‘And did his attack succeed?’ Blue asked, frowning.
‘The Persians beat the crap out of him,’ Fogarty said. ‘The mighty empire that got destroyed was his own.’ He stared at her with cold blue eyes. ‘You have to be careful how you interpret an oracle.’
‘Oh,’ Blue said.
Pyrgus said, ‘So you wouldn’t attack the Nighters, Mr Fogarty?’
‘Oh, I’d attack them all right,’ Fogarty said. ‘I don’t believe in oracles.’
Nineteen
Hairstreak waited until the coach carrying Pyrgus was out of sight. The boy was tricky, but he could probably be trusted to take a simple message to his sister. What happened then was anybody’s guess. Blue had been headstrong from the time she was a little girl. Now she was Queen…
Well, now she was Queen, that headstrong streak could serve his plans very nicely.
He scowled as he turned back to the house. They’d be waiting for him by now, all of them. Waiting with their stupid questions. Not that it mattered. He could wait too, longer than the rest of them put together.
Pelidne was standing just inside the doorway. Hairstreak looked at him with a hint of distaste. Such a shame about Cossus Cossus. A damn nuisance training in a new Gatekeeper, but you could never trust a man with a worm up his bottom. And what Pelidne lacked in experience, he made up for in loyalty. Not to mention his interesting talents, which would certainly be useful.
‘Are they here?’ he snapped.
Pelidne nodded. ‘I showed them down to the Conference Chamber, sir.’
‘Are the securities in place?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did they take precautions against being followed?’
Pelidne looked startled. ‘I assume so, sir.’
‘Assume nothing,’ Hairstreak told him. ‘They’re idiots – all of them. Have a contingent of guards search the grounds. If they find anybody, interrogate them then kill them painfully. You can feed any bodies to my slith. Poor thing hasn’t eaten in days.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The Conference Chamber was more than thirty feet beneath the foundations of the manor, functional and spell-proof. There was a sudden silence when Hairstreak strode in, as if they’d been talking behind his back. Which they probably had. He allowed his eyes to drift coldly from one to the other, unsmiling. Old Duke Electo was there, dressed in his revolting magenta robes and looking more ancient than God. He seldom left his castle nowadays, which showed the importance he placed on the current developments. Hairstreak nodded an acknowledgement.
The rest, with a few notable exceptions, were the usual crowd – Anthocharis Cardamines, complete with irritating twitch, the ghastly Colias twins, Hecla and Lesbia, glaring at him malevolently, that imbecile Croceus who murdered his father, and all the other inbred weeds inflicted on him by reason of their titles. Their inherited titles. Not a real talent among them.
But the exceptions were interesting. Hamearis, Duke of Burgundy, was lounging in a chair at the end of the table. Darkness, but the man was enormous! Even seated he seemed to overwhelm the others. He played up to it, of course. Those shoulders were part due to his padded armour. But that didn’t mean he should be underestimated. He’d fought more than his fair share of battles and attracted a huge following as a hero. He’d once been Hairstreak’s closest ally. Now Hairstreak couldn’t be sure. They had very different ideas about the current situation.
Then there was Fuscus, dear, sweet, baby-faced Fuscus, with his private army and wardrobe of military uniforms. They said he wore a different one each night and strutted round the battlements waving an amber sword. Such theatrics. Hairstreak doubted Fuscus had ever delivered a blow in anger. But the private army was a different matter. An elite force, well-trained, well-armed and ready to do their master’s bidding. Which made Fuscus a power to be reckoned with. There’d been a time when Hairstreak thought he might have made a close ally, but he was Burgundy’s man now and Hairstreak was no longer sure of Burgundy.
The final exception was more interesting still. Zosine Typha Ogyris, the only faerie in the room without a title. But what he lacked in breeding, he made up for in wealth. He sat there, a little, balding, toad-like creature with his hands calmly folded in his lap. He looked harmless, but he commanded more resources than six noble houses. The man was incredible. He’d actually arrived in the Realm without a penny, a refugee from Haleklind. Somebody claimed he’d laid the foundations of his fortune by hauling manure to market gardens. Manure! Hairstreak had had a hard time securing his place at this conference. The Great House representatives thought it beneath their dignity to sit down with someone who lacked a title. But Zosine was here now, oh yes. And whatever doubts he had about Hamearis, Hairstreak could count on Zosine absolutely.
