Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3)

by Ben Galley

  Merion held up his hands. ‘I know, just—’

  Lurker looked far from impressed. ‘Would never ask that of Jake.’

  ‘We lost our dead faerie in our escape from the tunnels. They were too smart to come chasing after us. That means we have no faerie blood. No blood, no more plan. Dizali wins.’

  ‘Even without his injuries, bloodletting will likely kill him, Merion,’ his aunt said, softening. She had noticed the slope of his shoulders, the curl to his mouth. She could tell this was not some brattish request; something the Fell Falls Merion would have made. It was a last chance appeal. But that didn’t mean she was happy about it.

  ‘It’s the only way I can pull off the rest of the plan.’

  ‘How much?’ said Rhin. Lurker and Gunderton both raised their eyebrows.

  ‘Rhin…’ Lilain tried to interject.

  The faerie’s eyes were adamant. ‘I said, how much blood do you need?’

  ‘Half a vial,’ said Gunderton. ‘At least.’ Lilain threw him a look.

  ‘Have we got any leech left?’ Merion looked to his aunt.

  ‘I…’ But words apparently failed her. She performed a circuit of the room, hands entwined behind her head. ‘I may have some residue left. But I won’t be able to get what you need from him. That’s almost a full bleed’s worth. In his weak state, it’s likely to kill him.’

  Merion clenched his jaw. ‘Some is always better than none.’

  ‘Don’t be too quick with your father’s wit, Merion,’ said Lilain. ‘Would you say the same of pain, hunger? Torture? I don’t like this one bit. Lurker?’

  The prospector was rubbing his chin. ‘Ain’t my blood he wants. It’s up to Rhin.’

  Lilain turned on the Brother. ‘Gunderton?’

  Gunderton raised his shoulders. ‘Merion has no other choice.’

  ‘Trust you and your loyalty to my darn brother. And you, Mr Witchazel?’

  The lawyer just flinched as if he had been poked. He shook his head.

  ‘How very helpful of you,’ she snapped.

  ‘This isn’t a debate, Aunt. This is between Rhin and I.’ Merion crouched down by the faerie’s stool, meeting him at eye-level. ‘You know I wouldn’t ask unless I had to.’

  ‘Do it!’ Rhin said, sharp as a dagger. ‘Twice now you’ve saved my life. About time I made that even. I still haven’t the faintest what you’re plotting, but if my blood helps us end all this madness, then you take it. As much as I can give. After rescuing me from Shanarh, I’m finding it hard to doubt you, and a Fae trusts that sort of feeling in their gut. Just as I trust you, Lilain.’

  ‘Rhin, even with the thinnest needle I’ve got, the puncture alone could kill you.’

  ‘I’ve made my decision, Lilain,’ he replied quietly. ‘We’ll just have to be careful, won’t we? My spells can keep me alive. I can seal the wound maybe, if I focus hard. Remember when I got stuck with that metal, after the twister?’

  Merion watched his aunt pacing, wrestling between trust and her training.

  ‘Fine!’ she said, finally. ‘If you’re goin’ to do this, then you listen here, Master Fae. For the next few hours, you’ll rest as much as possible, eat when I tell you to eat, and eat what I tell you to eat. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Rhin, impersonating Lurker.

  ‘I’m serious,’ she hissed.

  ‘And so am I,’ Rhin assured her, eyes glowing. ‘I’ll go to sleep immediately.’

  ‘Then it’s settled.’ Merion let out a long, slow sigh. Some of the weight had fallen from his shoulders, but not all. The rest depended on the outcome of the bloodletting.

  As the boy rose to help Rhin to his crate, he traded a glance with his aunt. Her eyes were narrowed, but understanding. Merion did nothing but flash a wry smile and turn his attention to Mr Witchazel.

  The man looked like a dishevelled spider in lack of a few good limbs. His skin was practically as grey as the faerie’s. His bones poked out from wherever they had an angle to show. His clothes barely fitted him; they gathered around his waist and ankles. A good many more lines had been etched in his forehead and cheeks since they’d last met, barely a few months ago. His hair now had more salt than pepper.

  ‘Mr Witchazel,’ said Merion, standing over him. They had barely traded a word since the escape. ‘We need to talk.’

  The lawyer slowly got to his feet, wincing, gangly limbs shaking. He was in a similar state to Rhin. Torture seemed to have a knack for hollowing out a person.

