Ruler of the Realm fw-3

by Herbie Brennan

  ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it?’ said Kitterick.

  Twenty-five

  Henry felt as if he’d been run through a mincer. Everything ached, including, he noticed curiously, his hair. But worse than the ache was the confusion. He’d been in his bedroom a second ago.

  He looked around. He was now in Mr Fogarty’s shed. Or a Paramount Pictures version of Mr Fogarty’s shed. It was huge and filled with really creepy stuff. There was a workbench scattered with equipment. There was a smallish portal full of blue fire that hovered briefly above his head, then popped out, shedding droplets like a bubble.

  Pyrgus was grinning at him. Madame Cardui was smiling at him. Kitterick was looking at him. Mr Fogarty was frowning at him. He was back. Back in the Realm! It wasn’t his imagination after all!

  Henry pushed himself painfully to his feet. Through the window he could see the distant outline of the Purple Palace with its huge cyclopean stones weathered nearly black with age. It felt a bit like coming home. He took a step and nearly fell.

  ‘Just aftermath,’ said Mr Fogarty shortly, to no one in particular.

  Henry put one hand out to lean on the bench. He found himself looking at Pyrgus, so he smiled at him.

  Madame Cardui said, ‘We can’t bring him to the Queen in this state.’

  Pyrgus said briskly, ‘I know something that will perk him up.’

  Twenty-six

  ‘What is this place?’ Henry asked. Although it was his third visit to the Realm, he’d never actually been in the city before. It was a peculiar experience, like stepping back in time. He kept thinking of drawings he’d seen of Elizabethan London and the movie Shakespeare in Love. The city seemed to be entirely composed of narrow, dirty streets, tiny windows and overhanging buildings. The river might have been a wider version of the Thames. But despite the similarities, there were some spooky differences. This was definitely one of them.

  ‘It’s a Fizz Parlour,’ Pyrgus said.

  The frontage was decidedly garish. Spell coatings caused luminous bands of colour to crawl and intertwine with no concession to good taste. Above the door was a spinning spiral that had an hypnotic effect on passers-by. Henry noticed it was attracting a steady parade of insects and small birds.

  ‘It’s not some sort of tavern, is it?’ Henry asked. ‘Only I’m not allowed in pubs.’ Even if it wasn’t a tavern, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go in. He was feeling a whole lot steadier now, but his muscles still ached and all he really wanted was to lie down somewhere and sleep. Somehow he doubted this was what Pyrgus had in mind.

  ‘No, it’s not a tavern. We can go to a tavern if you like, but I thought this might be better for you.’ Pyrgus frowned. ‘Why aren’t you allowed in taverns?’

  ‘I’m too young.’

  ‘You’re the same age as me.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Henry said, and let it go. He eyed the entrance suspiciously. ‘It’s not… an opium den, is it?’

  ‘I don’t know what opium is,’ Pyrgus said. ‘But if you want a den, we can go to a saturation den. They’re stimulating too.’ Then he added brightly, ‘But this is completely organic.’

  ‘This’ll be great, Pyrgus,’ Henry said tiredly, belatedly remembering his manners.

  The door beneath the whirling spiral opened into a winding tunnel that looked like the inside of an intestine. Walls, ceiling and floor were glistening pink and the whole thing undulated slightly as if pushing them along. Henry didn’t like it much – he felt as if the building had digested him – but the intestine proved mercifully short.

  They squeezed through a soft, squishy sphincter into a brightly lit open-plan chamber. There were white leather seats arranged in twos across the entire space with tiny little tables between them. Cables snaked from each seat into small black boxes bolted to the floor. Floating overhead was an immense, spell-driven sign in Gothic

  letters that announced: THE ORGANIC FIZZ EXPERIENCE

  ‘Grab those seats over there,’ said Pyrgus. ‘We want to be near the door in case there’s a power outrage.’

  ‘What happens in a power outrage?’ Henry asked urgently, wondering what a power outrage was. But Pyrgus was already on his way to a booth, presumably to pay somebody.

  Henry slid cautiously into one of the seats. It creaked and groaned a little when he moved, behaving exactly the way a leather seat should. He looked around. The Fizz Parlour – whatever it was selling – seemed to be doing mediocre business. There was a scattering of couples, seated facing one another, but the place was far from full.

