The Faeman Quest

by Herbie Brennan

  Blue frowned. ‘Are you sure?’

  Henry gestured to the open door and raised both eyebrows.

  ‘I suppose you are,’ Blue said. She came across, took his hand and together they walked out of the room.

  They were in the bedroom wing of a luxuriously – if garishly – appointed dwelling. No doors were locked nor were there any magical securities in place. There were no guards; indeed they seemed to be the only living creatures in the house.

  As they entered a spacious living room, Blue said suddenly, ‘You were right!’

  ‘Was I?’ Henry asked. ‘About what?’

  ‘Look at that white piano with the diamante legs,’ Blue said. ‘This is Chalkhill’s house, definitely. I’ve been here before – that’s why the gardens looked familiar. I came here once with Kitterick.’

  Henry looked around. Why would Chalkhill kidnap them, then leave them with the run of his home? ‘Why –?’ he began.

  ‘This was when he was being all camp and interior decoratory to hide the fact he was Lord Hairstreak’s spy,’ Blue said. ‘He’s left the place exactly the way he had it then. Come and look at the gardens – you won’t believe them!’

  She led him through French windows on to a tightly manicured lawn, then took a garden path flanking a flowerbed of foxgloves and bluebells that sang softly to them as they walked around the side of the mansion. The path meandered through a heart-shaped grove and past a croquet green with luminous pink hoops.

  ‘Prepare yourself,’ Blue murmured.

  They turned the corner and Henry found himself looking at a swimming pool cut from a single piece of amethyst, then rimmed in gold and filled with sparkling water driven by machinery that maintained its fizz. The whole scene was bathed in warm, perpetual sunshine.

  ‘My God!’ he gasped.

  ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ Blue said.

  Henry tore his eyes away from the pool. ‘What I don’t understand is why they kidnapped us and brought us here. I mean, you knew this was Chalkhill’s place and other people must know it as well. It’s the first place they’d look once he makes a ransom demand.’

  ‘Assuming he’s planning to make a ransom demand,’ Blue said tightly.

  ‘Well, what else would – oh. Oh dear. You think he might –?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Blue told him. ‘It’s probably ransom, but you’re right about it being odd that he brought us here.’

  ‘With no guards,’ Henry mused. ‘Although I suppose there has to be a security system, even if we haven’t hit it yet. A force field surrounding the property or something.’

  But Blue was shaking her head. ‘He doesn’t need one. This place is in the middle of Wildmoor Broads. We’re surrounded by prickleweed. The only safe way in and out is by air.’

  ‘And we don’t have a flyer,’ Henry said.

  ‘And we don’t have a flyer,’ Blue confirmed.

  They walked together through the gardens until they reached the boundary of the estate and stood staring over the wild expanse of the Broads. The prickleweed seethed and writhed like an angry ocean. A low, spell-coated fence stopped it encroaching on Chalkhill’s property.

  ‘Has anybody ever survived out there on foot?’ Henry asked Blue.

  ‘Somebody once made it for nearly a mile in an armoured car, although the vehicle dissolved soon afterwards. And there’s a legend that two escaped prisoners got all the way across the Broads barefoot in the days of Scolitandes the Weedy, but nobody really believes it.’

  ‘All the same,’ Henry said, ‘if we can’t find a flyer, we’ll have to try.’

  Blue nodded soberly. ‘I know. For Mella’s sake.’

  Twenty-Eight

  ‘Simbala?’ Corin suggested. ‘There’s a nice little parlour just around the corner.’

  ‘I should be getting home,’ Pyrgus told him unconvincingly.

  ‘A small one for the road?’

  Pyrgus grinned. ‘Oh, go on, then! But only one, and only if I’m buying.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ Corin said.

  They left the Society headquarters through a back door and emerged into an alley redolent with rubbish. ‘Sorry about that,’ Corin said. ‘The smell keeps people from investigating this side of the building too closely – cheaper than spells. Just hold your nose and we’ll be out of it in a minute.’

  ‘How is the political situation?’ Pyrgus asked. ‘Are you still facing as much persecution?’