  ‘We do, Lord Hark, about a great many things,’ he said. His expression was gaunt, almost fearful. Whatever stern words Merion had cooked up withered away in that moment. The boy bit the inside of his lip and gestured to the door.

  ‘Shall we?’

  ‘I’ll join you,’ said Gunderton, already out of his chair. ‘I need the fresh air.’ A thin excuse, but the boy understood his need. Merion wondered if he had an explanation to offer the lawyer. In any case, the Brother could wait his turn.

  The three of them ambled out into the streets to the growl of nearby thunder. Rain had begun to play on the river-water. They kept to the edge of the bank, out of the flow of people and carts.

  It took a while for anyone to speak. Merion had been thrown by the lawyer’s expression. Here was a man clearly distressed. He kept catching his sideways looks.

  ‘I shall say it how I see it, Mr Witchazel,’ Merion began, feeling very much like his father. ‘So please forgive me for my bluntness.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Witchazel, already frowning at the tongue-lashing he thought was coming. But Merion curbed his tone.

  ‘Dizali broke you,’ he said quietly. ‘I understand that now.’

  Witchazel bowed his head. ‘I regret to agree with you.’

  ‘In that case I want you to know that I do not blame you. Gunderton has told me you were tortured for almost two weeks.’

  Witchazel nodded.

  ‘Then I’m sure my father would be proud of you for protecting our name for as long as you did.’ Merion hoped this would bring a lift to that dejected face. It must have taken some fire to stand up to Dizali and his wicked ways for that long, but that fire had long burnt out, it seemed. All but ashes and charcoal remained. Merion wanted to see if it could be re-ignited.

  ‘I… I failed. Dizali has the deeds. Signed documents.’

  ‘And that’s where you can help me exact some revenge on Dizali. Help me topple him.’

  Witchazel looked shocked. ‘Is that what you’re here to do?’

  Merion nodded. ‘And we will succeed. I refuse to fail any longer.’

  ‘But he has the Orange Seed. You know what that is?’

  ‘I know.’ Merion held up his hands. ‘It’s all under control.’

  Witchazel sucked a lip. ‘In that case, Lord Hark, I believe it’s you that your father would be proud of, for continuing his work against the lampreys. And you too, Gunderton, for bringing him back.’ Witchazel said, turned to nod at his old friend.

  Gunderton shook his head. ‘It wasn’t me. Merion found his own way back.’

  ‘Well, then,’ said Witchazel, gingerly scratching a scab. ‘You’re both here, and that is all that matters.’

  ‘And that’s all that matters.’ Merion echoed. There was clearly a crossroad of guilt here, and he wanted to banish it. Wherever these men had failed, they were now making amends. Berating the lawyer would have crushed him further. His face said it all: he hated himself for what Dizali had turned him into. That was more than enough for Merion. As his father had once told him: no man should deplore his actions when they have been true and just. He stopped them by a broad stone pillar and extended a hand.

  ‘In any case, I wanted to say thank you, for holding out as long as you could.’ Witchazel shook his hand in a warm, albeit bony, grasp. He smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. ‘And you, Gunderton, for coming after me. I don’t think I have thanked you for that.’

  Gunderton dipped his head and smiled briefly. ‘You migh
t have Karrigan’s flame, but you’ve got your mother’s empathy,’ he said. Merion gave the man an odd look. Nobody had ever compared him to her before. It felt altogether strange in its novelty, but welcome enough.

  Merion turned back to the lawyer. ‘Now, Mr Witchazel—’

  ‘How can I help?’ His eyes had brightened already.

  Merion smiled. ‘Let’s find you some parchment and a quill, and then you’ll see.’

  *

  Lilain’s practised fingers darted back and forth, needle and thread weaving through the dusty leather of Lurker’s hat. She went at it as though she were patching a wound.

  ‘I still don’t like it.’

  The prospector was feigning sleep, eyes half-closed and leaning back in one of the threadbare armchairs, rough hands ungloved for once, and folded across his stomach. The empty flask perched on his knee. Jake was curled up by the foot of the chair, head buried in his piebald feathers.

  ‘I gotta say, Lil, he ain’t steered us wrong yet.’

  ‘Not this time, no. But Merion ain’t always had the best way with plans.’

  ‘You saying you don’t trust him now?’ Lurker popped open one dark eye.

  The reply was fierce. ‘Not in the slightest and you know it, John Hobble.’

