by Ben Galley
Though he rifled through every sheaf of paper before moving on, he seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. Every folder was opened, every page turned. Rhin’s eyes darted over numbers and schematics and tables and coats of arms with tigers and eagles as if they were possessed. It was only when he reached the second desk, the one sequestered at the back of the room, that he found something, something that could very easily have been nothing, and yet which tickled his curiosity all the same: a timetable for a train, a big train.
Rhin started to claw at the numbers scribbled across the timetable, and the scraps of paper pinned to its top corner. He had always found human scrawl to be rough, like the wall-scrapings of bored prisoners. Rubbing his nose, he traced the grooved scrapings of a hurried quill.
‘One hundred … and seventy … thousand in…’ Rhin’s eyes widened as he whispered snatches of words. ‘Gold florins … Tuesday … Midnight.’
His nimble fingers ripped the piece of paper from the pin, quickly rolled it up, and stuffed it through his belt. Rhin went back to the timetable and began to examine the small ink-blotched map somebody had thoughtfully etched on the bottom for him. He counted off the stations one by one:
Kaspar
Hell’s Boot
Wheatville
Nilhem
Cheyenne
Linger Hill
Kenaday
Fell Falls
The gold was coming straight to him. Rhin stared at that map until his eyes felt as though they were going to bleed, until it had been scored into his brain. They say the Fae have excellent memories, but Rhin was not about to leave it to chance. He licked his lips. It was exactly what he had hoped for.
The faerie hopped down from the desk and began to pace circles around the room, dissecting his ideas piece by piece, trying them out in different arrangements, sewing some together, mentally defenestrating others. His mind was either a playground for lunatics, or a tabletop for geniuses, he could not decide. A week underneath a bed, staring at a door can play havoc with one’s perception. Yet there was one thing he was certain of: this train and its cargo could be his chance to rid himself of the Wit, his Black Fingers, and that dreaded queen forever. He just needed to get his little grey hands on it first.
Thump, thump.
Boots stamped on the carpet outside the door, and heavy boots at that. Rhin froze and strained his magick. As the door swung open, and a wave of bright lantern-light spilled into the room, the faerie slid quietly under the nearest thing he could find—a small footstool fringed with … some sort of fur, or hair maybe. It tickled the back of his neck as he crouched to peer out at the boots, and their owner.
The man was not short, nor was he tall. He did not ripple with muscle, though neither was he plump or waddling, nor a thin bag of bones. The man was average, in every angle a man could be. Even his attire was simple and unremarkable. His clothes were tailored, his seams razor-sharp, and yet the entire ensemble was a lesson in how many shades of grey a tailor could muster. His head was shaved short at the sides, the rest hidden under a black, round hat, similar to a bowler. Only two things separated this character from a shop-window mannequin: his boots and his eyes.
The boots were heavy, over-sized, and over-worn. They had seen long days on the road, on both cobble and sand, but had been looked after. Rhin could smell boot-polish, oils, even the damp on the laces from washing. Here was a military man, no doubt about it, just one stuffed into a suit.
His eyes were another thing altogether. One was a verdant green, the other bright piercing blue, like an arctic wolf’s. Rhin caught their colour as the man lifted the lantern up and over the nearest desk. He too was looking for something.
The faerie held his breath as he watched the man move between the desks, his boots skimming worryingly close to the footstool. The man whistled to himself as he rifled through the papers. He emitted a sharp tut and Rhin peered out to see what the man had found: the timetable. The man shook his head, and stuffed the paper into his pocket before continuing to rifle. Soon enough, the man found what he was looking for: a square scrap of yellow paper. It looked blank. Rhin narrowed his eyes as the man folded it neatly together and slid it into his pocket.
As the man marched back to the door, Rhin followed in his shadow. The corridor was bright, but the faerie hugged the walls on the man’s blindside, praying nobody else would come sauntering past. He was growing tired. After a sprint up a flight of stairs, the man came to an ornate green door and knocked three times.
‘Lord Serped?’ he called.
‘Come!’ came the muffled shout, and the man entered swiftly, far too fast for Rhin.
