Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3)

by Ben Galley

  Merion had wisely chosen not to inform Calidae of this minor deviation from their plan. This he was keeping all for himself. It was a simple desire; he wanted to see Dizali. He wanted to lay eyes on the man who had dared to ruin his life, to besmirch his name and pilfer what was his. Dizali had refused to leave the boy’s thoughts since he had steamed along the Potomac. Now he wanted to combine fact with wrathful fiction and memory. He wanted to see Dizali in the flesh; to know he was just a man, like any other that walked these streets. This was not to torture himself, but rather to inspire. All men can be felled, one way or another, and that goes double for those infested with pride.

  The boy walked the mighty edges of the House, keeping his head as low as he could without bumping into the men and women huddled on the pavement, eager to be somewhere dry. He moved to the kerb, where the carriages thundered by. He watched each one from the corner of his eye, inspecting their coats of arms: a gallant hawk pierced with an arrow; a tree sprouting from a book; a hog with a clock in its mouth. None of them a tiger and eagle.

  Picking a spot across the street from the House’s grand entrance, he hunkered down beneath a shallow archway. From there he could stare out over the heads of the pedestrians, and survey the mighty steps of the House. Even though he feigned sleep—playing the street-boy, tired and cold—he refused to blink, refusing to miss a glimpse.

  Half an hour passed, filled with the slapping of wet footwear and the clattering of iron-clad wheels, not to mention the incessant pattering of rain. His legs ached, his eyes were tired, and his backside was numb after being pressed against the cold stone. And yet he refused to move. He didn’t care how long it would take. The Lord Protector had to blurt out some more lies at one time or another. Merion would wait, and look upon his enemy. The stubbornness in him told his aching bones to pipe down and deal with it. If they could handle weeks tramping across a desert, they could handle a cold step in rainy Londontown.

  It took another half hour for Merion’s patience to be rewarded. A grand carriage shackled to four horses rattled to a stop outside the steps of the House. The horses displayed bright blue plumes between their ears. Merion sat up straight. Cobalt colour. Out of habit, he looked down to his side, but as his brain refused to forget, there was nothing there. He cleared his throat, refocusing himself.

  Squinting through the rain, Merion eyed the coat of arms on the carriage’s double-doors: an eagle lifting a tiger into the sky. Merion leaned forwards as he heard the sound of slamming doors and scattered applause from some passers-by. There were even a few cheers.

  As the carriage pulled away, Lord Protector Dizali was revealed, standing alone. He was just a man; a world away from the dark shape constantly perched in the centre of Merion’s thoughts. He was a mortal who could bleed, and not some paragon of evil; some shadow-wearing demon with dust for veins.

  He was smiling and waving magnanimously to his admirers; one foot poised on the first step of the House, the other on the pavement. Part of Merion wanted to stride across the street and slit his throat that very moment. But he lacked the knife and, thankfully, the stupidity to do so. The rest of him was content enough to stay put, and bask in the prospect of retribution, revenge, and the final chapter. He smiled as he watched Dizali striding up the steps and into the House, disappearing into the darkness behind its doors. ‘Every fairytale must have its end,’ Merion muttered aloud, before pushing himself from the stone.

  *

  As he seemed to be paying visits, Merion thought he might as well grant one to Queen Victorious; and besides, he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. So he walked northwest, towards the dark and twisted spires of the Palace of Ravens.

  It was a short walk between the House and the palace, and an even shorter walk to realise just how serious the royal situation was. The palace was completely surrounded. Merion could not have reached the Queen with a gold-plated invitation in his hand. Soldiers and lordsguards formed a buzzing ring around the building; standing, patrolling, dug in behind makeshift walls, or chatting idly at Gatling gun emplacements. The palace had drawn every one of its curtains, and locked every single door. Even the Shivering Pines, the small forest in the grounds, was deathly silent. Not a single one of the Queen’s ravens cawed. It was a disturbing form of protest. As Lurker would have said, she was cooped up tighter than a pig in a barrel.

