by Ben Galley
It seemed that killing a queen was not to everybody’s taste.
Dizali raised the window blind and stared out. Where once applause and yells might have chased his carriage wheels, now he received only nods and scowls. London was now more polarised than ever. If the confining of Victorious to the Crucible had sparked outrage, Dizali’s decision to send her to the gallows had bred dissent. He had intended it to silence dissenters; but the city was still torn, with a deeper gash than before. It looked as though it would take the snap of the executioner’s lever to mend it.
Dizali cradled his chin in his palm, watching his Empire go by, grey in the overcast light. As they pulled around a corner facing a wide park, he could see a large crowd gathered around a bandstand, waving signs.
Royalists.
Dizali made a mental note to have Rolick dispatch the constabulary. He would have them reminded of the Empire’s opinions on rebellion.
What truly aggravated him was that the unrest wasn’t isolated to the streets; it had reached the Emerald Benches, too. They may have voted in agreement—the announcement of Calidae Serped’s return and her generous pledge of her estate to the Lord Protector had seen to that—but there had been much groaning in the corridors of the House after the session; groans that Dizali did not like the sound of, and that Longweather was failing to quell.
Victorious was like an old tumour; unwanted and yet so ingrained and familiar they feared to cut her out. In Dizali’s opinion, the Benches were spineless, and had lost sight of the cause he had promised them and that they had championed. He shook his head, wondering who in their right minds could snub absolute control of an Empire. Fools. He promised himself he would cut them all loose as soon as the Queen was dangling at the bottom of her rope. Once he had proved he could silence a royal, nobody would dare speak against him.
In the seat opposite, Calidae Serped stifled a yawn, staring out of the opposite window. Dizali watched her for a moment, from the corner of his eye. Gone was the confident yet traumatised girl who he had welcomed into his home. A cannier, more difficult young woman had replaced her. She may have played the dutiful lamprey and whistled his tune at the Order’s table, but when it came to her estate, she betrayed the viper hiding beneath.
Calidae had spent half the morning questioning every document the lawyers had delivered to Dizali’s study; picking apart every missive and order, deliberately trying to irritate him. It had worked, much to his displeasure. It reminded him loosely of Witchazel, before he had been broken.
Dizali narrowed his eyes at her. It may simply have been her form of futile revenge for losing the Spit. But his suspicions had bloomed brighter every day she trod his floors. Early sprouts of concern, only partially developed; but suspicions nonetheless. He knew the old adage about friends, enemies, and where to keep them; and that was why Calidae accompanied him today. It also gave the crowds another focus. The populace needed a distraction, and as Calidae had not been formally revealed, it seemed the perfect time to do it. Dizali allowed himself one of his rare smirks.
The crowds grew thicker by the mile. There seemed to be some sort of minor pilgrimage going on. Dizali leaned forward, almost pressing himself to the glass, and watched with interest.
This was no organised march. There were no banners, no uniforms, no colours. The Crucible had drawn all types, from peasants to perfumed ladies. He even spied a few nobles and lower high-borns milling about in their coat-tails and hats. That brought a scowl to the Lord Protector’s face.
‘Whatever is going on?’ Calidae chimed, as their carriage came to a halt.
‘Some sort of disturbance, I imagine.’ Dizali slammed his fist against the roof and dropped down the window. ‘What is all this?’ he demanded of Rolick, who quickly came running.
‘The road to the Crucible is, er, busy, Milord. We can’t get through for all the people.’
‘Busy?’ echoed Dizali, eyes flashing. ‘I am the Lord Protector! I do not care if it is busy. I demand to get through, damn it!’
‘Yes, Milord.’ Rolick saluted and scurried back to the driver. Shouts rang out as rifle-butts began to poke people aside; forcefully, but not roughly. Rolick knew crowds as well as Dizali did. They were like dogs with troubled histories: unpredictable and sharp of tooth. Crowds were to be handled carefully, with respect. They were acting calm and civil now, but they could turn at any moment.