  Corin shrugged fatalistically. ‘More than ever. It’s not that the wizards have anything against animals particularly – it’s just that they treat them as property. It’s the old scriptural attitude. Once you think you own the world, it’s your Gods-given right to treat animals any way you want to, exploit them, whatever. They’re not even supposed to experience pain, so you can cut them up in labs without feeling guilty.’

  ‘Well,’ Pyrgus said. ‘It’s not just Creen: we have the same attitudes at home. Maybe not as widespread, but …’

  They emerged from the alley, walked down a narrow street.

  ‘Actually, that’s not really the problem any more,’ Corin said. ‘I mean we were making some headway in the old days. Not as much as we’d have liked, but some. We had a good propaganda machine. It carried the message and people were starting to listen. Who knows where it might have gone.’ He took Pyrgus’s elbow. ‘We cross over here.’

  They crossed the street to the opposite pavement and Corin stopped beside a narrow flight of stone-flagged steps winding downwards to some hidden basement. ‘No, the real problem is the Table of Seven. Gods know, the old Wizards’ Council was bad enough and I’d be the last one to tell you it wasn’t corrupt to the core, but the Seven are ten times worse.’

  They started down the steps with Corin in the lead. ‘I thought they were against corruption?’ Pyrgus remarked to the top of his head. ‘I thought everybody welcomed the revolution?’

  ‘Oh, we did. Even I did. Tell you the truth, Pyrgus, and I’m ashamed to admit it, but I actually helped the Table’s cause. Small cog, admittedly, but still … They talked about animal rights in those days. The thing was, once they came to power, it went to their heads.’

  ‘Often happens.’ Pyrgus nodded.

  They reached the bottom of the steps, which led on to a small cobbled courtyard. Corin headed across it to a narrow wooden doorway set behind an arch. ‘They want to take control of everything and if you’re not actively working for them, you’re against them. You must have noticed how tight the restrictions are now when you’re getting in and out the country.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pyrgus said without elaboration.

  ‘It was only when the Haleklind Society for the Preservation and Protection of Animals refused to become an official government agency that the Table of Seven outlawed us. Did you know that?’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ Pyrgus told him. He grinned. ‘I thought you’d made them cross by blowing up their vivisection labs.’

  Corin pushed the door and the heat and chatter met them like a wave. ‘We only did that afterwards,’ he said. He snorted cynically. ‘When they decided to make everything illegal and anything that wasn’t illegal was made compulsory. Slight exaggeration, but you know what I mean.’

  They walked into the gloom of the simbala parlour. It was a very basic set-up. The walls were covered with maroon acoustic drapes while the range of bottles behind the bar was noticeably limited. But the chairs and couches were well laid-out and very comfortable.

  ‘Is this place legal?’ Pyrgus asked.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Corin told him.

  Pyrgus grinned. ‘Grab somewhere to lie and I’ll get us the music.’

  He ordered half-hour shots from the barman, decided that was mean and changed the order to doubles. Carrying the humming glasses back on a small tray he handed one to Corin, who was already reclining on a couch. Pyrgus pulled an armchair to the head of the couch so they could chat and took his first sip of simbala. The music trickled down his throat like
liquid gold. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as the symphony gently filled his body.

  Corin asked casually, ‘Do you still have contacts in the Realm Government?’

  It was an odd question, oddly phrased. Pyrgus opened his eyes a slit and said, ‘Queen Blue is still my sister, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But you don’t have anything to do with day-to-day politics since you abdicated, do you? I mean, you’re not in regular contact with her advisors, or anything like that?’

  ‘She doesn’t have many formal advisors – pretty much runs the show on her own: she’s a born bossy-boots. Why do you ask?’ The music, as it always did, wrapped around his words, giving them melody and tone. Out of the side of his eye he saw Corin drain half the contents of his glass in a single gulp. The volume inside his body must have been deafening.

  ‘There have been rumours that the Table are on the edge of something major. I was wondering if Queen Blue’s security service had heard anything about it.’

  ‘What sort of something?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some sort of crackdown, maybe? I’m obviously concerned about my own organisation. But it may not even be internal. Just before you arrived, I had word that the Table were holding two outerlinders who claim to be representatives of the Empire.’

  ‘At what level? Are they saying they’re diplomats or a trade delegation, or what?’