  Apparently it was a day for uninvited emotions. Merion felt a flush of sadness as he hovered on the edges of the crowds, come to gawp at the Queen’s makeshift prison. He thought of his aunt and that grizzled old prospector, swigging from his flask; his aunt smirking at him, or prattling on about blood. The boy pulled a stern face as the guilt came again, chastising him. He recited his reasons beneath his breath, over and over. It had helped during the voyage, reminding himself of why he had come alone, with his closest enemy his only company. His mind slipped to another absent friend and he shivered in the rain. ‘Soon, Rhin,’ he whispered.

  Merion left the crowds to themselves, and headed back the way he had come. The thought of prattling and blood had reminded him of the next item on his mental list. To the rhythm of splashing boots, he left the core of London behind, and headed east, deeper into the old quarters of the city, where the buildings were shorter, pressed more tightly together, and on the drab end of the grand spectrum. He kept his hood low but his gaze up, and with every corner and bend, his eyes wandered the buildings, looking for something in particular.

  There are many different ways to acquire power in a city. It can be bought with coin or squeezed from the people by birthright and votes. It can be honestly built, and it can be nefariously claimed. And in a city, these forces are most often concentrated at a location. The House was the seat of political power, for instance. The docks bowed to coin and trade and gambling. Kensing Town sported its proud and upright businesses. In Cheapside, however, the currency was crime, and all it took was the wrong shortcut or the wrong tavern to find yourself in the middle of a transaction.

  Merion knew this all too well. His father and his old butler had lectured him many a time on the dangers of London. But he was not blithely ignoring his teachings; irritatingly, he had taken the wrong street and missed the thoroughfare he could remember rattling down with his father. None of the paths seemed to lead him where he wanted. With evening slowly falling, he was growing anxious. Every now and again, his hand would surreptitiously pat his pocket.

  There! His eyes spied a sign bearing a hand-painted pig’s head, and behind it, one with a garish trout. A butcher and a fishmonger, side by side and occupying the same doorway. They would have to do. Merion set a course straight for them.

  As he put a hand to the wide door, and heard the bell above him ring, he was struck with the stench of fish and the iron tang of bloody meat. Four men stood behind the combined counter. Each of them seemed to be rather lacking in the neck department. Their shoulders were so muscled they had apparently fused with their heads. Their hair was short and their faces impassive. They were all a good foot taller than Merion, and to put it frankly, didn’t look one bit like butchers or fishmongers. They looked more used to breaking people’s necks for a living. Merion wondered if he had indeed chosen the wrong tavern.

  ‘Hello,’ he began, immediately hating himself for how his voice cracked. He tried to slip a little coarseness into his accent. ‘I need some fish, and some offal. His lordship is throwing a special banquet. Wants to try some of those Francian delicacies, see.’ He chuckled slightly.

  Not one of them moved. Merion was about to repeat himself, or perhaps do the right thing and walk out, when the blank face of the nearest fishmonger cracked into a wide smile, full of teeth. He clapped his hands and laughed.

  ‘Then you have come to the right place, little man!’ he replied cheerily, in a thick, burbling accent that Merion had not heard before. The others followed suit, laughing and grinning, beaming at him. Merion tried not to appear too perturbed by the sudden enthusiasm, and smiled politely. He kept his hood up, howe
ver, and his hand on his pocket once more. The ship’s captain had gifted both he and Calidae with a bag of coin at the mouth of the Thames. Because of pity or orders, Merion hadn’t been able to tell; but he and Calidae had taken them nonetheless. To put it bluntly, they were both reasonably flush for the time being. Merion knew the importance of keeping that quiet.

  ‘What fish you like, little man?’ asked the other fishmonger, waving a hand over the wares trapped behind a glass counter. All sorts of sea-life sat there, goggle-eyed and shiny, lying atop piles of pale ice. Merion rubbed his hands and reeled off a list he had been working on for several days now.

  ‘Carp, whole. Moray Eel, also whole if you’ve got it. Any squid, perhaps? No? Alright. Maybe some tuna? Great. A head if you have it. Lobster? Only a small one? That’ll do, I think.’