As the carriage progressed and the crowds thickened, it soon became evident that the Queen’s sentence had stirred up misplaced compassion in some of the city’s weaker souls. These were not royalists, just sympathisers; fools who didn’t understand the need for progress. Dizali curled his lip as he watched them wave their signs and hug each other. He refused to be swayed by their pitiful mewing. They would soon change their minds when they saw her monstrous face, bulging and bloated from the knot around her neck.
Victorious hadn’t been seen in public for over two hundred years. To many citizens of the Empire, she was a frail old woman lacking the ferocity to rule. Cruel at times, of course, and war-hungry, but still the architect of the greatest Empire the world had ever seen. That sort of thing tends to garner lasting respect.
Others in the crowd wore different faces; seemingly appreciative of the Queen’s doom. They stood wide-eyed, shaking their clenched fists at the walls of the Crucible, cheering among themselves. Dizali nodded to them through his window.
The Crucible was London’s mightiest prison by a country mile. It sat on the edge of the Thames; a colossal cube of grey brick and old metal, with sheer walls and fearsome turrets at each corner. Ironically, construction had been one of Victorious’ first commands after taking the throne over five hundred years ago. Nobody had ever escaped its boundaries alive. Escape came in two forms: the sweet release of death, or a pardon signed by Victorious herself. The latter was considerably rarer. In fact, the only person to ever receive one was the Almond Duke, the wild bastard son of the Bitter Prince, over a hundred years ago. His father had paid a pretty price to save the boy’s head, and donated a chunk of land in southern Francia to sweeten the deal.
A wall topped with iron spikes kept the crowd at bay, along with a sturdy gate bordered by two small watchtowers. Victorious had a passion for security. She wasn’t about to make it easy for her prized prisoners: the slimiest traitors, the most prolific of murderers, difficult earls, cowardly knights, thieving palace maids, and runaway generals. Five hundred years is a long time to build any collection.
As they reached the gates, curious eyes crowded at the windows. The carriage’s inhabitants had been guessed. A rising rumble of pleas for mercy greeted the carriage as the lordsguards saw it to the gates. Dizali waved the peasants away, disgusted at the greasy fingerprints they left on his glass.
He leaned back and let them see his passenger. With any luck, Calidae would be the talk of the morrow. Dizali taking the lone survivor of the Serped murders under his wing; that was a fine spin to the story. It may even drum up some support. He would have Hanister pay the newspaper editors a visit that evening. (So far, the man had proved useless at tracking down Pontis the butler.)
The front doors of the Crucible were a dark maw of portcullis and thick stone. As he and the girl were ushered inside, Dizali noted the ravens standing around the grounds, eying them with big dark eyes. The birds had followed their Queen.
Inside the Crucible, the air was deathly silent. The prison’s master, a heavy-set fellow by the name of Boller, could not abide noise; his hatred of it was notorious. If there should be a wail, a shout, or—
‘—Even a fart, Milady. I have the prisoners duly punished,’ Boller boasted, as he led them through the prison’s tall, arched corridors, up to its highest reaches. There was a prisoner rank and file in the Crucible and it was based on height. It was as if each new floor dragged escape further out of reach.
‘A tight ship then, Master Boller,’ said Calidae, dabbing her handkerchief to her nose. She was not being dramatic; the Crucible stank on the best of day
s. Several centuries of death and misery were tough to wash out.
Boller wagged a pudgy finger. ‘Indeed, Lady Hark. Indeed.’
‘Good,’ said Dizali. ‘I may have more use for you and your Crucible, in the coming weeks. One new addition in particular, and soon I hope.’
‘I see,’ Boller said, dropping behind the Lord Protector so that he could better hear him. He was far from stupid; he saw where the power had shifted. ‘The Crucible is at your disposal, Milord.’
Calidae piped up. ‘Who might that be, Lord Protector? An enemy of the Empire?’
Dizali turned his eyes on her. She gazed back, obstinate. Part of him wanted to slap the scowl from her cheeks.
‘Absolutely, Lady Serped. I believe you know him well. Tonmerion Harlequin Hark.’
‘The traitor who made you…’ Boller trailed off and gulped as he realised his words. Calidae raised an eyebrow at him, turning her head to show more of her scars. She clearly enjoyed watching people squirm. ‘Er, who attacked your riverboat, Milady, in the New Kingdom.’
