by Ben Galley
‘It appears that he didn’t take our threat very seriously, your Majesty.’
Sift leant forwards and the throne creaked. It was a sound as ominous as the creaking of a gallows. ‘It appears that he didn’t take it very seriously at all, Finrig. What, pray, made you so damn confident that you thought a simple threat could do the job? Are you that smug in your reputation?’
Finrig swallowed. ‘He keeps a boy, your Majesty, the son of a wealthy lord. Rhin was bound to him, loyal as a dog, and hence easy to find. We threatened the boy, and painted a very … vibrant picture for him.’
‘Not vibrant enough, it seems.’
Finrig did not like what he had to do to, but he knew it was the only way to walk out of that room with his limbs still attached. The faerie bowed again. There would be laughing around the campfire later if they managed to keep their skin on. ‘I sincerely apologise, your Majesty, for this mistake. If there is any way I could be of ass—’
‘Leave us!’ Sift shouted, making her audience flinch as one. ‘Rinold, Finrig, you stay. The rest of you Fingers, even the guards, leave now.’
There was a nervous scuttling that didn’t achieve much. The queen soon hurried it up. ‘NOW!’ she screeched, and the scuttling became a stampede towards the door. It was hurriedly locked and barred.
Now that they were alone, Sift got up from her throne and began to walk slow circles around the two faeries. It was so intimidating she might as well have taken out a set of carving knives and begun to sharpen them. It was as if fear leaked from her pores and enveloped them, like some bewitching perfume. Whatever it was, it worked. Finrig shuddered as she spoke.
‘We never told you what Rhin stole, did we?’ Sift asked.
‘No, your Majesty, I don’t believe you did.’
‘Perhaps if we had …’ and here Sift’s eyes darted to stare at the magistrate. Rinold felt like a mouse in her shadow. She was even taller than Finrig. ‘… told you more of the details, you might have realised beforehand that a simple threat was nothing short of a preposterous solution.’
Rinold shuddered.
‘However, I am prepared to enlighten you now.’
Finrig had never longed for a chair so much in his entire life. ‘I’m listening, your Majesty.’
‘Rhin stole the Hoard, Finrig. The Hoard.’
Here we shall briefly digress, as the ways and words of the Fae can be confusing on the first encounter. Let us allow a few moments for an explanation. The Hoard, or the Haor’n, as it is known in the very old tongues, is the Fae’s fortune, the gold at the end of the rainbow, so to speak. For some reason or other, in human literature this has been attributed to the hole-dwelling leprechaun instead. This is yet another reason why the Fae dislike us, but actually the misunderstanding has worked to their advantage. Nobody goes looking for creatures who don’t possess pots of gold.
The interesting thing about the Hoard is that it is not at all what you would imagine an enormous pile of Fae gold, collected over countless decades, to look like. No. Faeries are much smarter than this. Piling all that gold up in one place means two things: it’s easy to skim a little off the top, and it’s hell for the accountants. Faeries have spells for this sort of thing.
The Hoard can take any shape, and be of any size: that of a pocket; or a safe; even a hat, in some cases, which is never wise if you intend to wear it. In Sift’s case, she had stored her kingdom’s wealth in a large leather purse—a purse that Rhin Rehn’ar stole from her, four years before.
Finrig was speechless for a spell, until Sift clicked her fingers and snapped him out of it. ‘The whole thing?’ he asked.
‘Of course the whole thing,’ hissed Rinold.
Sift whirled on him. ‘Did he direct that question at you, Magistrate?’
Rinold collapsed into a bow. ‘No, my Queen.’
‘Then keep your miserable mouth shut before I personally stitch it up for you!’ she screamed. Spit decorated Rinold’s face. He was not sure if answering would be a direct contravention of her last command, so he just whimpered instead. Sift seemed satisfied. She turned back to Finrig, much to his delight. Sift’s golden eyes roved over his thick and fraying black cloak, over the dark red mud on his grey boots, at the slight hint of a dagger in his pocket. The man was wilder than the badgers that plagued the north tunnels, she thought.
