The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  Once the dolt had produced the correct key and shown it to the locks, she swept forwards, practically pushing him aside.

  Memories were painted in grey and brown before her, in a heavier shade of dust. With the shutters closed the house was gloomier than usual, but what her eyes couldn’t make out, her legs knew from practice. She toured her halls and rooms at a speedy pace. Occasional cabinets and chairs wore their armour of cloth and sheet. Forgotten portraits and old family paintings watched her wander. All the while, she took long, deep breaths of the musty air, like a half-drowned sailor coming up for air. It had been all business until this moment.

  It was fleeting. It had to be. Calm and collected was her aim, not to get lost over old paintings and the shape of the banisters. She didn’t want to give Dizali any hint of emotion. It would fox him.

  When he found her in one of the dining rooms, examining a silver candlestick forgotten by the servants, he walked back and forth across the cold fireplace. ‘A fine home, Lady Serped.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Protector.’

  ‘Summons old memories, no doubt?’

  ‘Fewer than you would believe, my Lord.’

  ‘I see.’

  Calidae tutted as she examined the dust at her feet. ‘I do believe I have rather forgotten some of the layout,’ she lied. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’

  A nod. ‘Of course.’

  Calidae slipped from the room, retracing her steps back to the front door. She had led the Lord Protector deep into the southern wing of the house. She wanted access to the north, and time was very much of the essence when trying to keep a dangerous lie from dying.

  Calidae skipped up some steps, heading for a small hallway and then into a room that looked out over the muddy estuary. The clouds were busy tumbling across the sky, harried by the wind. It was one of those odd summer days when the sunlight comes and goes and the wind never lets up, pilfering any chance of enjoyment.

  But Calidae wasn’t interested in gazing at the scenery. She went straight to the small desk perched in front of the window, the one next to her father’s grand old workspace.

  Her hands worked swiftly, reaching for the hidden drawer and tugging it free. A letter slid into view and she snatched it up, fingers scrabbling at the paper. Her quick eyes devoured the words before she crumpled it up and stuffed it unceremoniously back into the drawer. She wanted Merion to see her distaste at his tone. The snide fool that he was. Then, she reached under the hem of her corset and withdrew her own slip of paper. She left it with the other and pushed the door shut.

  She was halfway out of the door when the shadow of Dizali crept up the stairs to greet her. ‘Finding your feet, Calidae?’

  ‘Indeed I am, Lord Protector. It’s coming back to me now. The Endless Land likes to eat away at memories.’

  ‘I have never heard that expression.’

  ‘Something the locals used to say in Kaspar, my Lord.’

  ‘Then if you have finished surveying your estate, Lady Serped, might I suggest we go and meet with Castor’s lawyers, to see what must be done with the rest of your father’s leavings?’

  Calidae put on a dissatisfied expression. ‘So soon, Lord Dizali? But I was expecting to take a full stock of the estate before that happens.’

  ‘How long do you imagine that would take?’

  Calidae curtseyed. ‘Two hours, at least, my Lord.’

  Dizali pursed his lips, jaw working hard not to summon something harsh and loud. He waved his hand irritably and retreated back to the comfort of his carriage. Calidae smiled to herself as she watched him leave. The little games are the sweetest. She would test his greed to the limit.

  *

  Three hours of wandering and time-wasting later, after she had poked in every crevice, thumbed through every mislaid book, and dug around every kitchen cabinet, Calidae climbed back into the carriage to greet a bored-looking Dizali with a polite smile. She ached to grin.

  ‘I’m pleased to inform you that I am finished, my Lord,’ she told him, tapping her temple as if she had somehow absorbed the estate into her brain. ‘I now know exactly the measure of my house. I’m ready to see my father’s lawyers. He taught me to be thorough, and so I shall be.’

  ‘How very endearing,’ Dizali replied through clenched teeth. He slammed his hand against the door of the carriage, once, twice, three times; and the horses were jolted into action.

  Wasting three hours of the Lord Protector’s precious time had left Calidae with a warm and fuzzy feeling. She settled back against the velvet and half-closed her eyes; lost in thought, teetering on the edge of sleep. Dizali busied himself with some documents, and she let her head droop, desperate to drown in her tiredness. But that would have been highly inappropriate.