‘Have you found him at last, Lord Protector?’ asked Calidae, sounding vengeful. Dizali deigned not to answer.
‘You manage to poke your head from the Crucible once in a while at least then, Boller?’ said Dizali, letting the master lead them on. He was eager to see his new acquisition. Calidae trailed behind them, expressionless. He wondered what hid behind her sapphire eyes.
‘Occasionally, my Lord.’
‘And what of our beloved Queen? How is she adjusting to her new surroundings?’
‘The traitorous creature, if I may say so, Milord, has a honey tongue. One guard has already been sent to the asylum after spending too long with her. We change the guards every day, and we hardly let her speak.’
Creature. Dizali wanted to smile at that. Boller was wise enough to see her for what she truly was.
‘Fine work.’
‘Here we are,’ Boller announced, as he opened a heavy door and showed them into a long corridor, its corners punctured with skinny skylights. The shafts of light criss-crossed the shadows in an almost geometric pattern. Cells sat on either side, seven in all; three a side and one at the end. It was the only room that bore a lit lantern over its door.
Boller pointed them to it, letting them step along the corridor alone. He hovered by the door, knowing the need for privacy. Victorious had trained him well.
‘Leave us,’ Dizali ordered the two guards standing either side of the Queen’s cell. They bowed and jogged to the door, armour clanging in rhythm. Boller shut the door behind them and once more, silence fell.
‘Lord Protector Bremar Dizali,’ came the hiss from the dark depths of the cell. There were no skylights here. A dark figure was slumped on a pile of blankets in the shadows. Dizali could barely make her out. ‘And his young protégé, Lady Calidae Serped! Have you come to gloat over your Queen?’
‘More than that, my dear Victorious.’ Dizali moved closer to the bars. He wanted to see the look on that distorted face of hers; the glint in her inhumanly large eyes, with their narrow slits. ‘I have come to inform you of your fate.’
‘You cannot keep me here forever, Dizali. I have heard the chanting from below. I hear the whispers of my city at night, calling for me.’
The Lord Protector cocked his head to one side and smiled. ‘And what do they chant? What do they whisper?’
He noticed the lifting of her misshapen head. ‘For my release. My rightful return to the throne. And for your head.’
Dizali almost laughed at that. Victorious was delirious.
‘They will not be shouting or whispering or doing anything of the sort for much longer, let me assure you. They will learn a rather different tune.’
Victorious shifted, rising up from her blankets. She moved out of the shadows and Dizali’s eyes roved the rippling contours of her bizarre face. The skin seemed to have drooped since his visit to the Palace of Ravens; her barbels and folds looking shrivelled. He heard Calidae’s intake of breath at his side.
‘Speak,’ she rasped.
‘You no longer give me orders, Victorious.’
The Queen spat on the stone between them and chuckled. ‘And I will not suffer yours either, Dizali, unlike your young acolyte here.’
‘I am no acolyte,’ said Calidae. ‘I am now a member of the Order. The same Order that you abandoned so many years ago.’ The dutiful lamprey had returned. Dizali was impressed.
‘A nest of snakes and vipers! I will have you all hanged, drawn and quartered!’ Victorious rasped.
The Lord Protector chuckled. ‘Not quite, your Majesty. Not quite.’ He let her stew for a moment, tongue licking at her lips. He wondered if it was forked.
‘Well?’ she snapped.
Dizali gripped the bars, pressing his face to their coldness to give himself a clear view of Victorious’ expression. He had longed for this moment, and he wanted to drink in all of her defeat; her rage, even her fear, if such a thing still hid within her. He spoke, fierce and loud.
‘Queen Victorious, so-called Queen of the Empire of Britannia and all it commands. The Emerald House has spoken. On their behalf, I condemn you to the gallows and the noose, from which you shall hang until you are dead.’
Words of history.
Victorious rushed to the bars, scraping across the stone with an almighty shriek, revealing her warped face and inhuman features. Both Calidae and Dizali recoiled as hands and sharp nails reached for them. One managed to prise a button from Dizali’s coat. It rattled on the stone.
