by Ben Galley
Lurker let loose another two shots. His bullets chased the Brother as he darted across the street towards a coach with four black horses; huge steeds stuffed with muscle. Two more acolytes were standing beside them, expressions drenched in confusion. Screams echoed through the streets as passers-by ran for their dear lives. They screamed even louder when lightning surged over the cobbles, its electric blue fingers flickering from wall to drainpipe, hindered by the puddles and flooded gutters. Merion felt it in his fingers. Lightning and water never were the best of friends.
‘This ain’t wise, boy!’ Lurker hissed. The boy agreed wholeheartedly.
‘Gunderton!’ he yelled. The old man’s acolyte had proved a hard nut to crack. He had been knocked senseless, head lolling on his chest; but he still swung feeble punches. Gunderton sprinted back to them unnaturally fast, legs powered by the weasel shade.
‘We need a carriage!’ Merion panted, skin crackling with every puddle he scattered.
‘There!’ Gunderton pointed to the outline of a small open-top carriage, just about visible in the murk of the street. A thick fog was rising, growing fat on the damp spoils of the day. Two piebald horses could be glimpsed. Not as good as four, but better than none.
Without a word they ran; boots thudding on cobble. Gunderton reached the carriage in no time. Its owner had apparently taken refuge in a nearby shop, but the driver was still seated, and ready to defend his employer’s property. Gunderton dodged his poorly aimed knife-thrust and introduced the man’s forehead to his own knee. The driver tumbled from his seat and landed in a puddle with a groan.
Gunderton seized the whip and reins as Merion and Lurker latched on to the carriage’s handrails. They threw themselves inside as the horses lurched into motion. Gunderton barely had to crack the whip: the beasts could smell the panic in the air. Their ears ringing from gunshots and lightning-snap, they were already skittish to the edge of bolting, and now they’d just been handed a chance to do just that.
Within moments the carriage was flying over the cobbles. Merion and Lurker climbed to the back seat and hunkered down. The Brother’s coach was giving chase now; hazy in the mist but getting closer. Four horses are still better than two, no matter how spooked they are.
‘Brothers don’t use guns, I assume?’ Merion shouted.
‘Never, but some of their acolytes do!’ said Gunderton. No sooner had he said it than a shot rang out, and metal ricocheted off their iron-clad wheels. The Brother flattened himself between the foot-board and the driver’s seat. ‘See?’
Lurker returned fire, bracing his arm against Merion’s shoulder and taking his time with his shots. The boy plugged his ears just as the prospector fired. They heard a yelp and a shape tumbled from the side of the coach.
‘Fine shot!’ Merion shouted.
With some excess weight now lying bleeding in the gutters, the Brothers’ coach began to gain on them. Merion and Lurker ducked as another bullet whizzed over their heads, clipping one of the horse’s ears, startling it into galloping faster. The two vehicles stayed level for a moment, trading bullet after bullet. All around them, London screamed through the muffle of the fog. They could hear the whistles of the constabulary in the distance.
‘Darn it to hell! I’m almost out!’ Lurker rasped, digging around in his pockets for forgotten bullets. Merion clenched his fists and let sparks spin around them.
‘Worth another try?’ Merion asked, smirking.
‘Be my guest!’ Lurker replied, crouching down and clutching his hat.
Merion crept to the edge of the splintered seat, and waited for the carriage to stop swerving. They had escaped old London, and were heading into the main thoroughfares of the city’s core.
Flame flashed, gnashing at the carriage’s heels. The rushing wind held it back, just far enough. Merion turned his smirk to a grin. His shade wasn’t held hostage by the elements.
He let the magick fly. A fork of energy cascaded down the street, flitting from cobble to cobble until it found the Brother’s coach. The horses screeched and skidded to a neck-wrenching halt; utterly terrified despite their training. Another yell, as the coach swung around, almost lifting from its wheels and toppling. Something held it back. It crashed back down to earth with a crunch of wood and metal.
‘Don’t stop now!’ Merion yelled to Gunderton. The Brother had no such intention, and kept the horses moving. With the Mistress silent, and the magick faded, they sat back in their seats and blew great sighs of relief.