  The two men went to work, digging in barrels or rescuing fish from the ice, wrapping it all in brown paper and bagging it up with the practice of years. Merion wondered if he had been mistaken about the men. Perhaps they were all simply brothers. Whatever they were or were not, his paranoia could at least be forgiven, after the last few months he’d had.

  Next he moved to the two smiling butchers, and rattled off the other half of his list.

  ‘Any squirrel in? No? That’s a shame. Rat? Yes, whole, please. Almighty knows what he’s having the chef cook up.’ (More laughter at that.) ‘And lastly, hopefully, some mole? Excellent! Magpie? Another whole.’

  Merion was secretly beside himself. He hadn’t expected to find so many shades in one place. He had his hands full within a few short minutes, arm sockets already aching from the weight of the paper bags. And he was only just getting started.

  The men hollered out the total and Merion carefully reached inside his coat pocket, trying not to jingle too many of his coins. He winced at the cost for effect, though he doubted it helped. The smiles of the men didn’t flinch, but their eyes did. Merion was quite clearly loaded, as Rhin would have put it. Oh, how he wished he could stop thinking of the little beast.

  ‘You need a hand, little man? For carryin’?’ one of the men asked, rounding the side of the counter.

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t have to go far,’ Merion lied.

  ‘Sure, little man?’

  ‘It’s a dark night,’ added another.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. Honestly.’

  With the bill paid, Merion thanked the men a few more times and shuffled quickly out of the door, back into the gathering evening. The clouds had grown bored of pelting the city, and the rain had finally stopped. He set off at a brisk pace, heading north and taking some of the wider streets, aiming out of Cheapside and away from the river. He spied a pharmacy with a lantern still alight in its doorway, and hurried to it. It must have been past five o’clock already.

  Inside was cold, and reeked of mothballs and bleach. Merion had to breathe though his mouth as he set his bags of meat down and surveyed the counter. There were no muscle-bound quadruplets to greet him this time; just a thin woman who must have been part parrot. Her nose dominated her face, almost dwarfing the spectacles that balanced there. She had twitchy eyes, and wore a long, grey physician’s coat. Merion offered his best smile. This was not going to be as easy as buying meat.

  ‘Hello, I’d like to purchase some supplies for my master, Doctor Jepson, of Flint Street,’ he lied, hoping Flint Street wasn’t too far away.

  The woman pursed her lips for a moment, and studied Merion’s face. He kept his smile and pointed to the counter. ‘Just a syringe and a scalpel. He is currently in the middle of a surgery, and both have broken on him. Would you believe it?’

  The woman flashed him a glance that said no, she didn’t.

  ‘You’re the last shop I could find that was open. Hopefully you can help me?’

  With a tut, the woman unlocked the counter. ‘I was ‘alfway through closing up.’

  ‘I have the coin right here,’ he replied, digging out a pair of silvers.

  ‘It’ll cost you a bit more than that!’

  Two more silvers were added, and an extra large smile. ‘Your smallest syringe then, please.’ Clink went another few coins, making six. ‘And a needle and thread, perhaps. And seven small vials.’

  Another tut, as the items were lined up on the counter. ‘Perhaps a bag?’ Merion was pushing his luck. With a crackle, a paper bag was shaken out and passed over. He packed quickly and carefully, placing his new things on top of the carp, and then said his goodbyes. ‘Doctor Jepson sends his thanks. As does his patient, I’m sure.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ was all he got in reply.

  Outside was a flat grey; neither evening nor day. The clouds hovered over the now-distant spires, stealing their tips from view. Merion rolled his shoulders and hurried on down the street, negotiating the slippery cobbles with care. He had to at least make it some of the way to Harker Sheer. He could continue on at first light if he needed to. He had the time.

  *

  Later, after hours of walking, Merion was flagging. Ten days aboard a swaying ship will take the strength out of anybody’s legs, and he felt like a newborn calf, staggering with every step.

  Harker Sheer was close, but not close enough. A place to bed down was his priority now, and he longed for somewhere off the streets. He checked for followers over his shoulder; not a soul shared the cobbles with him. Perfect. Merion ducked into an alleyway and rested his arms for a moment while he looked around for a suitable hiding spot.