  Lurker sniffed, unconvinced. Lil was just worried, and he told her so.

  ‘You just don’t like bein’ overridden.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Not when the stakes are as high as this.’

  ‘He ain’t no boy no more. You seen him last night.’ Lurker closed his eye again and readjusted himself in the chair. The boy had barely broken a sweat, even with bullets nipping at his heels.

  ‘I know,’ Lilain said, biting off the last tail of thread and throwing the hat onto Lurker’s chest. ‘And I won’t be able to convince neither of them, knowin’ how stubborn they both can be.’

  ‘True enough.’ Lurker examined the patch with his scarred fingers. It was fine work, thanks to Lilain’s surgeon-hands. He slipped it over his forehead and titled it to his chin.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said a small voice nearby.

  ‘That’s enough out of you, faerie. You should be asleep,’ ordered Lilain. Rhin made no reply. He knew what was good for him. Lurker chuckled under his hat.

  Silence reigned as Lilain packed away her needle and thread. The prospector let himself drift along the edges of a whisky-infused sleep. It wasn’t that he was unperturbed: he cared a great deal for the mulish lordling. But Rhin’s words had rung true. Lurker had seen a new brand of fire in Merion’s eyes, from the day they’d first set foot in this noisy city. He trusted it now like the firm stock of a rifle.

  ‘What will we do after?’ said Lilain.

  Lurker raised up the brim of his hat with a finger. ‘After this is all done and dusted?’

  ‘When Dizali’s hangin’ from a rope, as Merion likes to put it.’

  There was a scratch of the nose as he thought. ‘This city ain’t for me, that’s for sure. Too darn loud, and I swear I ain’t seen no stars since we arrived. Just smog and cloud, choking all them busy businessmen rushing to and fro. The buildings are too tall and their lights are too bright. Ain’t a way for a soul to live.’

  ‘Back west, then,’ she said. ‘Back over the Iron Ocean.’

  ‘I ain’t known any other place, is all.’ Lilain’s curious mood was contagious. Lurker hadn’t indulged in this sort of thinking time since the night of the Bloodmoon. ‘It’s the only land I ‘spect that’ll have me.’

  ‘Maybe Lincoln’ll have use for us,’ said Lilain. ‘And now we know a reliable airship pilot. Higgis did tell us where to find her if we need her. I do believe she owes us a free flight.’

  Lurker turned his mind to the sweltering reaches of the west, where the desert and prairie rolled on for boundless miles. A heart like his needed to escape this crush of cobbles and carriages. No mighty spires and their grinning gargoyles; just peace and space, raw and wild. Somewhere he didn’t have to worry about treading on a piece of history with every step. Somewhere he could make his own.

  Lurker smiled. ‘Maybe we could join up with all them crazy homesteaders. Go find us a patch of prairie. Keep an ol’ buffalo for milk and cheese. I’ll get prospectin’ again. I’ll even build Mr Magpie here a house in a tree.’ He nudged Jake gently with his foot, drawing a muffled croak.

  ‘Us?’ Lilain looked at him sideways.

  He nodded. ‘You could have another basement, jus’ like the last one. Put a Star up, so people know to come knockin’.’

  ‘You astound me sometimes, John Hobble.’

  He frowned. ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘The desert’s favourite wanderer, wantin’ to settle down on a patch of land. And with me, what’s more. What has all this danger reduced you to?’

  ‘Peace and quiet, that’s what I hope for. Like I once had.’

  Lilain’s smile broke. ‘I ain’t your dead wife, John.’

  ‘No,’ he said, sitting forward and reaching for her hand. ‘You’re Lilain Hark, and that’ll do just fine for me. Just don’t get bored of me one day and pick up a hammer, like you did with your last man.’ He grinned.

  Lilain’s stern look melted instantly. She may even have blushed, for the first time since they had met. She cleared her throat and tutted.

  ‘Quit distracting me, you old badger. Got important things to do, like figure what to do with that Serped girl. She’ll pounce as soon as this is over.’ It was just like her to change the subject.

  ‘That one’s easy.’

  ‘It is?’

  Lurker leaned back, hat pulled low. ‘Put a bullet in her, soon as this is all done.’

  Lilain thought on that for a moment. ‘Murder her?’

  ‘Ain’t murder. Mercy, is what it is. Mercy on our young lordlin’. Mercy on the world.’

  ‘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.’