Irritatingly, it was Hamearis who seized the initiative. ‘Ah, Blackie,’ he said, as if he were in command of the entire meeting, ‘did you do it?’
Idly Hairstreak wondered if a poisoned stiletto might penetrate the padded armour. But he kept his face impassive, even managed a benign look, as he turned his gaze back to Burgundy.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Any answer yet?’
‘Hardly,’ said Hairstreak easily. He pulled out a chair from the head of the table. ‘The message has only just been dispatched.’
‘Why the delay?’ asked Hecla Colias sharply, ever ready to make trouble.
Hairstreak fixed her with a warning glance. ‘Because I did not deem the time right before now.’ He noted with some satisfaction that she dropped her gaze at once. He tilted the chair backwards to convey easy relaxation and swept the gathering with his eyes. ‘Crown Prince Pyrgus -’ He stopped, smiled a little, then went on, ‘Or rather I should say ex -Crown Prince Pyrgus, has received details of our offer and is now on his way to deliver it to the young Queen. What I -’
‘Is it in writing?’ someone interrupted. Hairstreak recognised the voice as Cardamines, who wasn’t so much an enemy as a nuisance. He had a pedantic streak.
Hairstreak forced a smile. ‘Difficult to see the need, Anthocharis. At this stage we’ve merely offered to negotiate.’ Cardamines nodded and grunted. Then twitched. Hairstreak turned back to the others. ‘The purpose of this meeting is to refine our position should Her Majesty agree…’ he paused a beat, ‘… and define our position should she refuse.’
The purpose of the meeting was nothing of the sort, but it sounded good. He closed his mouth and waited for the inevitable reaction.
It came without a moment’s delay. ‘Thought we’d agreed on our position,’ growled Electo’s gruff voice. ‘Both ways.’
‘So did I,’ snapped Lesbia, who was just as poisonous as her sister, but slightly better in bed as Hairstreak recalled.
‘Perhaps not quite both ways,’ Cardamines twitched pedantically.
And they were off. Hairstreak closed his eyes and let the discussion wash over him. Of course it had already been decided. It was the most serious defeat he’d ever suffered in the Council of the Faeries of the Night. Made worse because it had been utterly unexpected. Negotiate a peaceful solution? He almost shuddered. But once the proposition had been put – by some minor noble, obviously acting under orders – they’d forced his hand. Even Hamearis had deserted him and he was at a loss to understand why.
The end result was plain enough. There’d been a change of heart among the Faeries of the Night. Somehow they’d lost their backbone, lost the will to fight. He’d even been pilloried for his last two attempts to seize the throne. And now they wanted peace. Worse, they wanted it at any price. The offer of negotiation hid complete capitulation. If Blue wanted peace, she could have it. If she accepted quickly, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He’d lost his backing and without backing he was nothing.
But Blue wouldn’t accept quickly, not if he knew his niece. She’d always had a deeply suspicious streak and now she was being advised by a Gatekeeper who was batty as a Border Redcap. She’d suspect a trap. She’d stall
for time. She’d postpone the negotiations while her old harridan of a spymaster tried to find out what was behind them. And all that would give Hairstreak the time to shift Council members back behind him.
Starting now.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Pelidne had silently entered the chamber. ‘Refreshment,’ Hairstreak ordered shortly. He gave a small nod.
Pelidne nodded back, so subtly that no one else in the room could have noticed it. ‘Of course, sir.’
He must have had a tray ready waiting, for he returned to the room at once. Croceus looked quickly – there were rumours he was a simbala addict – but selected a small tankard of ale when Pelidne reached him. Hamearis took one of the simbalas and tossed it down, then sat back, smiling as the music took hold. Both Colias twins drank wine, as did Fuscus.
