Ruler of the Realm

by Herbie Brennan

  It was as good as he’d dreamed it would be. With a thought, the scene pulled back from the area of his old mansion and suddenly he could see the entire forest. Then the plain surrounding it. Then the mountains beyond and the coastline and the sea. If he’d wished, he could have examined the curvature of the planet. In a godlike vision he could have watched its stately journey round the central sun. But godlike or not, that vision was of little practical importance. He conjured an aerial view of the Lighter capital, followed the river beyond the Loman Bridge and hung for a moment above the Imperial Island.

  Then he swooped down to enter the Purple Palace. It was incredible. There were no limitations. He could actually see inside the Purple Palace. He could examine corridor after corridor, room after room. No secret in the Realm was safe from him any more. Grinning with delight he watched a kitchen cook drop vegetables into a pot.

  What a joy this was going to be when the war was over. He could spy on every enemy, keep record of every subject. He could foil plots before they began, ensure total, absolute obedience from everyone, for ever. This incredible device had placed more power in his hands than any Emperor had ever enjoyed in the entire history of the faerie. Ah, what a time he would have when the war was over.

  And before then, how easy it would be to win. This was the ultimate tactical weapon. No enemy troop movement could be hidden from him. There would be no enemy decision to which he was not privy. He could oversee whole battles, place his own forces with unparalleled accuracy. He could craft his victory like an artist.

  Hairstreak called up picture after picture in a manic travelogue that took him far beyond the Realm to Haleklind and Borderland and Feltwell Spur and Graphium and Wallach and then back to the Realm itself, where he examined the southern provinces and Yammeth City and the great grain-growing fields to the west, and the swathe of heavy industries and transportation yards to the north and beyond, then eastward from Yammeth Cretch to the desert wastes of –

  He froze the picture with a thought and leaned forward. ‘What’s that, Burgundy?’ he asked, his heart suddenly pounding.

  Seventy-seven

  Henry opened his eyes.

  He was in a strange bed in a strange room with a weird ceiling that made it look as if he was outdoors. Soft music was playing somewhere, but there was a funny smell that reminded him of hospitals. Was he in hospital?

  He tried to sit up, but the bedclothes were so tightly tucked around him that they held him like straps. He struggled and while they loosened slightly, the effort showed him he was feeling weak. He had to be in hospital. Except it didn’t look like hospital. There were jars beside his bed full of misty things that writhed and floated, like those novelty aliens they made for little kids.

  Maybe the car had knocked him down.

  He made another effort to sit up and this time succeeded in loosening the bedclothes. He could remember having to walk home because his rotten mother didn’t pick up the phone. He could remember the headlights of a car behind him. After that … nothing.

  There was a dull ache along one side of his nose and a shooting pain into his eye. Maybe he’d fallen down and hit his head.

  There was a small mirror on the far wall. He tugged at the bedclothes and finally managed to swing his legs on to the floor. He was wearing some sort of silken gown that left his bottom bare, which meant he had to be in a hospital. But the bed didn’t look like a hospital bed and there were no machines or stuff like that in the room.

  He walked over to the mirror. There was a bandage running along the side of his nose to the corner of his eye. Otherwise there was no sign of any injury, not even bruising. He was feeling stronger by the minute too. If he was knocked down by a car, it hadn’t done him much damage.

  But where was he?

  Underneath the hospital smell there was another smell that seemed strangely familiar. It was almost like the smell of the Lethe cones he used on his mother to make her forget when he –

  Henry stopped dead in a moment of rising excitement. He couldn’t be, could he?

  He didn’t want to try the door in case he met somebody with his bottom bare, but there was a wardrobe in the room and when he opened it, there were his clothes all freshly washed and neatly pressed and there were other clothes – his size! – like this cool green tunic and that meant he had to be, he just had to be back in the Realm, back in the Purple Palace, although he’d no idea how he got here.

  Henry threw away the silken robe and got dressed faster than he’d ever done in his life. Then he threw open the door and stared down the sumptuous corridor and knew, with absolute certainty, he was in the Purple Palace. This was so, so good.

