The Emperor

by N. M. Brown

  “Unacceptable?” The masked man asked, amused. “You forget your pace boy. A thousand years we have work together and a thousand years more would have been on the table, but your skills are dying.” Shade opened his mouth to argue, but the man didn’t allow him the time. “You once brought us the finest specimens from across this fair island, but now… Your stock is weak. Where you once had hundreds, you have but a mere handful. The finest crop of a pathetic harvest is still a pathetic harvest.”

  “Your standards are ridiculous!” Shade snapped, the little, five-year-old squaring up to the man five feet taller than him. “How am I to take more children when you don’t give me the means in which to do so?”

  From her hiding hole, Echo felt the floor drop from beneath her as her anger skyrocketed. Shade didn’t have Dixie! He outsourced it making him worthless and it meant she and Adin had waisted their entire time down here. Feeling her anger boil, she continued to watch the false King fume.

  “You give me half of what you used to. Most I have to use for myself and when my subjects don’t receive their share, they die.” This was news to Echo, and she was more than pleased that she and Adin had both agreed not to take any Dixie. “What am I to do when I don’t have the means to distribute to my subjects?”

  There was a silent pause and the man behind the mask did seem to mull the question over before both his shoulders rose and fell. “I do believe, little boy, that it’s not my problem.” Shade’s chubby face exploded into a fiery red, but the man wasn’t done. “Now, if you don’t have anything good to offer, don’t call. Until then, you’ll get your usual amount, minus any finder fee.”

  With the flick of his wrist, a small woven bag slumped to the floor between them, its contents light enough that it bounced a few steps. But Shade didn’t reach to pick it up, instead he threw a deadly glare at the retreating back, his firsts trembling in an explosive rage. Echo waited for the false King to attack the masked man as he did to all who disrespected him. She had already seen him do it more than once to his ‘subjects,’ but the man walked further away until he vanished completely.

  Shade remained standing there in the light of the flickering candles looking small and pathetic. He wasn’t the great and feared child King as he portrayed anymore. He was a sad little boy, who sold snake oil for tricks. After a time, Shade did leave, his back straight again and his head held high, but Echo had seen through the façade and she wasn’t impressed. She did, however, see his little hands grasp at the woven bag, his rations of Dixie clutched to his side like the junky he was.

  The great suppressor, dictator and king of the Under-ert had flinched and Echo was ready to expose that weakness.

  ◆◆◆

  The sound of shuffling feet on soft sands suddenly yanked Echo from her memories and she curled herself deeper into her hole as she’d waited for the group to pass right on time. Echo watched as history repeated itself, the three Murmur Maids dragged a lip, body between them for Shade.

  McQueen and Echo’s poor guide had already lost her clothes, her red bandanna in Shade’s possession and as was slowly being dragged away. Echo saw her gapping throat; crusty with dirt and buzzing with flies. Naked and exposed, she was nothing more than another piece of trash discarded in the under-ert. Echo would have prefered her to be alive, then she might have had a chance at meeting the masked elders again, but for now a dead kid would just have to do.

  The Murmur Maid huffed under their breath as their empty eye sockets looked into nothing. Echo could see the strain in their arms as they shifted such a heavy weight, with no muscle or fat to covered their bones. Echo wondered when Shade had started to stave his people? His Dixie supply had been dwindling ten years ago and she could imagine it was dire by now. If he must keep his addicted hoard under thumb, was he doing it by keeping food from them. And them there was his aging. She bet he had to give away his own supply… less Dixie for him...

  A light bulb exploded in Echo head and she couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. His age. In the ten years that had passed, Shade had aged at least that much, which begged the question: did Dixie, in a high enough dose, slow the aging process? With a strained sneer, Echo was pissed she wouldn't get her hands on the stuff; not via Shade anyway. She hoped she could have snuck around the tunnels, found this mask man as he gave Shade his stock and brokered a new deal.

  That wasn't going to happen any more though. Shade was out of Dixie and Echo had seen his hoards of subjects he had to offer. The masked man didn't seem to take to bags of bones. Instead, she'd just have to focus on a way out. It irritated her that she'd come down here for nothing, but she'd expected Shade to have been the same and instead he was even weaker. Echo couldn't rely on him for her prize anymore.

  Following the Maid’s, their incessant murmur reached Echo's ears through the dark and with every twist and turn, she could only ponder and scheme in her head in silence. No Masked Man meant no deal and Echo was very aware of how her ticking-clock was running out. Instead she'd have to find the exit and dream up a scheme to please her family later.

  Slowly moving on an upwards incline, the Maids took the least travelled path every time until all the candles petered out and they were left in total darkness. Not one to feel fear, Echo reached out and trailed her fingers across the cold walls to ground herself.

  "Ye-!!" Echo let out a strangled yelp as the cold, hard rock, became something cold, soft and wet. Falling into a crouch, she prepared for an attack from the Maids, her skittich emotions giving her away. Yet, when nothing happened, she reach out tentatively again and sighed. “Fucking moss.” She whispered under her breath but was pleased she hadn’t brought the Maids running.

