The Faeman Quest fw-5

by Herbie Brennan

  ‘Comma’s at sea,’ Henry said.

  ‘In that case, the only other real prospect is you.’

  He gave her a quick, affectionate glance. Madame Cardui was almost as paranoid as Mr Fogarty: it went with the job and enabled her to do it very, very efficiently. ‘I expect you’ve already checked out every move I’ve made for the past six months.’

  Madame Cardui sighed. ‘You must forgive me, Henry – it’s not personal.’

  ‘I know that,’ Henry said. ‘I assume you found nothing suspicious?’ He knew she’d found nothing suspicious, otherwise he’d be rotting in a dungeon now, Consort Majesty or not.

  ‘Nor did I expect to,’ Madame Cardui told him.

  To lighten the mood, Henry said, ‘Well, at least we don’t have to worry about our old friend Lord Hairstreak any more.’

  Madame Cardui smiled. ‘That is a blessing, deeah. That is definitely a blessing.’

  Six

  The Review Board was headed by Dr Philenor, who sat behind his black moustache on a raised dais at the end of a consultant’s table. Five of his colleagues had grown similar moustaches with greater or lesser degrees of success. The sixth, a woman, was wearing a stick-on version made from horsehair. The crest of the Double Luck Mountain Lunatic Asylum – crossed hypodermic syringes surmounting a lobotomy scalpel – was fixed to the wall directly above Dr Philenor’s head. By his right foot was a briefcase which, Brimstone realised, must be filled with giant germs. Or evil elementals. Or both.

  Brimstone himself was strapped into a treatment chair bolted to the floor in front of the table. An orderly – not Orderly Nastes, but a skinny colleague who smelled of sour beer – had bolted an Endolg Skin Copper helmet to the top of his head. As a result, etheric tentacles were already crawling into his brain, making it itch. The helmet’s controls were set into the arm of Dr Philenor’s seat.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Brimstone,’ Dr Philenor said politely. Philenor’s doctorate was in psychiatric medicine, of course. Brimstone’s was in demonology, an obsolete discipline since Blue became Queen of Hael. Brimstone had never used the title even when he practised professionally, but Philenor was a stickler for formalities, especially when dealing with his patients. He’d once published a learned paper entitled Raving Loonies: The Importance of Courtesy in their Care and Treatment.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Philenor.’ Brimstone smiled benignly. The trick with Review Boards was to keep calm, simulate submission, pretend the treatment had worked and hide all symptoms.

  ‘How are we feeling this morning, Dr Brimstone?’ Dr Philenor asked, making a tick on a sheet pinned to his clipboard.

  Brimstone knew he was safe enough since the ESC helmet had not yet been activated. The trauma suffered by the creatures as they were flayed interfered with the truthsense of the finished helmet. It often took fully five minutes to begin to function. His smile broadened into a sunny beam.

  ‘Magnificent,’ he said. ‘Quite magnificent. I cannot thank you and your gracious team enough for my therapies. Such potions! Such pills! Such infusions! Such transfusions! Such surgical procedures! Due entirely to your sterling efforts, my level of health – and especially my mental health – is at a peak unparalleled in the past fifty years.’ He wondered if he might be overdoing it, but Philenor seemed to be swallowing the rubbish without difficulty.

  Dr Philenor coughed lightly. ‘No… ah… threats of any sort? To your, ah, welfare?’ The briefcase at his foot writhed fiercely.

  He was fishing for evidence of what they called paranoia, of course – a medical term designed to keep you off your guard when everything was out to get you. Brimstone widened his eyes and batted his eyelids. ‘Threats, Dr Philenor?’ he echoed. ‘How could anyone experience a sense of threat in such a well-run establishment as your excellent clinic? Why, I was just remarking to Orderly Nastes the other day how safe and secure I have felt here since you rescued me from my unfortunate… episode.’

  There was a scattering of applause from the staff around the table, quickly silenced by a severe look from Dr Philenor. But his features softened as he turned back to Brimstone. ‘Now, Dr Brimstone, a crucial question: on a scale of one to ten, one representing total madness and ten perfect mental health, how would you rate your current condition?’

