The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  To his left, the passage curved under an arch that prevented two buildings from leaning into each other. Just before the arch was a ladder up to a ledge where a door and pulley had once been. The door was now sealed with newer brick, and a broken spar of wood sat fixed above, long hacked away. In the gloom, Merion made out a tumbledown canopy hanging over the ledge. He clenched a fist and picked up his bags with a groan.

  It took several journeys to shift his supplies up the ladder and onto the ledge. He had to feel the edge with the toes of his boots to avoid falling, and he prayed he wouldn’t roll off in the night. Maybe he should lash himself to something.

  Merion had remembered to take a candle and a box of matches from the Black Rosa, and he put them to work, tucking the light away in the shallow corner between the doorframe and the old brick. He wasted no time in stretching or yawning. He got straight to work; fishing out the vials, syringe and scalpel from the bag.

  ‘Heart, liver, or lungs. That’s what you said, wasn’t it, Aunt Lilain?’ Merion muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead as he recalled all those nights in the basement, watching her dissect the animals, siphoning magick from dead flesh. The stabbing guilt came for the second time that day; guilt of leaving his aunt and Lurker behind. It had plagued him every day since he had left them in Washingtown. Every time, he repeated his reason to himself. He was keeping them safe; saving their lives, even. He had no clue whether they understood, but he would bear their hatred if it meant they stayed clear of the fray. Out of this bloodfeud. Amends would have to be made later.

  Since it had already been skinned, Merion decided to distract himself with the mole. From what he remembered, mole was a fine shade. Milkeyes, it was called. It helped a rusher to see in the dark, but it also carried the threat of cataracts if abused. He didn’t fancy that.

  The young Hark placed the mole on the paper bag and began to slice through its flesh. He dug beneath the ribs and pulled them apart, wincing at the cracking of little bones. Even after all this time swilling blood, seeing death up close and far too personal, gore still made him want to gag.

  Merion guessed at which bloody lump was the heart, and reached for the syringe. Biting his lip, he slid the sharp needle into the organ and pulled gently on the plunger. There was a sucking nose, and blood began to sputter up into the glass chamber. Not much—barely a mouthful—but it was all he was going to get. He managed a little more from the liver. Flicking the glass as he had seen his aunt do, he removed the needle and plucked a vial from the pack. With utmost care, he poured the blood into the vial, waiting for every last drop before he shook it out, cleaned off the needle, and scratched an “M” into the glass. He grabbed the next animal immediately; he had a lot of work to do.

  So engrossed was he with his job that the sound of boots on cobbles—two pairs of boots—fell on deaf ears; as did the hushed whispering, and rustling of cloaks as hands pointed to a faint flicker of a candle above the alleyway. When he was halfway through bleeding the tuna, an impassive face reared over the top of the ladder and growled at him in a garbled language. Merion scrabbled backwards in shock, almost falling off the ledge. His foot sent the fish spinning over the side, and it squelched on the ground below. His heart thudded like a blacksmith’s hammer. Thoughts of his last fight—of Gavisham’s fingers crushing the life out of him—flashed through his mind.

  ‘You are no lord’s boy, are you, little man?’ growled the fishmonger from earlier, as he pulled himself to standing. The smell of fish was palpable. He was still wearing his apron, although the cloak was a new addition. Merion saw a glint of something in his hand. His eyes flicked to the fishmonger’s boots, where his scalpel lay next to the vial of mole’s blood. His gaze darted between each one, trying to decide.

  It was the appearance of a second face at the top of the ladder that made his decision for him. The icy fingers of death had already touched him once, and he had no desire to entertain them again.

  Merion lunged forward and snatched up the scalpel. He hurled it as fast and as hard as he could before barging forward. It was a clumsy throw, catching the fishmonger across the back of the hand; but it was enough to send him tottering. Merion’s shoulder ramming into his gut finished the job. The fishmonger’s heel caught the lip of the ladder and he fell into the darkness with a wail. A sickening crunch cut him short.

  The vial was empty by the time the butcher hauled himself onto the ledge, brandishing a cleaver in his ham-like fist. He waved it around in mad arcs, boots inching forward with every swing. He didn’t seem to fancy following his brother down to the cobbles.