The faerie was left crouching in the corridor, breathing hard and pondering the situation. So the timetable was not just some idle scribbling, or the erroneous note-taking of a nervous clerk, full of too much coffee. It was important enough to keep safe in Lord Serped’s pockets. Rhin could smell the pipe, wood smoke and brandy wafting from under the door. No doubt Merion was in there. Business, outside of business hours. Rhin smiled as he began his escape, though it was shakier than he would have liked. It was bittersweet. His salvation had not been earned quite yet. First, he had to rob Lord Serped of his train.
*
This room was more brightly lit than the dark dining room, with its silver-washed pillars and dark moss-green walls. There was a chaise-longue at the far end, in front of a window, and several luxurious armchairs gathered around a rug in front of the fireplace. He could smell the woody sickliness of cigars in his nose, the warm scent of leather, and the stink of ash sitting in the grate. Why on earth a fire was needed in this corner of the world, Merion had no idea.
As he perched on the edge of his allotted armchair, Merion wondered how safe it was having a fire on a boat made, as far as he could tell, entirely out of wood. But he did not dare complain.
If Merion knew anything at all about lords, and he had known quite a few in his short time, it was that they loved to broadcast their words from a height. It was though a little strut and stretch would press them a little harder into the ears they were aimed at. His father had done the very same. Castor was no different.
‘Why do you think it is I chose to make my fortune here, Master Hark, instead of in the Empire, where many argue I belong?’
Merion racked his brain for the cleverest response, or the correct response, anything that was not a joke about the weather. The wine was gurgling in his full belly. He held his tongue and shook his head.
‘Over-crowding,’ Castor announced, as he turned to make another circle of the room. ‘Competition. Exhausted opportunities. The Empire is full of them. There is one problem with a thousand-year reign and an Empire larger than a map can hold. Do you know what that is? It gathers dust, Hark.’
Merion nodded, half-imagining a horde of red-coated soldiers running about with mops and dusters. That damn wine, he chided himself.
‘Your father did a fine job of keeping it at bay. He was not shy of this new world.’ Castor looked around as if the plush innards of his fine riverboat encompassed everything about this lopsided continent. ‘But he did not see its full potential,’ Lord Serped added. He turned to look at Merion.
‘That is, not to impugn your late father, Master Hark. He was a fine Prime Lord. The Benches will be poorer for his loss, I’m sure.’
Merion decided to be brave. This was the moment for it, after all. ‘Do you know the manner of his death, Lord Serped?’
Castor moved to a table topped with elaborate decanters and glasses of all different kinds. Crystal, by the way they chimed against his rings. ‘I do.’
It was an empty answer, to be sure. Merion pressed. ‘Then you must know that his murderer is still at large, unknown and unpunished.’
Castor returned to the fireplace, a pair of ornate glasses resting in the bony cradles of his fingers. If Merion had hoped for a little mercy in the measure, he was disappointed. Was Lord Serped trying to get him drunk? The brandy was a deep red in colour. M
erion reached for his and raised it to his host. Measure to measure. Man to man. Or so he hoped. He sipped, trying not to choke as the brandy burned a path all the way to his soul.
When Castor finally sat, Merion leant forwards. Castor sat and swilled his brandy around as he mused. ‘I am aware of the investigation. And I am aware that it has been fruitless so far. But I hear the Queen herself has called for the murderer’s head. You are not alone in your thirst for justice, Master Hark. Fear not.’
‘The Queen?’ Merion echoed.
Castor sipped his crimson brandy and hummed. ‘Indeed. The murder of a Prime Lord is no small matter. A thousand flowers were laid at the Sage Steps, did you know? A silence was held in the Five Parks. Both London and the Empire have mourned your father this past month.’
Merion took all that in. ‘I had no idea. I was travelling …’ The excuse tasted sour in his mouth. All the known world had mourned his father, and he had not. Not yet. Merion blamed this foul town, and his father’s damned will. He blamed his aunt. He blamed the railwraiths. He blamed every chance and circumstance he could, save his own stubborn nature. He even blamed the blasted heat, and the dust.