  To his left, the passage curved under an arch that prevented two buildings from leaning into each other. Just before the arch was a ladder up to a ledge where a door and pulley had once been. The door was now sealed with newer brick, and a broken spar of wood sat fixed above, long hacked away. In the gloom, Merion made out a tumbledown canopy hanging over the ledge. He clenched a fist and picked up his bags with a groan.

  It took several journeys to shift his supplies up the ladder and onto the ledge. He had to feel the edge with the toes of his boots to avoid falling, and he prayed he wouldn’t roll off in the night. Maybe he should lash himself to something.

  Merion had remembered to take a candle and a box of matches from the Black Rosa, and he put them to work, tucking the light away in the shallow corner between the doorframe and the old brick. He wasted no time in stretching or yawning. He got straight to work; fishing out the vials, syringe and scalpel from the bag.

  ‘Heart, liver, or lungs. That’s what you said, wasn’t it, Aunt Lilain?’ Merion muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead as he recalled all those nights in the basement, watching her dissect the animals, siphoning magick from dead flesh. The stabbing guilt came for the second time that day; guilt of leaving his aunt and Lurker behind. It had plagued him every day since he had left them in Washingtown. Every time, he repeated his reason to himself. He was keeping them safe; saving their lives, even. He had no clue whether they understood, but he would bear their hatred if it meant they stayed clear of the fray. Out of this bloodfeud. Amends would have to be made later.

  Since it had already been skinned, Merion decided to distract himself with the mole. From what he remembered, mole was a fine shade. Milkeyes, it was called. It helped a rusher to see in the dark, but it also carried the threat of cataracts if abused. He didn’t fancy that.

  The young Hark placed the mole on the paper bag and began to slice through its flesh. He dug beneath the ribs and pulled them apart, wincing at the cracking of little bones. Even after all this time swilling blood, seeing death up close and far too personal, gore still made him want to gag.

  Merion guessed at which bloody lump was the heart, and reached for the syringe. Biting his lip, he slid the sharp needle into the organ and pulled gently on the plunger. There was a sucking nose, and blood began to sputter up into the glass chamber. Not much—barely a mouthful—but it was all he was going to get. He managed a little more from the liver. Flicking the glass as he had seen his aunt do, he removed the needle and plucked a vial from the pack. With utmost care, he poured t
he blood into the vial, waiting for every last drop before he shook it out, cleaned off the needle, and scratched an “M” into the glass. He grabbed the next animal immediately; he had a lot of work to do.

  So engrossed was he with his job that the sound of boots on cobbles—two pairs of boots—fell on deaf ears; as did the hushed whispering, and rustling of cloaks as hands pointed to a faint flicker of a candle above the alleyway. When he was halfway through bleeding the tuna, an impassive face reared over the top of the ladder and growled at him in a garbled language. Merion scrabbled backwards in shock, almost falling off the ledge. His foot sent the fish spinning over the side, and it squelched on the ground below. His heart thudded like a blacksmith’s hammer. Thoughts of his last fight—of Gavisham’s fingers crushing the life out of him—flashed through his mind.

  ‘You are no lord’s boy, are you, little man?’ growled the fishmonger from earlier, as he pulled himself to standing. The smell of fish was palpable. He was still wearing his apron, although the cloak was a new addition. Merion saw a glint of something in his hand. His eyes flicked to the fishmonger’s boots, where his scalpel lay next to the vial of mole’s blood. His gaze darted between each one, trying to decide.

  It was the appearance of a second face at the top of the ladder that made his decision for him. The icy fingers of death had already touched him once, and he had no desire to entertain them again.

  Merion lunged forward and snatched up the scalpel. He hurled it as fast and as hard as he could before barging forward. It was a clumsy throw, catching the fishmonger across the back of the hand; but it was enough to send him tottering. Merion’s shoulder ramming into his gut finished the job. The fishmonger’s heel caught the lip of the ladder and he fell into the darkness with a wail. A sickening crunch cut him short.