Bloodfeud (The Scarlet Star Trilogy Book 3)

by Ben Galley

  On they marched, until they paused at an ornate archway, carved like the parted fronds of a hunched willow tree. Beyond its door, hundreds of nobles argued and shouted; a din of politics and windbags. A dozen lordsguards were waiting for him, fully armed and armoured. A pair of handcuffs were clasped around the boy’s wrists. Witchazel was spared, on account of the thick pile of documents he was carrying. The two of them shared the briefest of glances as they were jostled into position.

  Merion took another deep breath and tried to move some saliva around his mouth. It was as dry as Wyoming dirt.

  *

  Longweather and Hanister were waiting for Dizali at the top of the grand steps. He was wringing his hands, most unlike him indeed.

  ‘Whatever is the matter?’ Dizali growled, not in the mood for hiccups in his plan.

  ‘The Benches are in a foul mood, my Lord,’ Longweather groaned, following like a hound as Dizali swept on.

  Fine,’ he replied. ‘The moodier they are, the more they will be impressed with what I have brought them.’

  ‘The Hark boy?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘It may just pacify them, my Lord,’ said Longweather.

  Dizali stopped in his tracks. He grabbed Longweather by the neck and threw him against the nearest column. He snarled in his face as the lord flapped his jowls in shock.

  ‘It will pacify them, and more!’

  ‘Yes, Lord Protector. My apologies!’

  Dizali marched on, leaving Longweather to scuttle furtively behind him, hands massaging his throat. ‘Once they see the boy here today, and see the Queen hang in…’ Dizali paused to check his pocket watch. ‘…barely two hours from now, they will finally realise who is in charge, and who to stand behind.’

  ‘Yes, Lord Protector.’

  Dizali waved his hand. ‘Have them announce my arrival!’

  Hanister sped off to see it done. Dizali adjusted his tie once more, stood as straight as he could manage, and took a long, slow breath. This was it, he thought again. He stared up at the great keystone of the door balancing above him. He studied the gargoyles and dragons entwined in the stonework, and nodded to himself.

  A mild hush fell over the lords and ladies as Dizali’s name and titles were bellowed out by the Voice, who sounded as though he had already given up on life. The lordsguards pushed open the doors and Dizali stepped out into the amber glow of the colossal room. The mighty glass windows were afire with the noon sun, casting spears of gold and red light across the Benches and the polished tomb of the first Prime Lord, glittering away in the centre of the floor.

  A half-hearted wave of cheering greeted him, some of it genuine, the rest bought and paid for. He wanted to scowl at the rest; those that muttered and slouched, high in the back-benches. Dizali’s eyes roved over them, his practised gaze picking them out from the crowds. Lady This and Lord That. He tracked them all, gauging the landscape of the moody crowd in moments.

  This was supposed to be a house of the proud and the elected, the new crown of the Empire; and yet it looked more like a crowd of drunken dinner guests. Not a single one of them dared to dress in anything but their utmost finery. It was all jewellery, silk handkerchiefs and shoes so bright they could be used as mirrors. They were red-faced blusterers and self-righteous fops, elected through any means their slimy fingers could employ. If they weren’t seething in silence they were spewing rubbish. Dizali wanted to be done with them all. But for now, he needed them swayed. He grinned like a predator. Starving children always whine when they are hungry, and he was about to deliver them a feast. Or at least, that’s what he would have them think.

  Dizali took the stand at the head of the tomb.

  ‘My Emerald Lords and Ladies!’ he bellowed over the noise of the crowd, beating the Voice to his bell. ‘How good of you all to join me on this most momentous of days.’

  ‘And how is it momentous, Dizali?’ shouted an unknown voice from somewhere amongst the Cardinals. Dizali flashed a thin smile in its direction.

  ‘If you would hold your tongue for just a moment, you might find out,’ Dizali retorted, and there was scattered sniggering. He made a mental note to have the man’s tongue cut out at a later date, when he felt like ruining something.

  ‘This is a momentous day, my Lords, my Ladies,’ he continued, ‘for not only do we take a leap forwards and finally claim a more democratic method of ruling this great Empire…’ He waited for the murmurs, assenting and dissenting alike, to subside. ‘…we also finally put the claim of the Hark estate to rest.’ Silence came and went.