  ‘I don’t know. But if the Seven are holding them, they obviously suspect something else.’

  ‘Spies?’ Pyrgus asked. The Table of Seven was paranoid, but that didn’t always mean their suspicions were wrong: Madame Cardui was quite capable of sending agents into Haleklind, even though it was supposed to be a friendly neighbour. As was his little sister.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Despite the music, Pyrgus frowned. ‘Any names?’

  The music must have been taking hold of Corin’s bloodstream because he was smiling a little, like someone without a care in the world. But he caught himself quickly and the smile faded. ‘Only one,’ he said. ‘Do you have a spy called Chirotentia?’

  Pyrgus shook his head. ‘No, but I don’t know the names of all our spies. In fact I hardly know any of them. Even when they were preparing me to be Emperor, the identities of secret agents was on a need-to-know basis.’

  ‘Camelia Chirotentia?’ Corin persisted. ‘Or Camelia Kissotentia? Something like that? Might even be Camilius. My source has a cleft palate.’

  Pyrgus shook his head again. ‘Rings no bells with me, but as I said –’ He stopped, as a sudden thought struck him. It was silly. She was back in the Purple Palace and even if she wasn’t, there was no way she was making a visit to Haleklind. And if she was making a visit to Haleklind, it would be a proper State visit properly arranged with all the formalities. The Haleklinders would never hold her. They wouldn’t dare. It was against protocol. Unless, of course, she came into the country illegally, in which case she was an international incident. Which he’d have heard about, so it hadn’t happened and was hardly worth thinking about; but all the same, Pyrgus couldn’t stop thinking about it, or, more accurately, couldn’t stop thinking about the things Blue used to get up to when she was still a teenager. That sort of wildness was often hereditary. But what sort of wildness would take a kid to Haleklind illegally? And how would a kid get into Haleklind? Corin had just reminded him how tight the border restrictions had become. No, it couldn’t have happened.

  ‘No,’ he said aloud.

  ‘No what?’ Corin asked.

  ‘It wasn’t Chrysotenchia, was it?’ Pyrgus blurted.

  From his place on the couch, Corin frowned. ‘Could have been, I suppose …’

  ‘Culmella Chrysotenchia?’

  Corin sat up abruptly. ‘The Crown Princess? Oh, I wouldn’t think so.’ He stared at Pyrgus. ‘It’s not possible, is it?’

  ‘It’s not likely …’ Pyrgus said. Blue used to dress up as a boy and get into all sorts of trouble. ‘But it’s possible.’ He grabbed Corin’s arm. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Pyrgus headed for the door. The sudden adrenaline rush had flushed most of the music from his system. ‘Back to your headquarters so you can ask your source if he meant to say ‘Culmella Chrysotenchia’. If he nods his head, I think my niece may be in a heap of trouble.’

  Twenty-Nine

  Chalkhill seemed to know his way around Lord Hairstreak’s Keep, Brimstone thought. He was certainly recognised by the securities, otherwise they’d both have been dead by now. But recognised didn’t necessarily mean welcome, as they discovered when they reached His Lordship himself.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Hairstreak demanded with obvious irritation.

  Brimstone glared at him suspiciously. There was something wrong here. Chalkhill had told him His Lordship was a disembodied head now, but clearly Chalkhill had lied. Hairstreak was very much embodied, quite his old self in every way, fit and positively glowing with rude good health. He even looked as if he might have grown an inch or two, although that was probably just Brimstone’s faulty memory. Which was obviously what Chalkhill was relying on. He was probably counting on Brimstone having forgotten what he’d said about a disembodied head. Obviously Lord Hairstreak and Chalkhill had hatched some dastardly plot together to murder Brimstone. It was just the sort of thing they’d do. Not that Brimstone was worried: he had George to protect him now. A bluebottle flew in through Hairstreak’s window. Brimstone caught it expertly and dropped it into his pocket as a snack for later.

  ‘He’s helping me with my enquiries,’ Chalkhill told Hairstreak shortly.

  Hairstreak dismissed the information with a shrug. He stretched luxuriously, walked to the window and looked out through the spell-driven rain to the high cliffs and rugged rocks battered by a raging sea. ‘I almost died once on those rocks,’ he remarked inconsequentially. Then he turned back, eyes glittering. ‘Where is the girl?’

