by Ben Galley
‘We’ve arrived at Clovenhall, Lord Protector.’
‘Very well!’ he snapped.
*
‘You had better have some good news for me, Brothers,’ said Dizali, as the three hybrids filed into his study. He stood at the grand windows, staring out at the spires of London, wrapped in wisps of cloud.
‘We do indeed,’ Hanister answered. ‘We have news of Tonmerion Hark.’
Dizali turned, busy twirling his sharp goatee. He sat at his desk, fingers templed and eyebrows raised.
‘Well?’
‘Just over a week ago, an American ironclad arrived in the western docks,’ said Hanister. ‘An eyewitness says it looked like the Black Rosa, Lincoln’s own ship.’
‘She stayed just long enough to let two passengers disembark,’ said Heck.
‘A boy, possibly twelve, and an older woman with wrinkles,’ added Honorford.
‘Well, well, gentlemen. I’m impressed.’ Dizali truly was; he had expected yet another failure. Perhaps there was hope in the Eighth after all. ‘And you believe this to be Hark?’
Hanister bobbed his head. ‘The boy fits his description, my Lord.’
‘We believe the older woman is his aunt. Lilian?’ said Heck.
‘Lilain,’ corrected Dizali. Heck looked at him as though he couldn’t hear the difference.
Dizali clapped his hands. ‘Foolish as ever. The final two heirs of Hark’s estate, delivered to my doorstep. Fine work, Brothers. Where are they now?’
Hanister opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Dizali felt his smile fading. ‘Anybody else like to hazard a guess?’
Heck held up a hand. ‘In London, my Lord.’
‘London,’ Dizali whispered, as his hands clenched into fists. ‘OF COURSE THEY ARE IN BLOODY LONDON!’ he roared, making the Brothers wince. ‘All you have come to tell me is that Tonmerion and his aunt are somewhere in London?’
‘We understood you wanted your suspicion confirmed, my Lord,’ said Honorford.
‘What I want,’ said Dizali, ‘is to drag a knife down that boy’s wrist and bleed him over the damned Orange Seed! Now unless you can dig him out of whatever hole he’s hiding in and dump him on my desk, alive, then I do not want to see you, let alone hear from you, unless I say otherwise! This will be your one and only purpose. Now, have your acolytes spread across the city, hunting him and his friends down. And by the Star, take a bath. You all reek of alcohol and bilge!’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ the Brothers chorused, before making their exit. They left Dizali to rub his temples with finger and thumb and deplore the existence of leeches. There were many reasons to do so, but for now, it was the theft of Arrid Gavisham. The Eighth reminded him of his loss; and there were few things a rich and powerful man hated more. Gavisham would have made short work of this debacle. Tonmerion would have been hanging from a noose by now.
Dizali winced, showing nobody but himself that he knew this wasn’t true; he had come to terms with it over the past week. Tonmerion had beaten his best man to death with a stool. Gavisham’s failure was a fouler poison than the incompetence of his replacements. He had failed. Gavisham had broken the backs of ships with his bare hands, hunted the most elusive of prey, shown a knife to half the Empire; and yet he had lost to an untrained boy.
It is an awful, cold, stab of a moment, when you realise you might fear your enemy, he thought, even if it is just a shadow of worry or tiredness clouding the mind.
He sought solace at his grand window and the spires of the city. They looked greyer now. Fouler.
Dizali pressed his knuckles into his palm. Try as he might, he could not shake off the Queen’s words. They had bothered him since escaping the Crucible. Did he even believe in curses? The knot in his stomach suggested he might. When a life is spent in the presence of magick, it is hard to deny all its forms. Her words about vengeance also perturbed him, and twisted the knot a little tighter.
He went back to watching the sugar-spun clouds, as if the gathering weather could wash some sense into the situation. His thoughts tumbled with them, until, out of their tangle they produced a suspicion.
It was a simple one: to a half-blind old sailor, what was the difference between a weathered woman and a scarred young girl? The two were far too close for his liking.
*
Calidae had taken her chance to escape the watchful eyes of Dizali and his morons. She tramped up the stairs to her room, citing the need to lie down after so much excitement at the Crucible. Nobody had said a word; not even the Lord Protector, who simply strode off in the direction of his study.
