Faerie Lord fw-4

by Herbie Brennan

  He was about to step back out into the passageway when he heard a sound. Pyrgus froze. He placed his eye to the crack. His field of vision was limited and the corridor was poorly lit, but after a moment a shadowy figure slipped silently past, a Trinian to judge from his height. Pyrgus grinned. Little sister still didn’t trust him after all.

  He waited until he was certain the agent was clear, then cautiously vacated the chamber and made off back the way he’d come. But instead of returning to the main corridor with its renewed bustle, he slipped through an archway and crossed an empty gallery that took him to a second servants’ passage running parallel to the first.

  He hesitated. There was someone coming. He could hear heavy breathing, dragging footsteps and a curious metallic clanking. Clearly not another agent. He risked a quick glance down the corridor. An old cleaning woman was approaching, dragging an empty bucket and a mop. Pyrgus stepped back into the shadows and she passed him without so much as a glance.

  Pyrgus waited until the woman’s footsteps faded, then slipped into the passageway. He wasn’t entirely familiar with this part of the Palace, but quickly discovered Blue’s agent had done him a favour by sending him this way. The passage led to a gloomy wooden staircase, which took him to a storeroom that opened into the basement corridors beneath the main entrance hall. It was an area Pyrgus knew well – he’d hidden down here often enough as a child.

  Moving quickly now, he raced along until he found a second staircase, which took him to a disused area of the Palace kitchens. The place had a ghostly feel, but he ignored it and pushed through a heavy doorway into exactly the passageway he was looking for. It ended at a locked door leading outside. Pyrgus grinned and inserted his master key. (Some perks to having been a Crown Prince after all!) The solid old spells recognised him at once and slid back the bolts. In a moment, Pyrgus was outside, breathing the fresh, clean river air of Imperial Island.

  Blue’s agents could not be tracking him now, but all the same he moved cautiously. Nymph had promised to arrange for a personal flyer, fully charged and ready for take-off, to be hidden in the grove of trees beyond the Gatekeeper’s Lodge. There was absolutely no chance of anyone else going there during the period of mourning that followed Mr Fogarty’s death. Once Pyrgus reached it, he was free and clear.

  But not free and clear yet. There was a Volunteer Guard posted along the perimeter of the Gatekeeper’s property. They would not be particularly vigilant – their duties were largely ceremonial – but he couldn’t risk their seeing him all the same. So he took a circuitous route through the shrubberies, crossed the little ornamental river by way of the stepping stones, then climbed a low wall and dropped into the Gatekeeper’s grounds.

  It occurred to him suddenly that his problems getting here were nothing beside Nymph’s problems arranging for the flyer to be brought in secretly. But he was so used to trusting Nymph now, so used to her terrifying efficiency, that he felt not the slightest stirring of surprise when he caught his first glimpse of the dull sheen reflecting from the vehicle’s exterior spell coatings.

  He ran through the grove like a wraith, jerked open the flyer door and climbed thankfully inside.

  ‘What kept you?’ Blue asked sourly.

  Thirty-Three

  There was gold carpeting on the floor, velvet drapes on picture windows, a little ante-room for Kitterick. In many ways, it made her personal quarters at the Palace seem positively utilitarian. But, however luxurious, a prison was still a prison.

  Madame Cardui dressed carefully. She was far too old for field work, of course, but that was of small account now that field work had become necessary. If dear Alan was right, they all must play their part. Thus she abandoned her usual flowing silks for form-fitting assassin’s black, spell-treated to turn it into body armour. The effect was actually quite fetching: how gratifying to have kept one’s figure. How sad that Alan wasn’t here to see it.

  She extinguished all lights, then walked to the window and drew back the curtains. The first glow of dawn had begun to illuminate the horizon far to the south. She stood for a moment, staring at the increasing light.

  Poor Blue. Madame Cardui felt not the slightest resentment at her own incarceration. In the circumstances, what else could the child do? Another Emperor might well have ordered her death, or had her tortured until she gave an explanation. Blue had been nothing but patient, generous and thoughtful. She had even specified low security in return for Madame Cardui’s pledge not to attempt an escape. A pity to repay her with another betrayal.

