The Scarlet Star Trilogy

by Ben Galley

  ‘That girl has the world in her eyes, alright. Saw it in her just like I saw it in her father. Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Like I said. Don’t know the meanin’ of wrong.’

  The door creaked as Gunderton, Merion and Witchazel entered. The Brother was carrying a ream of thick parchment. No bottles in sight, darn Lurker’s luck. He’d harboured a slim hope they would remember their old prospector.

  Merion gave them a curious look, spying their closeness. Neither moved.

  ‘It appears we’ve interrupted something,’ said the boy as he wandered over, letting Gunderton and Witchazel get to work. They apparently had orders.

  ‘Nothing that concerns you, young Nephew.’ Lilain smiled slyly, getting up to put on the kettle. ‘You’ve more pressing matters to attend to, no doubt!’

  ‘Very cutting, Aunt, thank you,’ said Merion with an amused snort. ‘I have to go send a wiregram and see a paperboy about a favour. Then we have some letters to write. Quite a few, in fact.’

  ‘Putting all those names to good use at last?’ Lilain enquired. But Merion just tapped his nose. Lurker had wondered what all Merion’s excursions and those lords and ladies and titles from Calidae would add up to.

  ‘Swine,’ she said.

  Merion relented. ‘You’re correct, of course. Time to see where the Emerald House really stands.’

  Lurker poked his magpie into life. ‘In that case, I might as well come with you. My gizzard’s far too dry for my likin’.’ He followed in Merion’s wake as the boy headed to the door.

  ‘Be safe!’ Lilain called after them.

  Lurker tapped the Mistress, slotted against his spine. ‘Always am.’

  The day had brightened slightly, but the wind still pestered anyone who trod the streets, stealing hats and chasing mangy pigeons between the rooftops. Lurker was down to his last cigarette when they found a postal office, nestled into the side of a tall tower of stone and glass on the edge of London’s core. They’d walked mostly in silence, trading stupid jokes here and there. Lurker had left talk of plans back in the lair, not wishing to remind the boy of the obvious. He could practically see the weight perched on the boy’s shoulders, no matter how sharp and straight he held them.

  ‘There’s a shop just there.’ Merion pointed, one foot on the step of the postal office.

  ‘That there is,’ said Lurker with a nod. ‘You got any of your Queen’s coin? You Empire types don’t take too kindly to Lincoln’s face.’

  ‘Here.’ Merion tossed him a florin.

  Lurker made his way into the shop. It was a warren of shelves and cases filled with odds and ends; from sausages to sewing needles. He spent a little time touring the shelves until he found the whisky and some of that Empire gin hidden in the dank nethers of the shop. He grinned when he spied a bottle he recognised: one labelled with a fat turkey wearing a monocle. Sir Turkey. He inwardly cheered. He wandered back to the counter and the tiny flame-haired man behind it. There was tobacco there, too; great jars of it sat on uneven shelves. He bought a double-sized pouch, just in case. Whatever the world threw at him in the next day or so, he would be ready. Even if this damp Empire stuff tasted like burnt coffee.

  When he returned to the patchwork afternoon, he found Merion across the road from the postal office, hovering near a gaggle of paperboys that lingered on a corner. He sidled over slowly, feigning interest in the headlines. Merion was clearly up to something, and he knew to leave him to it.

  ‘Queen will hang on the morrow!’

  ‘Threpenny a paper, sir!’

  ‘Headlines we never thought could ever be printed! Victorious to be hanged at midday.’

  ‘The reign of terror is over! The crown takes its final bow!’

  Lurker eyed the last boy to bellow his little lungs out, reading the name of his publication. The Empire Watchful. Sounded dubious.

  ‘Buying a paper?’ asked a voice. Merion, by his side. The paperboy he’d been talking to—a blonde sliver of a lad—had rejoined his ranks and gone back to waving papers in the faces of passers-by. Lurker didn’t catch his face.

  ‘Never been one for papers,’ he said. ‘If I don’t know who writes ‘em, why should I trust them? Just a stranger’s words written down in ink, is all.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Merion, as they walked back the way they’d come. ‘But can you believe it?’ He was looking over his shoulder at the paperboys. The headlines still rang clear in their ears. ‘Queen Victorious to be hanged. It’s been days now and I still can’t quite grasp it.’