‘Too close,’ Merion muttered to himself. ‘Too bloody close.’
Once they were several streets out of danger, Gunderton slowed the horses to a snuffling walk. Exhaustion did the job of calming them, even though they still flinched in their hames. Merion found some spare blankets to cover the bullet-broken areas, and then sat back, as if returning to a dull ride. Gunderton even managed to look like the under-butler of old for a spell, with his back straight and arms out and steady. All he lacked was the hat and tails.
Merion felt the shade seep from his veins and tiredness settling in its shadow. He fought off the fatigue by listening to the constabulary whistles.
When a police carriage came rattling past, full of suspicious eyes, Gunderton waved and made a show of pointing back the way they had come. The man even managed to look scared; something he wasn’t used to. Merion exhaled loudly.
Far too close.
*
By the time they had ditched the coach in a finer part of town, and wandered a winding path back to Gunderton’s lair, it was late in the evening. The fog had finally seized control of the city; strangling its streets, twisting around its columns and spires. The air was like frayed wool.
Lilain was understandably worried, grabbing at them all and checking for bullet-holes when they told her what had happened.
‘Maker darn it, you’ll be in the papers tomorrow!’
She threw up her hands and went to put the kettle on. She was getting used to this Empire tradition of tea in a crisis.
‘Well, we have ruined all measure of surprise, but we escaped alive and that is what matters,’ said Merion, sinking into a chair and rubbing his hands. They always tingled after rushing eel.
‘Does that change anythin’?’ said Lurker.
Merion shook his head. The plan might have meandered, but it was still on course. ‘Not in the slightest. The plan goes ahead. We still need Witchazel.’
Two rescues in the space of a week, he thought. Each as dangerous as the other.
The boy felt a sharp twinge in his side and pulled up his shirt to find the stitches of his arrow wound had pulled. The blood was oozing again. He grimaced as he brought out the newt shade. He sipped half of it and let the magick go to work. The flesh began to knit itself together before his eyes.
‘Aahh… Much better.’
Gunderton cleared his throat. ‘Be glad there was only one Brother, not all three.’
‘At least Lurker put two of their acolytes in the ground,’ said Merion.
Lilain patted the prospector’s arm gently as he moved to stand near her. The boy watched as she laid a small kiss on his stubbled cheek. Jake also squawked in appreciation, curled up in a ball by the dormant fireplace.
‘Two less to worry ‘bout then,’ said Lurker, seeking his own chair. ‘How many more are there?’
‘Probably half a dozen.’
Merion shrugged. ‘Then they will just have to receive the same fate as their masters, won’t they?’
‘You are your father’s son,’ Gunderton told him.
Lilain snorted. ‘Tsch! He weren’t always like this, believe you me. He was a right pain in the backside when he first landed on my doorstep, weren’t you, Nephew? Couldn’t have been further from the Bulldog.’
‘Yes. Thank you, Aunt,’ said Merion. ‘I am nothing more than what time and circumstance have made me.’
They all took a moment to stretch their limbs with weary groans and satisfied sighs. Almighty knew they needed a rest, after all the
excitement.
Merion moved to a nearby crate stuffed with torn blankets and soft straw. There lay a very tired, bruised and beaten faerie indeed. For a moment he though him sleeping, but after a polite cough, Rhin opened his lavender eyes to squint at him.
‘You’re awake.’ Merion kept his voice quiet, wanting a moment alone without the others.
‘Lilain got me up an hour ago, with all her pacing. What did I miss?’
‘Nothing we couldn’t handle,’ said Merion, rubbing his fingers together. Some of the shade still lingered. A tiny crackle flitted between his fingertips. ‘A Brother and his acolytes.’
Rhin smirked and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘You ain’t the boy I watched drift away to sea,’ he whispered. ‘And you’ll have to explain what that means when my headache isn’t trying to drill a hole in my forehead.’