  Merion felt the blood surge in his stomach and clenched hard, forcing the magick into a dash for his skull. A hiss of exhilaration escaped his pursed lips; he hadn’t rushed since the night of the Bloodmoon, and by the Almighty did it feel good.

  By the time he had the rioting blood under his control, the butcher was only a few paces away. No longer was his face expressionless; in the faint light of the candle, he had spied the meat, the vial, the syringe, and now the blood on Merion’s lips. ‘Vampire!’ he spat, waving his cleaver again. Merion bared his bloody teeth.

  ‘Leech, actually,’ he said, as the blood surged into his fingers and into his face. He held strong through the pain, letting the shade go to work. His fingernails were growing thicker, sharper, thrusting out of his fingertips. In a few short moments he bore two handfuls of claws, brown and knotted like antlers. He grinned at the butcher, even though he already felt the shade struggling to endure. The mole hadn’t been exactly fresh, and the blood had been lacking. Merion would have to be fast.

  ‘What by the Almighty are you?!’ yelled his attacker, face aghast.

  With a kick, Merion extinguished the candle, and plunged the ledge into darkness. He blinked and found the night aglow with a pale light. He could see everything in crystal clarity: the horrified grimace on the butcher’s face; the sweat on his brow; the bootlace escaping from its knot. His mole eyes saw all. What a fine shade indeed!

  The butcher was afraid of the dark, it seemed, and set about trying to carve it to pieces with the knife, howling for the Almighty at the top of his lungs. His reaction was to be expected; he was sharing a small ledge with a clawed vampire. Several nearby dogs took to howling at the racket.

  Merion ducked a vicious slash of the blade and slammed his foot down on the wayward lace. At the same time, his claws raked the butcher’s coat to shreds, finding skin beneath. The butcher stumbled backwards with a cry, his cleaver falling to the stone. Merion kicked out while he still had the upper hand (or claw, to be exact). The man flew into the night, just like his brother.

  Merion crept forward and peeked down. The fishmonger was struggling to his feet; he was clutching his back with one hand, and waving his filleting knife with the other. He balanced a boot on the ladder once more, and Merion saw in the man’s eyes that this had gone beyond coin. It was now personal.

  Slashing at the empty air above him, the fishmonger climbed, pain flashing across his face with every rung. He was clearly struggling. The butcher lay where he had landed, silent and still. Merion could see a dark puddle gathering on the cobbles around his head.

  The young Hark slipped backwards to perch on the far end of the ledge, giving himself some room. Once the fishmonger had finally dragged himself up the ladder, he began to thrust indiscriminately into the shadows. His breath was laboured, and Merion could see the blood at the corner of his mouth. He was close to collapse.

  Merion edged along the brick and worked his way closer. The knife-blade almost caught him once, but he flinched away at the last moment. Thank the Almighty for mole eyes.

  He ducked and slashed out with his weakening claws, cutting across the back of the man’s legs. The fishmonger sank to the stone like a sack of coal. He hissed as he flailed. ‘You evil bastard! You monster!’

  Merion edged around him, gathering up his scattered things, careful to avoid the lunges. He stuck another claw into the man’s thigh to quieten him down.
‘If I was a monster, I’d slice your throat. It’s all thieves like you deserve, after all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be moving on.’

  The young Hark reached up to tug the brim of his hood as if it were an imaginary hat, and moved to the ladder. He slung his bags—now considerably lighter—over his shoulder.

  At the foot of the ladder, he paused, looking up and down the street. The butcher still had not moved, and from the angle of his neck, Merion doubted if he ever would again.

  The boy took a brief moment to press his head against the cold iron of the ladder, and let his thudding heart calm itself. Gavisham still lingered in his thoughts. He took a deep and slow breath, and pushed himself back onto the cobbles.

  ‘It wasn’t up to my standards in any case,’ he said aloud, before setting off at a brisk pace, aimed north and east once more. He would find somewhere quieter, less greedy, and perhaps catch a few hours’ sleep, before tomorrow’s tasks of visiting graves and tracking high-borns.