  Pyrgus returned and climbed into his seat, grinning broadly at Henry.

  ‘What happens now?’ Henry asked warily.

  ‘They’re sending somebody across,’ said Pyrgus.

  The somebody turned out to be a rather pretty girl with elfin features. She was carrying a tray with two tall glasses and, rather to his relief, Henry saw they were filled with nothing more threatening than carbonated fruit juice. He reached out as the girl unloaded her tray, but Pyrgus hissed urgently, ‘ That’s for afterwards!’ as if he’d made some sort of social gaffe.

  The girl smiled at Henry, reached down the front of her dress and pulled out a gleaming key on a length of string. She leaned forward to insert it into a small slit in the middle of the table.

  ‘Enjoy your Organic Fizz Experience,’ she said professionally, then left.

  ‘What happens now?’ Henry asked again. He hoped it was nothing strenuous.

  ‘Just wait,’ said Pyrgus, grinning.

  Henry waited.

  After a minute, Henry whispered, ‘What are we waiting foRRR – YIPES!!’

  A bolt of soft, smooth electricity charged up his spine. His head exploded like a Roman candle. His whole being shattered into colours dancing to the coolest music. It hurled the fractured pieces of his mind into a juggler’s heaven and kept them there, whirling and plunging, while a heady excitement welled up in his stomach – where was his stomach anyway? – until he felt about to burst. Then suddenly it stopped.

  ‘Wasn’t that great?’ Pyrgus exclaimed, his eyes shining.

  Henry reached for his glass and discovered that his hand was shaking.

  Once, on a holiday in Spain, Henry had been served tamarind juice and this had the same sweet-tart taste. But that was where any resemblance ended. From his first sip, the liquid wriggled in his mouth like a cat getting comfortable. It was weird to begin with, but after a moment he decided he liked it. In fact – he leaned back in the chair – he decided he quite liked a lot about the Organic Fizz Experience. He very much liked Pyrgus and the Faerie Realm. And talking. He wondered why he wasn’t talking now.

  ‘My aches have gone away,’ Henry heard his voice say. He smiled.

  ‘Really?’ Pyrgus said. ‘Have they really?’ He took a large pull of his own drink.

  They discussed Henry’s pains for several minutes, or possibly most of the afternoon. They concluded Henry had been under a lot of strain and Mr Fogarty’s new transporter hadn’t helped a bit. They decided he was lucky it hadn’t sent him mad. This struck them both as funny and they laughed a lot.

  ‘Speaking of lunacy,’ remarked Pyrgus later, ‘are you in love with my sister?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Henry said at once. He felt no embarrassment, either at the question or his answer.

  Pyrgus set down his glass. ‘She’s trying to start a war.’

  ‘How peculiar,’ Henry said.

  There was a privacy spell around each pair of tables – or so Pyrgus claimed – so they felt free to discuss the matter at length. They discussed Hairstreak’s offer and chewed around Blue’s response. They considered how many people – and animals, Pyrgus put in quickly – might get killed if full-scale war broke out. They carefully examined Blue’s attitude since she became the Faerie Queen.

  ‘All power corrups,’ said Henry soberly. ‘An asolute power corrups

  … asolutely!’

  ‘Wow!’ Pyrgus exclaimed admiringly. ‘That’s so true.’


  They discussed corruption for a while, then decided it was Henry’s duty to persuade Blue to give peace a chance.

  But when they got back to the Purple Palace, Blue was gone.

  Twenty-seven

  ‘Are you all right?’ Blue asked.

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘I think you may have slipped down.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She felt him climb back. He had very soft, warm little feet, several hundred of them. Somehow they clung to her skin without hurting her at all.

  ‘It’s just that if you slip too far, it looks as if I’m wearing a bustle.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Flapwazzle repeated.

  He felt more comfortable than some of her official garments, a little like a heat pad in the middle of her back. She was wearing a loose white shirt over him, which looked fine so long as he didn’t move. But when she put on the tight-fitting jacket that went with her skirt – she twisted to see herself in the mirror of her bedroom – she looked as if she’d developed a hump.

  ‘How is it with the coat?’ Flapwazzle asked.

  ‘Bit peculiar,’ Blue said.

  ‘Do I show?’

  ‘Sort of…’ She twisted again.

