The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey)

by David Gardner-Martin

  Once more they see the King, His Crown upon the Hive; he whispered out loud, strange ideas beginning to form in his mind. The more he looked and the more he thought, the more he found himself drawn to the idea that the carving was that of a King Bee, there being no other possible explanation. But a King Bee? Pooter was sure that had there been such a creature, he would have remembered it.

  Pooter was amazed that such a fragile creation could have survived such a lengthy passage of time in such perfect condition. Surely Lord Rootsby would know what to make of it, he thought, and the quicker he got away from the Grand Library and back to his office the better. But how to keep such an object safe on his journey out of the Palace? This problem stalled Pooter for several minutes, and then he remembered what Rootsby had said when he had given him the small jar of honey. How he would recognise its purpose when the moment arrived. Somehow Pooter knew that this was now the moment, and he took the small container from his pocket. The lid unscrewed with ease and the sweetest aroma wafted into his nostrils. He placed the King Bee gently onto the golden surface and the carving slid slowly into the rich liquid, its detail now magnified and strangely alive. Despite the temptation to continue sensing the honey’s presence, he replaced the top and pushed the jar into a deep pocket. A warm glow rushed through him at the thought that he had accomplished something amazing, something that made balancing books and auditing numbers seem part of a totally different world. He could not wait to see the look on Lord Rootsby’s face when he placed his prize on the table before him. Filled with energy, he climbed down to the floor and headed for the exit.

  After leaving the Grand Library, Pooter navigated several lengthy Palace wings, for some time unsure if he was even going in the right direction. Finally, he found a large avenue that led directly to the South Entrance of the Palace, not the closest to home by any means, but the quickest way out of the Palace. The guards on duty allowed him passage with scant interest, and with his spirits soaring, the pure white light of day found him in the City streets once more.

  Some hours later Abather let out several happy gruffs and wagged her tails furiously when she saw her master approach, though the scent of the vulfbear and his dust covered clothes caused her to whine quizzically.

  ‘It’s alright girl,’ said Pooter, as he stroked her head roughly, more pleased to see her than he could ever recall. But when he opened the door to his office and saw no shimmering cloak hanging upon the hat stand, a deep disappointment fell over him.

  ‘Mr Pooter!’ cried Cabble, also amazed at his master’s bedraggled appearance as he came to investigate Abather’s barking.

  ‘I have had no visitors this day?’ asked Pooter urgently.

  ‘No, sir. Not one soul,’ replied Cabble. ‘But…’

  A figure in smart day wear and an ornate fur lined hat, walked into view from his office.

  ‘Glarious!’ Pooter exclaimed, taken completely by surprise.

  Glarious Pooter looked her husband up and down, his face still covered with library dust and strands of cobwebs. ‘Punsworth?’ she said at last. ‘Where in the heavens have you been?’

  Pooter looked at his wife’s face, a visage as familiar as his own, but now somehow strangely different. After his adventure in the Palace he felt as if he was seeing Glarious anew, her fine features clear to his senses once more, rather than hidden behind a veil of daily familiarity. For despite the stresses of bringing three children into the world, as well as adopting a fourth, Glarious still retained a youthful attractive countenance.

  ‘My dear,’ Pooter said. ‘You look wonderful. Truly, wonderful.’

  Glarious’ eyes widened, but she remained speechless.

  ‘But do not be alarmed,’ Pooter continued warmly as he closed the door behind him. ‘As you can see, I am quite well.’

  ‘But where have you been?’ Glarious asked. ‘And you smell…’ a glance at Cabble, whose expression confirmed her opinion of the still persistent vulfbear aroma, ‘truly awful!’

  ‘That, my dear,’ Pooter replied, ‘is a very long story. But you must trust me, Glarious. You must trust me as if your life depended upon it.’

  ‘My life?’

  ‘No, no,’ Pooter said hurriedly. ‘Poorly chosen words. Your life is fine, very fine indeed. But you must trust me, my dear, you really must. And for now, at any rate, you must not ask me questions. For I cannot answer them.’