When the guests had all been served, Pelidne offered the tray to Hairstreak. He was reaching for his tamarind juice when Fuscus began to cough. The discussion had already started up again, so most of them ignored him at first. But then he toppled his chair with a clatter, half stood and jack-knifed across the table. Lesbia Colias gave a little shriek and pulled away from him. Fuscus convulsed and vomited on the polished wood. The other twin, Hecla, stood up abruptly and watched him, her eyes huge. She gave a small moan that sounded suspiciously like pleasure.
‘What’s the matter with the fella?’ demanded Duke Electo impatiently.
Something very unpleasant began to happen to Fuscus. Starting at the mouth, his head slowly split open. In a moment there was blood and brains all over the table.
The chamber exploded into uproar, although Hairstreak noticed Burgundy hadn’t moved and was now staring at him intently. On cue, Zosine Ogyris climbed to his feet.
‘Someone get a doctor,’ he said in a curiously resonant voice. ‘This man obviously has refinia.’ Refinia was a disease of the tropics, but it was clear to anyone that Fuscus was far beyond the help of a doctor. All the same, the diagnosis had the required effect. Refinia was contagious. In seconds, the chamber was empty except for Hairstreak, Pelidne and the rapidly disintegrating corpse of Fuscus.
‘Something in the drink?’ Hairstreak asked quietly.
Pelidne shook his head and uncurled his left hand. A glistening needle point emerged from the band of his signet ring.
‘Well done,’ Hairstreak said. He felt a modest surge of satisfaction. Burgundy would not believe the refinia story for a moment. By now he must have realised his new friend had just been brutally and publicly murdered. Several of the others would soon reach the same conclusion.
It was an important message to send out. Before long, every Great House would realise Hairstreak was still a man to be reckoned with. Given time, the new policies would begin to be rethought. All he needed now was Blue to give him that time.
All he needed was Blue’s refusal to negotiate.
Twenty
‘Do you think she’s going to negotiate?’ Pyrgus asked. There was a time when he’d have known the answer – he and Blue had always been close – but things had changed since she became Queen. She still looked like his little sister (most of the time) but there was something in her that had suddenly grown up. She’d become serious and a little hard. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He certainly didn’t understand it.
‘I don’t know,’ said Gatekeeper Fogarty.
‘Do you think she should?’ Pyrgus pressed.
‘Yes,’ Fogarty said without hesitation.
‘I thought you said you wanted to attack the Nighters, deeah,’ Madame Cardui put it.
They were walking together in the grounds of the Purple Palace, along with Madame Cardui’s orange dwarf Kitterick, who had long proved himself the soul of discretion; and was, in any case, their best security in troubled times.
‘Not sure I do,’ Fogarty said. ‘I was just making a point about oracles.’ He walked in silence for a moment, then said, ‘I know you sent her to the Spicemaster, Cynthia, but Blue’s impressionable. Hasn’t learned to take things with a pinch of salt yet. And, of course, she hears what she wants to hear. Things are tricky in the Realm just now. I don’t want her making decisions on the advice of some spook.’ He scowled. ‘What are you grinning at?’
‘ Take things with a pinch of salt. It’s such a colourful expression, deeah.’
‘Common enough in my world,’ Fogarty said shortly, but his expression softened. Pyrgus watched the exchange with interest. Fogarty said, ‘Even if your oracle told you plainly You’ll squash Hairstreak like a bug, that still isn’t a green light. You have to remember what Blue asked. “What will happen if.” Telling you what will happen if doesn’t mean you should do it. Maybe we will win if we attack the Nighters, but maybe we’ll still win if we negotiate; and with a lot less loss of life.’
‘You were impressed by General Vanelke,’ said Madame Cardui, not unkindly.
‘Yes, I was,’ Fogarty admitted. ‘I lived through one war in my own world. That’s where I got the scar and lost the toe. Damn lucky to keep the leg at all. Knocks the nonsense out of you, that. War’s not noble, not “an extension of diplomacy by other means”.’ His voice reeked with scorn. ‘War’s a mess. Usually started by some idiot who doesn’t have to fight. It’s the poor grunts on the ground who pay the price.’
‘I didn’t know you’d been a warrior,’ said Madame Cardui.
‘Warrior my arse!’ Fogarty sniffed. ‘I was just a miserable Tommy. Wouldn’t have joined up if they hadn’t made me.’ He glanced away from them both and glared into the middle distance.