  ‘Maybe I could breathe out. Endolgs can go quite a long time without oxygen…’

  ‘Try it.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  Blue frowned and shook her head. ‘No… it’s not you – it’s this jacket. I think I’ll leave it off.’ She peeled off the jacket and examined herself again. She was a bit underdressed for visiting. Would her uncle notice? Hairstreak noticed everything, but what was he going to do? He couldn’t have her searched, not now she was Queen. Besides which, he’d never imagine she had an endolg clinging to her back, not in a thousand years. ‘You can start breathing again, Flapwazzle…’ Yes, that looked all right. Just so long as he didn’t slip down. ‘You sure you can hold on? We’ll be like this for a long time…’

  ‘No problem,’ Flapwazzle said. ‘It’s an evolutionary trait. My ancestors clung to cliffs.’

  This was so risky. If Lord Hairstreak discovered what she was up to, Flapwazzle was dead for sure. And Hairstreak might even be mad enough to kill her, especially if he thought he could make it look like an accident. Assuming he wasn’t genuine about making peace. But that was what they were about to find out.

  All the same, they were going to be entirely on their own. No back-up. No bodyguards. She wondered briefly if she should tell somebody what she was doing. But if she did, there’d be such a fuss she couldn’t bear it. There was always a fuss about everything since she’d become Queen. You’d think becoming Queen would give you more freedom, but she’d found she actually had less. That’s why she went to see the oracle alone. And that had turned out all right, hadn’t it?

  She straightened her back and Flapwazzle stayed stubbornly in place. She could order the Countdown to begin before she left the palace.

  ‘OK,’ Blue said. ‘Off we go!’

  Twenty-eight

  ‘What’s everybody looking at me for?’ Pyrgus demanded.

  ‘You’re next in line for the throne,’ Mr Fogarty said.

  ‘No, I’m not – I abdicated!’

  ‘You want me to go find Comma?’ Mr Fogarty asked sourly. They were standing together – Mr Fogarty, Madame Cardui, Kitterick her orange dwarf, Pyrgus and Henry – in the Throne Room. Mr Fogarty had posted guards on the door.

  ‘All right,’ Pyrgus said, ‘let’s keep it between ourselves for the moment.’ He looked around, still hoping to get out of taking charge. But no one else was volunteering. ‘OK, are we sure she’s not in the palace?’

  Mr Fogarty said, ‘She’s not in the palace.’

  Henry said quickly, ‘You don’t think she’s been kidnapped, do you?’ He looked worried.

  Mr Fogarty shrugged. ‘Could be, but her personal flyer is missing.’

  Pyrgus blinked. ‘She’s got a personal flyer? How come I don’t have a personal flyer?’

  ‘You’re under age.’

  ‘Blue’s a year younger than me! She can’t have a personal flyer.’

  ‘Blue’s Queen. She can have anything she damn well likes.’

  ‘You mean if I’d stayed on as Emperor, I could have had one?’

  ‘You could, but you didn’t, so you can’t. Now can we get back to the point?’ snapped Mr Fogarty. ‘She’s gone off somewhere, or been taken off somewhere, without telling anybody.’

  ‘She’s always going off without telling anybody,’ Pyrgus mumbled, still stung by the business about the personal flyer. ‘Did she tell anybody about that oracle thing?’

  Mr Fogarty said crossly, ‘No, she didn’t. But given that we’re on a war footing, don’t you think it’s just a little bit suspicious that she should disappear now?’

  ‘We’re on a war footing?’ Pyrgus asked. He looked stunned.

  ‘We’re on a war footing?’ Henry echoed.

  Mr Fogarty strode over to the throne and absent-mindedly sat down. He sighed. ‘Before she left, she called on Creerful and ordered a Countdown.’

  ‘What’s a Countdown?’ Henry asked, but everyone ignored him.

  Pyrgus stared at Mr Fogarty open-mouthed. His sister had gone power mad. It was one thing to prepare for war as a distant possibility. It was something else to put a Countdown in place. A Countdown gave the Generals a deadline. Once it passed, they launched an attack without further orders.

  ‘How long have we got?’ he asked.

  ‘Three days,’ said Mr Fogarty.