  It was such an odd situation to be in. All the old certainties had been turned upside dowrn. She was reminded irresistibly of her stage days as the diverting young assistant to the Great Myphisto. She had been a real beauty then. The audience could scarcely take their eyes off her – especially the men. And while they watched her, Myphisto prepared his sleights of hand. Miracles Without Magic, they had called the show. Not a single spell used… and that was guaranteed.

  She dragged her attention back to the present. Focus. She had to focus. There were so many imponderables in the present situation, so much to lose if they got things wrong.

  She turned away from the window and flicked a bell-ring on her finger. Kitterick appeared at once. With his usual efficiency he had anticipated her next move and was himself dressed in black, doubtless spell-armoured as well, with a pointed hood that made him look like a demented pixy. He had dyed his skin black as well, which was possibly a step too far, although his natural orange would, admittedly, have been a trifle garish in the morning light.

  ‘I assumed we would be leaving, Madam,’ Kitterick told her.

  ‘Your assumption was correct,’ said Madame Cardui.

  He waited, patient as ever, for his briefing. Kitterick had been in her service for more years than she cared to remember and still looked much as he had done the day she hired him. How did Trinians manage it? They never seemed to age at all – although they did have something of a reputation for dying suddenly. Would she have bartered sudden death for youthful looks and energy? Such a bargain was hardly open for her now. Not only had she lost her looks – although not her figure, one was forced to admit – but what she was about to do held its own risk of sudden death.

  Madame Cardui blinked. Losing Alan had made her morbid. All she could think about was death in one form or another. Such a waste of energy and the ruination of one’s concentration. She must pull herself together.

  ‘We have no time to lose,’ she told Kitterick.

  ‘No, Madam,’ Kitterick agreed.

  ‘It is important that we leave the Palace – and indeed the city – at the earliest opportunity.’

  ‘Yes, Madam.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘But it is equally important that the discovery of our escape be delayed as much as possible.’

  ‘To give us a greater head start, Madam?’

  ‘Precisely, Kitterick. To that end, I have instructed our captors that I shall not be requiring breakfast this morning.’

  ‘Very self-sacrificing, Madam.’

  ‘They will, of course, attempt to feed us lunch, but by then, if all goes well, I shall be long gone.’

  Kitterick missed nothing. ‘You, Madam – not we?’

  ‘I, Kitterick. I expect you to remain here, confuse our captors and, if necessary, create a diversion.’

  ‘Of course, Madam.’ He looked at her fondly. ‘Will you be requiring me to murder the guards, Madam?’

  ‘Nothing so crude, Kitterick,’ said Madame Cardui. Bad enough she had to break her word to the Queen without adding slaughter to her sins. She sighed. ‘You’ll find a doppleganger in my mattress.’

  This time Kitterick’s look was one of open admiration. He went to the mattress, extruded a talon to slit it open, then fumbled inside until he drew out a desiccated package about the size of a building brick, ‘I presume this is she, Madam?’

  Madam Cardui nodded, ‘It’s freeze-dried, so we only need add water.’

 
‘After you have gone, Madam?’

  ‘No, I think we should activate it now – just to be sure. You can use the decanter on the bedside table.’

  ‘Of course, Madam.’ Kitterick set the brick on top of the counterpane and poured the contents of the decanter over it. There was a slight sizzling sound as the package began to enlarge.

  Kitterick moved back sharply when the arms and legs appeared, floppy at first, then uncurling and expanding into three dimensions. After a moment, it was possible to discern a body threshing and writhing. A moment more and a living, breathing replica of Madame Cardui was lying on the bed. Madame Cardui stared down at it. The thing had cost a fortune, but she had to admit the investment had been worth every penny. The resemblance was uncanny, right down to that unfortunate mole on the buttock.

  ‘How would you prefer her dressed?’ asked Kitterick, not at all phased by the creature’s nudity.

