by Ben Galley
‘A magic box,’ Dizali growled. ‘You are telling me that Karrigan hid the deeds in a magic box?’
‘That I am.’
For a moment it looked as though a few more fists would rain down, but Dizali managed to hold himself back. He stared at the golden funnel. ‘And I assume I would be right in guessing the boy is the key. His blood.’
Witchazel sneered. ‘You would be indeed.’
The punch knocked the smile clean off him, and the lawyer sagged into a heap. But he laughed, long and heartily. ‘The Orange Seed will only open for one person. And that,’ he paused to laugh some more, a wheezing chuckle that bubbled up from deep inside, ‘is Tonmerion Harlequin Hark. You kill him, and you’ll never get your hands on the Bulldog’s empire.’ There it is. ‘I said you might regret killing him. Let’s hope it’s not too late.’ And that Gunderton has done his work.
Dizali crushed the powder-blue letter in his fist as he glowered at the Orange Seed, searching for words. Ideas. Maybe even an excuse to kill Witchazel right there and then if it presented itself. But at the end of it all, Dizali just snapped his fingers at one of the rushers. He spoke in a low and hard voice, one strained with murderous frustration.
‘Get this contraption back to Clovenhall and fetch me a messenger right away. I want him to meet me at the steps of the Emerald House.’
‘Yes, Prime Lord.’
The man scurried away, leaving Dizali and Witchazel alone. Dizali had been foiled, good and simple. Witchazel could see it in his eyes, and the way he thumbed his goatee.
‘Maybe I should spill your blood on it, just for the hell of it,’ Dizali mused.
‘You can try.’
The Prime Lord stood over him. ‘You’ve been playing for time, but now you’re out of it. The boy will be spared for now. Your life, however, I still have to decide on. Perhaps you can help yourself, Witchazel, by doing as I say from here on in, making this transition easy for all,’ Dizali spat. ‘It’s time to save yourself, if your pitiable existence is not wanting in your eyes.’
‘It’s hard to threaten a man who would die to protect a friend’s dying wish,’ Witchazel retorted, wincing at how much he now knew of that was a lie. He had glimpsed more of death’s face than he had liked, and it chilled him to the core. That old fear rose to greet him, the purest, most prehistoric fear there is: of death.
Dizali curled his lip. ‘Then you’re a fool twice over. I’ve won. I’ve always been winning. It was inevitable. You may have stalled me, but I now have the deeds, I will have the boy. You’re simply an inconvenience to me, Witchazel, one I could rub off the face of this earth at any moment.’
Witchazel shook his head. ‘You need me. I’m the executor. The Benches will never accept ownership without the deeds.’
It was Dizali’s turn to smirk. Something clever was working behind those eyes. ‘I have half the Benches in my pocket. Gold can turn many gazes, Mr Witchazel.’
Witchazel knew that was also a lie. He had to be lying. But there was one hinge in the plan of any torturer’s subject, and that was usefulness. The lawyer felt his own beginning to wane, and denial always follows on the heels of desperation.
Dizali’s smile was cold and commanding. ‘Today we shall go to the Emerald House, and you will stand by my side as I paint you as a glorious survivor of foul play. And then you will sign a contract that rightfully proclaims me as the sole owner of the estate in light of the outrageous treachery of the Hark name and according to the Clean Slate Statute. You will tell the Emerald Lords and Ladies how you believe me to be of the finest character, and how the Hark estate will be safe in my hands. That it is mine in law, so long as the deeds can be presented within a month. Then you will see what you have helped me to create, Mr Witchazel. You will see what this lamprey is capable of. And just maybe, you’ll see another day.’
‘I will not.’
‘Then you will die, and the boy along with you once he’s served his purpose. In the end, it matters not. Even if the Bulldog’s estate goes to auction, I shall be there, in the wings, buying and profiting.’ Dizali said, bending down to hold Witchazel by the chin. ‘You can’t win when you’ve already lost, Witchazel, my good man. You’ll do the right thing. Save yourself and the boy. Karrigan would want that, I’m sure.’ He sneered, and pushed the lawyer away. As lordsguards began to flood the room, Dizali clapped his hands. ‘You, yes you there! Take this man to my carriage. Tell the driver to prepare the horses. We have an appointment with the Emerald Benches.’