‘Of course,’ Castor said as he raised his glass. ‘You have been stuck here instead, with only dead bodies for company.’ It was as though he had read the boy’s mind.
Merion almost missed his opening. ‘And a useless postal service for that matter,’ he added.
Castor stood again. These words obviously needed height. Business was afoot. Was there a smirk on Castor’s face? Was the skeleton cracking? Merion hoped he was. It may have been the brandy talking, but he was liking the feel of this lord.
‘And here was I under the impression that Calidae had invited you on a social visit. This feels more like an introduction with purpose to me,’ he surmised, narrowing his eyes.
Merion also got to his feet. Man to man. ‘I confess, I have come to dinner with an ulterior motive, one which I assure you Calidae was unaware of.’
Castor took a moment to raise his nose and survey the whole of the boy. ‘I believe you, and I am listening, Master Hark.’ And he listened while he sipped his brandy.
‘As you can imagine, I’m keen to see my father’s murderer behind bars. But I seem to be several thousand miles away, and the postal office in this town can’t seem to comprehend the urgency of my situation. I’ve sent almost ten letters, my lord. Not a single one has reached Constable Pagget in London,’ Merion took a breath to steady his eager heart. ‘You have given me some comfort this evening, Lord Serped, and for that I am grateful, but I need justice. I need information, news, correspondence. And of course, it is not just the matter of my father. His estate needs managing. My estate needs managing, to keep the wolves from the door, so to speak.’
Castor turned to admire a painting hanging on the wall behind him. It was an ancestor no doubt, astride a great horse and holding a sword which was far too large for Merion’s liking. Castor spoke as if to the painting. ‘I take it you have not heard talk of the election, then?’
‘An election?’ Merion asked, eyes wide. ‘So soon?’
‘The cogs of the Empire must keep turning, Merion. The Bulldog is dead. We must have a new Prime Lord,’ Castor replied. He saw the boy’s expression and waved a hand. ‘It’s early days, Merion, and for now you need not worry yourself with it. You’re wise to think of your house, and your name, as well as your father. It shows a keen mind, Master Hark, one that I admire.’
Merion tried not to let the pride show in his cheeks. He was doing well, he could feel it in the prickles of his skin. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
Once again Castor turned away to trace a curve in the carpet. ‘Tell me then, Tonmerion, what would you ask of me?’
‘If you would send a wiregram for me, to Constable Pagget, I would be forever in your debt.’
Castor narrowed his eyes and took another sip of his brandy. Merion mirrored him, feeling the burn of the sweet, hot liquid on the back of his tongue. ‘Be careful offering such terms, Master Hark. There are others in this world less scrupulous than myself. They may not be so kind and cautionary,’ he advised.
Merion sketched a shallow bow. ‘In that case, my lord Serped, I would be very grateful, and you would have my utmost thanks,’ he offered.
‘Now those are terms I can accept. I shall have a wiregram sheet fetched immediately.’
Before Merion could protest that it needn’t be fetched at this very moment, Serped had already rung a small bell on a cloth rope. Within several seconds, a loud thudding was heard behind the door.
A man entered and bowed. Merion immediately noticed his eyes: one a bright green, the other a piercing blue. The man was wearing a bowler hat, and beneath it, a smile peppered with bright gold. He was dressed in a smart, yet unremarkable grey suit.
‘My lord,’ he said.
‘Tonmerion Hark, might I introduce Suffrous Gile, master of my affairs here in Wyoming.’
Suffrous Gile. What a name. Merion bowed low nonetheless, and made the man’s acquaintance.
‘A pleasure to meet you, Lord Hark. My condolences for your father. He was a very talented man,’ said Suffrous. touching the edge of his hat. His voice was a churning pile of gravel.
Merion had never quite heard the Bulldog of London described as ‘talented’. ‘Thank you, Master Gile,’ he replied, bowing again.
Suffrous reached deep into his pocket and brandished a handful of paper. ‘As you requested, my lord.’
‘Thank you, Suffrous,’ Castor replied, holding out a hand. Merion did not dare to wonder how a wiregram sheet had been fetched so quickly. Castor had not uttered a single order.