  ‘We don’t have her,’ Chalkhill said, then added quickly, ‘yet.’

  ‘Clock’s ticking,’ Hairstreak growled.

  Chalkhill nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘Then what in Hael are you doing here?’ Hairstreak shouted suddenly. ‘Wasting my time and your own! Why aren’t you out there looking for her? You really really think I’m paying your outrageous fees so you can pop into my home every five minutes for a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Chalkhill said and Brimstone suddenly realised that for all his bluster, Chalkhill was still afraid of the little turd; or big turd, as he seemed to be now.

  ‘Then what,’ spat Hairstreak, ‘are you doing here?’

  ‘There have been developments,’ said Chalkhill stiffly.

  ‘Oooooh – developments!’ Lord Hairstreak exclaimed. He did a little dance and spread his arms through the air in a high, sweeping movement. Brimstone watched him with fascination. Perhaps, Brimstone thought, Chalkhill hadn’t been lying about the disembodied head. Hairstreak was certainly behaving like someone who found a body a novelty. He’d hardly stood still for more than a moment since they walked through his door. But where had he got the new one? ‘And, pray tell me,’ Hairstreak said, spreading his hands like a pedlar and tapping his right foot, ‘to what developments do you refer?’

  Chalkhill gave a taught, triumphant smile. ‘We have Queen Blue and King Consort Henry.’

  There was absolute silence in the reception chamber and for once Lord Hairstreak stood stock still. He stared at Chalkhill as if he was unable to believe his ears. (His new ears, Brimstone wondered briefly, but then realised that if Hairstreak had been a disembodied head recently reembodied, then the ears would be his old ears. Probably.)

  ‘You … have … who?’ Lord Hairstreak asked.

  Chalkhill, who was always a fool, never spotted subtle signals – or even not so subtle, come to that – allowed his smile to spread like a grinflower all over his face. ‘Queen Blue and King Consort Henry,’ he repeated. ‘We have seized them both. We’re holding the
m in my villa. As we speak.’

  Hairstreak took a pace or two back into the room and picked up an ornamental marble egg from a side table. He weighed it gently in his palm, his eyes fixed on Chalkhill. ‘You are holding the Queen and her Consort in your villa? Under lock and key?’

  Still smiling like an idiot, Chalkhill shook his head. ‘Oh, no, they have the run of the villa. Like honoured guests. They can’t escape – it’s in the middle of the Wildmoor Broads.’ He obviously caught Hairstreak’s expression, for he added, ‘If they tried to leave the prickleweed would get them.’

  ‘Prickleweed …’ Hairstreak echoed.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Chalkhill said enthusiastically. ‘It’s a carnivorous plant that grows wild all across the Broads. The only way you can reach my villa –’

  ‘– is by air,’ Hairstreak finished for him. He was speaking very, very quietly. ‘And while our Queen and her Consort are given the run of your villa “like honoured guests” – even though the prickleweed will flay them should they try to leave – you are doubtless demanding a ransom from the current Gatekeeper?’ He frowned. ‘Who is it now – I’m so very out of touch? Ah, yes, it’s one of Madame Cardui’s functions these days, isn’t it? Accepting ransom notes. That and hunting down the man who sent them, since she’s also Head of State Security. I do hope you didn’t mention where you were holding them. That would make her job a lot less fun.’

  Brimstone, who admired sarcasm, moved away from Chalkhill in case His Lordship decided to replace it with a physical attack, and took up a comfortable position beside the fireplace. Whatever developed – and something was certainly in the process of developing – was between Hairstreak and Chalkhill. Kidnapping the Queen and King had been Chalkhill’s idea – nothing to do with Brimstone.

  ‘Actually,’ Chalkhill said (and you could practically hear the sound of spade on earth as he dug his grave deeper), ‘I haven’t sent a ransom note. To anybody.’ That smile again. That glittering, spell-encrusted, sparkling smile Chalkhill was directing so vacantly towards Hairstreak. With his heightened sensitivities, Brimstone could almost feel the effect of it in his own body. Hairstreak was now poised like a coiled spring ready to mix metaphors in an uncontrolled explosion.