  ‘Tell him eleven,’ growled George, who’d been hovering invisibly at Brimstone’s shoulder throughout the whole of the proceedings.

  Brimstone had opened his mouth to respond before he realised an etheric ganglia was now wrapped around his pre-frontal cortex, a sure sign that the ESC helmet was at long last activated. He closed his mouth carefully. It was Sod’s Law that it had happened at this precise time. Once the helmet became functional, the endolg skin broadcast signals directly to the control console in the arm of Philenor’s chair. If Brimstone continued to lie, Philenor would know at once. Worse, the doctor had only to press a button to activate the helmet’s emergency surgical programme, designed to leave Brimstone in a vegetative state – hence no further trouble to anybody – for eighteen months. When Brimstone first arrived at the asylum, staff explained the surgery was a therapy, not a punishment, but it was a therapy he could ill-afford at the moment.

  ‘Come now, Dr Philenor,’ he said carefully, ‘that is hardly for me to say. Only a lunatic would presume to judge his own sanity. I am content to leave my evaluation to the kindly, caring, and, above all, highly trained and eminently qualified experts gathered in this room.’ He lowered his eyes modestly to murmurs of approval around the table.

  ‘Well said.’ Dr Philenor nodded and ticked another box on his evaluation sheet. He looked up again at Brimstone and actually smiled. ‘What’s this I hear about your invisible companion?’

  Brimstone froze. Somebody must have grassed him up and now he was trapped. He knew from long experience he was the only one who could see George, so admitting his existence was asking for a diagnosis of delusional schizophrenia – a ticket to permanent incarceration if ever there was one. On the other hand, denying George while the ESC helmet was functioning would show at once he’d been lying and invite immediate surgery with eighteen months’ vegetation until his brain healed up again. But there was always Plan B. After all, he’d never really expected to talk his way past the Review Board. He raised the little finger of his left hand and twirled it widdershins in the secret stand-by signal he’d agreed with George. George pulled himself erect, licked his lips and snarled in a very satisfactory manner.

  But this was only stand-by. Despite everything, there remained the possibility of escaping without violence. Brimstone held Dr Philenor’s eye and smiled back. ‘I take it you mean my imaginary companion?’ he said easily. ‘The little friend I… conjured up… for company throughout the long days and nights of my lonely, yet therapeutically necessary and medically ethical, solitary confinement?’ There was just the barest possibility the helmet might not react. His statement was not a complete lie. He had conjured George from the hideously dangerous nether regions beyond the deepest pits of Hael. And the techniques he used had indeed involved the use of the visual imagination. A living endolg would have spotted the deceit at once, but it might slip past the ESC.

  Dr Philenor glanced at the miniature viewscreen set into the arm of his chair, but if it was glowing red (or even amber) he showed no sign as he asked, ‘Did you give this companion a name?’

  Brimstone fought down the urge to glance over his shoulder. ‘George,’ he said.

  Dr Philenor glanced at him quizzically. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘George,’ Brimstone said a little more loudly.

  ‘You gave him my first name?’

  Brimstone nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, of course. What better companion could I have in my hour of need? I spent many hours in imaginary conversation attempting to envision what wisdom you might impart to me had you been really present, which, of course, I never believed for a moment you were.’ Once again there was just enough truth in there to fool the helmet… if he was very, very lucky.

 
; The idiot Philenor still failed to react. ‘Are you telling me, Dr Brimstone, that you do not believe this companion actually exists?’

  George leaned down to whisper, ‘Which one do you want me to slaughter first?’

  ‘None of them until I give the signal,’ Brimstone hissed through gritted teeth. He was beginning to harbour a suspicion that the helmet might be broken – psychiatric equipment was delicate at the best of times. To test the idea, he said loudly and clearly to Dr Philenor, ‘Of course not. Complete figment of my imagination.’ There was no way such a bare-faced lie could get past the helmet unless it was malfunctioning. A risk, of course, but if he knew the ESC was faulty and Dr Philenor did not, then he could get away with murder. If, on the other hand, the alarm went off, he could always trigger Plan B and set George to kill off the Review Board, then help him fight his way out of the asylum.

