Faerie Lord

by Herbie Brennan

‘Henry …’ Blue said.

  Henry reached down and shook Mr Fogarty’s shoulder. The old man’s head rolled loosely to one side and his eyes remained closed. Blue appeared beside Henry and gripped his arm. ‘He’s dead, Henry,’ she said gently.

  Henry turned to look at her, his eyes desolate. ‘He can’t be dead. I was talking to him just a few minutes ago.’ He turned back and seized Mr Fogarty’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. There was none.

  Blue said, ‘I think we should leave him now, Henry. The priests will look after him from here.’

  Henry stared at her. ‘Priests?’

  ‘They cast a spell to open his mouth.’

  ‘Why would they want to do that?’

  ‘To release his soul.’ Blue tugged his arm. ‘Come on, Henry. We should leave them to do their work.’

  Although he hadn’t seen them enter, the room was filled with wizards in their ceremonial robes. Some had Trinian servants carrying rosaries, thuribles and other religious equipment.

  ‘He’s not from your world,’ Henry said. He couldn’t think straight, but somehow it felt wrong that Mr Fogarty should have his mouth opened by a spell. Surely he should be in a proper coffin, ready to be buried in a proper grave? It occurred to Henry he didn’t know Mr Fogarty’s religion, or if he even had one. But people who were dead should go to the nearest Church of England, where the vicar would conduct a service and say nice things about them –

  He was a bank robber, but everybody loved him, said an imaginary vicar inside Henry’s head.

  – and then when everybody had paid their respects, they were carried to the churchyard and …

  Henry discovered there were tears streaming down his face even though he didn’t feel all that sad. He didn’t feel anything really, except perhaps numb.

  ‘He wanted our funeral rites,’ Blue said. ‘We discussed it days ago.’

  That was before I came, Henry thought inconsequentially. That was before I even knew.

  The room was swimming behind a veil of tears, so he allowed Blue to lead him out into the corridor and down the Palace stairs.

  Twenty

  It was like his very first visit to the Realm when he’d ended up in the Palace kitchens, fussed over by matronly women. Now Blue brought him here again and sat him at a scrubbed pine table amidst the bustle and the cooking smells. Someone plump in an apron brought them steaming mugs of what turned out to be tea – a kind thought because tea was expensive in the Realm, but they all knew where he came from and wanted to make him feel at home.

  Henry stared down into the amber liquid – they didn’t know about adding milk here – and watched ripples spread across its surface as a teardrop struck it. For some reason he couldn’t stop crying, even though it was unmanly and embarrassing.

  Blue sat on the bench beside him, so close that her thigh touched his. She curled her hands around her own mug as if to warm them. She had very long, slender fingers. He loved her fingers. She seemed more feminine than he remembered, probably because of the dress. He loved her dress.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Blue asked softly.

  Henry looked at a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. He should write and tell Mr Fogarty’s daughter that Mr Fogarty was dead, except Mr Fogarty’s daughter already believed Mr Fogarty was dead because Henry had lied to her on Mr Fogarty’s instructions. So he couldn’t write to her now. But he would have to go back and tell Hodge. Hodge would want to know.

  Henry’s body began shaking uncontrollably and he felt Blue’s arm around his shoulders. ‘Hush,’ she said into his ear. ‘It’s all right, Henry. It’s all right.’

  But it wasn’t all right. Everything had changed. Everything had … stopped.

  ‘I think I’d better go home,’ Henry said.

  ‘Will you stay for his funeral?’

  He turned his head slightly and focused on her face. After a moment he said, ‘Yes. Yes, I should stay for the funeral, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘He would have liked that.’

  They stared into their mugs together, but neither of them drank.

  ‘It will be a proper funeral,’ Blue said. ‘A State funeral, with full honours. He was our Gatekeeper.’

  It didn’t make any difference. Mr Fogarty had always been impatient with ceremony, but he was dead now so it wouldn’t matter to him what they did. But to please Blue, Henry said, ‘That’s good. That’s very good.’

  ‘I’ll have your old room made up,’ Blue said.