  Glarious turned to give an apologetic smile to Cabble who, equally mystified by his master’s strange behaviour, returned the look with a puzzled frown.

  ‘How are the children?’ Pooter asked, as they made their way to his office.

  ‘When we awoke this morning and found you still had not come home, the very worst fears came to our minds. Allacar became convinced that you had been taken by the Shufflers and this set off all our children in fits of crying. The din was dreadful. So concerned did I become that I was on my way to see the City Watch when the messenger from Cabble came upon me and ….’

  ‘The City Watch!’ cried Pooter in alarm. ‘They have been informed?’

  Pooter knew well how keen the men of that particular force would be to investigate any disappearance, and just how awkward the questions that would inevitably follow would be to answer.

  ‘No,’ said Glarious, defensively, ‘because as I was saying, the messenger intercepted me before I reached their station.’

  ‘They must not be informed,’ said Pooter. ‘It would be most awkward.’

  This was clearly too much for Glarious and anger fell over her features, but before she could speak, Pooter turned to Cabble. ‘I am expecting a visitor,’ he said. ‘The nobleman that came to see me, Lord Rootsby.’

  ‘Lord!’ exclaimed Glarious, astonished. ‘You were visited by a Lord?’

  ‘You must attend to your duties of course, Cabble’ Pooter continued, ‘but you must at all times have your ear for the door. His visit is of the utmost importance.’

  ‘Utmost importance,’ repeated Cabble. ‘Why, those were His Lordships very words too, so they were.’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ said Pooter, ‘now, on with your duties.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ said Cabble, and with a final look of consternation at Glarious, he left the room to return to his books.

  Pooter was anxious to avail himself of a wash and the formal suit he kept in his office, just in case he was called upon by an important client at short notice. But realising Glarious would insist on an explanation as to where he had been, he began to think of possible excuses for his absence, finally settling on one that he hoped would do the trick.

  ‘The King is dead, my dear,’ he said at last. ‘Have you heard this dreadful news?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ replied Glarious, vexed. ‘Do you suppose I have my ears stopped?’

  ‘This momentous event,’ continued Pooter, ignoring her irritation, ‘is bringing onerous responsibilities to many in Our Kingdom. A new King will be Nominated, quite how or when I have no idea, but there is much to be done. I was indeed visited by a certain Lord Rootsby,’ he walked behind his desk. ‘A most elevated nobleman, who has engaged me to deal with certain, royal, financial matters.’

  ‘Royal?’ said Glarious.

  ‘Indeed, most Royal,’ said Pooter. He opened a drawer and shuffled a hand around the papers inside. ‘And on his instruction, I had to visit the Palace to conduct some vital research in the archives – a dreadfully dusty place, as you can see.’

  Glarious opened her eyes wide with further surprise. The news was clearly hitting the mark.

  ‘But Punny,’ she cried, with eyes now sparkling. ‘A Royal appointment! Surely this is too good to be true?’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ said Pooter, as he sat at his desk and started leafing through a bundle of menial accounts, ‘and maybe not. Lord Rootsby is expected soon to hear my report. I am most sorry for the concern I have caused you, my dear, and our precious little ones too, of course. But in the circumstances?’

  ‘No,’ said Glarious, ‘there is
no need. No need at all. You must be left alone, I can see that now.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Pooter, and he walked around his desk and gave his wife a kiss on both cheeks, admiring the way that she now looked at him, a young man with prospects once again, and one with Royal connections to boot.

  ‘But you will return soon?’ she implored, ‘I do so want you to tell me all about it.’

  ‘And so I shall, my dear, so I shall,’ replied Pooter, leading her to the door and out into the corridor. ‘But,’ and here he stopped Glarious and looked her in the eyes, ‘you must tell no one. This news is to be, at least for the time being, kept most secret.’

