‘Trespasser.’
‘Cat burglar.’
‘In that he burgled a cat.’
‘Or, more precisely, burgled you and stole a cat.’
‘The law dislikes that,’ Glanville said. ‘Indeed, the law will not tolerate it. We have seen the judge –’
‘Indeed we have.’
‘And she has ruled the boy may be seized and held awaiting trial.’
‘By us or our officers, acting as your agents in your capacity as director of Chalkhill and Brimstone, the injured body corporate.’
‘She has issued a warrant. I have it here.’ Glanville extracted a piece of parchment from his briefcase and waved it in the air.
‘How long can we hold him?’ Brimstone asked.
‘Oh, a very long time,’ Grayling told him. ‘Six months without court intervention. Then, when we bring him to trial, we may request a further six-month continuance to prepare our case. A year in all. It seemed sufficient.’
‘Ample!’ Brimstone exclaimed. He rubbed his hands and grinned. This was turning out to be one of his better days.
‘The bad news,’ said Glanville, ‘is that all this good news has become quite academic’
‘Useless information. Unsupportable judgment.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Brimstone asked them irritably. His grin had turned to a frown.
‘The warrant cannot be executed,’ Glanville said. ‘As matters stand it is a worthless piece of paper.’
‘Worthless,’ Grayling echoed.
Brimstone leaned forward. ‘Why?’ he growled.
Glanville put the parchment back in his briefcase and closed it with a snap. ‘The boy – or defendant as we must now call him – is no longer in the jurisdiction. He has left this world.’
‘He’s dead?’ Brimstone asked in sudden panic. It wasn’t enough that Pyrgus died. He had to be sacrificed to Beleth. And by Brimstone. Nothing less would satisfy the terms of the demonic contract.
‘Not to my knowledge. The Royal Household on whom we sought to serve the warrant, you appreciate – claims he has been translated.’
‘To the Analogue World,’ Grayling put in helpfully.
‘The Courts of Faerie have no jurisdiction in the Analogue World. While he remains there, he is beyond legal redress.’
‘Are you sure that’s really where he is?’ Brimstone asked suspiciously.
Glanville looked shocked. ‘We have a formal statement to that effect bearing the Emperor’s official seal. These are Faeries of the Light. They would never put a lie in writing. I think we may safely assume that if they say he’s in the Analogue World, then that is where he is.’
Brimstone glared. ‘We have to get him back.’
‘Ah,’ said Glanville.
‘Ah,’ said Grayling.
‘What?’ Brimstone demanded. ‘What? It’s simple, isn’t it? We send some bully-boys into the Analogue World and drag him back by the scruff of the neck. Not even illegal, from what you tell me – our laws don’t extend there.’
‘An admirable strategy,’ said Glanville. ‘But flawed.’
‘Fatally flawed,’ said Grayling. ‘We have no way of knowing where to find him – in the Analogue World that is.’
‘Unlike other portals, the portal of House Iris is multi-directional. They could have sent him anywhere they wished.’
‘Can’t we force them to reveal his destination?’ Brimstone asked.
Glanville looked at Grayling. Grayling looked at Glanville. They turned together and looked at Brimstone. ‘Possibly,’ Grayling said. ‘But if they resist, it could take some time. And time, we know, is of the essence.’
‘House Iris has excellent lawyers,’ Glanville said. He glanced down at the floor. ‘They elected not to contest our warrant since they knew we could not execute it.’
‘I’ve got spies in the palace,’ Brimstone said. ‘So has Chalkhill. Between us we should be able to find out his translation coordinates.’
‘Possibly,’ said Grayling. ‘But even if we do find out, we cannot follow. House Iris owns the only multi directional portal in existence.’
‘Perhaps not quite the only one,’ said Brimstone thoughtfully.
Even with Chalkhill’s help, it took him days to get an appointment and then it was only with a lackey. Lord Hairstreak’s representative was a big, unsmiling man named Harold Dingy. He wore a silvergrey suit and was accompanied by a bloodshot endolg. For some reason he’d insisted they meet at the zoo.
‘It’s nice to see you,’ Brimstone said untruthfully, holding out his hand.
‘The pleasure’s all yours,’ Dingy said, ignoring it.
