Ruler of the Realm

by Herbie Brennan

  He still hadn’t reached any conclusion when the bathroom door opened and a young woman walked out. She had wet hair, bare legs and a towel wrapped around her.

  She caught sight of Henry and screamed.

  Three

  The Spicemaster’s labyrinth was laid out on the floor of a cellar underneath the shop. Blue was surprised by its size. She’d imagined something larger. But she supposed he knew what he was doing. Madame Cardui said he’d been practising – largely in secret – for two generations.

  Blue looked around the chamber. The labyrinth spiral was picked out in small rock-crystal chunks. At the entrance there was a brass incense burner on a tripod. Beside it was a low table with a burnished copper bowl and two glass vials, one containing spice, the other a clear liquid. Near the table was one of those old-fashioned backless chairs with a leather seat. To one side there was a cupboard or possibly a wardrobe: it was difficult to tell. That was all, except for the glowglobes fixed to the rafters in the ceiling. They looked fly-blown and dim.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.

  Memnon was in the process of locking the door. He seemed even more upset now. ‘Majesty, are you sure you wish no one else present? Perhaps a trusted guard …?’

  ‘No one,’ Blue said firmly. It wasn’t so much the fact she was here – what she planned wasn’t illegal – as the possibility that her questions, and their answers, should reach the ears of … well … anybody. She would make State secrets in this chamber. As he turned away from the door, she asked, ‘What danger is there? To me, I mean.’

  Spicemaster Memnon looked positively distraught. ‘I may try to kill you, Majesty.’

  Blue glanced at the little old man and suppressed a smile. He hardly looked strong enough to swat a fly, let alone do her harm. But she appreciated both his concern and his loyalty, so she said soberly, ‘Spicemaster, I take full responsibility for anything that happens. If you try to harm me, you will be absolved from criminal proceedings, charges of treason, anything of that sort.’ The look on his face told her he was far from reassured, so she added kindly, ‘Why don’t you tell me exactly what takes place, so I can be prepared.’ She smiled. ‘Defend myself. If the need arises.’

  Memnon sighed. ‘The ceremony is very simple, Majesty. When I am cloaked, I swallow the spice and enter the labyrinth. By the time I reach the centre, the spice will have begun to take effect. When the god manifests, you may enter the labyrinth yourself to ask your questions.’

  ‘And when am I likely to be in danger?’

  ‘When the god manifests.’

  Well, that was straightforward enough. But the god would manifest in the Spicemaster, using his body, so it wouldn’t exactly be an attack by a raging bull. If it happened at all.

  To distract him, she asked, ‘How do you want me to help you in the ceremony?’

  ‘Majesty, I shall need your assistance to cloak. Beyond that, I would require you to play a drumbeat as I enter the labyrinth.’

  And that seemed straightforward as well. She held his coat for him and played a drum. Not that you’d think he needed assistance for any of that, but even simple ceremonies had their formalities.

  A thought struck her and she said, ‘I’ve never played a drum.’

  ‘It’s no more than a heartbeat,’ said the Spicemaster obscurely. He looked distracted. ‘Majesty, are you certain –?’

  Blue said yes and watched his resolve finally collapse. He didn’t want to, but he was going to do it.

  He said quietly, ‘Take this, Majesty.’

  For an instant she didn’t realise what was happening, then saw he was holding out a small transparent packet of orange-yellow spice, little larger than a coin.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked as her hand closed around it.

  ‘Mutated spikenard – it may offer you some protection.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘Shall we begin, Majesty?’

  The cupboard turned out to be a wardrobe, and the cloak hanging in it was magnificent. It was a full, floor-length garment, made from the feathers of some exotic bird that would have put a peacock to shame. Even under the dim glowglobes, the colours danced and shimmered. A cloak worthy of a god, she thought, and wondered how the twisted old Spicemaster would look wearing it.

  But it was a small, rather battered, wooden hand-drum he took from the wardrobe. ‘Dragonskin,’ he murmured as he passed it to her.