Her room was cool, thanks to the window being constantly open now she was playing host to the visits of magpies. Calidae placed her hot face against the cold glass, looking for any flapping shapes. The sky was streaked with cloud, and growing dim now that afternoon was slipping to evening. No magpies in sight. Just a few ravens, circling a pine tree in the garden.
She swept from the window and resorted to pacing, walking out her angst. She found it worked wonders. Every day spent in Dizali’s presence made it harder to restrain her emotions, and his increasing suspicion tightened her nerves. She had caught the sideways glances, the slitted eyes when he thought she was asleep in the carriage. She found solace in the counting of the days, of which there were fewer and fewer. Her victory was close, and that was armour enough. What was the point in wallowing, when you can be winning? Another of her father’s adages.
She recalled the Queen’s haunting face and wondered what the mad creature had meant by her words.
Vengeance… boiling her up… leaving her hollow.
They had put a chill in her; that much was true. She wondered whether they referred to her thirst for more: more blood, more power, more secrets. A Queen would certainly know a thing or two about that.
Doubts were like knots in muscle. They had to be worked upon, manhandled, forced into submission. Calidae had become skilled at this after the past few weeks. Within an hour, her stubbornness had broken down Dizali’s suspicions and the Queen’s threats into objectives and obsoletes. She was enjoying this new habit of calculation. It made a fine difference to the impetuous girl who had hurtled her way across America.
A growl of her stomach sat her down at the dressing table to ready herself for dinner. Yet another quiet, uncomfortable meal with the Lord Protector, no doubt; and perhaps a select few of his minions, if she were lucky. One of the Order maybe, or one of the Eighth. At least there would be crimson wine. Perhaps if Dizali was in the drinking mood, she could at last slip away to the northeast wing. She sucked at her twisted lip.
As she combed her hair into place, she checked her skin for any sores that had been stubborn enough to hang around; a practice that had become habitual since stepping onto the Black Rosa. Caves and rocky desert tors hadn’t been the ideal place for maintenance.
Her face, scalp, and neck were practically healed, but there were a few small places were the fire still burned in some shape or form. The tenderness had also faded. Now Calidae’s fingers could roam freely, skipping over her hairline, or her ear, or the ripples in her neck. She smiled then, as she always did; staring at herself, admiring the new her, stamping out any doubt that was bold enough to poke its prickly head.
‘I am a Serped,’ she told herself. ‘And Serpeds always win.’
There came a timid knock at her door. A maid. ‘Supper, Milady.’
‘Yes, fine,’ Calidae called out, halfway through changing her dress. She had opted for something slightly grander than was strictly necessary. She didn’t care. Let it bother Dizali, make him squirm. Every time she did that, she learned something new about the way his tongue worked; how he bent his words, and those of others. The chance for a free lesson should never be snubbed.
She found Dizali at the head of the dining table. She took a different spot than usual, sitting to Dizali’s side instead of the far end. The Lord Protector didn’t deign to rise. ‘Lady Serped,’ was all he said, before continuing to eat
. Tonight’s supper was salmon and delicate slices of potato roasted in cream and cheese. A carafe of crimson wine caused Calidae’s gut to murmur.
The butler appeared at once, sliding a plate under her nose and removing its silver lid with a flourish. Vegetables also found their way to the table. Silver cutlery rattled against silver trays.
Dizali saw to his own plate, glancing up at the girl every minute or so. Calidae ignored his looks.
‘I have been thinking, Lady Serped, about what the Queen said today,’ he announced, once his plate was clean and a stray bone had been removed from his goatee. Judging by the smudge of red at the corner of his mouth, he was certainly in a drinking mood tonight.
‘Her curse?’
‘About vengeance, actually.’
She busied herself with her fish. ‘What is on your mind, Lord Protector?’
Dizali poured more crimson wine into her glass, even though she had yet to take a sip.
‘The Brothers Eighth have heard word of an American ship docking in London, about a week ago.’
That was news indeed.
‘I see.’
‘An ironclad, no less.’
‘How curious.’
‘Curious indeed, Calidae. Far too curious for a coincidence.’