  ‘I never had a Queen, so I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘My respect for her died long ago,’ said Merion. ‘But she is still another angle, another victim of Dizali’s plot. I can’t help but feel angered by it.’

  ‘Tell me you ain’t goin’ to try and swipe her from the rope at the last moment.’

  The boy shook his head. ‘I won’t deny I’ve thought about it. But that would be nearly impossible.’

  ‘As impossible as shrinkin’ down to cat-size and invadin’ a Fae fort?’

  ‘More so. All of London will be there. Every lordsguard, every constable. Every Emerald Lord and Lady… But there is another way. If everything goes to plan, I doubt they’ll have the stomach to hang her any more.’

  ‘I’d be more comfortable if you’d use “when” instead of “if”. Don’t inspire much confidence.’

  ‘When everything goes to plan,’ said Merion, smirking. ‘And it will this time. No more desperate Merion, believing his own fairytales of charging in alone. I have you lot now. I trust in whatever will happen.’

  ‘And we trust you.’

  ‘On that note,’ Merion said, reaching under his shirt. ‘I want you to hold on to this.’ He showed Lurker a small vial the size of a thumb, filled with a brackish-coloured blood.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The last thing I have of my father’s. It’s kelpie blood. Lets you breathe underwater, if I remember rightly. I want you to keep it while I go to Clovenhall. I’m bound to be searched. That’s one piece of my inheritance I intend to keep. Give it back to me after we win.’

  Lurker rolled the vial around his gloved palm and felt the feather-weight of it. He rubbed its tarnished chain between his fingers.

  ‘I can understand wanting to keep it safe. Always thought that a person’s grave ain’t some patch of ground, but in memories and things they touched while they were alive. There’s power in such things. The Shohari taught me that. They stay with us, livin’ as long as we tell their stories and keep their relics hangin’ round our necks.’ Lurker slid the vial into his pocket.

  There was a moment of silence before the young Hark snorted and shook his head. ‘One more night of action and we spend the whole day being emotional and serious. It’s almost like we were for the gallows tomorrow, and not her glorious Highness.’ He caught Lurker’s eye. Thank you, John.’

  Lurker just tipped his hat.

  *

  The needle of the syringe glinted in the bright candlelight; as did the sweat on Rhin’s skin, and every other forehead present. They all held their breaths, standing around the crate and faerie in a half-circle. Rhin had his eyes shut, concentrating on his spells, running himself hot and fierce to fight the weakness. Water and sweet cake stood by: simple remedies that could keep him alive in a pinch. There was nothing else to be done.

  ‘May I?’ Merion broke the uneasy silence. His aunt turned to look at him, syringe poised in her hand, trying not to make it look like an assassin’s dagger. ‘It only feels right.’

  ‘Hold out your hands, Nephew.’

  Merion was relieved to see his hands were as steady as an old oak. Lilain nodded and beckoned him forward. ‘We have to go deep to get the right sort of blood, but not too deep. And that’s tricky work with a creature so small. No offence, Rhin. Fae don’t have ribs like you or I. Their skeletons are more like a honeycomb.’

  ‘And our hearts are in the middle of our chests,’ Rhin whispered, between
tight lips.

  ‘Right,’ Merion coughed, immediately regretting his decision to take hold of the syringe. But it was his request, and therefore this would be his duty.

  Lilain used a spare needle to point out the spot and angle Merion should aim for. The boy brought his syringe level with his aunt’s. He found himself holding his breath as the tip of the needle dabbed at Rhin’s pale grey skin.

  ‘Gently,’ Lilain said, bringing her hand beneath Merion’s, pushing forward with utmost care.

  Rhin winced as the needle pricked, sliding into his flesh and between his bones. Merion hoped he would be numb to pain after Sift’s treatment. The little growl told the boy there was no such blessing.

  ‘Careful!’ Lilain cautioned him. Rhin was baring his teeth now, wings writhing beneath his shoulders. ‘Neither of you move. Now draw back the syringe.’ Merion did so as quickly and as gently as he could. The glass cylinder sputtered with maroon-purple blood. After a few tense moments, they had withdrawn a thumb’s width of it. Rhin was ashen.

  Lilain cleared her throat. ‘I think that’s all we can take.’

  ‘A little more,’ Rhin whispered. ‘I can handle it.’