His endolg rolled several times around Brimstone’s legs before remarking, ‘He’s clean, boss. No weapons and just the routine spells and charms.’ It spread itself out like a mangy rug and watched them both.
‘Did Mr Chalkhill tell you what it was I wanted?’ Brimstone asked, shouting above the noise of the parrots.
Chalkhill had long claimed to be Lord Hairstreak’s friend, but if Dingy was impressed by the mention of his name he didn’t show it. ‘No.’ He looked as if he didn’t care.
This was the tricky part and Brimstone didn’t really feel like shouting it out at the top of his voice. ‘Can we get away from these damn parrots?’ he asked.
‘I like parrots,’ Dingy said.
‘He likes parrots,’ said a parrot clinging to the wire mesh of its cage.
‘So do I,’ lied Brimstone, ‘but what I have to say is confidential.’
‘Doesn’t want us to repeat it,’ said the parrot smugly.
‘All right,’ Dingy said. ‘We’ll talk in the Reptile House.’
The Reptile House was hot and dry and played hell with Brimstone’s sinuses. But at least it was quiet and lizards didn’t play back what you’d said. The endolg climbed up one of the glass-fronted cages and embarked on a staring match with a cobra. Dingy glared at Brimstone.
Brimstone glanced around to make sure they weren’t being overheard, then lowered his voice. ‘I wanted to talk to you about—’
‘Can’t hear you,’ Dingy interrupted.
‘This is confidential!’ Brimstone hissed. He gestured Dingy closer and, when the man took a reluctant step forward, stretched to whisper in his ear. ‘I wanted to talk to you about Black Hairstreak’s portal.’
‘What about Lord Hairstreak’s portal?’ Dingy asked suspiciously.
Brimstone looked around him again. ‘I understand Lord Hairstreak may have a multi-directional portal,’ he whispered.
‘Who told you that?’ Dingy sniffed.
Brimstone laid a finger along the side of his nose and tried to look knowing. ‘I have my sources,’ he said. His source was actually his partner Chalkhill, who’d once let the information slip while drunk. The trouble was Chalkhill let a lot of things slip when drunk that simply weren’t true. Brimstone was praying this wasn’t one of them.
‘Somebody’s been tickling your ferret,’ Dingy said.
‘You mean he doesn’t?’ Brimstone asked, then added slyly, ‘It’s just that if he did have a multi-directional portal, I should be prepared to pay a great deal of money for its use. A great deal of money.’
‘Pity he doesn’t have one then,’ said Dingy. The endolg began to detach itself from the glass. It looked as if the interview was over.
‘Just a minute,’ said Brimstone hurriedly. ‘When I said a great deal of money, I meant a million gold pieces.’ He’d have to mortgage the business to raise that sort of cash, but if he didn’t find Pyrgus he was dead and if he did, he’d have all the money in the realm.
Dingy stared down at him impassively. The endolg was tugging at his trouser-leg as if anxious to be going.
‘For Lord Hairstreak,’ Brimstone said. ‘And a quarter of a million more for you.’
‘You must need a multi-portal very, very bad,’ Dingy said. ‘Mind telling me why?’
Brimstone weighed up the pros and cons. He’d expected the question, but
assumed he’d be talking to Black Hairstreak himself, not one of his stooges. All the same, this clown was probably more shrewd than he looked – Hairstreak would hardly employ him otherwise – so he might spot a lie. Besides, he had the endolg with him. They were supposed to be able to sniff out anything fishy from a hundred yards. Which was, of course, the reason Hairstreak used them. Not much trust left in the realm these days.
As against that, it was well enough known Lord Hairstreak had little love for the Purple Emperor, so he might actually welcome the death of his son. Brimstone decided to tell the truth. It was such an odd feeling he thought he’d make that part of the truth. Enough to squeeze past the endolg. ‘I need to find Crown Prince Pyrgus,’ he said.
‘Why?’ asked Dingy innocently. ‘Is he lost?’
‘He’s in the Analogue World. I need a multi-portal to reach him.’
‘Why would you want to reach him?’
‘I have business with him,’ Brimstone said with dignity.
‘What sort of business would that be then?’
Oh, bog it, Brimstone thought. ‘I want to kill him.’