  Pyrgus didn’t know. He would have to go back and tell Pyrgus. ‘I have to go back and tell Pyrgus,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Blue said. ‘We’ve sent Nymph already.’

  That was the right thing to do. Nymph was Pyrgus’s wife now. He wondered if Pyrgus would come back for the funeral and risk another bout of time fever. ‘When will it be?’

  ‘The funeral? In three days.’

  The same as funerals at home, he thought.

  ‘Henry?’ Blue said. ‘After the funeral … Will you go home straightaway?’

  Everything had changed, but nothing had changed. He didn’t want to go home. He was miserable at home, had been for the past two years. He didn’t want to live with his mother any more, didn’t want to go to university and then teach in some mouldy old school until he died. But somehow he had to. There simply wasn’t any choice. He looked at Blue and nodded. ‘Yes, I think that would be best. I’ll go home straightaway.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, deeah,’ said a familiar voice behind him.

  Twenty-One

  The house was a small Tudor mansion surrounded by trees and set in its own grounds. The estate agent claimed it had once belonged to Queen Elizabeth the First, although she’d never actually stayed there. (Pyrgus looked her up after he bought the place and discovered she was quite a famous Analogue World monarch.) It was private, comfortable, a little gloomy and equipped with an astonishing number of vanity mirrors. He kept catching sight of himself unawares and thinking he was looking at his father. It was a weird feeling.

  He tore his attention away with an effort. ‘So it’s happened?’ he said.

  Nymph nodded. ‘Yes.’

  He’d noticed a difference in her since the fever aged him. It was a subtle thing, but definitely there. She was more sober when they were together. She seldom teased him any more. It was almost as if she was treating him … with deference. He knew where it was coming from, of course. When she looked at him, she saw exactly what he saw in the mirror – a middle-aged man. That couldn’t be easy for her, however much she loved him. The time plague had to be stopped soon and not just for the sake of the Realm. If they couldn’t call a halt to it, their marriage was at risk.

  ‘Henry was there?’ he asked.

  Nymph nodded again. ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the room?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nymph said soberly. ‘Henry didn’t realise Mr Fogarty was dead – he thought he’d just fallen asleep.’

  ‘Which explains why he never told anybody.’

  ‘And why he was so shocked when Blue told him,’ Nymph agreed.

  ‘He was preparing to take Mr Fogarty home?’

  ‘Waiting beside the Palace portal, exactly the way it was prophesied,’ Nymph said.

  ‘But he thought he was taking back a living Gatekeeper!’ Pyrgus exclaimed with budding understanding. ‘Not just the body, as we assumed.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Nymph said.

  The window of their living room looked out across a sweeping lawn bordered in the distance by a line of trees. A peacock strode across the grass, bobbing its head. Peacocks were magnificent birds, found only in the Analogue World now they’d become extinct in the Faerie Realm. This one had come with the house, the property of the previous owner who was too soft-hearted to move it from its old home. At dusk it gave eerie calls. Pyrgus thought it might be looking for its wife, who’d died just before the house changed hands.

  ‘Blue still doesn’t know?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’
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  ‘Do you think she suspects?’ Pyrgus knew his sister very well. The slightest suspicion and she’d be on it like a terrier.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Nymph said. ‘I don’t see how she can. Now that Mr Fogarty is dead, you and I and Madame Cardui are the only ones who know.’

  ‘Blue’s smart,’ Pyrgus said. ‘We should never underestimate her.’ All the same, he was reassured. He watched the peacock wander off, then asked, is Henry very upset?’

  ‘Terribly,’ Nymph said, ‘I felt so sorry for him. I desperately wanted to tell him.’

  Pyrgus glanced round at her. ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good,’ Pyrgus said.

  After a moment Nymph stood up and walked across to join him at the window. ‘Were you watching the peacock?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pyrgus nodded, ‘I think he misses his mate.’

  Nymph said, ‘Are you going back to the Realm?’

  Pyrgus said, a little bleakly, ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t have to, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ Pyrgus told her.