As Master Gile placed the papers in his master’s palm, he leant forwards to whisper something in Castor’s ear. Merion had to fight not to lean forwards. Such was the alluring pull of the whispered word, tantalising and out of reach. Castor slipped one of the sheets into his pocket, and held out the other: a yellow wiregram sheet. Merion’s heart thudded as he walked forwards to seize it. His prize, long awaited.
‘My thanks, Lord Serped, my utmost thanks,’ Merion said, nearly gasping his words.
‘I cannot be held responsible for the answer, I’m afraid,’ Castor cautioned.
‘Of course,’ Merion bobbed his head.
‘If you manage to write it tonight, I can have Master Gile here run it to Kaspar in the morning.’
‘You’re very kind, my lord. If you have a pen I can have it written in no time at all,’ Merion replied. The weeks of practice at the postal office had paid off. He could write this message blind-folded. A smile crept across his lips.
Castor motioned to a small writing desk tucked away in the corner, and then clicked his fingers at Gile. ‘Have the good wine brought in, Suffrous, and my wife and daughter also. I believe our business is concluded here,’ he instructed.
‘Very good, my lord,’ said Suffrous, sketching a bow. The man’s great boots twisted a whorl in the rug as he turned and strode away, footsteps heavy and clunking.
Merion had the message penned in under a minute. The ink was still drying by the time he handed the sheet back to Castor, who balanced it on the pillars of his fingers. He blew gently on the glistening ink while his eyes flicked over it.
Castor hummed approvingly. ‘Short and to the point, Master Hark.’
Merion beamed like a lantern. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he replied, fidgeting with his fingers to keep himself from either yelling, dancing, or passing straight out. Finally, he had done it.
Before he could enquire how long he would have to wait for his answers, the sound of heavy boots returned to the door. Gile came first, bearing a tray topped with two carafes of dark red wine and five glasses; the small, skinny sort that looked about as sturdy as a weeping icicle.
Merion found Castor’s bony hand between his shoulders, guiding him back to his armchair, and a smiling Calidae holding a gold-rimmed carafe of wine out to him. She had spied the wiregram in her father’s other hand. Her
quick mind missed nothing.
‘Wine, Lord Hark?’ she asked, her voice like bells again. There was a glint in her eye that transfixed him, pinning him in place like a prize butterfly in a case. A glass was pressed into his hand by Master Gile, and before Merion could answer, deep, ruby-red blood began to trickle into his glass.
‘To the Empire,’ Castor announced.
‘The Empire!’ echoed the others, Merion loudest of all.
Glasses were put to lips, and wine introduced to tongues. It was sweet, almost too much, and it had a metallic taste that numbed his mouth. Merion took a long gulp, not wishing to appear rude. The sweet wine filled his mouth until he was wincing from the sugar and his tongue had become sluggish. It was the sort of wine that flowed upwards, as he had heard Lurker say one night in the desert. Straight to your head, forget your belly. Merion felt the wine washing around his skull almost immediately. The room grew a little darker at the edges. If he was not mistaken, the riverboat seemed to be listing to one side. All he could do was smile, hold out his glass to Calidae, and try not to fall head-first into her eyes. This was worse than that Shohari swill.
He sat down at some point, he knew that much. Or did he lie down? In any case he remembered Calidae’s hand resting on his arm. He had not dared to move it. Not for anything. At the window, Gile had spoken to him of all the facets of his past: ship-wrecker, smuggler, prisoner, manservant, master of affairs. Merion remembered swaying through the man’s whispered stories, squint-eyed and silent, wondering how to get away. Calidae had rescued him. Or had it been Castor? Wine flowed in any case. Merion’s lips were smeared red and sticky.
In the morning he would remember nothing of the dancing, nor the singing, nor even the long and hushed conversation with Castor. Merion would remember none of the words that passed, for wine is a double-edged blade. It loves to play the merry prince, but it also delights to play the thief, creeping in when the lights have been turned down, when the mind is drenched. It cheats you of sense and memory, leaving a slice of darkness in their place. The thief was already picking the locks, as far as Merion was concerned. Long into the night, and deep into the morning, two things kept flowing. That damned wine, and Castor’s hushed words.