  It was the feather bed. After several weeks of sleeping between rocks and on warm, shifting sand, her toughened body didn’t take kindly to sinking into a pool of silk every night. It was like wallowing in a humongous marshmallow. And something about it made her scars itch. It kept her awake as she fought not to claw at her skin.

  They were back in London in what felt like barely ten minutes. The carriage came to a juddering halt on the cobbles outside a stately building. Outside, the street was filled with the muddled flow of suit jackets and top hats, of frills and dress-patterns.

  ‘Let us go and discuss your estate, Lady Serped, and see if we can keep it in good hands.’

  ‘That is my aim, Lord Protector.’

  As soon as the door was opened Calidae was down and striding through the crowds, heading straight for a door decorated with brass plaques singing the praises of a dozen prestigious law firms.

  Dizali walked right behind her, wearing his hat low and his clothes plain to avoid being noticed. Even his carriage was relatively unadorned. It was all so practised; as if he made a habit of touring the streets incognito. After all, why keep a pair of gloves in your pocket if your hands won’t be getting dirty?

  Calidae pushed the door inwards with her fist. If anybody had glimpsed her expression in that moment, it would resemble a young woman striding into battle.

  *

  It was certainly a battle; one of wills and sly manoeuvres. The weapons were deceit and legal jargon, the battlefield a mire of clauses, paragraphs and subsections. Never had Calidae known such a torturous handful of hours. Not even the company of greedy old Barnamus, deep in the desert, had been so odious.

  Subtlety is a game built on the luxury of time; those without it cannot afford to play. Dizali was clearly in short supply. He practically sung his intentions from the rooftop despite barely saying anything more than a simple introduction. He let his gang of lawyers do the talking, each of them well trained and generously paid. And oh, how they talked; endless volleys of cacophonous blabbering about due causes, indemnification, warrants, and paragraphs A through S. At one point Calidae thought her ears were melting. She may have been fortified by resolve, but, as with war, any position can be overwhelmed if enough bodies are stacked against it.

  The lawyers were cautiously optimistic that the estate could be handed over relatively “soonish”, which Calidae wasn’t sure sounded very legal. Despite the good Lord Serped’s stipulation that she was eligible to inherit, there was capacity to consider. Her age was a factor, and of course her recent injuries and traumatic experiences could not be ignored.

  Calidae met those statements with the frostiest glare in her arsenal. Even Dizali cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. She shook her head at them. ‘Those are my own crosses to bear, gentlemen, and it would take a fool to doubt they would stand in the way of managing my father’s legacy.’

  The lawyer gang quickly scurried on to the next subject which, predictably, was the matter of the war, and how in times such as these, everybody must contribute to their glorious Empire; from soldiers and workers to lords and ladies. She was told to consider signing the estate to a temporary manager—somebody of reputable and powerful stature—to help her protect what her father had buil
t. Here she was: a captain being asked for her sword.

  Calidae wanted to spit on the varnished desk and rip their documents in two before their faces. She wanted to drive one of their quills into Dizali’s eye and watch him writhe. Time and patience be damned; neither of them had ever been considered strong points for Calidae Serped. Then again, neither had foolishness. She found herself sighing inwardly. The Hark boy had been right; she would have to give up her estate. And so she bit her tongue and reigned in her murderous inclinations.

  ‘I will need time to look at the papers,’ she said, before the deluge of documents smothered her. Dizali had won this game.

  Later, as the carriage rattled rudely across the flagstone roads of Kensingtown, Calidae watched the sun flicker through the canyons of streets. They had not spoken a word since climbing in, and that had been half an hour ago. The afternoon was beginning to tire. Suppertime was fast approaching; much to the delight of her belly. It would be something to distract her from the day’s disappointment.

  Dizali had his eyes closed, hands folded on the head of his cane. He was not asleep, but simply avoiding any acknowledgement of the girl’s existence. No doubt he was picking apart every iota of the last few hours; every one of her facial expressions, the scant number of words she had uttered, and whether he had got his coin’s worth out of her father’s lawyers. The traitorous pigs.