‘I will make it worth your while.’ Sift’s voice slipped a little lower. A lone finger reached out and prodded Finrig in the chest. The faerie could have sworn it felt cold, even through his clothes. ‘When the Hoard is once again in my safe keeping, you will be rewarded, handsomely: fifty thousand florins, for both you and your men, new clothes, new weapons, women, estates … whatever you like.’ Each word was another prod.
Finrig swallowed even though his throat was dry. Fifty thousand … ‘For doing what, your Majesty?’
‘Why …’ her finger crept up until it lifted his chin, ‘… for fetching Rhin Rehn’ar for me. I want him and the Hoard brought back and placed right here, where you are standing, Finrig. Dead or alive, I do not care,’ Sift spat. ‘So long as he returns with the Hoard. Do I make myself clear, Wit?’ She stared at him and he stared right back. He had found a little courage in the depths of his stomach. There was a reason why it was he who stood there, and not one of his competitors. He was the best, and—despite his mistake—Sift needed him.
‘Crystal, your Majesty,’ he replied.
‘Then we have an agreement?’
Finrig’s courage burnt bright. ‘Forgive me for speaking plainly, your Majesty, but I don’t believe I have a choice.’
Sift’s lip twitched. She narrowed her golden eyes at him, but before she could speak, or hiss, or bury her fangs into his neck, he went on, praying he was not being too bold.
‘How could I refuse the offer of Queen Sift? I would be a fool to choose otherwise.’
Sift relaxed ever so slightly. ‘I am pleased.’
Finrig held up a finger. ‘However,’ he began, tugging at his clothes, ‘My men are in an even worse condition than I, and the voyage to America, for our kind, will be long and difficult, dangerous even. Might I humbly suggest doubling the fee you so kindly offered?’
Sift simmered for a moment before answering. ‘Seventy-five thousand, and not a florin more.’
Finrig bowed so quickly he though his neck would snap. ‘Thank you, your Majesty. We will leave at once.’
‘You are dismissed.’
Finrig couldn’t resist tossing Magistrate Rinold one last venomous look before he swivelled on his heel and left. Rinold looked terrified. Finrig did not blame him, but he did care either. He merely focused on keeping his pace somewhere between a polite retreat and an all-out scramble.
When the doors were locked and barred behind him, Finrig took a breath. The hallway was empty save for one guard. ‘My Fingers?’ Finrig asked of him.
One of the guards nodded, helmet rattling. ‘In the courtyard, waiting for you. Is Rinold still in there?’
Finrig nodded. ‘He is indeed, and she isn’t in a good mood.’
The guard looked at the door. ‘Oh dear.’
‘Enjoy the clean-up.’ Finrig patted the man on the shoulder and headed for the stairs. He barely made it one floor before the screaming started.
In the courtyard, his crew were sullen and wary. They eyed their leader suspiciously as he sauntered up to them.
‘What are you lot glaring at?’ he challenged. His second-in-command, Kawn, cleared his throat. He was a veritable brick of a faerie.
‘What did you speak of, Wit?’ he asked.
Finrig’s face cracked into a wide smile. ‘Florins, lads. Florins aplenty.’ There wasn’t as much cheering as he had expected. In fact, most of his crew just swapped curious glances.
‘Aye?’ asked Kawn. ‘In exchange for what?’
‘For going to fetch Rhin Rehn’ar back, dead or alive.’
Kawn snorted. ‘That snivelling prick? But he’s in America now. How many florins has that que
…’
‘Seventy-five thousand,’ Finrig said, before fixing Kawn with a sour stare. ‘Seventy-five thousand florins.’
Finrig’s crew, the throat-cutting, beggar-slaying lot of them, stared at him in silence.
Kawn stamped his foot. ‘Ain’t no land of the Fae, America. Our kind have never had a foothold there. How dare Sift ask us to do …’
‘You know what seventy-five thousand florins means, lads?’ Finrig muttered absently, making a show of playing with his fingernails. ‘Any clues? It means homes. Wives. Crops. An honest life …’ The look in Finrig’s eyes was faraway and hopeful. His hands were now clasped as though he were praying, and he tilted his head to the Lonely Star. But the Wit had never been able to hold a straight face for long, and he was soon grinning and cackling. He winked at his crew. ‘And by that, lads, I mean dirty great big houses with big bastard tables laden with meat. I mean all the wine you can guzzle and all the faerie-tail you can fuck. I mean retirement, lads! At last!’
