rue the days of their birth.’

  Dizali wanted to roll his eyes or laugh, but he held back. Suicide was not on his itinerary today. ‘But of course, Majesty.’

  There was a silence, full of their breathing. One human, the other, well, not so human at all.

  ‘You are dismissed, Prime Lord.’

  ‘Thank you, Majesty,’ Dizali replied, bowing again. Just as he turned to leave he raised a finger. ‘I almost forgot, My Queen. Might I wish you a fine Bloodmoon, for tomorrow.’