  Over her heavy breath, Echo could hear the sound of clanging pots to her right, the distant sound her only direction. The kitchens, she thought, knowing the Murmur Maids would have to cook that delicious stew somewhere. Pinpointing the sound, Echo moved forward through the dark, when the cold rock suddenly disappeared without warning.

  “Mother-fucker.” She hissed, falling into the yawning gap in the rock; small and low, no wider than two feet. She could feel its edges, smoothed over time which meant it wasn’t natural, but made; but by who? She was tempted to keep moving, until her eyes dared see something that wasn’t quite believable, and she paused. “What the Hell?”

  Listening for an extra second to made sure she wasn’t about to be jumped by a blind, crazed child, Echo slipped through the hole and looked around. Surrounded by total darkness, Echo’s sensitive eyes could pick up on the ghostly shapes and strange lumps in the crevasse. As the silence of the hole drew around her, she could see her own hands in the dappled light and looking up she saw how.

  Far overhead, no larger than a dinner plate, a shaft had been dug all the way to the surface allowing for a pinprick of light. Small, dry leaves had fallen over the edge and as her eyes adjusted, Echo could see what they had fallen on. “Now, now,” She mused quietly to herself, “What the Hell is all this?”

  Wedged between a crevice in one corner was a plank of wood, short and stumpy to form a shelf. On it lay layers of ripped fabric, folded neatly and there were even a few pins in a small bowel. To the left on the self were cups and bowels all stacked again in a neat pile and everything and been put in place with care.

  As Echo looked around, she got the shivers. Everything was so perfect, not at all like what was fought over down in the Under-ert. The bowels were unchipped, the clothes clean and looking to her left there was a shallow dip, filling with soft fabrics and clean pillows. Two large, woollen blanket knitted in bright colours was laid out neatly, covered in leaves, but worth a kill or two. What caught Echo’s attention the most however was the two small teddy bears tucked against the stone; one missing its right eye but otherwise in perfect condition and at their feet, two small, delicate rattle.

  “Why would all this shit be here?” Echo asked herself and as if to answer her own question, she looked up and saw a giant ‘W,’ made from sticks and twine
. “Wendell…” She breathed and with that saw everything else again in a new light. This wasn’t a hide away; it was a home. It wasn’t an escape hole where she could run from killer children and ruthless leaders, it was a haven, to be filled with love and memories. It was a giant crib, filled with everything a girl living underground could need for a baby.

  Her baby, Echo thought.

  “What a waste.” She said to herself as she turned to leave. She was sure McQueen would have had a field day churning this discovery over in his head. He would have cried or sobbed some more over what Wendell had lost, blah, blah, blah, but that wasn’t Echo and seeing nothing of use, she was happy to forget all about this place.

  Yet, just as she turned, something snapped under food and looking through the gloom of her own shadow, Echo saw more twigs and twine tided together. It wasn’t finished yet, but the letter was clear enough; the letter ‘T’ cracked again under her foot and the last puzzle piece fell into place.

  “My, my, my. What I treacherous time it must be to be Queen.” She muttered to herself. McQueen might not have found them, but Wendell did have some alias here and they were some big, fat liars.

  Breathing in the walls of the Under-ert, Echo let out a short chuckle, as if the dirt itself could hear her excitement. “I think it’s about time this Kingdom fell.” She whispered and despite knowing that the Upper-lands lay but a few feet above her head, Echo began to walk back to the main hub.

  As she walked, back tracing her white crosses, she hoped beyond hope McQueen hadn’t done something stupid or heroic. Again.

  She didn’t bother holding her breath though.

  XXVIII

  Much to McQueen’s dismay, Echo insisted they search for an exit separately saying they would cover more ground. No doubt trying to scare him, she’d explained that the tunnels around them stretched for miles, not just in Rippling but outwards, to other counties and even as far as London.

  “Just keep one hand on the left-hand wall and don’t remove it for any reason. Then you’ll be fine following your way back.” Had been her advice, like roaming these halls was just like solving a maze. Clearly it was meant to be that easy. “If you get lost, you’ll end up in North Yorkshire!” She’d joked as she’d slipped through the door and McQueen wasn’t sure to what degree she was telling the truth.

  The eerie silence crept into McQueen's ears and waiting five minutes after Echo, he moved. Looking left and right, he saw no one, but that didn’t make him feel any more alone. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and he breathed heavily through his nose. He felt like someone was watching, but Echo had gotten out no problem, so he was sure he could do the same.

  Taking one last look at their unconscious, tied up captives he turned left, knowing it would take him away from the main hall. Maybe he could find some more literate children and ask some questions about Wendall as well as an exit. He might have been here in the hopes of finding Mitch and his brother Johnny, but Wendall still needed justice, as did the other kids killed. If only he knew who had killed them? Or even why?