Some of the crew began to smile, then grin, then rub their hands together. Even Kawn began to look tempted.
‘One dead body is the cost of crossing the river to paradise, isn’t that what they say? Well in this case it won’t be any of our bodies. It’ll be that of Rhin Rehn’ar’s.’
This time there was plenty of cheering.
Chapter VII
WELCOME TO FELL FALLS
‘They found me. I have no idea how. I buried the bandages. Haven’t bled in days, but somehow they picked up my scent. Must have moles. Got an arrow through my side but I can still run. Need to find water …’ [the rest of this page is smothered in blood]
7th May, 1867
It was very quickly apparent to Merion that his aunt’s definition of ‘options’ differed quite a lot from his. His sleeping options, as they currently stood, were: a cupboard on the uneven landing; a corner of the study where his aunt apparently used to sit and paint; the notorious basement; or a small square room a smidgeon larger than his cabin on the Tamarassie. He chose the latter.
‘I’ve arranged for your luggage to be delivered in the morning,’ his aunt was saying, her voice penetrating Merion’s daze of dissatisfaction. She put her hands on her hips, and watched Merion lower his rucksack to the floor. His eyes roved over the rickety old bed that took up most of the small room.
‘I’ll get some cutters and nip off that popped spring in the morning. In the meantime, don’t impale yourself,’ she said, with a hint of a smile. ‘I’m joking.’
Eyeing the dust on the headboard and the windowsill behind it, he knew it was a dumb question, but he asked it anyway. ‘Do you have any servants?’
Lilain nodded. ‘Fourteen of them.’
Merion’s head had already snapped around before he realised she was joking. Yet again. He sighed. ‘Why are you not angry with me?’
Lilain threw him a confused look. ‘Should I be?’
‘I shouted at you.’
Lilain threw her hands up in the air. ‘And you had a right to. I make too many jokes. I know that. Should have known you’d want to blow off some steam. Spend enough time on the rail, you start to think you’re a locomotive,’ she told him. ‘Now, we good here?’ Lilain thumbed at the door.
Merion was still churning over his aunt’s answer. ‘But children are not to shout at grown-ups,’ he replied, automatically reciting one of his father’s many lessons.
Lilain stepped forwards and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Nephew, you’re in Fell Falls, Wyoming. All children are grown-ups here, the moment they set foot on that dusty platform. You’ll see. If you stay, that is.’
Merion sniffed. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
Lilain eyed the rucksack with her grey eyes. ‘We’ll talk about that in the morning. I have to … you know.’ His aunt jabbed another thumb at the door. She was so unlike his father, Merion thought. How could this animated, chatty undertaker be a Hark?
‘Carve up a dead body,’ he said flatly.
Lilain shrugged. ‘There’s also a dog, but that’s a favour for a friend. It can wait ’til morning,’ she replied, and then added, ‘Right, off to work. Sleep well, Merion. It truly is a pleasure to have you here.’ Lilain paused for a moment, her hand resting on the doorframe. She fixed him with a stare. Had it not been for her smile, Merion would have found it rather intimidating. ‘I have so much to tell you,’ she said.
Merion just bowed, and said goodnight.
Only after his aunt had shut the door, and he had heard her footsteps on the basement steps, did he unfasten the flap of the rucksack. Rhin stood on a folded jumper, tapping his foot and grinning. ‘I like her,’ he said.
‘You would. She’s an exile. Just like you.’
‘Hey,’ Rhin glared. ‘I was thinking more along the lines of a free spirit. You should listen to her, Merion. Give her a chance, at least for a little while.’
The faerie had never seen the boy’s face so resolute, so hard. ‘No, Rhin,’ he said, ‘my father’s murderer must be found, and I have to get back to London. I’m not going to argue about it. My mind’s made up.’
Rhin shrugged and hopped onto the lip of the pack. ‘Fine. Then I’m staying here.’
Merion mirrored his shrug and looked away. He found himself staring at the door. ‘Have it your way,’ he told the faerie.
Rhin began to rummage under the bed, where he found an old suitcase with a gaping hole in its side. ‘Almost as though she knew I were coming,’ he chuckled, rubbing his hands. He poked his head inside and hummed. ‘Needs a clean, but otherwise perfect.’