  ‘A simple nightgown will suffice,’ said Madame Cardui. ‘Then tuck her into bed. When the servants arrive with lunch, tell them I am indisposed – unwell. You might even hint at the possibility of plague.’

  ‘Queen Blue is likely to order a medical examination,’ Kitterick said.

  ‘The doppleganger can withstand that, so long as they don’t expect it to speak. All internal organs and systems are faithfully duplicated. With luck, they will assume its silence is due to the illness. They will discover the truth in time, of course, but by then I will be long gone. I shall leave now. Divert them as long as you can, then go to my city quarters. You are not a prisoner, of course, so there will be no difficulty. But I shall expect you to be discreet, make sure you are not followed and so forth.’

  ‘Of course,’ Kitterick murmured. ‘Will you be hiding in your city quarters?’

  ‘Oh, no – I have several urgent things to do: best you know nothing of them. But I shall return eventually, I hope. In the meantime, I rely on you to keep them clean and look after Lanceline.’ Madame Cardui returned to the window and threw it open. ‘Au revoir, Kitterick.’

  ‘Au revoir, Madam,’ Kitterick replied.

  She drew a reel of wire from the pocket of her armour and expertly attached one end of it to the windowsill. She clipped the other to her belt and jumped from the window to abseil down the outside wall like a spider on a silken thread.

  Kitterick watched until she was safely on the ground, then detached the wire and closed the window.

  Thirty-Four

  There was a savage sun beating down and no shade except leeward of the crumbling tomb. It was so very, very… hot. But Henry needed to get away from the tomb. He didn’t think the thing would follow him into the sunlight, but he couldn’t be sure. Besides, the sun would not stay up for ever. When night fell the creature might emerge.

  Which way to go?

  Henry looked around in something close to panic. The desert was featureless – a rock here, a flat slab there, a sea of spreading, shimmering sand but no landmark other than the ruin. In a landscape like this, one direction was as good as any other.

  All the same, he hesitated. He was beginning to pour sweat. It stung his eyes and soaked his underarms. He would need water soon and he had no water at all. How long could you survive in a desert without water? Days? Hours? He thought maybe days, if you were lucky, but he was fairly sure it wasn’t more than a week. So if he walked the wrong way, went deeper into the desert instead of out of it, he could be walking to his death.

  Which way to go?

  Henry shivered. His arm and leg were burning up now and the shivering made him wonder if he was starting a fever.

  There was a sound from the tomb, a rodent rustling. The creature was moving about inside. He didn’t think it would venture out into the sunlight, but the noise unnerved him so much that he moved despite his pain, stumbling away from the ruin. With no landmarks, no pointers, nothing to guide him, one direction really was as good as any other.

  He made a decision. He would walk until he was out of sight of the tomb. That way, if the creature did come out, it wouldn’t find him. When he was out of sight, he would sit down and examine his wounds and try to think. Take stock of his position. That sounded like the proper thing to do.

  There was a great deal of rock close to the ruin and a section, half-exposed, of what looked like man-made pavement. But all of it gave way to featureless sand, flat at first, then drifting into dunes. It was hell to walk on. It sucked at his feet and drained the little energy he had left in his legs. He had to rest even before he lost sight of the tomb. He squatted on the sand, looking back nervously. The ruin shimmered through a heat haze, as if it were under water. After a while, he climbed painfully back to his feet and started off. He felt better when he lost sight of the tomb completely.

  But now there were no landmarks at all.

  Henry sat down again. The wound on his arm had stopped bleeding and closed over, but it was rimmed with a greenish thread and pulsed pain in time with his heartbeat. But the pain wasn’t too bad and so far, luckily, there didn’t seem to be much swelling.

  The wound on his leg was another matter. His trousers were torn and soaked with matted blood so that the material stuck to the flesh. He gritted his teeth and tried to peel it away, but the skin seemed to be coming too and the pain was almost unbelievable. Eventually, in desperation, he unbuckled his belt and eased the trousers down to get sight of the wound.