  There was a lot to be done, when plotting the downfall of a king.

  Chapter III

  IN THE MOUTH OF THE BEAST

  29th July, 1867

  Earlier that day

  Once gathered in great quantities, coin does not like to linger; not in pockets nor vaults. It cries to be spent, and that siren call is heard by the rich and powerful in every corner of the world. And though rich they may be, they are as powerless as the penniless because of it.

  A fine line can be drawn between those who have piles of coin, and those who have mountains. It’s easy to tell the two apart: the former smear their coin over their walls, dangle it from ceilings, make it glitter from every alcove, and drape it from throats and wrists. The latter treat it like a game; a deception. You have to peer closely to see their wealth; in the threads of a suit, the weight of a solitary ring, or in the ease with which they barter things, and lives.

  Calidae could tell Lord Dizali’s kind in an instant.

  He wore no finery about his neck or wrists, save for the signet ring common to all lords and ladies of the Empire. Though his halls were grand, they lacked the tacky lick of gold paint familiar to Calidae from the homes of lesser nobility. Even her father had been guilty on occasion; and her mother, with her jewels and passion for paintings. Dizali played his coin how she imagined he would play cards: close to the chest.

  Calidae thumbed the soft leather of her chair. Dizali was late; an obvious ploy to see if he could get a sweat out of her. This had been clear in the downward curve of his smile when he had greeted her at the Emerald House, not several hours earlier. It was an expression of mistrust, and Calidae knew it well. She had worn many like it in her time.

  And now she sat in Clovenhall, trying to ignore the feeling that she was finally home, where she belonged. Instead she summoned up every scrap of hate she held for the master of this house, and let it smoulder in her breast.

  She had a job to do.

  There came a grappling of the door-handle, and in swept Dizali with an attendant. As he spread his hands over the wide, leather-topped desk, his man stood at the window, staring idly at the topiary and pines beyond the glass. He wore a grey bowler hat and a matching suit, and the ensemble tickled a part of Calidae’s mind in a way she didn’t like. It was only when he turned to flash her an inquisitive look that her fears were confirmed.

  One blue eye, one brown eye. Another Brother, then.

  Calidae smiled again, studying Dizali’s face. He shuffled some papers on his desk before looking up at her, running his fingers through his goatee.

  ‘Lady Serped.’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘My apologies for rushing you away from the Emerald House,’ Dizali began, tapping his fingers on the leather. ‘I find that there are too many wandering eyes and curious ears in the city these days. We wouldn’t want your face smeared all over the morning’s papers now, would we?’

  Calidae cocked her head to one side. She could never pass up the opportunity to make somebody squirm.

  ‘Is my face no longer suitable for the papers?’

  Dizali didn’t know the meaning of squirming, it seemed. He levelled a flat gaze at her.

  ‘Maintaining your privacy is what I aimed to imply, Lady Serped.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And when tongues begin to wag, they never seem to stop. Better to have our discussion here and in private.’

  Calidae flashed a look to the Brother standing by the window, absently tracing smears on the glass. Dizali followed her eyes. ‘Just a manservant of mine. His tongue does not know how to wag.’

  She decided to wade straight in. She had the impression that Dizali, for all his vile games, was a man who enjoyed talking in a straight line. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have some fun along the way, to see if she could rattle him. Merion had told her not to, but caution be damned. She was the one sat in that chair, not the Hark.

  ‘Gile was the same,’ she replied quietly. ‘Mr Suffrous Gile, that is. My father’s manservant was of the same breed.’ The Brother gave her a sideways glance, full of curiosity. Perhaps he hadn’t known that Calidae Serped was part of the club, so to speak; a lamprey like the rest, one whom Dizali was no stranger to. She had attended many of his parties and ceremonies before Castor had been sent west by the Order itself. There were no secrets here. ‘Like your Mr Gavisham, if I’m not mistaken.’

  Dizali may have blinked, she wasn’t sure. He had noticed the past tense in her words.

  ‘You are not. And what of Mr Gavisham?’ he asked, leaning forward to temple his fingers. ‘Why is he not here with you?’