  She had one other distraction to look forward to. Wine, or brandy perhaps, depending on the mood Dizali was in that evening. Clovenhall’s decanters knew nothing but the finest bloodlines; far superior to the swill she had drunk in the Endless Land. She had put the red in her belly—as Merion would crassly put it—every night since arriving at Clovenhall. The thirst—the one that every lamprey knows—had returned. Frequency always makes it fiercer, as her father had told her. She dragged her tongue around her dry mouth.

  Maybe patience is impossible to learn, she pondered, as her eyes began to droop.

  *

  Dizali opened his eyes to find the girl asleep. At least she seemed to be; head teetering on the verge of lolling, mouth disconcertingly ajar. Inappropriate, he felt, but at least it gave him a chance to study her. Calidae’s eyes were almost as quick as his; any lingering gaze was always met with a coldly curious stare.

  What was it about those eyes of hers? So piercing they could cut a ribbon at a dozen paces. Her father’s had the same quality, but not as sharp as the girl’s. Perhaps the Endless Land had filed an edge onto them. If Dizali had been a lesser man, he might have found himself skewered by their intensity. He snorted. That was why lesser men existed; a backdrop to the greater amongst them.

  As his eyes roved over the smoothness of her scars, wincing as he pondered their origins, his mind worked over the memories of the day.

  Hanister had discovered nothing of foul play or hidden agendas, but Dizali was no fool, and far from convinced. Calidae had played the grateful, dutiful lamprey on first arrival; glad to be home. Today, however, he had seen resentment simmering behind her prim and proper veil. Then again, perhaps that was natural when you find yourself cheated of your inheritance. It was pure and simple; whether she was playing a game or not, Calidae was losing. Slickharbour Spit would soon be his, and just in time.

  Dizali paused to glance at the steps of the Emerald House as the carriage rumbled past. The Benches were vacant today, quiet and bereft of their usual bickering and fiendish stubbornness. Dizali had in his hands a pack of wild dogs. The Emerald Lords and Ladies still clamoured for a position in the new world he was building, still resisted his new government at every turn. The doubters foolish enough to air their concerns had found new lodgings in the Crucible under grounds of sedition. Those that were wise enough to keep their traps shut would soon be whittled out.

  Raising the promise of a portion of another grand inheritance was like dangling a pork chop just out of their reach. As with the Bulldog’s estate, they would of course see none of it. It was a delicate balance; keeping them hungry for the pork, not for the hand that held it. Dizali trod the line well.

  The dissent of the people was a greater difficulty. He saw it on the streets: groups loitering in alleyways; men standing around boxes; signs and splashed paint along shop windows. “Release the Queen!”, “Freedom is Victorious!”. The city teetered on the cusp of rioting.

  Problems need to be cut out.

  His own words had toyed with him all morning. Victorious was a cancerous lump, poisoning London. Throughout his hours of wandering the halls of Clovenhall, he had come to a decision: it was high time he fetched a scalpel.

  At last, a familiar crunch of gravel greeted them, along with a tap at the door from Captain Rolick. The man was still bruised and bandaged from his recent embarrassment. Dizali had been disappointed with his lack of ability to guard Karrigan’s vault. Had he not been the best lordsguard he had, the Crucible would have one more inmate to entertain.

  ‘Good evening, my Lord.’

  ‘Evening, Rolick,’ Dizali replied, flatly.

  The captain turned to Calidae. ‘Milady.’

  Lady Serped awoke with a cough. Dizali had to hand it to her; she was quick with her manners. Her father had taught her well.

  ‘Captain. Good evening.’

  ‘Lord Longweather has come calling, Milord.’

  Dizali’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Has he now?’

  ‘Matters of the crown, he said. He is waiting in your study.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I’ll have the butlers begin dinner, Milord.’

  ‘I am perfectly capable of delivering such an order,’ Dizali said, before knocking on the ceiling of the carriage. Rolick was left standing alone at the gates.

  ‘Supper, at once!’ barked Dizali, as he strode through the tall doors of Clovenhall. The butlers scurried like mice. A chorus of, ‘Yes, Lord Protector!’ echoed through the atrium.