  Blue glanced down at the worn green surface. ‘Did you say dragon skin?’

  ‘A small piece only, Majesty. The beast was in no way harmed when it was taken.’

  Blue continued to stare at the drum. She couldn’t imagine how you extracted a piece of skin from a dragon without harming it … or getting yourself devoured, come to that. Perhaps he was lying. Dragons had been protected for years and the penalties for killing one were severe. But she had other things on her mind at the moment. She looked up at the Spicemaster.

  ‘What do I do with this?’

  ‘If Your Majesty would care to sit on the chair and –’ he managed to look concerned, nervous and embarrassed all at the same time, ‘– place the drum between Your Majesty’s knees …’ Blue did so without fuss, pushing down her skirt to make a lap. ‘Now, Your Majesty, tap the drum gently: one-two.’

  Blue tapped the drum with the tips of her fingers. For such a small instrument, it made an astonishingly loud, resonant note. She looked up at the Spicemaster.

  ‘Gently, Majesty,’ he emphasised. ‘Let the dragon-skin do the work.’

  She tapped it again, more gently this time. The note still sounded loudly, but the Spicemaster appeared satisfied.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘one-two, like the beat of a human heart.’

  Blue reached out to stroke the dragonskin. It looked smooth, but there was a coating of very fine green hair beneath her fingers. Tap-boom. She looked up at the Spicemaster. Tap-boom.

  ‘Perfect!’ he said. ‘Like that. Exactly like that and at that speed until I reach the centre of the spiral. Then slower and more softly. Do you understand?’ He blinked and added, ‘Majesty.’

  Blue nodded.

  ‘Now, Majesty,’ said the Spicemaster, ‘if you will leave the drum on your chair for a moment and help me with the cloak …’

  She was completely unprepared for the cloak. Although bulky, it was made from feathers so she expected it to be light, but the moment she tried to take it from the hanger, it writhed and twisted like a live thing and proved so heavy she needed all her strength to hold it. Glory only knows how the Spicemaster was going to manage.

  ‘Fight it!’ he commanded urgently. ‘There’s no real danger, but it will try to strangle you!’

  How could there be no real danger if something was trying to strangle you? And why hadn’t this silly little man mentioned the damn cloak if he was so concerned with her safety? But she fought the struggling garment gamely.

  ‘My shoulders!’ shouted the Spicemaster. ‘Put it on my shoulders! It will quiet down once it gets hold of me!’

  If I put it on his shoulders it will crush him to the ground, Blue thought. The thing felt as if it weighed a ton. But he was wriggling into position and the cloak was now so violent it almost wrenched itself out of her hands. Suddenly it was across his shoulders. The Spicemaster staggered a little, his knees buckled, but he managed to hold himself erect. The cloak, as predicted, settled down at once.

  ‘Thank you, Majesty,’ he said.

  Blue sat on the leather seat, one hand absently caressing the dragonskin. It was almost like stroking a cat. The skin vibrated gently as if purring. But her eyes were on the Spicemaster, now at the entrance of the labyrinth. He looked magnificent in the cloak, far more magnificent than a man of his height deserved. The garment had changed him, lending him huge authority and presence. For the first time she found herself wondering if it might not, after all, have been a good idea to bring a guard with her. But she pushed the thought aside. Whatever the illusion of bulk, he was still the same frail little man underneath. She was p
erfectly safe.

  He poured the contents of the liquid vial – was it water? – into the copper bowl, then unstoppered the second vial. At once a heady scent of nutmeg filled the air. Yet the spice wasn’t nutmeg: she knew that instantly. There were citrus undertones and a heavy hint of musk that carried with it a curious note of corruption. The Spicemaster emptied the vial into the liquid and mixed the two together with a spatula. He glanced back at Blue.

  ‘Drumbeat, please, Majesty.’

  Blue jumped slightly, then tapped the drum. In one quick movement, the Spicemaster drank down the mixture in his bowl and stepped into the labyrinth.

  Four

  If he’d been prepared to admit it, Pyrgus was afraid.