Witchazel was dragged away by the arms. As he slid across the floor, legs trailing behind him, he could see Dizali watching him. Witchazel smiled right up to the last moment, before the rock and shadows whisked him from view.
*
There was no denying the lawyer was wrestling with himself. Dizali could see it, painted on his face as clear as daylight. Beneath the bruises he squirmed between the choices Dizali had thrown at him. It was about time something cracked.
Witchazel was trying once more to antagonise him. ‘Are you sure it’s wise presenting me to the Benches? What if I take it upon myself to reveal the truth, hmm?’ Witchazel asked, trying to look dangerous.
As if he could do any more damage. Dizali made a mental note to have somebody comb and wipe him before he was presented to the House. He looked like a skeleton in borrowed skin. The clothes, at least, had done a little for him.
‘Then the Hark boy dies, and I’ll throw you back in that cell, to wither and rot.’ Dizali gave the same answer as before, casually cold.
Witchazel fell quiet again, bereft of a witty answer or snide remark—just how the Prime Lord liked it. He turned to watch the city clatter past, full of noise and people. His people, he mused to himself. He could almost hear the cheering, feel the heat of the crowds as they pressed in to see him in their thousands. Tens of thousands.
Daydreaming was not a habit of Dizali’s. He believed in a better use of time. But now he was so close, the Emerald Benches just ten minutes of rattling and jolting away, he could allow himself a swift treat, surely. Dizali leant back and let his future spread out before him, like a cloud-shadow leaving sunshine in its wake, stretching across the Empire.
Those ten minutes rolled by quickly, as swiftly as the city changed. The buildings reached higher. Stonework became grander, more intricate. The people changed too: fewer cloth caps and more top hats and canes. No carthorses and ponies here, just gleaming stallions and polished carriages, trundling to and fro. And the Emerald House, perched on the River Thames, dominating everything around it. A huge fortress of a building, cut from honey-coloured limestone from the northern wilds, it bristled with turrets and twisted spines. Gargoyles hung from nests in the steep-pitched iron roofs. Carvings hid in every corner, nestled in the arches and wrapped around pillars. And at its centre, the Bellspire, the mighty square tower that housed the Bell of London, affectionately referred to as Big Iron.
Dizali did not often bother to gawp at the sight of the House looming over the muddy river. A thousand times’ seeing it tends to numb the wonder. Today seemed like a day for luxuries, however, and he allowed himself to stare up at the Bellspire, craning his head to see its diamond-shaped peak.
‘Beautiful, is it not? The Emerald House? The seat of our parliament, core of the Empire.’
‘A house of thieves.’
Dizali tutted mockingly. ‘That’s the sort of attitude that will get people killed, Mr Witchazel. I’d bide my tongue if I were you.’ He wondered how many more times he would have to drill it into that lawyer’s thick skull. He had won. Unfairly perhaps, but resoundingly squarely.
There was a whinny as the carriage was brought to a halt, deep inside the courtyards of the Emerald House. Dizali waited for Witchazel to be bodily removed before stepping out. With orders to have him scrubbed and prepared for his grand public appearance ringing in their ears, the servants led the lawyer away to the baths. Witchazel just stared back at Dizali as he was dragged away, a permanent, though rather hollow s
cowl affixed to his face. Dizali snorted, adjusted his hat and suit, and strode forward, his heels tapping the flagstones with an arrogant air.
The uproar could be heard from the other end of the House. The Benches were rife with clamour. Dizali was barely late, and already there was a verbal war raging. The Prime Lord rubbed his hands.
Several of his cabinet were hovering by the upper door, gazing down into the maelstrom below. Dizali tipped his hat to them as he sought a place by the doorway. ‘Gentlemen, Lady.’
His lords and lady nodded, knowing smiles sneaking onto their faces. ‘Today is the day, a new dawn for the Empire, and for us,’ Dizali intoned, a smile of his own breaking out. He peeked down into the hall and took its measure, his eyes darting back and forth. ‘We have a full house.’