  ‘I shall meet you in the main dining room shortly,’ he said to Calidae, raising a finger to point at the distant ceiling. ‘I have something to attend to.’

  ‘Of course, my Lord,’ Calidae replied, curtseying before striding for the stairs, head held high as usual.

  Dizali strode across the patterned floor, heels clip-clopping smartly on the stone. His servants scattered like autumn leaves in his wake. He shooed them away with glares and waves of his hand.

  He found Longweather half-swallowed by a leather chair in the corner of Dizali’s study. The man had helped himself to a glass of scarlet brandy. A red smear painted the bottom of his glass, cradled in a cage-like hand.

  ‘My Lord Protector,’ Longweather greeted as he rose, with some difficulty, from his chair. He was going the way of Darbish. Success can file some men to a point, while others it widens, letting them grow plump like proving dough. Dizali made him wait as he fetched a drop for himself.

  ‘Matters of the crown, I hear? I thought we spoke enough of them this very morning.’

  ‘Merely to keep up appearances, my Lord. I have come to discuss our next steps.’

  ‘I see. You are in need of a new script to learn.’

  Longweather wrinkled a lip, but this was precisely the case. If Dizali was a magician, then Second Lord Longweather played the planted actor in the audience.

  ‘I merely wish to know your mind, my Lord. You seem to be striding forward at great lengths and I am having trouble keeping up.’ Dizali flicked a glance at his waistband. Longweather cleared his throat. ‘That is to say, if I am to tow the party line, it would be useful to know in which direction I should be moving.’

  Dizali took a chair opposite him. ‘You have been doing a fine job until now. Why have you come to doubt yourself?’

  It was no hollow compliment. The Second Lord was more than useful when collecting votes, intimidating party members, and swaying flows of conversation.

  Longweather finished what was left of his brandy. Maybe he needed the courage. ‘You haven’t told me our next move. I cannot remember a time when you haven’t kept me informed.’<
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  ‘I was not aware it was my duty to keep you informed.’

  Longweather was wise enough not to splutter. ‘Far from it, my Lord. I simply feel left behind.’

  Dizali toyed with him. ‘And if that was exactly where I wanted you, Longweather, what then? Would you turn on me? Would you denounce me? Move the Order against me?’

  ‘No, my Lord! I would never do such a thing!’

  The Lord Protector smiled. ‘I would hate to see you occupying a cell alongside our illustrious fallen majesty.’

  ‘I…’

  Dizali watched, as Longweather’s mouth flapped. The man had clearly come for an amiable chat about world domination over a decanter of the finest scarlet. Like his belt-loops, he was becoming slack. It was high time he was reminded of his place in this grand, clanking machine of a plan; that anyone could be chewed up by its teeth and left mangled by the roadside. Dizali wondered if Longweather needed to be reminded of Lady Knutshire; of how a wagging mouth and delusions of importance can lead to a pair of broken legs and an impromptu swim in the Thames estuary.

  Longweather saw the fragility of his footing. ‘I apologise, Lord Protector. If you have no need of me, then I shall wait until you do.’

  Dizali watched the lord push himself from his chair once more and aim for the door. He let him take three steps before raising a hand.

  ‘Sit, Longweather. I am merely testing your resolve.’

  ‘Of course, my Lord.’ Longweather bobbed his head gratefully. There was a serious glint in his eyes. Dizali fetched him another brandy, and did all but pat him on the head before sitting back down. Pets need a reward when they have learnt a new trick, and humility is never the easiest to master. ‘I would hate for you to doubt my loyalty.’

  ‘And that is why I keep you around, Longweather. You have stayed true to the Cobalts and the Order.’

  Dizali raised his glass, and their talk turned to business.

  *

  Calidae had already eaten her supper; a fine medley of smoked fish and buttered potatoes. She had grown bored of waiting for the Lord Protector to extricate himself from whatever he was doing. More to the pity, there had been no wine nor brandy. There was a vexing shiver in her gut that refused to go away. It was a perfect compliment to the resentment of the day.