Merion shook his head, heavy with guilt. ‘I knew you were there, watching me go. After the fight with Gavisham, I didn’t know where you were. I had to run. Lincoln offered me a way back. I knew you wanted to protect me. I shouted for you…’ The excuses sounded awkward in his head; gelatinous like cold gravy.
Rhin just raised a hand and rested it on the boy’s knuckles. ‘I know,’ he whispered. Sometimes that is all that needs to be said between old friends, even if they are a boy and a faerie. ‘Besides, the banshees would have killed you had you stood with me. Or tried to take me with you.’
‘What happened?’
‘They found me at the docks. As you can guess, they took me, but I put up quite a fight.’ Rhin wagged a finger in a tiny splint. ‘Wasn’t easy for them. Stabbed them pretty good with the pine knife. They’ll think twice before hunting down a Rehn’ar again.’
‘Did I ever tell you you’re crazy?’
‘Many times… Then Sift got her claws into me. Put me up against a mole in the Hollow. She had me in her torture chamber for days. I dread to think what would have happened had you not come along.’
Rhin shuddered, despite himself. He looked Merion in the eye for a moment, speaking just before the pause became uncomfortable. ‘I still can’t quite believe what you did. If I think about it seems like a dream trailing on the end of a nightmare. I never thought you would go that far for me, after… everything.’ The words weren’t polished, but the meaning was there.
Merion thumbed his chin as he examined the grubby cornices.
‘I know now how easy it is to pull a trigger.’ He thought back to Castor Serped, and the goggle-eyed look pasted on his face.
Rhin tilted his head and winced. ‘Hmm, but now I owe you my life twice over. Looks like you’ll never be rid of me.’
Merion gave the faerie a chuckle. Lilain cackled at something behind them and they spent a moment staring.
‘Your aunt told me you left them behind in America,’ Rhin said.
Merion nodded. ‘My plan was to keep Lilain and Lurker safe in the Endless Land until Dizali was dead and ruined. However, they had other ideas, and followed me here.’
‘Stubborn pair, aren’t they? Seems to run in the family.’
Merion rolled his eyes. ‘Stubborn, indeed. They came over in an airship, or so they tell me. Even found a Brother on the way. It took me a while to admit it, but now they’re here I wouldn’t be without them. Castor, Yara… My grand plans failed before because I thought I could execute them practically alone. I was wrong. I’ve learnt that lesson and learnt it well. Now we will do this as a family.’
‘And what is the latest hair-brained scheme of yours?’
‘Not just mine. Calidae Serped had a hand in it.’
There came a curl to the faerie’s grey lips. ‘I must have lost some of my hearing. It sounded as though you said—’
‘She saved my life that night, Rhin. Just before Gavisham almost killed me.’
Rhin looked guilty.
‘You had no idea where I was, fear not,’ said Merion, shaking his head. ‘She only saved me so she could visit her revenge on me later. Fortunately, Dizali is her priority for now. She’s in Clovenhall as we speak.’
A few owlish blinks were the only reply he received.
Merion rapped the side of his crate. ‘Trust me. It’s under control.’
‘Right. Think I might need some of that sweet tea before I hear any more. My head is spinning.’
Fortunately for the faerie, the kettle had boiled and the tea was in the midst of brewing. Merion moved the crate closer so Rhin could drink with them, using a spare vial as a mug. Soon enough, their strange family formed a circle of weariness, sipping quietly at hot, sugary tea, and pondering the events of the night. The might-have-beens were always morbidly tantalising. The future could wait until tomorrow.
*
Dizali was swirling around a glass of brandy, wondering how to berate the Brothers further. Unless they could beat it, kill it, or rush it, they were quickly proving close to useless. It sat on his nerves like a fat pigeon on a wire.
‘What do the maids have to say for themselves?’ he said, taking a liberal sip.
Hanister shook his head. ‘Not much, Milord, nobody saw anything of the butler’s leaving.’
Dizali saw his brandy to the bottom of the crystal glass. He was beginning to feel the dizziness at the corners of his eyes. Alcohol and magick were a strong mix.
‘I want a full search of the house and grounds done again. Tomorrow.’
Heck looked very confused. ‘But he’s most likely long gone… Milord.’