‘And an angry one,’ Longweather whispered. Even some of the Absent Lords have come crawling back.’
‘By air and by ocean, every one of them eager to see where his or her place is at the new table.’ Lady Knutshire piped up.
‘On the floor, begging for scraps, no doubt,’ said another, Lord Snike.
‘All in good time,’ Dizali wagged a finger. ‘All in good time.’ He took another peek. ‘How many?’
‘Enough,’ Longweather grinned. ‘It’s cost the Cobalts a pretty penny, but we have enough.’
‘And the others?’ Knutshire again, always with the questions. She would be the first to be tamed, in his new world.
‘Will offer no argument, if they know what’s best for them,’ Dizali muttered. ‘Which reminds me, who have you chosen?
‘Lord Umbright,’
‘A good choice.’
Snike sniggered. ‘We thought you would approve.’
‘And has the Presence arrived?’
There was a moment of whispering. ‘I’m told he has just entered the House,’ said Longweather. The Second Lord looked tired, but ready.
‘Good. I want him to hear every single word. Fetch Witchazel and have him ready. It is time,’ he said, before striding into the light. As he whipped off his hat and marched down the steps to the front bench, the Voice announced him over the uproar as best he could.
‘The Honourable Prime Lord Dizali enters!’
His presence alone commanded the lull in shouting, not the Voice’s deafened words. As the arguing came to a gradual halt, Dizali removed his coat, placed his hat on the bench, and raised his hands. ‘Continue, my Lords and Ladies. Do not let me stop you in your bickering.’
Amidst a few roars of laughter, the shouting began afresh, and Dizali let himself sink into the gale of raised voices, letting their arguments and opinions wash over him. He heard every word, watched every flapping, rose-cheeked face. His quick mind trimmed the fat from their bellowings, cutting through to their core. Everybody wants something. Half the trick of gaining followers is to give them what they want. The other half is convincing them they want what you are giving. In ten minutes, he had those that had yet to support him laid out like a battle-plan.
‘The Presence of Her Majesty, Queen Victorious enters!’ wailed the Voice, ringing his bell as loudly as possible.
It was customary for silence to fall for the Presence. The clue was in the name. The man that emerged onto the stone balcony at the far end of the hall was the ears and the mouth of the queen herself. As such, he was to be given the same respect.
But the Benches were not so immediately respectful. Silence fell uneasily, like snow in a breeze. Even when all backsides had found their seats, a low muttering remained.
‘Her Gloriousness, the Queen Victorious bids you welcome,’ the Presence hailed them in a high tone. The man was far too skinny for his humongous robe, trimmed in the purple and black of ancient royalty. By tradition he was blind, his misty eyes hidden behind a thin strap of black silk. He held no cane and had no servants. Just the queen for company, lodged somewhere in his head by memory or by magick, nobody knew. All they knew was that he was the queen’s voice, and that such a thing was not welcome in the Benches. Not any more, not with Dizali sowing the seeds of discontent.
Further muttering followed in the wake of his words. He’s the guest, not us! The whispering floated down to the Prime Lord’s keen ears.
‘Her Majesty asks that the session begin.’
‘With pleasure, Presence!’ yelled Dizali, getting to his feet. He turned his back on the man and rolled his eyes at the Benches. A few chuckles rewarded him. He had the House.
‘I have called this session to address two very specific matters that I have no doubt are all close and dear to your hearts. And I shall not mince my words nor dally around the point. With war brewing and meddling rife …’ Dizali cast a quick look up to the balcony. The Presence turned, strangely, to look down at him. ‘…we should not waste our time with tradition and similar shackles.’
Dizali took the centre of the hall, between the two great slopes of the Benches, where the great golden coffin of the first Prime Lord dominated. He placed his hands upon its cold, polished lid.
‘First, to the estate of the late Karrigan Hark, who I will no longer refer to as Prime Lord. No traitor to the Empire should claim that title, not even in death. Since the ransacking of the traitor’s estate, my lordsguards have kept a watchful eye, and I have personally overseen the investigation to rescue the Hark’s honourable lawyer, a Mr Witchazel. And I have kept my promise to this parliament.’ Dizali began to stride around the coffin, circling it like a shark. ‘Justice has very much been served, my Lords and Ladies!’