  He wished he hadn’t. The wound on his arm was a claw slash. The wound on his leg seemed like the result of a bite. Even in so short a time, it had swollen dramatically, stretching and discolouring the skin while the site of the bite itself oozed a foul-smelling, yellow pus. That one was going to need medical attention, and soon. He poked the skin cautiously and was rewarded by a wave of agony so extreme that he almost threw up.

  Henry pulled his trousers up again and buckled the belt. There was nothing he could do about his injuries yet, so the only thing to do was ignore them and concentrate on…

  On survival.

  How did you stay alive in a desert?

  Henry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember anything he’d read or seen on TV about survival. What would the S.A.S. do in a situation like this? Strangely, information started to trickle through from foggy corners of his memory. Find shelter from the sun… preserve your energy… travel only at night… drink your own urine if you can’t find water…

  He opened his eyes again. The desert stretched endlessly in all directions, barren and bare. Not a tree, not a rock, no shelter of any sort. How did you find shelter when there was no shelter to be found? But the business about travelling by night was a good idea. It would be cooler at night. He could get further with less energy and he’d sweat less so he’d need less water.

  But he’d still need some. Without water he would die in days.

  He began to think about drinking his own pee. The idea sounded gross, but he could probably live with that. The problem was… the problem was…

  The problem was how?

  He couldn’t pee in a bottle and drink from that because he didn’t have a bottle. He couldn’t pee in a hollow on a rock, because there were no rocks any more. He couldn’t pee on the ground: the hot sand would soak up the precious fluid in a second. So how…?

  Henry bent forward in the sitting position and considered angles. It was a fairly batty thought, but he might just be able to do it. Although only if he managed a strong jet – a trickle wouldn’t hack it. He straightened up and decided to shelve the problem for the moment. He wasn’t that thirsty yet.

  So what did he do now? Rest until nightfall, then move off again? It had to be the sensible thing, but something kept telling him not to do it. Nightfall was still hours away. The sun was hotter than anything he’d ever experienced. If he sat here without shelter he’d be a baked husk by dark. And God knew how bad the wound in his leg might be by then. Maybe it was best to move on now, while he still had some energy left, trust to luck that he was going in the right direction, trust to luck that he’d fi
nd help before it was too late.

  Trust to luck he wouldn’t die.

  With a massive effort, he pushed himself to his feet.

  Thirty-Five

  Lord Hairstreak looked around his seedy office and wondered where his life had gone.

  The rot had set in after the brief Civil War. Too many bad decisions, too many gambles. But most of all, the collapse of the market. Demon servants were a thing of the past since his niece became Queen of Hael. Hard to believe anybody could be so stupid as to free the slaves, but Blue had done it. Lost herself an almost unimaginable source of income at the stroke of a pen. More to the point, lost Hairstreak his percentage.

  He closed his eyes briefly. Such a sweet, sweet deal while Beleth was alive. Five per cent of earnings from every demon placed in servitude. Five per cent! He’d never lacked for money then and never thought he ever would. Even when Blue killed Beleth it didn’t occur to him things might be different. He’d simply assumed the old arrangement would continue with a new name on the contract. The worst he expected was that she’d try to cut back a little on his percentage. But only a little. Blue needed Hairstreak as much as Beleth ever had if the market was to continue: he was leader of the Faeries of the Night after all and only they used demon servants. He never thought, not for an instant, that Blue would stop the trade altogether. Even now her decision made no sense to him. If he’d lost millions when his five per cent disappeared, imagine how much Blue herself had lost. As Queen of Hael she would have harvested every penny of the remaining ninety-five per cent.

  But pointless to dwell on the past. What was done was done and nothing he could do would change it. The trick was to replace his former source of income. And now, thanks to that old goat Brimstone, it looked as if it just might be possible.

  The only problem was he didn’t trust Brimstone.

  Hairstreak opened his eyes again. The cloud dancer was pretending to sit on the chair, but had miscalculated slightly and seemed to be hovering an inch or two above it. Not that it mattered since the dancer wasn’t truly there at all. Its home was a wholly different dimension. But now the strain on the fabric of reality was making Hairstreak nauseous and he decided to conclude the business as quickly as possible.