The endolg trilled excitedly. ‘What about that, boss?’ it said. ‘He wants to slaughter the Crown Prince.’
Harold Dingy leaned forward soberly and suddenly he seemed very menacing indeed. I’m going to do you a favour, Mr Brimstone. I’m going to tell you something that will save you a great deal of money. Are you listening, Mr Brimstone?’
Brimstone took a step backwards. ‘Yes.’
‘I’m going to tell you there’s no need for you to kill Prince Pyrgus. Want to know why, Mr Brimstone?’
‘Yes,’ Brimstone repeated in a small voice.
To his astonishment, Dingy smiled abruptly. ‘Because Prince Pyrgus is already dead!’
‘As a coffin nail,’ confirmed the endolg. ‘Or at least as good as.’
Brimstone felt as if the sky had fallen in. He thought he might have gone pale, but fought to keep his voice steady. He swallowed. ‘Are you sure?’
Dingy was positively beaming. ‘You just heard it from the endolg.’
Even with a floater spell, the gold was heavy. Brimstone tried to lift the case and felt his back creak. It was no good. He’d have to get somebody to help him. Kill him afterwards, of course – a little something in his soup or, better yet, a knife across the throat. Only way to make sure he kept quiet. Only way to make sure no one knew where Silas Brimstone went.
The trick was to go quickly. Now, in fact. Beleth was back in his own dimension now and wouldn’t start to look for him before the contract expired. By then he’d be long gone. That was definitely the way to do it. Cut his losses and go. But what losses. The factory, the other businesses, his home, most of his books. It wasn’t weight with the books, it was bulk. He could take a few – the more important ones. Enough so he could start again. And he’d have his gold, which was something.
Unless Beleth somehow caught up with him. Unless Beleth somehow tracked him down!
How had it all gone so horribly wrong? One minute he was getting ready to cut the brat’s throat, the next he was running for his life. For his life and soul. Beleth wouldn’t play around. Demon princes never did. The minute he caught up with Brimstone, Brimstone was dead meat. And his soul, what was left of it, would be used to drive a golem, or guard some stupid tomb, or have slivers sliced from it perpetually to nourish demon children. It was dreadful. Ghastly. Beyond thinking about.
He opened the door of his office and roared, ‘Porter!’
He couldn’t carry all his gold, of course, not even with a porter helping. He’d have to leave so much behind. Tens of thousands of pieces. Hundreds of thousands of pieces. The pain he felt was almost physical. He’d have to start again. Somewhere where no one knew him. Have to start without contacts or friends. Well, actually, he’d never had many friends, but it was the principle of the thing. And starting without contacts was a nightmare. He’d have to live in some dingy little back street in some dingy little set of lodgings in some god-forsaken dungheap of a farming village where nobody would ever think of looking for him. And even when he started up another business, he’d have to make sure it never became too successful. Once he disappeared, he must never, never, ever draw attention to himself.
There was a man standing in the doorway.
‘What the hell do you want?’ Brimstone asked.
‘Porter, sir. You called for one.’
‘So I did,’ said Brimstone. ‘Can you lift that?’ He pointed to the chest of gold coins on the floor beside his desk.
The porter walked across and hefted it on to his shoulder as if it were a feather. ‘You’ve got a floater spell on this,’ he said in some surprise.
‘Take it downstairs and load it into my hansom – it’s the black one parked outside,’ Brimstone ordered. ‘When you’ve done that, come back here – ’ he cracked a smile ‘ – for your tip.’
When the man had left, Brimstone opened his desk drawer and examined the selection of knives inside. They were all long-bladed and razor sharp. He picked one with a curved edge and an ion blade that was capable of decapitating the porter, let alone slitting his throat. Then he hid behind the door and waited.
He usually disliked cutting throats. The amount of blood that pumped from the jugular was appalling, took ages to clean up. But since he was unlikely ever to come back to his office, that would be somebody else’s problem. Pity, though – he’d always liked this office. Such a shame never to be seeing it again.