‘Glad somebody is happy here.’
‘Why don’t you unpack? Take your mind off it,’ Rhin advised, from somewhere inside the suitcase.
Merion thought about it, but the thought of finding places for his things made the situation seem a touch too permanent for his liking. He wouldn’t be here long, after all.
Merion suddenly had an idea. He put his hand on the doorknob and muttered more to himself than to Rhin. ‘I think I might get some answers while I’m here.’
‘Sure you can stomach it? I’ve seen you go green before, you know. Remember that dead bird? With the maggots?’
‘Stop it.’
Rhin just chuckled to himself.
‘Just don’t break anything while I’m gone. The same rules apply here as they did at Harker Sheer, understand? Nobody else knows,’ Merion lectured him as he stepped through the door and out into the hall.
‘I know, I know.’
‘Good boy,’ Merion added, just before the door closed. Rhin could have sworn he saw the lad wink sarcastically. He growled and strangled the life out of an old sock.
*
Somebody was singing. It wasn’t the septic smell that reminded him so much of his father’s autopsy, nor the dripping of old pipes, nor the carts with shapes hidden under old blankets, lying up against the earthen walls that disturbed him. It was just the singing. It was Lilain of course, warbling away at some strange old tune whilst she went about her work, pulling bits out of one cavity and sewing up another.
It wasn’t long before she noticed him, hovering in the shadows. ‘Come to stare at the dead?’ she asked, in a low voice. It sent a shiver running down Merion’s spine, and was quickly followed by another as his aunt lifted up the corpse’s head so its dead eyes could look at him. He immediately clamped a hand over his mouth.
Lilain stifled a giggle and laid the head back down. ‘Bucket’s in the corner, Tonmerion.’
Merion found it just in time. He spewed his guts until he had no more to give, and then sat with the bucket cradled in his lap for another few minutes.
‘You okay?’ Lilain asked, in her singsong voice.
Merion belched. ‘His face,’ he whispered.
‘Half of it is missing, yes. Railwraiths have a thing for tongues, so they say. They go for that first, but they’re not the most precise of creatures, not with bits of railroad spike and twisted iron for fingers.’
Merion
looked up to see if his aunt was smiling. She wasn’t. ‘Have you ever seen one?’ he asked, making quotes with his fingers. ‘A railwraith?’
‘Two. From a distance, thank the Maker.’
‘Are they big?’ Merion felt his natural boyish curiosity creeping out, despite the nausea.
‘Some can be twelve feet, maybe more. Most are nine or so.’
‘And they hunt us?’
‘That they do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re building a great big railroad straight through their territory, so the scientists say, and the wraiths apparently like the taste of railroad worker. And guard too. Pretty much anything with two legs, two arms, a face, and boots on.’
Merion couldn’t help himself. ‘And what are they, exactly?’
Lilain laughed, and put down her scalpel for a moment. ‘My, you’ve got a mouth full of questions, Tonmerion. Why the sudden interest in the wraiths?’
Merion pushed himself up from the cold floor and staged over to the table. He thanked the Almighty his stomach was already empty. He gagged all the same. Lying upon the table was a man of two halves, split from left shoulder to right hip. Half his insides were gone, and the rest of him was a torn-up mess. Sand and bits of iron filled his wounds. His tongue was missing, of course, along with the rest of his face. Merion couldn’t take his eyes off the gaping hole in the man’s head.
‘You, erm. You said you had a lot to tell me?’
Lilain laughed, and Merion watched as she deftly used her scalpel to remove a scrap of lung. She dropped it into a porcelain bowl. ‘Well, I don’t just have stories of railwraiths, that’s for sure. I could tell you so many stories, Merion, but not all of them can be told in one night.’ She glanced at him as she hacked at something similar to bone. ‘I was hoping you might stay, so I could tell you all of them.’
Merion watched the dark blood leaking from the areas her scalpel had kissed. His stomach gurgled again. ‘Only my friends call me Merion,’ he said.
Lilain huffed. ‘And what about family?’
Merion pulled a face. ‘My dad always called me Tonmerion. Or sometimes Harlequin.’