  ‘Does this mean you have finally found the deeds?’ Longweather yelled, appropriately timed.

  ‘Yes, I have!’ Dizali roared, raising his hands to the grand roof. ‘Recovered in full from Lord Umbright’s estate. And that is why I have summoned you here today before the hanging: to finally put an end to this bothersome situation and in the meantime, provide you with some entertainment. Because, by finding the deeds, I have also captured another treasure, Lords and Ladies. It will be an enjoyable start to today’s events, I assure you.’

  ‘Spit it out!’ grumbled another voice, this time from the Cobalts.

  ‘I see there are some here who would trample ceremony and protocol!’ Dizali snapped at his side of the Benches. Longweather was busy trying to weed out the culprit with vicious glaring. ‘I will not be harried along like some messenger! This day is to be recognised as the dawn of a new era and I will have it respected as such! If you lack faith in my new government and want no part in what we forge here today, then please, do step outside and join our old Queen on the gallows, for you are a traitor to us all.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence, just as Dizali had hoped. Not a posterior left its seat. The only thing that moved were heads, watching and waiting to see who would rise first. Dizali clapped his hands to bring them back to attention.

  ‘Then again, I may be mistaken, and you are simply eager to get to Crucible before I do.’ There was a scattered laughter, a round of applause, again half-hearted. ‘So if you insist, then let us proceed!’

  Dizali waved to a lordsguard, who ran to rap his spear against the door at the far end of the hall. ‘Here to confess his crimes against this Empire and the trust we laid in his father. Here to give you all justice and to watch his estate be stripped from him, might I present Lord Tonmerion Harlequin Hark. Traitor and murderer!’

  *

  The knock came clear and loud; something heavy banging against the gilded wood. Heck shoved Merion forwards as the lordsguards saw to the doors. A warm light flooded the hallway, momentarily blinding Merion as he was steered into the vast hall of the Emerald Benches.

  The room was as grand as he remembered; grander, even. A cavern of stone and patterned light, filled by two opposing slopes of men and women; the elite of this supposedly fine Empire. There were hundreds of them, wrapped in expensive suits and opulent dresses. Merion marched forward with his head held high. He met all of their suspicious and greedy gazes.

  A fierce muttering ran through the crowds. Then, a long and low booing began from somewhere at the front of the hall. It set off a chain reaction. Soon, the jeering was all around, pelting down on him like storm-rain. It settled slightly as he reached the golden tomb, where Dizali waited.

  They stood there for a moment, square on and silent, their eyes hard and fixated on each another; as if waiting for the strike of a bell and the flash of hands to holsters. Ideally, a tumbleweed would have rolled across the floor between them. Merion went as far as to flash a smile.

  ‘As you can see, the wild west has tainted him with its savageness, and turned him into something of an animal!’ Dizali shouted over the noise. ‘He was caught just last night trying to enter my home, possibly intent on murdering me in my own bed. Since then, he has spouted nothing but treachery and lies to explain his actions. Do not expect much sense and truth from this boy, my Lords and Ladies, for you will get none.’

  There was another round of
booing and muttering. Dizali had clearly stoked up the crowd, getting it simmering for Merion’s entrance. It was nicely done. The higher Dizali climbed, the further he would fall. The boy scanned the Benches, looking for the faces he was counting on. A few he spied were silent and grave, and avoided his eyes.

  ‘You, Tonmerion Hark, stand accused of treachery to this Empire, and of the murder of the Serped family, bar Calidae Serped. You are also accused on consorting with the New Kingdom and with the pretender Red King Lincoln. What do you say to these crimes?’

  ‘They’re all rather true,’ Merion said, loudly and clearly. He caught Witchazel’s glance as he turned to look around the room. The commotion died. They clearly had not expected him to confess. ‘Depending on the perspective, that is. On the other hand you might say it was saving Calidae Serped from her parents, who were involved in a secret order of lords, ladies, admirals, and dignitaries, seeking to rule this Empire for themselves. One headed b—’

  Dizali cut him short. ‘You see? Lies and nonsense, even now when he has been given a chance to come clean!’

  Merion shrugged. ‘If that is what you call it, then I am guilty.’