  A very strange thing happened. Brimstone distinctly saw the flash of red on the arm of Philenor’s chair. But instead of raising the alarm, Dr Philenor only said quietly, ‘Very good, Dr Brimstone’ and ticked another box. He set down the clipboard and turned to his companions. ‘It seems to me,’ he told them, ‘that our patient has been completely rehabilitated. He entered our clinic a mental and emotional wreck and is now, thanks to our patience, care and skill, a man of totally sound mind, ready to resume his place as an intelligent and productive member of society.’ He paused, then added, ‘Perhaps I might have your considered opinions.’

  Six moustaches (one of which was false) glanced at Brimstone, glanced at Philenor, then vied to voice their agreement:

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘ Certainment, Dr Philenor.’

  ‘You’re so right, Boss.’

  ‘Correct in every detail, Master.’

  Philenor allowed them to grovel for a moment longer, then said loudly, ‘But…’

  There was a stunned silence as they looked at him. With their attention diverted, Brimstone risked a quick glance over his shoulder. George, all fangs and feathers and rippling muscles, was crouched ready to spring on his signal.

  ‘But…’ Dr Philenor repeated, ‘it would scarcely be a kindness were we simply to release him, were we simply to turn him out on the street, so to speak.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Perish the thought.’

  ‘You’re so right, Boss.’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Never!’

  Brimstone stared at the doctor intently. What was the old quack playing at? The helmet had told him Brimstone was lying, yet he’d ignored it. But even before that happened, Brimstone couldn’t really believe he’d bought the rehabilitation story. Not even a psychiatrist could be that stupid. There was a hidden agenda here and Brimstone didn’t like hidden agendas unless he’d hidden them himself. He leaned forward in his chair and felt – to his surprise – his restraints begin to loosen.

  ‘So what I propose…’ announced Philenor.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell us.’

  ‘Speak, oh wise one.’

  ‘Your proposal?’

  ‘All ears.’

  ‘… is to release Dr Brimstone in care…’ Dr Philenor went on.

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘Super.’

  ‘Great idea.’

  ‘Why didn’t we think of that?’

  ‘You’re so wise, Dr Philenor.’

  ‘Perfect solution.’

  In care? Brimstone began to scowl. In care of who? And what did in care mean? Was he going to be stuck with some bossy nurse? Would somebody have proxy powers over his estate? Did he have to report to a probation officer? Philenor was up to something – he was sure of it. Brimstone’s scowl deepened. Maybe he should set George loose anyway.

  ‘… And who better to look after him,’ Dr Philenor continued, ‘than that most generous of benefactors, the man who has contributed so much money to our asylum in the past few weeks, the man who has built us a new wing, doubled our pension fund and written me a personal cheque for -’ he coughed, ‘- well, the amount is hardly relevant. I speak, of course, about the man who has waited patiently behind that curtain throughout our meeting -’ he pointed dramatically, ‘- in order once again to welcome an old friend to his bosom. I speak of course of -’ The curtain swept back.

  ‘George!’ Brimstone hissed, then stopped just short of the final attack order. He blinked, twice. The man behind the curtain was the last person he expected to see. Or wanted.

  The man behind the curtain, smiling with his spell-encrusted teeth, was Jasper Chalkhill.

  Seven

  Chalkhill must have come up in the world. There was a stretch ouklo hovering beside the main entrance. Brimstone climbed in with a distinct feeling of trepidation. The trouble was, the last time they’d met, Brimstone had tried to sacrifice him to the Jormungand serpent. It had been a good sixteen years ago, admittedly, but surely Chalkhill couldn’t have forgotten? He decided not to bring it up for the moment, just in case, and asked instead, ‘How did you know where I was?’

  ‘I didn’t. But I knew you were mad and there are only a few facilities like this in the Realm. I had someone check them all.’