  As Crown Prince, he’d never been allowed to visit Yammeth City – or anywhere else in the Cretch for that matter – and even when he’d run away, some natural caution kept him clear of the place. But he was here now; and he didn’t like it.

  The city wasn’t at all what he’d imagined. It was cleaner, for one thing – far cleaner than the capital, which every Faerie of the Light touted as a shining example to the Realm. It was also – he hated to admit it – better laid out, although that wasn’t surprising since it was a newer city. The capital was nearly two thousand years old. Yammeth City had been built no more than four hundred years ago, when the Cretch was ceded to the Faeries of the Night after the War of Partial Independence. They’d built it from scratch, with the help of demon labour, and laid it out, some said, to mimic the soulless metallic sprawls of Hael.

  Maybe that was what made him nervous. Or maybe it was the level of the light.

  Pyrgus was used to dark alleys. (Light’s sake, he’d lived in one before his father’s guards found him.) But this was different. Even the main streets of Yammeth were dim. And not just dim: the glowglobes in the street lamps gave out a blue-green illumination that left everything looking as if it was attacked by fungus. The lenses made it worse. Everybody here wore lenses, including Pyrgus, as part of his disguise. But the Faeries of the Night needed theirs because of their light-sensitive eyes. For Pyrgus, all lenses did was make things darker still. He’d already tripped twice, and tried to walk through a plate-glass door. He must have been mad to come here.

  The traffic didn’t help. The most popular form of transport among Faeries of the Night was something you just didn’t see in other areas of the Realm: a single-seater flying pod you straddled like a horse. Unfortunately the pods were powered by cheap spells set for speed rather than altitude and most Nighters flew them at a breakneck pace around shoulder height. If you were on foot, as Pyrgus was, you ran an excellent chance of losing your head until your ears became attuned to the approaching hum. All of which meant he was avoiding the gloomy main thoroughfares and sticking to the even gloomier side streets. Getting anywhere took for ever.

  All the same, he seemed to have reached the boundary wall of the Ogyris Estate. Even in the leprous light, he could see the distinctive red and gold of the Ogyris crest on the decorative frieze near the top.

  Pyrgus glanced around. He couldn’t afford to use the main gate, but he knew there were others and needed to find one in particular. What he wanted now was the statue of Lord Hairstreak. But that was carved from volcanic glass and nearly impossible to see in this light unless you were almost up against it. He certainly couldn’t see it now. He could hardly see anything now. In desperation he risked taking off his lenses – how many passers-by would be looking at him closely enough to discover he didn’t have cat’s eyes? – and there it was! At least there he thought it was: a black blob in a flowing cape. There should be an alley just south …

  Yes! He had it now. There was the alley, bounded on one side by the estate wall.

  Pyrgus put his lenses back on and slid furtively into the alley. Mercifully it looked empty. But how could anybody be sure through these damn glasses? He took them off again and the alley really was empty. He moved along it swiftly, one hand trailing on the wall, and reached the side gate in a moment. It was locked, of course, and the brown slick of spell coating suggested climbing it might be lethal. But it wasn’t the gate that interested him. According to his information, there should be a small pedestrian entrance – no more than a narrow wooden doorway – just a little way …

  Yes, there it was: a recess in the wall. He slipped in, tried the handle and – yes!!! – it was open, exactly as he’d been promised. Pyrgus went through, closed the door and uttered a triumphant prayer of thanks. He was in the Ogyris Estate!

  Oddly enough, he could see better here, partly because the estate was open to the sky, partly because he was able to get rid of those damn lenses now. If anybody spotted him he was dead anyway, whether they discovered he was a Faerie of the Light or not. He looked around. He was on a narrow path that meandered through a stretch of lawn to disappear into a copse. There would be guards at the end of it, that was for sure. The Ogyris family might not be of noble birth, but they were fearsomely rich, which made them a magnet for every thief in the Realm. In fact guards were probably the least of their protections. He shuddered, thinking of the minefield that once guarded the old Chalkhill and Brimstone Miracle Glue Factory. You never knew how far Faeries of the Night might go.