  Nymph licked her lips. ‘It’s dangerous. It’s very dangerous.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘For everybody.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Nymph said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Pyrgus.

  Twenty-Two

  It was peculiar: they kept off the streets, but congregated in the taverns, as if a stomach full of ale would protect them from the fever. The man sitting opposite Chalkhill had a lot of stomach and a lot of ale. His breath smelled like a brewery.

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’ Chalkhill asked.

  ‘Skinny little runt, looks a thousand years old, wears a demonologist’s shawl? Sounds like the description you put about. Mr Chalkhill.’

  It was a very rough area and a very rough tavern. Chalkhill was aware his expensive clothing made him stand out like a jester at a funeral. But nobody took your money seriously unless you looked the part. Besides which, he was armed to the teeth.

  ‘So where did he go?’ he asked his informant.

  The big man stared at him silently.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Chalkhill exclaimed. Since he’d gone back to his camp act, he sighed explosively and added, ‘Whatever happened to trust, I wonder?’ He produced a small bag of coin and tossed it on the table. Conversations at the neighbouring tables stopped at once.

  The big man’s big hand swallowed up the bag and the conversations started up again. ‘Mount Pleasant,’ he said.

  Chalkhill frowned. ‘Mount Pleasant?’ It was among the wealthiest districts of the city, not one of Brimstone’s old haunts at all.

  ‘That’s what he said,’ the big man confirmed, with an expression that suggested he wasn’t going to give back the coins.

  Well, perhaps Silas had come up in the world. Or perhaps Hairstreak was funding him. His Turdship may have fallen on hard times, but Hairstreak wouldn’t be Hairstreak if he didn’t have a little something stashed away. Or perhaps the Brotherhood had taken up a collection. Or perhaps Brimstone was just visiting a rich relative.

  What did it matter? If Brimstone was headed for Mount Pleasant, that’s where Chalkhill had to go. The old hag had made it clear she wanted results and she wasn’t noted for her patience. Not that he was inclined to hang about himself.

  Chalkhill felt more exposed on the waterfront than he had in the tavern and stood nervously while three water-taxis sailed right past ignoring his shouts and waves. But the fourth mercifully pulled in.

  ‘Mount Pleasant,’ he exclaimed grandly as he stepped aboard.

  ‘Double fare without your chitty,’ the driver told him conversationally.

  Chalkhill had no idea what he was talking about, but he was well used to rip-offs. He drew a stimlus from his concealed armoury and pointed it at the man’s head.

  ‘Perhaps on second thoughts …’ the cabbie said. He took a spell cone from his bag and cracked it. ‘You sure you want Mount Pleasant, Guv?’

  Chalkhill put the stimlus away. ‘Of course I’m sure. Do I look like a … like a … like an unsure person?’

  ‘Not even slightly, sir,’ the cabbie said, ‘It’s just that I had an old boy an hour or so ago told me Mount Pleasant and when he got in, he didn’t want to go there at all.’

  Chalkhill blinked. ‘How old?’ he asked.

  ‘How old what, sir? The old boy? Very old, sir. Mind you, he looked like a retired demonologist to me – still wore the shawl. That sort of thing ages you, I always say.’

  ‘Where did he really want to go to?’ Chalkhill asked.

  ‘Whitewell. Remember it clearly ‘cause it didn’t sound at all like Mount Pleasant.’

  ‘Which Whitewell?’ There were two in the city, one north, the other to the west.

  ‘The one past Cripple’s Gate. Now, sir – ’ The cabbie actually managed a fake smile, ‘It’s Mount Pleasant for you, sir. Nothing unsure about that, eh?’

  ‘Take me to Whitewell,’ Chalkhill growled. ‘The one past Cripple’s Gate.’

  Twenty-Three

  There was a moment of confusion, then Henry opened his eyes to darkness. He couldn’t remember where he was, or how he got here. He couldn’t even remember where he’d been. There was something about coming to the Faerie Realm with Nymph, then … then …

  No, it was gone. He knew he’d been doing something in the Realm, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember what. Every time he tried, it was as if his mind went soggy and a white fog swirled across his memory.