  He thought he might see if he could find Blue.

  Seventy-eight

  ‘What do we do now?’ Pyrgus whispered. He felt really stupid having to admit it in front of Nymph, but he hadn’t an idea in his head. He’d been so thoroughly focused on finding the crystal flowers that it never occurred to him they might have been moved.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Nymph whispered back. They were lying side by side in tall grass staring at the remnants of the Ogyris glasshouse. The broken glass and flowers were gone, but the foundation wall and portions of the skeleton structure remained. Their men were sprawled out in various concealments behind them. ‘Do you think Mercer Ogyris may have stored them in the house?’

  Pyrgus didn’t know, but it occurred to him that if Merchant Ogyris had taken his flowers into the house, they’d need a lot more men to mount a successful attack. He decided suddenly that while commando raids were fun, he wasn’t really cut out to be a military leader. He turned on his side to look at Nymph and opened his mouth to say something when Nymph asked, ‘How did you find out about the flowers in the first place, Pyrgus?’

  He couldn’t have felt more chilled if Hairstreak’s whole army had marched over the horizon. To his hideous embarrassment, he felt himself suddenly blush crimson.

  ‘Happened to be visiting the estate,’ he muttered. Then added quickly, ‘Do you think it would be a good idea to –?’

  ‘Mercer Ogyris is a Faerie of the Night, isn’t he?’ Nymph interrupted.

  ‘Yes,’ Pyrgus said. ‘I was just thinking –’

  Nymph’s face was expressionless. ‘Why would a Prince of the Light just happen to be visiting a Nighter estate?’ she asked.

  Pyrgus gave up his attempt to divert the conversation and went back to muttering. ‘Bit of business,’ he said. He looked away, unable to hold her eye.

  Nymph wouldn’t leave it alone. ‘With Mercer Ogyris?’

  ‘If is orter,’ Pyrgus mumbled into a nearby bush.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Nymph said politely.

  ‘With his daughter,’ Pyrgus said, marginally more clearly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Nymph, ‘Mercer Ogyris has a daughter?’

  This was turning into a major disaster. First the time flowers were missing and now Nymph was on the point of finding out about Gela. He decided to brazen it out.

  ‘Oh, yes, I believe so. I mean, I know so. Met her. Once or twice. Not often. Plain little thing. Very plain. Quite young. Just a child, really.’

  Nymph said, ‘And what … business did you have with this very plain little young child thing?’

  ‘Oh, you know …’ Pyrgus shrugged.

  ‘No, I don’t know,’ Nymph said coolly. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  To Pyrgus’s intense relief one of the soldiers wriggled through the grass and came to a halt beside them. He snapped off an awkward salute.

  ‘Channel, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Channel?’ Pyrgus echoed. It had been fun while it lasted, but he definitely wasn’t cut out to lead a military operation.

  ‘Yes, sir. Channel, sir,’ the soldier repeated. He was a small, wiry man with sunken eyes. He may have seen the blank look on Pyrgus’s face, for he added, ‘Incoming, sir.’

  Nymph must have seen the look as well. She leaned over to whisper in Pyrgus’s ear. ‘He’s a communications medium. Th
ere must be a message from the palace. Or possibly my mother. Tell him to go ahead.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘You call him CC. Official title. Stands for Communications Channel.’

  ‘Go ahead, CC,’ said Pyrgus briskly.

  ‘Have to sit up, sir – can’t do it lying down.’

  Pyrgus glanced around. Thanks to the cock-up about the crystal flowers, there wasn’t a guard in sight. They’d probably be safe doing a Circle Dance, let alone just sitting up.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Woodfordi, sir.’

  ‘Go ahead, Woodfordi.’

  The little CC sat up and crossed an ankle over each thigh in an impossible contortion. He placed his hands palm upwards on his lap and circled his second fingers to touch his thumbs. His eyes squinted alarmingly as he focused on the tip of his nose. He breathed deeply and his eyelids began to droop.