  Dizali clapped his hands together and turned to his party. ‘From his very mouth, my Lords and Ladies!’ Then, to the Cardinals. ‘A confession! And with that, I sentence him to death alongside Queen Victorious this very afternoon.’

  ‘Do what you think is best, Dizali,’ said Merion, causing more chuntering among the Benches.

  The Lord Protector raised his hands to the Voice, who got to his feet with a sigh. ‘All those in favour?’ he yelled.

  There came a chorus of, ‘Aye!’, although it did not reach quite the volume Dizali had expected. The briefest flash of anger came and went as he and Merion locked eyes once more.

  ‘Then it is decided. No longer will you meddle in our plans, Tonmerion Hark!’

  ‘Your plans, you mean,’ said Merion, just for him.

  ‘What of the deeds, then?’ a voice yelled.

  Dizali scowled, losing patience with his impetuous underlings. He waved to Heck, who led Witchazel forward as if he were an esteemed guest. The lawyer managed to smile and nod, just as they had practised that morning in the cell. Merion kept his confident face, knowing it had begun to confuse Dizali.

  ‘You will remember Mr Witchazel as the good man who survived Lord Umbright’s torturer, several weeks ago,’ Dizali explained. ‘As Karrigan Hark’s lawyer and executor of the Harker Sheer estate, he has, as you know, assigned the estate to me as per the Clean Slate Statute.’ He spoke loudly, with undeniable authority and a hint of excitement. ‘At long last, I am pleased to inform you that yesterday evening, Mr Witchazel witnessed my signing of the deeds. He will now proceed to show you.’ He gestured for the lawyer to place the stack of papers on top of the tomb.

  Witchazel took his time sorting them. The air grew thick with anticipation. Merion looked to Dizali, and saw the victory already dancing in his eyes, as he watched Witchazel wolfishly. The young Hark’s gut teetered inside him, and he bit his tongue to keep from betraying the moment. This was the crescendo he had longed for, worked for, and fought tooth, blood and nail for.

  Witchazel held up the first page for all to see, indicating the signature with his finger. No questions were raised, no rumbles of curiosity. The lawyer held up another and still nothing. Another page was lifted into the air and it began to grow painful. Witchazel paused as long as he dared on each, swivelling to show the whole of the Benches. Merion began to feel his skin prickle with trepidation. Come on!

  ‘How do we know these are the real deeds?’ shouted a voice. Finally! Its owner was even bold enough to stand up: a chubby lord in a fancy, blue-trimmed suit, sitting in the second row of the Cobalts. He looked recently injured, with a bloodshot eye and several stitches across his cheek. Dizali whirled to face him, daggers in his eyes.

  ‘Lord Darbish, you dare to doubt my integrity?’

  Merion could have somersaulted in that moment. He could have run to hug the rotund lord. ‘That has been in question of late,’ Merion quipped loudly, landing a jab where he could.

  ‘Darbish is right! Bring them closer!’ came another yell. The letters had done their job.

  ‘How dare you all?’ Dizali roared, marching to the front row of the Cobalts. ‘Darbish, if you see fit to brand me a liar, then come down here and check for yourself. When you discover your error, you may eject yourself from this hall!’

  If Dizali had hoped to bully and bellow the man into sitting down, the Lord Protector was disappointed. Darbish got to his feet. He wobbled, for sure, but he did not falter. The Benches erupted with muddled voices. Judging by the wide eyes of the pompous congregation, this was unprecedented. Darbish shuffled sideways, making for the steps.

  ‘I will, Lord Dizali.’

  Half of the Benches had got to their feet with him. Dizali stood rooted to the spot, clenching his fists. He watched the lord make his way down to the tomb, where an expressionless Witchazel stood, holding one piece of parchment and one piece only, flat in his hands.

  A rare silence reigned as Darbish read quietly to himself, hands trembling ever so slightly. Merion stared at him as though the man were about to transform into a railwraith.

  At first, a furrow knitted into his sweaty brow; starting shallow, then growing deeper with every line he read. Then he looked up at Witchazel, who nodded imperceptibly. Darbish wiped his forehead with one hand and then turned to look at the Lord Protector.