  Pyrgus found he’d stopped just inside the entrance and straightened his back to pull himself together. He was quite safe as long as he followed his instructions. Perfectly safe. Never safer.

  The trouble was, they were complicated instructions.

  He pulled the piece of paper from the pocket of his jerkin and discovered to his horror that even with his lenses off, he couldn’t read his notes. What was wrong with him? It would have been so simple to bring a portaglobe or even a sparklight. But no. Perhaps he’d been a little … overexcited …?

  Overexcited or not, he had limited choices now. He could go back to the street and reread the instructions under a street lamp for everyone to see. Or he could trust his memory. No contest, really. He couldn’t run the risk of anybody finding out what he was up to.

  Pyrgus left the path and cut diagonally across the lawn. He prayed he was heading for a rose bower.

  The estate was a lot bigger than he’d imagined. After fifteen minutes he was still not in sight of the house, although he had found the obelisk, which was reassuring. He’d also avoided guards and traps, which was more reassuring still. Once he found the lake, he could follow the water’s edge until he reached the boathouse.

  The lake, when he found it, was also a lot bigger than he’d imagined. A private estate this size in the middle of a city must have cost an Emperor’s ransom. He was following the water’s edge, eyes peeled for the outline of the boathouse, when a sudden blaze of light erupted on his left.

  Pyrgus dived for cover. His first instinct was that he’d triggered a trap, but as he peered through the undergrowth, he discovered a large glasshouse had suddenly illuminated. He lay where he was, waiting. Chances were somebody had switched on the glowglobes. But he could see no moving shapes, no shadows, nothing to suggest anyone else was about. Glowglobes could be set to come on automatically.

  After a while, he began to crawl forward. Cautiously.

  The closer he got, the more he grew convinced there was no one in the glasshouse. Or if there was, they were keeping very still. He came to a decision and risked climbing to his feet. He waited. He was standing at the edge of the glow spilling out from the glasshouse, visible to anyone who happened to glance in his direction … but still far enough away to make a run for it if someone did.

  Nothing. No startled voice, no sound of an alarm. The glowglobes must have been set to automatic.

  He realised he’d been holding his breath and released it with a sigh. Now that it seemed he was in no danger, he took time to look at the glasshouse properly. It was a far more sturdy building than he’d thought and, as he moved closer, he noticed the glass bore the telltale sheen of magical reinforcement. Something valuable inside. His mind suddenly went back to the time he’d freed Lord Hairs
treak’s phoenix. The bird had been penned in a glass cage with the same sort of spell coating. Was Ogyris holding some poor creatures here? The glasshouse was a lot bigger than Hairstreak’s cage.

  Pyrgus pressed his nose against the glass and saw at once that this was something very different. Inside, set in trays, were row upon row of delicate, exotic blooms, their petals glinting and sparkling under the lights. But even at a glance he could see these were not natural plants. Every stem, every bud, every blossom, every leaf was delicately sculpted from the very finest rock crystal. The entire content of the glasshouse was an artefact, an astonishing, priceless, near incomprehensible work of art, laid out in the whimsy of a natural setting.

  Had each flower really been individually sculpted? The only other possibility was magic and he knew of no spell that could create such an effect. Illusions were far too coarse, transformations far too limited. Some master sculptor had lovingly created every piece and Merchant Ogyris had set them one by one in this vast glasshouse. There were hundreds of the crystal blooms. The cost must have been mind-numbing.

  Pyrgus was still staring in awe at the crystal flowers when a hand fell on his shoulder.

  Five

  ‘You’re Tim’s son?’ the girl asked incredulously after Henry calmed her down. ‘He never told me he had a son.’

  Nice one, Dad, thought Henry. The girl didn’t look much more than twenty-five, way too young for Dad who was positively middle-aged, for Pete’s sake! She had auburn-red hair like – well, like somebody he knew in another place – and a terribly curvy figure and that towel didn’t look too secure since she’d been screaming.