Pyrgus asked, ‘Did you tell her she should negotiate?’
‘Yes,’ Fogarty said. ‘I had a word just before we left.’ He was still lost in his memories, for he added incomprehensibly, ‘Churchill said jaw-jaw was better than war-war.’
‘Do you think she will?’
Fogarty glared at him. ‘You asked me that.’
‘Yes, I know. But maybe we should be, you know, trying to make her.’
Fogarty gave him the benefit of a cynical look. ‘Did you ever manage to make your sister do anything?’
In point of fact he hadn’t, not even when she was little. He’d no doubt Blue loved him, but obedience wasn’t in her vocabulary. All the same, he didn’t like the way things were going.
In answer to Mr Fogarty’s question he said, ‘No, I didn’t. But I think I know somebody who could persuade her.’
‘Henry?’ said Madame Cardui, and smiled. Pyrgus nodded. Madame Cardui said, ‘Does he know she’s in love with him?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Pyrgus grinned. He’d been feeling good about Blue and Henry for a while now. He liked Henry.
Mr Fogarty stopped to stare at the distant horizon. ‘Glands,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t be so cynical, Alan,’ Madame Cardui told him crossly. ‘If you can’t fall in love at their age, when can you?’
For some reason it warmed Mr Fogarty enough to make him grin a little. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
Pyrgus said quickly, ‘Do you want to send for him, Mr Fogarty? Or should I translate and get him?’ He quite fancied another trip to the Analogue World, even if he couldn’t spend much time there.
But Mr Fogarty said, ‘Mightn’t need to.’ He glanced from Pyrgus to Madame Cardui. ‘You two got a minute?’
Since he’d translated permanently to the Faerie Realm, Mr Fogarty had moved into Saram na Roinen, the House of the Gatekeeper, an official residence that comprised a large lodge and some outbuildings on the edge of the Purple Palace gardens. As Fogarty opened the door, Pyrgus noted he’d wasted no time in turning it into a tip, but he led them straight through and out the back, then down a short path to one of the outbuildings.
The stone structure had once been an ornitherium, but the high latticed windows had been boarded up and all the external perches removed. Even the antique listening booth had been taken away. On the inside, only the vaulted ceiling remained of the original fittings. The rest had been gutted out and replaced by… r
eplaced by…
Pyrgus blinked. They’d been replaced by Mr Fogarty’s shed! Pyrgus remembered it from the time poor old Hodge mistook him for a mouse. But this was the original writ large. There was enough junk to fill a merchant’s store and the workbench in the centre was enormous. Pieces of machinery were strewn all over it.
‘It’s something I’ve been working on,’ Mr Fogarty said with enthusiasm. ‘Any of you lot ever seen Star Trek?’ He shook his head. ‘No, of course you haven’t – must be getting senile.’ He ushered them inside and closed the door. ‘It’s a television programme we have back home. You can explain television to them, Pyrgus – you’ve seen that. Star Trek ’s about space travel. They have a star ship and a thing called a transporter. It’s just fiction, but that transporter got me thinking.’ He moved towards the bench. ‘The way it works is you beam people about the place, down to the planet, back to the ship, whatever, and the thing is, if you’re on the ship, you can lock on to them down on the planet and beam them aboard.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘You see what I’m getting at?’
Pyrgus shook his head.
Madame Cardui said, ‘No…’
Kitterick said, ‘I presume, sir, you feel there may be something in the process analogous to our portal technology, but possibly improved.’
Pyrgus blinked.
‘Exactly!’ exclaimed Fogarty. He focused on Kitterick. ‘It’s matter transmission, of course. You scan somebody down to his constituent pattern and beam the information to the destination where he can be reassembled using local atoms. The problem’s always been what to do with the body.’
‘What body?’
‘The body you scanned at this end. And you have to do something about the body, otherwise you’d be in two places at once. You can see why matter transmission never became a commercial proposition. Imagine an airline that had to kill off each of its passengers to get them to their destination. You’d be ceiling deep in corpses by the end of the first week.’
‘And no one else would wish to travel because of the smell,’ Kitterick said blandly.
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