  Dizali tutted. ‘As expected, you are mistaken, Lord Darbish! Now, if you please—’

  ‘Is this some kind of joke, Lord Dizali?’ Darbish interrupted him, quietly, but still loud enough for all to hear. The silence was agonising.

  ‘What is it, man?’ a Cardinal lady called out.

  ‘Tell us!’ yelled another, Lord Oswalk, if Merion wasn’t mistaken. Another recipient of his propaganda.

  Darbish laughed: utter confusion mixed with an odd glee. It was cold, damning, and the finest thing Merion could have ever hoped for. It was so tempting, to explode and pounce too early.

  ‘It’s a confession,’ said Darbish. ‘A signed confession of all you’ve done over the past few months.’ His voice was lost in the rising uproar from the hall.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Dizali growled, still refusing to move. His face could not decide what emotion to display. Longweather bounded forward to look at the paper, almost tearing it from Darbish’s hands.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Longweather. But before he could speak another word, the doors behind Dizali were flung open and a contingent of stern, blue-coated constables entered, bearing truncheons. Lieutenant Constable Pagget marched at their head.

  As the Brothers moved to stand by Dizali, the Lord Protector flashed the boy the vilest of looks. Merion grinned. Lurker had done it! Merion would buy the man all the hats he could want for when this was over.

  The Voice was ringing his bell as though he was warning townsfolk of an impending apocalypse. Nobody was listening. Every lord and lady present was shouting at the top of their lungs, demanding to know more.

  Dizali snapped, storming forwards to snatch the parchment from Darbish. Surprisingly, Longweather held him back, screeching for silence. Darbish and Witchazel crept backwards, holding the confession high.

  Constable Pagget raised his arms and drowned Longweather out with his own barking. The hall finally fell silent. Merion spoke up.

  ‘Constable Pagget, you could not have come at a better t—’

  ‘Silence, Hark!’ Dizali bellowed, his face a mask of incredulous outrage.

  ‘Lord Dizali was just about to confess his crimes against the Empire. Of which there are many. I mentioned perspective, did I not, my Lords and Ladies?’ Merion was emulating Dizali, much to the whispering delight of the hall. Their allegiance was crumbling, their trust wavering; just as he’d planned. ‘Let’s have some from the man himself!’

  Dizali turned to Pagget, whose eyes were fixed on Meri
on, questioning and yet strangely determined. Whatever Lurker had told him, it must have been persuasive.

  ‘Constable Pagget, I demand that you immediately arrest the traitor known as Tonmerion Hark. I demand you take him to the gallows!’

  ‘It is Lieutenant Constable Pagget, Lord Protector,’ Pagget began. Upon hearing how quiet his voice was in the huge hall, he cleared his throat. ‘I have actually come to hear another confession. Yours, in fact. I’m under the impression it is far more important.’

  ‘Read it out, Darbish!’ came a shout, shrill and angry. Lady Sargen, if Merion wasn’t mistaken.

  Pagget held up his hands again. ‘My Lord, please, do continue.’

  It took a moment for Darbish to find his voice, but when he did it echoed throughout the hall, filling every eager ear.

  Darbish read Witchazel’s carefully constructed words to the letter; as damning as a swinging axe.

  ‘“I, Lord Bremar Dizali, renounce all claim over the Harker Sheer estate due to reasons I now wish to divulge to the Benches. I regret to admit I have not gained my post as Lord Protector by honourable means. The greatest of my crimes…’ Darbish paused, working some spittle into his dry gums. ‘…is the murder of Prime Lord Karrigan Bastion Hark.’

  ‘Lies and trickery! You cannot be taking this seriously?’

  Dizali was turning purple. His green eyes burned like saltfire. The outraged roar from the Benches drowned him in noise. He tried once again to reach the rotund Lord Darbish, but the constables had moved in, forming a wall around the tomb.

  It took the lieutenant a while to quell the hall. Merion basked in the beauty of its roaring. Some had realised that their promises were being stripped away and could do nothing but yell at being cut adrift. Others were witnessing their secret wishes to remove the Lord Protector shockingly granted. The rest—those who perhaps still clung to their morals—were apoplectic with outrage. For once, these nobles had found a common ground, and that was Dizali, and the boy who had delivered him to them. Politics is merely a class of cannibalism in a more formal guise.