He heard the porter’s footfalls outside and steeled himself to strike the moment the man entered. One quick stroke, step over the corpse, then out of the building before anybody noticed he was gone. The horses were fresh, the hansom unmarked. He could be –
The porter turned the handle of the door. Brimstone raised the knife and had a sudden thought. He didn’t need to run away at all! He didn’t need to hide! How had he missed it? All he had to do was burn The Book of Beleth! He froze in place. So simple. It was the book that had called him into Brimstone’s world in the first place. Destroy the book and Beleth had no way to reach him. It solved the problem absolutely. With Beleth out of the picture, Brimstone could ignore the contract. He could forget about sacrificing the boy who’d turned out to be trouble anyway – and forget about Beleth grabbing his soul. He could keep his gold, keep his businesses, keep his books. He could carry on exactly as before and, when things settled down a little, he could work on other plans to get richer and more powerful. Suddenly life was wonderful again!
Brimstone dropped the knife as the porter stepped into his office. The man started a little at finding Brimstone lurking behind the door, but recovered enough to say, ‘The chest is in your carriage, sir. You mentioned something about a tip, Mr Brimstone ... ?’
Brimstone grinned at him. ‘You can whistle for it!’ he said gaily. ‘I’m not going! I’m not going!’ He danced past the man and ran downstairs to the passage that led from the factory to his lodgings and the attic room. The place was still in a mess after the last disastrous evocation, but he ignored the debris and headed straight for the cupboard, chanting the code that removed his protection spell. The cupboard door sprang open as he reached it.
The Book of Beleth was no longer there.
Nor, when he went back to the factory a little later, was his chest of gold. Brimstone only just stopped himself from screaming. That damn porter had taken his own tip!
Thirteen
It had clouded over and begun to rain by the time Henry reached his road. He plodded miserably towards his house. Mr Fogarty’s voice sounded like a refrain in his head. Your mother. She wants you to get home. At once. Home at once. Home at once. At once, At once. He’d a pretty good idea why his mother wanted him home at once.
Despite the cool touch of the rain, Henry’s face was burning. He simply couldn’t believe what he’d done. Stood in the street in front of Anaïs and cried like a baby. Huge, racking, incoherent sobs with blubbering attempts to apologise wit
hout knowing what he was apologising for.
She came over to him. That was the worst bit. She came over and put her arm around his shoulders and cuddled him as if she was his mum or something. ‘Oh, Henry, what is it? What’s wrong?’ He’d let her hold him. She smelled nice and she was soft and warm. But now he felt guilty, as if he’d betrayed his dad. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
He didn’t want to talk about it. How could he talk about it behind his father’s back? Besides, he couldn’t speak for sobbing. He just stood there, his head pressed to her breast, and cried. Then, to finish him completely, a stream of snot poured from his nose all down her crisp, white blouse. It went on and on and he couldn’t stop it. The awful thing was she didn’t make a fuss. She didn’t even move, just kept holding him and stroking his hair and asking what was wrong, as if she didn’t know already.
His house came into view and he noticed at once his dad’s car was in the driveway.
His mother must have seen him through the window because she met him at the front door. She managed to look anxious, furious and guilty all at once. ‘Where on earth have you been, Henry? Didn’t Mr Fogarty tell you to come straight home?’
Been blubbing at your girlfriend, Mum. But instead of answering, Henry pushed past her, head down, dripping water on the Welcome mat. He wouldn’t bet on getting much of a welcome today. His dad emerged from the kitchen and grinned at him weakly. ‘Your mother’s a bit upset,’ he said.
Henry shrugged out of his coat and hung it to drip from the hallstand. ‘You’re soaked,’ his mother said. ‘Go up and change your clothes before you catch your death.’
‘I think I’ll take a bath,’ he said, just to be bolshie. He knew they wanted a family conference.
He stood there dumbly, watching the conflicting emotions cross his mother’s face, and felt a tiny twinge of guilt, a tiny twinge of satisfaction. Eventually she said, ‘Yes, all right, but don’t be long.’
The bath was a bad idea. He lay in the warm, soapy water, looking up at the light fitting and feeling afraid. Whatever happened next wouldn’t be good and he wished now he hadn’t put it off. They might get divorced. They might ask him and Aisling to go into a home. He couldn’t see how to work out anything that wasn’t a disaster. AOS. All Options Stink. He closed his eyes and wished there was somewhere he could go to hide.
Faerie Wars Page 12