She calculated a response to change his focus. ‘You believe King Lincoln is seeking vengeance for Cirque Kadabra?’
The casual sip of his wine told her that no, he did not. In fact, it appeared as though he hadn’t even considered this. She pressed on. ‘I thought the consensus was that the Order’s involvement was anonymous. That Lincoln suspected nothing? This could spell tr—’
‘The Eighth say that Tonmerion Hark was spotted disembarking. Along with a wrinkled woman.’
‘A wrinkled woman?’ Thank the Almighty for short-sighted dock workers.
‘And what is most strange is that the ironclad’s appearance coincides with the time you arrived, Lady Serped. In fact it was the very same day. Truth be told, it makes me wonder what vengeance the Queen was inferring.’
‘That is to be expected. I fled as soon as I could. No doubt Hark did the same, chasing me down. And rest assured, Lord Protector, I did not arrive in an American ship. And it certainly wasn’t an ironclad.’
‘What kind was it?’
Calidae raised an eyebrow. ‘Is this an interrogation or a supper, my Lord? You seem to distrust me all of a sudden. For reasons that aren’t known or understood.’
‘I seek only to understand every angle. What manner of ship?’
Calidae replied with all the confidence of rehearsal. Merion had insisted on testing every inch of her survival tale on the voyage. ‘A trading sloop. Barely sea-worthy. Grecian, I believe.’
Dizali leaned forward. ‘So the name Black Rosa means nothing to you?’
‘Not in the slightest, my Lord. You’ve no reason to doubt me. We share the same goal, after all. The only desire for revenge I have is reserved for Tonmerion Hark.’
Dizali thumbed his goatee. The keys around Calidae’s neck felt hot and heavy.
‘Well, I’m glad you are satisfied, Lord Dizali.’ She was holding her fork tightly, almost hurting her fingers.
‘Oh, I am not satisfied. Not yet.’
‘Will you insult me further?’ Calidae snapped. ‘I have been nothing but honest ever since my arrival, and have done everything as you say. Everything! As a member of the Order, I believed you trusted me implicitly. Is this not so, or will I have to prove myself further?’
Dizali looked at her carefully. He took his time with his thoughts, spending at least a minute chewing on them, his stare locked on Calidae’s impassive eyes.
‘It is because you are now a member of the Order that I must know you can be trusted. Why did Hark not kill you after he killed Gavisham? Why spare you, if he was chasing you down, as you say?’
Calidae folded her napkin onto her lap and fixed him with her ice-blue eyes.
‘Look at my face, Lord Protector, and tell me it doesn’t make you shiver. Not outwardly, perhaps, but definitely in some private, morbid imagining of wearing the same skin. The feel of it. Now take a moment to consider how you would feel if you were the cause of such injuries, such losses. It would give you pause, would it not? It may even stay your hand, if you were my enemy. It certainly stayed Tonmerion Hark’s hand, and I do not mind saying it made me hate him all the more. Pity is nothing more than cowardice in a prettier costume. His mistake will be his undoing. Does that answer your question?’
Dizali said nothing. He emptied his glass with two large gulps and rose to his feet. He put his fists to the tabletop and watched as she removed herself from her chair.
‘For now.’
‘Thank you once again, Lord Protector, for the meal,’ said Calidae, curtseying.
She left him at the table, bound for her room. There would be no sneaking tonight.
Chapter XIV
FATHER’S SON
9th August, 1867
‘All I’m saying, is that if you really think hard about it, blood rushing is just odd. You’re drinking animal blood, for Almighty’s sake. Doesn’t it ever feel strange to you two?’ Merion threw out his argument, glancing between Lurker and Gunderton with a hopeful expression.
They swapped a look, shrugged and then chorused, ‘No.’
Merion scowled.
Evening had fallen, and London was beginning to sparkle. Despite the eager mist, which had clawed its way up the steep riverbanks to lurk in the cobbled alleyways, lanterns and gaslights shone brightly through the murk. The buildings cut misshapen silhouettes from the purple sky as it bruised to velvet black. Here in the old city, the rooftops were crooked spines, the walls leaned in all directions, and the guttering clung on for dear life. These were London’s oldest roots, and by the Almighty, they were decrepit.