  After a moment he trembled, then announced in a deep, booming voice, ‘Military Guide Communications Headquarters here, acting as Spiritual Gatekeeper to this human vessel. Incoming message for His Royal Highness Prince Pyrgus Malvae.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ Nymph instructed, apparently giving up on Pyrgus entirely.

  The CC trembled again and his features sagged. ‘Is that you, deeah?’ he asked.

  Pyrgus looked at Nymph who nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes,’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘Have you secured the flowers yet?’

  ‘Actually …’ A pained expression locked itself into Pyrgus’s features.

  ‘Never mind that for the moment, deeah,’ said Madame Cardui’s voice, deepened a little by the CC’s vocal cords. ‘There’s been a small change of plan. Are you alone?’

  ‘Nymph’s here,’ Pyrgus said. ‘And the CC, of course.’

  ‘The CC won’t remember anything,’ Madame Cardui said. ‘I’m glad Nymph’s there – how are you, deeah?’

  ‘Fine, thank you, Painted Lady,’ Nymph said easily.

  Even through the Channel, Madame Cardui’s tone turned crisp. ‘Now, Pyrgus, the situation has changed since you left the palace. The Faeries of the Night have launched a pre-emptive strike against our forces, and –’

  ‘What!?’ Pyrgus exclaimed; and even Nymph looked shocked. ‘We’re at war? A civil war?’

  ‘Believe me, I was taken as much by surprise as you are, deeah. I’m afraid fighting has already started. It’s a tragedy, but now we have to deal with it. What –’

  ‘Where’s Blue?’ Pyrgus interrupted.

  ‘She’s here beside me, deeah. She’s safe and completely –’

  ‘I want to talk to her,’ Pyrgus said.

  Blue’s voice came through immediately. She sounded brisk as well. ‘Pyrgus, I want you to –’

  ‘How are you?’ Pyrgus asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Blue said. ‘Henry was … look, that doesn’t matter now: I’ll tell you all about it when you get back. I want you to listen to Madame Cardui. We’ve spotted something that may be important to the war effort.’

  War effort, Pyrgus thought. It had happened. The greatest disaster in the history of the Realm and now they summed it up in two words.

  ‘Yes, OK,’ he said.

  Madame Cardui’s voice replaced Blue’s. ‘I take it you haven’t found the flowers?’

  ‘Not really,’ Pyrgus admitted, thinking it sounded a little better than Not at all.

  ‘That doesn’t matter for the moment. This is more important. Do you know how to get to the Eastern Desert?’

  ‘I do,’ Nymph whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ Pyrgus said loudly, glaring at her: he wasn’t a complete idiot.

  ‘How long will it take you to reach it from where you are now?’

  Pyrgus frowned. ‘Not very long – we’ve flyers inside the estate and we’re right inside Yammeth City. Once we get back to the flyers, it’s only fifteen minutes to the wasteland.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Madame Cardui. ‘You’re the closest people we have. Now, this is what I want you to do: fly to the desert at once. You and Nymphalis and your CC. No one else. This mission is top-secret – above top-secret, really. I’d prefer it was just you and Nymphalis, but you must get word back to me as quickly as possible, so the CC goes too. The rest of your people will just have to find the time flowers on their own – appoint a temporary officer commanding and leave them to it.’

  ‘Madame Car—’ Pyrgus began, but Madame Cardui wasn’t listening.

  ‘Your triangulation is 38/17/105. Will you remember that?’

  ‘Yes, of –’

  ‘I will, Painted Lady,’ Nymph put in, interrupting him.

  ‘Good. Thank you, Nymphalis: it’s such a relief to have someone mature and experienced on this mission – I did clear it with your mother, of course.’ Even from the CC’s mouth it was possible to hear the change of tone as a worried note crept in. ‘You can land at that triangulation, deeahs, but I’m afraid you’ll have to make the rest of your way on foot. I would have preferred you to stay in the flyer, but the volcanic thermals make it quite impossible for you to travel further by air. But this is a dangerous mission and I want you to be extremely careful.’

  ‘I’ll look after him,’ Nymph promised, to Pyrgus’s fury.