  Glarious looked despondent and so he added with a smile, ‘But very soon, when the Coronation is over and the dust has settled on the new King’s Crown, we will host a party. And then, my dear, you will be able to tell our friends all about it.’

  This was all Glarious needed to hear, and with a final and very warm kiss on the lips for her husband, she skipped out of the office and down the street like a twelve-year-old. Would she be able to keep the news to herself? Probably not, thought Pooter. But did it really matter? In the scheme of things, it would be but a drip in a lake. If it kept her happy, then it was all to the good. He looked down at Abather causing a predictable and swift response from her tails.

  ‘Keep a close watch girl,’ he said ruffling a heavy ear. ‘I am expecting a visitor.’

  Pooter washed his face and hands and changed into his spare suit. He sat at his desk and waited, the minutes ticking into hours, yet still no visitor arrived. He stared at the paraphernalia of books, bills and rolled parchments that Cabble had lain before him during the day, but felt no appetite to dive into his endless workload. Were things getting out of hand, he thought? Many sage voices had cautioned him against going it alone at such a young age; but three years qualified. Had they all been wiser than he? His adventure in the Palace already seemed like a dream. Was he losing his mind? He reached into a deep pocket to feel for the small glass jar; it was still there. But what was he doing abandoning the precarious financial situation of his new practice to embark on such foolish adventures? It would not do and must stop; he could see that now. He would tell Lord Rootsby straight that he could do no more, ‘if he ever comes again, that is,’ he whispered, out loud.

  The mood of resistance did not last, however, and Pooter took to pacing across the floor, torturing himself with the possibility that he had misheard the instructions given to him. He had found the carving of the King Bee in the Grand Library, but it could hardly be described as a key. Had he left in too much haste, he thought? Had he been within but a few inches of the real objective, and then allowed the excitement of his strange discovery to blind him? Maybe he should have tried to smuggle the book out of the library? Or at least remove some salient pages? These and other uncertainties wriggled in his mind like stoneworms, his desire to see Lord Rootsby now clouded by the prospect of failure.

  Through the window he could see proletaires beginning to head home from work. Hexagonal Place was an area almost entirely devoted to the learned professions, and beyond the glass a steady line of acccounters, precedentors, bodycians, toothists, and the like, formed a stream of self-obsession. No one even glanced at Pooter’s anxious face at the window, watching and waiting for a tall figure to appear and rescue him from a sea of doubt.

  The grotesque china clock on the mantelpiece chimed five times and then released a Queen Bee from a shiny porcelain beehive. The mechanical bee buzzed as it span through its clockwork arch, obtaining once again a frustrated look of resignation from its master before disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. A further hour passed, the growing purple light only adding further despondency to Pooter’s mood. He slumped in a chair and, without realising it, fell asleep, a strange dream of a dark green forest finally shattered by a series of knocks on his door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called, opening his eyes, and Cabble’s face appeared. Pooter felt himself dragged back to a previous life. ‘Cabble,’ he said, ‘I have neglected you, dear fellow.’

  ‘That is quite all right, sir, seeing as how tired you are, and the visitor you are expecting still not to arrive. Might I ask if you still anticipate his Lordship’s arrival, and if that is the case, if you shall be requiring me to stay longer?

  ‘Yes, I am expecting my visitor Cabble, though if the truth be known, the hour is getting now so late, that I wonder whether he will ever arrive. But I must wait. As for you,’ he added, with a look at the darkening window, ‘you must hurry home before the Shufflers are about their business. They take no heed of status or excuse. But before you go, be so kind as to take Abather for a short walk and then to her kennel, laying before her a bowl of food and water. I would not be troubled with that task this evening.’

  Cabble smiled and nodded. ‘Of course, sir. I shall call by again just as I leave to confirm that all is in order.’

  And then he was gone, several gruff barks from Abather and the noise of her tails wagging excitedly and hitting the door marking their exit. Through the window Pooter caught sight of them as they headed into Hexagonal Place in the deep blue light, it not being at all clear who was taking whom for a walk, but still there was no sight of a larger than average figure approaching his office. He took to pacing the floor once more, the constant movement aiding his deeply troubled mind.