  Merion did pulled back a little further. The blood oozed.

  ‘Nephew…’

  ‘I know,’ Merion hissed, sliding the needle from the faerie’s flesh. Lilain instantly patched up the wound with a tiny poultice.

  ‘I can seal it,’ Rhin breathed, eyes screwed shut.

  ‘Maker bless you, crazy beast,’ Lilain whispered to him, shaking her head. She wiped the sweat from his brow with a scrap of cloth and took the syringe from Merion. She placed it on the nearby bench and shook every last drop of blood from the cylinder into a beaker.

  ‘You may be mad, Nephew, but you may have just pulled it off. I think we have enough for a decent rush.’

  ‘How long?’

  Lilain traded a look with Gunderton. ‘Five minutes, maybe?’

  ‘Five minutes?’ Merion winced.

  ‘Ten at a push, if you concentrate,’ Gunderton said, shrugging.

  Merion blew a sigh. ‘Then that shall have to do. He patted Rhin’s shoulder with his fingers. ‘Thank you, old friend.’

  ‘This means we’re even, right?’

  Merion smiled. ‘Will you be alright?’

  ‘I need sleep. And cake.’ Faeries and their sweet teeth. Merion left him to rest, and followed Witchazel to a small table, crusted at the edges with mould. He stared down at his handiwork.

  ‘How’s it coming, Mr Witchazel?’

  ‘It is not my finest work, by far,’ the lawyer told him, hands folded behind his back. ‘However, I do believe this is what you need.’

  ‘What we need, Mr Witchazel. We’re in this together.’ Merion bent down to examine Witchazel’s expert scrawl. The crest had been expertly replicated. He’d even tea-stained the parchment to age it. Clever man, indeed. ‘Just as I recommended! And there isn’t a quill-stroke out of place, Mr Witchazel.’

  The lawyer bowed.

  ‘Now,’ Merion said, ‘if you have a piece of parchment and some ink, I need to write a letter.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  As Witchazel and the others hovered about, and Lilain finished up the shade, Merion scribbled out a quick letter. After wiping the ink from his fingers, he donned his dark cloak and checked through his pockets, digging out a scrap of much-folded paper. He put this beside the letter and made sure his cloak was empty but for Witchazel’s parchment. He reached out to take the vial from his aunt, now corked and wiped clean. He slid it into another of his pockets and then brushed some errant mud from his collar.

  ‘I’d say good luck, but I know you won’t need it,’ said Lilain. She ruffled his hair for good measure, and for once Merion didn’t protest.

  He poked a finger at the letter and scribbled-upon scrap. ‘Everything you need is there. I’ve also written out instructions, in case you’ve forgotten what to do.’

  Lilain and Lurker nodded. Witchazel and Rhin wore furrowed faces.

  ‘Merion…’ croaked something small and weak. The boy moved to the crate and gently pinched Rhin’s hand.

  ‘Give ‘em hell, as you humans say,’ he said. Merion felt a lump climb his throat, but he swallowed it down.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, before turning. ‘All of you. And what a tomorrow it shall be!’

  With that, he walked to the door, slipped out into the darkening evening, and was gone.

  *

  ‘Right, then.’ Lilain marched swiftly to the letter. She nearly tore it in half just unfolding it. Her eyes darted back and forth over the scribbled words, eyes widening with every syllable.

  ‘Clever boy,’ she murmured, running her hands through knotted hair. Gunderton took the letter from her and then looked at the dog-eared note that accompanied it, full of grand names and grander-sounding addresses.

  ‘Karrigan couldn’t have done better.’

  Lilain reached for the inkwell, quill and the sheaf of leftover parchment. ‘Better get to it, then.’ There was a bitterness at the simplicity of the role Merion had assigned them. She wanted to be striding beside him, with the cold iron of Long Tom in her hands; not copying out the letter and playing postal. Then again, she knew from experience that wars are fought on many levels; from the soldier to the lad who tinkers his boots. Everybody plays a part and this was theirs. For now, at least.

  It took almost an hour for the stack of paper to be demolished and rebuilt, heavy with ink and weighty words. Witchazel wafted the last of the letters back and forth to let the ink dry. ‘Twenty-one, for twenty-one names.’