  ‘Thank you, deeah. Now, from your landing coordinates, you should proceed north-east – directly north-east. The good news is it isn’t far – an hour’s march, two at most, and you may get some help from the nomads, although I wouldn’t count on it. The worst will be the hills: there’s a range of low, volcanic hills. But once you top that, you should have a clear view of what is happening.’

  ‘But what is ha—?’ Pyrgus tried to ask.

  ‘I want no heroics, Pyrgus. No guerrilla tactics, nothing like that. In fact, I want you to make sure you aren’t even seen. Just use the CC to report back to me at once.’

  ‘What am I reporting on?’ Pyrgus blurted desperately.

  ‘It looks as if Lord Hairstreak may have found some allies,’ said Madame Cardui.

  Seventy-nine

  Unexpectedly, Madame Cardui stood on tiptoe to kiss him gently on the cheek. ‘I need to see you in my office, Alan,’ she whispered. ‘Door on your right – I’ll join you in a moment.’

  You learned a little every day, Fogarty thought. An office in the palace upstairs and now an office off the Situation Room. A remarkable woman by any measure. Sometimes he got luckier than he’d any right to ask for. All he needed now was time to enjoy it.

  He looked around. Madame Cardui’s office was small, but remarkably well-appointed. She had a desk and one of those expensive new-fangled chairs that moulded itself to your bottom and squeezed it every so often to remind you you were still alive. A biological storage unit oozed and bubbled in a cauldron in the corner. A spell-driven food butler stood ready in case she wanted a snack. There was even a reproducing chair for visitors, lurking on the floor ready to clone itself indefinitely depending on how many visitors there were – you could tell its talent from the creepy black material that covered it.

  But the thing that caught his attention was the miniaturised view globe sunk into the desk. That was a levitator for sure, hence state-of-the-art. It had to be linked with the view globes in the Situation Room, but there wasn’t a wire or cable in sight. Little gizmos like that were always hideously expensive, but the taxpayers were probably paying for it.

  He was reaching for the reproducing chair when Madame Cardui bustled in and closed the door carefully. She pressed a thumb on the built-in spell cone and the leathery smell of privacy enchantments filled the room. Well-oiled locks slid into place.

  ‘I thought it best we talk on our own, dahling,’ she told him as she walked across the room. ‘The Generals are fine men in their way, but you can never be sure how they’ll interpret the concept of loyalty. And with so much bustle, you never know who might listen in. Besides, I suspect Hairstreak has a spy eye in there despite our sweeps.’

  ‘Trust nobody,’ Fogarty growled. The chair had sensed his singularity and in
hibited its tendency to reproduce. He parked his bottom with a scowl. The surface felt dank and unappealing, an effect he suspected was deliberate. Cynthia was exactly like himself. She did nothing to encourage visitors to outstay their welcome. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

  She walked across the room to take her own seat. ‘There’s something I want you to look at …’ She set both hands on her desk and the globe levitated to eye level. As it began to glow, she said, ‘Pull your chair over, Alan: this isn’t awfully easy to see, even close up.’

  Fogarty set his jaw and pulled the chair across. He leaned forward. A scene began to form as the globe heated and suddenly he was staring into a scorched wasteland of barren rocks and smoky fume.

  ‘You haven’t managed to get a spy eye into Hael?’ he asked, using the Realm pronunciation. If she had, he was impressed.

  But Madame Cardui was shaking her head. ‘No, deeah. That’s not Hael. It’s a segment of the desert to the east of Yammeth Cretch. Fumaroles … gas vents … lava flows … boiling mud springs – they tell me it’s the most volcanically active area on the face of the planet. Nobody lives there except a few nomadic Trinians and even they find life hard going. The Nighters look on it as a protection for that flank of their city – try to march men across that and you’d lose nine-tenths of them before you met a single enemy. But look …’

  After a moment, Fogarty asked, ‘What am I looking for?’

  Madame Cardui’s slim hand floated forward to point. ‘See that ridge? There’s a break – some sort of opening, quite a large one, deeah, except that it’s partly hidden by the dust that’s venting. The view varies, but keep your eye on … here, just here. It’ll clear in a moment, then you should catch a glimpse …’