  Pyrgus groaned. ‘She’s gone to see Hairstreak.’ It was the only thing that made sense. Countdowns were a tradition established by a Purple Emperor named Scolitandes the Weedy, who’d had a horror of being kidnapped. Each time his duties forced him to visit an enemy, he ordered his generals to attack within a stated time if he didn’t come back. He reasoned that if he was still alive he’d be rescued and, if not, revenged. That was close on five hundred years ago. As a strategy, Countdowns had been largely abandoned in recent years – they’d started far too many unwanted wars – but Blue was a stickler for tradition.

  Pyrgus stared wide-eyed at Fogarty. ‘If we attack Hairstreak, it’ll start a war. What happens if she doesn’t get back in time?’

  ‘That’s a problem,’ Fogarty confirmed, nodding.

  Henry said brightly, ‘Perhaps she hasn’t gone to see Hairstreak. Perhaps she’s gone somewhere we could attack without starting a war.’

  Mr Fogarty glanced at Madame Cardui, but said nothing. After a moment, Madame Cardui said uncomfortably, ‘Actually, we… ah… we know she’s definitely gone to visit Hairstreak.’

  Three sets of eyes turned on her. She was wearing a lilac caftan that clashed violently with Kitterick, whom she was using as a seat. It was Pyrgus who spoke.

  ‘We do?’

  Madame Cardui nodded. ‘We put a follower on her.’

  ‘We?’ Pyrgus demanded. ‘Who’s we?’

  Madame Cardui shrugged and pouted. ‘Very well, deeah, I put a follower on her. The day she became Queen.’

  ‘You put a follower on a member of the Royal Family?’ Pyrgus didn’t even try to keep the outrage from his voice. Followers were illegal throughout the Realm and seldom used even by Faeries of the Night.

  ‘You may be grateful I did,’ said Madame Cardui, not at all contrite. ‘It means I can tell you exactly where she is at this precise minute.’

  ‘Where is she at this precise minute?’ Henry asked quickly.

  ‘Approaching Hairstreak’s new mansion,’ Madame Cardui said blandly.

  Pyrgus was still glaring at her. ‘You haven’t put a follower on me, have you?’

  Madame Cardui smiled. ‘Of course not, deeah – you’re not nearly important enough any more.’

  Mr Fogarty seemed suddenly to realise he was sitting on the throne and stood up quickly. ‘We can argue about all this later,’ he growled. ‘Just now we need to decide how we’re going to handle it.’

  Henry said
, ‘This follower thing – can it tell you whether she’s alone?’ He was looking at Madame Cardui.

  ‘She’s unprotected, but not quite alone. She’s carrying a concealed endolg.’

  Henry said, ‘Not Flapwazzle?’

  Madame Cardui nodded. ‘I’m afraid so, deeah.’

  Mr Fogarty was shaking his head. ‘It’s obvious what she’s up to. If she’s smuggling in Flapwazzle, that means she’s trying to find out whether Hairstreak’s serious about his offer. Typical Blue manoeuvre – never considers repercussions, never considers the danger to herself.’

  ‘Or Flapwazzle,’ Henry muttered.

  ‘Yes, or Flapwazzle!’ Pyrgus echoed, glaring at Fogarty as if it was somehow his fault.

  Mr Fogarty ignored them. ‘The question is, what do we do about it?’

  After a minute, Henry asked, a little anxiously, ‘Do we have to do anything about it?’ He looked around at the others. ‘I mean, she may pull it off. And if Lord Hairstreak’s offer is genuine, he’s not likely to harm her, is he? It’s all right if she’s back inside three days, isn’t it?’

  Fogarty favoured him with a contemptuous look. ‘First law of politics: don’t trust Hairstreak. What happens if he finds out what she’s up to? Best case scenario, the offer’s genuine and he’s insulted by her lack of faith. Worst case, it’s not genuine and he’s got himself a tasty hostage.’

  ‘But the difficulty,’ said Madame Cardui, smoothly taking up the monologue as Mr Fogarty paused for breath, ‘is that we can’t simply send a contingent of troops to protect her. For one thing, that might start the very war we’re working hard to avoid. For another, Blue obviously prefers not to have guards on this mission, and she is Queen after all. We have to take some account of her wishes.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘We need to move with subtlety. The situation is extremely delicate. My people have even had hints of demon problems.’