Amidst the eager muttering, he clapped his hands, and with a whine the doors at the front of the hall opened. Two lordsguards came forth, gently escorting a withered figure forward. He walked with shuffling, browbeaten steps, his head low and thinning hair lank. Dizali raised his chin. They had done a good job. Just enough powder to age the bruises, cover the most recent cuts, to make him look fed and watered at least. He had been given robes to hide his broken bones. The lawyer’s face was cast down, depressed, clouded, and beaten by more than just fists. Finally, he had broken.
The Benches got to their feet to get a better view, and a wave of whispering rose and fell. Dizali could feel the horror, the shock, and he pounced on it before the Voice could ring his bell. ‘Might I introduce to you a hero of the city? Mr Witchazel, executor of the Hark estate, now rescued from his recent captors.’
Witchazel looked up and around at the alarmed lords and ladies of the hall as Dizali laid it on thick. ‘They beat him, tortured him, abused him, all so they could lay their hands on the deeds to the Hark estate, all so they could circumvent the law we strive to uphold, and satisfy their own greed!’
‘Who, Lord Dizali?’
‘Yes, who?’
‘Bring them to justice!’ came the cries. Voices bought and paid for. Dizali could almost hear the jingling of their coin purses.
‘And so I shall!’ Dizali bellowed. He moved towards the Cardinal half of the hall and put a foot on the front bench, among the shadow lords to his cabinet. ‘Lord Umbright and none other!’ His finger was like a spear, cutting through the crowds. Lords and ladies moved aside to escape its judgement, staring back and upwards at the blushing Lord Umbright, jowls already flapping with disbelief and outrage. Dizali had to move quickly.
‘Guards! Remove this man from my hall,’ he shouted, as the volume soared.
Armour clanking, the lordsguards moved in swiftly, swarming down from the upper doors as well as surging up from the floor. As others scrambled out of the way—protesting, cheering, or just too shocked to move—Lord Umbright was dragged to his feet and out of the hall. Dizali delivered the man’s charges as Umbright gasped and hollered unintelligible curses at the hall. It was a fine choice indeed. The man had not the wit to argue his innocence, just the stupidity to spit and snarl at the outrage. He played his part perfectly if unwittingly. At least there would be work for him on the stage. That is, if he ever made it out of the Crucible alive. And that was never likely in London’s oldest and mightiest prison.
‘Lord Umbright sought to steal from under the Empire’s nose. In his desperate search for the deeds, he had his own men plunder the Hark estate, directly breaking our laws. Not content with burglary, Umbright then went as far as to kidnap our good Mr Witchazel here, with a mind to force him into signing the deeds over to him! But our good friend Mr Witchazel, thanks to his upstanding moral fortitude, held out, and gave him nothing!’
Umbright had been charged and sentenced in the space of a breath—tried by the court of opinion and emotion. All it had needed was a little coin to grease the wheels. Booing and hissing was rife as the Benches turned. Who would they believe? The Prime Lord and the poor wretch that stood before them, or a cantankerous lord, long reviled for his moods and preposterous notions? Two birds, one stone, or so the saying went.
Dizali dusted his hands for all to see as Umbright was stolen from view. A smattering of applause followed, one that soon swelled into a standing ovation. Dizali had to work hard to maintain his humble composure, waving his hands until the praise abated.
‘And what of the deeds?’ hollered the Presence. He had a thin smear of confusion on his face, no doubt an echo of the queen.
The question had to be asked at some point. A few nods suggested some on the Benches also wanted to know.
Dizali waved a finger. ‘Being recovered, as we speak, from Umbright’s clutches. He hid them well, the stubborn, traitorous goat, but we won’t be beaten.’
Concerned mutterings now. Dizali ushered Witchazel forwards and held him by the shoulders, as if guarding him. He could feel the cold stiffness in the lawyer’s body.
‘The good Mr Witchazel has examined Karrigan’s last will and testament, have you not?’