  Walking down the thin halls, time elapsed quickly, and candles flickered in his wake, making his shadow dance like a puppet on stings. In every direction he could see a shadow image of himself and was so distracted by the trick of the light; he almost didn’t see the children in his path.

  “Mother Mary-,” He cried as three small children were suddenly at his feet. “I’m sorry, I-,” He started to say glancing between the two boys and the girl, but he was abruptly cut off when one of the boys shot forward and kicked him aggressively in the shin. Now, it didn’t hurt but it did take the Detective by surprise, promptly sending him on the retreat. “Wo, wo, wo.” He said, holding his hands up in defeat.

  Falling to a kneel, McQueen tried to make himself smaller as he watched the child cautiously. The boys were about five- maybe six, under nourished and naked again, but this was a sight McQueen was used to now.

  The first boy had strong features: large almond eyes and a sharp, pointed nose. His bottom lip was plump and jutted out in anger as he stood guard. Looking to the other two children, McQueen saw both were all around the same age and all three had matted dark hair and same fine Latino features. Triplets, he wondered or at the very least siblings.

  “Hello.” He said softly, smiling gently and continuing to shrink. He didn’t want to scare them and he would be the first and only adult they’d remember. “Do you understand me?” He asked and then switched tactics. “¿Habla usted Inglés?” Sadly that was all the Spanich he knew after a very long case in Dublin involving two rival families. Still, however, he was greeted with bland faces.

  “Do you know a Mitch? Or Johnny?” He asked with no response. “What about Wendall, did you know a Wendall?” But, again all three of them watched him with unmoving faces and hard eyes.

  Looking down in defeat, McQueen finally took in his surroundings and was surprised to see strange cylindrical objects, sat in a well maintain wicker basket.

  “What do you have there?” He asked, slowly pointing to the objects in the floor. The two siblings clutched the basket tightly, and the boy who’s kicked him started screaming. His voice echoed and McQueen worried a kid bigger, scarier and with a larger knife might hear. Not knowing what to do, McQueen panicked and before he could register what he was doing, his face was to the floor, dust clinging to his nose hairs.

  For the first few seconds his bow didn’t stop the boy flying at his back, but when he didn’t move, the screaming stopped. McQueen didn’t dare lift his head straight away, but steadily listened to the sound of heavy breathing. Feet shuffled in sand; a low, throaty growl hissed between the three children and then, silence.

  McQueen waited for more, but when nothing else reached his ears, he ever so slowly lifted his head and saw the three siblings had pause, like a stalemate had been reached. With a tentative smile he straightened but remained small and for a short while, no one moved. McQueen dared not do anything and was rewarded when the sister stepped forward and let out a soft growl.

  As one, the boys took their que and stepped away which McQueen took as a positive. Instead, they fell quickly back into work and he watched, fascinated.

  One boy held the basket, his back pressed against the wall as he performed the best squat McQueen had ever seen, while his sister, dressed in a dirty yellow dress, clambered up onto his knees. Some of the guys in the station couldn’t hold that pose at all, let alone with the weight of another person on top. Her other brother, their guard had disappeared down the hall, but came back with a lit candle, releasing an acidic stench. New candle to old, he lit the wicks and passed them up where his sister was able to reach the tiny crevasse that held nothing but old wax.

  Like a well-oiled team, they moved down the hall with ease and speed, alighting the corridor was fresh candles before disassembled and gingerly sidestepped around McQueen, heading for their next port of call. The girl was last, carrying the basket and surprisingly, she slowed.

  “Hi.” McQueen dared breath, remaining stock still. Slowly, she reached into the basket and grabbed a lumpy, wide candle, unused and slightly shorter than all the rest. Holding it out, she let it drop into McQueen's hand. It was cold to touch and greasy; greasier than any commercial candle and smelled faintly of a rundown fish shop. “Thank you.” He smiled, ducking he head and softly turned the object around in his hands.

  The candle had a texture covered in lumps and bumps, in an ugly cream colour. It looked like a very half-assed job, or a done by very small hands…?

  “Wen-ll.” The girl suddenly said through rotting teeth, before running off with her brothers so fast McQueen missed the tail end of her yellow dress as it scarpered into the darkness. Looking down at the candle with a frown, McQueen clenched it tighter before dropping it into his pocket.

  They knew who Wendall was. Turning back, he started to move again, this time with more purpose and drive.

  He had a murder to solve.

  ◆◆◆

&n
bsp; McQueen was headed away from the main hall… or at least he thought he was. He knew he’d made the right choices for the first few turnings, but he’d wavered on the third choice, eventually taking the second exit, but as he came upon another fork, he though perhaps he should have taken the first exit.

  Stood still in the hallway, McQueen debated whether to turn back. He really didn’t want to walk all the way to North Yorkshire…

  “Can I help you?” An eloquent, small voice asked.