  Gunderton picked at a stain of dried ink on his fingertips. ‘Let’s hope that’ll be enough.’

  Lurker was already donning his hat. Writing was never his forte, so he’d simply watched them, cleaning their guns until they shone. Now he seemed eager to move.

  ‘I’m volunteerin’.’

  Lilain got to her feet. ‘You barely know the city.’

  Lurker ruffled Jake’s white breast feathers. ‘That’s why he’ll come, too. He’s followed half those bastards home already.’

  ‘Still,’ she said. ‘I should come.’

  ‘Better one of us gets caught than two or three, or all together. I don’t know the city, and the city barely knows me. I ain’t no sister of a Prime Lord, or a Brother, or a valuable lawyer. I’m just a humble prospector.’

  His brand of logic, at times like this, was hard to shrug aside. ‘If you must,’ she said, brushing a hand against his rough cheek. ‘Be careful. I won’t say it again.’

  Lurker patted the huge revolver tucked into his belt once more. He smiled with his eyes, folded the stack of paper into his coat and strode into the night.

  Lilain didn’t know what else to do besides see to the kettle. Witchazel and Gunderton began to work on a game of cards. She examined the smudges and scrapes of the scant worktop as she mulled over the evening, unravelling every ploy Merion had put in place. She had found a dozen ways to knot everything before the kettle boiled.

  Trust, she sighed as she reached for the teacups. Perhaps hot tea would dissolve the worry lodged in her chest.

  ‘Drinks?’

  There were two murmurs of assent, so she poured them a round. The clinking of the spoon gave her worrying rhythm, not peace and quiet.

  ‘To tomorrow,’ she said, setting the cups down. She was raising hers to the ceiling when there came a tiny knock at the door.

  She turned to the others, eyebrow raised. ‘Expectin’ anyone?’ she asked.

  ‘Nobody besides Lurker.’ This from Gunderton.

  ‘That was rather quick,’ said Witchazel. ‘Perhaps he forgot something.’

  ‘Did we lock it?’ Lilain asked, confused. She put down her cup, took up the rifle that was balanced near the door, reached for the handle, and opened the door.

  A surging wave of steel, grey skin, and flickering wings swarmed around her legs. It flooded the room as though the door we
re a burst dam. She cried out as a dozen faeries began to climb her clothes, burying her in their weight and fury. They roared and yelled in their own tongue as they smothered her. It was a cacophony of voices and clanking armour, with Lilain screaming over it all.

  ‘Lurker! Gunderton!’ she managed before she was consumed, knocked unconscious on the corner of a side-table.

  Witchazel was frozen in abject terror. Gunderton was on his feet in a blink, coat flung back and vial catching the light. He popped the cork and swigged it down as he swung his legs in great arcs, booting faeries across the room with lunging kicks. He almost fought his way to Lilain, but the faeries were too fierce. More were pouring in through the door, their dark armour gleaming like the peaks of an angry sea. They swarmed over every inch of carpet, black blades drawn and eyes like slits of purple fire. Witchazel’s chair was thrown sideways, tipping him onto the floor. A dozen Fae were on in him a flash, ramming his head repeatedly into the floorboards.

  ‘By the Roots!’ Rhin snarled from the crate, trying to reach for his Fae steel. The horde of faeries had already climbed the table. A handful stood over him, swords drawn.

  Gunderton was still swinging his fists through the crowds. His knuckles hammered against hard metal and sharp bone, chiselled grey faces and dragonfly wings. The shade began to bite as the Fae—disturbingly heavy—climbed up his body, slashing at his ankles and legs, opening cut after cut. He cried out, flailing his fists in frantic, crushing swings. But it was no use; he was pushed to the floor, compressed under the weight of two-score faeries. They yelled and shrieked in their harsh language as his struggling died.

  A taller Fae entered the lair and a ripple ran through the horde as they all dropped onto one knee. Gunderton spat dust as he stared up at her, cheek pressed to the floor. His skull ached from the weight pinning him down.

  This was the Queen. Sift. He had heard Rhin hiss her name, even in his sleep. She wore a fiendish smile, and her golden eyes were fixed on the crate behind Gunderton’s head: her reclaimed prize.

  ‘Well, well,’ she whispered, speaking in the common tongue so he could understand. ‘Quite the haul of prisoners. Dizali will be pleased.’