Merion stepped over a puddle, dashing it with his boot. He shrugged. ‘Then I’ll just have to assume you both lack a touch of refinement.’ He chuckled, receiving a sharp nudge from Lurker.
The old prospector sucked again on his cigarette. ‘I ain’t the one who’s still squeamish ‘bout puttin’ the red in his belly. Yellow’s more your colour.’
It was Merion’s turn to do the nudging, and he did so with a mock swipe at Lurker’s hat. The prospector caught his wrist in a flash, and grinned. Merion chuckled and tutted.
‘And yet you won’t teach me to fight,’ he said.
‘I only fight ‘cause I can’t rush five veins like you.’
‘Five veins?’ Gunderton raised an eyebrow.
Merion nodded. ‘I learnt reptile in Cirque Kadabra. Yara Mizar’s letters weaned me onto it.’
‘Not bad,’ said the Brother. ‘But I’ve seen better.’ He winked.
Merion was curious to find out where.
Gunderton gave him a broad smile. ‘Your father could rush the whole Star.’
‘Almighty…’ said Merion, flushed with pride, but also feeling a little sting of jealousy. A decision fuelled by passion was always swiftly made. He would have to master the last shade, when the dust had settled. His mind flashed back to the hour spent at Lilain’s table in Fell Falls, and how brutal the insect test had been.
He was the Bulldog’s Boy. And he would make his father proud.
Merion had often wondered why the Bulldog had never revealed his secrets, as Castor had done with Calidae. Despite the doubt this subject bred in him, a single thought stuck like a chicken-bone in his throat: his father had sent him to Lilain, a letter. The more Merion pondered it, the more he found hidden compartments to that dying wish. It was as Akway, the Sleeping Tree, had said: Karrigan had a secret he wished him to learn. His mind turned to another time in his aunt’s old house; of eavesdropping through a door, devouring the words of Lilain and Lurker as they argued arguing about whether Merion should learn of Karrigan’s greatest secret. When I say he’s ready, she had said. Not, ‘No!’ or, ‘Never!’
When.
Discovering bloodrushing. The Serped
s. Lincoln. Everything. This was his father’s plan as much as his, and that gave him comfort.
‘How far now?’ asked Lurker, tossing his cigarette into a puddle. His accuracy was rewarded with a sharp hiss. It had rained again that afternoon, spoiling the promise of a beautiful warm day.
Gunderton pointed them left, down another cobbled street. ‘Another mile.’
‘You said that last time,’ said Merion.
‘I thought you’d be used to walking, after tramping all the way across the Endless Land.’
The boy shook his head. ‘It’s the time, not the miles, that concern me. We still have a lot to do.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Gunderton.
In truth, it was almost exactly a mile. Lurker told them so. His feet never lied, or so he said. They found the squat bookshop with its lanterns glowing orange. The sign confirmed it was open.
‘Not too late after all,’ Gunderton said, rubbing his hands. ‘Letters like to stay open late. They can make a bit of coin while they work.’
‘I can smell blood,’ Lurker rumbled, sniffing the air. ‘And I don’t mean from in there.’
‘Probably just the mist, mixing up your scents?’ Gunderton suggested.
‘Mmm,’ said the prospector. ‘Don’t like this mist.’ He fell in line behind Merion. Gunderton led the way inside.
The bell chimed as they entered, and Spirn appeared as swiftly as before. Merion wasn’t quite sure, but it seemed that the mountain range of books had grown even larger since their last visit. It hardly seemed possible.
‘Evening, Errant, and with acolyte Merion in tow again I see.’ Spirn extended a hand over the counter. They all took turns to shake it.
‘And John Hobble,’ said Gunderton, clapping a hand to Lurker’s shoulder. ‘A friend visiting from the New Kingdom.’
‘An Endless Lander, eh?’ Spirn said, voice low.
‘True enough,’ answered Lurker.
‘They have good letters out there, John?’
‘Some of the best.’ Merion could tell Lurker was thinking of Lilain.
Spirn’s grave face snapped into a wide grin. ‘Well now you’ve finally found the best. You’ve never met a letter like me, John. You’re in for a treat.’