  George was climbing into the ouklo as well, which gave Brimstone a feeling of confidence. ‘How did you persuade him to let me go?’

  ‘Philenor? I bribed him, of course.’ Chalkhill was looking a lot different from the last time Brimstone saw him. He’d lost weight, for one thing, and he was a much snappier dresser for another. He rapped on the ceiling of the ouklo with his Malacca cane and his coachman triggered the starter spell. The carriage rose smoothly and surprisingly quickly for a vehicle of its size and weight.

  Brimstone glanced through the window. The Double Luck Mountain Lunatic Asylum was receding into the distance. From this height it was already apparent that its buildings and grounds had been carefully landscaped so that when viewed from above they spelled out the word Philenor. The good doctor clearly had a healthy ego. Brimstone turned away. Now was the time for the crucial question. He gave the hand signal that put George on high alert and asked, ‘What do you want from me, Jasper?’

  In the old days, Chalkhill would have contrived to look hurt. He would have composed his features into a hurt expression. One of his hideous novelty spells would have flashed HURT across his forehead. He would have given a small, sad smile and spouted some nonsense about old friends and business colleagues. But the new, improved Chalkhill did none of these things. Instead he asked a question of his own.

  ‘Is it true about the cloud dancer?’

  It was, but why did Chalkhill want to know? Brimstone stared at him suspiciously. He weighed the pros and cons of lying, without reaching much of a conclusion. The bottom line was that the cloud dancer business was on public record – or at least on record in the asylum he’d just left. If Chalkhill could bribe Philenor to let him go, he could certainly get a copy of his records. Cautiously, Brimstone said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘I understand Lord Hairstreak sent it after you?’

  Brimstone shrugged. ‘Probably. It never told me.’

  There was a brief flash of the Chalkhill he’d once known when the old perv licked his lips. ‘What happened? Exactly?’

  It was really difficult to see where this was going, unless it was just Chalkhill taking pleasure in the misfortunes of others. Which Brimstone could fully appreciate since he often did it himself. ‘What happened…’ he began.

  What happened, as he remembered it, was that the creature had found him on the edge of the Buthner desert near the Mountains of Madness. Cloud dancers were blood-feeders whose natural home was on a different dimension of reality to this one. When they crossed over, it was difficult for them to maintain a physical form, but their immaterial existence on this realm was precisely what allowed them to probe faerie minds and mine their secrets. At the time, Brimstone had been harbouring a particularly
poisonous secret – he’d managed to steal an angel – and had fought ferociously to keep it to himself.

  Brimstone shuddered. He could remember the scene as if it were yesterday. A red sunset promised a fine day on the morrow. The angel was safely trapped and immobilised. Everything seemed to be going according to plan. Then, across the desert at the furthest edge of his vision, he noticed a movement like an approaching dust-devil or djinn. But as it drew closer, he saw it was neither and by the time he realised what he was dealing with, the thing was almost on top of him.

  Some academics maintained that cloud dancers, as a species, were distantly related to vampires, but to Brimstone the creature looked far more like a ghoul. It was tall and thin and caped and fanged with the pallor and transparency of a ghost. Despite its fragility, it was capable of physical attack – dancers had been known to suck their victims dry of blood – but that was not the greatest danger. The greatest danger was that the thing could reach into your mind; which was exactly what this one did.

  Most men would have crumbled at once. But Brimstone was a trained demonologist who’d spent nine years in Arcane School learning the mental techniques that allowed him to communicate with demons in the good old days before Queen Blue spoiled everything. The disciplines had toughened his mind to a degree that allowed him to withstand the initial attack.

  With the creature thrown back, Brimstone created an imaginary sea-chest of thick oak with metal bandings and used it to store all thoughts and memories of the angel. Then he wrapped it in imaginary chains, fastened the chains with triple padlocks and swallowed the imaginary key. The cloud dancer recovered and threw itself against the chest. Brimstone concentrated so that the chest withstood the attack. The cloud dancer redoubled its efforts, but the chest remained sound. Brimstone allowed himself a little smile.