‘Or he’s dead in a bush somewhere and you haven’t noticed.’
‘Yes, Milord.’
Dizali was about to demand a refill of his glass, when the sound of boots thumping on carpet grew loud, clattering along the hallway outside. Hanister instantly reached for his vials. Heck just stood there, as out of place as a lemon in a potato field.
Honorford barged through the doors. He was on the cusp of being breathless, and when he bowed, it looked as though he wasn’t going to come back up.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Dizali demanded. ‘How dare you enter without knocking?’
‘My apologies, Milord. But I’ve found the Hark boy.’
Dizali was on his feet in a blink, brandy forgotten. ‘Where? Have you captured him?’
‘I… erm, tried. I came upon them my accident, Lord Protector.’
Dizali could feel his cheeks burning with more than just alcohol.
‘Tried?’
‘There was a Brother with him. A Seventh by my reckoning, and a man in a leather coat and hat. Looked American. Prospector type. He had a gun.’
‘And you are a leech! With acolytes!’ Dizali hissed, beyond furious. ‘What of his aunt?’
‘No sign of her.’
‘Where did you find them?’
‘In a bloodletter’s. Name of Spirn. My acolytes and I chased them through London by coach.’
‘And you let them get away?’ Dizali wondered what the man would look like without his skin.
‘They had faster horses, my Lord—’
‘And do you know where they went?’
Honorford took his time with his answer. When it came, there was no pride in it. ‘They could have gone anywhere, after I lost them, my Lord.’ The Brother’s voice trailed away.
Dizali moved around his desk, already strangling the air with crooked hands. All he needed now was a neck.
Honorford bowed again, shuffling backwards. ‘I do have good news, however, my Lord,’ he said, raising his voice.
‘Speak, and speak fast, man!’ Dizali spat. Hanister and Heck were backing away too, trying to distance themselves from the failure of their brother.
‘He won’t be rushing any more. We burned his letter to the ground after we lost him.’
Dizali let his hands fall to his sides. He paced back behind his desk, and retrieved his empty glass. Heck scurried to see it filled. ‘A small victory! It seems that is all you Brothers can bring me.’ He turned to the siblings. ‘He must be plotting something. Alert the constabulary that a tra
itor is loose, do you hear me? I want every street watched from here to the House. Double the guard across the estate. I have a suspicion he may just come to us instead!’ He swept the Brothers Eighth from the room, leaving them to trade wary glances and release relieved sighs in the hallway.
Ideas are like splinters. They need to be worked out or left to rot. The idea of Calidae arriving on Lincoln’s ironclad was a sharp one, driven deep. So it was that Dizali pushed himself up from the leather of his chair and marched from his study, scattering maids. Corridors came and went as he weaved through his mansion; dead and quiet in the early hours.
When he came to the room he had been seeking, he rapped loudly three times, and stood in wait. A sliver of light flared from underneath the door, and within a minute, a sleepy young Lady Serped peered between the crack of the door.
‘My Lord Protector. Whatever’s the matter?’ she asked, voice hoarse from sleep. Dizali did not care.
‘I have more questions for you, Lady Serped, and you will tell me the truth. Understand?’
‘More suspicions, Lor—’
‘Understand?’ The brandy had infused him with its fire.
‘I understand,’ said Calidae, clearly irritated. ‘Ask away.’
‘The name of your Grecian ship. What was it?’
Calidae answered quickly. ‘The Salamand.’
‘And its captain? His name?’
‘Whatever is—’
‘Answer!’
‘Topheles, I believe.’ Once again her reply came smoothly, quickly.
Whether it was the blur of the brandy, or the fact she was extremely good at lying, there was not a hint of anxiety on her scarred face. Nothing. Dizali had always prided himself on sniffing out lies. He found he had an uncanny ability to spy the twitches of a face when its owner bends the truth. It has served him well over the years, but now he found himself left by the roadside, lost.
‘I bid you a good night, Lady Serped.’ He looked her up and down for good measure before turning away.
‘Goodnight, Lord Protector,’ replied a confused-looking Calidae, before shutting the door.