Saliva dripped from her crooked mouth as she seethed, eyes wide and wild.
‘Thief and traitor, I name you!’
Dizali shook his head. ‘Your madness would be reason enough to strangle you, even if you were not a traitor, Victorious.’
The Queen raised a curled fingernail. Her dark eyes narrowed to slits, glowing with hate and rage. Her huge body shook as she spoke in a voice that sounded like a file rasping over old nails. Dizali was almost transfixed by it. He felt a strange pressure on his chest, like a hand was holding him down. The air grew close.
‘I curse you, Bremar Dizali! I curse your future and all you hold dear, and I curse them until the end of your days. May you never grasp what you reach for!’
Dizali growled at her. ‘Dispense with this witchcraft, Victorious, you disgusting creature! Your magick will not work on me. Perhaps in the last few days of your life, you can learn some humility, if that is even possible.’
‘So naive,’ the Queen whispered, as she backed into the shadows. ‘To think that sipping blood is all there is.’
Dizali adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. He was not to be swayed.
‘I know there is more. It is called power, domination, strength. All of which you lack. A new dawn is breaking. This Empire will be free of your kind for ever more.’
Victorious gave no answer. She simply hissed to herself and scraped something on the walls. Dizali snorted, mostly to hide the chill that had crawled up his spine. He turned to Calidae, distracting himself. ‘Would you like to offer any words, Lady Serped?’
‘None, except that you are a disgrace to your kind,’ Calidae told the Queen, making Dizali nod.
‘I see a terrible vengeance in you, girl, boiling up,’ Victorious whispered. The glint of her eyes switched to Calidae. ‘It will consume you, and when it is gone, you will be naught but a hollow shell. Remember that, when your finger itches for a trigger.’
Calidae gripped the bars. ‘I only seek vengeance on traitors like you, and Tonmerion Hark!’
More hissing from the cell.
Like tugging limbs from treacle, they took their leave of the ancient Queen and walked back to where Boller and the guards were standing to attention. Dizali nodded to the master.
‘You may lock up, Boller. Her sentence has been delivered. Let nobody see her except to deliver food and water.’
‘Of course, Milord.’ The master tugged at his belt. ‘I imagine the news was not taken so wel
l. We almost came to your aid.’
Dizali shook his head. ‘None was needed. The bars are strong, and she is beyond any sense.’
‘Mad as a barrel of squirrels, as my old mother would have put it, my Lord. Not fit for the throne any day of the week. All the men are saying so.’ Dizali wished he had more men like Boller. Transparent yet smart. No need for wasted words.
‘You may let them talk, Master Boller. There is no reason to hide the truth from the people. Let them talk long and loudly.’
‘I suppose not, Lord Protector.’
‘Good man!’
Dizali waited until they were back in the atrium before sliding a small coin purse into the master’s hand.
‘For your continued loyalty, Master Boller. Something for the wife and children.’ Dizali had done his research. Boller had two of the former and a dozen or so of the latter.
The master bowed as low as his ample form could allow and pocketed his bounty. They said no more until the carriage doors were slammed shut.
‘I trust all is in order for the execution?’ Dizali asked through the open window. He had forgotten to check, and that was not at all like himself. Victorious’ words had distracted him. Curses be damned, he inwardly snorted, and yet that feeling of unease refused to budge. The Queen’s dark eyes still hovered in his mind.
‘All’s been organised, Milord. As much as it pains a professional such as myself to open my doors, it will be a fine event. The afternoon of the twelfth, as you commanded.’
‘Excellent.’
‘My Lord.’ Boller bowed again as the carriage swung around and made for the gates. The crowd were still pressed up against them. The ravens still loitered.
Dizali did not even blink as the moans and shouts rose and fell again; as the fingers tapped at the windows and bothered the horses. He simply stared at the dark red velvet of the opposite wall and lost himself in its folds. He did not feel the carriage come to a stop, nor did he hear Calidae’s words. It was only when she dared to touch his elbow that he snapped out of the introspection.
‘What?’ he barked, making her jump.