  Calidae touched her face, as if recalling the memory was too painful. ‘He found me several days walk outside of Fell Falls; what was left of it. Of course, seeing as he was a stranger I lied about who I was. Still, he was kind and offered me escort. We travelled together for several weeks, heading east until meeting up with the circus in Washingtown. He never once mentioned his employer as we walked. I simply recognised the eyes, and from what my father and Gile had told me of the Brothers. When he mentioned his task, I suspected that you may be behind his orders, my Lord.’ Calidae paused for a moment to clench a fist and deepen her scowl.

  ‘Go on,’ Dizali urged, eyes wide.

  ‘He died on the night of the Bloodmoon. The Hark traitor killed him with a stool when his back was turned.’ Calidae caught the flinch of the Brother’s shoulders in the corner of her vision. Dizali was slowly turning a shade of beetroot. It was hard to resist smirking.

  ‘With a stool?’ Dizali was clearly furious.

  She nodded solemnly, dropping a quiver into her voice. ‘He was caught completely off-guard. We were escaping the madness of the attempt on Lincoln’s life. Gavisham was trying to get me away from the fighting when Tonmerion walked out of the shadows and broke a wooden stool over his head. He kept swinging and swinging until he held nothing but splinters, and still he kept going.’ Calidae thought of the blood that had decorated her hands that night, and the sight of the mess she had made of the man. She let her eyes fall vacantly on the desk.

  ‘And what has become of the Hark boy?’ Dizali’s tone was sharp. His fears had been confirmed.

  ‘Escaped, I believe. Hopefully he was killed in the madness. Bullets were flying in all directions.’ It was Calidae’s turn to lean forward. ‘Not to mention magick. They were all rushers, my Lord, every one.’

  ‘Cirque Kadabra?’

  ‘All of them. Disgusting!’

  Dizali pondered. He was still suspicious. ‘Tell me, Lady Serped, how is it that you were able to cross the Iron Ocean and escape such carnage?’

  ‘I hid beneath a wagon until Lincoln’s soldiers had quelled the attack. Then I slipped out of sight, and went straight to the docks. I used what coin Gavisham had in his pockets to barter passage home. My father taught me to be resourceful, my Lord.’

  ‘Indeed he did,’ Dizali thumbed his goatee once more, thinking hard. ‘Why is it that you came to the Emerald H
ouse and asked for me?’

  Calidae saw the glint in his eye, so she spoke plainly. ‘Because of Gavisham’s orders. He told me, at his end. As you seem intent on protecting me, I assumed you would have use for me. So I went straight to the Emerald House without delay, to find out what and why.’

  Dizali hummed, deep and low, before spreading his fingers across the desk. ‘Eager to be of service, are we?’ he murmured.

  Calidae chose her words carefully, but didn’t shy from being bold. This was no time for subtlety.

  ‘I am eager to make my father’s memory proud, sir. To serve the rightful authorities as he did.’

  Dizali eyed her. ‘The Order.’

  ‘Precisely, my Lord.’

  A pause. ‘Then on that note, Lady Serped, I would like to offer my assistance.’

  ‘And what assistance is that, Lord Dizali?’

  ‘Any that you need. Lawyers. Words in the right ears. Protection, even.’

  ‘Am I to assume I’m in need of such things?’

  ‘There is the matter of your inheritance to consider.’

  There it was. Earlier than expected. Calidae wasn’t the only one being bold. ‘Quite. My father schooled me in its nature since I could walk, my Lord. I am ready to take the reigns. In fact, he held no secrets. I am aware of the Order, my Lord, and I wish to assure you that the Serped family will be remaining loyal to it.’

  Dizali stared at her. ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but these are trying times for all, Lady Serped. The queen has betrayed her people. The Emerald House is in a state of flux. And of course, there is a war on.’

  Calidae nodded. ‘So I have heard.’

  ‘Of course, when an estate as grand and as large as your father’s becomes, let us say, vacant, all sorts of worms wriggle from the woodwork. Rather hungry worms.’ Dizali was shameless in his tack.