  The darkness was absolute.

  He was on his knees, on a hard floor. He shouldn’t be on his knees (which hurt quite a lot now he thought of them). Surely he should be standing up? Surely he was standing up – or maybe sitting down, but certainly not on his knees – before he … before he …? Where the hell was he?

  You didn’t often get darkness like this. In the dead of night there was always starlight or moonlight or reflections from street lights. Even in a curtained room, some light filtered through. But there was no light here at all. He thought he might be underground.

  There was a dry smell of decay.

  Still on his knees, Henry began to feel afraid. ‘Hello …?’ he whispered.

  He felt the floor with one hand. It was hard, like rock, flat with a sandstone texture. It was cool, but not exactly cold, and dusty. The dust rose to catch in his throat and make him cough. For some reason he tried to suppress the cough, keep it as quiet as possible. So the cough turned into a little cough, hardly more than a clearing of the throat. He shouldn’t have said Hello, not even in whisper, not when he didn’t know where he was or who might be close by. He was in the Realm now and the Realm was different from his own world. The Realm was a lot more dangerous.

  Henry climbed cautiously to his feet, very much aware of the thumping of his heart. He swallowed hard to get rid of the dust. Without moving from the spot, he reached out cautiously in front of him. His hands touched … nothing. He reached behind him with the same result.

  The air was quite stuffy, as if he was in an enclosed space. He stretched out one foot. The floor in front of him seemed solid enough, but he really didn’t fancy walking forward in the darkness. He might be near the edge of a cliff or a pit or a crevasse.

  What he needed – badly – was light.

  He was still wearing his own clothes, the ones he’d been wearing when Pyrgus and Nymph turned up at Mr Fogarty’s house. (Pyrgus had looked old, Henry remembered, but couldn’t remember why.) Henry began to fish in his trouser pocket. Almost at once, with a surge of delighted relief, he found a Bic lighter.

  And promptly dropped it on the floor.

  He heard the little disposable strike the ground and skitter. Henry dropped to his knees again. It didn’t sound as if the lighter had dropped into a pit, but he was taking no chances. Besides which, his only chance of finding it again was to sweep the floor carefully with his hands. Which he did, disturbing more dust
. He crawled forward slowly, on his knees, sweeping carefully, cautiously, a little at a time.

  Something moved and he snatched his hand away, then froze. After a moment the renewed thumping of his heart died down a little. Whatever moved was really small, probably just a cockroach. Henry didn’t much like cockroaches, but at least they didn’t do you any harm. Unless, of course, it wasn’t a cockroach, but something poisonous, like a scorpion or a – But he forced himself to put a rein on his imagination. The lighter was his only hope. He couldn’t stop looking for it now.

  He leaned forward and resumed the sweeping movement with his hands.

  His left hand struck something hard. He felt along cautiously and came to the conclusion it might be a wall, but couldn’t make up his mind whether it was a natural structure or man-made. He might be in a cave. (How had he got here?) But he might equally well be in some sort of enclosed chamber.

  Something rustled drily a little way in front and to his right.

  Henry froze again, holding his breath. Every sound was magnified in darkness, he reminded himself. It might be no more than a mouse. But somehow, he didn’t think it was a mouse. He needed light!

  He found the Bic!

  He couldn’t believe it, but his right hand, the one furthest from the wall, closed around it so tightly he half wondered that the plastic didn’t crack. He scrambled to his feet at once and flicked the wheel. A tiny flame flared, then died at once. The damn lighter had run out of fuel! He remembered now – he’d meant to buy a new one.

  There was something white and naked crouching no more than ten feet away from him.

  Henry’s mind began to work at lightning speed. Of course there was really nothing there. It was purely his imagination working overtime. That’s what imagination did when you were in the dark. And if there was something near him, it wasn’t living. It was some sort of statue, maybe a gargoyle, something ugly like that because what he’d seen – what he’d thought he’d seen was too ugly to be real. So it was nothing, nothing to worry about. Just a statue or a gargoyle or nothing at all, a lump of rock.