  At length Pooter heard Abather’s hard claws clump along the corridor outside his office as she was led to the back yard for the night.

  ‘Will that be all, sir!’ Cabble called through the door.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Pooter called back. ‘Be off home with you now.’

  ‘I shall present myself tomorrow at the usual hour, Mr Pooter,’ Cabble added rather formally, 'and take this opportunity of wishing you a most hearty good night!’

  ‘Very good,’ called Pooter tiredly.

  ‘And may I take this opportunity, sir, of also wishing His Lordship well!’

  ‘His Lordship?’ exclaimed Pooter.

  ‘His cloak is upon the stand before me, sir. Surely he is with you?’

  Pooter turned for the door, the word ‘No’ forming on his lips, and then he caught sight of a motionless figure upon his settle.

  ‘Lord Rootsby!’ he cried.

  ‘So he is with you, sir?’ called Cabble.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Pooter, relief and anxiety flooding into him in equal measure.

  ‘Most glad I am to hear it, sir. And so a good night to you, and to His Lordship too, of course.’

  ‘My Lord,’ said Pooter, to the sound of the front door closing as Cabble left for home. ‘I was not sure…’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rootsby, in the same powerful voice that had first captured Pooter’s attention, ‘you are most relieved to see me. And I, Mr Pooter, am most happy that you are glad of it. For this tells me that you are not only alive and well, but have something to tell me of your adventures.’

  ‘Yes,’ cried Pooter, ‘and something to show you!’ And he reached into his pocket for the small glass container. But Rootsby held up a hand that froze his movement.

  ‘One thing at a time, Mr Pooter,’ he said. ‘First, I wish to hear about your time in the Palace. And think not the slightest detail of any unimportance.’

  Pooter panicked in case he might forget something, but when he started to speak the words tumbled into each other as the pictures and sounds reformed in his memory as clear as daylight. Rootsby meanwhile sat forward, his chin resting in one of his large ring-encrusted hands. He was most interested in the girl named Allessia who had argued with her parents, and insisted on Pooter recalling every word of the conversation he had overheard, but his eyes flashed when Pooter came to the two-legged cat-like figure he had seen wandering the dark corridor.

  ‘Describe for me again what you saw in the shadows,’ said Rootsby, ‘only this time, do not distract yourself with words. Close your eyes and simply remember. For locked within you will be every single detail of what you have seen.’


  Pooter closed his eyes as requested and, to his amazement, quickly found himself back in the acrid confines of the stuffed Vulfbear once more, watching fearfully as the shadowy figure moved towards him. As he did so he felt a presence enter his mind, a presence that was not a part of him, but that in some strange way was now connected to his thoughts, watching with him as the awful shape finally hurried from view.

  ‘Jazpah,’ said Rootsby.

  Pooter opened his eyes, and sensing that his mind was now fully his own once more, he repeated Rootsby’s word.

  ‘Jazpah?’

  Rootsby turned to Pooter, his face lined with concentration, and then he stood and walked to the window to stare into the darkness of the night.

  ‘So, he has found thy shadow,’ he whispered into the still air, ‘and made thy evil flesh once more.’

  There was a period of silence, Pooter not daring to utter a word, and then Rootsby turned to face him.

  ‘The creature you have seen is called a jazpah,’ he said, ‘and where one is found, there will be more.’

  ‘And they mean us harm?’ asked Pooter, still able only to grasp at straws of meaning, but clear in his own mind that what he had seen, the jazpah, was a being that belonged only in nightmares.

  ‘They have no meaning within them,’ said Rootsby, ‘for they care not for right or wrong. They are as distant from this life as it is possible to be. But he that has brought them to this place and time means us harm; a dreadful, endless harm, of that we can be sure. But now, Mr Pooter,’ Rootsby boomed. ‘I believe you have something to show me?’